Lies and Weddings(124)
“He’s really not here anymore. It’s interesting, isn’t it? You can tell the soul has left the body,” Diego said, almost in a whisper.
Jane dabbed her eyes with a wadded-up Kleenex. “I watched this kid grow up. He was a sweet child, a bit ADHD maybe, but I couldn’t help but think that he just needed his mother and father. Those nannies Rene kept in every city were never a good substitute for real parenting. Sure, he kept all of them on staff for years, but there was never any consistency with the nonstop jet-setting. Luis Felipe would be handed off from Alice in LA to Mons in Hong Kong to Berna in Manila, and Rene would just trot him out like a show pony whenever he wanted to win over a new girlfriend. None of those women wanted to be a mother to Luis Felipe. Nanette, maybe, was the only one who really cared for him. I was sorry when she fell for that guy from Intel and broke up with Rene. After that, the kid never had a chance.”
Thomas sank onto a chair, grasping his head in despair. “I feel like I’ve failed him. I’ve failed his father.”
“You did everything you could, Thomas. I’ve watched you try to help the boy for almost a decade now. Remember the first time he overdosed when he was fourteen at Amanpulo? When all the doctors back in Manila wanted to keep medicating him and pumping him full of drugs and you said, ‘Stop, stop all of it and just let everything clear his system!’ You saved his life then, as you did many times after. Lugano, Jesus, remember that one? There were only so many times you could save his life,” Diego said.
The attending physician looked at Thomas intently. “Dr. Tong, given the circumstances, we are ready to pronounce him brain-dead. Because he has a well-documented history of substance abuse, he’s not a candidate for organ donation. As his medical proxy, do you give us permission to remove him from the ventilator?”
“Can we please send in Father Jose first?” Thomas suggested.
“Of course,” the doctor said.
The Catholic bishop who had flown in from Manila with Diego came into the room, and Thomas and the two lawyers bowed their heads as the bishop made the sign of the cross and began incanting: “I commend you, my dear brother Luis Felipe, to Almighty God, and entrust you to your Creator. May you return to him who formed you from the dust of the earth. May holy Mary, the angels, and all the saints come to meet you as you go forth from this life. May Christ who was crucified for you bring you freedom and peace.”
Thomas nodded after the last rites were said, and the doctors turned off the ventilator and removed all the lines and tubes from his body. Then everyone left the room and headed into a private lounge that was reserved for ICU guests.
“I need a moment,” Thomas said before ducking into the nearest toilet. Locking the door, he turned on the tap full blast, leaned against the sink, and began to sob silently.
After a few minutes, he blew his nose and splashed water on his face. His phone vibrated in his pocket, signaling an incoming voicemail, and Thomas went to check it. It was from Eden.
“Hi, Dad. How is Luis Felipe? I hope he’s going to pull through. Listen, I know this is the worst possible time, but I need to speak with you urgently. Arabella came to Venice and showed me some astonishing documents. Who is Henry Tong? Please call me the moment you can.”
It was as though the ground had suddenly fallen away from Thomas’s feet. He felt his stomach clench into a tight ball. He had known this moment might someday come, but he was wholly unprepared for it now. At the same time, he knew Eden so well, and it pained him to hear the distress in her voice. He quickly returned to the lounge, where he found both lawyers answering emails on their phones. Diego looked up when Thomas reentered. “There’s a café called Lady M down the street. Perhaps we could head over there to deal with some legal formalities?”
“Actually, that will have to wait. I need to leave right now,” Thomas said with an unmistakable sense of urgency. “I must get back on a plane. My daughter needs me.”
IV
THE GRITTI PALACE
CAMPO SANTA MARIA DEL GIGLIO, VENICE ? THE NEXT DAY
The water reflecting off the Grand Canal sparkled on the handsome teak deck of the Riva Lounge, where Rufus was seated watching the glamorous lady in the sleek wooden speedboat arriving at the dock of the Gritti Palace hotel. She wore red sunglasses, a black and white polka-dot dress that flapped elegantly in the breeze, and a matching hat the size of a flying saucer. As she stepped off the boat, every head seated in the terrace restaurant swiveled to register this chic eyeful.
For as long as Rufus could remember, his mother had reveled in making entrances. She was always the last to arrive at any party and even showed up at weddings late, fully conscious that she was upstaging the bride. No wonder she had been a model—she thrived on perpetually having all eyes on her, while he couldn’t imagine anything worse. Even though Rufus was furious at her, the decorum that had been ingrained in him since birth compelled him to stand up and greet his mother with a double-cheeked kiss as she approached the table. “You look like Sophia Loren,” he said.
“Thank you,” Arabella said cordially. “You need to trim your sideburns before the wedding. They’re beginning to look like pubes.”
Rufus rolled his eyes. “I would assume from your outfit that you’re no longer trying to be incognito in Venice?”
“I ran into Peter Marino at the Ca’ Pesaro, so everyone knows I’m here now. Have you seen the show there? Raqib Shaw. It’s simply astonishing, the most breathtaking enameled cloisonné paintings that will break your heart. You know, Rufus, if you insist on keeping up this art thing you really should switch to painting. Make them very big, like the Anselm Kiefers in the Doge’s Palace. Big paintings sell for so much more than those tiny photographs of yours.”