“I used to stand like this with Mom,” she whispered so softly that he might have missed it if he hadn’t been so close. She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t have to, because Rachel was suddenly with them, so strong a presence that Jack actually looked behind him, half expecting her to take form from the fog.
Did he still love her? There was no probably about it. And saying that he missed her told only half the story. The truth—realized, admitted only now, with the fog so thick that only the largest things in life were visible—was that he had been missing her for months.
HE WOKE UP Sunday morning, feeling her in bed with him, memory was so strong. Her hand moved on his chest, side to side through a matting of hair, and down his belly. The soft, sexy voice in his ear said that she loved it when he was this hard, so hard that he shook. He smelled the warm woman of her, kissed the wet woman in her, and came in a climax so cruel that for long minutes after, he lay with an arm over his eyes, breathing hard, swearing again and again.
His heartbeat had barely begun to steady when the peal of the phone sent it through the roof. Sunday morning at eight, with Samantha and Hope safe in bed?
“Jack? It’s Kara. Rachel’s thrown a clot.”
chapter eighteen
“‘THROWN A CLOT.’ What does that mean?” Samantha asked. They were in the car, speeding back to Monterey. She looked pale, almost green. Jack suspected that had as much to do with it being the morning after as with Rachel’s condition. He had given her aspirin before they left. She was holding her head still against the headrest.
Hope had her lucky boots back on and was leaning forward between their seats, waiting for his answer.
He tried to repeat the gist of what Kara had told him. “On rare occasions, a broken bone—in Mom’s case, her leg—creates a clot, a wad that enters the bloodstream and moves through the veins. Sometimes it gets stuck in the head or the heart. Sometimes it gets stuck in the lungs. That’s where your mom’s got stuck.”
“How do they know?”
“They did a scan.”
“Before that, how did they know something was wrong?”
“The monitors she’s been connected to showed changes in the oxygen level in her blood. The problem was discovered as soon as it happened.” He had asked that right off. If there had been a delay because she had been moved from Intensive Care to a regular room, he would have screamed.
“But what is the problem?” Samantha persisted. “Like, could she die from this?”
Bite your tongue. Words from his past. And wrong, here, because Samantha was only asking what Hope was surely wondering. Not addressing it would frighten them more.
“She could, Sam,” he said, “but she won’t, because we’ve got Bauer and Bates with her right now. The problem is that a clot can cut the flow of blood. In your mother’s case, that’s the last thing they want. Her brain is healing. It needs all the oxygen it can get, and since blood carries oxygen, they don’t want anything slowing the flow.” There was also a little problem with pneumonia, if a lung infection developed. That could kill her. But he wasn’t mentioning it now.
“So do they operate and cut it out?”
According to Kara, operating posed more of a risk to Rachel’s system than they cared to take. “They’re treating it medically, with something they call a clot buster. It’s heavy-duty stuff that will break up the clot.”
“Right away?”
Hadn’t he asked it himself, with the very same fear? “They hope so.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“Don’t look for trouble, Sam.”
“But—”
“Sam.” He took her hand. “Let’s work together here. It doesn’t do any good to think the worst. I don’t know much more than you do. But we’re due for a break, aren’t we?” When she didn’t answer, he gave her hand a jiggle. “Aren’t we?”
“Yes,” she whispered and closed her eyes.
He held her hand for a while. It comforted him, as did the weight of Hope’s cheek on his shoulder.
KARA had forgotten to tell Jack three small things.
First, Rachel was back in ICU. They discovered that when they arrived at her room, found it empty, and in a panic ran down the hall.
Second, her lips and the area surrounding them were blue, which would have been frightening enough without the third thing. That was the gasping sound she made.
“What’s happened,” Kara explained as Jack and the girls watched Rachel in horror, “is that because there’s a block, the blood can’t participate in ventilation. Blood carrying oxygen can’t get to her lungs to exchange with blood carrying carbon dioxide. The gasping you hear is her attempt to get more oxygen to her lungs. She sounds a lot worse than she is.”
