Between Sisters (30 page)

“Slap 'em right back with mine. I miss you, Claire.”

“I miss you, too. But it's only a few more weeks.”

“Kent thinks we should have all the songs chosen by next week. Then it's into the studio. Do you think you could come down for that? I'd love to sing the songs to you.”

“Maybe,” she said, wondering what lie she'd come up with when the time came. She was too exhausted to think of one now. “Are you loving every minute down there?”

“As much as I can love anything without you. But, yeah.”

She was doing the right thing. She
was
. “Well, babe, I've got to run. Meg is taking me out to lunch. Then we're getting manicures at the Gene Juarez Spa.”

“I thought you got a manicure yesterday?”

Claire winced. “Uh. Those were pedicures. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Claire. Is . . . is everything okay?”

She felt the sting of tears again. “Everything's perfect.”

“I made us a picnic lunch,” Meghann said the next morning after another treatment.

“I'm not very hungry,” Claire answered.

“I know that. I just thought . . .”

Claire hauled up the will to think about someone else. Sadly, that was becoming difficult, too. “You're right. It's a beautiful day.”

Meghann led her to the car. Within minutes they were on the freeway. To their left, Lake Union sparkled in the sunlight. They passed the Gothic brick buildings of the University of Washington, then raced over the floating bridge.

Lake Washington was busy today. Boats zipped back and forth, hauling skiers in their wake.

On Mercer Island, Meghann exited the freeway and turned onto a narrow, tree-lined drive. At a beautiful, gray-shingled house, she parked. “This is my partner's house. She said we were welcome to spend the afternoon here.”

“I'm surprised she hasn't fired you, with all the time you've taken off lately.”

Meghann helped Claire out of the car and down the grassy lawn to the silvery wooden dock that cut into the blue water. “Remember Lake Winobee?” she said, guiding Claire to the end of the dock, helping her sit down without falling.

“The summer I got that pink bathing suit?”

Meghann set the picnic basket down, then sat beside her sister. They both dangled their feet over the edge. Water slapped against the pilings. Beside them, a varnished wooden sailboat called
The Defense Rests
bobbed easily from side to side, its lines screeching with each movement.

“I stole that bikini,” Meghann said. “From Fred Meyer. When I got home, I was so scared I threw up. Mama didn't care; she just looked up from
Variety
and said, ‘Sticky fingers will get a girl in trouble.' ”

Claire turned to her sister, studying her profile. “I waited for you to come back, you know. Dad always said, ‘Don't worry, Claire-Bear, she's your sister, she'll be back.' I waited and waited. What happened?”

Meghann sighed heavily, as if she'd known this conversation couldn't be avoided anymore. “Remember when Mama went down for the
Starbase IV
audition?”

“Yes.”

“She didn't come back. I was used to her being gone for a day or two, but after about five days, I started to panic. There wasn't any money left. We were hungry. Then Social Services started sniffing around. I was scared they'd put us in the system. So I called Sam.”

“I know all this, Meg.”

Meghann didn't seem to have heard her. “He said he'd take us both in.”

“And he did.”

“But he wasn't
my
father. I tried to fit in to Hayden; what a joke. I got in with a bad crowd and started screwing up. A therapist would call it acting out. Trying to get attention. Every time I looked at you and Sam together . . .” She shrugged. “I felt left out, I guess. You were all I really had, and then I didn't have you. One night I came home drunk and Sam exploded. He called me a piss-poor excuse for a big sister and told me to shape up or get out.”

“So you got out. Where did you go?”

“I bummed around Seattle for a while, feeling sorry for myself. I slept in doorways and empty buildings, did things I'm not proud of. It didn't take long to hit rock bottom. Then one day I remembered a teacher who'd taken an interest in me, Mr. Earhart. He was the one who bumped me up a grade, back when we lived in Barstow. He convinced me that education was the way out of Mama's trailer-trash life. That's why I always got straight As. Anyway, I gave him a call—thank God he was still at the same school. He arranged for me to graduate high school early and take the SAT, which I aced. Perfect score. The UW offered me a full scholarship. You know the rest.”

