“Sam called us,” Gina said when she and Meghann were alone in the hallway. “How is she?”
“Okay, I guess. The radiation went well, I think. She goes every day for four weeks.” At Gina’s frightened look, Meghann added, “She didn’t want to worry you guys.”
“Yeah, right. She can’t be alone for a thing like this.”
“I’m here,” Meghann answered, stung.
Gina squeezed her arm. “She’ll need all of us.”
Meghann nodded. Then she and Gina looked at each other.
“You call me. Whenever,” Gina said quietly.
“Thanks.”
After that, Gina eased past Meg and went into the living room, saying loudly. “Okay, we’ve got spas-in-a-bucket, gooey popcorn balls, hilarious movies, and, of course, games. What should we do first?”
Meghann watched the four best friends come together; they were all talking at once. She didn’t move toward them, and they didn’t call out to her.
Finally, she went back to her office and shut the door. As she sat there, reading the latest literature on chemotherapy and the blood-brain barrier, she heard the high, clear sound of her sister’s laughter.
She picked up the phone and called Elizabeth.
“Hey,” Meg said softly when her friend answered.
“What is it?” Elizabeth asked. “You’re too quiet.”
“Claire,” was all she could say before the tears came.
Joe sat sprawled across the sofa, drinking a beer. His third. Mostly, he was trying not to think.
The ephemeral chance for redemption—the one that only last week had glittered in front of him like a desert oasis beside a long, hot highway—had vanished. He should have known it was a mirage.
There would be no starting over. He didn’t have the guts for it. He’d thought, hoped, that with Meg he’d be stronger.
“Meg,” he said her name softly, closed his eyes. He said a prayer for her and her sister. It was all he could really do now.
Meg.
She wouldn’t clear out of his mind. He kept thinking of her, remembering, wanting. It was what had sent him reaching for the bottles of beer.
It wasn’t that he missed her, precisely. Hell, he didn’t even know her last name. Didn’t know where she lived or what she did in her spare time.
What he grieved for was the idea of her. For those few moments—unexpected and sweet—he’d dared to step onto old roads. He’d let himself want someone, let himself believe in a new future.
He took a long drink. It didn’t help.
In the kitchen, the phone rang. He got slowly to his feet and started that way. It was probably Gina, calling to make sure he was okay. He had no idea what he’d tell her.
But it wasn’t Gina. It was Henry Roloff, sounding hurried. “Joe? Could you meet me for a cup of coffee? Say in an hour?”
“Is everything okay?”
“How about the Whitewater Diner? Three o’clock?”
Joe hoped he could walk straight. “Sure.” He hung up the phone and headed for the shower.
An hour later he was dressed in his new clothes and walking down Main Street. He still felt a faint buzz from the beer, but that was probably a good thing. Already he could feel the way people were staring after him, whispering about him.
It took an act of will to keep smiling as the hostess—a woman he didn’t know, thank God—showed him to a booth.
Henry was already there. “Hey, Joe. Thanks for coming so quickly.”
“It’s not like I was busy. It’s Saturday. The garage is closed.” He slid into the booth.
Henry talked for a few minutes about Tina’s garden and the vacation they’d taken to St. Croix last winter, but Joe knew it was all leading up to something. He found himself tensing up, straightening.
Finally, he couldn’t take the suspense. “What is it, Henry?” he asked.
Henry stopped midsentence and looked up. “I want to ask a favor of you.”
“I’d do anything for you, Henry. You know that. What do you need?”
Henry reached down under the table and brought out a big manila envelope.
Joe knew what it was. He leaned back, put his hands out as if to ward off a blow. “Anything but that, Henry,” he said. “I can’t go back to that.”
“I just want you to look at this. The patient is—” Henry’s beeper went off. “Just a minute.” Henry pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number.
Joe stared down at the envelope. Someone’s medical charts. A record of pain and suffering.
He couldn’t go back to that world. No way. When a man had lost his faith and his confidence as profoundly as Joe had, there was no going back. Besides, he couldn’t practice medicine anymore. He’d let his license lapse.
He got to his feet. “Sorry, Henry,” he said, interrupting Henry’s phone call. “My consulting days are over.”
“Wait,” Henry said, raising a hand.
Joe backed away from the table, then turned and walked out of the restaurant.