She drove fast, mindlessly, through the city, around the park, along the waterfront, pop music blaring on the radio. A despondency so overwhelming she didn’t know what to do to ease it filled her. She needed to talk to someone impartial and understanding, someone who knew her and knew the complications of her life.
There was only one person.
Her tires screeched as she pulled to the side of the road. She dug her cell phone out of her bag and dialed Joanne Mathews’s number from memory.
Mercifully, Joanne answered, and within minutes, Portia was heading for the west side of the city.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“I FEEL TERRIBLE BARGING IN on you like this.” Portia balanced the mug of tea Joanne handed her and sank back into the colorful down pillows strewn across the dove-gray sofa.
Joanne and Spence had bought a large old three-story house after the twins came. They were now remodeling. Spence had redone the original oak floors, and Joanne had laid down vivid jewel-toned wool rugs, their rich hues echoing those of the sofa pillows. With its soft lamps, gas fireplace, aubergine walls and intriguingly offbeat artwork, the room was at once relaxing and enriching to the senses. The brightly colored crooked tower of plastic building blocks beside the sofa and the small red tricycles in the corner added to the cozy ambience.
“I wish you’d do this more often,” Joanne insisted, sitting down beside Portia. “And you’re in luck. It’s Spence’s turn to put the gremlins to bed.”
“I love what you’ve done with this room,” Portia remarked. “If you ever gave up on the ER, you could easily make millions as an interior decorator.”
“Not enough of an adrenaline rush,” Joanne said. “Besides, I don’t have any idea what other people like. I only do what I want.” She grinned. “That’s selfish, but Spence is an easygoing guy when it comes to decorating.”
Squeals and a thundering on the stairs signaled the arrival of the twins. They shot around the corner and into the room, two sturdy three-year-olds with wet black hair, their bodies as bare as the day they’d been born. They were holding hands and giggling. When they spied Portia, they stopped running. Jade-green eyes, their mother’s eyes, widened behind long lashes.
“Didn’t know we had company, did you, you nudists? Say hello to Portia,” Joanne instructed, and in tandem they caroled a cheerful greeting.
“Where are your pajamas?” Joanne shook her head and rolled her eyes at Portia. “This is a new game. They call it hiding on Daddy, for some unknown reason.”
“Hide on Daddy,” Lillianna crowed.
“Hide on Daddy,” her brother, Benjamin, parroted, and he snatched the throw from the sofa, crouched in the corner and pulled it over his head. Lillianna wriggled behind a chair. More giggles escaped from each of them.
“Here you are, you wicked rascals.” Spence looked as if he’d taken a bath with his jeans and T-shirt on. “Hi, Portia.”
He made an elaborate pretense of searching before he finally found his son and daughter. “I’m sure you won’t mind if we disappear back upstairs.” He scooped up the twins, one wriggling body under each muscular arm, and held them reasonably still for Joanne to kiss.
“I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise they’ll stay in bed,” he warned her.
“They will if you don’t fall asleep before they do,” Joanne stated. “It’s just a matter of stamina.”
“Easy for you to say.” With a grin, Spence headed up the steps with his squirming cargo, and Joanne sighed. “I’ve come to the conclusion that endurance is the answer to child raising. Those two would wear out a saint.” She took a sip of tea and eyed Portia questioningly.
“You didn’t come over here to talk about kids, though. I can tell something’s bothering you. What is it?”
“Just about everything.” Portia set her cup down and folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t even know where to begin.”
“Have you fallen in love with that race car driver?” Joanne was aware that Portia had been seeing a lot of Nelson.
Portia remembered Juliet asking her the same question not too long ago. She’d said that she didn’t know. She opened her mouth to tell Joanne the same thing, but instead she heard herself say, “Yeah. Yeah, I have, damn it all to hell.”
“You make it sound like a fate worse than death.”
