Katherine had a fast smile for Hope, but her expression before and after told him that it wasn’t so.
“It’s been a week,” Cindy said in her slow, gentle way. “Rachel’s condition has been steady the whole time. The doctors thought she could be moved.”
Jack had a bad feeling. Even after separating it from Guinevere’s death, it still felt bad. “You needed her space for someone else.”
“Yes, but that’s not why we moved her. She’s stable. Her stats aren’t changing.”
“But what if they do? The whole point was for you to know the minute something happened.”
“We’re monitoring her from here,” Cindy said and, yes, he saw the same monitors, the same wires.
“But those aren’t connected to the central desk.”
“We’ll be checking her regularly.”
Kara Bates’s voice came from the door. “This is what we call an observation room,” she said, entering. “It’s one step down from the ICU. Rachel will have the kind of attention here that most patients get immediately after surgery.”
“It’s only been a week,” Jack argued, frightened. “What about that guy you pointed out who’s been in Intensive Care for a month and a half?”
“He has heart and lung problems. He’s not stable. Believe me, Rachel is far better off. She’s functioning on her own, perfectly steady. She isn’t going anywhere.”
Jack fought a sinking feeling without quite knowing its cause. The bruise on the side of Rachel’s face was healing—scabbing a reddish brown where it had been scraped, turning green where it had been hit—and the stitches had been removed from the cut on her hand. She looked paler than ever, though, and thin. He worried about that. She had never had pounds to spare.
Hope climbed onto the bed, tucked in her cowboy boots, and sat by her mother’s hip. She didn’t say anything. After a minute, she gingerly lifted Rachel’s hand and put it in her lap. Her head was down. She slowly curled into herself. When she started to sniffle, she lifted Rachel’s hand to cover her tears.
Jack caught Katherine’s look of alarm. Guinevere, he mouthed.
She winced and nodded.
He touched Hope’s bowed head, lightly stroking her hair as he had the cat’s fur. He wanted to say something, but didn’t know what. He imagined that letting Hope know he was with her was what she needed most.
But the sinking feeling inside him was starting to take form. He gestured Kara into the hall. “You’re giving up on her,” he accused. “You’re taking her off the front line because you don’t think she’s waking up for a while.”
“That’s not it. We’re simply saying that since the accident was nearly a week ago and there haven’t been any complications, the chances of one occurring now are low. Cindy will still be her nurse. She’ll watch the monitors and do side-side-back rotations every two hours. She’ll be in here just as often as she was before. Same with Steve and me. This is standard protocol. In a larger hospital, she might have left Intensive Care even sooner. The fact is, she isn’t critical.”
“The fact is, she isn’t conscious,” Jack muttered, but more to himself than to Kara. She patted his elbow and set off down the hall. Cindy and Katherine replaced her.
Since he hadn’t gotten anywhere with Kara, he turned on Cindy. “Rachel is losing weight. Isn’t that dangerous?”
Cindy pushed up her glasses and looked back into the room. “No,” she said slowly, quietly, “she’s getting the nutrients she needs through a drip. We’re still hoping that she’ll wake up soon.”
“I’m glad someone is,” he said, but his sarcasm faded fast. “It’ll be a week tonight. How long can she survive on an IV?”
“Ohhh, another few weeks.”
“What then?”
“We’ll consider a feeding tube. It goes directly into the stomach.”
He wished he hadn’t asked. A feeding tube was long-range, big-time stuff, right up there with putting Rachel in a regular room, which smacked of settling in for the long haul. He had done his homework. Next they’d be talking about a nursing home.
He pushed his hands through his hair and tried to wade through a rising panic. “This is not working for me. I can’t accept that this is going to go on forever. There has to be more we can do.”
“I’ve been talking to people,” Katherine said. “There are other things we might try.”
That cleared his thoughts some. Jack wasn’t sure he liked the idea of Katherine talking to people about his wife’s coma, but he was desperate enough to listen.
“We could read to her,” Katherine said, “play her favorite music, bring in her favorite food. The smell might reach her. We could burn incense.”
“Maybe get the maharishi in here, too,” he muttered.
