by Susan Wiggs
After Cody was born, reality intruded. She counted herself lucky to land an entry-level position at an ad agency. Late at night, after Cody was asleep, she’d fall into a dream world that was hers and hers alone. Those hours were precious; the work she did was dark, important, and expressive. She produced dozens of paintings, working from pain rather than joy, producing fast as she was wont to do. Perhaps a part of her understood that the creative burst would fade away.
Time crept on, eating secretly away at her soul. Inch by inch, her imagination and energy deteriorated until she simply stopped painting. She dropped her art classes and changed the direction of her dreams. It was easier to collapse on the sofa, take her precious baby boy in her lap, and read stories to him. Those paintings lay stacked against a wall in a spare closet. She rarely looked at them. Once Cody started school, she had more time to pursue her art, but she never did. The prospect terrified her. It was like standing in front of the door to a dark, forbidding room. She’d be nuts to go there.
At the firm she did good work, got promoted through the ranks, achieved some recognition in her field, and quit thinking about painting.
But sometimes she still wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to.
“I used to know Sam,” she said carefully to Cody.
“I figured that out when he called you by name after I hit his trailer.”
“He worked at my father’s place. I met him when I came here after my mother died.”
Before her death, Sharon Turner had advised Michelle to start college straight out of high school. Always chilly, self-absorbed, and distant, Michelle’s mother had suggested a practical course of study in design or architecture. Her death had left Michelle adrift, vulnerable. Terrified. And then, like the cavalry riding to the rescue, Gavin had made his offer. “Don’t go rushing off to college at a time like this, honey,” he’d said, his charm and warm sympathy palpable. “You’ll never again get a year of your life to do anything you want. I showed your work to a local teacher, and he agreed to meet you. Come to Montana.”
And so she had gone, never asking herself what he expected from the relationship, what he hoped it would become. Perhaps she had wanted to believe he acted out of selfless compassion, opening his home to the grieving daughter who hardly knew him. If there was such a thing as the classic absentee Hollywood dad, Gavin was it. He had sent checks, phoned her, and showed up on significant occasions—her first ballet recital, her Bluebird fly-up, a dressage championship—and she’d been thrilled to stand back and let him be the center of attention. She remembered her first communion at All Saints in Beverly Hills, the girls in stiff white dresses and new gloves. She’d felt like a bride that day, and when her father, incandescent as the Holy Ghost and twice as handsome, came striding across the parking lot toward her, she’d squealed and wrenched her hand out of her mother’s grip. Racing to greet him, she flung herself into his arms and he picked her up, swinging her round and round as she laughed with joy. She could hear camera shutters clicking and people whispering Gavin Slade. It’s Gavin Slade. He’s even better-looking in person…. The days with her father, few and far between, stood out vividly in her memory. When his visits ended she always experienced a gaping emptiness. The world was duller, flatter, when Gavin wasn’t around.
She glanced over at Cody, waiting for him to say something else. Waiting for him to ask more about Sam.
But Cody said nothing, and neither did Michelle. It wasn’t the right time to bring up all the events that started here so long ago. They’d need hours for that. You always need hours to recover after a bombshell drops into the middle of your life, thought Michelle. She pictured them buried by the rocks and relics heaved up by her confession. Each bit of rubble would have to be removed with care to avoid damaging the fragile, angry victim beneath it. Hours, yes. Maybe days. Maybe a whole lot longer.
When they arrived at Sam’s place, Edward greeted them and set Cody to work loading avalanche fencing onto a stone boat on stout wooden runners. Sam was already gone, Edward explained, pointing at a snowmobile trail leading into the low, distant hills. A mountain lion had been lurking around, and Sam went to check it out.
Her eye wandered along the corrugated track while her knees turned to lime Jell-O. A reprieve, she thought weakly. For now, at least.
