Savannah nodded. She was already feeling better; it was as if she’d been stuffed up with the world’s worst cold and then inhaled Vicks VapoRub. She swallowed, just to make sure she could. Thank God, she thought.
“Good girl,” Tina said. She fed Savannah the steroids one at a time.
“Now I know you’ve forgiven me,” Savannah whispered. “You’d have let me die if you were still mad.”
Tina shook her head. “Only you,” she said. “How can you joke at a time like this?”
Savannah closed her eyes and focused on the newly sweet sensation of breathing as Tina went to toss the EpiPen in the bathroom’s trash can. What would have happened if she’d stayed on the beach? Would the guys have even known what to do?
Her allergy was so strange: She’d been able to eat as much shrimp as she wanted until her late twenties, when suddenly, she developed hives on her arms during a night out at a sushi restaurant. An allergist had tested her and warned her to avoid shrimp, but one night a year or so later she’d unknowingly consumed some in a quiche. This time, her reaction was even quicker and more severe: angry red hives covered her body within minutes. One had even sprouted on her lower lip.
“The next reaction could be life-threatening,” the allergist had told Savannah as he prescribed an EpiPen and dissolvable steroids for her to carry around. And she’d been careful, always asking waiters in restaurants to make sure her meals didn’t include shrimp or any cross-contaminated ingredients. But Pauline had known about the allergy, and had told Savannah not to worry—that no shrimp would be served this week. So why was there shrimp in the clambake?
“Do you want some water?” Tina was asking.
“I’m okay,” Savannah said. She swallowed again. “I actually feel pretty good.”
“You need to go to the hospital to get checked out,” Tina said.
“That’s the last thing I want to do,” Savannah said. She pulled her shorts back up and buttoned them. “Come on, I’ve got my own personal nurse here.”
“But what if you start reacting again?” Tina asked.
Savannah stood up and walked over to her bag. “I’ve got another EpiPen,” she said, holding it up. “They come two to a package, so I threw them both in.”
“I found the Benadryl!”
Allie burst into the room, holding the bottle aloft. She looked at Savannah, then at Tina. “She’s okay?”
“Tina just pulled down my pants, but aside from that awkward moment, everything is groovy,” Savannah said.
Tina rolled her eyes. “As you can see, she’s back to normal. I want you to take twenty-five milligrams of this, though. Just in case.”
“Fine,” Savannah said as Allie unscrewed the lid and filled the little measuring cup to the right line. She swallowed it down in one gulp, grateful her throat seemed to be completely open now.
“Also, stay close to me tonight,” Tina said. “I want to come along even when you go to the bathroom, okay?”
“Wow, let a girl see your hoochie and suddenly she thinks you’re a couple,” Savannah said. “Come on, let’s go back to the beach. The guys must be wondering what we’re doing.” She still felt anxious, but the giant hive on her arm was already disappearing. She wanted to put this episode behind her, fast.
“Sure,” Tina said. “We better grab something else for you to eat, though. And you can’t drink any more tonight.”
“Okay, okay,” Savannah said, even though she was already plotting how to pour wine into a water bottle to fake Tina out. She started to exit the room, then turned back around.
“Tina?” Savannah waited until Tina’s eyes met hers. “Thanks, girl.”
Tina reached for Savannah’s hand and squeezed it.
Chapter Nine
* * *
Wednesday
ALLIE WOKE UP AND slowly stretched her arms toward the ceiling. She took a moment to orient herself: It was Wednesday morning, almost halfway through the vacation. She could tell by the faint light in the room that it was dawn, but she wasn’t the slightest bit tired. Everyone had gone to bed relatively early last night, around midnight.
She slipped out of bed and pulled on a sports bra and nylon shorts, then laced up her red Nikes. She opened the bedroom door quietly so she wouldn’t wake Ryan, then went into the gym and reached for one of the colorful resistance bands heaped by the free weights. She sat down, hooked the end of the band around one foot, and leaned back, relishing the gentle stretch in her hamstring. She finished warming up, then stepped outside. The sun was the color of fire as it hovered over the water, and the surrounding clouds looked like tufts of cotton candy.
