It was hard to imagine Sandy with his son.
Michael liked Annie; he respected her talent and admired her determination. Her offbeat, unpretentious sense of humor appealed to him. She was bright, sexy, great with kids and, on more than one occasion, had made it known to Michael that she wouldn't mind sharing more than morning coffee and after-work drinks with him.
Because he sensed it would mean more to her than he wanted it to, he'd never taken her up on it. It was a rough world out there, and friendship was too important to screw up.
"I have an idea," Annie said, stubbing out her cigarette with two quick jabs. "The two of you could come back to my apartment later and I'll fix tacos. If memory serves, tacos are big with the Sesame Street set."
"Anything that drips down your arms and ruins your clothes is big with the Sesame Street set."
Annie's quirky smile lit up her face. "So, we're on!" She stood up and straightened the nonexistent creases on her khaki pants. It was no wonder David was crazy about her; she had a child's lack of concern with minor details like hemlines and creases. "We'll take your Jeep and pick up the groceries at that store on Tenth with the four-alarm salsa."
He swung his feet to the ground and polished off the rest of his coffee. "I thought you loved the IRT."
"I'll make an exception for Davey." Her laugh made her shiny black hair swirl around her face in a way that would once have delighted him.
"Annie."
"Uh-oh. Whenever you say 'Annie' in that tone of voice, I know something's up."
"I don't think tonight's such a good idea."
Annie was obviously having trouble keeping her smile in place, but there was no help for it. They'd prided themselves on their honesty, and he wasn't about to start making exceptions.
"You think Davey will be too tired?"
He shook his head. "It's not that."
The smile faltered badly. "You'll be too tired. Hurricane cleanup and all that."
He pushed his hair back off his forehead and cursed his terminally lousy timing. "I wish it were that simple."
She leaned against the file cabinet and fiddled with her earring. "Why do I get the feeling this is something more serious than not being in the mood for Mexican food?"
He touched her arm for an instant, but pulled away when he saw the open, vulnerable look in her eyes. "You know me too well, Gage. You always have."
Annie looked out the window for a moment, watching Angel and Raul move a block of limestone away from the door of the construction shed. "If you tell me you met her when Hurricane Henry deposited her house in your front yard, I'll have to hurt you. I have a notoriously low tolerance for bullshit."
"That's one of the things I like about you."
"So what's the story?" she asked, pulling another cigarette out of her pocket and lighting it. "And don't pull your punches. I'm a big girl."
He thought of Sandra, and the strange turn of events that had brought them to a place they'd never been before. What had happened between them was something he himself couldn't understand, much less explain to someone else.
"Damned if I know what the story is," he said, fighting the urge to grab her cigarette out of her hand and give in to a full-fledged nicotine attack. He briefly outlined their chance meeting at White Castle, and offered a few choice highlights of their common history.
"So far, the only thing I like about her is the fact she works for US-National." Annie's words were as blunt as her demeanor. "Bring her around. We could use some new funding for the arts project."
"She doesn't know I work here."
Her feather dark brows lifted. "A grand reunion after seven years and you don't exchange work info? Highly suspect, McKay."
"The hurricane was Topic A."
"I'll take your word for that," she said, her voice suddenly soft, "because, frankly, I don't think I'm ready for the truth."
"Don't go reading anything into this. For all I know, I'll never see her again." His grand gesture of sending the cleanup crew to her house the day before had gone unacknowledged.
Michael didn't want to speculate on what that meant. Annie might like honesty; he wasn't altogether sure he felt the same way.
"She must have been surprised when you told her about David."
He froze.
Annie stared at him. "She doesn't know you have a son?"
"We didn't have that much time to talk," he said, trying to skirt the issue. The past had loomed so large between them that the present had been pushed aside.
"How much time does it take to say, 'By the way, I have a son'?"
"Get off my back, will you?" As usual, she had him dead to rights. He hadn't brought up David or the cathedral or Diana's death, because for that one night, he had wanted there to be nothing but Sandra.
It made him feel like a bastard, but there it was: the pure, unvarnished truth.
Annie sighed, and he reluctantly met her eyes across her tiny office. "You got it bad, pal," she said. "Damn you."
He had it bad, all right, and he couldn't help but wonder if he wasn't damned at that. Damned to keep finding the right woman at the wrong time.
It was too bad he couldn't share that thought with Annie, because he had a feeling she'd understand.
#
As it turned out, US-National hadn't managed to get the power back on by Monday morning, so Sandra found herself with another unscheduled day off.
Ed had dropped by early to pick up the ledger sheets for the Connecticut job, and he had mentioned that he fully intended to have the office operational by three that afternoon.
Although he didn't say it – you didn't talk that way to an assistant vice-president, after all – Sandra knew she was expected to be at her desk later on, electricity or no electricity.
Sunday night had been a long one. She'd struggled for hours with her feelings for Michael, reliving that first incredible moment when they'd been naked and together and she'd known it was going to happen, really going to happen, finally going to happen after so many years of waiting.