Chapter 10
Gavin insisted on driving to Missoula. Michelle couldn’t discern his state of mind. He seemed quiet, preoccupied. A crimson rash marred the side of his neck. She wanted to ask him about it, but she didn’t. Somehow it seemed too personal.
It was going to get worse before it got better, she knew. He’d told her this morning, a little sheepishly, that his last mistress had left him when she found out how sick he was. She’d recently sold her story to a sleazy magazine. Once it hit the stands, it was sure to bring the paparazzi flocking around like carrion birds.
Michelle felt a peculiar violence when she thought about the mistress. Her name was Carolyn and she was about Michelle’s age. If I ever run into her, thought Michelle, I’ll set her hair on fire. It was one thing to sponge off a guy when you’re his mistress, but to sell the story after dumping him was disgusting.
The road to Missoula rolled out in front of the chrome-grilled truck, and the land was deep and stark, lit by a sun that shone brighter than anywhere else in the world.
“It’s a boring drive to the city. You might want to get some shut-eye,” her father said.
A little hitch of disappointment caught in her chest. Part of her wanted to talk with him, to get to know him. But another part kept its distance, circling warily around the whole bizarre situation. It would be noble indeed to insist she was going through this because of the selfless filial love she felt for him, but how much of that love was a sense of obligation?
And was there any way to tell the difference?
She used to know exactly what love felt like. She closed her eyes against the glaring snowscape and let the years roll away until she was back in the past again, the week before Thanksgiving, 1983. A fresh snowfall had blanketed the farm. Flush with excitement, she’d rushed into the guesthouse Gavin had set up as an art studio for her. There, on a sunny morning not much different from today, she had finished the best painting of her life. After laboring over theory and composition with Joseph, she had produced something of merit and value. She couldn’t have known back then that she would never again equal that effort.
She had painted for hours, stopping when Sam came in from work, his cheeks chapped and his lips cool until he warmed them by kissing her. She was covered in paint and all awash with the wonder of creating a work that grew from every level of her heart. He’d peeled oranges for her and brewed steaming cups of tea while she worked. And when she took a break, he’d made love to her.
“It’s unbelievable, Michelle,” he’d said that chill November day, tackling her on the low sofa in front of the woodstove.
“I bet you’d say that if I was painting Elvis on velvet.”
“Maybe.” With the frank lust only teenage boys exhibit, he lifted her sweatshirt and unhooked her bra.
Michelle still remembered the way he kissed her neck, her breasts, her stomach. Trusting him, she relaxed and let it happen. Since the very first time they’d made love, he had created a world of sensation for her. Colors glowed brighter. Edges appeared sharper. When they struggled out of their clothes and came together, she saw a million glinting stars behind her squeezed-shut eyelids.
Later as they lay spent in each other’s arms, she had listened to the beat of his heart, drifting, dreaming. She’d done a lot of pictures in the summer and autumn—landscapes and wildlife, abstracts with bold splashes of color and subtle shadows hiding in the hollows of space.
“I want to be an artist,” she said.
“You already are.”
“No, I mean I want my paintings to hang in exhibits where anyone who wants to can see them, even buy them.”
“So go for it.” His belief in her was unshakable and straightforw
ard.
She had loved that about him, how he never doubted her. But what did he believe about himself? It used to worry her sometimes, how quiet he was about his own life, so she asked, “What about you? What do you want?”
He’d chuckled without a great deal of humor. “For my mother to quit fucking up.”
Michelle hadn’t known what to say. Tammi Lee Gilmer was holding down a waitressing job at the Truxtop, yet she knew Sam was concerned. If Tammi Lee’s pattern held true, she’d go on a binge, miss work, lose her job, then collect unemployment until it ran out and she drifted to another town, dragging Sam along with her.
It was the only life he had ever known, and thinking about it made Michelle’s heart ache.
“That’s not what I meant, Sam. I meant you. What do you want for you?”
“For me?” He hesitated.
“Come on, you can tell me. What, do you think I’d laugh at you? I’m the one who wants to make a living as an artist.”
