The You I Never Knew Part 13

"How hard did you look, Mich.e.l.le? It wasn't like I was in hiding."

"Neither was I," she snapped.

"But I wasn't keeping anything from you, G.o.ddammit."

"If I'd tracked you down, would it have mattered? Would you have given up rodeo and medical school for us?"

"Why would I have to choose? We could have done it all, Mich.e.l.le."

"You're dreaming. I tried doing it all, and it's too hard."

He thought of the drawings and paintings she'd turned her back on. Was it because her pa.s.sion was gone, or because she just didn't have time? "Okay, so I missed my son's childhood. We can't get back the years we lost. But maybe we can go on from here."

Even as he spoke, he wondered why he thought he could succeed with Mich.e.l.le, who was infinitely more complicated, more demanding, more challenging than any woman he'd known.

"I don't understand."

"d.a.m.n it, Mich.e.l.le, I'm not going to apologize for my G.o.dd.a.m.ned life. You got the kid, I got the career. Which one of us should be gloating?"

She winced. "Sam. Please."

He reminded himself that her son had been injured while in his care, and that she'd been in Missoula all day with a transplant team questioning her, poking at her. "What say we change the subject?"

She relaxed against the back of the red Naugahyde booth. "Think we have anything in common after all these years?"

A son. A boy I never knew. He forced himself not to say it. "Keep talking, and we'll see."

The tension eased up a little. Never in a million years did Sam think he'd be here, with her. Watching her pick at her meal, he wondered what she thought about, what she wished for, these days. When he'd first come back to Crystal City he figured he might see her now and again when she visited Gavin. But local gossip had put that expectation to rest. Everyone in town knew Gavin Slade and his daughter were estranged. But no one knew the reason.

"So where do we start?" he murmured.

She set down her fork. "You mean, telling Cody about us?"

He wasn't sure what he meant. But he nodded, because it made sense. "Yeah. Do you want to tell him yourself or together or what?"

"Um, I guess I thought I'd do it myself. I'm not used to consulting with anyone on decisions that have to do with Cody."

"Whose fault is that?"

"Oh, Sam. I'm not trying to hurt you. I'm trying to be realistic here. I raised Cody alone. I made some good choices and some bad ones for him, just like any parent. I never expected to have to deal with this."

"You say this like it's a case of VD or something."

"That's not what I mean. d.a.m.n it, Sam. You jump on everything I say. Just like-" She shook her head in bewilderment. "Just like Cody does."

"How do you think he'll take the news?"

"After today?" There it was again, that soft smile that drove him crazy, reaching across the years to remind him of how well he used to know her. "He'll be amazed."

"Yeah?"

"He's a complicated kid. Used to be a pretty great kid, actually. You'd never know it to look at him now, but this is a boy who used to bring me the paper in bed every morning. He'd sit in my lap and fiddle with my hair while I read him the funny pages."

Sam closed his eyes. And he saw the picture so clearly it nearly choked him. Why couldn't I be there? G.o.ddammit, why couldn't I be in the picture? He felt a jolt of anger-heated, irrational.

"Anyway, he's not so warm and fuzzy anymore," Mich.e.l.le said.

Sam opened his eyes. "h.e.l.l, I noticed."

"Some days I don't even think I know him. But I believe he'll be... glad to learn you're his father."

"Glad. What do you mean by glad?"

"Just... glad. Wouldn't you, if you finally met your father?"

"a.s.suming my mother knew for sure who he was. But yeah. Maybe I'd be glad." He cleared his throat. "Once we-once you tell him, what do you think about asking him if he'd like to stay with me for a while?"

She reared back in her seat. "What?"

"You heard me, Mich.e.l.le."

Her hand closed into a fist. She seemed to grow in stature, a lioness defending her cub. "Out of the question."

"Why?"

"We didn't come back here for good. We live in Seattle."

"You said yourself he was giving you a rough time-"

"That doesn't mean I'm willing to give him up. He's not a dog you take back to the pound because he turned out to be a pain in the neck. Jesus, Sam, what can you be thinking?"

"That I have a son you never bothered to tell me about. I want to find out what he's like, what his plans are for college." He hesitated. "I intend to contribute to that and everything else."

She pressed her palms on the table. How clean her hands and fingernails were. They used to always be smeared and spattered with paint. He remembered that about her, remembered her paint-smudged hand touching his cheek, his chest, lower... d.a.m.n.

"Child-support payments? I don't expect it, Sam. And I certainly don't need it."

"Too bad. I intend to contribute anyway."

She stared off into s.p.a.ce. "That's the kind of father I had. The one with the checkbook."

He glared at her, but the truth echoed through him. He wasn't sure Cody was something he wanted or needed or was ready for right now, but one thing was certain-if he wanted a place in the boy's heart, in his life, he'd have to earn it. And he sure as h.e.l.l couldn't do that in a few weeks.

Tuesday

Chapter 14.

When the phone rang, Mich.e.l.le jerked herself out of the restless half sleep that had tormented her all night. Fumbling for the receiver by the bed, she felt a swift revival of every fear and nightmare that had plagued her since leaving her injured son in the hospital.

She clutched the receiver with both hands. "Yes?"

"Mom?"

"Cody!" Her heart shot straight to her throat. "What's the matter? Are you all right? Did something-"

"Hey, Mom, slow down. I'm okay. Sam said I should call and let you know."

