Between Sisters (32 page)

Meg backed out of the room, left the three of them alone. She went back to the waiting room and thumbed through a magazine.

An hour or so later, a commotion in the hall got her attention. She looked up.

Mama had arrived. Sheathed in elegant, flowing black, she marched forward carrying a tiny dog in a beaded carrier and leading the way. Behind her was a cluster of people; one of them was snapping photographs.

Mama came to the waiting room and looked around. When she saw Meghann, she burst into tears. “How is our girl?” She pulled a silk handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbed her eyes.

A photographer flashed a photo.

Mama offered a brave smile. “This is m'other daughter, Meghann Dontess. D-O-N-T-E-S-S. She's twenty-nine years old.”

Meghann counted silently to ten. Then, in a steady voice, she said, “Dogs aren't allowed in the hospital.”

“I know. I had to sneak him in. You know, Elvis, he—”

“Elvis is going to be as dead as his namesake in about ten seconds.” At Mama's affronted gasp, Meghann looked at the man standing slightly apart from the crowd. Dressed in black, neckless, he looked like a WWF combatant. “You. Mr. Bodyguard. Take the dog to the car.”

“The hotel,” Mama said with a dramatic, suffering sigh. “The suite has plenty of room.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Neckless took the dog carrier and walked away.

That left just Mama, the photographer, and a thin, mouse-faced man with a tape recorder. The reporter.

“Excuse me,” Meghann said to the men as she grabbed Mama's arm and pulled her into a quiet corner. “What did you do, hire a publicist?”

Mama drew herself up to her full height and sniffed. “I was talking to her on the other line when you called. What was I supposed to tell her? It's hardly
my
fault that
Us
magazine wanted to cover my visit to my gravely ill daughter. I am, after all, news. Celebrity can be such a burden.”

Meghann frowned. She should have been mad as hell right now, ready to deep-fry Mama in some down-home chicken grease. But when she looked into her mother's heavily made-up eyes, she saw something that surprised her.

“You're afraid,” she said softly. “That's why you brought the entourage. So it would be a performance.”

Mama rolled her eyes. “Nothing scares me. I just . . . just . . .”

“What?”

“It's Claire,” Mama finally answered, looking away.
“Claire.”
Her voice thickened, and Meghann saw something honest for once. “Can I see her?”

“Not if you're bringing the circus with you.”

Mama said quietly, “Will you go in with me?”

Meghann was surprised by that. She'd always imagined Mama to be shallow as a pie pan and tough as nails, a woman who knew what she wanted in life and made a beeline for it, the kind of woman who would cross police tape and step over a body if it was in her way. Now, she wondered if she'd been wrong, if Mama had always been this weak and frightened.

She wondered if it was all an act. Fear was something Meghann understood. Especially when it grew out of guilt.

“Of course I'll come with you.”

They went over to the magazine people. Mama made a teary plea for privacy in this difficult time, then recommended a restaurant across the street for the rest of the interview.

Mama's high heels clacked on the linoleum floor. The sound seemed designed to draw attention, but no one noticed.

At Claire's room, Meghann stopped. “You ready?”

Mama pulled up a smile, nodded, and swept into the room like Auntie Mame, her long black sleeves fluttering out behind her. “Claire, darlin', it's Mama.”

Claire tried to smile, but against the white mound of pillows and industrial gray blankets, she looked worn, impossibly pale. The patch of baldness gave her an odd, lopsided look. “Hey, Mama. You just missed Sam and Ali. They went down to the cafeteria.”

Mama stumbled, her arms lowered. She glanced back at Meghann.

“I know I look like shit, Mama,” Claire said, trying for a laugh.

Mama moved slowly this time. “Why, darlin', that isn't true at all. You're lovely.” She pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed. “Why, I remember an episode of
Starbase IV
. It was called ‘Attack Buffet,' remember that? I ate a bad bit of space food and all m'hair fell out.” She smiled. “I sent that episode in to the Emmy voters. 'Course it didn't work. Too much politics. I sort of liked the freedom of no hair.”

“It was a rubber skullcap, Mama.”

“Still. It makes a woman's eyes look beautiful. I do wish I'd brought my makeup though. You
could
use a little blush, maybe a touch of liner. Meghann should have told me. And I'll pick you up a pretty little bed jacket. Maybe with some fur around the collar. I remember a dress I once wore to the—”

“Mama.” Claire tried to lean forward. The effort clearly cost her. “There's a tumor eating through my brain.”

