by Неизвестно
MEANT TO BE
Copyright © 2004 by Edie Claire
Originally published by Warner Books, an AOL Time Warner Company.
Digital edition for PubIt published in 2011 by the author.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Dedication
For the 1985 staff, counselors, and campers of Pine Springs Presbyterian Camp in Jennerstown, Pennsylvania—for the best summer ever
Chapter 1
When the call came, I had been thirty years old for all of one day. Yet the lemon cake I had baked was already down to crumbs and a smudge of frosting on the plate. The bottle of champagne that I had fully intended to sip slowly stood empty on my counter, surrounded by the tattered bits of cork I had chipped out of it with a screwdriver. My head ached, and my mind was murky. I was unaccustomed to alcohol in general, cheap champagne in particular. All I knew was that last night, I had felt the need to celebrate.
It had been a long time since I had celebrated much of anything.
The beeping of the phone reverberated painfully through my skull, displacing, albeit temporarily, the relentless ringing of my own words in my ears—resolutions made in the midst of my revelry; resolutions I was, even in the excruciating light of morning, determined to keep.
If it was Todd again, I wasn’t going to talk to him. He could beg and he could plead, but I would not let him get to me. I would simply hang up—and if that was rude, so be it. The man was not a part of my life anymore. Period.
I picked up the phone.
"Hello," a woman’s voice said politely. She identified herself as an administrator at a hospital I’d never heard of. "Is this Ms. O’Rourke? Meara O’Rourke?"
I confirmed that it was.
"I’m sorry to have to tell you this," she continued, "but we have your mother here as a trauma patient. She was in a car accident several days ago, and has only now been able to give us enough information to contact you."
I lifted the receiver away from my ear and stared at it with bleary eyes, as if doing so would somehow result in the woman’s words making sense. The effort failed.
"I’m afraid there must be some mistake," I answered, returning the phone to my head and rubbing the opposite, throbbing temple. "My mother passed away over a month ago."
My voice was steady as I said the words, and I was proud of that. My mother’s death had not been a surprise; it had come at the end of a protracted illness, as had my father’s, five years before. In both instances I had functioned as the primary caregiver, the emotional rock. But the reality of my mother’s death had hit me far harder than anticipated. I had been an only child; now I was alone. There was no extended family to lean on, no one with whom to share my grief. Only Todd.
What a joke that had turned out to be.
There was a long pause on the line before the woman spoke again. "I’m not sure what to tell you, Ms. O’Rourke. Ms. Sheila Black is a patient here, and she has identified you as her daughter and next of kin. A Mr. Mitchell Black, her husband, was killed in the same accident. We spoke with his family when Ms. Black was admitted, but apparently the couple had only been married a short while. His children were not able to provide any information about her, or we would have contacted you sooner."
The throbbing ceased—replaced with a gnawing coldness in the pit of my stomach.
Sheila. Could it be?
My mind began to replay the image of an afternoon six years before, an afternoon I had resolved to forget.
I had taken only two steps inside the coffee shop before catching sight of the woman I was there to meet. I had known her at once; even a child could see the resemblance. Though her auburn hair was pulled back into a short ponytail, the wavy tendrils that escaped around her face betrayed the same, unruly tresses I was obliged to battle. Her eyes were just as brown, her cheekbones high, her lips full. Her face was only slightly rounder than my own, her nose a tad more prominent. Physically, she appeared fit and around forty, yet something about her countenance implied a greater age. Or perhaps, experience beyond her years.
When her gaze caught mine, her eyes widened. Her wrist faltered, and a liberal dollop of coffee splashed onto the red and white checked tablecloth below.
So, I had thought with a smile. My clumsiness must be inherited.
Meara? The woman had asked hopefully, attempting to mop up the coffee with a tiny square of napkin.
Yes, that’s me, I had responded, my heart pounding against my breastbone. And you must be Sheila.
The voice on the other end of the phone now grew concerned. "Ms. O’Rourke? Are you all right? I’m sorry about the confusion, but we do need to straighten this out. Do you know this woman? Sheila Black?"
My response caught in my throat. Did I know her? No, I did not. I had met her only once. A cup and a half of coffee for me; three for her, plus the spilled one. Two Danishes, neither finished. We had both been far too nervous to eat.
I’m so very glad you could meet me here, she had said, studying my face as if trying to memorize it. I had found myself doing the same. I’m sure you must have a lot of questions, she had continued, fidgeting with her cutlery.
Questions? Of course I had questions. My parents had been two of the most loving people on earth, but because they had had a tendency to panic whenever the subject of my adoption was raised, I had learned at an early age to consider the topic taboo. Only after I had finished school and was living on my own did I even contemplate searching for the woman who had given birth to me. Once I made the decision to sign on to a registry, however, I had received a call within days. Yes, the intermediary had explained, my biological mother was also registered. And she wanted to meet me.
