While my sister sleeps, p.8
While My Sister Sleeps, page 8
“He looks familiar. What's his name?”
She felt guilty not trusting Nick. A first name couldn't hurt. “David.”
“David what?”
“I don't know,” she lied. “When you see someone over and over like that, you nod, you smile, you ask about who they're visiting. You don't get personal. There's no point in exchanging last names.”
“Did he ask about Robin?”
“Yes. He's polite.”
“Did you tell him more than you told me?”
She hung her head, then raised it. “Oh Nick, there's nothing to tell.”
“Big understatement. Let's start with, is Robin going to be okay?”
“I don't know. We're waiting for more tests.”
“Did she have a history of heart problems?”
“No,” Molly said before realizing that by confirming a heart problem, she had fallen into his trap. Annoyed that he was setting them, she added, “Do you?”
“I'm not in the ICU at Dickenson-May. What's the prognosis?”
She needed comfort, not questions—a word of encouragement, maybe something he had gotten from one of his sources that would ease the sense of total loss she felt. But he just stood there, obviously angry that she wouldn't give him the details he wanted.
“I'm really tired,” she said quietly.
“Does that mean it's bad?”
“It means, that today has been a long day.”
“People are asking me, Molly, and I don't know what to say. They're imagining the worst, and I can't deny it. Help me out here, Moll.”
“For the paper?” the devil in her asked.
He was quiet, then impatient. “You have the power to stop unfounded talk. Robin would want that.”
He struck a nerve. “How do you know what Robin would want?” Molly asked sharply. Her mother didn't know. Her father didn't know. Chris didn't know. She didn't know. And Nick thought he did?
There was a pause, then his gentle, “This isn't like you. What happened to the friend I rely on for straight talk?”
The reality of life and death is weighing on her, Molly thought but couldn't say aloud.
“This can't be good,” Nick decided in her silence. “Are we talking a massive heart attack?”
She rubbed her forehead, then dropped her hand. “It's pretty serious.”
“Does that mean she won't recover? Is there permanent damage? Can it be fixed?”
The dark might have muted the force of his eyes, but Molly still began to squirm. “Don't interrogate me, Nick. You're putting me on the spot.”
“Because you're hiding how bad it is?”
“Because my mother doesn't trust you. She would be furious if she knew we were talking.”
“I just want to know.”
“So do we. But we don't. Not yet. We just don't know the bottom line.”
She pulled out her keys, but he didn't give up. “Come on, Moll,” he coaxed. “The doctors must be telling you more. They either give you hope, or they don't. Hey, I work with these guys. I have a list of names to call when I want a quote from an expert. I'd guess some of the ones treating Robin are on my list; but I haven't called, precisely out of respect for your mother. But you're not helping. Yeah, I know the first few days are crucial, but there's mild damage and not-so-mild damage. Which is it?”
“I'm not helping?” Molly cried, mystified. “Helping who, Nick? What about your supporting me? What about your trying to understand what my family is going through right now? This isn't a walk in the park. We've been blindsided, and your questions aren't helping.”
He was oblivious to her point. “Is part of the shock because Robin is who she is? She's made a name for herself doing twenty-six-mile runs. Will she ever run again?”
“I don't know.”
“What does she say?”
“Nothing.”
For a minute, the only sound was a hum of crickets in the distant wood. Then came a quick-fire, “She's not talking? She's sedated? Unconscious? In a coma?”
“She's brain dead!” Molly cried in a burst of despair. Her eyes filled. “Okay? Is that what you want to hear?”
Nick went very still. He didn't speak.
“And now I've betrayed her again.” Horrified, Molly clutched his arm. “Do not put this in the paper, Nick. I beg you. I'm very emotional, not a credible source right now. It's been a scary day, and the fact is, they are … doing … tests. We won't have any definitive answers for another twenty-four hours.”
“Brain dead?” he repeated, seeming stunned and so unaware of Molly that her hand was yanked free when he turned. Silently, he walked off.