That was putting it mildly. To Jack’s ears, Rachel sounded on the verge of death. He was appalled. “How long until the medicine starts working?”
“We’re hoping to see results within a few hours.”
THE FIRST HOUR crept. Rachel’s gasping breaths counted the seconds.
Jack didn’t know what to do. He was frightened and unsure, as terrified by the grating sounds Rachel made as he was by the tinge of her skin. For a time, he simply stood with an arm around each of the girls, but they were all tired. Eventually, they sat down on the bed, the girls on one side, Jack on the other. He tried to think of things to say, but it seemed important, so important, to listen to those gasping sounds, to hear the slightest change, to imagine that there were words in there somewhere.
“She sounds awful,” Samantha whispered at one point.
Jack nodded. He held Rachel’s hand, occasionally touched her face or her neck, and thought it ironic that when the scrapes on the side of her face were nearly healed, she should be turning blue. His stomach was tight, his insides chilled. Prayers came to him from a long-ago childhood of enforced practice. His memory fragmented them and they emerged watered down, but he thought them anyway. Dear God, help her … give her strength … let her heal … serve you again …
THE SECOND HOUR began, and the gasping went on undiminished.
“Hang in there,” Jack murmured. “You can lick this, Rachel. Breathe long and slow, long and slow.” He made a dry sound.
“What?” Samantha asked.
“We’ve done this before, your mom and me. When you were born. I coached her. ‘Hang in there, Rachel. You can do it. Breathe long and slow.’ Then out you came.”
“Yelling and screaming?”
“No.” He paused, smiled. “Actually, yes. You were vocal from birth. Very vocal. You let us know when you wanted something, all right.”
“What about me?” Hope asked.
“Less vocal.” His smile was for Rachel now. The memories were sweet. “In some ways, that was harder. You didn’t tell us as much, so we had to guess. You guys were different even then. Your mom claimed you were different in the womb.”
“How could she tell?” Hope asked.
“The way you moved. Sam was more active even then.”
“But I slid out easier.”
“Second deliveries are like that. She had to work harder with Sam.” He heard that breathing again, as loud as ever. His smile faded. “Long and slow. Hang in there, angel. You’re doing good, you’re doing good.”
KATHERINE arrived looking pale, upset, and totally different from any other way Jack had seen her. Her face was washed clean, curls a dozen shades of beige caught up in a ponytail. She wore a lightweight warm-up suit and sneakers. Only her fingernails were done, but even then, lighter. They were pink.
Jack took comfort in her presence. Even pale and upset, she conveyed competence. She knew what to say, what to ask. If there was something he wasn’t doing for Rachel that should be done, she would tell him. She was his friend now, too. They were allies in the same war.
When he sent the girls to the cafeteria for drinks, she said, “Thanks for calling. I was working out. I got your message as soon as I got back.” She made a general gesture toward her hair
and face, apologetic, Jack thought. “Just took time to shower.”
“You look great,” he said. When she gave him a skeptical look, he added, “I’m serious. All natural. Very Rachel. Thanks for coming.” He touched Rachel’s lips. They were parted, air grating in and out. “I didn’t expect this. The girls are pretty shaken. I’m pretty shaken.”
“The medicine will work,” Katherine said firmly.
“I’ve been praying. It’s the first time in years. I don’t want to lose her, Katherine. Do you think she wants to hear that?”
Katherine looked at him and sighed. “You’re not a bad-looking guy. Need a haircut. Need a shave. But you clean up good. So, yeah. She’d want to hear it. What woman wouldn’t?”
“I think you’re missing my point,” Jack said, but the girls returned then, and when Katherine took her tea with thanks and suggested that Jack take the girls back to the cafeteria for breakfast, he figured he’d leave well enough alone.
“HI THERE.”