Mama's smile fluttered. “That's awfully
graphic
of you, darlin'. We Southern women—”

“Please, Mama.
Please.
”

Mama sank into her chair. She seemed to lose mass somehow, become smaller, ordinary, until the flapping black outfit swallowed her up, leaving behind a thin, heavily made-up woman who'd had one too many face-lifts. “I don't know what you want from me.”

It was the first time in twenty years Meghann had heard her mother's real voice. Instead of the sweet lilt of the South, it had the pinched flatness of the Midwest.

“Oh, Mama,” Claire said, “of course you don't. You never wanted children. You wanted an audience. I'm sorry. I'm too tired to be polite. I want you to know that I love you, Mama. I always did. Even when you . . . looked away.”

Looked away.

That was how Mama always put it:
I was standing there one day, takin' care of my babies, then I looked away for a minute, and they were both gone.

It had been easier, Meghann thought, than confronting the fact that Mama had simply let Claire go.

“Sam was a good man,” Mama said so softly they had to strain to hear it. “The only good one I ever found.”

“Yes, he was,” Claire agreed.

Mama waved her hand airily. “But y'all know me. I'm not one to go pickin' through the past.” The accent was back. “I keep movin'. That's always been my way.”

They'd lost Mama; whatever opportunity had been opened by the sight of Claire's illness had closed. Mama had rallied. She stood up. “I don't want to tire you out. I'm goin' to run over to Nordstrom and buy y'all some makeup. Would you mind if a friend of mine took a little picture of us together?”

“Mama—” Meghann warned.

“Sure,” Claire said, sagging back into the pillows. “Meghann, would you send Bobby and Ali in? I want to kiss them before I take another nap.”

Mama bent down and kissed Claire's forehead, then barreled out of the room. Meghann almost fell into her when she left. Mama was standing in the hallway.

“Makeup, Mama?”

“I don't care if she is dyin', there's no need to let herself go like that.” Mama's composure cracked.

Meghann reached out.

“Don't you dare touch me, Meggy. I couldn't take it.” She turned and walked away, skirts flapping behind her, heels clattering on the floor.

There wasn't a single person who didn't look at her as she passed.

Claire grew weaker. By her second day in the hospital, she wanted simply to sleep.

Her friends and family had begun to exhaust her. They'd shown up religiously. All of them. The Bluesers had descended on her tiny hospital room, bringing life and laughter, flowers and fattening food, and Claire's favorite movies. They talked and told jokes and remembered old times. Only Gina had had the guts to brave the harsh, icy landscape of Claire's fear.

“I'll always be there for Ali, you know,” she said when everyone else had gone to the cafeteria.

Claire had never loved her friend as much as in that moment. No wartime charge ever took more courage. “Thank you,” was all she'd been able to say. Then, softly, “I haven't been able to tell her yet.”

“How could you?”

Gina's eyes met hers, filling slowly with tears. They'd both been thinking about how a woman said good-bye to her five-year-old daughter. After a long pause, Gina smiled. “So. What are we going to do about your hair?”

“I thought I'd cut it off. Maybe dye what's left of it platinum.”

“Very chic. We'll all look like old housewives next to you.”

“That's my dream now,” Claire said, unable to help herself. “Becoming an old housewife.”

Ultimately, as much as she loved to see her friends, she was glad when they went home. Late that night, in the quiet darkness, she gave in to the meds and fell asleep.

She woke with a start.

Her heart was pounding too fast, skipping beats. She couldn't seem to breathe, couldn't sit up. Something was wrong.

“Claire, are you okay?” It was Bobby. He was sitting beside her bed. He'd obviously been sleeping. Rubbing his eyes, he stood up, came to her bedside. For a second, she thought it was a hallucination, that the Pacman tumor had eaten through the good parts of her brain and left her crazy. Then he moved closer to the bed, and she heard the jingle of the keys.

“Bobby,” she whispered, trying in vain to lift her heavy, heavy arms.

“I'm right here, baby.”

It took effort, a painful amount, but she reached up and touched his wet cheek. “I love you, Robert Jackson Austin. More than anything in the world except my Ali Gator.

“Come,” she said. “Get into bed with me.”

He looked at all the machines, the IVs, the tubes and cords. “Oh, baby . . .” He leaned down and kissed her instead.

The sweet pressure of his lips felt so good. She closed her eyes, feeling herself sinking into the pillows. “Ali,” she whispered. “I need my baby—”

Pain exploded behind her right eye.

Beside her bed, an alarm went off.

There is no pain. No ache. She feels for the dry, itchy patch of skin on her head and feels long, beautiful hair instead.