Katherine nearly smiled. “I was thinking of incense that smells like the woods near her house. A little of that might snap her out of it.”
Jack wanted to argue but couldn’t. Even now, miles away, he could smell those woods. There was a power to that smell.
“Would it work?” he asked the nurse.
“It can’t hurt,” Cindy said as she had so often before. Looking past them, speaking just a hair above a whisper, she added, “There’s nothing scientific about it—for or against.” She put on a smile. “Here’s Dr. Bauer.”
“I’ll go visit with Hope,” Katherine said, but before she could leave, someone called her name. She looked past Steve Bauer, broke into a grin, and set off to greet a young, good-looking guy wearing purple scrubs.
Watching her, Jack couldn’t help but think that there was something to be said for living and working in a smaller place than San Francisco. People saw one another around town. Familiar faces were everywhere. It was kind of nice, when life was shaky.
He hadn’t always felt that way. Growing up in a small town where everyone knew every last thing he did, he had choked on intimacy. So he went to college in Manhattan, where the anonymity was a welcome relief. He would have done his graduate work there, too, if he had been accepted. But Tuscon was where the grant money was, and then he met Rachel.
Rachel loved Arizona. She loved the air, the sun, the open space. She loved the desert landscape, claimed that there was a romanticism to it, that she could feel the ghost of Geronimo riding through the brush. She loved the heat, loved wearing skimpy tank tops and shorts and piling her hair on top of her head, even loved sweating.
She had blossomed as a painter in Tucson. With instruction and practice, she became technically proficient. As her personal confidence grew, her work gained strength. Wearing a large, broad-brimmed hat, she spent hour upon hour in the desert, nearly immobile at her easel, brush and palette in hand. She had the patience to wait for desert creatures to appear, and the stillness not to scare them off once they did. When the desert was in bloom, she was in heaven, but her pleasure extended far beyond that. She saw beauty where others saw hard sand and drab growth. Give her a glimpse of the sun angled low, and she turned bland into breathless.
Jack and Rachel were together in Tucson for three years, married for the last, and in all that time they hadn’t disagreed on a thing. Then Jack was offered a job in San Francisco, and still they didn’t disagree. It made sense for an architect to be in the city, and the firm was a good one in terms of projects, opportunity for advancement, and pay. Rachel voiced her qualms; Jack had answers for each. In the end, it boiled down to the fact that she could work anywhere, and he couldn’t. So they moved.
He wondered now if he had been shortsighted. He had taken her from her element without realizing the effect it would have. She might have found cause for new inspiration in Big Sur, but there had been a long stretch of barren years before that. Her work had suffered. He should have seen it.
And then there was the twist of fate that had him driving to the hospital to be with her for the seventh day in a row. If they hadn’t moved to San Francisco, she wouldn’t have ended up in Big Sur, wouldn’t have been driving the coast road at the same time as an elderly w
oman who had no business driving at all, wouldn’t be in a coma right now.
Coming up on one week. Scary.
KATHERINE offered to keep an eye on Hope while Jack drove to San Francisco. “It’s Monday,” she explained. “The shop is closed.”
But Jack wanted Hope with him. He saw the sad expression on her face and the tears that remained in a state of perpetual threat. He didn’t know whether she was thinking of Guinevere or Rachel, but a drive to the city would be a diversion. He felt closer to her after Guinevere. He imagined they had established a bond, and wanted to keep it going.
He was also feeling low himself, brooding about people giving up on Rachel. Given his druthers, he wouldn’t be driving to San Francisco at all, but sitting with her, talking to her, badgering her, challenging her—anything to wake her up. Having Hope with him gave him another purpose.
Besides, she was a shield. She was visible evidence of his responsibilities, proof for all to see of the reasons why he couldn’t stay in San Francisco for long.
HE CALLED Jill from the phone down the hall and explained about Guinevere’s death, about getting a late start from Big Sur, about Michael Flynn’s defection. As gently as he could, he said, “I can’t do lunch, Jill. Hope’s with me, and we don’t have much time. I’m sorry. I’ll bet you made something incredible.” On top of everything else, Jill was a gourmet cook.
