Читать книгу While My Sister Sleeps - Barbara Delinsky - Страница 7

Molly’s cottage faced south, bringing year-round sun to the loft, while the forest behind the backyard shaded the bedrooms and scented the air with pine. Molly had learned of it by accident when its owner, who was leaving New Hampshire for Florida, came to the nursery looking for a home for dozens of plants. Now the owner wanted to renovate and sell, so Molly and Robin were being kicked out.

Molly thought the vintage kitchen was just fine. She loved the weathered feel of the wide-planked floors and casement windows. Although Robin complained that the place was drafty and the rooms dark, she didn’t really care where she lived. She was gone half the time–to Denver, Atlanta, London, L.A. If she wasn’t running a marathon, half marathon, or 10 K, she was leading a clinic or appearing at a charity event. Most of the boxes in the living room were Molly’s. Her sister didn’t have many things to pack.

Robin was happy to move. Molly was not, but she would go along, just to have Robin be her old self again.

Waiting for her mother’s call, Molly slept with the phone in her hand, far from soundly. She kept jolting awake with the hollow feeling of knowing something was wrong and not remembering what it was. Too soon she’d recall, then lie awake, frightened. Without Robin getting up to ice one body part or another, the house was eerily quiet.

At six a.m., needing companionship, Molly looked for the cat. It had eaten and used the litter. But the creature was nowhere to be found, though Molly searched even harder than she had the night before. She had been wasting time then, wanting Robin to wait for her for a change. How petty that had been. Brain damage was light years worse than a torn-up ankle or knee.

Of course, Robin may have woken up by now. But who to call? Molly couldn’t risk dialing her mother, didn’t want to waken her father, and Chris was no use. The station at the ICU would give only an official status report. Critical condition? She didn’t want to hear that.

So she watered and pruned the philodendron in the loft, picked hopeless leaves off an ill ficus, misted a recovering fern–all the while whispering sweet nothings to the plant until she ran out of sweet nothings to say, at which point she put on jeans and drove to the hospital. Preoccupied, she went straight to intensive care, hoping against hope that Robin’s eyes would be open. When they weren’t, her heart sank. The respirator was soughing, the machines blinking. Little had changed since she’d left the night before.

Kathryn was asleep in a chair by the bed, her head touching Robin’s hand. She stirred at Molly’s approach and, groggy, looked at her watch. Tiredly, she said, ‘I thought you’d be at the nursery by now.’

Molly’s eyes were on her sister. ‘How is she?’

‘The same.’

‘Has she woken up at all?’

‘No, but I’ve been talking to her,’ Kathryn said. ‘I know she hears. She isn’t moving, because she’s still traumatized. But we’re working on that, aren’t we, Robin?’ She stroked Robin’s face with the back of her hand. ‘We just need a little more time.’

Molly remembered what the doctor had said about the lack of response. It wasn’t a good sign. ‘Have they done the MRI?’

‘No. The neurologist won’t be here for another hour.’

Grateful that her mother wasn’t yelling about the wait, Molly gripped the handrail. Wake up, Robin, she urged and searched for movement under Robin’s eyelids. Dreaming would be a good sign.

But her lids remained smooth. Either she was deeply asleep or truly comatose. Come on, Robin, she cried with greater force.

‘Her run was going well until she fell,’ Kathryn remarked and brought Robin’s hand to her chin. ‘You’ll get back there, sweetie.’ She caught a quick breath.

Thinking she had seen something, Molly looked closer.

But Kathryn’s tone was light. ‘Uh-oh, Robin. I almost forgot. You’re supposed to meet with the Concord girls this afternoon. We’ll have to postpone.’ As she glanced up, she tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘Molly, will you make that call? She’s also scheduled to talk with a group of sixth graders on Friday in Hanover. Tell them she’s sick.’

‘Sick’ was a serious understatement, Molly knew. And how not to be sick in this place–with lights blinking, machines beeping, and the rhythmic hiss of the respirator as a steady reminder that the patient couldn’t breathe on her own? Between phones and alarms, it was even worse out in the hall.

Molly had had a break from it, but Kathryn had not. ‘You look exhausted, Mom. You need sleep.’

‘I’ll get it.’

‘When?’ she asked, but Kathryn didn’t answer. ‘How about breakfast?’

‘One of the nurses brought me juice. She said that the most important thing now is to talk.’

‘I can talk,’ Molly offered, desperate to help. ‘Why don’t you take my car and go home and change? Robin and I have lots to discuss. I need to know what to do with the boxes of sneakers in her closet.’

Kathryn shot her a look. ‘Don’t touch them.’

‘Do you know how old some of them are?’

‘Molly…’

Molly ignored the warning. There was normalcy in arguing. ‘We have to be out in a week, Mom. The sneakers can’t stay where they are.’