“My genius sister,” Claire said. For once, there was pride in her voice instead of bitterness.

“I told myself it was the best thing for you, that you didn't need your big sister anymore. But . . . I knew how much I'd hurt you. It was easier to keep my distance, I guess. I believed you'd never forgive me. So I didn't give you the chance.” Meg finally looked at her. She offered a small smile. “I'll have to tell my shrink I finally got my money's worth. It cost me about ten thousand dollars to be able to tell you that.”

“The only thing you did wrong was stay away,” Claire said gently.

“I'm here now.”

“I know.” Claire looked out to the sparkling blue water. “I couldn't have done all this without you.”

“That's not true. You're the bravest person I ever met.”

“I'm not so brave, believe me.”

Meghann leaned back to open the picnic basket. “I've been waiting for just the right time to give you this.” She withdrew a manila folder and handed it to Claire. “Here.”

“Not now, Meg. I'm tired.”

“Please.”

Claire took the folder with a sigh. It was the one labeled
Hope.
She looked sharply at Meg, but didn't say anything. Her hands trembled as she opened the file.

In it were almost a dozen personal accounts of people who had had glioblastoma multiforme tumors. Each of them had been given less than a year to live—at least seven years ago.

Claire squeezed her eyes shut, but the tears came anyway. “I needed this today.”

“I thought so.”

She swallowed hard, then dared to look at her sister. “I've been so afraid.” It felt good, finally admitting it.

“Me, too,” Meg answered quietly. Then she leaned forward and took Claire in her arms.

For the first time since childhood, Claire was held by her big sister. Meghann stroked her hair, the way she'd done when Claire was young.

A handful of hair fell out at Meghann's touch, floated between them.

Claire drew back, saw the pile of her pretty blond hair in Meghann's hand. Strands drifted down to the water, where they looked like nothing at all. She stared down at the hair floating away on the current. “I didn't want to tell you it's been falling out. Every morning I wake up on a hairy pillow.”

“Maybe we should go home,” Meg said finally.

“I
am
tired.”

Meghann helped Claire to her feet. Slowly they made their way back to the car. Claire's steps were shuffling and uncertain now, and she leaned heavily on Meg's arm.

All the way home, Claire stared out the window.

Back in the condo, Meghann helped Claire change into her flannel pajamas and climb into bed.

“It's just hair,” Claire said as she leaned back against a pile of pillows.

Meghann set the
Hope
file on the nightstand. “It'll grow back.”

“Yeah.” Claire sighed and closed her eyes.

Meghann backed out of the room. At the doorway, she stopped.

Her sister lay there, barely breathing it seemed, with her eyes closed. Strands of hair decorated her pillow. Very slowly, still not opening her eyes, Claire brought her hands up and started touching her wedding ring. Tears leaked down the sides of her face, leaving tiny gray splotches on the pillow.

And Meghann knew what she had to do.

She closed the door and went to the phone. All of Claire's emergency numbers were on a notepad beside it. Including Bobby's.

Meghann dialed Bobby's number and waited impatiently for him to answer.

In the past twenty-four hours, Claire had lost almost half of her hair. The bare skin that showed through was an angry, scaly red. This morning, as she got ready for her appointment, she spent nearly thirty minutes wrapping a silk scarf around her head.

“Quit fussing with it,” Meghann said when they arrived at the Nuclear Medicine waiting room. “You look fine.”

“I look like a Gypsy fortune-teller. And I don't know why you made me wear makeup. My skin is so red I look like Martha Phillips.”

“Who is that?”

“In the eighth grade. She fell asleep under a sunlamp. We called her Tomato Face for two weeks.”

“Kids are so kind.”

Claire left for her treatment and was back in the waiting room thirty minutes later. She didn't bother putting the scarf back on. Her scalp was tender.

“Let's go out for coffee,” she said when Meghann stood up to greet her.