She sits up. The tubes that connect her to the machines are gone. She wants to shout out that she is better, but there are people in her room. Too many of them, all dressed in white. They're crowding her, talking all at once so she can't understand.

She realizes suddenly that she is watching herself from above—in the air somewhere—watching the doctors work on her body. They've ripped open her gown and are ramming something on her chest.

“Clear!” one yells.

There is such relief in being here, above them, where there is no pain . . .

“Clear.”

Then she thinks of her daughter, her precious baby girl whom she didn't hold one last time.

Her baby, who will have to be told that Mommy has gone away.

The doctor stepped back. “She's gone.”

Meghann ran to the bed, screaming. “Don't you do it, Claire. Come back. Come back, damn it.”

Someone tried to pull her away. She elbowed him hard. “I mean it, Claire. You come back. Alison is in the waiting room. You cannot run out on her this way. You haven't told her good-bye. She deserves that, damn it. Come back.” She grabbed Claire's shoulders, shook her hard. “Don't you
dare
do this to Alison and me.”

“We have a heartbeat,” someone cried out.

Meghann was pushed aside. She stumbled back into the corner of the room, watching, praying, as they stabilized her sister.

Finally, the doctors left, dragging their crash cart with them. Except for the buzz and beep of machines, the room was quiet.

She stared at Claire's chest, watching it rise and fall. It was a moment before she realized that she was breathing intently, trying to will her sister's body to keep up the rhythm.

“I heard you, you know.”

At Claire's voice, Meg pulled away from the wall and moved forward.

There was Claire, half bald, pale as parchment, smiling up at her. “I thought:
Christ, I'm dead and she's still yelling at me.
”

C
HAPTER
TWENTY-NINE

J
OE HAD TRIED TO THROW OUT THE DAMN ENVELOPE AT
least a dozen times. The problem was, he couldn't bring himself to touch it.

Coward.

He heard the word so clearly he looked up. The cabin was empty. He stared at Diana, who looked back at him from her place on the mantel.

He closed his eyes, wishing she'd come to him again, maybe sit down on the bed beside him and whisper,
You break my heart, Joey
, the way she used to.

But she hadn't come to him in so long that he'd forgotten how those hallucinations felt. Although he didn't need to conjure her image to know what her words would be right now.

She would be ashamed of him, as ashamed as he was of himself. She would remind him that he'd once taken an oath to help people.

And not just anyone, either. This was Claire Cavenaugh, the woman who'd sat by Diana's bedside hour after hour when she was ill, playing dirty-word Scrabble and watching soap operas. Joe remembered one night in particular. He'd worked all day, then headed for Diana's hospital room, exhausted by the prospect of another evening spent beside his dying wife. When he'd opened the door, Claire was there, wearing nothing but her bra and panties, dancing. Diana, who hadn't smiled in weeks, was laughing so hard there were tears on her cheeks.

No way
, Claire had laughed when he asked what was going on.
We are not going to tell you what we were doing.

A girl has to have
some
secrets
, Diana had said,
even from the love of her life.

Now it was Claire in a bed like that, in a room that smelled of despair and looked out on graying skies even in the height of summer.

There was probably nothing he could do for her, but how could he live with himself if he didn't try? Maybe this was God's way of reminding him that a man couldn't hold on to old fears if he wanted to start over.

If she were here right now, Diana would have told him that chances didn't come any plainer than this. It was one thing to run away from nothing. It was quite another to turn your back on a set of films with a friend's name in the corner.

You're killing her, and this time no pretty word like
euthanasia
will fit.

He released a heavy breath and reached out, pretending not to notice that his hands were shaking and that he was suddenly desperate for a drink.

He pulled out the films and took them into the kitchen, where full sunlight streamed through the window above the sink.

He studied the first one, then went through the rest of them. Adrenaline made his heart speed up.

He knew why everyone had diagnosed this tumor as inoperable. The amount of skill needed to perform the surgery was almost unheard-of. It would require a neurosurgeon with godlike hands and an ego to match. One who wasn't afraid to fail.

But with a careful resection . . . there might be a chance. It was possible—just possible—that this one thin shadow wasn't tumor, that it was tissue responding to the tumor.

There was no doubt about what he had to do next.

He took a long, hot shower, then dressed in the blue shirt he'd recently bought and the new jeans, wishing he had better clothes, accepting that he didn't. Then he retrieved the film, put it back in the envelope, and walked over to Smitty's house. Helga was in the kitchen, making lunch. Smitty was in the living room, watching
Judge Judy
. At Joe's knock, he looked up. “Hey, Joe.”

“I know this is irregular, but could I borrow the truck? I need to drive to Seattle. I may have to stay overnight.”

