Between Sisters (27 page)

Meghann took a step toward her. “There are two ways this can go down. You can get nicely in the car and we can leave. Or I can make a scene. You
know
I can.”

“Fine. Take me to the hospital, where we can spend the whole day and two hundred dollars to find out that I have a sinus infection that was exacerbated by air travel.”

Meg took her arm and guided her into the cushy black interior of a Lincoln Town Car.

“A limo to the emergency room. How chic.”

“It's not a limo.” Meg studied her. “Are you okay now, really?”

Claire heard the concern in her sister's voice, and it touched her. She remembered suddenly that Meg always got loud and angry when she was frightened. It had been that way since childhood. “I'm sorry I scared you.”

Meg finally smiled. Leaning back in the seat, she said quietly, “You did.”

They exchanged looks then, and Claire felt herself relaxing. “Bobby aced the auditions. They offered him a big fat contract.”

“He won't sign it until I review it, right?”

“The standard response is:
Congratulations
.”

Meghann had the grace to blush. “Congratulations. That's really something.”

“I believe it belongs in
Ripley's Believe It or Not!
under the headline
Eliana Sullivan Does Good Deed
.”

“A good deed that benefits her. A famous son-in-law puts the spotlight on her, too, you know. Just think of the I-discovered-him-and-changed-his-life interviews.” Meg pressed a hand to her breast, and said, “I'm so bighearted when it comes to family” in a gooey Southern drawl.

Claire started to laugh. Then she noticed that the tingling in her right hand was back. As she stared down at her hand, her fingers curled into a kind of hook. For a split second, she couldn't open it. She panicked.
Please, God
—

The spasm ended.

The car pulled up in front of the hospital and let them out.

At the emergency room's reception desk, a heavyset young woman with green hair and a nose ring looked up at them. “Can I help you?”

“I'm here to see a doctor.”

“What's the problem?”

“I have a killer headache.”

Meghann leaned over the desk. “Write this down:
Severe headache. Short-term memory loss
.”

“That's right. I forgot.” Claire smiled weakly.

The receptionist frowned at that and shoved a clipboard across the desk. “Fill that out and give me your insurance card.”

Claire retrieved the card from her wallet and handed it to the receptionist. “My family doctor thinks I need to exercise more.”

“They all say that,” the receptionist said with a little laugh. “Take a seat until we call for you.”

An hour later they were still waiting. Meghann was fit to be tied. She'd yelled at the receptionist three times and in the last twenty minutes, she'd been throwing around the word
lawsuit
.

“They've got a lot of nerve calling this an
emergency
room.”

“Look at the bright side. They must not think I'm very sick.”

“Forget the headache. We'll both be dead from old age by the time they see you.
Damn
it.” Meghann popped to her feet and started pacing.

Claire considered trying to calm her sister down, but the effort was too much. Her headache had gotten worse, which she definitely did not reveal to Meghann.

“Claire Austin,” called out a blue-scrubbed nurse.

“It's about fucking time.” Meghann stopped pacing long enough to help Claire to her feet.

“You're a real comfort, Meg,” Claire said, leaning against her sister.

“It's a gift,” Meg said, guiding her toward the tiny, birdlike nurse who stood in front of the white double doors of the ER.

Bird Woman looked up. “Claire Austin?”

“That's me.”

To Meg, the nurse said, “You can wait out here.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I'm coming with my sister. If the doctor asks me to leave for the exam, I will.”

Claire knew she should be angry. Meg was being herself—pushing in where she didn't belong—but truthfully, Claire didn't want to be alone.

“Very well.”

Claire clung to her sister's hand as they pushed through the double doors and entered the frightening white world that smelled of disinfectant. In a small exam room, Claire changed into a flimsy hospital gown, answered a few questions for the nurse, relinquished her arm for a blood pressure test and her vein for a blood test.

Then, again, they waited.

“If I were really sick, they'd rush to take care of me,” Claire said after a while. “So this waiting is probably a good thing.”

Meghann stood with her back to the wall. Her arms were crossed tightly, as if she were afraid she'd punch something if she moved. “You're right.” Under her breath, she said, “Shitheads.”

