Meghann tossed her briefcase on the chair. “I had to call him, Claire.”
“How did you know what he’d do?”
Meghann looked down at Bobby. “He was in the recording studio when I called. Actually recording a song. Honestly, I didn’t think he’d come.”
Claire glanced down at her sleeping husband, then up at Meg. A look passed between the sisters; in it was the sad residue of their childhood. “Yeah,” she said softly, “neither did I.”
“He didn’t hesitate for a second, Claire. Not a second. He said—and I quote—‘Fuck the song. I’ll be there tomorrow.’?”
“This is the second time you’ve called a man to come save me.”
“You’re lucky to be so loved.”
Claire’s gaze was steady. “Yeah,” she said, smiling at her sister. “I am.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
Joe was sitting on the sofa, staring at the small black-and-white television screen.
He was so caught up in the show, it was a moment before he noticed the footsteps outside.
He tensed, sat up.
A key rattled in the lock, then the door swung open. Gina stood in the opening, her fists on her hips. “Hey, big brother. Nice way you have of calling people.”
He sighed. “Smitty gave you a key.”
“We were worried about you.”
“I’ve been busy.”
She looked at the stack of beer cans and pizza boxes and smiled grimly. “Come on. You’re coming home with me. I have a roast in the oven and I rented Ruthless People. We are going to drink wine and laugh.” Her voice softened. “I could use a laugh.”
Something about the way she said it shamed him. He’d forgotten about her troubles. He’d been too busy swimming in the pool of his own. “Are you okay?”
“Come on,” she said, avoiding the question. “Smitty told me to drag your sorry ass out of here—his words. I intend to do just that.”
He knew there was no point in fighting with her—she had that look on her face—and, truthfully, he didn’t want to. He was tired of being alone. “Okay.”
He followed her out to her car; within minutes, they were in her bright, airy kitchen.
She handed him a glass of Merlot.
While she basted the roast and turned the potatoes, Joe wandered around the great room. In the corner, he found a sewing machine set up. A pile of bold, beautiful fabric lay heaped beside it. He picked up the garment she’d made, ready to compliment her, when he saw what it was. There was no mistaking the slit back.
“It’s a hospital gown,” Gina said, coming up behind him. “I should have put that stuff away. I forgot. I’m sorry.”
He remembered the day Gina had come to his house, bearing pretty designer hospital gowns just like this one.
You shouldn’t have to look like everyone else, she’d said to Diana, who’d wept at the gift.
Those gowns had meant so much to Diana. It didn’t seem like a big deal—just a change of fabric—but it had brought back her smile. “Who are they for?”
“Claire. She’s undergoing radiation right now.”
“Claire,” he said her name softly, feeling sick. Life was so damn unfair sometimes. “She just got married.”
“I didn’t tell you because … well … I knew it would bring up memories.”
“Where’s she getting the radiation?”
“Swedish.”
“That’s the best place for her. Good.” Radiation. He remembered all of it—the sunburned-looking skin, the puffiness, the way Diana’s hair started to fall out. In strands at first, then in handfuls.
He and Gina had spent their fair share of time in the cancer end zone. He couldn’t imagine how Gina could handle it again.
“Claire flew all around the country seeing the best doctors. I know she’s going to get better. It won’t be like … you know.”
“Like Diana,” he said into the uncomfortable silence.
Gina came up behind him, touched his shoulder. “I tried to protect you from this. I’m sorry.”
He stared out the window at the backyard designed for children. Once, he and Diana had dreamed of bringing their babies here to play.
“Maybe you’d like to go see Claire.”
“No,” he said so quickly, he knew Gina understood. “My time in hospitals is done.”
“Yeah,” Gina said, “now let’s go watch a funny movie.”
He slipped an arm around his sister and pulled her in close. “I could use a laugh.”
Meghann sat in the chair that had once felt so comfortable and stared at Dr. Bloom.
“It was all bullshit,” she said bitterly. “All my appointments with you. They were just a way for a self-obsessed woman to vent about the mistakes she’d made in her life. Why didn’t you ever tell me that none of it mattered?”
“Because it does matter.”
“No. I was sixteen years old when all that happened. Sixteen. None of it matters—my fear, my guilt, her resentment. Who cares?”
“Why doesn’t it matter anymore?”
Meghann closed her eyes, reaching for a bitterness that had moved on. All she felt was tired, lost. “She’s sick.”