I trained my mind back on the present. "I’m sorry," I apologized. Then I winced. Ceasing to apologize for anything and everything had been Resolution #2—broken already. "What I mean to say," I corrected, "is that I may know of the woman you’re referring to. Was her maiden name Johnson?"
Papers shuffled on the other end of the line. "The only other name I have is Tressler. Are you saying that you are not this woman’s daughter, then? Perhaps we misunderstood. She is having some difficulty speaking."
I let out a breath, and my lungs shuddered. "No," I answered. "You probably heard her right. My birth mother’s name is Sheila, that much I know." Tears of frustration welled up behind my eyes. I had worked hard to close this particular door, and I didn’t want anyone muscling it open again. Particularly Sheila herself.
"I’m sor—" This time I caught myself. I cleared my throat. "I didn’t make the connection at first because I haven’t seen or heard from her in years. And the truth is, I’m not sure I wish to see or hear from her now."
Another silence passed, after which the woman said, slowly and pointedly, "Ms. Black is in critical condition, Ms. O’Rourke. The doctors are not at all certain that she will recover from her injuries. Her instructions to the nurses were that she wanted to speak to you. I don’t know what else I can say."
Guilt swelled within me as the memory of Sheila’s sweet, concerned voice badgered my mind. Is there anything else you want to say? she had offered. We had talked for forty-five minutes. I thought everything had gone splendidly.
May I contact you again? I had asked. Exuberant, optimistic, naïve. She had smiled and written her address and phone number on the back of one of the coffee shop’s customer survey cards. I had thrust
it in my purse, my heart full of hope for our future relationship. An uncertain one at best, yet for the first time in my life, one not totally out of reach.
I’ll call you sometime, I had said as we parted.
I’ll look forward to it, she had answered.
I had lived in the clouds for weeks afterward...until the day I worked up enough nerve to invite her to a home-cooked dinner. Only then did I discover that the number she had given me was that of a pizza delivery outlet, no employee of which had ever heard of a Sheila Johnson. The street address hadn’t existed at all.
My hand began to shake as I held the phone. I tried to steady it, but the pain of that moment, once remembered, was difficult to dislodge.
How could she? How could she cut me out of her life not once, but twice—deigning to claim me only in her hour of greatest need?
"I’ll leave you to think about it, Ms. O’Rourke," the administrator concluded. "Let me give you directions to the hospital, just in case."
My hand reached for a pen, and with unstable fingers I scratched down the information. We hung up, and I stood for a long time, staring idly at the letters and numbers. Sheila was at a community hospital in Pennsylvania’s Laurel Mountains. I was living north of Pittsburgh. It was a two-hour drive, maybe less. Two hours was all that separated us. All that separated me from final closure—or, perhaps, from even greater heartache.
The old Meara would have vacillated—afraid to reopen wounds, afraid to offend. But eventually, she would have decided to go. She would have gone because she felt obligated, because she felt she owed something to the woman who gave her life, no matter what else that woman had—or had not—done for her.
But not the new Meara. The new Meara—as of yesterday—was taking responsibility for her own life and her own happiness.
I would make that same trip to the hospital, yes. But I wouldn’t be doing it for Sheila. I would be doing it for me.
Chapter 2
"Can I help you?"
The bearded young man in the blue cotton uniform could have been anything from an elevator mechanic to a brain surgeon—his hospital security badge wasn’t saying. It identified him only as Ted Inklovich.
I looked from him to the empty nameplate on the wall beside the door of what I hoped was Sheila’s room. After having been told twice by the receptionist in the lobby that the person I was looking for was not listed as a patient, I was finally directed here.
"I was told that Sheila Black would be in this room," I explained courteously. Having spent more than enough time in hospitals the last few years, I was well used to the typical visitor frustrations. It took more than one clueless receptionist to upset me—any unsolicited offer of help was a pleasant surprise. "But as you can see," I explained, "Her name isn’t listed. And I don’t want to intrude on a stranger."
"She’s in there all right. Are you a family member?" He smiled at me from an unjaded face that was probably all of twenty. A nursing student, perhaps?
In no mood for an argument over semantics, I nodded my head.
"Then you can go on in. Her name’s just not up yet. They brought her down from ICU this morning—she has the room to herself."
I swallowed. Even as I had made the drive, argued with the receptionist, found the room—a part of me hoped that the confrontation might still be avoided. Sheila could have changed her mind. She could have left explicit instructions not to see me. She could have been miraculously cured and walked out of the hospital without looking back.
But none of those things had happened. Here she was. Here I was.
"Do you want to talk to somebody about her condition?" the man offered. "Her nurse’s name is Jan. I can ask her to come down."
I smiled. "Yes, that would be wonderful. Thank you."
He returned my smile, and I couldn’t help but notice that it came with a certain telltale sparkle of the eyes. Though my first instinct was to drop eye contact, it occurred to me that I was no longer obligated to deflect any and all male attention. Not that Master Inklovich would be the least bit interested in me if he knew my true age—but after living with Todd’s insecurities, being free to flirt again, however innocently, was a bit of a charge.