“That’s exactly what it feels like,” Portia admitted. “He’s a rich playboy who’s never gonna settle down. He goes from one toy to the other. Because he can’t race cars at the moment, he’s decided to fly airplanes. When that novelty wears off and his hip heals, he’ll probably trek off to Nepal or somewhere. And it’s inevitable that he’ll get bored with me and move on. I’m a novelty at the moment, but that’ll change.” She shook her head in despair. “I’m such an idiot. I knew from the beginning I shouldn’t fall for him, but I let my guard down for one second and it happened.”
“I’m convinced there aren’t any mistakes in the universe,” Joanne said. “You can’t ever predict what another person will do, or what he’s feeling. Try not to worry about what the future holds. Just enjoy each day and leave it at that.”
“Easier said than done.” Portia herself had handed out the exact advice so many times. “I guess I’m a coward about my heart. I don’t look forward to getting it broken.”
Joanne smiled. “I remember thinking precisely that when I fell in love with Spence. He told me right up front there was no chance for us—he was never going to get married again.”
“He did?” Portia was astonished. She’d always believed Joanne and Spence had had a fairy-tale courtship. They certainly had a happy marriage.
“Sure he did. And I believed him. I went off by myself on that horrible cruise to Alaska, and when I got back, he came to his senses.” Joanne’s eyes twinkled. “Men just aren’t too bright when it comes to matters of the heart. They’re wired differently than we are. You have to overlook what they say and instead gauge what they’re feeling. And you have an inside track on that, because you can tell by their colors, right?”
Portia blew out an exasperated breath. “I guess that’s another one of the reasons I’m crying on your shoulder. You know since Betty Hegard died that I’ve been trying not use my psychic ability at work.”
Joanne nodded and waited.
“It’s just so damn hard not to,” Portia burst out. “Instead of being able to relax and enjoy the job the way I used to, I find myself with a headache at the end of the day from the stress of trying not to see.”
“That’s something you’ll have to come to terms with,” Joanne said. “It sounds as if you’re not being true to yourself. Personally, I view your ability to diagnose through seeing as an extraordinary gift.”
It was Portia’s turn to nod. Joanne had always encouraged her to use her gift in the ER. But Joanne was no longer senior ER physician at St. Joe’s; she’d relinquished the position so she could work only part-time and raise her family. The man who’d taken her place, Dr. Hudson, was older, a by-the-book physician who opposed anything that smacked of alternative medicine. And the hospital board supported his views; they’d been explicit about that when they’d reprimanded Portia in the Betty Hegard inquiry.
Joanne was well aware of all this. “You may find you have to look elsewhere for a place to best use your abilities,” she said softly.
The thought had crossed Portia’s mind more than once, and it always depressed her. “But I love St. Joe’s. It’s like home to me.”
“We all have to leave home eventually.” Joanne’s words were gentle, but the reality of them hit Portia hard.
“More tea?” Joanne filled their cups. “So besides work and your love life, what else is falling apart? There’s a universal law that says we can’t deal with merely one or two problems at a time.”
“You’re dead-on,” Portia admitted. “I feel awful dumping all my troubles on you, but I can’t seem to help myself. There’s also Juliet.” She drew in a deep breath and let it out in a whoosh. “My sister
’s pregnant. I just found out tonight.”
“Oh, dear.” Joanne knew Juliet well; the three women had gone to lunch occasionally. “Is the father supportive?”
Portia shook her head and explained about Stuart. “They care for each other, but he’s just not emotionally strong. I’m certain Juliet’s going to go through this without him. He’s living in Seattle.”
“It puts an enormous burden on you. I don’t suppose your mother—”
“Nope. We haven’t told her she’s about to become a grandmother, but my guess is she’ll be conspicuous by her absence, as usual.”
Joanne had also met Lydia. She nodded reluctant agreement. “I don’t suppose abortion is an option?”
“Nope. Juliet is thrilled and wouldn’t think of aborting. I’m a lot less enthusiastic. She’s already suggested that she and the baby move in with me.”
