Bound For Eternity Read online

  "Okay." Emma whispered. The fact that she didn't object made me move even faster. Usually, Emma hated going to the doctor.

  I talked with the patient nurse, who agreed Emma should be seen after hearing her symptoms.

  "What worries me is that her pain seems so much more localized than it did two hours ago."

  "Do you think you can drive over, or do you need an ambulance?" The nurse had a soothing alto voice.

  I told her I thought I could make it.

  ? ? ? ?

  It was a century or two later. I pitched the third cup of rotgut coffee that I had barely sipped into the trash. The acid was bad for my stomach, and the hot liquid did nothing for my fear.

  What were they doing to my precious Emma? No one had come out of the surgical suite, and I was left pacing in front of an enormous TV screen with smarmy faces and brittle voices I couldn't turn off, and only my unbearable thoughts for company. James couldn't help; he was out of town visiting his brother. I'd call him tomorrow, but with what news?

  If Emma died...I'd always thought that was the one thing I couldn't bear. Compounded with losing Tom, it would wipe me out. My spirit would wither and die; it wasn't possible to go back to the job-centered person I'd been before Tom, before Emma.

  I remembered the overwhelming feeling of holding my just-born child. It wasn't tender love at first sight-that was a pack of lies-but awe and a terrible sense of responsibility. A tiny human being, completely dependent on me. Perfect ten fingers, dimpled hands, and kissable toes. The searching tiny mouth, amazingly strong when it latched on to the breast. The awareness that the world has tilted on its axis-nothing would ever be the same. Then a jolt of fear...what if I did something wrong...where was the training course for this new job?

  Later, the mother love took over. A fierce, protective love that turned me into a lioness-I realized I could commit murder to shield this little scrap of humanity from harm.

  But there's a flip side to all-consuming love. One day, after a few hours of solitary confinement with a cranky two-year-old, I suddenly understood that young mother on CNN, the one who had turned on her three young children and had drowned each one of them in the bathtub.

  Full circle. Tonight, when the doctor had recommended an immediate operation, I berated myself for not thinking of appendicitis sooner. Only an hour and a half had passed according to my watch; inside I'd aged a decade. I was a rotten, unobservant mom. But Emma had had so many tummy upsets since her father had died; I had just assumed that state was normal.

  The door whooshed open, and the young surgeon looked around the dismal waiting room. His nametag said "Dr. Martin Klegg," and his white coat hung loosely on a tall, skinny frame.

  "Mrs. Donahue?" He had the false calm of someone who'd seen everything.

  "Yes." I stood up. "How's Emma?"

  "She's going to be fine. It was rather a close shave, though. If you had waited until morning, it might be a different story. We'd like to keep her in for a couple of days until we're sure she's stable."

  I found I was sitting again, since my suddenly rubbery legs would not hold me up anymore.

  "Thank you, Doctor. Can I see her?"

  "Well, she's still very groggy. I think you could go in for a few minutes, and then you should go home and get some sleep." Dr. Klegg's kind smile softened his craggy face.

  I followed him back into the patient recovery area, and found Emma looking tiny and lost on a crank-up bed, an I.V. running into her arm. She was turned towards the door, watching for me.

  "Mommy, they fixed me," she said in a whispery little voice, "but my throat is really really sore."

  "Yes, darling, they fixed you. And the sore throat will go away." Turning to the nurse, I asked, "did she have a tube down her throat during the surgery?"

  She nodded.

  "Do you have a room for her?"

  "We'll be moving her down to the children's ward in just a few minutes."

  Emma asked for a song while we were waiting, so I sang "Winken, Blinken, and Nod." By the time I'd sung it twice, the orderlies were there to move us, and I walked alongside the rolling bed.

  We were taken to a small private room in the beautifully decorated Children's Ward. Thank God, I thought, knowing how hard it was to get a single room in this hospital.

  Emma was suddenly restless. "I don't have Flopsy and Bear." Flopsy was the stuffed rabbit Emma slept with every night, and Pooh Bear was her constant companion.

  "Would this do?" A cheerful nurse bearing a white teddy bear came in.

  "What's his name?" asked Emma, as she reached shakily for the bear. I could see her coordination was off, and helped the little hand grasp the stuffed animal.

  "Teddy Roosevelt Bear. He's our special presidential bear who visits children who've had operations."

  "Can my mommy stay too?" Emma clutched the bear tight against her chest.

  The nurse looked at me. "We have a rollaway bed we can bring in here if you'd like to stay with your daughter."

  I thought longingly of my own bed with its luxurious down comforter and soft, purring cat, but I knew my maternal duty.

  "I'd like to, yes. And I don't suppose I'll need an alarm clock here."

  The nurse laughed. "Nope! We'll wake you up bright and early when we check on Emma!"

  She bustled away to arrange for the bed. I sat on the edge of my daughter's hospital bed and stroked Emma's forehead. Her pale little face was framed by tumbled blond hair.