"I’ll go talk to her nurse," the young man confirmed, then he turned and walked toward the nurses’ station.
At his departure my temporarily buoyed spirits plunged once again, and it took no small amount of willpower to face Sheila’s door. She’s been moved out of the ICU, I thought to myself as I forced my fingers to turn the knob. That must mean she’s going to make it. I pushed the door open just wide enough to admit myself, then slipped inside.
The bed loomed large in the room, tethered by an assortment of tubes and cables to a series of whirring, beeping machines. I approached the bed slowly, my eyes trained on the pale face that lay silently on the pillow, surrounded by a tangled mass of graying auburn curls.
I doubt I would have recognized her. Not only was she six years older, but the accident had clearly taken its toll. One side of her face was bandaged, the other was bruised and swollen. Her eyes were closed, her breathing loud, but steady. She was sleeping.
I stood silently for a moment, trying to draw from her face some understanding of who Sheila Black really was. After our last meeting, I had eventually come to accept that the woman I thought I had met did not exist. The sweet, pleasant woman I thought I was getting to know wouldn’t have lied about wanting to contact me again—wouldn’t have set me up for such a disappointment. But the real Sheila would—and did. Why?
The battered face held no answers. It showed only a human being as frail and vulnerable as any other. Hurt. Helpless. And with her husband’s death—alone. Except, theoretically, for me.
I breathed out slowly, picturing her for a moment as a scared, immature, and pregnant sixteen-year-old. The story she had told me was a predictable one. Her conservative parents had demanded she relinquish the baby. She had not felt as if she had a choice.
The girl’s actions I could understand. Those of the forty-year-old woman in the coffee shop, I still could not.
"Hello," a voice behind me announced.
I turned around.
"You must be the daughter," a stout woman in her fifties surmised. "I’m Jan, the head nurse."
Her voice seemed unnecessarily loud, and I greeted her in a whisper, hoping she would follow suit. I had no desire for Sheila to wake up. Not yet.
"She suffered multiple internal injuries," the nurse continued, her volume only slightly reduced. "But she’s been holding her own since the surgery. As soon as she came off the ventilator she asked about her husband, and around here we believe in being straightforward with patients, so we told her he was gone, and that her own condition was critical. The next thing she did was ask to see you."
I returned my gaze to Sheila’s broken face. Why now? She could have contacted me at any time in the last six years. My number and address had changed several times, but I was always listed in the phone book.
"The surgeon’s not at the hospital at the moment," the nurse explained. "But I can give you his office number, or you can come by about seven in the morning and catch him on rounds. In the meantime, administration has some forms they’d like you to fill out."
Any words of response stuck in my throat. None of this seemed real. The woman in the bed was a stranger to me—how could I suddenly be responsible for her? I had nursed my own mother for months, worried over her, prayed over her, turned my own life upside down for her. I had spent countless hours driving back and forth to medical appointments, fetching prescriptions, sleeping upright in hospital chairs, and doggedly defending her interests with an army of doctors, technicians, and insurance bureaucrats.
I had never thought twice about that effort. At an age when many couples were already grandparents, she and my father had taken me in and adopted me as their own. They had given me a stable, warm, loving home. Taking care of them in illness seemed the least I could do in return.
But the
woman in the bed before me was not my family. She was not even a friend. Yet the general assumption was that I would take care of her, too. The question was: should I?
It’s in your nature to be nurturing, a good friend once told me. You like taking care of people. It’s a wonderful quality, Meara, but you can’t let people take advantage of you. No one has any right to make you their doormat.
Doormat. A painful word. But a tendency I had to force myself to acknowledge when my mother’s illness brought problems with Todd to a head. He had been taking advantage of me—of the most basic aspects of my character. And if I had gone through with the wedding, he always would have.
But the wedding was off, thank God. And the free rides were over. Never again would Meara O’Rourke be any man’s doormat.
Or for that matter, any woman’s.
I turned to face the nurse. "You have to understand something," I explained. "I am this woman’s biological daughter, but we have no relationship otherwise. I’ve only met her once, and I only came today because I was told she wanted to speak with me. I am not prepared to assume any kind of legal responsibility for her—if that’s what the hospital needs. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it has to be."
The nurse’s face turned stony; my resolve began to crumble. I had not even gotten through the speech without apologizing. Was I being completely cold? Unfeeling? Maybe the nurse had a right to disapprove. Maybe it was selfish for me to—
"Mandy?"
The hoarse, uneven tone was barely audible, but it cut through the air like a siren. I turned my gaze back to the bed. Sheila’s eyes were open, and she was looking right at me.
My body seemed frozen. I said nothing.
"I’ll leave you two alone for a while," the nurse answered, her voice once again unnecessarily loud. If you have any problems," she said to me specifically, "just buzz the desk." She pulled the call-button device from the back of the bed and moved it to the edge of mattress, within my reach. Then she left the room and closed the door behind her.