“I will never,” Rosemary said, “go through that again!”
“Honey,” Andrea answered, “a C section is supposed to be the cat’s meow. I mean unless you’re one of those strain-your-guts-out natural types. Personally I prefer good ole morphine when push comes to shove.”
“I mean that…” Her face drained of color. “I killed a man. I killed another human being.”
“And good riddance, I say. Lordy, I thought you were on about that spinal injection they gave you. You sounded godawful, Rose, and that’s a fact. Thought you were dying in there.”
“So did I,” Rosemary said, but Andrea saw by her friend’s eyes that she was still talking about the trauma of the break and entry — the shooting.
“Well you’re bound to be upset for a while. Wouldn’t be normal if you weren’t. But you got a lot going for you, kiddo — good husband, little boy’s doing fine. Bit small, being so premature and all, but hell, he’s out of the woods now. Next thing you know — well I just bet he’s going to be another Arnie!”
Rosemary looked nonplussed.
“Schwarzenegger,” Andrea explained.
“God forbid,” was all Rosemary could say.
“Now Rosie, don’t you go bad-mouthin’ Amie. He’s my pinup boy. Met him at a USO concert. Sent my blood pressure soaring, I can tell you. Love his movies—’sides, he’s a Republican.” Andrea paused but asked anyhow, “You a Democrat, Rose? I mean the party?”
“Sometimes.”
“Course you’ve got royalty — I love all that pageantry.”
Rose didn’t answer. It bothered Andrea that not once had Rosemary asked about her baby — but at least, Andrea thought, for the moment she wasn’t dwelling anymore on the rat that she shot. Or was she?
A beeper in the intensive-care unit started up, and nurses came rushing from everywhere. When Andrea went out and walked up to the glass she saw it was little Arnie, as she’d begun calling him. It was the second crisis in as many hours, but what could she tell Rosemary? Even worse in a way — did Rosemary care?
On the other side of the world, Lieutenant Julia Reid was experiencing the first symptoms of mountain sickness — a dull headache that promised to increase in intensity and a vague feeling of being unwell, a feeling that she could not isolate as affecting any one part of her body in particular, but a feeling that seemed to move all over, one second here, the next somewhere else. She took her pulse rate and found it had increased alarmingly in the last half hour — since they had begun yet another climb over yet another ridge.
Pride kept her going, that and the plainly obvious — that the further she and her guide got from the camp the better chance they had of eluding their pursuers. She hadn’t been sure whether or not they were being pursued, but for the old man there was no doubt as he’d stopped, sniffed the wind, and tapped his nose with his finger and said, “Chin-eze.” She believed him. She’d heard how the Vietnamese had said they could smell the different body odor of the Americans far off, or maybe it was simply the old man hearing the shots from the encampment.
Whatever, finally her top-gun pride had to face common sense. If she kept on at this rate she’d pass out and be even more of a burden on the old man than she was now. She began to tell him in sign language mat she couldn’t— shouldn’t — go on when he astonished her, the voice coming from his rough woolen scarf announcing matter-of-factly, “You tired?”
After she recovered from her surprise she nodded, “Yes, I’m tired.” Was that all the English he knew, this old man to whom altitude did not seem to matter? Or did he know much more than he was letting on? For some reason she could not fully explain, his utterance of English alarmed rather than comforted her.