Sisters. Nancy Thompson Robards
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hold and I’ll check for you.” I hear him typing on the other end of the line.
Skye glares at me, her chin jutting forward. “I cannot believe you’re leaving….”
“I have a flight out of Dahlia Springs Municipal connecting in Atlanta—” Skye, with her ability to drown out the world when she wants to be heard, starts talking at the same time as the airline rep. I stick my finger in my ear and close my eyes to block her out.
“Would you repeat that?” I say. “It’s noisy here.”
“I can get you on a flight to LaGuardia by way of Atlanta at two p.m. Monday.”
My eyes fly open. “I beg your pardon? This is Thursday.” Skye lifts an eyebrow and smirks. I turn away from her. “I need to fly out sooner.” Or I’ll die. I don’t want to die in Dahlia Springs. “Why not today or tomorrow?” Tomorrow at the very latest. Please.
“The last American Airlines flight for this week left Dahlia Springs twenty-three minutes ago.”
“So you’re telling me there are no flights out of this place for four days?”
“Not on American. There’s not a big demand for flights to Dahlia Springs so we only provide service Monday through Thursday.”
Not a big demand. Surprise, surprise.
My heart pounds. I put my hand on my chest and take a deep breath to calm myself. “Oh, God. I’m stuck.”
“Excuse me?” he says.
I rack my brain for a solution. “Can’t you route me through a different city?”
More typing. My heart feels like it’s keeping time with his keyboard cadence.
Skye’s in my face again. “I really can’t believe you.” She puts her hands on her temples, like the drama queen she is. “No, wait, yes I can. It’s just like you to hightail it when things are tough.”
Oh. I’m tempted to slug her. My mouth is dry, but I manage to choke out, “Now you wait just a minute.”
The airline rep says, “Certainly, I can hold.”
“No, not you.” My voice shakes. “You keep looking for a flight.”
Typing resumes, and an orderly walks by pushing a medicine cart. He’s the first person I’ve seen outside of the ICU. I’m tempted to ask him if he has a spare Xanax in his rolling pharmacy.
Skye throws up her hands. “Go your merry way and leave it all to me. You are undoubtedly the most selfish woman I’ve ever known.”
All I can think of as I watch her walk back to the elevator and push the call button is, No one knows you like a sister. Unless your sister doesn’t know you at all.
Mine’s obviously never known me if she thinks this is easy for me.
I put my hand over the mouthpiece. “No one’s asking you to stay, Skye.”
She turns and blinks at me. “I will not leave Mama like this.”
“Yeah, well what about all those times Mama left us?”
“That was different. You know it was.”
I press my fingers to my forehead because my head feels as if it’s about to explode. “What the hell do you expect me to do? Stay here forever?”
The rep says, “I apologize, I’m working as fast as I can.”
Oh, God. “And you’re doing a great job,” I say. “I was talking to my sister.”
The elevator dings and Skye gets in. A wave of relief washes over me as the doors slide closed like a firewall between us.
“I have some alternatives for you,” he says. “There’s an eight-o’clock flight out of Orlando this evening or a seven-o’clock flight out of Tallahassee tomorrow morning.”
Those are my choices? I take a deep breath and try to conjure some charm, but it can’t cut through the mire of the panic attack that’s been building since Ginny awakened. “Nothing else? Isn’t there a smaller airport that’s closer?”
“No ma’am, these are the closest cities.”
“Considering it’ll take me four hours to drive to either Tallahassee or Orlando and only five hours to drive to Atlanta where I could hop on a direct flight, those don’t sound like very good options, do they? Besides, I’d have to rent a car—”
I clench my moist hand into a fist. My nails dig into my palm. Why am I telling him this?
“I do apologize, but that’s the best I can do.”
Well, it’s not good enough. God, a typical man.
“I can book you on the Monday flight or perhaps you’d like to try another airline?”
I take a deep breath and try to quell the panic that’s cresting inside me.
I lean against the wall. It isn’t his fault I’m stuck. He can’t manufacture a flight. I squeeze my eyes closed and let the anxiety flow, feeling I’m stuck in a tiny box with my mother and sister and Nick. I want to claw my way out. But I can’t. After spending six hundred dollars on my ticket to fly here, I’m not prepared to fork out more money on a rental car, much less buy a new ticket if another airline has a flight out of here. At almost three hundred dollars, the train isn’t an option either. I checked on it before I bought my plane ticket.
Yep, I’m stuck.
“Okay, switch me to Monday.”
Grasping for a coping mechanism one of the dozen or so shrinks I’ve seen over the past two decades equipped me with, I rationalize that it’s only four days, and I go outside for a smoke.
Four days.
And I’ll have the consolation of knocking Skye off her self-righteous pedestal. After all, I’m staying through Monday. She doesn’t need to know I can’t afford any other escape route.
Four days.
How much mental torture can Skye and Ginny inflict on me in that short amount of time?
Oh dear God, help me.
CHAPTER 4
Skye
Downstairs in the hospital cafeteria, it smells like they’re cooking up something Italian. My stomach growls, but a quick glance at my watch shows it’s a little too early for dinner.
Mmm…smells like lasagna.
Or spaghetti with meat sauce.
I so wish I could be like those people who lose their appetites when they’re stressed. But, oh no, not me. I’m an all-occasion eater: Food is a celebration when I’m happy; comfort when I’m sad; sweet revenge when I’m mad; and just plain ol’ fun when I’m bored.
I can’t understand those odd creatures who can take or leave food. Summer, for instance. It’s probably because she smokes; they say nicotine dulls the taste buds. Now that I think about it, she’s always been a finicky eater, never been all that interested in food. Just like she’s never been all that interested in anything that doesn’t directly benefit her.
Such as staying and helping me take care of Mama until she’s on her feet.
I suppose stewing over Summer right now doesn’t serve any purpose. But sometimes she makes me so mad I could just boil over. I don’t know why I thought she’d change. Except that we are in the midst of a crisis with Mama’s condition—granted she’s improving, thank God in heaven—and it would be nice if for once she could think outside herself, put her selfishness on the shelf.
As I make my way through the serving line, the cakes, pies and puddings call to me. But I remind myself this is hospital-cafeteria food. It can’t be worth spending