Catching himself staring into the cupboards, Carson checked his watch, startled to see he’d lost the better part of an hour here, musing. He shut the doors and turned toward the stairway, looked up into the loft. Might as well get it over with.
Up he trod, the fifth and tenth steps creaking like always. At the top of the stairs, he paused, taking in the bed, dresser, love seat, armoire—furniture all scarred and worn but so familiar. More familiar, somehow, than the far more expensive, more stylish furnishings that populated his condo now, furniture he’d been living with for twice as long as he had these pieces in front of him.
Though he couldn’t fail to recall Meg in his bed, he was most concerned right now with the small box on top of the low, four-drawer dresser. Made of layers of heavy paper and painted a delicate pattern of black, red, blue, and yellow by an uncredited Asian artist, the box was a Christmas present from Meg. He went to it, ran his fingers over the top, then looked up, out the window in front of him, the brilliant green treetops of his heritage all he could see.
Drawing a deep breath—more resignation than dread, he opened the box. Only one object waited there, one small piece of his past, of their past, which until today he’d thought of as coiled and waiting like a rattler: her gold chain. He drew it out, impulsively wanting to run downstairs, jump in the Land Rover, and track Meg down to return it to her. Here, I’m done with this, he might say. Or, I think you should keep this now. Or, I wanted you to have this souvenir of our past, no hard feelings. He was sure she hadn’t saved anything from then.
But it was clear from her skittishness earlier that a second encounter wouldn’t be welcomed—probably she wouldn’t welcome his gesture, either. She had undone one circle of gold in favor of a different, smaller one, one which he’d noticed still encircled her finger today. She was done with the past—and he should be too. Maybe he’d mail her the chain, let her decide what to do with it. For now, he enclosed it in his hand and then dropped it into his pocket so that when Val came in later for her tour, the whole place would be safe for her curious, loyal, and devoted eyes.
Twenty-four
MEG STOOD AT THE MATERNITY FLOOR’S NURSES’ STATION EARLY THURSDAY evening, replacing a chart, when Clay came to the counter. “Triplets,” he said.
“What?”
“John Bachman and I just delivered triplets, two boys and a girl. You should see them.” He was beaming.
Melanie Harmon, a brilliant, organized Haitian immigrant who was the nursing supervisor, said, “That’s the second set this month. What’s in the water?”
Meg wondered that too, only not about the increase in multiple births; that, she knew, had more to do with fertility treatments. But the disease that might be manifesting inside her muscle fibers, where did it come from? And why was there no way to get rid of it?
Clay reached into his pocket and took out his prescription pad. He stood at the end of the counter, writing, while she forced her attention back to the subject of one of her patients who had just checked in. She told Melanie, “She’s a ways out, yet—but she’s very eager, and every member of her family is here, I swear it. Her brother was just trying to interview me on video.”
“First baby?” Melanie asked.
“How’d you guess? First for her, first grandchild for the grandparents, etcetera.” She wanted to share in their excitement, but it was failing to reach her through her fog of dread. Brianna’s words would not leave her head; for the last two hours, whenever her attention was not focused on a task, she heard the refrain respiratory paralysis, and death.
“So you’re sticking around?” Clay asked, moving to stand next to her.
Maybe not. “Yes—but I’m hoping she’ll progress quickly.” Quick delivery or slow, she would miss yet another of Savannah’s softball games and had arranged with Rachel’s mother for Savannah to ride home with them.
She felt Clay’s arm brush hers, then the pressure of him pushing something into her left jacket pocket. “I’m stuck here too,” he said. “Serving on that hurricane preparedness committee. We’re meeting at seven.”
Unless, Meg thought, we end up in surgery. She sent up another prayer for her patient to have a medically uneventful delivery, thinking of the infant girl who would join them soon, slippery and pink and outraged. The father, an EMT, would “catch” her—a plan long arranged, and one for which Meg was thankful. If all went well, she’d have little to do besides supervise.
Melanie told Clay, “Make sure somebody knows to stock up on chocolate.”
