Ali nodded. “Like shit.”
Claire smiled. Tears glittered in her eyes. “Alison Katherine, I’ve told you not to copy Grandpa’s bad language.”
“Oops.” Ali grinned.
Sam and Meg looked at each other, and a question hung between them, clear as a sunny day. Who will tell Ali things like that …?
Meg backed out of the room, left the three of them alone. She went back to the waiting room and thumbed through a magazine.
An hour or so later, a commotion in the hall got her attention. She looked up.
Mama had arrived. Sheathed in elegant, flowing black, she marched forward carrying a tiny dog in a beaded carrier and leading the way. Behind her was a cluster of people; one of them was snapping photographs.
Mama came to the waiting room and looked around. When she saw Meghann, she burst into tears. “How is our girl?” She pulled a silk handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbed her eyes.
A photographer flashed a photo.
Mama offered a brave smile. “This is m’other daughter, Meghann Dontess. D-O-N-T-E-S-S. She’s twenty-nine years old.”
Meghann counted silently to ten. Then, in a steady voice, she said, “Dogs aren’t allowed in the hospital.”
“I know. I had to sneak him in. You know, Elvis, he—”
“Elvis is going to be as dead as his namesake in about ten seconds.” At Mama’s affronted gasp, Meghann looked at the man standing slightly apart from the crowd. Dressed in black, neckless, he looked like a WWF combatant. “You. Mr. Bodyguard. Take the dog to the car.”
“The hotel,” Mama said with a dramatic, suffering sigh. “The suite has plenty of room.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Neckless took the dog carrier and walked away.
That left just Mama, the photographer, and a thin, mouse-faced man with a tape recorder. The reporter.
“Excuse me,” Meghann said to the men as she grabbed Mama’s arm and pulled her into a quiet corner. “What did you do, hire a publicist?”
Mama drew herself up to her full height and sniffed. “I was talking to her on the other line when you called. What was I supposed to tell her? It’s hardly my fault that Us magazine wanted to cover my visit to my gravely ill daughter. I am, after all, news. Celebrity can be such a burden.”
Meghann frowned. She should have been mad as hell right now, ready to deep-fry Mama in some down-home chicken grease. But when she looked into her mother’s heavily made-up eyes, she saw something that surprised her.
“You’re afraid,” she said softly. “That’s why you brought the entourage. So it would be a performance.”
Mama rolled her eyes. “Nothing scares me. I just … just …”
“What?”
“It’s Claire,” Mama finally answered, looking away. “Claire.” Her voice thickened, and Meghann saw something honest for once. “Can I see her?”
“Not if you’re bringing the circus with you.”
Mama said quietly, “Will you go in with me?”
Meghann was surprised by that. She’d always imagined Mama to be shallow as a pie pan and tough as nails, a woman who knew what she wanted in life and made a beeline for it, the kind of woman who would cross police tape and step over a body if it was in her way. Now, she wondered if she’d been wrong, if Mama had always been this weak and frightened.
She wondered if it was all an act. Fear was something Meghann understood. Especially when it grew out of guilt.
“Of course I’ll come with you.”
They went over to the magazine people. Mama made a teary plea for privacy in this difficult time, then recommended a restaurant across the street for the rest of the interview.
Mama’s high heels clacked on the linoleum floor. The sound seemed designed to draw attention, but no one noticed.
At Claire’s room, Meghann stopped. “You ready?”
Mama pulled up a smile, nodded, and swept into the room like Auntie Mame, her long black sleeves fluttering out behind her. “Claire, darlin’, it’s Mama.”
Claire tried to smile, but against the white mound of pillows and industrial gray blankets, she looked worn, impossibly pale. The patch of baldness gave her an odd, lopsided look. “Hey, Mama. You just missed Sam and Ali. They went down to the cafeteria.”
Mama stumbled, her arms lowered. She glanced back at Meghann.
“I know I look like shit, Mama,” Claire said, trying for a laugh.
Mama moved slowly this time. “Why, darlin’, that isn’t true at all. You’re lovely.” She pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed. “Why, I remember an episode of Starbase IV. It was called ‘Attack Buffet,’ remember that? I ate a bad bit of space food and all m’hair fell out.” She smiled. “I sent that episode in to the Emmy voters. ’Course it didn’t work. Too much politics. I sort of liked the freedom of no hair.”