“Please, Nick?” she called across the dark parking lot, but he didn't answer. Hugging herself, she watched him disappear into his sleek black car. The engine turned over. As he headed toward the street, he drove slowly, and she wondered if he was already on the phone.
She considered going inside and telling her mother about Nick. First, though, she needed to do something good, and for that, she had to go home.
THE words brain dead haunted her all the way home. She didn't understand how Robin could be brain dead, which meant that by the time she got home, in addition to being frightened she was bewildered. Brain death was a permanent thing. It would impact all their lives.
The house was dark, but familiar and comfort-filled. And here was another source of angst. The clock was ticking. She had only five more days here.
Unable to deal with that, she turned on a light and went straight to the phone. Moving was forgotten in the raft of messages from Robin's friends. Molly recognized one name after another on the caller ID. Most were runners, a few were calling from as far as Europe, proof of the closeness of the running community. How had Robin explained it? You bond when you run. It's like a therapy session. There's no eye contact. Confession becomes safe.
Molly wondered whether, if that was true, Robin had told others about her enlarged heart. More pertinent, Molly wondered whether, in some philosophic moment, Robin might have said what she would want done if she were ever disabled.
But how embarrassing was that, having to ask Robin's friends what her own family didn't know?
Nick hadn't known anything about the enlarged heart. That was something, at least.
Molly needed information, such as what Robin had known and when. How else could she make sense of what had happened?
As she headed for the den, she heard a scrabbling on the wood floor. Glancing down the hall, she saw the wisp of an amber tail disappear into her room.
The cat. She had forgotten. Conscience-stricken, she followed it, but it had hidden again. Talking softly so it would hear at least, she saw to its litter and water. Thinking to keep it company for a few minutes, she sat on the floor with her head on the seat of the armchair and closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, an hour had passed. Startled, she pushed herself up and spotted the cat sitting in the hall, staring at her from the farthest possible point where it could still see her. Suddenly desperate to touch something warm and alive, she crouched down and held out a hand. “Come here, kitty,” she cooed. “It's okay. I won't hurt you.” The cat didn't budge. Nor did it run away until she crawled toward it on all fours. Then in a flash it was gone.
Desolate, she sat on her heels, thinking first of the cat, then of Robin. She was trying to decide whether to chase the cat or go back to the hospital when her stomach growled. She went to the kitchen. One look around, though, and she felt an old annoyance. Robin was a slob.
Guiltily, she took back the thought. Robin wasn't there to defend herself. This was absolutely not the time for mean thoughts.
But Robin was a slob. The kitchen was exactly as she had left it when she had gone for yesterday's run. Used tea bags were on the counter beside dirty mugs. A half-empty energy drink stood beside an open bag of granola, the crumbs of which lay next to the wrappers of three energy bars. Two unopened bars spilled from their box, which Molly had returned so often to a cabinet that held another ten such boxes.
Robin was a health nut. Molly didn't miss the irony of that.
Kathryn might have wanted things left as they were. But that was morbid. And Molly was the one who lived here. She always cleaned up after Robin. So she did it now.
When her stomach growled again, she opened the fridge. There were more energy drinks, along with tofu and yogurt. There was also a chocolate cake, definitely Molly's contribution to the food supply. She pulled it out, intent on having a piece, only to realize she wasn't in the mood. Chocolate cakes—or cupcakes with frosting and sprinkles, or glittery butter cookies—were the most fun to eat while Robin watched in disapproval. If Robin wasn't there, what was the point?
Molly pushed the cake down the disposal. Thus purged, she heated a turkey frank, wrapped it in pita, drizzled it with mustard, and downed it in two seconds flat. Craving something warm to drink, she took an envelope of hot chocolate from her side of the cabinet. Like the cake, though, it lacked appeal. So she brewed a cup of Robin's ginseng tea and carried it into the den.