Smitty dug in his pocket for the keys, then tossed them.

“Thanks.” Joe went to the rusty old '73 Ford pickup and got inside. The door clanged shut behind him.

He stared at the dashboard. It had been years since he'd been in the driver's seat. He started the engine and hit the gas.

Two hours later, he parked in the underground lot on Madison and Broadway and walked into the lobby of his old life.

The painting of Elmer Nordstrom was still there, presiding over the sleek black high-rise that bore his family name.

Joe kept his head down as he walked toward the elevators. There, making eye contact with no one, his heart hammering, he pushed the up button.

When the doors pinged open, he stepped inside. Two white-coated people crowded beside him. They were talking about lab results. They got off on the third floor—the floor that led to the sky bridge that connected this office building to Swedish Hospital.

He couldn't help remembering when he'd walked through this building with his head held high; a man certain of his place in the world.

On the fourteenth floor, the doors opened.

He stood there a half second too long, staring at the gilt-edged black letters on the glass doors across the hall.

Seattle Nuclear Specialists.
The business he'd started on his own. There were seven or eight doctors listed below. Joe's name wasn't there.

Of course it wasn't.

At the last second, as the doors were closing, he stepped out of the elevators and crossed the hall. In the office, there were several patients in the waiting room—none of which he knew, thank God—and two women working the reception desk. Both of them were new.

He considered walking straight down to Li's office, but he didn't have the guts. Instead, he went to the desk.

The woman—Imogene, according to her name tag—looked up at him. “Can I help you?”

“I'd like to see Dr. Li Chinn.”

“And your name?”

“Tell him an out-of-town doctor is here for an emergency consult. I've come a long way to see him.”

Imogene studied Joe, no doubt noticing his cheap clothes and small-town haircut. Frowning, she buzzed Li's office, gave him the message. A moment later, she hung up. “He can see you in fifteen minutes. Take a seat.”

Joe went to one of the chairs in the waiting room, remembering that Diana had picked the fabric and colors for the office. There had been a time when their home had been wall-to-wall samples.

I want it just right
, she'd said when he made fun of her.
Your job is the only thing you love more than me.

He wished he could smile at the memory; it was a good one.

“Doctor? Doctor?”

He looked up, startled. That was a word he hadn't heard directed at him for a long time. “Yes?” He stood.

“Dr. Chinn will see you now. Go down the hall and turn right—”

“I know where his office is.” He went to the door, stood there, trying to breathe evenly. He was sweating and his palms were damp. His fingerprints would be all over the envelope.

“Doctor? Are you okay?”

He released a heavy sigh and opened the door.

The interior hallways and offices were filled with familiar faces. Nurses, physician's assistants, radiology techs.

He forced his chin up.

One by one, the people he'd known made eye contact, recognized him, and looked quickly away. A few of them smiled awkwardly or waved, but no one spoke to him. He felt like a ghost passing through the land of the living. No one wanted to admit they'd seen him.

Some of the gazes were frankly condemning; that was the look he remembered, the one that had sent him running in the first place. Others, though, seemed embarrassed to be seen looking at him, confused by his sudden appearance. What did you say to a man you'd once admired who'd been prosecuted for killing his wife and then vanished for three years?

He walked past the row of women in hospital gowns waiting for mammograms, past the second waiting room, then turned onto another, quieter hallway. In the far end, he came to a closed door. He took a deep breath and knocked.

“Come in,” said a familiar voice.

Joe entered the big corner office that had once been his. Huge picture windows framed the Seattle high-rise view.

Li Chinn was at his desk, reading. At Joe's entrance, he glanced up. An almost comical look of surprise overtook his normally impassive face. “I don't believe it,” he said, remaining in his seat.

“Hey, Li.”

Li looked awkward, uncertain of how to proceed, what to say. “It's been a long time, Joe.”

“Three years.”

“Where did you go?”

“Does it matter? I meant to come by here and tell you I was leaving. But—” he sighed, hearing how pathetic he sounded “—I didn't have the guts.”

“I kept your name on the door for nearly a year.”

“I'm sorry, Li. It was probably bad for business.”

Li nodded; this time his dark eyes were sad. “Yes.”

“I have some film I'd like you to look at.” At Li's nod, Joe went to the viewbox and put the film up.

Li came closer, studying it. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, “You see something I do not?”

He pointed. “There.”

Li crossed his arms, frowned. “Not many surgeons would attempt such a thing. The risks are grave.”

“She's going to die without the surgery.”

“She may die because of the surgery.”

“You think it's worth a try?”

