by Jean Stone
She barely had slept. Though R.J. had wanted her to spend the night, Faye could not do that, not with Greg waiting at home. So she’d come home after two, was wide awake before dawn, and went downstairs to the kitchen where she made Irish scones, then bundled some for Hannah, some for Katie, some for Greg. And R.J. Yes, some for R.J.
That had been hours earlier, but her energy had not waned. For the third or fourth time, Faye thumbed through an old Redbook magazine, then finally deposited it back on the coffee table in the waiting room.
She tried to put aside her enthusiasm and focus on Hannah.
Faye had, of course, been where Hannah was now, going through the torture of test after test, waiting, waiting, waiting for results that took too long to come.
The second time around, the tests had been worse: liver, lungs, bone; the cold, metal table where she’d lain for the bone scan, the radioactive dye that made her feel awkwardly alien. The doctors said all the tests had been negative, but Faye did not believe them. Hadn’t she been in marketing long enough to know when the consumer was being carefully misled?
“A lumpectomy should do the trick this time,” the Boston doctor said. “And radiation will give you an extra boost at the end, to kick it out once and for all.”
She sat back in her chair now and realized she’d been relieved once she’d accepted the inevitable, once she’d seen past the doctor’s cheery smile and heard beyond his well-crafted words of spin.
Relief ended the agonizing wait for the other shoe to drop.
Phew.
Death was on its way.
Still, Faye had the lumpectomy and the radiation and the extra boost because she had nothing to lose.
She did not have the final mammogram because she did not need confirmation of what she already knew.
Yet now Greg was saying that he wanted to stay.
And R.J knew about the cancer, yet had made love to her anyway.
Dear God, Faye thought with a sardonic smile, what could possibly be better?
Well, for one thing, life.
She glanced up at the clock that ticked away the minutes that she had left to breathe. The clock did not care a hoot if Faye Randolph lived or died.
Only days ago she would have agreed.
But now? …
Did she dare risk the knowing?
She wondered if Doc Hastings was in his office. Could he arrange a mammogram for her? And was she truly ready to accept the results?
Rita felt like such a shit. But how was she supposed to know that the phone number Ginny had given her would link the pushy paparazzo directly to Katie’s father?
“Let it go,” Hazel said with a large, audible sigh. “I warned you not to get too involved with these women.”
Rita abruptly stopped the stroller that was leading them on a morning stroll through downtown Edgartown. “Warned me? I believe your words were something like ‘Doc needs a Women’s Center.’ I didn’t think of that as a warning. If anything, it felt like pressure from you, too, to take charge of the group.”
Hazel shrugged. “Well, it’s not your problem. Not that the singer’s father tried to sell her out, or that the teacher’s daughter ran away.” She did not mention Faye.
They walked another block, past the Old Whaling Church, which had been built in the 1800’s as a Methodist church, but later became a center for lectures and town meetings and then for concerts. The old church had transformed itself into whatever was required in order to sustain its life on the island.
Survival, after all, was the spirit of the Vineyard.
Rita supposed she was no different. She’d become the leader of a breast cancer support group because that was what was needed. If a sudden need arose for flying circus acts, she supposed she’d try that, too.
“It seems that these women have enough to deal with,” Rita said, “without the outside world broadcasting their problems.”
“Most people have more than one problem,” Hazel said. “ ‘She has problems.’ That’s what you hear folks say. Hardly ever do you hear that someone just has one.”
Rita sighed and was grateful that she, at least, had one less problem: It had not been Mindy’s fault that Darryl Hogan found Katie; it had been the fault of Katie’s own father.
She thought about Katie, and about poor Hannah. Sometimes, Rita thought, there were advantages to being raised without a father.
Faye had never been to Doc’s office in the hospital. When Dana drowned, Doc had come to Faye; he had been sent by the family doctor back in Boston, whom Claire had called when she did not know what to do with her inconsolable, distraught sister.
He had returned that summer of her first breast cancer.