It was the kind of morning that cried out for a run.
She set off for the beach, finding the perfect length of sand a few feet away from where the waves were breaking—firm enough that she didn’t slip, but soft enough so that her muscles felt the effort. She logged a slow, easy half mile, then picked up speed, feeling sweat dot her brow. She knew exactly how far she could push herself; her steps were as steady and reliable as a metronome. Though she wasn’t wearing a watch, she knew she was running a nine-minute-mile pace—she’d logged so many of them through the years that her rhythm was instinctual.
She took steady inhalations through her nose and breathed out through her mouth, feeling her arms churn up and down in perfect synchrony with her legs. Her body felt strong and clean, like a beautifully maintained machine.
What if it suddenly failed her? she wondered as her feet beat against the sand. What if her strong legs refuse to move? How could her arms—which used to carry both of her children at once when she crossed a busy road—suddenly turn limp and useless at her sides? It seemed incomprehensible.
Allie turned back toward the house, tasting salt in her mouth. She reached up with her forearm to wipe away her tears and sweat. When she’d first learned about familial ALS, she’d wondered, fleetingly, if her girls could have copies of the damaged gene. But she’d immediately stricken the impossible thought from her mind. They’d find a cure for ALS long before it ever had a chance to hurt her daughters. There was no other option.
When she finally unfurled that strip of paper in her cosmetics bag and called the genetic counselor, she might be reassured. Maybe she’d learn that she could be tested to see if she carried a gene with a kind of typo in it. That’s what an ALS website had called it—a typo. Allie had almost laughed, it was so ridiculous. A typo was a misplaced apostrophe; it was scream in your coffee instead of cream. It wasn’t the difference between life and death.
Allie imagined going in for a test, then sitting across a desk and waiting for the counselor to give her the results. She ran faster, feeling her heart pound. She knew that if she learned she had the mutated gene, it would be impossible to live with that kind of sentence hanging over her head. It was a recipe for insanity.
I don’t know what to do! Allie wanted to scream. I don’t know what I want anymore—except to have my old life back!
It was so unfair. Allie had never taken her body for granted; she’d always treated it well. Cherished it, even. She’d been a vegetarian since college, and she went to the doctor every year for a physical exam and Pap smear. She did monthly breast checks in the shower. She took a multivitamin!
How could her body turn on her? Why did idiots who abused drugs and ate nothing but McDonald’s get to live long lives, while her own might be cut in half?
She reached the bottom of the steps leading to the villa and took them two at a time, hoping that by exhausting her body, she’d quiet her mind. It helped, but not as much as she’d hoped. Instead of going inside, she walked over to the pool so she could have a little more time alone.
She felt as if she’d been wearing a mask since that call from her birth mother—that her reactions were subdued, her smile less bright. But no one had noticed, not even Ryan.
Especially not Ryan.
She’d always thought their connection was strong as steel. So why hadn’t he sensed her terror, or notic
ed how alone she felt?
She leaned against a lounge chair to stretch her calves, then realized it was the same one she’d chosen two nights ago, when she and Dwight had sat up talking for hours.
She took off her sneakers and curled up in the chair, wondering for the dozenth time what the kiss on the beach had meant. It hadn’t lasted long—ten or fifteen seconds—but it was a gesture of love. She thought about how she’d hugged Van and Tina in the kitchen after their fight, and about visiting Tina in the hospital after Tina had given birth to Sammy. Tina’s feet had looked so tired and swollen that Allie, without a word, had pulled up a chair and massaged them for an hour. Those were all loving, physical gestures, too.
Oh, who was she kidding? Dwight hadn’t given her a friendly peck—he’d kissed her. Really kissed her. And she’d kissed him back. She’d wound her hand around the back of his neck and held him tight.
