Fly Away (44 page)

September 12, 2010
10:17
A.M.

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Bevan said quietly.

Dorothy wondered if the man knew how often he’d said these words in the past week.
If there was one thing they were all certain of, it was this: Dr. Bevan was sorry
that Tully hadn’t wakened from her coma. He still handed out hope as if it were a
bit of hard candy he kept in his pocket for emergencies, but the hope in his eyes
had begun to dim. He’d ordered a tracheotomy on day two to maintain something called
efficient aeration of the lungs; a nasogastric feeding tube had been inserted into
her nostril and taped in place.

Tully looked like she was sleeping. That was what bothered Dorothy the most as she
sat in this room, hour after hour. Every single second felt charged with possibility.

Each of the last eight days, she’d thought:
Today
.

Today Tully will wake up.

But each evening came, sweeping darkness into the room, and each evening her daughter’s
unnatural sleep went on.

Now Dr. Bevan had called them here for a meeting. It could hardly be a good sign.

Dorothy stood in the corner, with her back to the wall. In her wrinkled clothes and
orange clogs, she felt like the least important person in the room.

Johnny stood tall, with his arms crossed at his chest and his sons standing close.
His grief revealed itself in tiny things—the places he’d missed shaving this morning
and the way he’d misbuttoned his shirt. Margie looked smaller, hunched. This past
week had whittled her down, added pain to a heart that had already been full of it.
And Bud had hardly taken off his sunglasses. Dorothy often felt he was teary-eyed
behind the dark lenses. But it was Marah, of all of them, who looked the worst. She
was the walking wounded: thin, unbalanced. She moved as if each footstep needed to
be calculated with care. Most people would look at the girl, with her freshly dyed
black hair and baggy jeans and sweatshirt and pale skin, and see a grieving young
woman, but Dorothy, who knew regret so well, saw guilt in Marah’s gaze, and she hoped—as
they all did—that this half life of Tully’s would end with good news. Dorothy wasn’t
sure that any of them could handle the opposite.

“It’s time,” Dr. Bevan said, clearing his throat to get their attention again, “to
talk about the future. Tully has been primarily unresponsive for eight days. She has
recovered adequately from her acute injuries and shows no substantial evidence of
brain injury, but the evidence of cognitive awareness fails to meet the medical criteria
for intensive ongoing rehabilitation. In layman’s terms, this means that although
there have been some reports of her opening her eyes or—once—coughing, we believe
it’s time to consider custodial care. A hospital is no longer the place for her.”

“She can afford—” Johnny began, but the doctor shook his head.

“Money isn’t the point, John. We treat critically ill patients. That’s what we do
here.”

Margie flinched at that, edged closer to Bud, who put an arm around her.

“There are several exceptional nursing homes in the area. I have a list—”

“No,” Dorothy said sharply. She looked up slowly. Everyone was staring at her.

She swallowed hard. “Can … I take care of her at home?”

It was difficult not to squirm uncomfortably under the doctor’s pointed perusal. She
knew what he saw when he looked at her. An old hippie with moderate-to-poor hygiene
skills.

But he had no idea what she’d survived just to be here. She lifted her chin, met the
neurosurgeon’s narrowed gaze. “Is it possible? Can I care for her at home?”

“It’s possible, Ms. Hart,” he said slowly. “But you hardly seem…”

Margie pulled away from Bud, moved to stand by Dorothy. “She hardly seems what?”

A frown tugged at the doctor’s mouth. “It’s a complicated, difficult job, caring for
a comatose patient. And single caretakers often find themselves overwhelmed. That’s
all I meant.”

Johnny moved in to stand beside his mother-in-law. “I could come every weekend to
help out.”

“Me, too,” Marah said, moving to Dorothy’s other side.

The twins stepped forward together, their gazes earnest and grown-up beneath the floppy
overhang of their hair. “Us, too.”

Dorothy was surprised by the swell of emotion that filled her. She had never stood
up for her daughter before, and no one had ever stood up for her. She wanted to turn
to Tully and say,
See, you are loved
. Instead, she fisted her hands and nodded, holding back the stinging tears that blurred
her vision.

