Vast Midnight

By Helena White

Madeline is a poor, young pediatrician; she marries Liam Akerman, the son of a multimillionaire. Young and naive, and obsessed with musicals, she felt as though she were living her own Cinderella story. The storybegins with loving letters Madeline writes to Liam after he tragically dies. But her life is further turned upside down when she is accused of having a part in her husband's murder. She is suddenly alone, penniless, and newly pregnant. Journal entries chronicling her ordeal alternate with letters to her unborn children. While battling feelings of guilt and insecurity she frequently questions herself and what it means to be a mother and a woman. Although innocent of the crime, she has been harboring her own deep dark secret throughout this journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504985987

Helena White

I was born in White Plains, New York. My mother is a nurse and greatly influenced my decision to enter the medical field. I attended public schools and started at SUNY Albany after my junior year of high school. After college, I attended NYU medical school then went on to pediatric residency at NYU, Bellevue. Since completing my residency in 2006, I have been working as a pediatrician in a small practice in New Rochelle. I live with my husband and two active, loving boys. In my spare time, I work out, walk, read, and try to write. Though not as talented as my father, I also play piano and love musicals.

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© 2016 H.S. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/07/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5049-8599-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-8598-7 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

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Contents

Aphrodite’s Apple

Act 1, Scene 1

Act 1, Scene 2

Act 1, Scene 3

Act 1, Scene 4

Act 1, Scene 5

Act 2, Scene 1

Act 2, Scene 2

Act 2, Scene 3

Act 2, Scene 4

Act 2, Scene 4

Act 2, Scene 5

A Better Story

West Side Story—cast list

Epilogue

Dearest Liam,

I can’t even begin to describe my sorrow and disbelief that you are gone. Just yesterday morning we joked over coffee, and now I am on a train to the compound to gather with the rest of your family and start funeral arrangements. Can this be true? Have you been stolen from me? And now? Now?

The police said you lost control of the car on the ice. You were the best driver—this is not happening.

Roger and I identified your body last night. To look down on your cold, peaceful face and then look up and see the mirror image—Roger’s face, full of life and warmth—I screamed and cried, and my arms flew around like a crazy person’s. I could not—would not—accept his embrace when I ached for yours. There is no sympathy, no empathy, only loneliness.

Your father is a mess; his loss is even greater than mine is. I want to give him my shoulder, but my constant shuddering offers little support.

You know I’m a piss-poor planner, and this is no different. I am of no service. I’m a blubbering idiot. I never felt completely comfortable here—you know that—and to be here without you is surreal. I couldn’t miss you more than right now, sitting in the guest room on what was our bed, half expecting you to walk in. It’s torture. Where are you?

Roger has taken control of the situation, making phone calls and making lists—ordering flowers and servants around. He’s thrown himself into the effort to overcome his own sorrow. I’m sorry. You deserve more from your wife. You are my soul mate, more my counterpart than his in so many ways, but I’m too weak to even get out of bed. I’m dead inside. I miss you. I had envisioned our entire lives together, steadily growing older and stupider. I have no idea what to do, what it looks like as just me and not us.

Dear Liam,

I’m so sorry; I even botched your funeral. My turn to say some words … I had prepared, I promise, and I should have predicted this, somehow prevented it. But after a few staggered sentences, I couldn’t hold it in; I had to run out. I got sick in the hallway trash can and collapsed. Katherine came to check on me, probably after much prodding by Roger. Graceful as always, she intuitively assessed the situation—Oh great, you’re pregnant!—and looked down on me with a mixture of pity and disdain. I meekly nodded and returned to my sobbing. My dearest, I was going to tell you that night. I was waiting until I knew for sure; my cycles were never exactly regular, and I didn’t want to disappoint …

I was browning the ground Boca and shredding the lettuce for taco Tuesday night, nibbling on a flour tortilla, while I rehearsed in my head: After a few fun months, sweetie, we have succeeded—we are pregnant. No, honey, sit down. I have big news—I’m pregnant. It would soon be impossible to hide my morning sickness anyway—most of the doctors and nurses at work had already guessed. Perhaps you had too, but men can be so oblivious. Oh, how I had imagined how your face would light up, the kiss we would share; we would always have that moment. That was stolen from us as well.

The next thing I remember, I’m back at the compound and alone in our room, ginger tea kindly left on the nightstand by the maid. I can hear hushed, worried voices in the next room, Roger and Katherine. Oh, Liam, how I miss our little marital chats and spats. Remember how we agreed on all the important things and argued about all the stupid little ones? Crazy duels over bathroom wallpaper choices and tofu brands, while our political discussions and debates were utterly boring.

