Undo Part 43

Matthew turned away. "Fine," he said flatly, then lifted his briefcase and walked out of the house, got in his car, and drove away.

And along with him went all of her hopes of ever realizing the plan for happiness they had made before moving to California. It was really over. She was now in control of her own plan. She was scared, but she was determined. To h.e.l.l with him. With her share of the money, she could live the rest of her life without a care.

She hugged herself tightly inside the sleeves of her robe, and an eerie thought entered her mind. She shivered, and the hairs on her arms stood up. Glancing around the room, at their things, she understood for the very first time that everything she ever a.s.sociated with Matthew - money, power, luxury - all of a sudden didn't matter anymore. She was angry with herself for thinking she should go back to him. Was she going mad? Had he really made her crazy? How could she in one instant wish to go back to him, and in the next wonder if he had ever really mattered? Had he been an instrument to her, just as she had been to him? It sure looked that way now. She had used him to acquire more and more things, but she no longer needed these tokens of power and prestige. There was only one thing she needed now, the love of her attractive Frenchman. Nothing else mattered anymore.

Feeling free for the first time of the man to whom she had felt so dependent, Greta calmly sat down on the sofa. Yes, it would be worth waiting a little longer while Jean-Pierre created their new world.

After all, she told herself, she had nothing to lose.

Chapter 16

"Mr. Jones," Dr. Chen said, lightly shaking Peter's shoulder.

Peter snapped awake. "What time is it?" he asked as he shakily rose to his feet. Dr. Chen gently steadied him. Daylight shone through the windows at the end of the hall. He glanced at the wall clock. Half past noon. He had been asleep for little more than an hour.

"It's time for you to see Ivy," Dr. Chen said. He led Peter by the arm through swinging double doors. "And your baby girl."

Peter stopped in his tracks. He felt flushed and his throat felt swollen. "She's all right? And the baby too? They both made it though okay?"

Dr. Chen carefully guided Peter to the wall, out of the way of the busy corridor traffic. "Not entirely," he said. "There were complications. Both Ivy and the baby are very fragile. The baby weighs only two and three-quarter pounds. She's in neonatal care right now, hooked up to life-support equipment."

"But she's alive."

"Yes. She's alive," the doctor said. "The outlook is fair, but we don't know yet if there is other damage. Damage we can't see from the drugs."

Peter felt a sudden wave of revulsion. Images of strangely twisted limbs and gnarled faces flashed in his mind. He himself and asked, "Is she r.e.t.a.r.ded?"

"There is no disfiguration," the doctor said. "But it's too early to judge her overall condition. She appears to be a normal, if premature baby."

Peter allowed himself a tight smile. "Thank you, doctor," he said.

They ambled down the hall. "Ivy's not doing well," the doctor added, "but she insisted on seeing you now. She's very weak, so you'll only have a few minutes."

Peter nodded. "Then can I see...?" he said and left the question unfinished, wondering what was the baby's name.

"Yes. But that must be brief too," the doctor said, bringing him up to a closed door. "Wait, Mr. Jones," Dr. Chen said, gripping Peter's wrist as he reached for the door latch. "Her condition is not very good, physically or mentally. Don't upset her. Try to encourage her. I don't know what your plans are with her, but try to reinforce her with some positive thoughts. Do you understand?"

Peter nodded, then gingerly opened the door and went into the room. The shades were drawn, and strange electronic sounds emanated from machines stationed beside the bed. He went to her.

A dim lamp spread yellow light over the bed, and through the blankets covering her Peter could see that Ivy was very thin. Her head was tilted toward the window and her closed eyelids seemed dark and bluish. She looked so different from when he had thrown her out of his home. He remembered her pure adoration, her desire to please him with her project. He braced himself against the bed rail and leaned his face closer to hers. She smelled medicinal, sterile. Her delicate bone structure, her pert nose, were masked by thin, nearly transparent skin. He felt responsible. Guilty. He must take care of her.

And Kate...? No. He couldn't let himself think about that right now. He had to let Ivy know everything would be all right, that he would take care of her.

