Читать книгу Sisters - Nancy Robards Thompson - Страница 13

Skye

Downstairs in the hospital cafeteria, it smells like they’re cooking up something Italian. My stomach growls, but a quick glance at my watch shows it’s a little too early for dinner.

Mmm…smells like lasagna.

Or spaghetti with meat sauce.

I so wish I could be like those people who lose their appetites when they’re stressed. But, oh no, not me. I’m an all-occasion eater: Food is a celebration when I’m happy; comfort when I’m sad; sweet revenge when I’m mad; and just plain ol’ fun when I’m bored.

I can’t understand those odd creatures who can take or leave food. Summer, for instance. It’s probably because she smokes; they say nicotine dulls the taste buds. Now that I think about it, she’s always been a finicky eater, never been all that interested in food. Just like she’s never been all that interested in anything that doesn’t directly benefit her.

Such as staying and helping me take care of Mama until she’s on her feet.

I suppose stewing over Summer right now doesn’t serve any purpose. But sometimes she makes me so mad I could just boil over. I don’t know why I thought she’d change. Except that we are in the midst of a crisis with Mama’s condition—granted she’s improving, thank God in heaven—and it would be nice if for once she could think outside herself, put her selfishness on the shelf.

As I make my way through the serving line, the cakes, pies and puddings call to me. But I remind myself this is hospital-cafeteria food. It can’t be worth spending the calories on. Although that doesn’t stop me from hesitating in front of a piece of angel food cake topped with fresh strawberries and whipped cream.

I glance over my shoulder at the door. Summer’s bound to join me any minute, after she finishes making her plans, and despite how tempting the cake looks, I’d rather go hungry than eat it in front of her. So I settle for pouring myself a cup of coffee, angry at myself for caring what she thinks.

As I’m about to hand my money to the young woman at the register, I say, “Is it too late to add something else?”

She smiles sweetly. “No, not at all.”

I grab a king-size pack of peanut M&M’s from the candy rack behind me. Yes, they should hit the spot.

Armed with coffee and candy, I make my way to a corner table to hide with my snack. There are only three people in addition to myself in the cafeteria—a man in scrubs hunched over a newspaper and an older couple. The woman looks weary, as if she hasn’t slept in days. The man with her is probably her husband. I wonder who she’s worried about. Her mother? Her child?

My heart tightens at the thought. Suddenly, I’m almost overwhelmed by how much I miss my three. No parent should ever go through the pain of losing a child.

I suppose, in a sense, Mama must feel as if she’s lost Jane. It makes me wonder which is worse: losing a child to the streets or death?

I know, because I was nineteen when Jane was born. Even though both Summer and I were out of the house, I shared Mama’s pain each time Jane ran away. I lived in constant fear that she was going to turn up dead.

I tear open the yellow candy wrapper and pop a red candy in my mouth. The sweet/salty goodness is pure comfort.

I had kids of my own the first time she left and, I don’t know, I guess something shifts in you once you give birth. A well of vulnerability opens and dredges up feelings you never knew you could have.

Maybe that’s the reason I can forgive Ginny for waking up asking for Jane. Summer doesn’t understand mother love.

I eat two more pieces of candy as I fish my phone out of my purse. My neighbor, Rose, should have the kids home by now, and I’m longing to hear their sweet angel voices.

I call but the line is busy. One of them must be online. Cameron and I have been slow to switch over to Internet that doesn’t run through the phone lines because we don’t want to give them carte blanche. With three of them between the ages of twelve and sixteen, they’d be on the phone and computer all the time. At least this way only one piece of technology can be in use at a time and they have to battle it out amongst themselves.

Since I can’t talk to them, I ring my husband’s cell phone thinking he should be out of court by now, but I get his voice mailbox.

“Hi, honey, it’s me,” I say. “I hope you and the kids are all getting along okay without me. Well, I have some great news—Mama regained consciousness today. The doctor is in with her now. I’ll call you later after I talk to him. But it looks like things are on the upswing. Of course, I’ll have to stay until I know she’s in the clear, even though Summer’s already making plans to go home, but Mama will need someone.”

I hang up and eat more candy. He always forgets to turn his phone back on after he’s been in court. I was just hoping that, since I was away and Mama was in such bad shape, he’d be more conscious of keeping the lines of communication open. But that’s all right. Really, it is. I guess I miss him more than I realized.

