Sisters. Nancy Thompson Robards
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bound to join me any minute, after she finishes making her plans, and despite how tempting the cake looks, I’d rather go hungry than eat it in front of her. So I settle for pouring myself a cup of coffee, angry at myself for caring what she thinks.
As I’m about to hand my money to the young woman at the register, I say, “Is it too late to add something else?”
She smiles sweetly. “No, not at all.”
I grab a king-size pack of peanut M&M’s from the candy rack behind me. Yes, they should hit the spot.
Armed with coffee and candy, I make my way to a corner table to hide with my snack. There are only three people in addition to myself in the cafeteria—a man in scrubs hunched over a newspaper and an older couple. The woman looks weary, as if she hasn’t slept in days. The man with her is probably her husband. I wonder who she’s worried about. Her mother? Her child?
My heart tightens at the thought. Suddenly, I’m almost overwhelmed by how much I miss my three. No parent should ever go through the pain of losing a child.
I suppose, in a sense, Mama must feel as if she’s lost Jane. It makes me wonder which is worse: losing a child to the streets or death?
I know, because I was nineteen when Jane was born. Even though both Summer and I were out of the house, I shared Mama’s pain each time Jane ran away. I lived in constant fear that she was going to turn up dead.
I tear open the yellow candy wrapper and pop a red candy in my mouth. The sweet/salty goodness is pure comfort.
I had kids of my own the first time she left and, I don’t know, I guess something shifts in you once you give birth. A well of vulnerability opens and dredges up feelings you never knew you could have.
Maybe that’s the reason I can forgive Ginny for waking up asking for Jane. Summer doesn’t understand mother love.
I eat two more pieces of candy as I fish my phone out of my purse. My neighbor, Rose, should have the kids home by now, and I’m longing to hear their sweet angel voices.
I call but the line is busy. One of them must be online. Cameron and I have been slow to switch over to Internet that doesn’t run through the phone lines because we don’t want to give them carte blanche. With three of them between the ages of twelve and sixteen, they’d be on the phone and computer all the time. At least this way only one piece of technology can be in use at a time and they have to battle it out amongst themselves.
Since I can’t talk to them, I ring my husband’s cell phone thinking he should be out of court by now, but I get his voice mailbox.
“Hi, honey, it’s me,” I say. “I hope you and the kids are all getting along okay without me. Well, I have some great news—Mama regained consciousness today. The doctor is in with her now. I’ll call you later after I talk to him. But it looks like things are on the upswing. Of course, I’ll have to stay until I know she’s in the clear, even though Summer’s already making plans to go home, but Mama will need someone.”
I hang up and eat more candy. He always forgets to turn his phone back on after he’s been in court. I was just hoping that, since I was away and Mama was in such bad shape, he’d be more conscious of keeping the lines of communication open. But that’s all right. Really, it is. I guess I miss him more than I realized.
I flip open the phone again and dial his office. “Good afternoon, this is Skye Woods. May I speak to Cameron, please?”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Woods. I’m sorry, but he’s not in the office. He’s been in court today. May I take a message?”
My heart sinks a little. I give myself a mental shake. It’s only been two days since I talked to him. And he’s a busy man. Working on a rather high-profile civil case and all. “Oh, no, thank you. I’ll catch up with him later this evening.”
Next, I dial his pager and punch in my cell number. When I’m done I shove a handful of M&M’s in my mouth. As luck would have it, just as I start chewing, Summer walks into the cafeteria. As fast as I can, I shove the remains of the candy into my purse, and swallow some of the pieces whole, nearly choking in the process. The rough edges scrape the back of my throat as they go down.
As she reaches my table, I wash away the evidence with a gulp of hot coffee that makes my eyes water.
“What’s the matter?” Summer asks.
“You smell like smoke.”
She rolls her eyes. “Smoking cigarettes is not a crime, despite your thinking it should be.”
What? She has no idea what I’m thinking. She never has. “Summer, I do not think it should be outlawed. That’s ridiculous.”
“Whatever.” She glances around the cafeteria. “I think we can head back up. Surely the doctor’s finished by now.”
“Don’t you want a cup of coffee?”
She shakes her head.
When we’re on our way to the elevator I ask, “So when are you leaving?”
She levels me with her gaze.
I’m so tired of bickering with her. I was merely asking and not being judgmental or inflammatory. I open my mouth to tell her so, but she says, “Monday.”
“You’re staying until Monday?”
She nods.
So do I, but I stay quiet because she looks like a storm cloud ready to burst. I’m afraid that if I ask her what changed her mind after she seemed hell-bent on getting the heck out of Dodge, she’ll turn into an angry tempest.
Instead, we walk in silence up to Mama’s room, where Dr. Travis meets us in the hall.
“I am very happy to report that given the circumstances, your mother’s doing remarkably well.”
The news makes my pulse beat a little faster.
“That’s fabulous. Isn’t it, Summer?”
“Fabulous,” she echoes.
“She’s not showing any repercussions from the head trauma that caused the coma. I want to keep her overnight for observation. Tomorrow morning, I’ll run some tests to make sure everything’s okay. If it all checks out, I’ll release her, possibly as early as tomorrow afternoon or early Saturday.”
“Thank you, Doctor. This is exactly what we were praying you’d say.”
I’m not sure he hears me, because he’s gazing over my shoulder. I glance back and realize he’s watching Summer, who is eyeing him back in that unsmiling, penetrating, Angelina Jolie–aloof way of hers.
As usual, she’s sucked all the energy out of the room. She’s not really flirting with him as much as she’s emitting vibes that seem to say, Yes, I’m hot and I know that you know I’m hot. Too bad for you.
“So,” I say, feeling I’m intruding on a private party. “I guess I’ll just pop on in and see her. Are you coming, Summer?”
She turns her aloof gaze on me and arches an eyebrow. For a few seconds, I’m afraid she’s going to fling some flippant belittling dig to prove she’s the alpha female. But she surprises me when she simply nods and says, “Thank you for the good news, Doctor.”
Ginny
Time has a way of retouching memories, blurring recollections into a soft focus so pretty you can just about frame them. Well, maybe you can only hang those portraits in the mind’s eye, because no one else would see them from quite the perspective you do.
Over the years, I’ve learned that if you look deep enough into the past, beyond the yellowing snapshots of sweet smiles and contrived poses, you’ll catch a fleeting glimpse of truth.
Truth is rarely pretty, but I’ve learned the hard way you’re better off choosing it over beauty. Even if at first it has a bitter taste.
I