“Did you ever consider a career in health care? You've got quite a bedside manner. God knows you're calming me down.”

“I'm sorry. We all know how patient I am.”

Claire leaned back on the paper-covered exam table and stared up at the acoustical tile ceiling.

Finally, someone knocked, then the door opened.

In walked a teenage boy in a white coat. “I'm Dr. Lannigan. What seems to be the problem?”

Meghann groaned.

Claire sat up. “Hello, doctor. I really don't need to be here, I'm sure. I have a headache and my sister thinks a migraine is emergency-room-worthy. After a long flight, I had some kind of panic attack.”

“Where she forgot how to get home,” Meghann added.

The doctor didn't look at Meghann. He didn't look at Claire, either. Instead, he studied the chart in his hands. Then he asked her to perform a few functions—lift one arm, then the other, turn her head, blink—and answer some easy questions—what year it is, who the president is. That sort of thing. When he finished, he asked, “Do you often get headaches?”

“Yes, when I get stressed-out. More lately, though,” she had to admit.

“Have you made any big changes in your life recently?”

Claire laughed. “Plenty. I just got married for the first time. My husband is going to be gone for a month. He's in Nashville, making a record.”

“Ah.” He smiled. “Well, Mrs. Austin, your blood work is all normal, as are your pulse and your blood pressure, and your temperature. I'm sure this is all stress. I could run some expensive tests, but I don't think it's necessary. I'll write you a prescription for a migraine medication. When you feel one coming on, take two tablets with plenty of water.” He smiled. “If the headaches persist, however, I'd recommend that you see a neurologist.”

Claire nodded, relieved. “Thank you, doctor.”

“Oh, no.
So
no.” Meghann pulled away from the wall and moved toward the doctor. “That's not good enough.”

He blinked at her, stepping back as she invaded his personal space.

“I watch
ER.
She needs a CAT scan, at the very least. Or an MRI or an EKG. Some damn initial test. At the very least, she'll take that neurology consult now.”

He frowned. “Those are costly tests. We can hardly run a CAT scan on every patient who complains of a headache, but if you'd like, I'll recommend a neurologist. You can make an appointment to see him.”

“How long have you been a doctor?”

“I'm in my first year of residency.”

“Would you like to do a second year?”

“Of course. I don't see—”

“Get your supervisor in here. Now. We didn't spend three hours here so that an almost-doctor could tell us that Claire is under stress. I'm under stress; you're under stress. We manage to remember our way home. Get a real doctor in here. A neurologist. We are not making an appointment. We'll see a specialist
now
.”

“I'll go get a consult.” He clutched his clipboard and hurried out.

Claire sighed. “You're being you again. It
is
stress.”

“I hope it is, too, but I'm not taking the prom king's word for it.”

A few moments later, the nurse was back. This time her smile looked forced. “Dr. Kensington has reviewed your material for Dr. Lannigan. She'd like you to have a CAT scan.”

“She. Thank God,” Meghann said.

The nurse nodded. “You can come with me,” she said to Claire.

Claire looked to Meghann, who smiled and took her arm. “Think of us as conjoined.”

The nurse walked out in front of them.

Claire clung to Meghann's hand. The walk seemed to last forever, down one corridor and another, up the elevator and down another hallway, until they arrived at the Center for Nuclear Medicine.

Nuclear.
Claire felt Meghann's grip tighten.

“Here we are.” The nurse paused outside yet another closed door. She turned to Meghann. “There's a chair right there. You can't come in, but I'll take good care of her, okay?”

Meghann hesitated, then slowly nodded. “I'll be here, Claire.”

Claire followed the nurse through the door, then down another short hallway and into a room that was dominated by a huge machine that looked like a white doughnut. Claire let herself be positioned on the narrow bed that intersected the doughnut hole.

There, she waited. And waited. Periodically, the nurse came back, muttered something about the doctor, and disappeared again.

Claire started to get cold. The fear she'd worked so hard to keep at bay crept back. It was impossible not to fear the worst here.

Finally, the door opened and a man in a white coat walked in. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Something came up. I'm Dr. Cole, your radiologist. You just lie perfectly still and we'll have you out of here in no time.”