“At least you know what you want.”
“So do you. But you have to tell me.” She figured he was headed for the rodeo circuit. Already, he’d placed in a lot of the local shows, riding her father’s bucking stock, competing in team-roping and bulldogging. “Come on. Truth or dare.”
He wiggled his eyebrows comically. “I’ll take the dare.”
“I want the truth.”
Another hesitation. Finally, without looking at her, he said, “Would you believe medical school?”
Michelle had pulled back, studied him. The shaggy light hair, serious eyes, and a mouth that made her melt inside were all so blissfully familiar. But this was a stranger speaking. It was the first she’d heard of medical school. “Since when?”
“Since forever, I guess.” He began getting dressed. The ranch hands were riding fence, and he was an hour behind because of their diversion. “I’ve never told anyone.”
“I’m glad you spilled the beans. You should go for it, Sam.”
He shook his head, flashing a self-deprecating smile. “I’m a high school dropout.”
“You can get a G.E.D.”
“I can’t afford college.”
“My dad could help with—”
“He wouldn’t, and I wouldn’t ask him.”
“Then I’ll ask him.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m your dad’s best roper. Why would he want to lose that? And why would I beg some rich guy’s help? Believe me, I wouldn’t be worth a bucket of spoiled oats if your dad ever found out how I’ve been spending my lunch hour.”
“We’re consenting adults.”
“Right. You think that would make a difference to your old man?”
“He’s been a hound dog for years. He’s got no call to talk. I don’t know why you insist on keeping this a secret. I love you, Sam.”
He paused, touched her cheek. “Aw, honey. That’s why we can’t let him catch on. He’d try his damnedest to keep us apart.”
“He can’t keep us apart. It’s a free country.”
Sam had laughed at that. “Is that what they taught you in that fancy-ass girls’ school in Cal-if-orny?” His smile was tinged with a weary tolerance that made him seem infinitely older and wiser than Michelle. “That’s not the way the real world works. In the real world, the daughter of a rich movie star doesn’t go out with a waitress’s son. Believe me, your dad wants you to fall for some guy with a golf handicap, not a PRCA rating.”
“That’s dumb. Besides, I’ve fallen for you. And that’s not going to change. Not ever.” As they finished dressing, she had considered telling him that she was alarmingly late with her period. But she’d said nothing. If it was a false alarm, there was no need to worry him.
He took her hand. “Honey, I don’t want it to change. That’s why we’re better off keeping this quiet.”
His words made her feel hopelessly naive. There were differences between them, class differences she didn’t want to see. Looking back, she realized that had been apparent to Sam right from the start. That was probably why he didn’t think anything of simply disappearing one November night.
She had walked outside with him, into the dry cold and sunshine, bringing along the finished winter landscape.
“Damn.” He squinted in the direction of the training arena.
“What’s wrong?”
“Jake Dollarhide. I think he saw us.”
The foreman’s son. She saw the gangly young man standing in the distance, and he was staring directly at them. “So what?” she’d said with breezy disregard. “Let Jake Dollarhide stare all he wants.” She put the finished painting behind the seat of the truck.
“I can’t take that, Michelle—”
“Yes you can. I’ll paint a hundred more for you.”
“Believe me, honey, this is enough.”
She hadn’t known back then that those would be his last words to her. That his last kiss would be a quick, furtive brush of his lips over hers. But after that moment, she had never seen him again.
* * *
“Ms. Turner, we’re ready for you in Dr. Kehr’s office.”
Goose bumps rose on Michelle’s arms as she entered a comfortable office with a generic but good-quality Robyn Bloss serigraph print on the wall behind the desk. Michelle studied it for a moment, remembering that she used to paint freely, in intense colors of her choosing, not in hues to match the burgundy wing chairs in doctors’ offices where people waited for the bad news.