  "Mommy?"

  "I'm here, honey."

  "Does Daddy know I'm sick? Do you think he can see me?"

  I felt an ache somewhere around my own appendix. "I'm sure he can, wherever he is."

  "I miss him, Mommy."

  "I do, too. But we're managing okay, aren't we?" Tom would have been proud of my money management. I had paid off our last debt left over from medical school days and was living on a single salary. But juggling the emotions, the depression, and the fears about the future? I had a long way to go.

  Emma was silent for a moment. "I guess so. But it would be nice to have a bigger family. I'd like a brother like Sam." Her voice was sounding very sleepy and her eyes were closing now. Her blond eyelashes lay like feathers on her still chubby cheeks. "Stay right here, Mommy, don't let them put you in another room."

  An orderly wheeled the rollaway bed in. "Don't worry," I said, as I stood up to make room for it. "I'll be sleeping right next to you."

  A little while later, I curled on my side facing my sleeping daughter. With a night-light glowing softly on cartoon characters painted on the walls and the harsh overhead lights turned off, the hospital room looked almost homey.

  Close call, I thought sleepily. What if she hadn't made it-how could I have managed without Emma? Next to Emma, nothing else mattered very much, not even James, or my Dad. Emma was the center of my life; everything I did was for her and our life together.

  I would do anything to keep my Emma safe.

  Anything.

  CHAPTER 26

  "MAY YOU TRAVERSE THE SKY, UNITED IN THE DARKNESS..." (SPELL 217)

  A week later, I was back at work. Emma was at school, but excused from gym class until after her surgical check up. She had bounced back from her ordeal with the resilience of the very young. I, however, was barely functional, frayed and stretched out like an old cotton hammock. I wanted to hide in the library instead of facing my colleagues. My choice of clothing reflected my mental state-black pants and an elderly gray turtleneck, topped with my furriest black cardigan.

  The very last thing I wanted to see was Susie, looking spiffy in a jade pantsuit, with her hair freshly highlighted at her favorite salon. "Lisa! How's the little darling?"

  "She's doing fine. Her mom is a bit peaky, though." "I can see that. You look like you need forty-eight hours of bed-rest." "I'd love that. Do you think Victor would honor such a prescription? Where's Carl, do you know?"

  "In his office, I think. Take it easy, Lisa." Susie drifted away.

  ? ?
? ?

  Carl was in a rotten mood. He slammed around his office, shoving piles of papers and journals aside to look for his latest article draft, and muttering under his breath. I could hear him cursing and grousing before I even had my head inside the room.

  "Carl?" I said.

  "What?" he snarled. Usually he dressed well, but today he was wearing tattered black jeans and rumpled T-shirt. His hair was uncombed and un-gelled.

  "Have you noticed any database problems lately?

  "Whaddaya mean, problems? Of course there are problems!"

  I tried again. "Well-such as artifacts for your exhibit that weren't located where they were supposed to be?"

  Carl frowned at the floor as I perched uneasily on a chair. "One or two. But I didn't think anything of it. A lot of human error creeps into a large database, and this one is being altered almost hourly."

  "Sure, I understand. But I've found some Egyptian things in really weird locations, and a couple of extra artifacts that weren't supposed to be there at all." I didn't mention that one of the "extra" objects was a clear fake.

  "I think you're exaggerating-making a mystery where there's none. After all, we only started using this program six months ago. There are bound to be glitches." Carl stopped fidgeting and turned to face me. "Hey, do you know if Susie has been out with Victor recently?"

  I could see Carl's mood was dangerous.

  "Ah-I think they had a lunch date about a week ago." I waited nervously for his reaction.

  His black eyebrows snapped together. "Shit! He's twice her age!"

  "He's also The Boss, Carl. Maybe she just wanted to discuss something job-related." I knew this wasn't true, but I wanted Carl to at least consider the possibility.

  "Crappola! She just wants to improve her chances of becoming Mrs. Fitzgerald!" Carl started pacing again.

  I couldn't argue with that, and decided it was time to fade away. I shut Carl's door softly, leaving him to work out his jealousy in private. Was Carl upset about something besides Susie and Victor? His moods had been really erratic lately.

  I returned to my office, and checked my e-mail for a message from Victor. It was there! He had approved my new name for the Egyptian exhibit, "Bound for Eternity." I was elated. Victor was so hard to read-I never knew when my suggestions would be accepted or simply dropped into a black hole of useless ideas. I pulled out the artifact list, and decided it was time to find the footstool that I meant to include in the section on tomb furniture. I entered the number 1987.01.0005 in the database, and it returned a location of storage, shelf 12B.

  I grabbed my list, my keys, and my lukewarm coffee and headed for the fourth floor storeroom. I dropped my keys in the doorway, and scraped my hip on the metal door catch as I bent over. Uh oh-one of my dangerous days. I shouldn't touch any one-of-a-kind Greek vases or priceless Roman glass, not until the clumsiness fit was past.