“Coffee makes you puke.”

“What doesn't? Let's go anyway.”

“I have to go into the office today. I've got a deposition scheduled.”

“Oh.” Claire followed Meghann down the hospital corridor, trying to keep up. Lately, she was so tired it was hard not to shuffle like an old woman. She practically fell asleep in the car.

At the condo door, Meghann paused, key in hand, and looked at her. “I'm trying to do what's right for you. What's best.”

“I know that.”

“Sometimes I screw up. I tend to think I know everything.”

Claire smiled. “Are you waiting for an argument?”

“I just want you to remember that. I'm trying to do the right thing.”

“Okay, Meg. I'll remember. Now go to work. I don't want to miss
Judge Judy
. She reminds me of you.”

“Smart-ass.” Meg looked at her a moment longer, then opened the condo door. “Bye.”

“This is the longest farewell in history. Bye, Meg. Go to work.”

Meghann nodded and walked away.

When Claire heard the ping of the elevator, she went into the condo, closing the door behind her.

Inside, the stereo was on. Dwight Yoakam's “Pocket of a Clown” pumped through the speakers.

Claire turned the corner and there he was.

Bobby.

Her hand flew to her bald spot.

She ran to the bathroom, flipped open the toilet lid, and threw up.

He was behind her, holding what was left of her hair back, telling her it was okay. “I'm here now, Claire. I'm here.”

She closed her eyes, holding back tears of humiliation one breath at a time.

He rubbed her back.

Finally, she went to the sink and brushed her teeth. When she turned to face him, she was trying to smile. “Welcome to my nightmare.”

He came toward her, and the love in his eyes made her want to weep. “Our nightmare, Claire.”

She didn't know what to say. She was afraid that if she opened her mouth, she'd burst into tears, and she wanted to look strong for him.

“You had no right to keep this from me.”

“I didn't want to ruin everything. And I thought . . . I'd get better. You'd dreamed of singing for so long.”

“I dreamed of being a star, yeah. I like singing, but I
love
you. I can't believe you'd hide this from me. What if . . .”

Claire caught her lip between her teeth. “I'm sorry.”

“You didn't trust me. Do you know how that feels?” His voice was tight, not his voice at all.

“I was just trying to love you.”

“I wonder if you even know what love is.
I'm in the hospital every day, honey, battling for my life, but don't you worry about it, just sing your stupid songs.
What kind of man do you think I am?”

“I'm sorry, Bobby. I just . . .” She stared at him, shaking her head.

He grabbed her, pulled her toward him, and held her so tightly it made her gasp. “I love you, Claire. I
love
you,” he said fiercely. “When are you going to get that through your head?”

She wrapped her arms around him, clung to him as if she might fall without him. “I guess my tumor got in the way. But I get it now, Bobby. I get it.”

Hours later, when Meghann returned to the condo, the lights were off. She tiptoed through the darkness.

When she reached the living room, a light clicked on.

Claire and Bobby lay together on the sofa, their bodies entwined. He was snoring gently.

“I waited up for you,” Claire said.

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.”

C
HAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN

J
OE 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.”

“Oh.” The word was a sigh. “I'm sorry.”

“I'm afraid, Harriet,” Meghann finally admitted. “What if . . . I can't do it?”

“Do what?”

“Stand by her bed and hold her hand and watch her die? I'm terrified I'll let her down again.”

“You won't.”

“How do you know that?”

“Ah, Meghann. The only person you ever let down is yourself. You'll be there for Claire. You always have been.”

It wasn't entirely true. She wished it were. She wanted to be the kind of person who could be depended upon.

“If I were ill, there's no one I'd rather have in my corner, Meghann. You're so busy swimming in old sorrows that you haven't bothered to come up for air. You've made up with Claire, whether you two have said the words or not. You're her sister again. Forgive yourself and go forward.”

