Not once since Lisa had died.
Making scrambled eggs had been an occupation reserved for whenever Daddy was home. Frankie would sit at the table, drinking her coffee, pretending to read the paper, but really enjoying the sight of the two people she loved most in the world having so much fun.
Daddy makes the best scrambled eggs!
The memory was so vivid Frankie had to grip the counter to keep from swaying. However, the recollection didn’t cause the usual jackknife of pain to her chest that any sudden flashes of their daughter usually did. Instead she felt almost … happy for the visit.
Lisa lived on in their memories of her. Maybe Frankie had been wrong to tuck them away.
‘So …’ Charley scooped eggs on to two plates. ‘Walk? Ride? Boat?’
‘A walk,’ she said. ‘That would be nice.’
How often had the two of them strolled, contemplating the water, the woods, the sky?
Counting today? Just once.
The park at this time of the week was nearly deserted, the air a bit cool. The grass felt mossy beneath their feet. Overgrown, it brushed their calves. Wildflowers peppered the green.
They sat at a picnic table overlooking the water.
‘We should have stopped and bought a bottle of wine.’
Charley mimed pulling a cork out of a bottle, pouring two glasses, handing her one. He was so comical, she picked up her camera and pressed the shutter. They ‘clinked’ the rims, had a ‘sip’.
‘Mmm, Russian River Valley. My favorite.’ She took a large, imaginary gulp and closed her eyes on a sigh.
His camera fired off a few frames and she opened her eyes as he lowered it and smiled. ‘Only the best for you.’
The breeze seemed to still. The water lapped against the rocks nearby, a lovely lulling sound.
Charley’s gaze mesmerized. When he’d stared at her like that she’d believed that she was the only woman in the world for him. She’d been wrong, but while she’d believed it the world had been a bright and shining place, full of possibility. She missed that feeling almost as much as she’d once missed him.
Lured by the sound of the waves, that expression in his eyes, Frankie leaned forward and touched her lips to his.
She tasted red wine, smelled it too. Her head felt light. This day, this moment reminded her of the them they used to be, or perhaps the them they should have been, could have been.
If only …
She pulled back, set down her imaginary glass. She could have sworn she heard it click.
She was drunk on memories of something that had never happened.
He took her hand, oblivious. ‘That was nice.’
She wasn’t certain if he was talking about the kiss or the wine. If only the kiss had been as imaginary as the booze.
‘Charley, we probably shouldn’t …’
‘I know.’
As he was still smiling at her as if he were half-drunk, she wasn’t certain what he knew, and she didn’t want to ask. She’d had enough crazy-making kooky talk to last a lifetime.
But what if it wasn’t kooky talk?
‘We need to get to the clinic,’ she said.
They arrived for his chemo appointment with a few minutes to spare. The nurse, who appeared all of sixteen but just couldn’t be, identified herself as Amy. She handed Frankie a thick packet of information; she handed Charley a single sheet of highlights.
‘He’s got enough on his plate without being overwhelmed.’ She nodded at the packet Frankie clutched in her hand and her high and tight strawberry blond ponytail bobbed. Then she led them to the treatment room.
Frankie thought she had enough on her own plate without being overwhelmed, but she supposed someone had to be.
Not long after they had Charley hooked up to his IV, Frankie’s phone buzzed. Figuring it was Irene, she nearly let it go to voicemail. Then she pulled it out of her bag.
Hannah.
‘How’s it going?’ Hannah asked.
Frankie’s gaze fell on the No cell phones in the treatment area sign. ‘Hold on.’
Charley was asleep. To make sure, she set her hand on his arm and whispered, ‘Charley?’ into his ear.
Nothing.
Frankie hurried into the hall. ‘He’s asleep.’
‘During chemo?’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Quickly Frankie explained about pre-meds, as well as everything else she’d learned from Nurse Amy and the behemoth packet.
‘Can you send me that packet?’
‘I bet I can get another one sent to you.’ Frankie wanted to read through hers again.
‘Great. Thanks. So … uh … what you been doing?’
Frankie saw them toasting with imaginary wine and kissing with real-life lips.
‘Nothing,’ she said too quickly.
‘It’s impossible to do nothing.’
‘TV, books, cards, walks.’
Wine. Kisses.
Hannah gave a loud, fake snore.
‘I suppose you two do all kinds of exciting things.’
Why in hell had she asked that? She’d spent twenty-plus years forgetting him, learning not to care about anything he, she or they might be doing, and now she was asking for an update.
‘No,’ Hannah said. ‘Or at least we don’t any more. We did take a few trips at first … then, well …’
Frankie could imagine how that had gone. Charley had never been one to enjoy company when he was working, nor had he been the kind of man to take a trip for any other reason.
‘We went golfing a few times.’
‘No fucking way.’
Hannah laughed. ‘Exactly. It didn’t go any better than the times we tried bowling or reading the same book or listening to music.’
‘What on earth did you two ever have in common?’ Frankie wanted to bite her tongue the instant the question came out of her mouth. She certainly didn’t want to hear how compatible the two had been in bed. Ick.
‘We had tragedy in common. It brought Charley and I together.’
