" "Your father will be home by six. Get some sleep and we'll see you then." Gin collapsed on the bed and let sleep take her.
FAMILY GINA PULLED UP IN FRONT OF THE FAMILY HOME IN Arlington and stared at its aged brick front. During the first dozen years of her life it had been a two-story brick box sitting on a rise along with all the other brick boxes in this little postwar development. She remembered learning to ride a bike on that gently sloped driveway, watching the cars go by from her bedroom window up there on the second floor, helping Papa pull dandelions from the lawn every spring. Papa and his lawn, she thought, looking at the flawlessly green, precisely manicured front yard. Still perfect.
As Papa's butcher shop grew to an Italian specialty food store, and a little money was left over to play with, they added a screened porch to the front, enlarged the kitchen and master bedroom in the rear, and built on a deck. A nice, roomy, comfortable house now. Thirty years her folks had lived here, and probably intended to stay another thirty.
They weren't exactly into change.
Gin shook her head. Change? They were both born in America, her father was barely into his fifties now, her \ mother just fifty last April, yet they were old-world Italian in so many ways. Attitude-wise, they were barely into the twentieth century.
They'd actually arranged a marriage for her when she was two. Thank God that hadn't been mentioned in years. Apparently the fits both she and her intended had pitched during their adolescence had caused both families to reconsider.
She climbed the two steps to the front door and walked in without knocking. The delicious odor of sauteing garlic enveloped her. God, she loved that smell.
Her father sprang from his chair in front of the TV. He was only an inch taller than Gin, with broad shoulders and muscular arms, his full head of black hair was a little grayer every time she saw him, but he still had the vitality of a twenty-year-old.
"Gin! " He wrapped her in his bear arms and twirled her around.
"How's my little scswngzle? " She hugged him around the neck and kissed each cheek. "Fine, Papa." - He released her and held her at arm's length. "So, being a doctor's not enough for you, eh? Now a olitician too? " '"I'm not, "Gin! " It was Mama, wiping her hands on her apron as she trotted in from the kitchen. More hugs and kisses.
It was always this way. Gin came home for dinner and family affairs every two or three weeks, but each time they acted as if she'd been away for a year. She supposed an only child had to expect that.
Soon the three of them were standing around in the kitchen, sipping spumante, sneaking pieces of bread into Mama's sauce, laughing, reminiscing, talking about the future.
So good to be here. Times like this made her wish she visited more often. She loved the warmth, the security. She'd be taken care of here. She didn't have to prove anything here, she wouldn't be so tired all the time, she wouldn't have to be running in four different directions trying to do too many things, trying to learn where she fit, trying to make her life matter.
She fit here. She mattered here.
And she knew it was a velvet trap. As much as she loved her folks, she knew she'd go crazy here. Despite all the hustle and running and stress of her life now, she knew deep down she wouldn't want it any other way.
But the main thing was that her folks still didn't quite get it. As proud as they were of her, Gin knew they wondered when she was going to have time to give them grandchildren, bambinos to bounce on their knees.
She knew in the backs of their minds they felt their daughter would be better off being married to a doctor than being one, a nice Italian doctor, of course.
They knew something about Peter, but had no idea that they'd been living together.
Oh, God. Peter. She should have called him and told him about her new job. She'd have to do that first thing when she got home.
Peter . . . how could she have forgotten?
Stuffed from the food, logy from the spumante and the special Chianti Papa had broken out for the occasion, Gin got back to her apartment around half past ten. She washed up, brushed her teeth, and headed straight for the bedroom. But before hitting the sack, she dialed the ICU at Lynnbrook.
"Hello, this is Dr. Panzella. I just wanted to check on Mrs. Thompson."
"Who? " said the ward clerk.
Gin was suddenly queasy. "Harriet Thompson. Dr. Conway's patient.
She had a hemothorax and was on a respira, " "Oh, yeah. Here it is.
Sorry, Dr. Panzella. I just came on. She was pronounced a couple of hours ago. Nine-thirty-four, to be exact. Dr. Conway was here. " Gin felt her throat constrict. She managed a faint "Thank you" and hung up.
She pounded a fist on the mattress. Damn, damn, damn! Harriet Thompson's death certificate probably would list her cause of death as respiratory failure due to hemothorax due to fractured ribs due to complications of accidental trauma.
But it hadn't been any of those.
What had really killed her were administrators who hadn't examined her and didn't even know her but made decisions about her medical care, who had been more concerned about the bottom line than the patient. Harriet Thompson had died of guidelines.
Gin pulled down the covers and slipped between the sheets Senator Marsden was going to get an earful this weekend.
One last thing to do before sleep, that call to Peter.
He was in, he was awake, after all it was an hour earlier in Louisiana, and he was glad to hear from her. At least he was at first.
His voice changed when she told him about getting the spot on Marsden's staff.
"Is this really what you want? " She was getting fed up with that question. The only one who seemed to be on her side completely was Gerry.
'"You know, I wish people would stop asking me that."
"If you're hearing it that often, maybe there's something to it."
"Look, Peter, I don't want to argue, " "Aren't we good together, Gin?
Are there any people better together than us? Remember those nights wandering around the Quarter, drinking wine and listening to the street musicians, and then afterward going back to the apartment. '"Please, Peter.
" Those had been good times, wonderful times. "I'm lonely enough here as it is."
"We're both lonely. Isn't that dumb? Come back, Gin.
This is where you should be. You know that." So tempting, and if she'd been turned down by Marsden's office this morning she might be pulling out her suitcases and starting to pack. But . . .
"I know that I've got an opportunity here that I can't pass up. I may never forgive myself if I do. Can you understand that, Peter? " There was a prolonged silence on the other end. Peter's voice was thick when he finally spoke.
"I guess this is it, then. I'd been hoping you'd run up against a wall with these senators and finally come to your senses and get back where you belong. Back with me. But I guess that's not going to happen now that you're on somebody's staff." ' Peter . . . " Gin found she couldn't get words past the lump swelling in her throat.
He was right. She hadn't seen that becoming part of Marsden's staff would put a match to her last bridge back to Peter.
It was over. Whatever they'd had had been moribund for months, but tonight, without realizing it, she'd officially pronounced it dead.
'"I'm sorry, Peter."
"Me too. Good-bye, Gin." And then he hung up.
Gin cradled the receiver, turned out the light, and pulled the covers up to her chin.
God, I hope I'm doing the right thing. I hope it's worth it.
Then the sobs and the tears started. It was Peter, but maybe it was Harriet Thompson too. She hadn't cried herself to sleep in a long, long time Not since her Pasta days.