I flip open the phone again and dial his office. “Good afternoon, this is Skye Woods. May I speak to Cameron, please?”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Woods. I’m sorry, but he’s not in the office. He’s been in court today. May I take a message?”

My heart sinks a little. I give myself a mental shake. It’s only been two days since I talked to him. And he’s a busy man. Working on a rather high-profile civil case and all. “Oh, no, thank you. I’ll catch up with him later this evening.”

Next, I dial his pager and punch in my cell number. When I’m done I shove a handful of M&M’s in my mouth. As luck would have it, just as I start chewing, Summer walks into the cafeteria. As fast as I can, I shove the remains of the candy into my purse, and swallow some of the pieces whole, nearly choking in the process. The rough edges scrape the back of my throat as they go down.

As she reaches my table, I wash away the evidence with a gulp of hot coffee that makes my eyes water.

“What’s the matter?” Summer asks.

“You smell like smoke.”

She rolls her eyes. “Smoking cigarettes is not a crime, despite your thinking it should be.”

What? She has no idea what I’m thinking. She never has. “Summer, I do not think it should be outlawed. That’s ridiculous.”

“Whatever.” She glances around the cafeteria. “I think we can head back up. Surely the doctor’s finished by now.”

“Don’t you want a cup of coffee?”

She shakes her head.

When we’re on our way to the elevator I ask, “So when are you leaving?”

She levels me with her gaze.

I’m so tired of bickering with her. I was merely asking and not being judgmental or inflammatory. I open my mouth to tell her so, but she says, “Monday.”

“You’re staying until Monday?”

She nods.

So do I, but I stay quiet because she looks like a storm cloud ready to burst. I’m afraid that if I ask her what changed her mind after she seemed hell-bent on getting the heck out of Dodge, she’ll turn into an angry tempest.

Instead, we walk in silence up to Mama’s room, where Dr. Travis meets us in the hall.

“I am very happy to report that given the circumstances, your mother’s doing remarkably well.”

The news makes my pulse beat a little faster.

“That’s fabulous. Isn’t it, Summer?”

“Fabulous,” she echoes.

“She’s not showing any repercussions from the head trauma that caused the coma. I want to keep her overnight for observation. Tomorrow morning, I’ll run some tests to make sure everything’s okay. If it all checks out, I’ll release her, possibly as early as tomorrow afternoon or early Saturday.”

“Thank you, Doctor. This is exactly what we were praying you’d say.”

I’m not sure he hears me, because he’s gazing over my shoulder. I glance back and realize he’s watching Summer, who is eyeing him back in that unsmiling, penetrating, Angelina Jolie–aloof way of hers.

As usual, she’s sucked all the energy out of the room. She’s not really flirting with him as much as she’s emitting vibes that seem to say, Yes, I’m hot and I know that you know I’m hot. Too bad for you.

“So,” I say, feeling I’m intruding on a private party. “I guess I’ll just pop on in and see her. Are you coming, Summer?”

She turns her aloof gaze on me and arches an eyebrow. For a few seconds, I’m afraid she’s going to fling some flippant belittling dig to prove she’s the alpha female. But she surprises me when she simply nods and says, “Thank you for the good news, Doctor.”

Ginny

Time has a way of retouching memories, blurring recollections into a soft focus so pretty you can just about frame them. Well, maybe you can only hang those portraits in the mind’s eye, because no one else would see them from quite the perspective you do.

Over the years, I’ve learned that if you look deep enough into the past, beyond the yellowing snapshots of sweet smiles and contrived poses, you’ll catch a fleeting glimpse of truth.

Truth is rarely pretty, but I’ve learned the hard way you’re better off choosing it over beauty. Even if at first it has a bitter taste.

I haven’t always chosen right. And I did a lot of dumb things when I was young.

Now that I’m older, I don’t need anyone sugar-coating the truth. And the truth is, I was a bad mother to my twin girls. It’s plain and simple as that. The image of me during those times is scarred into my mind. Some of the snapshots are dark and stained, and others are grainy and hard to look at, but I don’t want them to go away. Because periodically, I take them out and look at them and remind myself of the monster I was.

I suppose I could argue that as a single parent, I did the best I could. That it was a struggle to make ends meet when the girls were growing up. Blah, blah, blah. That doesn’t change a damn thing.

It’s just too bad I didn’t have the money I have now, which I came into the old-fashioned way—I married it. But times were different when the twins were young and my good fortune can be a sore spot with them, so we don’t talk about it much. Not that I haven’t offered to share. They’re just too proud to take it.