It was a small room, just big enough for bookshelves and a desk. Molly had already packed the books that had been on her own shelves, but Robin's were still full. The top one held a neat lineup of sneakers, one pair more worn than the next. The shelf beneath held a random arrangement of books, and, on the lowest shelf, carelessly placed accordion files bulging with papers.
Sitting on the floor, she opened one. It was stuffed with term papers, tests, and class notes from a decade before. Replacing that file, she took another. This one was jammed with race entry forms, speeches Robin had given, and newspaper clippings of her own wins, the wins of her friends, and articles on every aspect of running. There were even several running magazines crammed in. Nothing was chronologically arranged.
She had to open more files before she found bills—electricity, gas, rental. Robin had lived in two other apartments before they moved here together. Molly found leases for two of the three. She found credit card bills, dental bills and, yes, medical bills referencing Robin's endless little mechanical problems; but none mentioned her heart. Molly was thinking that Jenny Fiske had to be wrong, perhaps had mistaken something Robin had said, when she found an envelope from Robin's primary care physician. It was tucked a little too neatly at the very back of the file. Molly might have missed it if she hadn't put the folder on her lap to stuff the bills back inside.
“Dear Robin,” the doctor wrote, “I'd like to reiterate your cardiologist's optimism. As frightening as a cardiomegaly diagnosis can be, since you've been asymptomatic, the prognosis is good. You're one of the lucky ones who are alerted by a hereditary condition. If your father hadn't told you about the problem, you might have ignored symptoms down the road. Forewarned is forearmed. The cardiologist has discussed medication with you. Your running shouldn't be affected, but it is crucial that you see one of us immediately if you experience any of the symptoms we've mentioned. If all is well, I'll see you at your regularly scheduled appointment.”
The letter was dated eighteen months earlier. But it made no sense to Molly. Charlie had denied a history of heart problems. Either he was lying, or Robin was.
Dropping the letter, she scrambled up and went into the bathroom. Having always ceded the medicine chest to Robin's running remedies, she had no idea what was inside. Looking now, she found over-the-counter products, and a single bottle of prescription painkillers. Not surprisingly, it was barely used. Robin hated taking anything but vitamins.
Rushing to the kitchen, Molly searched her sister's stash of vitamins, thinking she might keep a bottle of heart medication there to pretend it was just another healthy thing to take each day, but each bottle Molly found appeared to be nothing but vitamins. Back down the hall, she rummaged through the night-stand by Robin's bed, then through her dresser drawers. No pills.
Of course, discussing medication with a doctor didn't necessarily lead to taking it, especially where Robin was concerned.
Temporarily at a standstill, Molly returned to the den. After putting the bills back, she put the file back on its shelf. She reread the doctor's letter before returning it to its envelope. The woman practiced out of Concord. Molly could contact her.
Right, Molly. If the goal was helping her mother, calling either Charlie or Robin a liar wouldn't help. Besides, the heart damage was done.
Molly didn't understand how she couldn't have known. Even if Robin planned to keep it from her, wouldn't something have accidentally slipped out? She racked her brain, trying to recover even the smallest mention. Yes, Robin had been more worried lately about being with people who were sick, but that was understandable. The stakes were higher than ever in the races she had entered.
Frustrated, Molly tucked the letter in her pocket and turned on the computer. Here was something she could definitely do. So many notes of concern on both her and Robin's e-mail accounts, sweet notes from people who cared—all deserved an answer. She sent simple ones to acknowledge the kindness of the sender, but gave little medical detail. She sent similar notes to some of those who had left phone messages.
When she finished, it was after one. Wide awake, with that letter sitting in her pocket like a hot stone, she went into Robin's room. It was as messy as always. Here, too, Kathryn might have wanted things left alone. But Molly had been cleaning up after Robin since they had moved in together, and Robin never seemed to mind. She liked being pampered. Neatening the room was something she would want. It was the least Molly could do.