He whispered her name and she stirred, eyelids fluttering. A thin smile touched her lips, then she blinked a few times and her eyes filled with tears. She let out a long breath through pressed lips, closed her eyes, and made an anguished face. "I told myself I wouldn't get like this when I saw you." She looked away.

"Hey," he said, touching her cheek. She pulled her hand from beneath the blankets and wrapped her thin fingers around his. His body stiffened at her chilly, tenuous touch. At once he felt pity and fear. He was afraid for her life. She looked as if she were a breath away from dying. She had all but destroyed herself. And the baby? What had she done to the baby? He wanted to hold her, tell her she was forgiven, yet he was the one who should be asking for forgiveness. It was all so twisted.

"Don't," she said, pulling her hand away. "Just don't. I don't know what I'm more disgusted about. Me, or you? I wanted you, and you took me and then you threw me away." Her words were thick and slurred. She was bombed on painkillers and tranquilizers and whatever else they were feeding her through the intravenous tube.

"I threw myself away, too, after you made me go. I think I wanted to make the baby go away. I think I did what I did, the drugs and all, to hurt it. I'm sick Peter. I'm very sick now, and I have to get all this poison out of me. Including you."

"Ivy, don't talk this way. I'm sorry. You're sorry. We're both sorry for the mistake we made. But we've got to deal with it.

It's my responsibility."

She winced. "Now you come to my rescue," a pause, then, "I'm sorry. I don't want to be like this. I just hate you right now.

So much. Christ, that ride from LA up here."

She was making no sense at all. "What are you talking about?"

Maybe, he thought, it would be better to leave and come back later, after she had rested.

"Yes. The ride. To see Kate McGreggor. She was the one I wanted to meet, more than you. She was who I wanted to be like. Her guards, or whatever they are, never let me in to see her. I tried to find out more about her, where she lived and all. That was when I found that article about you, with her in it. I didn't even know who you were. And then I read about what you'd done, and that you were why the Joey was what it was, I don't know, I wanted to do that instead. I hated her then. I didn't want to be a musician anymore. I wanted to be a techno-artist or something.

It's my parent's f.u.c.kin' fault, my liberal upbringing. I don't know. Or maybe something else. They're here now. Better late than never, right? Hey, lucky me, I can call them by their first names, but I could never call them Mom and Dad. That's what I wanted. Rick and Jeannette. No. It's not their fault. What am I saying? I don't even know who I am."

She turned her head away from him and rested. She lay still for a while, and when he thought she was asleep he turned to go.

"Stop," she said in a rasp. "We're not done." She was sitting up.

Her eyes were dry now, awake yet unalive. "We're gonna make a deal. You've got a baby to take care of now, Peter. I can't do it. Not right now, at least. I can't even p.i.s.s on my own. I have to push a b.u.t.ton to get one of them to help me. How the h.e.l.l'm I gonna take care of a baby? I can't even name the thing. That's your call, too. You get to call all the shots, Peter. Shoot, bang, bang, I'm almost dead. You're holding the gun, man. Don't go shootin' your own head, though. Oh, don't worry, I'll get better - it's the only way I'll get you. Get back at you is what I mean. You got a cigarette?"

He shook his head.

She made a disgusted face at him and waved her hand, scratching her fingers through her hair. "Then there's the other thing. I can't do any more about it. Not for a while. You might as well take a look at it."

"What other thing?"

Like a drunkard at a bar, signaling for a particular brand, she gestured to the corner of the room. "In there. In my pack. Get it."

He opened a narrow cabinet door and pulled her blue knapsack from the shelf. He held it to her. She smacked it with her hand. "Open it yourself."

Inside he found several notebooks and pens.

"The disks, d.i.c.k."

And he found a large stack of diskettes, bound together by rubber bands.

"What is it?" he said.

Once more she turned her head on the pillow so that she was facing away from him. "What's it say on the label?"

"ISLE."

"You can read."

"Ivy," he started, but then held his tongue. She had every right to be treating him this way. But she was saying things he didn't want to hear her say. She was heavily drugged and needed rest.

They could deal with all this in a few days. "Why don't we do all this later?"

"There is no 'later.' I don't want to see you again. Not for a long time, till I'm able to look at you without all this s.h.i.t in me and coming out of me."

"Then what? What is this? What do you want me to do with it?"