Faye thought back to those days now as she combed the corridor. Doc had saved her life both times: Could he do it again? Could he tell her that she had more time? Weeks, perhaps? A couple of months, maybe a few?
She reminded herself that the results of the mammogram couldn’t be worse than she already assumed.
They couldn’t be worse.
Could they be better? Did she dare hope?
Spotting the small name ROLAND W. HASTINGS, M.D. on the metal door, Faye stood up straight and lightly knocked, half-hoping that he wasn’t there, knowing she might be better off to stay in her safe place of acceptance, where hope couldn’t be false.
“Come in,” a voice called out from the other side.
She touched the doorknob. She hesitated. Then she thought of Greg. She opened the door.
“Faye,” Doc said and quickly stood up from behind his cluttered relic of a desk. “How nice to see you.”
He could have said, “Is something wrong?” because why else would she be there? But Doc Hastings was a kind man, not given to histrionics or to offering a suggestion that all things weren’t right with the world.
“Hello, Doc,” Faye said. “I need your help.”
She sat down on a sofa. He sat in his chair. He leaned across piles of papers on the desktop, his hands folded, his attention undivided, despite the fact that Faye had clearly interrupted him.
“I brought Hannah to have some tests,” she said. “While I was waiting, I realized I need a mammogram. I didn’t have one after my radiation.”
Doc nodded. “How long now since the last dosage?”
“I had the boost almost eight weeks ago.”
He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Any reason you didn’t have it before this?” he asked. He could have asked, “Why the sudden change of heart?” but he did not.
Faye smiled. “My son has come home. I want to know how much more time I have.” She did not mention R.J.
“Greg is back? Oh, Faye, that’s wonderful.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “You must be very happy.”
She was surprised Doc remembered Greg’s name. “Yes, but I’d be even happier to know I have longer to live than I think. Or than I thought.”
Was that a slight frown that passed over his face?
“You had a lumpectomy,” he said, “isn’t that right?”
“Yes.”
“Stage One. Noninvasive.”
“So they said.” How could she explain to a physician—a scientist—about feelings that were abstract, about a sense of knowing what she could never prove?
“But Faye—” he began, but she interrupted.
“Will you schedule the mammogram,” she asked, “or should I do it at the front desk?”
“I’ll take care of it.” He rose again. “Is any day better than another?”
“It doesn’t matter. As long as it’s soon.”
They smiled at each other and Doc nodded happily. He walked around the desk and Faye stood up. He took her hand in both of his. Just as he began to speak again, his office door banged open and smacked against the wall.
Faye jumped.
Doc jumped.
Their heads spun toward the door. A man of middle age stood there. He was pale and trembling. And in his hand, he held a gun.
>
TWENTY-EIGHT
The man had thinning hair; he wore faded jeans and a navy-blue T-shirt and looked quite ordinary. Except, of course, for the gun. Faye’s eyes traveled from the small steel revolver back to Doc, who stood as frozen as she felt.
“Evan,” Doc said, “what on earth are you doing?”
Evan.
Evan.
Oh, my God, thought Faye. Evan is Hannah’s husband.
He didn’t speak for what seemed like way too long a time. They stood like three old marble statues, Faye and Doc and Evan. His eyes were dazed; his gaze was distant.
“Evan,” Doc repeated. “Please. Give me the gun.”
Evan looked down at the gun. “I don’t know what to do, Doc. I can’t take it anymore.”
“Killing Doc won’t solve anything,” Faye said.
Evan blinked. He looked over at Faye as if he hadn’t noticed her before. “I’m not going to kill Doc,” he said. “Why would I do that?”
Neither Faye nor Doc mentioned one might think otherwise, what with the weapon aimed in Doc’s direction. Nor did they comment that it was no secret Evan had once thought Hannah would get better care in Boston.
“I’m the one who’s a worthless piece of shit,” Evan said. “My family will be better off without me.” For one who seemed so out of it, he spoke with surprising clarity.