“Thank you,” she’d whispered as they drew apart. Whether for his promise of taking care of her and her family, or for the kiss, she didn’t know. Maybe for both.
They’d sat together in silence for a little while, then they’d silently reached for each other’s hands as they’d walked to the road to wait for the cab Dwight had called. They hadn’t let go until the cab was pulling into the driveway of the house.
After meeting Ryan, Allie had never kissed another man—she hadn’t really even looked at one that way. Not until this trip. Her husband was a kind, easygoing guy, and she’d always admired those qualities in him. She’d see other couples squabbling in the grocery store over whether to buy steak or pasta for dinner, and once at a cocktail party she’d watched, aghast, as a wife and husband began shouting at each other when the subject of summer camp for their kids came up (the husband wanted to send them to sleepaway camp, the wife was dead set against it). At those times, Allie felt grateful for the calm waters of her marriage.
But the possibility of ALS was making her scrutinize everything anew: her body, her friendship with Dwight, and yes, even her relationship with Ryan. She’d never before realized how much he leaned on her to keep their lives running seamlessly. Allie was the one who made the kids’ dentist appointments and noticed when they were outgrowing their clothes. She cut their toenails and scheduled the gutter cleaners and planned birthday parties and paid the bills. She held their household together with her checklists and checkbook and calendar. If she suddenly . . . disappeared, could Ryan handle everything? He wasn’t a weak man, but he’d never been proactive. It hadn’t bothered her until now.
Even on this trip, on the very first day, he’d left the choice of whether to take a nap or go to the beach to her. She frowned, thinking about clues that had been there all along—clues she’d never needed before. He hadn’t even spoken up to say he hated pineapple pizza on the night they first met.
Allie felt chilled: Had she been mistaking her husband’s passivity for agreeableness all these years?
Ryan wasn’t good around illness, either. His mother had died of pancreatic cancer when he was a teenager, and Allie knew being near sickness conjured a great unease in him. If one of the girls spiked a fever, his default reaction was to call out “Allie?” then stand back while she rushed in and took over. Sure, he’d run to the store to pick up children’s Tylenol and juice, but Allie was the one who would administer it.
Allie pressed her fingertips against her temples, feeling as if her head might explode from the intensity of her thoughts. Every one of her long-held truths was shattering. Maybe those squabbling couples in the grocery store—the ones Allie had pitied!—would be by each other’s sides in a crisis, steadfast until the end. Meanwhile Allie and Ryan, the seemingly perfect couple, would fall apart as soon as a crisis hit. After all, they’d never been tested before.
Ryan’s fear of illness meant she might not be able to depend on him if she desperately needed him. Would he sit by her side, feeding her with a spoon when her arms failed her; would he clean her after she went to the bathroom? She pictured his face, and the expression she saw was fear mingled with revulsion.
She wanted—needed—Ryan to become a different kind of man, someone who would challenge the doctors and research alternative therapies and fight like hell to save her. But instead, it was Dwight who seemed to have transformed. He’d known she was having a panic attack, then he’d encouraged her to talk about the reason why. He’d sensed something was wrong, whereas Ryan hadn’t even noticed that Allie had been pacing the house in the middle of the night in the weeks before the trip. He’d just slept on, blissfully unaware.
Allie stood up and began to turn slow circles around the pool. She’d always loved Dwight. Not in a romantic way, but she’d understood him and knew she was one of the few people who did. Hearing Savannah joke about hooking up with him had ignited a jealousy in Allie that she’d never felt about Ryan. Dwight was hers!
The other night, when everyone had gotten so drunk and Tina had passed out early, Allie had come out here to the pool to get some fresh air, feeling woozy from the game of quarters. Savannah, Ryan, and Gio were all in the living room, still drinking, and the sound of their laughter easily carried outside. Dwight had followed her out, as she’d known he would.
They’d talked until the sun came up.
“What can I do?” Dwight had asked.
