Читать книгу Sisters - Nancy Robards Thompson - Страница 11

Skye

Summer goes pale. “Oh, God. I don’t know why I’m surprised. Do we need to send her money so she can get here?”

I take a deep breath. “I didn’t talk to her.”

My sister looks at me as if I have two heads. “Why not? She needs to know about Ginny.”

“I thought that if she knew we’d found her she might bolt. I wanted to talk to you so we could figure out a plan.”

By the time we get to the hospital, we’ve reached no conclusions. We can’t go get her ourselves on account of something possibly happening to Mama while we’re gone. We want to be here. We can’t send Raul or Cameron after her (not that Cameron has time to go traipsing after my wayward little sister), because there’s no way she’d come back with them. In fact, she’d probably run.

A letter or a telegram?

Perhaps. But we’ll talk about that later.

We walk to the elevator, which lifts us up to the third-floor ICU. I wave hello to the head nurse, a heavyset, fiftyish woman with graying hair and horn-rimmed glasses.

As we approach, the door to Mama’s room opens and Dr. Travis leads his gaggle of med students out. He greets us, instructs his charges on what to do while he talks to us, then pauses, looking askance at Summer.

Summer flips her long, dark hair off her shoulder in that sultry way of hers. She’s always had the ability to render men stupid—including Nick, though it didn’t take much when it came to him.

I don’t know whether it’s some sort of pheromone she emits or if it’s a gene that she got a double helping of and I got none.

“Dr. Travis, this is my sister, Summer Russo. She’s just flown into town.”

As she slips her French-manicured fingers into his outstretched hand, I notice a certain flash in the good doctor’s eyes—like a power surge that makes the electricity burn brighter for a brief moment before it falls back into normal range.

Mama’s nice-looking, young, married doctor is not impervious to my sister’s wiles and that irritates the soup out of me.

“Where are you from?” he asks.

Her silver bangles clatter as she pulls her hand from his and crosses her arms under her ample chest. Boobs too big for her skinny little body. She was flat as a board the last time I saw her. Where did she get those?

“Manhattan.”

He smiles and nods.

The good doctor hasn’t as much as spared me a second glance. Not that it matters. I mean, I am happily married. And he’s married—happily or otherwise. It’s just that before Summer arrived, I didn’t notice that he hadn’t looked at me. You know, in that appreciative way a man looks at a woman he finds…attractive.

I stand up straighter, shoulders back and suck in my stomach.

As they make small talk, his gaze darts to the bounty thrusting out of her red silk blouse. I’ll bet her cleavage is compliments of one of those water bras I’ve heard so much about. If she had implants installed, wouldn’t it throw off her mannequinlike proportions? And wouldn’t it interfere with her job? And wouldn’t it be too bad if she had an accidental collision with a hypodermic needle and sprang a leak?

I have to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from smiling at the thought. Oh, shame on me.

Positive thoughts. Only positive thoughts.

But seriously, I really wish the doctor on whom Mama’s survival depends would remove his eyes from my sister’s boobs and focus on his patient.

“How’s she doing?” I ask.

Much to my relief, he slips back into professional-neurologist mode. “There’s been no change.”

My heart sinks. I was thinking— Oh, it’s silly. I don’t know what I was thinking—that, maybe while I was at the airport getting Summer, some sort of miracle would happen and she’d be awake when we got back? I give myself a mental shake. Being morose won’t do Mama any good. We all need to remain positive. “I’m just sure it won’t be long before she’s awake and talking our ears off.”

He nods, but the expression on his handsome face seems like he’s humoring a silly child. Irritation flares inside me.

“It’s been nearly forty-eight hours,” I say. “Can’t you give us a prognosis?”

“Comas are notoriously unpredictable. A person can be out for hours or years. There’s really no way to know when or if a person will come out of one.”

Summer goes pale. “Are you saying our mother might be like this for the rest of her life?”

Dr. Travis rubs his chin. “Unfortunately, that’s a possibility, though not a probability. You see, brain injury severity is described using a scale of one to eight, with one being a deep coma and eight being a normally functioning uninjured person,” he said. “Your mother is currently functioning at a level three, which means she’s in a light coma. She can probably even be jostled awake by loud voices.”

Summer frowns. “If she can be jostled awake, how come you can’t just wake her up?”

He shrugs. “Therein lies the mystery of comas. Only time will tell. After that, it’s anybody’s guess. Let’s go inside so you can see her.”

We walk in and Summer gasps. “Oh, Ginny.”

It’s terrible to see her lying there black and blue and vulnerable, amidst the IV tubes and beeping, wheezing equipment. I know how hard this first glimpse of her is and I put a hand on Summer’s shoulder. She doesn’t pull away.

Ginny’s eyelids flutter a bit and the sheet rustles as she moves her left foot.

I edge closer and touch her sheet-covered leg. “Mama? We’re here. Summer and I are both here.”

When she doesn’t open her eyes, we turn to Dr. Travis, who is writing on her chart.

“Coma patients open their eyes sometimes, but it doesn’t always mean they’re awake. Such as what I mentioned earlier about voices rousing them.”

“So what’s next?” Summer demands.

“Depending on the severity of her head injury, we might need to get her into an inpatient rehabilitation center.”

“A nursing home?” Oh, my Lord. The thought hitches my breath. I suppose it’s better than the alternatives: Death. Or moving in with me. Oh, how can I even think selfishly like that at a time like this? Still, the thought of Mama in one of those places knocks me for a loop. At fifty-eight, she’s too young for a nursing home. She has too much life left to live.

We hear the sheets rustle again and turn to see her blinking at us, looking annoyed, as if we’ve interrupted her afternoon nap.

“I am not going to an old folk’s home.”