The Van Alen Legacy

She felt bad about leaving Bliss like that. But right then she was too wound up to even think about anything other than the fact that the person she had waited her entire life to talk to . . . was now awake. Alive. Allegra Van Alen was alive. She had opened her eyes a half hour ago, and she was asking for her daughter.

As she walked through the glass doors of New York Presbyterian Hospital, toward the back elevator that would take her to the permanent care unit, Schuyler wondered how many days, how many nights, how many birthdays, how many Thanksgivings and Christmases, she had spent walking down the same fluorescent-lit hallways, with the smell of antiseptic and formaldehyde, walking by the sympathetic smiles of the nurses, by the tearful groups huddled near the surgical waiting rooms, their faces drawn and anxious.

How many times?

Too many to count. Too many to mention. This was her entire childhood, right in this medical center. The housekeeper had taught her to walk, to talk, and Cordelia had been there to pay the bills. But she’d never had a mother. There had been no one to sing her songs in the bath, or to kiss her on the forehead to sleep. No one to keep secrets from, no one to fight over her wardrobe with, no one to slam doors on—there had been none of the normal rhythms of softness and disagreements, the infinite ways of mother-daughter kinship.

There was only this.

“You’re here so quickly,” the attending nurse said with a smile from the nurses’ station. She escorted Schuyler down the hallway to the private wing, where New York’s most privileged and most vegetative slumbered. “She’s been waiting for you. It’s a miracle. The doctors are beside themselves.” The nurse lowered her voice. “They say she might even be on television!”

Schuyler didn’t know what to say. It still did not seem true. “Wait. I need . . . I need to get something from the cafeteria.” And she ducked away from the nurse’s side and ran down the entire flight of stairs to the first floor. She burst through the swinging door, surprising a few interns sneaking a coffee break on the hidden landing.

She wasn’t sure if she would be able to do this. It seemed too good to be true—and she couldn’t bring herself to face it. She wiped the tears from her eyes and walked inside the café.

She bought a bottled water and a pack of gum, and returned to the right floor. The kind nurse was still waiting for her. “It’s okay,” she told Schuyler. “I know it’s a shock. But go on. It’ll be okay. She’s waiting for you.”

Schuyler nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered. She walked down the hallway. Everything looked exactly the same as it always did. The window looking over the George Washington Bridge. The whiteboard charts with the patients’ names, medications, and attending physicians. Finally she stood in front of the right door. It was open just a crack, so that Schuyler heard it.

A voice, lilting and lovely through the doorway. Calling her name ever so softly.

A voice she had only heard in her dreams.

The voice of her mother.

Schuyler opened the door and walked inside.





FIFTY-ONE

Bliss


What did you say?

Bliss was paying for her new dress when she was jolted by the Visitor’s voice in her head. “Do you take Amex?” she asked the salesgirl sitting at the desk. She tried to maintain her composure while inside the Visitor’s excitement made her head ache.

Allegra is awake? Allegra is alive?

Why does this bring joy to you? Bliss asked. Why would you care? She’s just a coma patient in a hospital room.

“Did you say something?” the salesgirl asked, shoving the purple dress into a plain brown bag and stapling the top with the receipt.

“No. Sorry.” Bliss grabbed her bag and headed out of the room. She bumped into a few girls walking in. “Do they still have good stuff, or is it all picked over?” one of them asked.

“Uh . . . I don’t know,” Bliss muttered, pushing through. She knew they would think her incredibly rude, but it was as if her head were going to crack open.

Bliss raised her hand to hail a cab. It was five in the afternoon, and all the taxis had their “Off Duty” signs on—a shift switch—and worse, it was starting to rain. New York weather. For a moment she missed BobiAnne’s Silver Shadow Rolls and the driver who always took her around. Finally Bliss caught a town car that had just dropped off some executive at the corner. “How much to 168th Street?”

“Twenty.”

She got inside the car, which felt warm and cozy after standing in the suddenly freezing rain.

She could still feel the Visitor’s excitement and agitation. Why did he care? What did he care about some stupid woman in a hospital?

Show some respect, the Visitor said coldly. Do not speak of your mother that way.

So it’s true. I am her daughter. I am Allegra’s daughter, she thought. Her heart was pounding so loudly it hurt her chest a little bit.

Of course you are, the Visitor said in a reasonable voice that made Bliss feel even more nervous. We made you together. Now, I think it’s time we said a proper hello to Allegra.





FIFTY-TWO

Schuyler