Thursdays At Eight (24 page)

LIZ KENYON

S
ean had found a premium parking spot at the beach. Liz could hardly believe their good fortune. The sky was the purest shade of blue, and the sun, as always, shone bright along the California shoreline. A refreshing breeze blew off the water. A perfect fourth of July.

With his radio playing a Lovin' Spoonful ballad from the sixties, Sean eased his convertible into the empty parking slot. Liz could have driven around for hours and not located a single space within a mile of the beach.

“Hey, it's just clean livin',” Sean said with a chuckle when she said as much.

“Sure it is,” she joked back, happier than she could remember being in a long while. They'd spent the morning at Little Lambs. Sean had brought Clarissa a bouquet of red, white and blue carnations as a Fourth of July gift. They visited with each of the babies and Liz was delighted to see that little
Faye showed some improvement. As they were about to leave, Clarissa had pulled her to one side.

“I see you have your answer,” the other woman whispered.

Liz hadn't immediately made the connection. Then she recalled Clarissa's question during that first visit and understood.
Do you love him?
Liz didn't respond, merely nodded.

“Good for you,” Clarissa said, chuckling to herself as she let them out the front door.

From Little Lambs, they drove to the beach. Sean waited until they were strolling along the crowded sidewalk before he broached the subject of her son's recent visit. “Are you going to tell me if I passed inspection or not?”

He tried to sound casual, but Liz knew he was concerned about the meeting with Brian.

“Feeling insecure, are you?”

“You haven't said a damn word,” Sean muttered as they walked side by side, holding hands.

“That was intentional.”

“Dammit, Liz, I was on my best behavior. I was as good as I can be. If your son found fault with me, then—”

“Brian thought you were fabulous,” she interrupted. “He thinks you're the best thing since bottled water.” Restraining her smile would have been impossible.

“He's a great kid.”

“Of course you'd think so,” she teased, “since he likes you.”

“Yup.” He grinned. “One thing's for sure, Brian's got terrific judgment.”

“Would you stop?”

“Hey,” Sean countered, “I'm just getting started. Naturally, once he's back, Brian will call Amy and tell her everything's copacetic. Then Amy will be reassured that you're seeing a real prince of a fellow, and all will be well.”

Liz smiled at his enthusiasm. She didn't bother to add that neither of them needed a course set for this relationship. Not at this stage of their lives. For now Liz was content to have someone special to share the small everyday things. A companion, a friend, maybe—in time—a lover. Someone who loved and appreciated the woman she was. Someone who made her laugh. Someone who inspired her and encouraged her to take the occasional risk. Liz hoped for the opportunity to play that role in Sean's life as well.

“Will I meet your daughter one day?” she asked.

Liz saw the pleasure leave Sean's face. “Unfortunately that isn't likely,” he said in a stiff voice.

“Why not?”

“First of all, Eileen lives in Seattle.”

“She never visits?”

“No. Say, I could go for an ice cream bar. How about you?”

“Quit changing the subject. The only thing I want is more information about you.”

Sean sat down on a nearby bench and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “I don't want to talk about Eileen.”

“I can see that, but why not?”

“If you must know,” he snapped, “the subject of her mother invariably comes up and my ex-wife is off limits, even with you.”

Liz sat on the bench beside him. She didn't remark that this wasn't always true; he'd mentioned Denise any number of times. But every mention was a glancing one, as though he couldn't bear to linger on her memory. “You must have loved her very much,” Liz said quietly.

Sean turned away. “It's a beautiful day. Let's not spoil it with talk of a relationship that's been dead for years.”

“Why don't you tell me what happened and get it over with?” she urged softly, her hand on his forearm.

“Happened?” he repeated. “Just what generally happens when a man's foolish enough to fall in love with a fickle woman. I don't mean to be rude, Liz, but I'm serious. I don't want to discuss Denise.”

“Then we won't.” She respected his wishes and wouldn't pressure him. She believed that eventually, as the trust between them grew, he'd tell her more. No point in forcing the issue.

Sean reached for her hand just as his beeper went off. Liz knew the sound all too well. Earlier he'd warned her that he was on call, and the beeper meant that her Fourth of July was about to be interrupted.

While he read the message on his pager, Liz's cell phone rang inside her purse. So few people had the number that she knew it must be important.

Liz felt around until she found her phone, and flipped it open on the third ring. “Hello.”

“Is this Liz Kenyon?”

Peter Murchison introduced himself and explained the circumstances. “I'm leaving now,” she told him, then snapped the phone closed and dumped it back in her purse.

Sean waited for her. “I've got to get to—”

“I know. The Murchison baby's mother is a good friend of mine. That was her husband. Julia asked if I'd come to the hospital.”

“Let's go.”

When they relinquished their parking space, there were a hundred vehicles all eager to claim the same spot. No sooner had Sean backed out than it was filled. Liz didn't spare even a thought for the leisurely day that had just disappeared.

As they headed toward the hospital, Liz reached for her cell phone again. She hit the “on” button and saw Sean giving her a puzzled look.

“Who are you calling?”

“The rest of the Thursday morning breakfast group.”

“How likely is it that you'll reach them?”

“About a hundred percent,” she assured him with total confidence.

“On a holiday?”

“Sean, I'll reach Karen and Clare because I won't give up until I do.”

“Why? You aren't Julia's family.”

“No, we're her
friends,
and this baby is important to us. We were there when she found out she was pregnant. We've watched her deal with family, friends, even her customers' reactions, and we're going to stand by her now.”

“Must be a woman thing,” he muttered. “If I needed emergency surgery, my golfing buddies wouldn't parade over to the hospital and sit there worrying about me.”