“Got it,” Clay laughed. “I’ll put it on the list, right after morphine and bottled water.” He put his hand on Meg’s shoulder. “See you ladies later.”
“See you,” she said as he left them. She felt in her pocket, found a folded square of paper. So now he was passing her notes. On any other day, she would have been flattered at the very least, maybe even pleased. Brian was not a note-writer, unless e-mail and text-message reminders to do or buy or find something counted as notes. She held the paper with the tips of her fingers and wondered how long it might be until her left hand began acting like her right.
“Mmm,” Melanie said, watching Clay go. “That is one fine man.”
Meg looked too. He was fine—more tennis player in his looks than surgeon, his sandy hair worn long around his ears and neck, strong forearms exposed by rolled-up sleeves. His surgical skills were admirable, as well; he was going to be very successful, with his good looks and sociability and genuine concern for the patient. Too bad she wouldn’t be around to see him reach his prime—nor to follow him, if she should ever want to, along the path he was cutting into the dark forest of her feelings. If what Brianna and Lowenstein suspected—what she, too, suspected now was true, it would not be long before she wouldn’t be able to hold any man’s hand, kiss any man’s lips…or reach out to move a strand of Savannah’s hair from her face. With this last thought, panic grabbed her stomach and squeezed it hard, her protest—No!—pressing for escape behind clenched teeth.
Meg grasped for a normal moment as if it could save her, saying, “Melanie, do I need to remind you that you’re already married—and to a doctor?”
The nurse said, “Sure, today. But who knows what’ll happen tomorrow?”
Meg didn’t want to know. “I’m going to the lounge. Page me when my services are required.”
On her way, she stopped in the neonatal intensive care nursery. The triplets were tiny but looked healthy and strong, odds-beaters. Too often, they started out on life support, one or more of them at a clear disadvantage, competitive for their mother’s resources even before they were born. These three, though, looked like they stood a good chance to fend for themselves. The girl, in her pink knit cap, waved a fist and pursed her lips, already demanding service. Go, girl, Meg thought. The boys—likely identical twins—lay alert, taking in their surroundings with their fuzzy newborn vision. She touched the girl’s tiny rosebud fist, thought of her own daughter and of the babies she might have had after, if she’d stuck with Carson. Brian hadn’t been sure he wanted any children; after Savannah, he said they were done—and Meg had no desire to change his mind.
She remembered how she and Carson used to laze in the lake, floating on their backs with the washed blue sky above, and talk about what they’d name their kids. She liked Savannah for a girl’s name, Austin for a boy; Carson had teased, “Sure, and then we’ll have Denver and Cheyenne and Sacramento.” She dunked him then, holding him down until he started to untie her swimsuit. He came up laughing as she hurried to retie it, saying, “What? I thought you wanted to get started now.”
The memory felt as close as yesterday, yet as unreachable as the stars.
WHEN SHE WAS ALONE IN THE TINY CLOSET OF A ROOM USED FOR THE DOCTORS’ lounge, she reached into her pocket and drew out the folded paper Clay had put there. The note, written on his prescription pad, read, “Western courtyard, 5:30? Strong coffee and tuna salad, my treat.”
He was a sweet man…but what was he getti
ng out of this interest in her, an older, married woman? Not that it mattered; whatever he thought she offered, she wouldn’t have it much longer. “Rain check,” she said, refolding the note and putting it in her pocket.
She’d just put her feet up when her pager began to beep. “That baby is not here already,” she groaned. But no, it was Savannah. She reached for the phone on the table beside her and dialed Savannah’s cell number.
“Hi, honey. What’s going on? I got your page.”
“We have to go to Orlando tomorrow—I just got a fan club e-mail saying Carson McKay’s doing a one-night-only show at a club!”
“Sweetheart, it’s been a really stressful week—”
“Mom! You said the next time he was in the area we’d go. You promised.”