I try to remember the good times we had in this mansion, like when the others were away and we’d see how many rooms we could screw in until they came home. Those long, drawn-out parties where we’d hide under the stairs with a bottle of champagne. We were like two little schoolkids sneaking candy before dinner. Liam, the pain is beyond words. I’m so lonely. I feel angry and abandoned. Selfish, I know; this isn’t your fault.

Dear Liam,

Where to start? My hands are shaking. I’m terribly frightened. I hadn’t wrapped my brain around your death, and now they’re telling me this wasn’t an accident!

The police knocked on the door unnecessarily loudly and then burst through without hesitation. They wanted to question me.

Where were you the day before? What were you doing at the time it occurred?

What are you talking about?

Miss Akerman …, they began. (You would hate that; you had always insisted on proper titles. "Excuse me, sir, but my wife is Dr. Akerman.) The car he was driving was tampered with.

What? I still don’t understand.

He was murdered, Miss Akerman.

"Someone did this to him?"

Yes.

I fainted. They thought I was faking, but you know what a horrible actor I am.

What can you tell us? asked an officer. Any known enemies?

"I-I don’t know. He was a lawyer. Angry clients? I don’t know. I don’t know. Somebody did this to him?"

"Well, Miss Akerman, you had a lot to gain by your husband’s death."

I broke down and screamed, What? Oh, Liam, I’m sorry. You would have scolded me so and told me to shut up and get a lawyer. But I just kept weeping and making pathetic noises resembling words. They laid out this theory that someone was hired to tamper with the car and make it look like an accident—and the person who hired that someone was me. They talked at me about prenuptial agreements and life insurance policies and repeated motive about nine hundred times.

No, no, please! This is absurd! I desperately tried to convey to them that I don’t know anything about life insurance. Liam, we never even discussed such grim topics; again, I’m not much of a planner.

Please … I’m pregnant. But that was irrelevant. They told me that I’m a person of interest and I needed to go with them. In a trance, I threw on more black clothes; I had never felt so hollow. I concentrated on the emeralds in my engagement ring and the matching necklace you gave me for our first anniversary, concentrated on their color and shine amidst all the bleakness. The officers paraded me through the main hall as somehow every member of your family stood single file, looking on with disgust and horror. No, I didn’t do this … My eyes were pleading with every passing face, but they were met only with cold scorn.

They took me to the station. (Oh my God, is this me?) They told me, Until this mess is straightened out, all the assets will be frozen. I can’t have access to any shared bank accounts or credit cards. In fact, even the account in my own name is suspect and therefore frozen. I can’t breathe or think. Then the next thing called shared assets includes the apartment. It’s technically in his name. You can’t stay there. Instinctively, I had slipped the necklace under my thick sweater. My most treasured possession, I wear it every day, and it lies near my heart. They won’t take that. Oh, Liam, I started sobbing again. I didn’t know where to go, what to do. It was freezing outside, it was almost midnight.

I begged, "Have mercy! I’m mourning my husband. I’m carrying his child. Please!"

You’re welcome to stay here, they smirked. No, I’d die.

I had twenty dollars in my wallet, enough for the LIRR. I thought, I can find my way to NYU; I can crash there, yes. My clinic ID was still in my purse.

My face was frozen from the walk. I looked young and haggard enough to be a resident, and I easily walked past the half-awake guard, who murmured, Merry Christmas.

Without thinking, I stepped onto the Shabbat elevator. Is it Friday somehow? I wondered. I’d lost a day. I wouldn’t know which button to push anyway. The doors opened and closed. I had no energy, so I stared blankly ahead the entire long elevator ride up to the eighteenth floor. An invisible force pushed me forward. Eighteenth floor, renal unit; the legitimate call rooms would be occupied by actual residents and students. The joke in medical school was that the dialysis beds were the most comfortable ones in the hospital, but beware: you might wake up the next day inadvertently attached to a machine.

I lie here now, dear Liam, grasping, groping in the dark for an infusion of hope. How would you respond to me now? How foreign I must look to you. Do you still love me as much as I love you? Are you ashamed? Are you angry? Please forgive my frailty and send me your strength.

Dear Liam,

The next morning the police somehow located me vomiting in an unoccupied patient’s bathroom. This time, they dragged me to the thirteenth precinct (very appropriate) and told me my cell phone, since it was a family plan, was also a shared asset and needed to be confiscated. With unwitting forethought, I begged for pen and paper so I could at least jot down a few important phone numbers; this they allowed me. Cynthia, Sarah, and Lauren, my three best friends; I looked through more of the contact list, and my eyes stopped on Benny Fein. Yes, I had forgotten about him—he is away for the week and probably doesn’t even know that you died. Oh my God, did we just have dinner with him two weeks ago? I thought back to our past conversations; yes, he is a defense attorney, if I remember correctly. I picture him working in some quirky Ally McBeal–like law office. Could he actually help me? Did I have a choice? Oh, how I wish I had paid more attention. I heard more phrases like full-blown investigation and piecing the puzzle together.