The notion that making love with him could be an isolated experience, one of those wonderful interludes that have no place in the scheme of your life, had disappeared with the dawn.
If she called Michael McKay, she'd be acknowledging the one fact she'd been trying all night to deny: she was still in love with him.
She wandered through her house, barely noticing the countless boxes and crates still waiting to be unpacked. More than anything, she needed someone to talk to, someone who understood the girl she'd been and the woman she'd become.
#
Two and a half hours later, Sandra approached the nursing station at Fair Oaks.
The day nurse looked up from her paperwork and smiled at Sandra. "I never expected to see you here today. What with all those hurricanes, I thought you folks were busy keeping body and soul together."
Sandra hated the hospital, and it took every ounce of her formidable willpower to return the nurse's smile.
"I was lucky, Nancy. I had some help digging out from under, and since we still have no electricity, I figured I'd drive up and see how my mother is today."
Please tell me she's fine. Let this be one of her good days.
More than anything, she needed to talk to someone who would understand.
"Elinor is doing splendidly today. As a matter of fact, she's in the solarium."
If there was one thing Sandra had learned in the last six years, it was that these minor triumphs were always followed by major setbacks. That was the nature of ALS, to play on that this-time-it'll-be-different optimism that most victims and their families seemed to share.
Sandra knew better.
Her mother knew better.
Everyone in the hospital ward knew better.
And yet it was still impossible not to feel a surge of excitement each and every time it happened.
Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis was an insidious disease that attacked the spinal cord, the brain stem and the cortex in
a way so gradual, so unpredictable, that its inevitable result often surprised even the most knowledgeable. Throughout the entire process, however, the patient's mind remained clear and the senses intact, which made the final progression of ALS doubly tragic.
So they took their triumphs wherever they found them and saved their questions for later on, when there would be plenty of time to ask why.
Nancy wrote out a visitor's pass and handed it to Sandra.
"The east solarium by the new wing?" Sandra asked.
"That's the one. It has the best view in the house, and with the leaves beginning to change color, we've had to add a few more chairs."
Sandra chuckled, and headed down the corridor, trying her best to ignore the subtle scent of controlled fear that permeated every hospital corridor she'd ever been in.
From the road, through, Fair Oaks looked more like a resort than a hospital. Set on a hill overlooking the Hudson River Valley, it was nestled at the edge of a forest that was now tinged with splashes of gold and crimson and rust that would soon spread and set the grounds ablaze with autumn color.
Her heart usually started to beat faster as soon as she turned off the Major Deegan Expressway and began to thread her way along the back roads toward the hospital. No matter how many mental tricks she tried to play on herself – counting the number of mansions set back from the road, promising herself to stop at the antique shops that seemed to pop up around every bend – it was impossible to pretend that this was a leisurely drive and that her destination was just some country inn along the route.
Country inns didn't have oxygen tents and respirators and hideous tangles of wire and tubing designed to trap bodies that yearned to finally be set free.
Country inns didn't have her beautiful, bright, fifty-two-year-old mother sitting in a wheelchair by her picture window with her hands draped gracefully – uselessly – on her lap.
The solarium was as crowded as the day nurse had said it was. Patients in pastel bathrobes and fuzzy slippers perched politely on leather couches that squeaked each time they changed position. Visitors chatted with one another, their lips stretched tightly over mouths that had forgotten how to smile naturally.
Sandra thanked God for the modeling she'd done while in college. She'd thoroughly hated the mindless job of being a human coat hanger, but the trick of smiling on command had come in handy over the years.
How many CEOs and bank presidents had she smiled at while they made long, dull presentations that sent many of her co-workers into temporary comas?
And how many times since her mother's diagnosis had she stood outside hospital rooms from Baltimore to Chicago to upstate New York and tried to summon up a smile to brighten Elinor's day?
So what was one more time?
She straightened the hem of her sweater, tossed her hair off her face, dug up her best smile, then walked into the solarium.
Larry, an octogenarian with the attitude of a teenager, let loose with a wolf whistle that rattled the rafters. "Will you look at our girl all decked out in that red sweater of hers? Now if that ain't a sight to warm a man's heart, I don't know what is."
Sandra bent down and planted a kiss on top of his bald head. "I wore it just for you," she said, playfully ignoring the ribald laughter of the man's three cohorts. She pointed toward the splashes of emerald and turquoise on the pockets. "I even managed to work in your two other favorite colors."
The teasing escalated, and she was reminded how human nature remained the same however much the packaging changed. Larry was being treated for a debilitating hip problem, but he was fortunate enough to be ambulatory most of the time. He and Sandra had met near the water fountain, and instantly formed a friendship that included Elinor and some of the other patients on the floor.
While the nursing staff at Fair Oaks was superb, Sandra took comfort from the fact that Larry Munson kept a sharp eye out for Elinor's well-being and didn't hesitate to call Sandra if there was something he thought she should know.
"We were all watching the TV last night," Larry said, "and wondering how you made out. Didn't old Henry and Iris hit right on the North Shore?"