“I’m feeling so out of control and scared right now,” she’d said. They were on separate lounge chairs, but their heads were close together. “Maybe if I focus on things I can control, it’ll help.”
“Okay. So let’s think about that,” he’d said, and she’d grown warm inside at his use of the word let’s.
They’d come up with good ideas, like keeping a running list of things she did for the kids: foods they liked, how candlelit bubble baths soothed them when they were upset, books they loved to listen to . . .
“It’s not that I expect anything to . . . to happen to you,” he’d said. “It won’t. But if this helps . . .”
“It really does,” she’d said, and she’d inched a bit closer to him. They were a team now.
“So we’ll write this down,” Dwight had said, nodding. “And I can keep a copy in my desk, too, if you want.”
She’d almost wept at his words.
It had been dark outside, but the pool lights had cast a golden glow around them. She’d heard Ryan laughing a bit too heartily at one of Gio’s dirty jokes, and she’d felt a flash of scorn: Why did Ryan act like someone he wasn’t around Gio? Why hadn’t he come out here to check on her?
His joking around while she sat planning for her own death felt like a staggering betrayal. She would’ve been so lonely, if it hadn’t been for Dwight.
The sound of the raucous laughter had also conjured a memory in her: She’d been in her senior year of college, walking down the quad at UVa, heading to her room after her last class of the day. It had been one of those afternoons that seemed to straddle summer and fall: warm when the sun beamed down on you, chilly when it ducked behind a cloud. Dwight had been fifty or so yards ahead of her, and Allie had been about to yell out a greeting when he tripped on something—a rock or uneven patch of sidewalk or maybe just his own feet. He’d sprawled out, papers and books flying everywhere, and a gaggle of bitchy girls had stood by and laughed instead of helping him.
Allie had hurried over, picked up a notebook, and handed it to Dwight, who’d looked like he was about to cry.
“Thanks,” he’d said. He was still crouched down, jamming papers into a three-ring binder that had split open. One of his palms was bleeding slightly.
“Want to come over and study for a while?” she’d asked, bending down next to him. She didn’t know Dwight well—they’d lived next to each other for only a few weeks—but she knew that he didn’t have a lot of friends. His room was always quiet.
“Sh-sh-sure,” he’d said. And then he’d stood up and she’d noticed the back cuff of one of his pants legs had gotten stuck in the elastic band of one of his socks, making him look especially dorky and vul
nerable. She’d had to swallow a lump in her throat.
They’d studied together for a few hours, in a companionable silence, and she’d made them both hot cocoa before he left her room. His face had lit up like a little boy’s when she’d added mini-marshmallows to their mugs.
“This was nice,” he’d said.
“Let’s do it again sometime soon,” she’d responded.
“I’d, ah, like that,” he’d said, looking down. But she could see him smiling. He had a wonderful smile.
Later that night, as she lay in bed, she’d realized he was just inches away on the other side of the wall, and she’d sent out a little prayer for him, that life would begin to treat him more kindly.
Once Dwight felt completely safe around Allie, he rarely stuttered or hesitated when they talked. She liked the way he listened carefully to everything she said, and spoke only when he had something to say in return, not to fill the silence.
Now, fifteen years after they’d first met, Allie appreciated those qualities in him even more. As a social worker, she listened to people’s problems for a living. Just being with someone was so relaxing and rare.
But that night by the pool, after Dwight had helped Allie figure out ways to feel in control, their conversation had turned—gone deeper than it ever had before. By then Ryan had poked his head outside and announced he was going to bed, and Allie had promised to come in soon. But she hadn’t. Something about the late hour, and the dark, and the deep timbre of Dwight’s voice, made it impossible for her to leave her chair. To leave him.
“Do you want kids, Dwight?” she’d asked at one point.
“Yeah,” he’d said. “Definitely.”
“You’ll be a great dad,” she’d said.
“We’ve been trying for . . . well, a while. Pretty much since we got married.”
“So almost two years?” Allie said. “Have you guys talked to a specialist? There’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know.”
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