The Bloss print was supposed to be pacifying. To some it might have been. But to Michelle it was profoundly disturbing. Seeing that print was like looking into a mirror.
She seated herself in a leather armchair beside her father. A large window behind the desk afforded a view of the city, gray and bleak in midwinter, the river a colorless vein through the middle of town. Dr. Kehr, the nephrologist, sat opposite them, her ultraclean hands folded atop a stack of files and charts. She had a bland but pleasant smile, no discernible personality, and somehow meeting her for the first time made the whole situation starkly real.
They were going to cut out one of her kidneys and sew it into her father.
Sucking in a deep breath, Michelle shifted in her chair and waited for the rest of the team to arrive. They met Donna Roberts, the transplant coordinator, who was a registered nurse specializing in organ transplantation. Donna did a lot of touching and hand-holding, which Michelle didn’t particularly need at that moment, but she figured she’d be grateful for later. Then there was Willard T. Temple, the psychologist and social worker. He could scuttle the whole thing if he didn’t think her father and she were mentally prepared for it.
They would each have their own surgeons. They showed up in scrubs, alike as Tweedledee and Tweedledum but with firmer handshakes. Neither of them could stay long because, after all, they were surgeons and they spent all day cutting people, not talking to fading movie stars and their neurotic daughters.
To Michelle’s surprise, one of the surgeons held the door open. “This way, Mr. Slade.”
Gavin got up. Briefly, he rested his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be back shortly, okay?”
“You’re not staying?” Panic pounded in her chest.
“I think they need to draw lines on me or something.”
After the door closed, she scowled at Dr. Kehr. “He should be here.”
Temple, who held a clipboard with a yellow legal pad, said, “Your father’s been drilled on this procedure for months. We wanted a private meeting with you.”
“Why?” Oh my God. Are they going to tell me he won’t make it?
“Because if you have any uncertainty whatsoever about the transplant, we need to determine that. Living kidney donation is an emotional decision. It’s natural to feel anxiety about the procedure, even though you want to help. You can speak freely to us. If you decide against the surgery, your father will be told you’re not a good match. Our hope is to maintain the relationship between patient and donor, regardless of donation decision.”
>
“I’ve made my decision,” Michelle snapped, stung because she knew she and Gavin didn’t have any relationship to maintain. “I already passed all the tests.”
“We still have to do the renal angiogram,” Dr. Kehr reminded her. “Chances are, you’ll be a near-perfect donor. But there could be other issues that make you less than an ideal candidate.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” she said fiercely.
“Sometimes there are emotional issues,” Temple said in his low-key voice. “Your father indicated you’ve been estranged for many years. This decision—”
“Don’t you get it?” Her voice rose. “There was never any decision to be made. You’re welcome to explore my feelings all you want, but you’re not going to get me to change my mind.” She forced herself to glare straight into his eyes. “My father is dying. My kidney can save him. That’s the issue, Dr. Temple.”
He nodded briefly, and annoyingly made a note on his legal pad. “You should be aware that this procedure alone won’t mend the estrangement between you and your father. Flesh and blood alone can’t accomplish that.”
“I just want him well again,” Michelle said, painfully close to tears. “The rest… we’ll deal with.”
When Dr. Kehr started speaking, she was thorough, encouragingly so. She explained what everyone’s role would be. She talked about recovery periods, follow-up care, side effects of the meds, and long-term prognosis. She took out badly drawn charts—medical illustration was not terribly lucrative—to show what would happen in the procedure.
That’s what she called it. The Procedure.
“Unless the renal angiogram indicates otherwise, the surgeon will take the left kidney.” The doctor pointed to the chart.
“I had no idea there was a difference.” A heaviness weighted the atmosphere. Though he had left the room, her father’s need pressed at Michelle, smothering her. Her hands in her lap ripped a Kleenex to shreds. Guiltily, she balled up the evidence and tucked it into her palm. Too late. Temple had seen. He made a note on his clipboard.