“There’s a local company that specializes in care of comatose patients at home. It
can be prohibitively expensive for most patients—and their families—but if money is
not an issue, you could engage their services. A registered nurse could come to the
house every day, or every other day, to change Tully’s catheter and check her corneas
for ulceration and run some tests, but even so, it will take a lot of work, Ms. Hart.
You’d have to follow a pretty rigorous routine. I won’t discharge her into your care
unless you’re certain you’re up to it.”

Dorothy remembered all the times she’d let go of her daughter’s hand, or let her go
in a crowd; all the birthdays she’d missed and all the questions she hadn’t answered.
Everyone in this room knew Dorothy’s sad, pathetic history as a mother. She’d never
packed Tully a school lunch or talked to her about life or said, “I love you.”

If she didn’t change now
,
reach out now
,
that would be their story.

“I’ll take care of her,” Dorothy said quietly.

“I’ll research the insurance and take care of all the financial and medical arrangements,”
Johnny said. “Tully will have the best in home care possible.”

“The costs—and the coma—may go on for quite some time. It’s my understanding that
she doesn’t have a living will, and that Kathleen Ryan is the executrix of her estate
and has the power of attorney to make medical decisions on her behalf, and that Ms.
Ryan is deceased.”

Johnny nodded. “We’ll take care of all of that as a family.” He looked at Dorothy,
who nodded. “We can reassess later if we need to. I’ll talk to her business manager
this week. Her condo is worth several million, even in this economy. We can sell it
if we need to, but my guess is that she has the maximum insurance coverage.”

Marge reached over and held Dorothy’s hand. The two women looked solemnly at each
other. “The house in Snohomish hasn’t sold yet. Bud and I could move back to help
you.”

“You are amazing,” Dorothy said quietly. “But if you’re there, it will be too easy
for me to let you be her mother. I need to be the person who is responsible. I hope
you understand.”

Margie’s look said it all. “I’m only a phone call away.”

Dorothy released a heavy sigh.

There. It was done. For the first time in her life, she was going to be Tully’s mother.

September 12, 2010
6:17
P.M.

Johnny had spent most of the day with Tully’s business manager, Frank, going over
her finances. Now he sat alone in his car on the ferry, with a stack of her financial
records in the seat beside him.

He’d had no idea how her life had unraveled in the years since Kate’s death. He’d
imagined her retirement from TV had been her choice, that the “book deal” had been
lucrative and the beginning of yet another high-profile career. He would have found
the truth easily—if he’d cared enough to look.

He hadn’t.

Ah, Katie,
he thought tiredly.
You are going to kick my ass for this …

Leaning back into his leather seat, he stared out through the ferry’s wide bow opening
as the sandy hook of Wing Point came into view. When they docked, he drove over the
bumpy metal ramp and onto the smooth asphalt of the road.

At the end of his driveway, the house was drenched in late afternoon light. It was
the golden hour, that beautiful, crystalline time before sunset, when every color
was crisp and clear. September was a good month in the Northwest, a repayment season
for all the gray rainy days that were to come.

For the briefest of moments, he saw this place as it once had been. The house and
yard—like everything else—had changed since Kate’s passing. Before, the yard had had
a wild, untended look. His wife had always been “about to” start taming it. Back then,
every plant and flower and shrub had grown too tall and spread too wide. Flowers had
crowded in on each other like schoolyard bullies fighting for turf. There had always
been toys strewn about—skateboards and helmets and plastic dinosaurs.

These days, the yard was orderly. A gardener came once a week and raked and clipped
and mowed. The plants were healthier, the flowers bigger and brighter.

He pulled into the dark garage and sat there a minute collecting his thoughts. When
he felt strong again, he went into the house.

As he stepped inside, the boys came running down the stairs, banging into each other,
pushing and shoving. It was like watching
Rollerball
on a hill. He’d long ago stopped yelling at them about it or worrying that one of
them would fall. This was just who they were. They were both dressed in blue and gold
Bainbridge Island sweats and were wearing skater shoes that he swore were two sizes
too big.