Katherine was leaning over the bed rail, letting Rachel know she was rooting for her, when Steve Bauer walked in. She had known he would appear, had felt it in her gut well before she decided to forgo makeup and mousse. She figured it was time to give him a preview of the less glamorous side of the woman she was.
“What’s happening here?” she asked, straightening.
“Clot. Drip. Wait.”
“Ahh. Thanks.”
He approached the bed, studied Rachel, then the monitor. He adjusted the solution dripping from the IV bag, then leaned in and said in a voice loud and authoritative enough to be heard over her breathing, “Rachel? I’m speeding up the drip. You won’t feel the change, but it should help.”
Katherine sensed his worry. “Should she have already responded?”
He checked the wall clock. “No. But she can use more.”
“How does something like this affect the coma? Can it snap her out of it?”
“It can. It may not.” He turned his blue eyes on her, along with a small smile. “How are you?”
“Nervous.”
“I’m flattered.”
“Nervous about Rachel,” she said, focusing again on her friend. There was no pretending she was asleep, not with the noise she made with every breath.
“I’m envious. How far back do you two go?”
“Six years.” But she had never had a friend like Rachel. “I feel like I’ve known her forever, we’re that much alike.”
“You look more alike now than usual.”
“Ashen skin? Blue lips?”
“Unadorned. You look pretty.”
Jack had said the same thing, but it felt different coming from Steve. She squeezed Rachel’s hand. “He’s hitting on me again.”
“No. Just saying I’m in for the long haul.” Before she could begin to analyze that, he said, “So you and Rachel are alike. Tell me how.”
Katherine could do that. “She’s an only child. So am I. She grew up in the city. So did I. She hated it. So did I.”
“Why?”
“In Rachel’s case, she felt pressured to conform to a way of life she didn’t like.”
“In yours?”
“I felt lost. I like bumping into people I know.”
“Like Rick Meltzer?”
Rick was the anesthesiologist who had called out her name. She should have known Steve would notice. “Like Rick,” she admitted, since denying it would only make him curious. “I also like privacy. Drive half an hour from here, and you’re in the middle of nowhere. For someone like Rachel, that’s important. She’s artistic. We have that in common, too.”
“Then it isn’t just—” He made a speedy snipping motion.
“No. It isn’t just.” She held his gaze. “There’s an art to coloring and styling hair. Even in that, Rachel and I are alike.”
“How?”
“We’re both adherents of realism. We spend our professional lives trying to bring out the best and most beautiful of what nature has to offer.” She looked at Rachel again, suddenly resentful of what she saw. “I don’t think she’d like these blue lips.”
“We don’t either, but they’re telling us what’s going on inside.”
“Can she do herself harm, gasping like this?”
“No. She needs the air.”
“When will the medication kick in?”
“Hard to tell. Another two or three hours. Maybe more.” He was holding Rachel’s shoulder. “I’ve seen her work. I stopped in at P. Emmet’s.”
Katherine was surprised. She had thought detachment was a medical school basic. “Aren’t you risking emotional involvement doing that?”
“Yes. The more you know, the harder it is when patients fail, or when you have to recommend one of two lousy alternatives. The flip side is that when patients respond and recover, there’s greater satisfaction. The brute fact is that medicine is becoming a service profession. The customer wants his doctor to be involved. Isn’t that why Jack brought in these pictures? Or why Rachel is wearing a T-shirt with her name in big bright letters? It’s why I’m asking you these questions.”
“And here I thought you had an ulterior motive,” Katherine said, knowing that he did. He wanted to learn about her, so he was asking about Rachel.
Those blue eyes said she was right. “Does she like to travel?” he asked.
Katherine sighed. He was incorrigible. Something about his persistence was nice, though. If he wanted her bad enough … “Yes. She travels for work. She’d like to travel more for fun, but money’s tight. Paying for three. You know.”
“I do. Does she like movies?”
“Good ones.” She arched a brow. “There aren’t any around, so don’t even suggest it.”