“Not yet. I was going to do risotto primavera right before you came. The ingredients will hold. Will you come tomorrow?”
He closed his eyes and rubbed his brow. “I won’t be in the city. Not until later in the week.”
There was a pause, then a quiet “Does Rachel know you’re there?”
“I don’t know. But I can’t not be there.”
After another pause, she asked softly, “Why?”
He felt it coming. The deep stuff. And he didn’t want it, didn’t want it. So he said, “Because it could make a difference, Jill. The girls’ talking to her could help her out of the coma. My talking to her could help her out of it. She’s the mother of my children. I want her well.”
She relented with a sigh. “I know.”
“Thursday,” he suggested, because he was hurting her and he didn’t want that. “How about Thursday. Will the veggies hold until then?”
“It’s not about the veggies.”
“I know.” It was about commitments. “Lunch Thursday. I promise.”
THEY stopped at Jack’s house before heading for Sung and McGill. While he filled a large sports duffel with clothes, he had Hope pile mail into a shopping bag. They worked quickly. The place felt cold and damp. The sun was out, and still the backyard looked gray.
In the midst of putting everything in the car, Jack had a thought. Returning to his bedroom closet, he pushed sweaters aside on the top shelf and pulled down two framed photographs. One was of Rachel and the girls, one of Rachel alone. Slipping them into a bag, he rejoined Hope.
They stopped at a nearby pastry shop for lunch. The place was small enough and Jack had been there often enough for someone to show a sign of recognition. His order was filled promptly and efficiently, but no one said a word.
Still, they lingered there. He got Hope a refill of Coke, which she drank, and offered her dessert, which she refused. He ordered a piece of marble cheesecake anyway, handed her a spoon, and made her take a bite. He drank his third cup of coffee.
When he couldn’t put it off any longer, they headed for the office, where he spent the bulk of the next three hours arguing with contractors, apologizing to clients, assigning tasks to associates, and avoiding David. He succeeded in everything but the last. David found him wherever he was, asking questions about work, time, and Rachel, adding to the pressure he already felt.
In the sudden silence after one tense bout, Hope asked, “Do you like David?” She had her legs tucked under her on the sofa in his office and was alternately reading a book, doodling, and watching Jack work. David had just stalked out clutching the latest design revision for the Montana resort, which Jack had asked him to present at Tuesday’s meeting.
“Sure, I do,” Jack said. “David and I go back fifteen years. We’ve shared some exciting jobs, pretty heady stuff. He does the things I can’t, and vice versa. I wouldn’t be the architect I am today if it weren’t for him. This is our firm. We made it ourselves. We’re partners.”
Hope thought about that for a minute. “But do you like him?”
Jack used to. He used to admire David’s dedication and direction. Lately, he had found the man a little too intense. Still, how to argue when the firm thrived? “We’re a good team. He keeps the fire going under me when I might be tempted to relax.”
“Mom doesn’t like him,” Hope said quietly.
“Really?” It was news to Jack. Rachel had never said a word. “Why not?”
“She says he’s hard.”
Hard—as in insensitive, cutthroat, and driven? “Some would say I am, too.”
“Mom never said that,” Hope said quickly.
“She didn’t ever yell and scream and curse me out?” he teased.
A sheepish grin. “Well, maybe. But she always apologized after.”
“What did she say?”
“When she apologized?”
“When she was cursing me out.”
“Oh, you know”—she lifted a shoulder—“stubborn, selfish. But she said it took two to make a marriage work and two to make it fail, so she was as much at fault as you were.”
That was interesting. To hear Samantha talk, Jack had always assumed that his “desertion” was the only thing discussed. He was the bad guy, Rachel the good guy. He couldn’t imagine Hope saying something different, if it wasn’t so.
He covered his surprise by flipping her doodle pad around. Her pen had recreated Guinevere, capturing vulnerability with a minimum of strokes.
He turned back a page and forward a page. Each one offered a similarly evocative beauty. He had known Hope could draw but had never made much of it—largely, ironically, to protect Samantha, though it appeared that Samantha was well aware of her inability.