And tragedy had pulled Charley and Frankie apart.
‘What kept you together?’
She couldn’t believe she’d asked that. What was wrong with her?
Then Hannah answered. What was wrong with her?
‘Work.’
‘You took away my husband so you could work together?’
‘We don’t work together. We enjoy our work. It’s what we live for. We discuss it. We share it. And I didn’t take him away. You threw him away.’
‘I did no such thing.’
‘Think back. Maybe hindsight will give you some twenty-twenty.’
‘You’re saying the divorce was my fault?’
‘Does it have to be anyone’s fault?’
‘Yes,’ Frankie muttered.
Hannah laughed. ‘That’s so twenty-four years ago.’
Frankie’s lips twitched. That was something she might say.
‘How do you see it?’ she asked.
‘Do you really want to do this?’ Computer keys clattered; phones rang.
Did Hannah ever leave that office? Considering she lived for her work, stupid question.
‘Let me have it,’ Frankie said.
The computer keys stopped clattering. Hannah must have shut her office door, because the phones faded as well. ‘The two of you were devastated. With good reason. You blamed him. You turned away from him. You didn’t need him. I did. And right then, Charley needed to be needed.’
‘You’re saying you saved him?’
‘No. He saved me.’
Frankie had known back then that Hannah’s brother was dying of AIDS. She’d felt awful for both of them. Charley had been doing an essay. It was groundbreaking work. Something that needed, very badly, to be done.
Unfortunately, Charley had thought Hannah needed, very badly, to be done as well.
‘My brother was a part of me. You’ve heard of twin telepathy? We had it. Not all the time, but it was there. Then it was gone. Like
him. The silence was …’ Hannah paused, breathed in and out. When she spoke again the pain, the panic that had crept into her voice had disappeared and she spoke briskly and matter-of-factly. ‘When I lost Heath I lost more of myself than I could afford to.’
Frankie understood completely that feeling of loss and confusion, the hole inside you so big you couldn’t figure out how you could possibly go on living with such a gaping maw at your center.
‘I did things I shouldn’t,’ Hannah continued. ‘I forgot things I couldn’t afford to forget. Charley was there. He knew what it was like. He helped me to find the me I’d lost.’
‘Sounds like quite a hero.’
‘He was.’
And what young girl can resist a hero?
Hannah had been lost, alone, uncertain, devastated. So had Frankie. But it wasn’t Hannah’s fault that Charley had been there for her. He’d tried to be there for Frankie and she wouldn’t let him.
These realizations caused the hard knot of anger she’d carried in her chest for far too long to loosen. It didn’t disappear, maybe it never would, but it was better.
Nurse Amy waved from the treatment room. As she was smiling and no one was running in that direction, Frankie assumed Charley hadn’t coded.
‘I’m being summoned,’ she said.
‘Can you …?’ Something tapped very fast on the other side of the country – rat-a-tat-tat – sounded like a pen or a pencil clicking against a desk to allay some nerves. ‘Can you call me later and tell me everything?’
‘What kind of everything?’
‘Exactly what they’re doing. How he seems. What he felt. If he’s improving.’
‘That seems like information better suited to an email.’
Hannah took a deep breath and the rat-a-tat-tat stopped. ‘Please? It’s hard to sleep when I have no idea what’s going on.’
She sounded like a child and while that should have made Frankie frustrated, if not annoyed beyond redemption, instead she felt a flicker of compassion. What would she do if someone she loved was so far away, very sick and there was nothing she could do but beg for every crumb of information?
If she couldn’t get the information, she’d go there and demand it in person.
What if her presence only made the loved one angry, scared, confused?
Worse.
It would be upsetting, frightening, insomnia-provoking. Hannah was doing the best she could. And if that best included bribery, blackmail, avoidance and payoffs, who was Frankie to judge? Who was anyone?
‘I’ll call,’ Frankie said.
Hannah
Washington DC. January, 1992
‘Heath!’ Hannah shook him.
Her brother’s head lolled.
She put her lips on his and began CPR. She wasn’t very good at it. The last time she’d had any training had been at summer camp when they were fifteen years old. She couldn’t remember how many breaths, how many compressions, but something was better than nothing, right?
Charley pressed the call button, answered the God-like voice that responded with: ‘He isn’t breathing.’
Almost immediately the loudspeaker called a code, footsteps pounded, a cart rattled.
Hannah placed her lips over Heath’s once again. They already seemed cold.
She knew that couldn’t be true. None of this could be true.
Someone yanked her away.
She fought to get back. ‘He needs me to breathe for him.’
‘Dude, can you grab her so we can do our thing?’ An orderly in white scrubs shoved Hannah in Charley’s direction.
Charley put his arm around her and drew her out of the way. ‘Let them help him.’
‘What were you thinking to put your mouth on his?’ The orderly unwrapped a mouth guard and placed it between his lips and Heath’s.
Hannah couldn’t answer the question because she couldn’t remember what she’d been thinking beyond breathing.
‘You can’t catch AIDS from a kiss,’ Charley said. ‘Or CPR.’
‘You can catch it from an open wound.’ The orderly put his mouth atop the guard, which was atop Heath’s.
‘Only if you have an open wound too.’