“I wasn’t about to. You’d feel guilty going to a movie with Rachel struggling in here, but you have to eat, and I can’t go far from the hospital. I was thinking something quick and easy, like smoked salmon on the Wharf.”
Katherine couldn’t help but grin. “With the tourists?”
“It’s quick. It’s easy. It’s public. Tell you what. I’ll be in and out of here for another few hours. If you’re hungry at two, meet me out front. My car is the dark green CJ-7.” He briefly turned away to check the speed of the drip, looked back at the monitor for another minute, then, with an endearingly vulnerable glance at Katherine, left the room.
WHEN JACK returned with the girls, he was discouraged to find that nothing had changed. Rachel’s coloring was as poor as before, her breathing as labored.
“Bauer was just here,” Katherine said. “He didn’t seem overly concerned.”
But Jack was. He kissed Rachel’s hand and pressed his mouth to the scar there. It was a fine line, growing finer by the day, but her hand was thinner. All of her was thinner. She was fading away right before his eyes. It struck him that this was his punishment. He had let Rachel walk out of his life. Had let her. Samantha was right. He hadn’t fought.
He had been preoccupied and too proud. He had let the silence win.
“Goddammit,” he muttered, cursing both that silence and the gut-wrenching noise Rachel was making, and suddenly his eyes filled with tears. He squeezed them shut, swallowed, and pressed Rachel’s hand to his brow.
“Hey, guys,” Katherine said to Samantha and Hope, “let’s take a walk. Your parents need some private time.”
Jack didn’t look, but he knew when they were gone. He felt the special connection with Rachel that used to reduce the rest of the world to fringe. Memory, or reality? He wasn’t sure. But it was strong, and a good sign maybe, if she was still putting out vibes.
Taking a steadying breath, he lowered her hand from his eyes. “I don’t know if you can hear me, Rachel, but there are things I need to say. There are things we need to say. If you wanted to get my attention, you couldn’t have done it better. It’s been an … enlightening few weeks.”
He whispered his thumb over her eyelids, feeling tissue-thin, soft skin that was surprisingly warm. “I want to talk
about what happened. We never did that. We just kind of split up and went separate ways. Stopped talking over the piano.” He was haunted by his memory of her picking out sad tunes that night, when she had given him an opening and he had walked away. “We fell back into who we were before we met, but that wasn’t us. It was me. It was you. It wasn’t us. Together we were something different, something better than we’d been. When did we lose that?”
Through the ruckus of gasps, he imagined her voice, thoughtful and warm as it was in the best of times, but there were no words, no answers, no insight.
Suddenly angry, he whispered, “Don’t you leave me in the lurch, Rachel Keats. Keats—God, I hate that. With all due respect to fuckin’ women’s rights, I hate it. You should be Rachel McGill. Or I’ll be Jack Keats. But we should be the same.” He took a shuddering breath and said, fiercely, “We had a pretty damn nice marriage, Rachel. I want it back. Don’t you die on me now.”
He watched her face closely, hoping for a reaction. “Did you hear what I said?” he fairly yelled. “I want it back!”
She didn’t move, didn’t blink, just took one gasping breath after another.
Frightened, he pulled up a chair and sat back.
chapter nineteen
JACK WAS IN the same chair an hour later. Samantha had squeezed in beside him and was sleeping under his arm. Hope was dozing, curled on her side against Rachel’s hip. Noon had come and gone. Rachel was still blue, still gasping.
Samantha stirred. She looked at him groggily, then less groggily at Rachel. “No better?” she asked.
“Not yet. How’s your head?”
“Okay.” She settled back against him in a way that spoke of how far they had come. If the chair was crowded, he didn’t care. He wouldn’t have moved for the world.
“I keep thinking about Lydia,” she said softly. “I should tell her about Mom.”
With only a minor stretch, he pulled the cell phone from his pocket, turned it on, and held it out.
It was a minute before she took it. “What if she hangs up when she hears my voice?”
Coast Road Page 29