There, the classic guilt-wringing move every child was somehow born knowing how to execute. She had promised, but that was when she thought attending one of his concerts would be a safe, distant experience, where they would be two anonymous fans in the midst of thousands. “I know, but—”
“Come on, just think how cool it would be. A club, not one of the big arenas; we could sit up close. He might recognize you—maybe you could get us backstage, since you know him.”
“Knew him,” Meg said.
“Whatever. We wouldn’t have to meet him. But it would be so cool to go. Please? Please please please please? If I had my car already, I’d drive myself—”
“Not to Orlando, you wouldn’t.”
“Okay, then you have to take me. Come on, it’ll be fun.”
Meg thought of how little they did together, how little they’d done together over the course of sixteen rapidly passing years. There had seemed to be so much time back when Savannah was tiny. She’d believed she could balance school, then career, with her duties as mother and wife, believed in the have-it-all myth promoted by Enjoli commercials and Geraldine Ferraro’s almost-success. The money, hers and Brian’s, made it easy to solve problems. A good nanny, housecleaning and yard crews, repair services, private schools—all these things were supposed to allow her time to focus on family life when work was done.
Funny how things were never as simple as they appeared they’d be.
She hadn’t intended to choose obstetrics, knowing it was one of the more demanding fields in terms of family-time interruptions, but once she’d done her rotation, she found that it intrigued her beyond any other option. She thought she could make it work.
But coordinating all the household help took a lot more time and effort than she expected. Then there were professional obligations—meetings, conferences—and extended-family obligations—to the Hamiltons in particular, who weren’t content unless they came for dinner often. And then she had to fit in the social invitations Brian insisted they accept. Savannah was always her first priority, but how often did that manifest as making sure someone else was tending her daughter? If ALS was now destroying the neurons that allowed her to walk and eat and breathe, how long before she simply wasn’t able to do anything with Savannah?
“Okay, okay. We’ll go.” And stay way in the back, in the darkest possible spot.
“Really? Seriously?”
“Really seriously. Can you buy the tickets? My purse is locked up right now, but go to the desk in the den, and in the middle left-hand drawer is a file folder with my other credit cards—just use any one of them.”
“You are the best mom!”
“I’ll remember you said that. Oh, is Rachel coming?”
“No, she has etiquette class and her mom won’t spring her.”
“But you’re still planning to sleep over there Saturday, right?”
“Yeah—but I meant to tell you: her parents won’t be home until after like eleven. They have some snob party to go to. Is it still okay?”
“Will Angela be home?”
“I think so. She just broke up with her boyfriend, so she’s being all antisocial.”
“All right then,” Meg said. “I suppose you all are old enough to be trusted for a few hours.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you forever.”
“I know; all I can say is, wait until you have a teenage daughter, and then talk to me about trust.”
How easily those words slipped out, as though her future as a grandmother of a teen—a teen girl, no less—was guaranteed. What a swell habit that future-speak was, so optimistic, so reassuring—and how false, considering how no one could peer ahead in time and discover the date to be inscribed on their headstone. She might be killed by lightning tomorrow night; the forecast was for strong storms, after all. Or Savannah might go off in her new Honda next month, or next year, and slam herself into a tree or a truck, God forbid. There was no telling. How funny it was that everyone gave so much thought to their unknown, unknowable futures, and so little thought to each real and tangible moment of now.
“So when will you be home?” Savannah asked, words Meg had heard from her daughter too many times.
“By ten, I hope. I have a new mom in labor; first babies often take a while.”
“How long did I take?”
Meg smiled. Savannah always loved to hear the story of her own birth, as though it allowed her to differentiate hers from the hundreds of births Meg attended. As though she feared Meg could somehow lose her details in the crowd of so many others.
“Oh, days,” she said, choking back a sudden urge to cry. “You were the slowest baby ever.”
“But once you were in the hospital, after your water broke?”
“Twenty-and-a-half hours. I was seriously considering contacting the post office to change my official address.” A tear leaked out in spite of her joke.
“Mom. Okay, well, I’m gonna go buy our tickets. And we need a hotel, right?”
