A Week at the Lake

by Wendy Wax

  Zoe’s smile widened. “I’ve been in a few things. I was offered the lead in Teen Scream.” A shadow passed over her face. “But I, um, had to pass.”

  “The girl is a Michaels,” Serena said. “And her father’s no slouch in the acting department, either.” Serena felt the oddest glow of maternal pride. “And I am one of her fairy godmothers.”

  “All right,” Ethan said. “I’ll have someone pull the copy for you to look over, Zoe. You can take a stab at it when we’re done with Georgia here.”

  “Cool!” Zoe’s smile split her face, the first Serena had seen since the accident. Thank you, she mouthed to Ethan when Zoe had turned her back to step up into the control room.

  “My pleasure.” He gave her a wink, then took her arm to escort her into the studio and up to the microphone.

  “Madame.” He bowed with an exaggerated hand gesture.

  “Monsieur.” She curtsied and nodded regally.

  “Just so you know. There’s a lot of eye rolling going on in here!” The disembodied voice of Charlie Couver, the audio engineer, boomed into the studio. Zoe’s giggle sounded briefly. It was one of the sweetest sounds Serena had ever heard.

  As she did a voice check and watched the video cue up, Serena felt like a testament to the medicinal properties of laughter. A little silliness could go a long way.

  She was still smiling almost an hour later as she and Zoe entered the reception area on the way out.

  “Serena?” Catherine Stengel held up a pink message slip.

  Serena walked over to the desk to retrieve the piece of paper. It took a moment to absorb the name scrawled across the top. “When did this come in?”

  Catherine took the slip back and looked closely. “Yesterday afternoon.” She studied Serena’s face. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course.” Unable to look at the name again, she folded the slip of paper into a tiny square and shoved it deep into her purse. But as she and Zoe left and caught a cab back to the hospital, she couldn’t shove the remembered hurt away as easily. The last time she’d heard from Brooks Anderson had been almost twenty-five years ago. And he’d been calling to tell her he’d decided to stay in Charleston. Where he planned to marry someone else.

  Twelve

  Are you all right?” Serena asked Mackenzie.

  “I was about to ask you the same thing.” The last thing Mackenzie felt like doing was talking about Adam. Or her marriage.

  They’d left Zoe sitting with Emma and exited the hospital in search of fresh air. In order to avoid the ever-present crowd of photographers, they’d slipped out through a little-used employee entrance that emptied onto a covered walkway that ended several blocks away. They crossed Fifth and entered Central Park, where they claimed an empty bench overlooking a section of the Conservatory Garden.

  They sat in silence for a time, watching the passersby.

  “So how’d the meeting at the publishing house go?” Serena asked.

  Mackenzie shrugged, not eager to admit that she was afraid the editor might be more interested in her friendship with Emma than her writing talents or her audience. The truth was that although she, Serena, and Emma had had a tight and mostly harmonious friendship, it was their individual friendships with Emma that had originally brought them together. Emma was the glue that had bound them.

  “Zoe was really excited about meeting Ethan Miller,” Mackenzie said now in an effort to turn the conversation.

  “Yeah, they formed a mutual-admiration society on the spot. It was kind of cute,” Serena said.

  “She said she’s going to get to voice a character?” Mackenzie asked.

  “Yes. He had her read a scene with me and she nailed it on the first take.” Serena’s smile was sad. “I almost cried thinking how proud Em would have been of her.” She swallowed. “And how much I hope Emma wakes up to give her permission.”

  They fell into a mostly comfortable silence. A warm breeze rustled the leafy branches of the oak tree they sat beneath. Two joggers passed, their breathing heavy but even.

  “Eve came to the hospital while you were gone,” Mackenzie said, pulling a pack of gum from her purse and offering it to Serena.

  “What’s up with that?” Serena took the gum and unwrapped it.

  “I don’t know,” Mackenzie said. “She seemed disappointed that Zoe wasn’t there, though they don’t seem to have a relationship of any kind. She sat with Emma for an hour or so. I have no idea what she’s trying to accomplish.”