  I found the right alcove with no difficulty-it appeared to be reserved for bulky objects that would not fit in standard drawers. Carefully, I pulled away the dust cover, and climbed the short ladder to view the footstool.

  It wasn't there.

  Puzzled, I moved the ladder and checked the entire rest of the alcove in case the artifact had been put on the wrong shelf by mistake. Then I headed for exhibit prep, to see if it had already been pulled for the exhibit.

  No sign of it.

  I made a note of the missing object on my list, shoving the paper back into my pants pocket. I was about to leave when I remembered the extra mummy portrait. It should be the shelf where I had last seen it.

  But it wasn't. The footstool, and who knew what else, were gone too.

  I sprinted upstairs to the gallery. The mummy was in its new case, but the back panel was still lying on the floor. Reaching in, I tried to pull the portrait out of its wrappings a second time, but it wouldn't budge. It had been recently glued in place. I stared at it in frustration. I was almost certain that the portrait now attached to my mummy was the modern one since its colors appeared slightly brighter. But without the two portraits side by side, I couldn't be sure.

  I returned to my office with a growing feeling of unease. Someone was tampering with some of our objects. Were the mysterious misplacements of artifacts connected? Not necessarily. I couldn't keep track of all the artifacts for my own exhibit until they were actually placed in the cases. Ginny's team of assistants and volunteers were still updating the database. And, as Ginny had informed me testily, the situation had been made worse by Victor's about-face on the exhibit order. If he had stuck to the original plan of the Celtic exhibit this semester and the Egyptian exhibit in the spring, none of this confusion would have happened! I grinned as I remembered Ginny's outraged face.

  But I still didn't know the whereabouts of the footstool with its distinctive ivory inlay.

  Back in my office, I glanced at my watch. It was almost three, and I had to gather all my materials for the paper I was giving at the Archaeological Institute of America annual meeting. The plane for Chicago left at six o'clock tonight. Somehow, I had to put all the artifact confusion out of my mind and concentrate on Mycenaean pots. This would be my first report on the ceramic technology, hopefully to be followed with a provenance study if my grant was successful.

  I had just made a pile of slide tray, two copies of my paper draft (one for my checked luggage in case the other got lost), and my notes on the neutron activation technique (to cover my butt during the question-and-answer session) when the phone rang.

  "Hi." It was James. I sat down, feeling a pleasant flush on my cheeks.

  "Hi. I'm just packing up for Chicago."

  "Paper all ready?"

  "Yes-but I was up pretty late last night. James, I've found some peculiar things in the database system..."

  "Whoa! Not over the phone. Remember, Marion was attacked because of something she knew or might have known."

  "You're right. I'll see you when I get back, and then we can talk." I paused, feeling suddenly very needy. "I'll miss you."

  "I'll miss you, too. But at least you'll be safe in Chicago. We'll go out for dinner when you come back. Italian food, with some good red wine to get your detective juices flowing. Okay?"

  "Very okay. Bye." I hung up, feeling more cheerful. James was good for me. So good, I was becoming more confident that we had a future together. I stared out the window, forgetting how much I had to do. James' apartment was larger than mine. Could the two kids share a bedroom for a while until we got a larger place? We'd still need two cars...

  The phone rang again, jolting me back into my present state as a single mom. It was Magdalena with a bombshell. Magdalena's mother was sick, she couldn't have Emma after all, so could I find somewhere else for her to stay for four days? I groaned and pulled out my address book, wondering how many of Emma's little friends I would have to call.

  Then I remembered my friend Elizabeth raving about a woman who lived in Brookline who liked to earn extra money by taking in kids so parents could get away. I tried that number, but there was no answer. I ground my teeth and prayed for a sudden solution.

  Wait a minute, maybe James could do it! That was putting our relationship to the test with a vengeance, but it could work, especially since the two children attended the same school and after-school program. James wouldn't have to go out of his way-but he would have to cope with two kids who hated to go to bed early.

  I called him back.

  "James..."

  "No."

  "But I haven't asked you yet!"

  "It was the wheedling tone of voice you used. I thought I should say no and get it out of the way."

  I laughed. "That's what my father used to say. Actually, what I have to ask is a big favor. Emma's sitter just canceled on me."

  "You want me and Sam to take her?"

  "Would you?"

  "Sure."

  "I owe you!" I was so relieved I felt faint.

  "You betcha. I'll collect, too."

  I smiled as I thought about
his probable collection plan: Italian food, nice red wine, soft music...

  We settled the details and I finally left my office.

  CHAPTER 27

  LADY OF THE WEST

  "It was a fake. Well, half a fake." Sheila Tresler gestured with her Michelob bottle.

  "What do you mean?" I helped myself to more pretzels to appease my salt craving.

  "The original vase was fine-the right clay, with a correct TL date of fifth century B.C.-but most of the painted decoration was applied in the nineteenth century."