Strange how money changes everything. If I weren’t a strong person, it could take me on a real mind trip. But given what’s happened to me—Chester dying, the accident, the choices I’ve made—even if I wasn’t in my right mind back then, it’s enough to make a gal reevaluate her entire life.

I know what I have to do, and I’m prepared to do it. In fact, if I have my way—and I usually do—not only will I make everything right with the twins, I’ll finally bring my Jane home, too.

I just hope I don’t lose all three of them in the process.

Summer

We push open the door to Ginny’s room. She’s lying with her eyes closed, the arm that isn’t full of tubes and needles over her eyes.

Skye and I stand at the foot of her bed. Bruises mar her porcelain-doll face. She always reminded me of a blond Naomi Judd. So small and fragile looking. On the outside, that is. There’s nothing fragile about Ginny on the inside. Still, despite everything, the sight of her bruised and battered makes me feel sick.

She opens her eyes.

“Mama?” says Skye.

I don’t know what to say. So I don’t say anything.

Ginny blinks at us, then smiles. “My precious angel twins. As I live and breathe.” Her eyes well and a tear breaks free to meander down her cheek. “I was just thinking about y’all and here you are. Like magic.” She holds out her hand to us and we move toward her, Skye first. I trail behind her.

“Mama, we’re here.” Skye takes her hand and I step up to the bed and put my hand on top of my sister’s. It reminds me of that stupid game we used to play when we were kids—the one where everyone sticks in a hand, one on top of the other, and the person whose hand is on the bottom pulls it out and puts it on top and it keeps going until someone gets tired and quits.

Funny, the parallels—both Skye and me vying to be top of the heap, beating ourselves up to keep from getting stuck on the bottom. No wonder Jane divorced the lot of us.

Ginny eyes me up and down. “You’re so skinny, girl. We’ll have to fatten you up while you’re here.” She looks at Skye. “And you could stand to give a few pounds to your sister. Oh, but you’re both beautiful. Both of you. My beautiful, beautiful babies.”

My nerves are shot, and I can’t look at my sister. I don’t know how she’s going to take Ginny’s comment. I can’t deal with any more drama.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

“Where’s Jane?” Ginny says. “Did she come, too?”

I blink, wondering if she remembers asking for her earlier. Surely not.

“No, but I know where she is. She’s in Springvale, Mama,” Skye says. “You got better so fast I didn’t have a chance to get a hold of her.”

Ginny closes her eyes, and her hand droops beneath ours. As Skye and I pull our hands away, Ginny’s face contorts.

“I know I was a bad mother to you girls.” She swipes away the tears flowing down her cheeks. “But I tried. Lord knows I tried. You have to know I did the best I could. Still, I know things weren’t like they should’ve been, and I know I have no right to ask this of you, but I’m going to anyway.”

She takes a deep breath. The exhale comes in ragged shudders. “Since y’all know where Jane is, will you take me to her? Please?”

Her eyes beseech us.

Skye and I look at each other. I can almost read my sister’s thoughts because this is one of the rare occasions when she and I seem to be on the same page. I feel it.

“Mama, I’d be happy to call Jane for you.” Skye opens her purse, pulls out a notebook and flips to a phone number. “We can tell her what’s happened, but—”

“No!” Ginny struggles to pull herself into a sitting position, but she eventually gives up and falls back into the bed. It’s strange to see her like this.

“Please. No,” she pleads. “Don’t call her. She’ll just run away. She’ll disappear somewhere I can’t find her. Please. I need my three girls all together.”

Skye glances at me, then back at Ginny. “Mama—”

“There’s things you need to know.” Her voice raises a few notches. “Things you must know.”

“Ginny, don’t do this now. It can’t be good for you. The doctor said you’ll probably get to go home tomorrow, but if you get all worked up, it might set you back.”

She turns her face toward the window, away from us.

“I don’t know how to make you understand.” Her voice is low and serious. “I could have died.”

Skye touches her shoulder. “But you didn’t. Mama, never once did we lose faith that you’d come out of this fine.”

Mama silences her simply by holding up her hand. Just like she used to when we were children.

“I am going to die—someday. What I have to tell you cannot go with me to the grave.” She swallows as if the words are stuck in her throat. “But first, I need Jane here. Because it concerns her as well as you. So please, I am begging you, my sweet babies. Please let’s go get your sister. Let’s all three bring Jane home. Please tell me you’ll do it.”