  Birds chirped. Bees buzzed around a nearby bed of flowers. The sounds of traffic on Fifth Avenue were there, but muted. Now if only she could relax.

  “I’ve always just kind of automatically hated her on Emma’s behalf. But I don’t know. Maybe the threat of Emma’s death is finally sinking in. Maybe she wants to apologize or something.” Mackenzie swallowed. “You know, before it’s too late.” Even after they’d discovered that their friend Amelia Maclaine was actually Emma Michaels, Emma had kept the details about her relationship with her mother largely to herself. It had taken years of friendship before she’d begun to talk about her family and why she’d divorced her parents. Her grandmother, the awe-inducing Grace Michaels, whom they met shortly after Emma’s true identity had been revealed, had been far less hesitant to speak out against the woman who had married her son.

  “It’s so peaceful here,” Serena said. “I hate that the day’s so beautiful and everyone’s just going around enjoying it when Emma’s lying there like a . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “I know,” Mackenzie agreed. She felt guilty even being there with the breeze rifling her hair and the sun warm on her shoulders. “It’s supposed to be reassuring that life goes on no matter what. But it just feels wrong.”

  They sat in silence after that, lost in their own thoughts. A text dinged in. Both of them sat up. Looked down at their phones.

  Zoe’s text read, It’s Mom. Hurry!

  They arrived at the neuro ICU frightened and out of breath and found Zoe standing outside of Emma’s room, her hand to her chest, watching Dr. Brennan through the glass with Emma.

  “What is it?” Serena huffed. “What happened?”

  Too frightened to speak, Mackenzie reached for Zoe’s hand and gave it a squeeze almost as much to stop hers from shaking as to offer comfort.

  “She moved,” Zoe said.

  “What?” Mackenzie found her voice.

  “At first I just thought I saw something move out of the corner of my eye,” Zoe said in a rush. “So then I started watching really carefully. I mean, I barely blinked for like twenty minutes. And then I saw her arm move.”

  “Are you sure?” Mackenzie knew what it was like to sit there staring and wishing for something positive. Some sign of . . . anything.

  They stood with their shoulders touching, their noses pressed to the glass watching the doctor examine Emma, check the readouts, scribble on her chart. They were barely breathing when he finally came out to speak to them.

  “What’s happening?” Serena asked. “Is she waking up?”

  Mackenzie could hear the same excitement she felt, and was afraid to give in to, in Serena’s voice. The raw hope on Zoe’s face was difficult to look at.

  “There were signs of neurological lightening in the recovery room after her surgery,” Dr. Brennan said. “Things are looking promising. Intracranial pressure has remained normal and her gasses look good, so we can decrease ventilation and start weaning to room air.”

  “Does this mean she’s going to wake up soon?” Zoe asked.

  “I really can’t say.” The doctor dropped his gaze to Emma’s chart.

  “We’re not asking for a guaranteed wake-up time,” Serena said, clearly frustrated. “But these are good signs, right?”

  Dr. Brennan looked up. “Yes. There are a number of positive indicators. But a return to consciousness is typically g
radual. More like a child waking up from a nap. And not at all like the movies where someone opens their eyes and jumps out of bed.”

  “But she is improving.” Zoe’s eyes were locked with Dr. Brennan’s. Her hand gripped Mackenzie’s painfully.

  “I believe we have reason to be cautiously optimistic,” he finally said, cautiously yet optimistically. “But we’re not out of the woods yet.”

  As he left, all three of them turned their eyes on Emma. Who was still hooked up to a sea of machines and monitors. Her eyes were tightly closed. Her body still. From the outside she didn’t look any different at all. But Mackenzie prayed there was more going on than met the eye. That Emma’s internal alarm clock was ringing and that soon she’d wake up and turn it off.

  Afraid to leave lest they miss Emma waking up and asking what the hell was going on, they sat up all night at the hospital waiting for another sign.