Claire forced herself to smile. She refused to think about the fact that everyone else wore lead aprons in the room, while she lay with only the thinnest sheet of cotton to protect her.

“You're done. Fine job,” he said when it was finally over.

Claire was so thankful she almost forgot the headache that had steadily increased as she lay in the machine.

In the hallway, Meghann looked angry. “What happened? They said it would take an hour.”

“And it did, once they corraled a doctor.”

“Shitheads.”

Claire laughed. Already she felt better with that behind her. “They certainly teach you lawyers to be precise with your language.”

“You don't want to hear precisely what I think of this place.”

They followed the nurse to another exam room.

“Should I get dressed?” Claire asked.

“Not yet. The doctor will be here soon.”

“I'll bet,” Meghann said under her breath.

Thirty minutes later, the nurse was back. “The doctor has ordered another test. An MRI. Follow me.”

“What's an MRI?” Claire asked, feeling anxious again.

“Magnetic resonance imaging. It's a clearer picture of what's going on. Very standard.”

Another hallway, another long walk toward a closed door. Again, Meg waited outside.

This time, Claire had to remove her wedding ring, her earrings, her necklace, and even her barrette. The technician asked her if she had any steel surgical staples or a pacemaker. When she said no and asked why, he said, “Well, we'd hate to see 'em fly outta you when this thing starts up.”

“That's a lovely image,” Claire muttered. “I hope my fillings are safe.”

The tech laughed as he helped her into the coffinlike machine. She found it difficult to breathe evenly. The bed was cold and hard; it curved up uncomfortably and pinched her upper back. The technician strapped her in. “You need to lie perfectly still.”

Claire closed her eyes. The room was cold and she was freezing, but she lay still.

When the machine started it sounded like a jackhammer on a city street.

Quiet, Claire. Still. Perfectly still
. She closed her eyes and barely breathed. She didn't realize she was crying until she felt the moisture drip down her temple.

The one-hour test lasted for two. Halfway through, they stopped and set up an IV. The needle pinched her arm; dye bled through her system, feeling ice-cold. She swore she could feel it pump into her brain. Finally, she was let go. She and Meghann returned to an examination room in the Nuclear Medicine Wing, where Claire's clothes were hanging. Then they went to another waiting room.

“Of course,” Meg grumbled.

They were there another hour. Finally, a tall, tired-looking woman in a lab coat came into the waiting room. “Claire Austin?”

Claire stood up. At the suddenness of the movement, she almost fell. Meg steadied her.

The woman smiled. “I'm Dr. Sheri Kensington, chief of Neurology.”

“Claire Austin. This is my sister, Meghann.”

“It's nice to meet you. Come this way.” Dr. Kensington led them down a short hallway and into an office that was lined with books, diplomas, and children's artwork. Behind her, a set of X-ray–like images glowed against the bright white backlighting boxes.

Claire stared at them, wondering what there was to see.

The doctor sat down at her desk and indicated that Claire and Meghann should sit opposite her. “I'm sorry you had problems with Dr. Lannigan. This is, as I'm sure you know, a teaching hospital, and sometimes our residents are not as thorough as we would wish. Your demand for a higher level of care was a much-needed wake-up call for Dr. Lannigan.”

Claire nodded. “Meghann is good at getting what she wants. Do I have a sinus infection?”

“No, Claire. You have a mass in your brain.”

“What?”

“You have a mass. A tumor. In your brain.” Dr. Kensington rose slowly and went to the X rays, pointing to a white spot. “It appears to be about the size of a golf ball, and located in the right frontal lobe, crossing the midline.”

Tumor.

Claire felt as if she'd just been shoved out of an airplane. She couldn't breathe; the ground was rushing up to meet her.

“I'm sorry to say this,” Dr. Kensington went on, “but I've consulted with a neurosurgeon and we believe it's inoperable. You'll want second opinions, of course. You'll need to see an oncologist, also.”

Smack.

Meghann was on her feet, pressed against the desk as if she were going to grab the doctor's throat. “You're saying she has a brain tumor?”