“You know how to do that?”
“Duh. Expedia, Travelocity—I’ll find us someplace luxurious and relaxing. You can get a massage or whatever.”
“That,” Meg said, admiring her daughter’s take-charge capability, “would be lovely.”
Barely three minutes after she’d hung up with Savannah, her pager buzzed again, this time with a message to call Brianna. She dialed the number stoically. In a brief, brisk voice Brianna’s nurse assistant began to lay out Meg’s Friday schedule with Andre Bolin, the Orlando-based specialist.
“In Orlando, tomorrow?” Meg interrupted.
“Yes, Dr. Davidson was able to pull some heavy strings for you.”
There’s fate for you, Meg thought. “All right; I have to be there tomorrow anyway.”
She’d have a battery of tests beginning at nine AM, after which time she was to meet with Dr. Bolin, who would do yet another reflexes exam and review whatever test results they would have by that time. “You are so lucky,” the nurse said. “Anybody without these connections would have to wait months to see him.” Meg wrote down the places and times and said, in a voice thick with sarcasm, “I am lucky, aren’t I?” She knew the nurse meant well—and was right, in the limited context of her statement. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to swallow her self-pity this time; no matter how deliberately she tried, this time it would not go down.
BEFORE MEG LEFT THE HOSPITAL AT 9:15, SHE CALLED SAVANNAH. “DID you get us a room?”
“Yep, we’re all set.”
“See if they have space available tonight—it turns out I need to be in Orlando tomorrow morning.”
“Cool—I’ll miss my math quiz. Oh, Mom—you’re on your way home?” Meg said she was. “Did Dad call you yet?”
“No. Why?”
“Nothing. Just park in the driveway instead of the garage, okay?”
“…Okay.”
Fifteen minutes later, she understood why. The moment she climbed out of her car, the far left of their three garage doors began to roll open, and Brian stood in the doorway. His expression was the cat’s who’d just swallowed the canary; behind him was a glossy champagne-colored SUV. A Lexus, facing out, its cat’s eye headlamps and chrome grille glintin
g at her.
Her first thought was to blurt, “You’re supposed to be in Boston.”
“I detoured for an early birthday present,” he said, as Savannah joined them.
More like a belated apology, Meg thought. It was a bit much, and hardly the kind of thing she cared about, especially now. She tried to look pleased, though, and managed a falsely hearty, “Wow.”
Savannah ran her hand over the hood. “Usually I don’t like these gasguzzlers…but I guess they can be practical; half my team could ride in there at once, which would save someone else from driving.”
“They could watch movies in there too,” Brian said. He came and took Meg’s hand. “Well? Do you like it?”
“Of course.” What was there to not like? “But really, my car’s perfectly fine.”
“It’s six years old. I have a new car, Savannah’s about to get one—I didn’t want you to feel left out.” Team Hamilton. “Besides,” he added, “this gives us practical options we didn’t have before. I could borrow it if, say, I have a big group of clients in.”
Savannah opened the driver’s door. “Can we take it tonight? Please? It’s so spacious—and I was gonna watch a DVD tonight, before I had to pack. This way I don’t have to miss it.”
Brian put the keys in Meg’s hand and said, “By the way, the color? It’s called ‘Savannah Metallic.’ Perfect, huh?”
Perfect.
Twenty-five
SAVANNAH TURNED OVER ONTO HER BELLY AND UNTIED THE RED STRINGS OF her bikini top, aware that a pair of balding men whose hairy guts overhung their swim trunks kept looking at her. Their stares made her uncomfortable in one way, pleased her in another; men liked the way she looked, a truth that surprised and flattered her. She didn’t look at the men directly, preferring to leave a safe distance between herself and any man who wasn’t Kyle. Kyle, who she would see in twenty-four hours. Her anticipation grew with each sweep of the minute hand on her World Wildlife Federation watch, making her too anxious to eat. That was fine; she could lose another pound before tomorrow afternoon, when it would be Kyle’s eyes devouring her instead.
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