  During Serena’s turns at Emma’s side as well as those in the family lounge’s molded—though not necessarily to her—plastic chairs, every moment not spent silently urging Emma to wake the hell up were filled with thoughts and memories of Brooks Anderson. She wallowed with an intensity she hadn’t allowed herself since the night before his wedding to another Charleston debutante, when she’d drunk dialed him and got out only half of the names she’d intended to call him before breaking down and crying piteously instead.

  He’d remained silent while she bawled. When her sobs had petered out, he’d said only, “I’m sorry. But I have to go.” And she’d had no idea if he was apologizing for choosing Diana Ravenel after he’d already chosen her. Or simply for having to hang up.

  News of Brooks’s meteoric rise in his father-in-law’s brokerage firm had arrived in regular letters on her mother’s scented hand-engraved stationery and later via her mother’s email account, mintjulep@aol.com. After viewing a two-page spread of Mr. and Mrs. Brooks Anderson II arriving at St. Michaels for the baptism of their second child, Serena had canceled her subscriptions to Charleston Magazine and the Charleston Post and Courier, whose society column followed them with fervent attention. By then Serena had begun dating the first in a long line of married men who were neither southern nor gentlemen.

  Serena was dozing beside Emma’s bed the next morning when Eve Michaels arrived. It was clear someone had already told her the news.

  “Has there been further movement?” she asked by way of greeting. “Has Emma opened her eyes at all?”

  Serena looked at Emma’s mother through bleary, sleep-deprived eyes. Eve was immaculately dressed and made up. Her shoulder-length auburn hair appeared freshly styled.

  “No.”

  Eve appeared to be waiting for more, but Serena didn’t have the energy or the inclination to give it to her. Mackenzie and Zoe returned from the cafeteria bearing a Starbucks coffee for Serena. She took it gratefully.

  “You all look exhausted,” Eve said. “I have the day free. I’d be glad to sit with Emma if you’d like to go home and get some sleep.”

  They all stared suspiciously at her. Part of Serena wanted nothing more than to go home and be “one” with her own bed for a few hours; the other part hated the idea of Emma waking up and finding Eve sitting next to her instead of them.

  “I think I’ll go powder my nose,” Eve said with a sad smile. “Feel free to put it to a vote.”

  As soon as she’d left the room, they huddled together. “What if Emma wakes up and she’s here instead of us?” Zoe whispered, voicing Serena’s concern.

  “That would be kind of a good problem, wouldn’t it?” Mackenzie said. “I mean the waking up part.”

  “But she might think we abandoned her,” Zoe said, her eyes filling with tears. No matter how many times they discussed it, the girl still felt responsible for her mother’s accident. “Especially since she probably doesn’t even know we’re here when we’re here.”

  “I have to believe she knows.” Mackenzie, who always seemed to know the right thing to say to Zoe, squeezed her hand. “And I guess I want to believe that Eve’s here out of love. Or some kind of good intention.”

  Serena would have liked to believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and honorable, monogamous men, but experience had taught her otherwise. “The truth is,” Serena said reluctantly, “we could all do with a few hours of sleep.”

  After extracting assurances from Eve that she’d call or text immediately if anything changed, they took a cab back to Serena’s and dragged themselves up the brownstone’s steps. Stifling yawns, Zoe and Mackenzie headed upstairs while Serena puttered around the kitchen and poured herself a Scotch on the rocks. She was headed toward the stairs when the doorbell rang.

  “Sign here, please.” The driver handed her the FedEx envelope, collected her signature, and departed. The letter and attached documents came from Emma’s attorneys in Los Angeles. Dropping into the nearest chair, she took a long sip of her drink and began to read the paperwork.

  “Jesus.” She took another, longer sip as she tried to absorb what she was reading. For some reason she could not fathom, Emma had named her Zoe’s legal guardian. The person who would raise her daughter in the event of Emma’s death or incapacitation.

  The document was dated shortly after Emma’s divorce from Calvin Hardgrove. Which made absolutely no sense at all; she’d never heard of a divorce ending a father’s rights or responsibilities. Surprised to find her drink gone, she carried the empty glass into the kitchen and placed it in the sink, still trying to understand Emma’s motives. Because even if there was a good reason not to leave Zoe in her father’s care, Mackenzie and Adam would have been a far more logical choice. Providing a stable, child-friendly two-parent home that Serena could never duplicate.