‘Then pack them up and bring them home with the rest of your things. When you find another place, we’ll move them there. And then, of course, there’s the issue of her car, which is parked on the side of the road somewhere between here and Norwich. I’ll send Chris to get that. I still can’t believe you didn’t drive her there.’

Molly couldn’t either, but that was hindsight. Right now, Robin made absolutely no show of hearing the conversation. And suddenly, for Molly to pretend that any part of this was normal didn’t work. To be talking about old sneakers, when the runner was on life support?

Heart in her throat, she searched Robin’s face. As a child, Molly had often waited for her sister to wake up, eyes glued to her face, hopes rising and falling on each breath. Molly would be grateful for any movement now.

‘If you need help packing,’ Kathryn offered, ‘ask Joaquin. Check his schedule when you get to Snow Hill.’

‘I really want to stay here,’ Molly said.

‘This isn’t about what you want, Molly. It’s about what’ll help most. Someone has to be at Snow Hill.’

‘Chris will be there.’

‘Chris can’t communicate with people. You can.’

Molly felt tears spring up. ‘I’m a plant person, Mom. I communicate with plants. And this is my sister lying here. How can I work?’

‘Robin would want you to work.’

Robin would? Molly fought hysteria. Robin had never worked a forty-hour week in her life. She ran, she coached, she waved, she smiled–all in her own time. She had an office at the nursery and, nominally, was in charge of special events, but her active involvement was minimal. On the day of those events, she was away more often than not. She was an athlete, not a wreath-maker or a bonsai specialist, as she had told Molly more than once.

But to repeat that to Kathryn now would be just as cruel as asking aloud what would happen if Robin never woke up.

Snow Hill had been family-owned since its inception over thirty years before. Spread over forty acres of prime land on New Hampshire’s border with Vermont, it was renowned for trees, shrubs, and garden supplies. But its crown jewel–with solar panels that stored summer heat for winter use, a mechanism for recycling rainwater, and computer-regulated humidity control–was a state-of-the-art greenhouse. That was Molly’s domain.

Even after stopping to see Robin, she was the first to arrive at Snow Hill. The greenhouse had been Molly’s childhood haven in times of stress, and though she no longer scrunched into corners or hid under benches, she found the surroundings therapeutic when she was upset. For all its technological advancement, it was still a greenhouse.

The cats greeted her with rubs and meows. Counting six, she scratched heads and bellies, then she uncoiled hoses and began watering plants. While the cats scampered, she moved from section to section, watering heavily here, lightly there. Some plants craved daily drink, others preferred to dry out. Molly catered to each.

A bench of overturned potted plants suggested that rabbits had visited during the night, likely chased off by the cats, who were effective guards, though not known for neatness. Setting the hose aside, Molly righted the plants, retamped soil, removed bruised leaves, then swept up. After spraying the last of the dirt down the drain, she resumed watering.

The sun wasn’t high yet, but the greenhouse was bright. This early hour, before the heat rose, was definitely the time to water. And Molly enjoyed it as much as her plants did. When the spray glistened in oblique rays of sun and the soil grew moist and fragrant, the greenhouse was peaceful. It was predictable.

She needed that today. Pushing Robin from her mind didn’t work for more than a minute or two at a time. It took constant effort.

Recoiling the hose and putting it where no customer could possibly trip, she wandered the aisles. She checked a new shipment of chrysanthemums for aphids, and carefully cut brown tips from several Boston ferns. Wandering deeper among the shade benches, she spoke softly to peperomias, syngoniums, and spathiphyllum. They weren’t showy plants, certainly nothing like bromeliads, but they were steadfast and undemanding. Carefully, she checked them for moisture. The shade cloth, regulated by a computer program, would rise later to protect them from the bright light they hated, but the worst of summer’s intensity was over.

Her African violets were thrilled at that. They consistently went out of flower to protest the heat, for which reason Molly carried fewer in July and August. She had just restocked and now rearranged the pots to showcase their blooms.

She picked up several tags from the floor, made note of a bench that needed mending, and, for a lingering moment, stood in the middle of what she saw as her realm. There was comfort in the warm, moist air and the rich smell of earth.

Then she saw Chris, who was never here this early. He stood under the arch separating the greenhouse from the checkout stands, and he didn’t look happy.

Heart pounding, Molly approached him. ‘Did something happen?’

He shook his head.

‘Were you at the hospital?’

‘No. Dad’s there. I just talked with him.’

‘Do they know anything more?’

‘No.’

‘Is Mom okay?’

Chris shrugged.