Li looked at him, his frown deepening. “The old Joe Wyatt never asked for other men's opinions.”

“Things change,” he said simply.

“Do you know a surgeon who would do it? Who
could
do it?”

“Stu Weissman at UCLA.”

“Ah. The cowboy. Yes, maybe.”

“I can't practice. I've let my license lapse. Could you send Stu the film? I'll call him.”

Li flicked off the light. “I will. You know, it's an easy thing to reinstate your license.”

“Yes.” Joe stood there a moment longer. Silence spread like a stain between the men. “Well. I should go call Stu.” He started to leave.

“Wait.”

He turned back around.

“Did any of the staff speak to you?”

“No. It's hard to know what to say to a murderer.”

Li moved toward him. “A few believed that of you, yes. Most . . . of us . . . just don't know what to say. Privately, many of us would have wanted to do the same thing. Diana was in terrible pain, everyone knew that, and there was no hope. We thank God that we were not in your shoes.”

Joe had no answer to that.

“You have a gift, Joe,” Li said slowly. “Losing it would be a crime, too. When you're ready—if you ever are—you come back to see me. This office is in the business of saving lives, not worrying about old gossip.”

“Thank you.” They were small words, too small to express his gratitude. Embarrassed by the depth of his emotion, Joe mumbled thanks again, and left the office.

Downstairs, in the lobby, he found a bank of pay phones and called Stu Weissman.

“Joe Wyatt,” Stu said loudly. “How the hell are you? I thought you fell off the face of the earth. Damn shame, that hell you went through.”

Joe didn't want to waste time with the where-have-you-been stuff. There would be time for that when Stu got up here. So he said, “I have a surgery I want you to do. It's risky as hell. You're the only man I know who is good enough.” Stu was a sucker for compliments.

“Talk to me.”

Joe explained what he knew of Claire's history, told him the current diagnosis, and outlined what he'd seen on the film.

“And you think there's something I can do.”

“Only you.”

“Well, Joe. Your eyes are the best in the business. Send me the film. If I see what you do, I'll be on the next plane. But you make sure the patient understands the risks. I don't want to get there and have to turn around.”

“You got it. Thanks, Stu.”

“Good to hear from you,” Stu said, then hung up.

Joe replaced the receiver. Now all he had to do was speak to Claire.

He went back to the elevators, then crossed the sky bridge and headed into Swedish Hospital. He kept his gaze pinned on the floor. A few people frowned in recognition, a few more whispered behind him. He ignored them and kept moving. No one had the guts to actually speak to him or ask why he was back here, until he reached the ICU.

There someone said, “Dr. Wyatt?”

He turned slowly. It was Trish Bey, the head ICU nurse. They'd worked together for years. She and Diana had become close friends at the end. “Hello, Trish.”

She smiled. “It's good to see you back here. We missed you.”

His shoulders relaxed. He almost smiled in return. “Thanks.” They stood there, staring at each other for an awkward moment, then he nodded, said good-bye, and headed for Claire's room.

He knocked quietly and opened the door.

She was sitting up in bed, asleep, her head cocked to one side. The patchy hairless area made her look impossibly young.

He moved toward her, trying not to remember when Diana had looked like this. Pale and fragile, her hair thinning to the point where she looked like an antique doll that had been loved too hard and then discarded.

She blinked awake, stared at him. “Joey,” she whispered, smiling tiredly. “I heard you were home. Welcome back.”

He pulled a chair over and sat down beside her bed. “Hey, Claire.”

“I know. I've looked better.”

“You're beautiful. You always have been.”

“Bless you, Joe. I'll tell Di hi for you.” She closed her eyes. “I'm sorry, but I'm tired.”

“Don't be in such a hurry to see my wife.”

Slowly, she opened her eyes. It seemed to take her a minute to focus on him. “There's no hope, Joe. You of all people know what that's like. It hurts too much to pretend. Okay?”

“I see it . . . differently.”

“You think the white coats are wrong?”

“I don't want to give you false hope, Claire, but yeah, maybe.”

“Are you sure?”

“No one is ever sure.”

“I'm not asking anyone else's opinion. I want yours, Joey. Are you telling me I shouldn't give up?”

“Surgery might save you. But there could be bad side effects, Claire. Paralysis. Loss of motor skills. Brain damage.”

At that, she smiled. “Do you know what I was thinking about just before you got here?”

“No.”

“How to tell Ali Kat that Mommy is going to die. I'd take any risk, Joe. Anything so I don't have to kiss Ali good-bye.” Her voice cracked, and he saw the depth of her pain. Her courage amazed him.