  The attorney’s letter had indicated that this was the latest guardianship document on file. They might never know what changes Emma would have made if she had been able to make it to her attorney’s office as planned after the retreat.

  Too tired to puzzle it out, she stuffed the paperwork and the problem into her carryall just as she had Brooks Anderson’s phone number. Neither of these things was a “sign” of any kind. She had no intention of speaking to a man who’d tossed her aside so easily a lifetime ago. Nor did she intend to ponder why Em would have named her Zoe’s guardian. She had no doubt this was a simple mistake or oversight. One that could be rectified as soon as Emma woke up.

  Thirteen

  Two days passed and every so often, for no discernible reason and without warning, Emma moved something else. Her hand. A leg. One shoulder. Mackenzie felt a flickering of hope each time.

  Zoe gasped with excitement when Emma’s eyes fluttered open. But no matter how carefully they watched her afterward, she didn’t open them again. A day later Mackenzie saw Emma turn her head in the direction of a sound. The restless twitching continued, but it was agonizingly sporadic. It was a bit like watching a glacier melt; you had reason to believe that one day it would be nothing but liquid, but not necessarily in your lifetime.

  Still, Emma continued to improve. The ventilator had been turned down and the “weaning to room air” was well under way. The arrival of the physical therapists, who’d been moving Emma’s limbs on a regular schedule since her injury, now seemed a good harbinger and not an exercise in futility.

  Drs. Brennan and Markham confirmed that Emma was “lightening up” neurologically, but while the signs were encouraging, Emma remained absent.

  Eve Michaels did not become warmer or fuzzier. But she didn’t stop coming, either. She and Rex arrived daily at one p.m. so that Mackenzie, Serena, and Zoe could go to lunch, then left when they returned. Rex’s face always looked strained while Eve’s was oddly serene, though it might have been the Botox. Mackenzie didn’t know whether they came out of love or for appearances, but their arrival and departure became an expected part of each day.

  It was late afternoon. Zoe had gone down to the gift shop
for a pack of gum. Mackenzie and Serena sat in Emma’s room. Hyperalert, they kept their eyes trained on Emma, waiting for something more to happen. More movement. More awareness. More Emma.

  “We just have to stay positive,” Mackenzie insisted.

  “I am,” Serena said. “I’m positive I need something definitive to happen.”

  “I know.” Mackenzie’s eyes stung from staring so hard and the effort not to blink.

  “I had this dream last night that we went on a quest. Into a fairy tale. We were searching for a prince to come and kiss Emma awake.”

  Serena took her eyes off Emma long enough to shoot Mackenzie an incredulous look. “Did we find one? I mean, I have doubts that they even exist in fairy tales anymore.”

  “Yes, well, dreams aren’t always filled with logic.” Mackenzie’s had been filled with bizarre images she’d rather forget.

  “Hey. Maybe we should rent a prince charming for the day. You know, get one of those services to send one over. Maybe Emma’s subconscious or whatever’s at work at the moment would react to a little theater. Or maybe you could get Adam to do it. I mean, he definitely looked the part when he dressed up for that Halloween party. He may be the only man I’ve ever met who actually looks good in tights.”

  Mackenzie flushed. Adam had the golden locks and build of a fairy-tale prince, but he hadn’t been behaving in a particularly prince-like manner. “If I thought it would help I’d put him on a white horse and let him ride into the neuro ICU,” she said. “But I’m not sure kissing someone else’s husband is ever a good idea. Not even in the fairy-tale world.” Her tone came out more brittle than she’d intended.

  “Wow,” Serena said. “Where did that come from? And when did you turn into such a prude? I think you’ve been living in the hinterlands for too long.”

  Mackenzie snorted. “I don’t think wives in New York or LA appreciate sharing their husbands any more than the ones in the Midwest do. It isn’t about geography.”