Meghann let the advice sink in. Then, slowly, she smiled. It was true. This wasn't the time for fear and regret; she'd spent too many years on that already. These were days that called for hope and, for once, she was going to be strong enough to believe in a happy ending for Claire. No running away from potential heartache. That was the mistake Meg had made in her marriage. She'd feared a broken heart so keenly that she'd never given the whole of her love to Eric.

“Thanks, Harriet,” she said at last. “I could have bought a Mercedes for what you charged me, but you've helped.”

Harriet smiled. It surprised Meg, made her realize that she'd never seen her doctor smile before. “You're welcome.”

Meghann stood up. “So. I'll see you next week, same time?”

“Of course.”

She walked out of the office, went down the elevator, and emerged into the July sunlight.

Slinging her handbag over her shoulder, she headed for home.

She was almost there when she happened to look up. Across the street, the small park near the Public Market was a hive of activity. College-age kids playing hackey sack, tourists feeding the dive-bombing seagulls, shoppers taking a rest. She wasn't sure what had caught her eye and made her look.

Then she saw him, standing at the railing. His back was to her, but she recognized his faded jeans and denim shirt. He was probably the only man in downtown Seattle to wear a cowboy hat on a sunny day.

She crossed the street and walked up to him. “Hey, Bobby.”

He didn't look at her. “Meg.”

“What are you doing out here?”

“She's sleeping.” Finally, he turned. His eyes were watery, red. “She threw up for almost an hour. Even when there was nothing left to vomit. Don't worry, I cleaned it up.”

“I wasn't worried,” Meg said.

“She looks bad today.”

“Some days are worse than others. I bet Nashville looks pretty good about now,” she said, trying to lighten his mood.

“Is that supposed to be funny? My wife is puking and her hair is falling out. You think I'm worried about my career?”

“I'm sorry.” She touched him. “I've always been as sensitive as a serial killer.”

He sighed. “No, I'm sorry. I needed someone to yell at.”

“I'll always give you a reason, don't worry.”

He smiled, but it was tired and worn. “I'm just . . . scared shitless, that's all. And I don't want her to know.”

“I know.” Meghann smiled up at him. Her sister was lucky to be loved by such a man. For no apparent reason, that made her think of Joe, of the day she'd found him weeping over his divorce. Joe was the kind of man who knew how to love, too. “You're a good man, Bobby Jack Tom Dick. I was wrong about you.”

He laughed. “And you're not half the bitch I thought you were.”

Meghann slipped an arm around him. “I'm going to pretend that was a compliment.”

“It was.”

“Good. Now let's go make Claire smile.”

The days passed slowly; each new morning found Claire a little more tired than the night before. She strove to keep a positive attitude but her health was deteriorating rapidly. She visualized rays of sunlight instead of radiation. She meditated for an hour a day, imagined herself in a beautiful forest or seated beside her beloved river. She ate the macrobiotic diet that Meghann swore would help heal her body.

The Bluesers came down often, separately and together, doing their best to keep Claire's spirits up. Meg's friend Elizabeth had even come for a few days, and the visit helped her sister immensely. The hardest times were weekends, when they went to Hayden; Claire tried to pretend that everything was okay for Ali.

In the evenings, though, it was just the three of them—Claire, Meg, and Bobby—in that too-quiet apartment. Mostly, they watched movies together. At first, when Bobby arrived, they'd tried to spend the evening talking or playing cards, but that had proved difficult. Too many dangerous subjects. None of them could mention the future without flinching, without thinking,
Will there be a Christmas together? A Thanksgiving? A next summer??
So, by tacit agreement, they'd let the television become their nighttime soundtrack. Claire was grateful; it gave her several hours where she could sit quietly, without having to pretend.

Finally, the radiation ended.

The following morning Claire got up early. She dressed and showered and drank her coffee out on the deck overlooking the Sound. It amazed her that so many people were already up, going about their ordinary lives on this day that would define her future.

“Today's the day,” Meg said, stepping out onto the deck.

Claire forced a smile. “Yep.”

“Are you okay?”

God, how she'd come to despise that question. “Perfect.”

