While My Sister Sleeps (9 page)

HE FRIENDS IN THE LOUNGE WERE RUNNERS
, clustered at a small table in a knot of denim, spandex, and backpacks. Molly recognized them as Dartmouth graduate students with whom Robin often worked out. They had no connection to Jenny Fiske.

Had she known that, she wouldn't have rushed out. But it was too late. She was surrounded before she could retreat.

“My cousin was in the ER last night with her little boy,” one explained. “How's Robin?”

“Uh, we're not sure,” Molly managed.

“I ran with her three days ago and she was fine,” said another.

And a third, “We talked in the bookstore just yesterday.”

“I heard it from Nick Dukette,” put in a fourth.

“Nick?”

“Newspaper Nick. He saw it on the police blotter this morning
, and he knows I know Robin. He said she's in critical condition.”

Molly was taken aback. Nick claimed they were good friends; but if that was so, he should have called her first. Granted, she had her cell phone on vibrate and had been distracted enough to miss it.

Pulling the phone out now, she scrolled down. Okay. There it was. A missed call from Nick. No message.

Nick was a reporter for the state's largest paper. On general assignment when Molly first met him, he had since been named to head the local news desk; but with his strength in sniffing out a story, he was a shoo-in for investigative editor at the next change in command. Like Robin, he had star written all over him. And he was hungry for it. He had piercing blue eyes that could either drill or charm, and he used them well. Had he been a lawyer, he would have chased ambulances; he was that addicted to breaking news.

Molly admired his doggedness, but there was a downside. What Nick knew, the world might soon know.

Kathryn would be horrified and would surely blame Molly. She had to talk with him.

But first these runners. Denying Robin's official condition was absurd. The question was how much more to say, and the key was saying it quietly. The lounge wasn't empty. A woman and her daughter dozed on one sofa, a family huddled on another.

Molly leaned into the group. “The official status still is critical condition,” she said, because anyone calling the hospital would hear that. “We're waiting for follow-up tests.”

“Was she hit by a car?”

“No. It's an internal thing.”

“Internal, like
organs?
”

Molly gave a quick nod.

“Will she be okay?”

“We hope so.”

There was a moment's silence, then a quiet barrage.

“Is there anything we can do?”

“Can we make calls?”

“Does she need anything?”

“Positive thoughts,” Molly said and was momentarily startled when one of the women she didn't know gave her a hug. She was even more surprised to miss the warmth when the woman pulled back. Unable to speak, she waved her thanks and, cell phone in hand, made for the door.

Waiting just outside in the hall, standing half a head taller than Molly, was the Good Samaritan. His tie was loose, collar unbuttoned. He was visibly relieved when she stopped. With the earlier scene rushing back, how could she not? Her first thought was to apologize for her mother's abominable behavior, but he spoke first.

“How is she?”

Molly scrunched up her nose and shook her head.

He made a defeated sound. “I knew it was bad. She was clammy and cold. It was terrifying. As soon as the paramedics took over, I left.” He seemed tormented. “I just freaked out. Her name was right there on her shoe tag, and after I read it, I recognized her face. She's every runner's idol, and there I was, trying to get her to breathe. It didn't help, did it.”

Molly hesitated, then shook her head.

“Brain dead?” he whispered.

She lifted a shoulder—couldn't quite deny it to this man, who clearly connected the dots.

He seemed to deflate. “I keep thinking that if I'd been doing a faster pace, I'd've gotten there sooner.”

Molly hugged herself. “If you'd been on a different road, you'd never have found her at all.”

“I should have stayed, maybe gone in the ambulance; but she didn't know me, so it wasn't like I was a friend going with a friend.”

“I'm her
sister,
” Molly blurted out, “and I was supposed to have been tracking that run, only I had other things to do. Know how guilty I feel?”

He didn't blink. “Yes. I do. The minute the EMTs took over, I turned around and ran home so I could shower and go back to school and try to convince parents that I'm a good, caring person who's well qualified to teach their kids. As if I could really focus on work.”

Oh boy, did Molly agree. Sitting in her office had been a joke. She couldn't work while her sister was on life support.

Nick was working, though, and she did need to reach him. Gesturing toward Robin's room, she said, “I have to make a call.” She set off, stopped, turned back. She was really glad he returned. “Thank you.”

“I didn't do enough.”

“She wasn't breathing. You did what you could. She's alive now because of you.” When he still looked haunted, she smiled. “Forget what my mom said. She needs to blame someone for this. One day, she'll thank you herself.”

She continued on this time, past Robin's room to a spot by a window where her cell phone had four bars. “It's me,” she said when Nick picked up.

There were several seconds of newsroom buzz, then a passionate, “Geez, Molly, I've been trying you all day. Why'd you take so long returning my call?”

“It's been a little hectic, Nick.”

“How is she?”

“She's holding on.”

“What does that mean? Is she awake? Talking? Moving around? Is she breathing on her own? Has she been stabilized?”

Molly could feel those prodding blue eyes. She wasn't sure she liked being on this side of the notepad. “They'll run more tests later.”

“
Was
it a heart attack?”

“They're trying to figure out exactly what's going on.”

“But the initial problem—definitely the heart? Has she had heart trouble before? Is it a structural problem, like a valve or a hole? Can they fix it?”

Molly was growing uneasy. “Is this for an article?”

“Molly,” he protested, sounding hurt. “It's for
me.
I used to date Robin. Plus, her sister is my
friend.
”

Molly was duly chastised. “I'm sorry. You just sound so reporter-like.” And there was the issue of Andrea Welker and a bad drug test, something Robin had told him in confidence that had shown up in the paper. Nick swore he had gotten the information from a separate source, but neither Robin nor Kathryn fully bought that.
Don't believe what he says
, Robin had told Molly once too often, and lest she forget, Kathryn repeated the warning often. But Molly liked Nick. He was interesting, and he was going places. That he liked Molly enough to
want
to be her friend even after her sister had shafted him was flattering.