‘Better safe than sorry.’ The young man began chest compressions.
One of Heath’s ribs broke. He was so fragile.
‘Stop!’ A female doctor skidded in, followed by several minions. She motioned for them to hover in the background while she strode into the light. ‘This patient has a DNR on file.’
The orderly immediately stopped life-saving measures.
‘No!’ Hannah cried, and tried to get back to the bed so she could do them herself. ‘I have control over medical decisions.’
‘This isn’t one of them. A signed DNR trumps everything. It’s what the patient wants.’
Hannah deflated so fast she nearly went to her knees – would have if Charley hadn’t been there to hold her up.
‘He wanted to die?’ she whispered.
‘No.’ Charley pulled her against his side, and she leaned on him gladly. ‘But he understood he probably would. He was tired, Hannah, so tired.’
She craned her neck to see Charley’s face; he looked tired too. ‘He told you that?’
‘He did.’
‘Why didn’t he tell me?’ Her voice was small, wispy, scared.
‘You wanted him to fight, but he was all fought out. He didn’t want to disappoint you.’
‘He couldn’t.’
‘I know.’
She tried to get closer to the bed, but Charley held her back. ‘I wanna hold his hand.’
Charley released her and she rushed forward, crowding others aside so she could wrap her fingers through her brother’s. She didn’t care for how he felt, like a jumble of sticks in a skin bag, but she didn’t let go.
Charley stood next to her, hand on her shoulder. Having him there helped more than she thought it could. She was alone now, would always be alone in a way no one but Heath could understand. But Charley had loved him too, had known him – not in the way that she had – but better than anyone else had known him.
‘Sir?’ The doctor didn’t pause as she scribbled on the chart. ‘Could you take your daughter outside so we can finish?’
Hannah felt Charley jolt.
‘He’s not my father. He’s a friend.’
The doctor lifted her gaze, then her eyebrows.
‘Of Heath’s!’
Charley snorted. ‘You don’t have to explain anything, honey.’
Honey? She liked that. Certainly he hadn’t said it the way he said Fancy, but now that Hannah thought about it she hadn’t heard him say Fancy in a long time.
‘I can’t leave him,’ Hannah said.
‘We’ll just stand out of the way.’ Charley drew her to the far wall and took her hand.
His felt wonderful – strong, firm; she couldn’t feel the bones rubbing against the other side of his skin.
The doctor hesitated, as if she’d argue, then she shrugged and returned to her clipboard.
‘I should probably take a picture,’ Charley murmured.
‘Of what?’
Charley tilted his head toward Heath. In the hand Hannah didn’t hold, he cradled a camera.
Hannah’s heart took a large leap, as if trying to escape from her chest. ‘Now?’
‘Before they take him away. Maybe after too, if they’ll let me.’
The idea of Heath being photographed when he wasn’t …
There.
No. She didn’t like that word, couldn’t … fathom it. Heath was there. She could see him. End of story.
She should comb her brother’s hair, fix his face, get him a better shirt. Except he didn’t have a shirt. All he had was the horrible, stained and wrinkled hospital gown.
She lifted her hand to Charley’s arm. ‘He wouldn’t want that.’
Charley’s biceps flexed beneath her hold, as if he’d pull away, but he didn’t. ‘Heath wanted this essay to show everything –
beginning to end. If it’s going to mean anything, if it’s going to change anything, I need this picture.’
The medical personnel continued to buzz around the body like flies. Pretty soon, they’d make Heath unrecognizable, if he wasn’t already. She let go of Charley and nodded.
He stepped up to the foot of the bed and pressed the shutter.
The doctor spun, mouth open, eyes wide.
Charley pressed the shutter again.
‘You cannot …’ she began.
Charley reached into his pocket and pulled out the release Heath had signed, handing it to her without taking his eye from the viewfinder.
As she read the paper, her face smoothed out. ‘You’ve been recording this from the beginning?’
Charley nodded, changed his angle, shot again.
‘Good.’ She returned the paper. ‘Let me know when you exhibit the photographs. I’d like to see them.’ She beckoned her staff. ‘We’ll be back in a few minutes.’
‘What exhibit?’ Hannah asked.
She’d never considered what Charley would do with the pictures. Because to consider that would mean that Heath was …
She swallowed.
‘There should be an exhibit, don’t you think?’ Charley lowered the camera, cast her a glance, then lifted it again. ‘Maybe you could work that out.’
‘Me? I’m going to be busy.’
‘Doing what?’ Charley’s camera whirred as he recorded every possible angle of the bed, the room with the abandoned crash cart, the TV still playing without the sound, Hannah still in the corner. ‘Heath didn’t want a funeral. You’re going to have a lot of time on your hands.’
‘You needs a lot of work.’
He lowered the camera. ‘You’re not going back to National Geographic?’
Hannah hadn’t realized until just that second that she wasn’t. Not yet.
‘It was Heath’s dream for You to become number one.’
‘So?’
‘Now it’s mine.’
Charley frowned. ‘He was hopped on drugs. You can’t take a request made in the heat of the morphine seriously.’
‘He didn’t ask. He wouldn’t.’
Just Once Page 28
