Between Sisters Part 48

There was Claire, half bald, pale as parchment, smiling up at her. "I thought: Christ, I'm dead and she's still yelling at me. Christ, I'm dead and she's still yelling at me."

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.

JOE HAD TRIED TO THROW OUT THE d.a.m.n ENVELOPE AT least a dozen times. The problem was, he couldn't bring himself to touch it. least a dozen times. The problem was, he couldn't bring himself to touch it.

Coward.

He heard the word so clearly he looked up. The cabin was empty. He stared at Diana, who looked back at him from her place on the mantel.

He closed his eyes, wishing she'd come to him again, maybe sit down on the bed beside him and whisper, You break my heart, Joey You break my heart, Joey, the way she used to.

But she hadn't come to him in so long that he'd forgotten how those hallucinations felt. Although he didn't need to conjure her image to know what her words would be right now.

She would be ashamed of him, as ashamed as he was of himself. She would remind him that he'd once taken an oath to help people.

And not just anyone, either. This was Claire Cavenaugh, the woman who'd sat by Diana's bedside hour after hour when she was ill, playing dirty-word Scrabble and watching soap operas. Joe remembered one night in particular. He'd worked all day, then headed for Diana's hospital room, exhausted by the prospect of another evening spent beside his dying wife. When he'd opened the door, Claire was there, wearing nothing but her bra and panties, dancing. Diana, who hadn't smiled in weeks, was laughing so hard there were tears on her cheeks.

No way, Claire had laughed when he asked what was going on. We are not going to tell you what we were doing. We are not going to tell you what we were doing.

A girl has to have some some secrets secrets, Diana had said, even from the love of her life. even from the love of her life.

Now it was Claire in a bed like that, in a room that smelled of despair and looked out on graying skies even in the height of summer.

There was probably nothing he could do for her, but how could he live with himself if he didn't try? Maybe this was G.o.d's way of reminding him that a man couldn't hold on to old fears if he wanted to start over.

If she were here right now, Diana would have told him that chances didn't come any plainer than this. It was one thing to run away from nothing. It was quite another to turn your back on a set of films with a friend's name in the corner.

You're killing her, and this time no pretty word like euthanasia euthanasia will fit. will fit.

He released a heavy breath and reached out, pretending not to notice that his hands were shaking and that he was suddenly desperate for a drink.

He pulled out the films and took them into the kitchen, where full sunlight streamed through the window above the sink.

He studied the first one, then went through the rest of them. Adrenaline made his heart speed up.

He knew why everyone had diagnosed this tumor as inoperable. The amount of skill needed to perform the surgery was almost unheard-of. It would require a neurosurgeon with G.o.dlike hands and an ego to match. One who wasn't afraid to fail.

But with a careful resection . . . there might be a chance. It was possible-just possible-that this one thin shadow wasn't tumor, that it was tissue responding to the tumor.

There was no doubt about what he had to do next.

He took a long, hot shower, then dressed in the blue shirt he'd recently bought and the new jeans, wishing he had better clothes, accepting that he didn't. Then he retrieved the film, put it back in the envelope, and walked over to Smitty's house. Helga was in the kitchen, making lunch. Smitty was in the living room, watching Judge Judy Judge Judy. At Joe's knock, he looked up. "Hey, Joe."

"I know this is irregular, but could I borrow the truck? I need to drive to Seattle. I may have to stay overnight."

Smitty dug in his pocket for the keys, then tossed them.

"Thanks." Joe went to the rusty old '73 Ford pickup and got inside. The door clanged shut behind him.

He stared at the dashboard. It had been years since he'd been in the driver's seat. He started the engine and hit the gas.

Two hours later, he parked in the underground lot on Madison and Broadway and walked into the lobby of his old life.

The painting of Elmer Nordstrom was still there, presiding over the sleek black high-rise that bore his family name.

Joe kept his head down as he walked toward the elevators. There, making eye contact with no one, his heart hammering, he pushed the up b.u.t.ton.

When the doors pinged open, he stepped inside. Two white-coated people crowded beside him. They were talking about lab results. They got off on the third floor-the floor that led to the sky bridge that connected this office building to Swedish Hospital.

He couldn't help remembering when he'd walked through this building with his head held high; a man certain of his place in the world.

On the fourteenth floor, the doors opened.

He stood there a half second too long, staring at the gilt-edged black letters on the gla.s.s doors across the hall.

Seattle Nuclear Specialists. The business he'd started on his own. There were seven or eight doctors listed below. Joe's name wasn't there. The business he'd started on his own. There were seven or eight doctors listed below. Joe's name wasn't there.

Of course it wasn't.

At the last second, as the doors were closing, he stepped out of the elevators and crossed the hall. In the office, there were several patients in the waiting room-none of which he knew, thank G.o.d-and two women working the reception desk. Both of them were new.

He considered walking straight down to Li's office, but he didn't have the guts. Instead, he went to the desk.

The woman-Imogene, according to her name tag-looked up at him. "Can I help you?"

