We'll Meet Again

67

Barbara Colbert opened her eyes. Where am I? she wondered blearily. What happened? Tasha. Tasha! She remembered that Tasha had spoken to her before she died.

“Mom.” Walter and Rob, her sons, were standing over her, sympathetic, strong.

“What happened?” she whispered.

“Mom, you know that Tasha is gone?”

“Yes.”

“You passed out. Shock. Exhaustion. Dr. Black gave you a sedative. You’re in the hospital. He wants you to stay here for a day or two. For observation. Your pulse wasn’t that great.”

“Walter, Tasha came out of the coma. She talked to me. Dr. Black must have heard her. The nurse too; ask her.”

“Mom, you’d sent the nurse into the other room. You talked to Tasha, Mom. She didn’t talk to you.”

Barbara fought against sleepiness. “I may be old, but I am not a fool,” she said. “My daughter came out of her coma. I know she did. She spoke to me. I remember clearly what she said. Walter, listen to me. Tasha said, ‘Dr. Lasch, it was so stupid, I tripped on my shoelace and went flying.’ Then she recognized me, and she said, ‘Hi, Mom.’ And then she begged me to help her. Dr. Black heard her asking for help. I know he did. Why didn’t he do something? He just stood there.”

“Mom, Mom, he did everything he could for Tasha. It’s better this way, really.”

Barbara tried to struggle to a sitting position. “I repeat-I am not a fool. I did not imagine that Tasha came out of the coma,” she said, her anger giving her voice its customary tone of authority. “For some terrible reason Peter Black is lying to us.”

Walter and Rob Colbert grasped their mother’s hands as Dr. Black, who had been standing out of the range of her view, stepped forward and pricked her arm with a needle.

Barbara Colbert felt herself sinking into warm, enveloping darkness. She fought against it momentarily, then succumbed.

“The most important thing is that she rest,” Dr. Black assured her sons. “No matter how prepared we think we are to lose a loved one, when the moment of saying good-bye comes, the shock can be overwhelming. I’ll look in on her later.”

When Black got to his office after making rounds, there was a message waiting from Cal Whitehall. He was to call him immediately.

“Have you convinced Barbara Colbert that she was hallucinating last night?” Cal demanded.

Peter Black knew the situation was desperate and that it would do no good to lie to Cal. “I had to give her another sedative. She’s not going to be easily convinced.”

For a long minute Calvin Whitehall did not respond. Then he said quietly, “I trust you realize what you’ve brought on all of us.”

Black did not answer.

“As if Mrs. Colbert is not a big enough problem, I just heard from West Redding. Having endlessly reviewed the tape, the doctor is demanding that his project be disclosed to the media.”

“Doesn’t he know what that will mean?” Black asked, dumbfounded.

“He doesn’t care. He’s nuts. I insisted he wait until Monday, so we can agree on a proper presentation. I will have taken care of him by then. In the meantime, I suggest you make Mrs. Colbert your responsibility.”

Cal hung up the phone with a bang, leaving no doubt in Peter Black’s mind that he expected to be obeyed.