“Did you sleep last night?” Meg asked, coming up beside her.

“No. You?”

“No.” Meg slipped an arm around her, held her tightly.

Claire tensed, waiting for the pep talk, but her sister said nothing.

Behind them, the glass door opened. “Morning, ladies.” Bobby came up behind Claire, slid his arms around her, and kissed the back of her neck.

They stood there a minute longer, no one speaking, then they turned together and left the condo.

In no time, they were at Swedish Hospital. As they entered the Nuclear Medicine waiting room, Claire noticed the other patients who wore hats and scarves. When their gazes met, a sad understanding passed between them. They were members of a club you didn't want to join. Claire wished now that she hadn't bothered with the scarf. Baldness had a boldness to it that she wanted to embrace.

There was no waiting today, not on this day that would answer all the questions. She checked in and went right to the MRI. Within moments, she was pumped full of dye and stuck in the loud machine.

When she was finished, she returned to the waiting room and sat between Meghann and Bobby, who both reached out for her. She held their hands.

Finally, they called her name.

Claire rose.

Bobby steadied her. “I'm right here, babe.”

The three of them began the long hallway-to-hallway walk, ending finally in Dr. Sussman's office. The plaque on the door read:
Chief of Neurology
. Dr. McGrail, the chief of radiology, was also there.

“Hello, Claire. Meghann,” Dr. Sussman said. “Bobby.”

“Well?” Meghann demanded.

“The tumor responded to radiation. It's about twelve percent smaller,” Dr. McGrail reported.

“That's great,” Meg said.

The doctors exchanged a look. Then Dr. Sussman went to the viewbox, switched it on, and there they were, the gray-and-white pictures of Claire's brain. And there was the stain. He finally turned to Claire. “The decrease has bought you some time. Unfortunately, the tumor is still inoperable. I'm sorry.”

Sorry.

Claire sat down in the leather chair. She didn't think her legs would hold her up.

“But it worked,” Meg said. “It worked, right? Maybe a little more radiation. Or a round of chemo. I read that some are crossing the blood-brain barrier now—”

“Enough,” Claire said. She'd meant to say it softly, but her voice was loud. She looked at the neurologist. “How long do I have?”

Dr. Sussman's voice was gentle. “The survival rates aren't good, I'm afraid, for a tumor of this size and placement. Some patients live as long as a year. Perhaps a bit longer.”

“And the rest?”

“Six to nine months.”

Claire stared down at her brand-new wedding ring, the one Grandma Myrtle had worn for six decades.

Meghann went to Claire then, dropped to her knees in front of her. “We won't believe it. The files—”

“Don't,” she said softly, shaking her head, thinking about Ali. She saw her baby's eyes, the sunburst smile that was missing the front teeth, heard her say,
You can sleep with my wubbie, Mommy
, and it ruined her. Tears ran down her cheeks. She felt Bobby beside her, felt the way his fingers were digging into her hard, and she knew he was crying, too. She wiped her eyes, looked up at the doctor. “What's next?”

Meghann jerked to her feet and began pacing the room, studying the pictures and diplomas on the walls. Claire knew her sister was scared and, thus, angry.

Dr. Sussman pulled a chair around and sat down opposite Claire. “We have some options. None too good, I'm afraid, but—”

“Who is this?” It was Meghann's voice but she sounded shrill and desperate. She was holding a framed photograph she'd taken off the wall.

Dr. Sussman frowned. “That's a group of us from medical school.” He turned back to Claire.

Meghann slammed the photograph on the desk so hard the glass cracked. She pointed at someone in the picture. “Who's that guy?”

Dr. Sussman leaned forward. “Joe Wyatt.”

“He's a
doctor
?”

Claire looked at her sister. “You know Joe?”

“
You
know Joe?” Meghann said sharply.

“He's a radiologist, actually.” It was Dr. McGrail who answered. “One of the best in the country. At least he was. He was a legend with MRIs. He saw things—possibilities—no one else did.”