“That’s not an option, of course. But I see what you’re up against. It’s tough to be a parent, even with no disability and a husband to share the duties. Alone and mentally challenged…” Joanne trailed off. “It’s tough on Juliet, but it’s doubly hard on you, Portia.”
Portia felt tears well up at Joanne’s understanding and sympathy. Being able to share how she felt was such a relief. She told Joanne so.
“If there’s anything at all that I can do, anything, you have only to ask.” Joanne reached across and took Portia’s hand. “I wish there were something immediate and practical that would make everything easier, but I can’t think what.” She squeezed Portia’s hand. “Unless you want me to tell Spence to have a heart-to-heart with Nelson Gregory and ask him his intentions?” She giggled at the absolute horror on Portia’s face. “And when he’s done that, we could get him to talk to Stuart’s mother, as well.”
It was good to laugh. Portia felt better, even though nothing had changed. She and Joanne chatted about work for another half hour, and then Portia left, promising to have lunch with Joanne soon and to keep her posted on what was happening.
“I feel like a character in a soap opera,” Portia remarked as Joanne gave her a hug at the door.
“Not just a character, honey,” Joanne said with a grin. “You’re the star.”
Portia was still smiling as she drove home. If she was the star, then she should have some say in the action. She glanced at her watch. It was just past eleven. She fumbled her cell phone out of her bag and tapped in another number she knew off by heart.
She’d begin by calling Nelson and apologizing for having been such a bitch tonight.
WHEN THE PHONE RANG Nelson snatched it up, half expecting it to be the Florida doctor he’d spoken to an hour earlier. He steeled himself for what could only be bad news.
“Nelson?”
“God, Portia, I’m so glad it’s you.” He slumped onto the bed, shoving his partially filled suitcase out of the way.
“So who were you expecting, the drug squad?” Her voice was relaxed and filled with warmth and humor.
“I was afraid it might be my mother’s doctor. My mom’s just had a severe heart attack. She’s asking for me, and he said that it would be wise for me to get there as quickly as possible. I called the airlines. There’s a seat available on a flight leaving at midnight, so I’m packing. I was going to call you as soon as everything was arranged.”
“Oh, Nelson, I’m so sorry. Can I do anything? Do you need a ride to the airport?”
“Not if you’re in bed already. I can call a cab.”
“I’m in the car, not far from your apartment. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
She rang off, and he felt better. He didn’t question why that was so; he only knew it comforted him to have her with him, have her drive him to the airport.
Hearing that his mother was ill had been a shock. Now he felt troubled, worried and guilty and anxious. He hadn’t seen her for more than a year. He was grateful that at least he was out of the wheelchair. He was still on crutches, though, and if his mother was conscious, she’d be horrified and hurt that he hadn’t told her about his own health misfortunes.
He’d distanced himself from his mother for a good reason—he didn’t want her feeling responsible for him if—when—the Huntington’s appeared. But he’d felt lonely without her in his life, Nelson admitted to himself as he folded shirts and tossed underwear into his case. Madeleine Gregory had been a wonderful mother, loving and funny and warm. Nelson knew that his self-imposed estrangement had hurt her. She’d made innumerable efforts over the years to bridge the distance he’d created, but he’d always resisted her overtures, telling himself it was for her own good.
The buzzer sounded, and as he hurried to let Portia in, he hoped against hope that if Madeleine was going to die, it wouldn’t happen before he got to her. He needed to say things to her, ask her things.
Most important, he needed to tell her he loved her.
Not for her sake, but for his.
PORTIA WATCHED AS NELSON made his way through the security check. He stopped on the far side and waved to her, and there was something so forlorn in his expression that all of a sudden she wished she’d had the courage to do more than just wish him good luck and kiss him goodbye. She should have told him how much she cared about him, maybe even said straight out that she loved him.
Then again, maybe not. If she’d done so, he’d probably feel he had to say something similar back, and the last thing she wanted was a trade-last.
