Between Sisters Part 49

"Well, Joe. Your eyes are the best in the business. Send me the film. If I see what you do, I'll be on the next plane. But you make sure the patient understands the risks. I don't want to get there and have to turn around."

"You got it. Thanks, Stu."

"Good to hear from you," Stu said, then hung up.

Joe replaced the receiver. Now all he had to do was speak to Claire.

He went back to the elevators, then crossed the sky bridge and headed into Swedish Hospital. He kept his gaze pinned on the floor. A few people frowned in recognition, a few more whispered behind him. He ignored them and kept moving. No one had the guts to actually speak to him or ask why he was back here, until he reached the ICU.

There someone said, "Dr. Wyatt?"

He turned slowly. It was Trish Bey, the head ICU nurse. They'd worked together for years. She and Diana had become close friends at the end. "h.e.l.lo, Trish."

She smiled. "It's good to see you back here. We missed you."

His shoulders relaxed. He almost smiled in return. "Thanks." They stood there, staring at each other for an awkward moment, then he nodded, said good-bye, and headed for Claire's room.

He knocked quietly and opened the door.

She was sitting up in bed, asleep, her head c.o.c.ked to one side. The patchy hairless area made her look impossibly young.

He moved toward her, trying not to remember when Diana had looked like this. Pale and fragile, her hair thinning to the point where she looked like an antique doll that had been loved too hard and then discarded.

She blinked awake, stared at him. "Joey," she whispered, smiling tiredly. "I heard you were home. Welcome back."

He pulled a chair over and sat down beside her bed. "Hey, Claire."

"I know. I've looked better."

"You're beautiful. You always have been."

"Bless you, Joe. I'll tell Di hi for you." She closed her eyes. "I'm sorry, but I'm tired."

"Don't be in such a hurry to see my wife."

Slowly, she opened her eyes. It seemed to take her a minute to focus on him. "There's no hope, Joe. You of all people know what that's like. It hurts too much to pretend. Okay?"

"I see it . . . differently."

"You think the white coats are wrong?"

"I don't want to give you false hope, Claire, but yeah, maybe."

"Are you sure?"

"No one is ever sure."

"I'm not asking anyone else's opinion. I want yours, Joey. Are you telling me I shouldn't give up?"

"Surgery might save you. But there could be bad side effects, Claire. Paralysis. Loss of motor skills. Brain damage."

At that, she smiled. "Do you know what I was thinking about just before you got here?"

"No."

"How to tell Ali Kat that Mommy is going to die. I'd take any risk, Joe. Anything so I don't have to kiss Ali good-bye." Her voice cracked, and he saw the depth of her pain. Her courage amazed him.

"I've sent your films to a friend of mine. If he agrees with my diagnosis, he'll operate."

"Thank you, Joe," she said softly, then closed her eyes again.

He could see how tired she was. He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Bye, Claire."

He was almost to the door when she said, "Joe?"

He turned. "Yeah?"

She was awake again, barely, and looking at him. "She shouldn't have asked it of you."

"Who?" he asked, but he knew.

"Diana. I would never ask such a thing of Bobby. I know what it would do to him."

Joe had no answer to that. It was the same thing Gina always said. He left the room and closed the door behind him. With a sigh, he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

She shouldn't have asked it of you.

"Joe?"

He opened his eyes and stumbled away from the wall. Meghann stood a few feet away, staring up at him. Her cheeks and eyes were reddened and moist.

He had a nearly irresistible urge to wipe the residue of tears from her eyes.

She walked toward him. "Tell me you found a way to help her."

He was afraid to answer. He knew, better that most, the double edge of hope. Nothing hit you harder than the fall from faith. "I've spoken to a colleague at UCLA. If he agrees with me, he'll operate, but-"

Meghann launched herself at him, clung to him. "Thank you."

"It's risky as h.e.l.l, Meg. She might not survive the surgery."

Meghann drew back, blinked her tears away impatiently. "We Sullivan girls would rather go down fighting. Thank you, Joe. And . . . I'm sorry for the things I said to you. I can be a real b.i.t.c.h."

"The warning comes a little late."

She smiled, wiped her eyes again. "You should have told me about your wife, you know."

"In one of our heart-to-heart talks?"

"Yeah. In one of those."

"It's hardly good between-the-sheets conversation. How do you make love to a woman, then tell her that you killed your wife?"

"You didn't kill her. Cancer killed her. You ended her suffering."

"And her breathing."