Finding penance in it, she carefully made Robin's bed, hung up a nightshirt, pushed dirty clothes into the laundry bag on the back of the door. She put away two fanny packs, took the book that was open facedown on the bed and closed it, using the cover flap as a marker. It was a book on self-motivation. Opening it again to the page Robin had been reading, Molly suddenly heard her sister's voice, deeper than her own and with a resonance born of passion. Training is the tough part. Not everyone can do it. When you do that long run, with no water stations, no TV crews, no crowds cheering you on, it's hard. But that's the point. The long run helps develop the mental toughness you need to run a marathon. It's during the long run that you learn how to cope.
Realizing that Robin might be on her last long run now, Molly grew weepy; but along with tears came a glimmer of hope. If anyone had mental toughness, Robin did. If anyone could pull through, she could.
Believe in yourself, Robin always told running groups, and you'll make it happen.
Drying her eyes, Molly grabbed a large canvas bag and began filling it. There was the picture of Robin wearing the laurel wreath in Boston, and a framed article that had appeared in People. There was the running book she had coauthored and, from the corkboard, handwritten letters of adoration from would-be runners. There was the hat she had worn running London and the singlet and shorts she had broken in for New York. There was her lucky wristband. And her favorite running shoes. And her journal.
Molly dug the journal from the closet, which was a total disaster. Narrow but deep, her closet was packed full of everything Robin didn't want to look at day to day. Robin claimed mice lived at the back. Molly hated mice—which was one reason she loved the Snow Hill cats and might be good reason to have a cat where she lived—but even aside from that, this closet would be the pits to pack. CDs were tossed in with a tangle of headset cords, MP3 players, and multiple generations of iPods. Tee shirts with race names were strewn about, along with plaques, rolled photos, and other memorabilia. And there were more diaries, dating back to Robin's childhood. My Book, Robin called each, and Molly had long since read every one, hoping in vain for a dramatic divulgence of her sister's darkest secrets. By the time Robin reached high school, she called them journals and filled them with reports on the races she had run. Once she graduated from college, she stopped writing.
Molly took the very last journal. It was only about races. But running defined Robin. If these things helped make her hospital room more personal, if some hidden vibe could spark her back to consciousness, they should be there.
CHRIS couldn't sleep. He didn't understand how a person could be alive one minute and dead the next. The fact that Robin's heart was beating was a technicality. The damage was done. Robin was gone.
He knew things like that happened. He remembered 9/11. He remembered Virginia Tech. He just hadn't personally known anyone who had died like that.
Erin's voice came quietly through the dark. “I wish I'd known Robin better. I kept thinking there'd be a time when she wouldn't be running so much, maybe even when she'd have a baby and we'd have more in common.” Her voice turned his way. “Do you think tomorrow's test will be any different?”
“No.”
“What'll your Mom do?”
He had no idea. They had never faced anything catastrophic before.
“The machines could keep Robin alive forever,” Erin said. “Would the hospital allow that?”
“If the insurance pays.”
“Does it?”
“I can't go there yet, Erin.”
“How can you not?” she asked. “Your sister's about to be declared brain dead.”
He might have snapped if she hadn't sounded so upset herself. She also happened to be right. Today—tomorrow—they would face a decision. Insurance might pay. But if Robin's brain was dead, what was the point?
Climbing out of bed, he went down the hall to Chloe's room. In the pale yellow haze of a butterfly night-light, he looked at her. She was lying on her back, her hands up by her head, her mouth nursing an imagined bottle. Even asleep, she was sweet.
He couldn't think of life without her, but it hadn't always been that way. He hadn't been ready for kids and had gone along with Erin only because she wanted one so badly. He had been hoping that getting pregnant would take a while, but two months was all it took; and even then, he didn't focus on having a child. It wasn't until the sonogram showed something resembling a human being that it hit him. A subsequent sonogram increased the feeling, and then, when Erin got big and the baby started to move under his hand, he was completely won over. He adored Chloe the instant she was born.