He hadn’t talked much about his mother on the way to the airport. Portia had asked a few questions, but it was obvious Nelson didn’t want to discuss her, just as Portia earlier hadn’t wanted to talk about Juliet. So they’d made idle conversation about the rain, about how nice it would be for Nelson to soak up some Florida sunshine. Portia told him about the twins and their nudist tendencies, about Joanne’s talents as a decorator. Nelson talked about Cedric and how much he seemed to have enjoyed the time at the racetrack.
There’d been the usual controlled confusion at the airport with getting tickets and checking bags. Then he’d kissed her, holding her close for a long, desperate moment. When he was gone, Portia felt bereft.
THE FEELING INTENSIFIED the following morning when Gordon Caldwell, Cedric’s nurse, stopped by the ER and asked if she’d come to an emergency meeting he’d called about Cedric.
“I went to see him this morning,” Gordon said. “He’s got a cold. As you know, ALS patients often die from mucous buildup they can’t clear away themselves, and his muscles are already very weak. This could well develop into pneumonia unless something’s done. He wouldn’t let me bring him into Emerg, but I could see that he was feeling pretty rough.”
The ER was quiet, and Portia hurried down the hall with Gordon to the small meeting room. The hospital’s palliative care supervisor, Vanessa Thorpe, was there, as well as Dr. Melvin Halliday, the neurologist caring for him.
Gordon explained his concerns, and then Halliday gave his professional opinion.
“Cedric’s condition is worsening much faster than anticipated, in my opinion due in part to his living conditions. I would recommend that he be brought as soon as possible into the Palliative Care Unit,” Halliday stated. “These things are difficult to predict accurately, but my most optimistic guess is that Mr. Vencour has only six to eight weeks left to live.”
Portia had known, of course, but hadn’t wanted to face up to how quickly Cedric was deteriorating. Her heart ached for her friend. “Gordon and I have both tried to convince Cedric to come in for palliative care,” she said with a sigh, “but he refuses. He insists he wants to die in his own place. The lack of water or bathroom facilities must be making it impossible for Gordon to care for him properly.”
Gordon agreed. “I’m doing my best, but there’s only so much I can do, given the circumstances.” He cleared his throat and glanced at Vanessa Thorpe. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he continued in a tentative voice. “He lives in a packing box. Why can’t we just move it into one of the palliative care rooms and let him go on
living in it? That way he’d have access to a bathroom and the care he needs, but he’d be in his own place. He might agree to do it on those terms.”
“Gordon, that’s brilliant.” Portia was excited. “How big is the box?”
“About eight feet by eight.”
“It would fit. Those rooms are bigger than that.” Portia was already rearranging furniture in her mind. “With the bed gone, there’d be plenty of room.”
But Vanessa was shaking her head. “My concern is what sort of germs would we be bringing in? The nurses would object on those grounds, I’m sure.”
Gordon’s quiet demeanor didn’t change, but his voice became firmer. “In-hospital palliative care means that people aren’t looking at getting well, so germs are not a major concern here. I’ll make sure his clothes and his sleeping bag are laundered. The only other things he has are books and a radio. We could put him in one of those end rooms near the door. That way his friends could visit easily. I checked just now. The one on the right is empty.”
Vanessa was still shaking her head.
In her excitement at Gordon’s idea, Portia had forgotten her vow not to look at auras. She could see the disturbance in Vanessa’s colors, a particular shade of blue that indicated a conservative nature and a dedication to duty. It didn’t take psychic ability to recognize that Vanessa was cautious in word, action and dress.
“It’s just not possible,” she declared, confirming Portia’s assessment. “Infection control is very much an issue here.”
Portia wanted to shake her, remind her that Cedric wasn’t infectious. So he brought in a few fleas. Surely the hospital had disinfectants powerful enough to deal with them.
“Well, it sounds like a good idea to me,” Dr. Halliday said, gathering up his briefcase and notes. “But of course it’s up to Vanessa. If you’ll excuse me, I have a patient waiting.” He hurried out the door.
Coward, Portia screamed silently at his retreating back. As Cedric’s neurologist, he could have been a lot more supportive and insistent.
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