The Shadow of Your Smile

62

When Ryan returned from visiting the O’Keefes on Saturday afternoon, he entered the apartment half afraid that Alice would have found some reason to stay over. But she was gone. A note from her on the coffee table in the living room urged him to give himself enough time to find the right place to rent or buy, that there was no reason for him to rush out and do it just because they’d be sharing this apartment for a little while longer.

Alice ended the note by writing, “I’ll miss you. It’s been fun.” She signed it, “Love, A.”

With an exasperated sigh, Ryan glanced around the room. During the week, Alice had moved some of the furniture so that two club chairs were now facing each other on either side of the couch. She had tied back the heavy draperies with knotted cords that picked up one of the colors in the fabric, giving the room a much brighter appearance. The bookshelves around the fireplace had been rearranged so that the books were in neat rows rather than stacked haphazardly. The room felt as if it had Alice’s imprint on it and it made him uncomfortable.

Then he went into his room, and found to his dismay that there were new reading lamps on the night tables, and a handsome comforter in a brown and beige pattern with coordinating pillows covering the bed. There was a note on the top of the dresser. “How did you ever manage to read with those lamps? My grandmother had one of those heavy old quilts. I took the liberty of packing them all away where I hope they’ll never be found.” The note was unsigned but a caricature of Alice was drawn on it.

So she’s an artist, too, Ryan thought. Get me out of here.

After the long morning, which he spent apartment hunting, and then the trip to Mamaroneck, he did not feel like going out again. I’ll settle for cheese and whatever else I find, he decided. He went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. A casserole of lasagna had instructions taped on it, “Heat at 350 degrees for about forty minutes.” Next to it, a smaller dish contained an endive salad. The note indicated there was a freshly made garlic dressing that went with it.

I wonder if Alice comes on with such a heavy hand to other guys she’s met? Ryan thought. Someone should warn her to tone it down a bit.

But I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth, he thought. I’m hungry and Alice is a good cook. He followed the instructions on heating the lasagna, then, when it was ready, he collected some newspapers and read them as he ate.

In the car on the way from Mamaroneck he had heard on the radio that the first frost of the season would occur during the night. When he carried his second cup of coffee into the living room, he could tell by the chill in the high-ceilinged room that the temperature was dropping outside.

One of the few modern touches in the old apartment was a gas fireplace. Ryan pressed the switch and watched as the flames leaped up behind the glass shield. His thoughts turned to his visit with the O’Keefes.

Monica did everything right, he decided. According to Emily O’Keefe, she diagnosed Michael immediately and didn’t give them any false hope. I can’t explain those MRIs. No one can. His first tests show how advanced the cancer was. Michael was so frightened by the MRIs that the O’Keefes decided to not have any more tests since he was terminal. At least, Michael’s father decided that. His mother says that he didn’t need MRIs because he was in the care of Sister Catherine.

A year later, when they took Michael to Monica to show her how well he was doing, Monica was astonished at how good he had looked. They allowed her to order another MRI and the tumor was gone. Michael’s brain was normal. Monica was as shocked as I would have been. Michael’s father was disbelieving at first, then absolutely overjoyed. Michael’s mother offered a prayer of thanks to Sister Catherine.

I told the O’Keefes that I was going to ask to be allowed to testify at the beatification hearing, and I told them that I don’t care how many years from now they keep testing Michael, he will die of old age before he dies of that cancerous brain tumor. It’s gone. I’ll make that call Monday.

That resolved, Ryan opened his computer. The available apartments he had seen so far were nothing like what he had in mind. But there are plenty more to see, he thought, philosophically. The problem is that I want to find something that’s available immediately.

On Sunday morning he began to visit the ones he considered the most likely possibilities. At four o’clock Sunday afternoon, just after he’d decided to give it up until next weekend, he found exactly what he wanted: a spacious, tastefully decorated, four-room condominium in SoHo, overlooking the Hudson River. The owner, a photographer who would be overseas on an assignment, was offering a six-month lease. “No animals, no kids,” he told Ryan.

Amused by the order of descending importance, Ryan had said, “I have neither, but someday hope to have both. However, that won’t happen in the next six months, I guarantee you.”

Satisfied that he would soon be in his own space, he slept well on Sunday night, and was at the hospital at seven o’clock on Monday morning. His schedule in the operating room was turned upside down by an emergency case, a young jogger hit by a car whose driver didn’t see him because he was texting. It was quarter past six before he found time to call Monica’s office.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about returning the O’Keefe file,” Nan reassured him. “Dr. Farrell had me run over and pick it up from your office.”

“Why did she do that?” Ryan asked, astonished. “I certainly intended to bring it back myself. May I please speak with her?”

By the uncomfortable pause, he knew that Monica’s secretary had been told to say she was unavailable to him.

“I’m afraid she’s already gone, Doctor,” Nan said.

In the background, Ryan could clearly hear Monica saying good-bye to a patient. “Then tell Dr. Farrell, for me, to keep her voice down when she’s asking you to lie for her,” he said sharply, and with a decisive click, hung up the phone.