"I'd like to see Dr. Li Chinn."

"And your name?"

"Tell him an out-of-town doctor is here for an emergency consult. I've come a long way to see him."

Imogene studied Joe, no doubt noticing his cheap clothes and small-town haircut. Frowning, she buzzed Li's office, gave him the message. A moment later, she hung up. "He can see you in fifteen minutes. Take a seat."

Joe went to one of the chairs in the waiting room, remembering that Diana had picked the fabric and colors for the office. There had been a time when their home had been wall-to-wall samples.

I want it just right, she'd said when he made fun of her. Your job is the only thing you love more than me. Your job is the only thing you love more than me.

He wished he could smile at the memory; it was a good one.

"Doctor? Doctor?"

He looked up, startled. That was a word he hadn't heard directed at him for a long time. "Yes?" He stood.

"Dr. Chinn will see you now. Go down the hall and turn right-"

"I know where his office is." He went to the door, stood there, trying to breathe evenly. He was sweating and his palms were damp. His fingerprints would be all over the envelope.

"Doctor? Are you okay?"

He released a heavy sigh and opened the door.

The interior hallways and offices were filled with familiar faces. Nurses, physician's a.s.sistants, radiology techs.

He forced his chin up.

One by one, the people he'd known made eye contact, recognized him, and looked quickly away. A few of them smiled awkwardly or waved, but no one spoke to him. He felt like a ghost pa.s.sing through the land of the living. No one wanted to admit they'd seen him.

Some of the gazes were frankly condemning; that was the look he remembered, the one that had sent him running in the first place. Others, though, seemed embarra.s.sed to be seen looking at him, confused by his sudden appearance. What did you say to a man you'd once admired who'd been prosecuted for killing his wife and then vanished for three years?

He walked past the row of women in hospital gowns waiting for mammograms, past the second waiting room, then turned onto another, quieter hallway. In the far end, he came to a closed door. He took a deep breath and knocked.

"Come in," said a familiar voice.

Joe entered the big corner office that had once been his. Huge picture windows framed the Seattle high-rise view.

Li Chinn was at his desk, reading. At Joe's entrance, he glanced up. An almost comical look of surprise overtook his normally impa.s.sive face. "I don't believe it," he said, remaining in his seat.

"Hey, Li."

Li looked awkward, uncertain of how to proceed, what to say. "It's been a long time, Joe."

"Three years."

"Where did you go?"

"Does it matter? I meant to come by here and tell you I was leaving. But-" he sighed, hearing how pathetic he sounded "-I didn't have the guts."

"I kept your name on the door for nearly a year."

"I'm sorry, Li. It was probably bad for business."

Li nodded; this time his dark eyes were sad. "Yes."

"I have some film I'd like you to look at." At Li's nod, Joe went to the viewbox and put the film up.

Li came closer, studying it. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, "You see something I do not?"

He pointed. "There."

Li crossed his arms, frowned. "Not many surgeons would attempt such a thing. The risks are grave."

"She's going to die without the surgery."

"She may die because of the surgery."

"You think it's worth a try?"

Li looked at him, his frown deepening. "The old Joe Wyatt never asked for other men's opinions."

"Things change," he said simply.

"Do you know a surgeon who would do it? Who could could do it?" do it?"

"Stu Weissman at UCLA."

"Ah. The cowboy. Yes, maybe."

"I can't practice. I've let my license lapse. Could you send Stu the film? I'll call him."

Li flicked off the light. "I will. You know, it's an easy thing to reinstate your license."

"Yes." Joe stood there a moment longer. Silence spread like a stain between the men. "Well. I should go call Stu." He started to leave.

"Wait."

He turned back around.

"Did any of the staff speak to you?"

"No. It's hard to know what to say to a murderer."

Li moved toward him. "A few believed that of you, yes. Most . . . of us . . . just don't know what to say. Privately, many of us would have wanted to do the same thing. Diana was in terrible pain, everyone knew that, and there was no hope. We thank G.o.d that we were not in your shoes."

Joe had no answer to that.

"You have a gift, Joe," Li said slowly. "Losing it would be a crime, too. When you're ready-if you ever are-you come back to see me. This office is in the business of saving lives, not worrying about old gossip."

"Thank you." They were small words, too small to express his grat.i.tude. Embarra.s.sed by the depth of his emotion, Joe mumbled thanks again, and left the office.

Downstairs, in the lobby, he found a bank of pay phones and called Stu Weissman.

"Joe Wyatt," Stu said loudly. "How the h.e.l.l are you? I thought you fell off the face of the earth. d.a.m.n shame, that h.e.l.l you went through."

Joe didn't want to waste time with the where-have-you-been stuff. There would be time for that when Stu got up here. So he said, "I have a surgery I want you to do. It's risky as h.e.l.l. You're the only man I know who is good enough." Stu was a sucker for compliments.

"Talk to me."

Joe explained what he knew of Claire's history, told him the current diagnosis, and outlined what he'd seen on the film.

"And you think there's something I can do."

"Only you."