He hadn’t forgotten the way people looked at him at his old office. They saw him and wondered, Is that what a murderer looks like?
He stared down at the pillow, stroking it. “You shouldn’t have asked it of me, Di. It … ruined me.
“Well … maybe I ruined me, too,” he admitted quietly. He should have stayed here, in this community he’d cared so much for. His mistake had been in running away.
It was time to quit hiding and running. Time to stand up to the people who judged him poorly and say, No more.
Time to take his life back.
Slowly, he got up and went to the closet, opening the louvered doors.
Diana’s clothes filled two-thirds of the space.
Three years ago, he’d tried to box them up and give them away. He’d folded one pink cashmere sweater and been done for.
He reached out for a beige angora turtleneck that had been her favorite. He eased it off of the white plastic hanger and brought it to his face. The barest remnant of her scent lingered. Tears stung his eyes. “Good-bye, Diana,” he whispered.
Then he went in search of a box.
CHAPTER
THIRTY
The next morning Stu Weissman called Claire. He spoke in clipped, rushed sentences. She was so groggy and disoriented, it took her several seconds to understand him.
“Wait a minute,” she finally said, sitting up. “Are you saying you’ll do the surgery?”
“Yes. But this thing will be a bear cat. Could be a bad outlook all the way around. You could end up paralyzed or brain damaged or worse.”
“Worse sooner, you mean.”
He laughed at that. “Yes.”
“I’ll take the chance.”
“Then I will, too. I’ll be there tonight. I’ve scheduled the surgery for eight A.M. tomorrow.” His voice softened. “I don’t mean to be negative, Claire. But you should put your affairs in order today. If you know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean. Thank you, Dr. Weissman.”
All that day, Claire said good-bye to her friends. She did it one at a time, feeling that each of them deserved that kind of attention.
To Karen, she joked about the gray hairs Willie was sure to cause her in the upcoming years and begged her friend to make this third marriage work. To Charlotte, she said, Don’t give up on babies; they’re the mark we leave in this world. If you can’t have one of your own, find one to adopt and love her with all you’ve got. Gina was more difficult. For almost an hour they were together, Claire dozing off every now and then, Gina standing by the bedside, trying not to cry.
Take care of my family, Claire said at last, fighting to keep her eyes open.
Take care of them yourself, Gina had responded, her voice spiking for humor that it couldn’t reach. Then, softly, she said, You know I will.
They were awkward, painful partings, full of things unsaid and boundaries upheld. They all pretended Claire would still be here tomorrow night, laughing and screwing up as she always had. She left her friends with that faith, and though she wanted to own it for herself, hope felt like a borrowed sweater that didn’t quite fit.
She was bone tired, but most of all, she was afraid. Dr. Weissman had been guarded in his optimism and blunt in his assessment of the risk. A bad outlook all the way around, he’d said. The worst part of her fear was how alone it made her feel. There was no one she could tell.
Time and again throughout the long, drawn-out day, she found herself wishing that she’d died already, simply floated from this world unexpectedly. There was no way to be stealthy now, not with all her loved ones in the waiting room, praying for her, and the thought of the good-byes she still had left was devastating. Bobby and Sam would hold her and cry; she’d have to be ready for that. Meg would get angry and loud.
And then there was Ali. How could Claire possibly get through that?
The hospital had a small nondenominational chapel on the second floor.
Meghann stood outside it, paused in the open doorway. It had been years since she’d gone to a church in search of comfort; decades, in fact.
Slowly, she went inside, let the door ease shut behind her. Her footsteps were hushed and even on the mustard-colored carpet. She slid into the middle pew and knelt on the floor. There was no cushion for her knees, but she knelt anyway. It seemed right to be on her knees when she asked for a miracle.
She clasped her hands together and bowed her head. “I’m Meghann Dontess,” she said by way of introduction. “I’m sure you’ve forgotten me. I haven’t talked to you since … oh … the ninth grade, I think. That’s when I prayed for enough money to get Claire ballet lessons. Then Mama got fired again and we moved on. I … stopped believing you could help.” She thought of Claire upstairs, so pale and tired-looking in that hospital bed, and of the risks the surgery entailed. “She’s one of the good ones, God. Please. Protect her. Don’t let Ali grow up without her mom.”