Meghann looked up at him steadily. "If Claire asked it of me, I'd do it. I'd be willing to go to prison for it, too. I wouldn't let her suffer."

"Pray to G.o.d you never have to find out." He heard the way his voice broke. Once, he would have been ashamed by such obvious vulnerability; those were the days when he'd believed in himself, when he'd thought he was a demiG.o.d at least.

"What do we do now?" she said into the silence that felt suddenly awkward. "For Claire, I mean." She stepped back from him, put some distance between them.

"We wait to hear from Stu Weissnar. And we pray he agrees with my a.s.sessment."

Joe was at the front door when he heard his name called. He stopped, turned.

Gina stood there. "I hear my brother is acting like a doctor again."

"All I did was call Stu."

She came closer, smiling now. "You gave her a chance, Joe."

"We'll see what Stu says, but yeah. Maybe. I hope so."

Gina touched his arm. "Diana would be proud of you. So am I."

"Thanks."

"Come sit with us in the waiting room. You've been alone long enough. It's time to start your new life."

"There's something I need to take care of first."

"Promise me you'll come back."

"I promise."

An hour later, he was on the ferry headed to Bainbridge Island. He stood at the railing on the upper deck as the ferry turned into Eagle Harbor. The pretty little bay seemed to welcome him, with all its well-maintained homes and the sailboats cl.u.s.tered at the marina. He was glad to see that it looked the same; still more trees than houses, and the beachfront hadn't been cut into narrow lots.

This is it, Joey. This is where I want to raise our kids.

His fingers tightened around the railing. That day hadn't been so long ago-maybe ten years-but it felt like forever. He and Diana had been so young and hope-filled. It had never occurred to either one of them that they wouldn't be together forever.

That one of them would have to go on alone.

The ferry honked its horn.

Joe returned to his truck, below deck. When the boat docked, he drove off.

Memories came at him from every street corner and sign.

Pick up that armoire for me, won't you, Joey, it's at Bad Blanche's.

Let's go to the winery today. I want to smell the grapes.

Forget dinner, Joey, take me to bed or lose me.

He turned onto his old road. The trees were huge here; they towered in the air and blocked out the sun. The quiet road lay shadowed and still. There wasn't a house to be seen out here, just mailboxes and driveways that led off to the right.

At the last one, he slowed down.

Their mailbox was still there. Dr. and Mrs. Joe Wyatt. It had been one of Diana's first purchases after they'd closed on the house.

He drove down his long, tree-lined driveway. The house-his house-sat in a patch of gra.s.sy sunlight beside a wide gravel beach. It was a pretty little Cape Codstyle home with cedar shingles and glossy white trim.

The wisteria had gone wild, he noticed, growing thick and green along the porch railings, around the posts and up some of the exterior walls.

He was moving slowly now, breathing hard, as he left the safety of his car and walked toward the house.

The first thing he noticed was the smell. The salty tang of sea air mixed with the sweetness of blooming roses.

He found the key in his wallet-the one he'd kept especially for this day.

In truth, there had been weeks, months even, when he'd never believed he'd find the guts to reach for it again.

The key fit the lock, clicked.

Joe opened the door- Honey, I'm home -and went inside.

The place looked exactly as he'd left it. He still remembered the day he'd come home from court-supposedly an innocent man (no, a not-guilty one)-and packed a suitcase. The only phone call he'd made had been to Gina. I'm sorry I'm sorry, he'd said, too tired to be eloquent. I need to go. I need to go.

I'll take care of the place, she'd answered, crying. You'll be back. You'll be back.

I don't know, he'd said. How can I? How can I?

And yet, here he was. True to her word, Gina had taken care of the place. She'd paid the taxes and the bills from the money he'd left in a special account. No dust collected on the furniture or windowsills, no spiderwebs hung from the high pitched ceilings.

He walked from room to room, touching things, remembering. Every stick of furniture reminded him of a time and place.

This chair is perfect, Joey, don't you think? You can sit in it to watch TV.

Every knickknack had a story. Like a blind man, he moved slowly, putting his hands on everything, as if somehow touch elicited the memories more than sight.

Finally, he was in the master bedroom. The sight of it was almost too much. He forced himself to go forward. It was all still there. The big antique bed they'd gotten from Mom and Dad as a wedding present, the beautiful quilt that had come to them on Dad's death. The old nightstands that had once been piled with books-romance novels on her side, military histories on his. Even the tiny needlepoint pillow that Diana had made when she first got sick.

He sat down on the bed and picked up the pillow, seeing the tiny brown spots that marred the fabric.