In the past few years they’d become a trio, he and the twins. Their time in Los Angeles
had brought them closer together, and they’d been happy to move back here. And yet,
he could see fissures forming in their relationship. Both of them, but especially
Wills, had begun to keep secrets. Wills had begun to answer ordinary questions evasively.
“Who was that on the phone?” was a good example. “No one.” “Oh, so you’re talking
to no one?” Like that.

“Hey, Dad,” Wills said, jumping down the last three steps. Lucas was a second behind.
They landed together hard enough to rattle the floorboards.

God, he loved these boys. And yet he’d let them down in a million tiny ways without
Kate to guide him. Alone, he hadn’t been as good a parent as his sons—or Marah—deserved.
He reached out to hold on to the entry table beside him. He had made so many mistakes
in the years without Kate. How was it he saw his failings so clearly now?

Would they forgive him someday?

“Are you okay, Dad?” Lucas asked. Lucas, of course.
Take care of Lucas … he won’t understand. He may miss me most of all …

Johnny nodded. “We’re going out to clean Dorothy’s house tomorrow and paint. Get ready
for Tully to go home. I know how much you’ll want to help.”

“She and Mom liked blue,” Wills said. “That would be a good color for her room.”

Lucas took a step forward, looked up at Johnny. “It’s not your fault, Dad,” he said
quietly. “Tully, I mean.”

Johnny reached out, touched Lucas’s cheek. “You’re so much like your mom,” he said.

“And Wills is like you,” Lucas said. The family myth; reiterated, passed along, repeated
often. And true.

Johnny smiled. Maybe that’s how they would make it in the future, by keeping Kate
alive in a thousand small ways while they moved on. He was ready, at last, to do that.
Ironically, Tully’s accident had shown him what really mattered. “Where’s your sister?”

“Gee, Dad. Guess,” Wills said.

“In her room?”

“What does she do in there all the time?”

“She’s going through a hard time right now. Let’s cut her a little slack, okay, Conqueror?”

“Okay,” they said together.

He moved past them and went up the stairs. Although he paused at Marah’s closed door,
he neither knocked nor said anything. He was trying like hell to give her space. Today,
in the hospital, he’d seen how deep her pain ran, and he’d learned a good lesson in
the past few years: Listening mattered as much as talking. When she was ready to talk,
he would be the best version of himself. He wouldn’t fail her again.

He went into his room, tossed the pile of paperwork on his bed, and then took a long,
hot shower. He was towel-drying his hair when there was a knock on his bedroom door.

He dressed quickly in jeans and a T-shirt and called out, “Come in.”

The door opened. Marah stood there, her hands clasped tightly together. He still got
a little jolt of sadness every time he saw her. She was so thin and pale, a kind of
grieving doppelgänger of the girl she used to be. “Can I talk to you?”

“Of course.”

She glanced away. “Not in here.” Turning, she left his room and walked downstairs.
In the mudroom, she grabbed one of the heavy sweaters from the hooks by the washing
machine and put it on as she pushed through the door.

Out on the deck, she sat down in her mother’s favorite Adirondack chair. Above them,
the sprawling branches of the maple tree were plush with autumn. Scarlet, tangerine,
and lemon-yellow leaves lay scattered across the deck and were stuck here and there
on the railing. How often had he and Katie sat out here at night, after the kids were
in bed, with night at their feet and candles glowing in the air above them, listening
to each other and the waves?

He shook the memory aside and sat down in the chair beside her. The old, weathered
wood creaked as he settled into place.

“I sold a story to
Star
magazine,” she said quietly. “I told them Tully was a drug addict and an alcoholic.
They paid me eight hundred and fifty dollars. It came out last week. I … saw it at
Tully’s condo. She read it before she got in the car.”

Johnny took a deep breath and exhaled it. Then he did it again, thinking:
Help me, Katie
. When he was sure his voice would be even, he said, “That’s what you meant when you
said this was your fault.”

She turned to him. The anguish in her eyes was heart-wrenching. “It
is
my fault.”

Johnny stared at his daughter, saw the pain in her eyes. “We fell apart without your
mom,” he said. “And that’s on me. It hurt too much to be around Tully, so I walked
away. Hell, I ran away. You aren’t the only one who hurt her.”