Her chest sagged like a deflating balloon. She felt as if she had been holding her breath, bracing herself, for hours. "Wow, Cody. It's good to hear your voice."

"Sam says I'll be discharged today. No sign of concussion."

She glanced at the clock: 6:45 A.M. For all his teenage bravado, Cody probably hadn't had a great night, either.

"I'll come right away." She sat up against the headboard.

"Okay. Sam wants to talk to you for a minute. See you, Mom."

During the pause while she waited for Sam, she let her mouth form a tremulous smile of relief. Nothing, absolutely nothing in the entire universe matched the terror of a mother's fear for her child. When the fear was alleviated, it left in its wake a powerful euphoria, almost a giddiness.

"Hi, Mich.e.l.le." Sam's voice raised the giddiness to a windstorm in her chest.

Get a grip, she told herself. This is Cody's doctor. Doctor.

"Thanks for letting him call. I earned another four hundred new gray hairs last night."

"So wear a hat."

Not even a smart remark could dim her mood. "As soon as I let my dad know what's going on, I'll be there."

A scant ten minutes later, Mich.e.l.le had put on wool leggings and an oversize Irish sweater, and she was considering the array of hats on the hall tree. She knew she should take the time to call Brad and fill him in on all the drama, not to mention letting him know how the appointment in Missoula had gone.

But she couldn't phone him yet. It was too early in the morning, and Cody was waiting.

There was another reason she was reluctant to phone Brad, but she refused to ponder it right now. Feeling guilty was just something she had learned to do-must be a mother thing. Or a woman thing.

She s.n.a.t.c.hed a heather wool cap from the hall tree, jammed on her boots, and trudged outside. Faint dawn veined the mountaintops in the east, drawing a stark, fiery line over the highest peaks and sending shadows of pink down the ridges and valleys. Snow had dusted the area in the night, and it was cold enough to squeak beneath her boots as she walked across the compound to the main house. Steam wafted gently from the pool on the patio.

A single light burned in the kitchen, sending a fan of gold across the new-fallen snow in the yard. Before mounting the steps to the front porch, she stopped, spying her father inside.

He stood at the counter with the robe half open as he did something with the dialysis apparatus he'd been so reluctant to discuss. It was a private moment, and she couldn't intrude; she knew she mustn't. She took a step back. Gavin turned his head slightly, and she saw him in profile.

Just for a second or two he fell still, bringing his hand to his forehead and leaning the other hand on the counter.

Her throat constricted as she forced her gaze away. For the first time since learning of his illness, she felt the thudding reality of the disease, and it was strange to feel the truth while standing out in the cold fire of dawn, looking in at a scene so painful and private that she nearly choked on her own breath.

Her father was sick, dying, desperately in need of the operation. Urgency pumped through her like adrenaline. She wanted to have the surgery now, not next week. Dear G.o.d, if she could pluck out the organ with her own hand and give it to him right this moment, she'd do it.

Hurrying back to the guesthouse, she scribbled a note of explanation to her father and left it at the front door. On the porch she hesitated. Maybe she should go in, say good morning, ask him if he needed anything. What if he wanted Mich.e.l.le, her company, the comfort she could offer?

But she couldn't go do it. Couldn't go in there, intrude. Couldn't be the daughter he needed. They were strangers in too many ways.

As she drove into town, she grabbed the cell phone and punched in the renal specialist's number. The doctor's answering service asked if there was an emergency. When she admitted there was not, she was advised to call during regular office hours.

"I need to speak to her now," she said.

"Ma'am, I'd be happy to take your number-"

"My father is sick now, not during office hours."

"The emergency number is-"

"I know the emergency number." She dragged in a long breath. "What about Donna Roberts, the transplant nurse. Is she in?"

"She's on duty at nine o'clock."

"Temple, then. d.a.m.n it, is he taking calls?"

"I'll forward the call, ma'am."

Simple as that. Temple, the psychologist, knew people didn't get neurotic on a schedule.

"This is Dr. Temple." He sounded crisp and alert, considering the hour.

"It's Mich.e.l.le Turner, remember?"

"Of course. What can I do for you?"

The words came out in a rush. "Look, I want the transplant to happen sooner. I'm not willing to work around the surgeon's ski trip or whatever's holding it up. This morning my father-I saw-" She broke off, picturing Willard Temple at a Corian breakfast counter in his suburban tract mansion, drinking coffee and looking out over the golf course that backed up to his yard.

"Anyway, I can't stand seeing him like this. Why can't I do the rest of the tests today and the surgery tomorrow?"

A pause. An ominous, doctorlike pause. "Actually, Ms. Turner, I was going to recommend that your surgery be postponed until you and your father could go through some more counseling about the procedure."

A silent scream echoed through Mich.e.l.le. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the receiver. "Um, wait a minute. Run that by me again?"

"I don't have your records in front of me at the moment, but there's some concern that there are issues that need to be explored and resolved before we proceed."

Devastation and rage had a taste, she realized. They tasted rusty and bitter, like blood.

"Just a G.o.dd.a.m.ned minute." She tried not to shout, but it wasn't working. She didn't care if her voice blasted him out of his brick McMansion onto his a.s.s in the snow. "After all these weeks of testing, after meeting all those difficult physical criteria, you're telling me we have 'issues'?"

"Ms. Turner, your relationship with your father is unusual. You've spent very little time together-"