“No,
I'm
sorry,” he said now, conciliatory. “If you'd called me last night, we wouldn't be having this conversation. When you didn't return my call this morning, I started calling other people. It's an occupational hazard.”

“That's what frightens me. Nick, I need your help. Can you keep this out of the paper?”

There was a short pause, then a surprised, “How can I do that? It's news.”

“You have clout there. You can get them to hold off. The more people hear, the more they call us, and we just can't talk until we know more.”

“What do you know now?”

Molly had been hoping for a promise. Disappointed, she didn't reply.

“Are we friends?” he asked quietly. “Friends trust one another.”

Friends also call more than one measly time before calling other people, Molly thought. Of course, she was hypersensitive.

But she wasn't stupid. “The point is my family needs privacy,” she explained. “And honestly, there isn't much to tell. Robin did have a heart event, but all her vital signs are good.” It wasn't exactly a lie.

“Is a heart ‘event’ the same as a heart ‘attack’?”

“They're just words to me right now. I'm pretty shaken. We all are. I've told you as much as we know for sure.” Not exactly a lie, either.

“Okay. That's okay. Will you call me when you learn anything more?”

She said she would, but ended the call feeling uncomfortable. It was a minute before she put her finger on it. For all his questions, he hadn't asked how
she
was doing with all this. Friends who claimed they were good buddies did that.

Telling herself that it was a simple oversight—that he knew she was upset, so had no need to ask—she closed her phone and went back up the hall. She was nearly at Robin's door when her father emerged. He was taking his own phone from
his pocket. “Your mom agreed to the EEG. Want to stay with her while I give Chris a call?”

THE
EEG wasn't done until early evening to accommodate the neurologist, who wanted to be present to interpret the results. The machine was brought into Robin's room. Since quiet was required for the truest reading, Kathryn was the only family member allowed to stay.

She was grateful that the nurses sensed her need to be there, but if she had been hoping to bring Robin luck, it didn't work. She cheered silently. She repeated every motivational thought that had goaded Robin on in the past. She counted on her brain waves connecting to Robin's.

But the news wasn't good. After an hour of the machine's pen scratching on paper, Kathryn could see it herself—one flat line after the next over twelve different readings.

What could the neurologist say? Crying quietly, Kathryn couldn't think to ask new questions, and after he left, the nurse lingered, focusing not on Robin but on her, which almost felt worse.
Did she want to talk with social services?
No.
Perhaps a minister?
No.

I want that second test
, Kathryn finally managed to say. The nurse nodded and replied,
It's a process
, which didn't help at all. Kathryn didn't want a process. She wanted her daughter.

For the longest time after the nurse left, Kathryn stood holding Robin's hand, studying her face, trying to square what the test said with the daughter who had done cartwheels at the age of three. Charlie was behind her, with Chris and Erin nearby. Molly was back by the wall. No one spoke, and that
didn't help either. It wasn't fair,
none
of it—not their silence, not her pain, not Robin's fate.

Furious, she turned on her family. “You all wanted this done. Are we able to help Robin more now?”

Charlie looked crushed. Chris clutched Erin's hand. Molly was in tears.

“I
saidit
was too soon,” Kathryn argued, starting to cry again herself. Charlie gave her a tissue and held her until she regained composure. “Some patients need more time. The doctor said that. I'm going to keep talking to her. She hears me. I know she does.” Determined, she returned to Robin. “And I know how to give pep talks, don't I. So here's a really, really important one.” She bent down, spoke low. “Are you listening, Robin? I need you to
listen.
We've faced tough fields before. You've competed against some of the best runners in the world and come out ahead. That's what we'll do this time. We'll surprise them all. We're going to
win.
”

Molly materialized at her side. “Mom?” she asked in a very young voice.

Kathryn softened at the sound. Molly wasn't often vulnerable. It was a throwback, a reminder of what Charlie had said. “What, honey?”

“Maybe we should tell Nana.”

Kathryn should have been hurting enough to be immune to more pain, but there it was. Squeezing her eyes shut, she fought hysteria. She wasn't sure how much a person was expected to bear all at once, but she was reaching her limit.

Opening her eyes, she said, “Nana isn't herself.”

“She has lucid times.”

“She can't remember our names, much less take in something we tell her. She isn't the Nana you knew, Molly. Besides,” she returned to Robin with a last glimmer of hope, “it would
be cruel to tell a woman her age something we don't know for sure. This was only the first EEG. There's a reason they require two. I don't care what the doctors say; I'm not believing a thing until the second is done.”

OF
the disagreements Molly had with her mother, with one the least and ten the worst, their dispute over her grandmother ranked an eight. That was one of the reasons she went from the hospital to the nursing home. Visiting hours were over by the time she arrived, but the staff was used to her coming and going. She smiled at the woman at the front desk and was quickly waved on. After running up the stairs to the third floor, though, she faltered.

“Is she alone?” she asked at the nurse's station. She didn't mind that her grandmother had a boyfriend. The staff said that they didn't actually have sex, but Molly wasn't taking any chances.

The nurse smiled. “Thomas is in his room by himself. He has a cold.”

Grateful, Molly slipped into a room halfway down the hall, closed the door and turned to the figure in the chair. Marjorie Webber was seventy-eight. She had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's five years before, and for the first two of those years had been cared for by her husband. Then his health declined, and hers spiraled to the point where she needed round-the-clock attention. Putting her in a nursing home had been the only option.