Sandra groaned. "Not only did they hit on the North Shore, they hit right in my back yard. I don't think we'll have our power back until Christmastime."
Mention of lost electrical power started a no-holds-barred comparison of the tri-state area's power sources. The language was bluer than the skies outside the solarium, and Sandra used the distraction to slip away.
Elinor was dozing by the large bay window that looked out over the rear grounds of the hospital. Her wheelchair rested in an oval of sunshine that made her pale blond hair glitter. She looked pampered, elegant, a woman born to privilege with the bed jacket of champagne-colored silk and the cashmere lap robe tucked around her.
On her good days, she and Sandra shared a private joke over that one.
Lucie, the personal nurse Sandra had hired for her mother, was settled in an overstuffed chair adjacent to the window, knitting one of her famous Aran sweaters. The last time Sandra had visited, Lucie had managed to hug her three times, and while the woman was known for being demonstrative, Sandra's suspicions had been confirmed when she'd seen a cloth tape measure poking out of the pocket of her uniform.
The metallic clicking of the needles stopped as soon as Sandra approached.
"Well, will you look who's here! We weren't expecting you until next weekend, lovey."
"I had an unscheduled day off thanks to Henry and Iris, and I couldn't think of a better place to spend it," she said, giving the woman a hug. "Besides, I had to check up on how my sweater's coming along, didn't I?"
Lucie's dark brown eyes were wide and innocent. "Your sweater? What on earth are you talking about?"
Sandra ran a hand lightly over the intricately knitted cables and grinned. "I think we'll both find out what I'm talking about on my birthday."
Elinor sighed softly and moved her right shoulder as she napped. It was one of the few voluntary movements that ALS hadn't already stripped from her.
Sandra cleared her throat and brought her gaze back to Lucie. "Nancy says Mother is having a good day today."
"One of her best in ages." The professional in Lucie surfaced, all talk of knitting and birthdays forgotten. "She was able to eat solids. Her speech was clear, and some of her motor abilities are sharper than we've seen since the last setback."
"Has Dr. Gardstein been in to see her today?"
Lucie nodded. "In fact, he ran a few tests yesterday. She's holding her own better than anyone expected."
"Do you think she's up to walk on the grounds when she wakes up?"
Lucie started to answer, but a familiar voice interrupted her.
"Just you try to get away without one, honey. The day is too beautiful to spend indoors."
Elinor's speech was halting, her voice low and a little raspy, but to Sandra it was the most beautiful sound on earth.
"You're looking wonderful, Mom." She knelt down in front of her mother and gave her a hug. Each time she saw Elinor it seemed as if her mother's body had grown smaller, her bones more fragile, as the disease gained another foothold.
These visits were the source of great pleasure for Sandra and exquisite pain.
"What brings you here today, honey? I thought you were coming next Saturday."
Sandra explained about her unexpected day off.
"I thought I'd take advantage of it and come see you."
Elinor's gentle features rearranged themselves into a smile, as each tiny movement fell into place slowly, individually.
"And?"
"And what?"
"I think there's more to it."
Sandra looked over at Lucie, who nodded her approval. She unlocked the wheels on the chair and began to push Elinor toward the door.
"You're too suspicious, Mom," she said, easing the chair down the incline toward the ramp that led outside. "I can't come for a visit without an ulterior motive?"
The disease
had done nothing to dull her mother's mind. She caught on to her daughter's ruse in a second.
"The chair has an electronic alarm switch, and I won't hesitate to use it."
Elinor Pattern had never been a woman to make idle threats, and there was no reason to believe she'd changed. Sandra came to a stop next to a wooden bench that overlooked the duck pond.
"Great view," she said, avoiding her mother's eyes. "You can see the old field house over that rise."
"Sit down."
Sandra laughed nervously. "You're sounding awfully dictatorial, Mother."
"We just saw each other five days ago, honey. You came all this way for a reason. Now out with it. I'm a busy woman; I don't have all day." Her laughter mingled with the rustle of the wind in the trees.
Sandra sat down on the bench. "I bumped into an old friend the night after Hurricane Henry." She fought the urge to look down at her feet like a shy and backward child.
Elinor said nothing; she just watched. Normally the expression in her cornflower-blue eyes was easy for Sandra to read. This time her mother's face remained totally impassive.
"Aren't you going to ask me who I met?"
"You'll tell me in your own good time."
"That's not what you said a minute ago, when you almost threatened me if I didn't spill the beans."
Elinor changed the angle of her head slightly, and Sandra slipped the neck pillow back into position for her. "A minute ago I didn't know it was this serious."
"You know who it was, don't you?"
Her mother's eyes closed for a second. "I think I have a pretty good idea."
"You're not going to be happy, Mom."
"You may be surprised."
And so Sandra told her mother about meeting Michael McKay again – the same Michael McKay Elinor had loved but had never felt was right for her daughter. She gave her mother an expurgated version of their meeting seven years ago, and of the inexplicable pull that still existed between them, despite the anger and the pain.
Second Harmony Page 8