“Then why all this?” Doc asked. “Why are you here?”
“I came to say I’m sorry. To right my wrongs before I die.”
Before I die? Was he going to kill himself instead of Doc?
“Sorry about what?” A tiny line of sweat formed across Doc’s aging brow, though his voice was startlingly calm.
Evan chewed his lower lip. “I blamed you for my mother’s death, though it was really my fault.” He blinked a long, slow blink. “‘Evvie?’ she asked me—oh, I hated when she called me Evvie, it made me sound like such a girl—‘Evvie, if I take sick, should I go up to Boston?’ I said ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Ma. You’ll live to be a hundred, maybe more.’ And so she didn’t go. Six months later she was dead.”
Faye half-listened to Evan’s confession. She could only think of Hannah: How could poor Hannah survive another blow like this?
“Evan,” Doc said, taking a small step forward. “It wasn’t your fault. Six months would not have made a difference. She’d been sick at least two years before she came to me. Please, Evan. You can’t change that. But Hannah needs you now.”
Evan swiveled the gun from Doc and pointed it at himself.
Faye inhaled an anxious breath.
“No,” Evan replied. “Hannah needs a husband she doesn’t always have to look at and wonder if he’s doing drugs or not.”
Sadness filled Faye’s heart—sadness for the unassuming woman, Hannah, the gentle soul whose life had been touched with so much grief. Who said life was fair? she remembered Doc once said.
“Talk to Hannah, Evan. Would you like me to help?”
“It’s too late,” Evan replied, turning his attention back to Doc, the gun drooping slightly toward the floor. “I can’t let her see me this way. I can’t let my kids see me. I’m just a coward, that’s all.”
“Balderdash,” Doc said, and Faye almost smiled at the word she hadn’t heard for nearly half a century. “You come from courageous stock. Your mother was one of the bravest women I’ve ever known.”
“She’s dead,” he said, “and now my wife might die as well.”
Dead. Faye leaned against the file cabinets. Looking at the crumbling man, the word gave her new strength. With a wavering gun being controlled or uncontrolled by a man not in his right senses, she supposed she should have feared for her own life. But Faye already expected death, so did the timing really matter?
Her eyes darted from Evan to Doc, then back again. She stood up straight; her legs tensed, ready to bolt. Adrenaline, she knew. At least the cancer hadn’t robbed her of that.
She moved more closely, just a bit, so Evan wouldn’t notice. Then she gritted her teeth, said a quick homage to Hannah, and vaulted forward. She pounced. She kicked. With two swift thrusts she chopped his forearm. The gun jumped from his hand and clattered to the floor. Faye whisked it up before Evan or Doc or even Faye had fully realized what the hell she’d done.
They stood again in silence, the three unmoving statues; Faye’s heart beating quick, soft beats, her breath pacing out her pulse. Then Evan wailed a wail of tears and sagged against the wall.
“Well,” Faye said at last, “I guess one of us should phone the police.”
Instead of picking up the phone, Doc propped himself against the desk and wiped his brow. Then he said, “No, Faye. I’ll take care of things. You run along.”
Run along?
She looked down at the gun now in her hand. She looked back to Evan, a broken man who sat, crying, a wounded soul. She looked at Doc.
Run along?
And leave Doc with a man who could have killed him?
Doc leveled his sight on Faye. His voice seemed steady, but his face was now quite pale. “Faye,” he repeated slowly. “You … need … to … leave.” He frowned a bit, as if responding to someone, something else that was not in the room.
And then the light in Doc’s eyes faded and his body began to sway, and it only took an instant for him to grab his chest and slump against the old oak desk where he’d worked so many years.
“Doc!” Faye screamed and ran to him. She turned to Evan. “Do something, goddamnit! Move your pathetic ass and get some help.”
She quickly cradled Doc. “Now!” she shouted back to Evan, who pulled himself together and stumbled out into the hall.
Cardiac infarction. The on-call doctor said it would be hours before they’d know how severe the attack had been.
