The Shadow of Your Smile

33

For hours Monica did not leave the side of Sally’s crib after she managed to resuscitate her. The baby’s lungs kept filling with fluid and she continued to burn with fever. Finally Monica lowered the side of the crib and, leaning in, cradled Sally in her arms. “Come on, little girl,” she whispered. “You’ve got to make it.” The thought of what the Monsignor had told her about Sister Catherine praying over sick children ran through her head.

Sister Catherine, she thought, I don’t believe in miracles, but I know so many believe you saved lives, not only terminal kids like Michael O’Keefe, but other kids who were at death’s door. Sally has had such a rotten break. A mother who neglects her, and no father around. She’s wrapped herself around my heart. If she lives, I promise I’ll take care of her.

It was a long afternoon but at seven o’clock she felt that it was safe to go. Sally’s fever had gone down and even though she still had an oxygen mask clamped around her face, her breathing had eased. “Call me if there’s any change,” Monica told the nurse.

“I will, Doctor. I didn’t think we were going to be able to save her.”

“Neither did I.” With an attempt at a smile, Monica left the pediatrics floor and the hospital. The temperature had dropped but as she buttoned her coat she decided to walk to the office. I’ll check on my messages, she thought, and see how much Nan has been able to rearrange my appointments. I’ll walk over. It will feel good to clear my head.

Her shoulder bag in place, she put both hands in her pockets and at her usual rapid pace began to walk east across Fourteenth Street. Now that she felt reasonably secure about Sally, her thoughts reverted to the crushing disappointment of finding Olivia Morrow dead. In her mind she could see every detail of Morrow’s face, the gaunt thinness of her features, the gray pallor of her skin, the wrinkles around her eyes, her teeth clamped on the corner of her lower lip.

She must have been an exquisitely neat person, Monica thought. Everything was in perfect order. The apartment was furnished in such good taste. Either she died right after she went to bed, or else she certainly couldn’t have been a restless sleeper. The top sheet and comforter weren’t wrinkled at all. Even the pillow her head was resting on looked brand new.

The pillow. It was pink and the sheets and the other pillows were peach. That’s what I noticed, Monica thought. But what difference does it make? None. The only hope I have now is to ask Dr. Hadley if he can give me a list of her friends. Maybe she talked to one of them about me.

She was at the busy corner of Union Square and Broadway by a crowded bus stop. The light was changing from yellow to red and she watched in disapproval as a number of people darted across the street as the oncoming traffic rushed at them. A bus was approaching the bus stop when she suddenly felt a violent push and tumbled over the curb onto the street. As onlookers shouted and screamed, Monica managed to roll out of the way of the bus, but not before it had run over and crushed the shoulder bag that had been thrown from her arm.