I had to run to the bathroom again, and I was gruffly escorted. They already searched my overnight bag and purse and told me the apartment was next. I can’t return yet to collect any more of my things. Now that Tisch Hospital knows I’m here, I need to find someplace else to be. I focused on that task for a while, calling my friends one by one on the station’s phone. Cynthia was moonlighting and told me to meet her outside the PES at six. Oh, Liam, it is so unseasonably cold outside. I picture you on the side of the road, cold and alone. For how long, my love, for how long?

I asked for a cup of water and found a crinkled dollar bill for stale pretzels from the vending machine. With a partially settled stomach, I walked out and began my journey. I had seven long hours to gather my thoughts. The reality of the situation was mercilessly sinking in. I needed to find another phone. I sneaked up to the eighth-floor call room at Bellevue and called Benny’s office right away. I had to leave a message on the machine. Right, it was a long weekend. Fuck. Please say your number slowly and carefully. I don’t have a number. It’s so very odd. After all these years of carrying a pager or a cell phone, I feel so unconnected.

There’s a stand-up shower here, but I don’t dare use it. The thought of being naked here is too scary. Anyway, Bellevue bathrooms always smell like a mixture of burning cigarettes and rotting meat. I do commandeer pads of paper and pens, however, which is how I’ve been able to write. I sat across from the infamous Bellevue wall of shame. I distracted myself by reading new entries on the wall. Here’s a copy of a nurse’s note from a few months ago:

Baby boy Fernandez: Baby has been feeding well throughout the night and has made six wet diapers during the last eight hours. Current vitals show a heart rate of 99, respiratory rate of 35, blood pressure of 70/30 and a temperature of 140 degrees.

You need a fireman, not a doctor is scrawled in the corner by a tired resident. She just switched the heart rate and the temperature, but it’s still kind of funny, I guess.

Then there’s an incident report from two years ago; I actually know this patient, an eleven-year-old with leukemia (now thirteen and in remission last I heard) who had been admitted to Bellevue for dehydration. We usually transfer oncology kids to NYU, but since she wasn’t due for chemo, she stayed here. Bad move. Here is the poor second-year resident’s report:

D5 1/2 NS plus 30 MeQ KCl and 200 mg MgSO4 per liter was ordered four hours prior to this report being issued. Multiple phone calls to the pharmacy were made. I spoke to a Mr. Vern, who told me that it’s not my job to mix IV fluid.

I can hear you saying, Liam, that that’s kind of the definition of your job. You always loved wall updates. Oh, yes, here are the latest growth charts—weight bottom half, height top half. Usually that’s the case. Her name is Tameka White, eight years old. The height is at the 75th percentile; the weight is literally off the charts, above the 97th percentile, 250 pounds. Yikes. Her ten-year-old brother, Tyrone’s, chart is next to hers. He’s 300 pounds.

How are kids so fat now? We would never let that happen to our kid; we’d drag his ass to the gym with us if we had to. Oh, how I loved our little treadmill races and our people watching. You swore the burly one with the bandana was a retired pirate. Then there were the descriptive (somewhat mean) names we made up for all the soccer moms. And that unhealthily tanned guy at the gym who walked around with a plastic coffee cup and hit on all the girls, must have been about fifty year old; it was fun to watch him get nowhere. He seemed to live at the gym but never work out. Maybe he was homeless and used the gym as a shelter. Not such a bad idea if you think about it, constant supply of fresh drinking water and towels, plus showers. Oh God, of course. Talking to you not only brings me comfort but ideas. I have my card. It’s behind the clinic ID!

Dear Liam,

I was able to sneak out, grab a banana and a packet of Lorna Doones left on a patient’s tray, and jump on the elevator. I should have been sitting shiva or sitting contemplating, sweetheart. I know it was so wrong to be anywhere, let alone NYSC, but trust me–I seriously needed to shower. I was unpresentable, as you would say.

I must have fallen asleep on this lumpy call bed while writing to you. A medical student happened in looking for a copy of Harriet Lane, and we scared each other half to death. I was still in my wrinkled mourning clothes, eyes red from exhaustion, wet hair in a knotted mess, but not beyond recognition. Oh my God, Dr. Akerman? What are you doing here? Did you know you’re on the news? I turned on the excuse for a television and caught some of the story. There was footage of me running out of the funeral, then an interview with the police officer from earlier today. Shit!

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I was late meeting Cynthia. Oh, wow, you look like crap.

What? I showered! I said with a pout.

Well, you still look like crap. Let’s go home and get you changed STAT. She whisked me down the block to the bus stop. It really is that bad, huh? she asked.

Yeah. Can I skim off your metro card?

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