But Samantha wasn’t there just then. On a note of genuine awe, he told Hope, “You are your mother’s daughter.”
“What do you mean?”
“You see the same things she does—small, subtle things, feelings—and you can put them on paper. That’s more than I can do. It’s a real talent.”
Hope gave a modest little shrug, but her cheeks were pink. “I loved Guinevere. Drawing her makes me feel like she’s still here.” Her voice caught. Her eyes fell. “I keep thinking of her back there.”
“I know you do.”
“I’ll miss her.”
“You were good to her. I’m proud of you.”
Tears gathered on her lower lids. “She’s still dead.”
“But you made her last days good ones. You were a loyal friend to her.” He wanted her happy. “We could get you another cat if you want.”
Without a minute’s thought, she shook her head. “I want to remember Guinevere for a while. She was always a little scared of new people, and she didn’t like playing with toys, but she slept with me from the night we found her, and she always purred when I whispered to her. So if I was loyal, it was because she was loyal. I don’t want another cat taking her place so soon.”
“BRENDAN says you’re not coming with us. Why not?” Lydia asked. They were at their lockers at the end of the day. Samantha had avoided Lydia that long.
She scooped her hair off her face. “I’m going with Teague Runyan. He has a car. It’ll be better this way.”
“Better for who? Teague is trouble. He has a police record.”
“He was accused of shoplifting. It was a case of mistaken identity. The charges were dropped, so he does not have a police record.”
“He was suspended from school for cheating.”
“For one day. That’s how serious it was.”
“There’s no way my parents will let him into the hous
e.”
“If your parents weren’t home,” Samantha said archly, “they’d never know. Why did you tell them there would be guys there?”
“They started asking. I couldn’t lie to their faces.”
“Well, they’re not my parents, so I don’t have that worry.”
“Does your father know you’re going with Teague?”
“Sure. He trusts me.”
When Lydia didn’t have an answer to that, Samantha felt a small measure of satisfaction. The satisfaction waned, though, when Lydia gathered her books and, shoulders hunching as she hugged them close, walked away alone.
IT WAS LATE afternoon by the time Jack returned to the hospital. Katherine had picked up Samantha at school and returned with a CD player, which was now running softly on the bed stand not twelve inches from Rachel’s head.
“Garth,” Samantha told him, seeming unperturbed by the change in rooms.
“She’s a fan, too?” He knew that the girls were and had assumed that the concert had been for them. His Rachel had been partial to the likes of James Taylor, Van Morrison, and the Eagles.
“A big fan,” Samantha said.
Hope confirmed it with a nod, which didn’t leave much for him to do but to set up the pictures he had brought.
Samantha was immediately drawn to them. “Where’d you get those?”
“I’ve had them,” he said casually. “I want the doctors and nurses who walk in and out to see your mother with her eyes open. I want them to view her as a living, breathing, feeling individual.”
“Grandma sure does. Look what she sent.”
Three large boxes were stacked by the wall behind the bed. Each one brimmed with hot pink tissue and the kind of frothy white stuff that Rachel hadn’t touched since she had cut it up and sewn it into a quilt.
“Nightgowns,” Samantha said unnecessarily.
Hope sat on her heels and began looking inside the boxes. “Mom won’t wear these. Why did she send them?”
Jack was saved from answering by the arrival of the travel agent, Dinah Monroe. She wore a smart suit and her dark hair in a shiny bob. After fingering the lingerie with genuine admiration, she kissed Rachel’s cheek and, in an upbeat tone that warred with the concern in her eyes, told her about the client from hell for whom she had spent most of the day booking an Aegean cruise. More easily, she kidded Samantha about a mutual friend and shared sympathetic memories of Guinevere with Hope. She didn’t stay for more than ten minutes and was followed soon after by Eliza, of the dark eyes and dark curls, arriving with warm pecan rolls packed in layers of bags. The minute she opened the innermost one, the sweet scent wafted out. Jack began to salivate. After ten minutes of gentle chatter with Rachel, Katherine, and the girls, she was gone.
Coast Road Page 17