“But we have him stabilized,” the doctor said, then added, “for now.”
Faye rested against the chair in the waiting room. She looked at Evan, who had waited quietly beside her with his guilt, his pain, barely able to breathe.
Evan closed his eyes. “I’m going to find my wife now,” he said. “I’ll take her home. Then I have to go to rehab.”
“I’m sure it will be for the best,” Faye replied.
He stood up and did not look at her when he added, “I’m so sorry. God, I am so sorry.” Then he headed toward the hall, toward the radiology department where, according to the schedule, Hannah was in X ray. She’d be surprised it would not be Faye who’d come to pick her up.
Rita stared at the tabloid in the wire rack that stood on the sidewalk outside the newsstand. She resisted saying “Oh, shit,” not just because of the twins, but because they were standing on the corner of Main and Water Streets in Edgartown and Rita had attracted enough attention over the years.
“Oh, no,” she said instead, as she pulled the paper from the rack. Apparently Celebrity had been Darryl Hogan’s employer.
She studied the large grainy picture that showed a girl in a wheelchair, her hand trying unsuccessfully to shield her face before the shutter clicked. Rita didn’t need to say, “Look, it’s Katie Gillette.” She didn’t need to say it because the bold headline said it all:
KATIE’S SECRET BABY.
In smaller type the subhead read:
SUPERSTAR HIDES OUT WITH MOM JOLEEN.
Rita’s stomach turned. She held the paper up and squinted in the sunlight.
“Does it say anything about the cancer?” Hazel asked.
“I don’t know,” Rita snapped. “Let me read it.”
Rita quickly scanned the article that was low on facts and high on speculation: about Miguel being the father, about Katie’s father confronting him, about Katie turning into a recluse like her mother. It heralded this as a tragedy to befall the star so quickly after losing Ina, who’d been “like a real mother to Katie.”
The article then went on to wonder how this would affect the concert in Central Park. Park officials had replied, “no comment.”
As ugly and as fabricated as the
story was, there was, thank God, no mention of the rest: of Miguel’s other life or Katie’s unwelcome disease.
“No,” Rita said, “they didn’t find out.”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet.”
“It’s a terrible picture. The poor girl looks sick.”
“She is sick, Mother.”
“Wait a minute. Isn’t that your tan windbreaker?” Hazel pointed to a jacket worn by someone in the photo, whose head was cut off by the headline.
“It’s me,” she said. “I was pushing the wheelchair.”
“Imagine that. My Rita Mae on the cover of Celebrity.”
Faye wanted to go straight home. She wanted to go home and hug her son and sit in an Adirondack chair outside and think happy thoughts of R.J. Browne and count her blessings one by one. But she could not pretend nothing had just happened; and she could not pretend that Rita should not be told.
Rita Blair Rollins. Who’d hardly been the reason for Faye and Joe’s divorce: She’d merely been another brick along the sidewalk leading to the courthouse steps.
Rita would want to know about Doc’s heart attack and about the episode with Hannah’s husband. And despite the redheaded woman’s transgressions, Faye could not deny her that.
Faye did not have to drive all the way to Rita’s house. Luckily, or unluckily, when Faye drove into Edgartown, there was Rita, standing on a street corner behind a two-seat stroller that held two redheaded toddlers. Standing next to Rita, peering at a newspaper that Rita held upright, was a white-haired woman in clogs.
Faye illegally parked right there on the corner, got out of her Mercedes, and approached the small group. “Rita,” she asked, “can we talk?”
Rita supposed that sooner or later she would meet Faye face-to-face again, though she would have preferred later to sooner. And she would have preferred somewhere more private than the middle of the damn town, in the middle of the damn day.
“Faye,” Rita said, “this is my mother, Hazel, and these are my twins, Oliver and Olivia.”
Faye politely said hello, but did not stop to ooh and aah over the twins. “It’s important, Rita,” Faye said. “It’s about Doc. And Hannah. We could sit in my car if you’d like.”