A shrug didn’t do it for Molly. She needed answers. She needed reassurance. ‘How could this happen?’ she cried in a burst of pent-up fear. ‘Robin is totally healthy. She should have woken up by now, shouldn’t she? I mean, it’s fine for her to be unconscious for a little while, but this long? What if she doesn’t wake up, Chris? What if there is brain damage? What if she never wakes up?’

He looked upset but said nothing, and just when Molly would have screamed in frustration, Tami Fitzgerald approached. Tami managed their garden products store. She was rarely in this early either, but there was purpose in her stride.

Molly wasn’t in the mood for a delivery problem. Not now.

Apparently, neither was Tami. ‘I heard Robin was in the hospital,’ she said, looking concerned. ‘How is she?’

Actually, Molly would have preferred a delivery problem. Snow Hill people were like family. What should she tell them? Not having run this past Kathryn or Charlie, she deferred to Chris, but his face remained blank. Curious, she asked Tami, ‘How did you hear?’

‘My brother-in-law works with the ambulance crews. He said something about her heart.’

So much for just saying Robin was ‘sick’.

Again, Molly waited for Chris, but he was silent. And someone needed to say something. ‘We don’t know much more,’ Molly finally said. ‘There was some kind of heart episode. They’re running tests.’

‘Wow. Is it serious?’

How to answer that? Too much, and Kathryn would be angry. ‘I just don’t know. We’re waiting to hear.’

‘Will you tell me when you do? Robin’s the last person I imagine having even a cold.’

‘Really,’ Molly said in agreement and added, ‘I’m sure she’ll be fine.’

‘That’s good. Robin is absolutely the best. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.’

Molly waited only until Tami disappeared into the garden center before glaring at Chris. ‘I didn’t know what to say. Couldn’t you have helped?’

‘You did great.’

‘But what if it’s not true? What if she’s not fine?’

He put his hands in his pockets.

‘Last night?’ Molly hurried on, needing to confess. ‘When the hospital first called? I thought it was nothing. The nurse told me to come right away, but I didn’t want to have to wait for Robin, so I did things around the house for a while. She was in a coma, and I was taking a shower so I’d feel nice.’

He looked pained but remained silent.

‘She has to wake up,’ Molly begged. ‘She’s the backbone of this family. What would Mom do if she doesn’t wake up?’ When Chris shrugged, she cried, ‘You’re no help!’

‘What do you want me to say?’ he asked. ‘I don’t have the answers!’

Molly checked her watch. More than an hour had passed since she’d left the hospital. ‘Maybe Mom does. I’m going back to the hospital.’

Kathryn stood between her husband and the neurologist, studying MRI shots of a brain. The doctor said it was Robin’s, and yes, Robin had been wheeled out of intensive care and been gone the requisite amount of time. But based on what the doctor was saying about the shade and delineation of dead tissue, this film couldn’t be Robin’s. The damage here was profound.

Kathryn was more frightened than she had ever been in her life, and Charlie’s arm around her brought little comfort. She looked to the intensive care specialist for clarification, but he was focused on the neurologist.

We’ll get another specialist, she thought. Two specialists, two opinions.

But there was Robin’s name, clearly marked on the film. And there was all that dark area showing no flow of blood. There was nothing ambiguous about it.

The neurologist went on. Kathryn tried to listen, but it was hard to hear over the buzz in her head. Finally, he stopped speaking. It was a minute before she realized it was her turn.

‘Well,’ she said, struggling to think. ‘Okay. How do we treat this?’

‘We don’t,’ the neurologist said in a compassionate voice. ‘Once brain tissue dies, it’s gone.’

Darting a look at Robin, she shushed him. The last thing Robin needed was to be told that something was gone. Softly, she said, ‘There has to be a way to reverse it.’

‘I’m afraid there isn’t, Mrs Snow. Your daughter was without oxygen for too long.’

‘That’s because the fellow who found her waited too long before starting CPR.’

‘Not his fault,’ Charlie said softly.

The intensive care specialist came forward. ‘He’s considered a Good Samaritan, which means he’s protected by law. Your daughter had a heart attack. That’s what caused the brain damage. According to this film-’

‘No film tells the whole story,’ Kathryn broke in. ‘I know Robin’s with us. Maybe an MRI isn’t the right test. Or maybe something was wrong with the machine.’ She turned pleadingly to Charlie. ‘We need another machine, another hospital, another something.’

Kathryn had first fallen in love with Charlie for his silence. His quiet support was the perfect foil for her own louder life. He didn’t have to speak to convey what he felt. His eyes were expressive. Right now, they held a rare sadness.

‘Does brain damage mean brain dead?’ she asked in a frightened whisper, but he didn’t answer. ‘Brain dead means gone, Charlie!’ When he tried to draw her close, she resisted. ‘Robin is not brain dead.’