“I’ll tell her,” Claire said quietly, opening her eyes. She smiled tiredly at her husband. “Bobby,” she breathed, reaching for him. “I love you.”
Meghann couldn’t stand there another second. Every breath her sister exhaled seemed to whisper good-bye. “I’ve got phone calls to make. Bye.” She raced from the room.
Anything was better than standing there, trying to smile when it felt as if someone were ripping her heart apart. Even calling Mama.
It was late now; the night shift was on duty and the hallways were quiet. She went to the bank of pay phones and dialed Mama’s number.
Mama herself answered, sounding boozy and loud. “Hello, Frank?”
“It’s me, Mama. Meghann.”
“Meggy? I thought you prowled the bars this time of night.”
“Claire’s sick.”
“She’s on her honeymoon.”
“That was a month ago, Mama. Now she’s in the hospital.”
“This better not be one of your stunts, Meggy. Like the time you called me at work ’cause Claire had fallen out of bed and you thought she was paralyzed. I lost forty dollars in tips to find out she was asleep.”
“I was eleven years old when that happened.”
“Still and all.”
“She has a brain tumor, Mama. The radiation treatments didn’t work and no one has the guts to operate on her.”
There was a long pause on the other end; then, “Will she be okay?”
“Yes,” Meghann said because she couldn’t imagine any other response. Then, very softly, she said, “Maybe not. You should come see her.”
“I’ve got a Starbase IV event tomorrow at two, and a—”
“Be here tomorrow or I call People magazine and tell them you didn’t visit your daughter who has a brain tumor.”
It was a long moment before Mama said, “I’m no good with this sort of thing.”
“None of us are, Mama.” Meghann hung up without saying good-bye, then punched in the 800 number on her calling card and dialed Sam. The phone rang once and she lost her nerve. She couldn’t tell Sam this over the phone.
She slammed the receiver onto the hook and went back to her sister’s room.
Bobby stood by the bed, singing softly to Claire, who snored gently. It brought Meghann up short.
Bobby looked up at her. Tears glistened on his cheeks. “She hasn’t opened her eyes again.”
“She will. Keep singing. I’m sure she loves it.”
“Yeah.” His voice cracked.
Meg had never seen a man in so much pain; she knew the look in Bobby’s eyes matched her own. “I’m going to go tell Sam in person. I can’t give him this news over the phone. If Claire wakes up—” She caught herself. “When Claire wakes up, tell her I love her and I’ll be back soon. Do you have your keys to my place?”
“I’ll sleep here tonight.”
“Okay.” Meghann wanted to say something else but didn’t know what. So she left the room. She practically ran for her car. Once inside, she hit the gas and headed north.
Ninety minutes later, she reached Hayden. She slowed down through town, stopped at the light.
And there it was: the silver Quonset hut.
Joe Wyatt.
He’s a radiologist. Probably one of the best in the country. It came rushing back to her now, the stunning news that had been lost somehow, buried beneath a thick layer of grief.
Dr. Joseph Wyatt. Of course. No wonder he’d looked familiar. His trial had been front-page news. She and her colleagues had speculated about his fate over many a beer. She’d been firmly in his camp, certain he’d be acquitted. It had never occurred to her to wonder what had become of him after the trial.
Now she knew. He’d run away, hidden out. But he was still one of the best radiologists in the country. He saw things—possibilities—no one else did.
Yet when she’d come to him, sobbing about her sick sister, he’d done nothing. Nothing.
And he knew Claire.
“Son of a bitch.” She glanced sideways. The envelope from the hospital was on the passenger seat.
She turned the wheel hard and slammed on the brakes, parking along the curb. Then she grabbed the envelope and marched toward the cabin.
She pounded on the door, screaming, until she heard footsteps coming from inside.
When he opened the door, saw her, and said “What—?” she shoved him in the chest so hard he stumbled backward.
“Hey, Joe. Invite me in.” She kicked the door shut behind her.
“It’s practically midnight.”
“So it is, Doctor Wyatt.”
He sank onto the sofa and looked up at her.
“You held me. You let me cry in your arms.” Her voice trembled; the ache in her heart only made her madder. “And you offered a referral. What kind of man are you?”
“The kind who knows his hero days are behind him. If you know who I am, you know what I did.”
“You killed your wife.” At his flinch, she went on. “If I’d known your last name, I would have remembered. Your trial was a big deal in Seattle. The prosecution of the doctor who euthanized his dying wife.”