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"I don't either," I said and started to cry.
Jimmy put his arm around me and held me.
"She's going to die and take the information with her, Jimmy," I wailed, wiping at my tears. "She's that hateful and I don't know why. What are we going to do?"
A doctor came rushing down the hall and into the intensive care unit. Ten minutes later he emerged slowly, the intensive care nurse beside him. She saw us sitting on the bench and shook her head.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Oh Jimmy," I cried and buried my face in my hands. My tears streamed uncontrollably down my cheeks and soon I couldn't see. The world before me was a watery blur. I wasn't crying for Grandmother Cutler—I wouldn't cry for her. I was crying for my baby who might very well now be lost to me forever.
Jimmy helped me to my feet and we walked out of the hospital, me moving like someone in a daze.
By the time we had arrived at the hotel again, everyone knew. Mrs. Hill and her assistant were sobbing softly behind the reception desk. Some grounds people were clustered in a group on the porch speaking softly and shaking their heads. I recognized some of the dining room staff off in a corner of the lobby and they recognized me and nodded. The hotel was already draped in a funeral air.
"I'd better go up to see my mother," I told Jimmy. "Maybe she knows what happened with my baby."
"Okay. I'll wait in the lobby," he said.
I started through the corridor which led to the old section of the hotel where the family lived. When I reached the living room, I heard sobbing and looked in to see Mrs. Boston, the black chambermaid who had been in charge of looking after the family's needs for years and years. She was seated on the couch and glanced up when I peered in.
"Oh, Dawn," she said, her eyes filled with tears. "You've returned from school too late. Have you heard the terrible news?"
"Yes," I said.
"What will become of all of us now?" she asked, shaking her head. "Poor Mr. Randolph. He's about as lost as a soul can be."
"How is my mother?" I asked.
"Your mother? Oh, I haven't been upstairs since Mr. Randolph came down. He went up to tell her not a half hour ago and then he came down, walking like a man who had been struck in the head dumb. He just looked at me and we both started to cry. Then he went of someplace and I sat in here."
"I'll go up to see her then," I said and climbed the stairs, stopping to gaze first in the direction of where my room had been, where I had been kept like some poor relative, away from the family, alone. Why was it, I wondered, that the people who worked here, people like Mrs. Hill and Mrs. Boston, as well as Nussbaum, the chef, held Grandmother Cutler in such high regard? Couldn't they see how bitter and cruel she really was? Being efficient and successful was one thing, but what about being a compassionate human being?
The outside door to my mother's suite was closed. I opened it slowly and entered the sitting room. It looked as untouched and unused as ever, the only change I noticed being that there was no music sheet opened on the spinet and the keyboard had been closed. The door to my mother's bedroom was partially open. I approached it slowly and knocked.
"Yes?" I heard her say. I pushed the door open farther and entered.
I had been expecting to find her lost in her king size bed as usual, her head sunk within two jumbo fluffy pillows. But instead, she was seated at her vanity table brushing out her long blond hair so that it rested softly over her shoulders and down her neck. It shone as brightly and richly as always. She turned her graceful neck and focused her innocent blue eyes on me. Never did she look so beautiful, I thought. Her complexion was plush peaches and cream and she looked positively radiant and happy.
She was dressed in one of her pink silk nightgowns, but as always, in bed or not, she wore a pair of diamond earrings and wore her heart-shaped locket between her breasts. Her eyes brightened with surprise and a small smile formed on her lips.
"Dawn," she cried. "I didn't know you were coming here today. I'm sure Randolph didn't know either, or he would have mentioned it."
"I thought you were very, very, very sick again, Mother," I commented dryly as I crossed over to her.
"Oh, I was, Dawn. Dreadfully sick this time. It was some . . . horrible new allergy, but thankfully, it's grown tired of tormenting me and has left my frail body," she said, sighing with relief and shaking out her luxurious blond tresses.
"You don't look very frail to me, Mother," I said sharply. Her eyes narrowed and her smile evaporated.
"You never did have any sympathy for me, Dawn. I suppose you never will, despite the terrible ordeals I have gone through," she complained.
"Ordeals you have gone through? What about me? Do you know where I've been these past months, Mother? Do you? Did you once inquire after me to see if I were still alive or dead?" I demanded. "Well?"
"You made your own bed to lie in, Dawn," she admonished. "Don't start looking for other people to blame, especially me. I won't stand for it. Not now, not anymore," she said and pulled herself into a stiffer posture. "You haven't heard, I suppo
se, but Grand-mother Cutler has unfortunately just passed away."
"I know, Mother. Jimmy and I have just come from the hospital. We were there when she died," I said.