“I would.”

He turned to stare at her and nearly ran a red light.

“Sean!” she screamed as he entered the intersection.

Sean slammed on the brakes and Liz vaulted forward, the seat belt cutting into her shoulder. Her phone flew onto the dash.

“Dammit, Liz, you can't go saying things like that when I'm driving.”

“Things like what?” He frowned at her and she couldn't imagine why.

“Never mind.”

She shook her head and retrieved her phone to resume her calling.

By the time Liz and Sean arrived at the hospital, Julia had delivered a baby boy, weighing in at two pounds, ten ounces.

Sean went to assess Baby Murchison's situation while Liz made her way to the waiting area. The room was full of people
who milled around, most of them pacing restlessly, talking in low, anxious voices. She recognized Julia's cousin Georgia from the journal-writing class and introduced herself to the others.

“I have a brother,” Adam said beaming proudly as he repeatedly shook Liz's hand.

Was this really the same boy who'd given his parents nothing but grief from the moment he learned Julia was pregnant? Right now, he seemed pleased and excited. Liz hoped his enthusiasm lasted.

“Dad said we're going to name him Zachary Justin,” Zoe said and impulsively hugged Liz. “Mom talks about you all the time,” she whispered.

This was Zoe who did nothing but complain how embarrassed she was about the pregnancy?

“I think your mother's wonderful,” Liz told her. “She's very proud of you and your brother.”

Zoe's eyes filled with tears. “I think my mom's wonderful, too.”

Clare arrived ten minutes after Liz, with Karen following a half hour later. The three of them stood in one corner, talking quietly while Peter, the kids, and Julia's family settled in another section of the room. Every now and again they'd exchange comments or questions.

At about four-thirty, Peter was summoned by a nurse, apparently for a conference with Sean. As he left, tension in the room increased perceptibly.

“Two pounds is terribly small,” Clare murmured.

Liz didn't want to alarm the others, but the fact remained that poor Zachary faced a life-and-death struggle.

The room went quiet when Peter returned. “According to Dr. Jamison,” he began, “Zachary's chances of survival are very good.” He paused, then continued in a steady voice.

“About ninety percent of infants born weighing less than three pounds survive.”

“Ninety percent?” The odds sounded good to Liz, who felt a giddy sense of relief.

“Just a minute.” Peter held up his hand and silenced the group. “Before we start celebrating, we need to recognize that there could still be problems.”

Liz thought Peter Murchison looked as though he was close to collapsing from the strain.

“What else did the doctor say?” Adam pressed his father. It was the question they all wanted to ask.

“Dr. Jamison said there's no guarantee Zachary won't develop any number of other complications.”

“Such as?” a woman asked fearfully. Liz knew her to be Julia's mother.

“Cerebral palsy.”

Everyone grew quiet again.

“Apparently there's also a real fear that Zack could develop chronic respiratory problems.”

“When will we know?”

“Not for some time.” Peter's face was bleak.

“Oh, my.” Georgia breathed hard and sat down. Her husband sat with her and reached for her hand.

“This is only the beginning,” Peter said, as he slumped into a chair. “Of course, he might escape it all, but as of right now there's no way of telling.”

“Will Zachary be transferred to Laurelhurst?” Liz asked. That was where Sean's babies were usually sent because the neonatal intensive care unit there offered the technology and expertise that would give little Zachary the best chance at life.

“Dr. Jamison is making the arrangements now,” Peter said, tiredly rubbing the back of his neck.

“How's Julia?” Clare asked.

“Julia's resting… Naturally she's worried about Zachary.”

Clare nodded. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes,” Georgia cried. “Pray.”

“Zack might…die?” Adam asked, as though the information was just now beginning to sink in.

“Yes.”

“I want to see him,” Zoe pleaded. Her voice was shaky. “He's my baby brother.”

“You can't now,” Peter said as he wrapped his arms around his two older children. “I don't know yet what the policy is at Laurelhurst, but I'll do everything I can to make sure you get to see him.”

Clare drove Liz to the children's hospital, where she waited for Sean until after dinnertime. When he stepped out of the neonatal center and found her, he seemed surprised.

“I thought you'd gone home.”

“Hey, you can't get rid of me that easily.”

Sean threw his arm around her shoulders. “I'm glad you waited.”

“How's Zachary doing?”

He exhaled sharply. “About as well as can be expected. He's a little fighter—I'll give him that.”

“That's good, isn't it?”

Sean nodded. “Yes, but statistically he's the wrong gender and the wrong race.”

“I beg your pardon?” Liz knew premature girls fared better than boys, but she didn't know about race.

“We're not sure why, but black girls are the most likely survival candidates, followed by white girls and then black boys. White boys are at the bottom of that hierarchy.”

“What are the chances he'll survive undamaged?” From
what Peter had said earlier, the baby's odds of survival sounded good. It was everything else they needed to worry about. “Fifty-fifty?”

He shook his head.

“Less? More?” She wanted him to give her something to focus on, something to diminish her worry.

“I don't give estimates,” Sean said. “Too often, I'm proved wrong.”

KAREN CURTIS

August 1st

I
spent the entire day on a shoot. This commercial has the potential to get me a bit role on a sitcom, and I should be thrilled. Normally I would be, but so much is happening. I'm beginning to wonder if my head's screwed on straight.

Glen's been on my mind a lot. I can't believe I'm falling for a chemistry teacher. A brain, but he's so much fun and so levelheaded and just all-around wonderful. Last week he casually mentioned that the high school has an opening for a full-time drama teacher. That was all he said. He didn't urge me to apply, didn't give me any of the details, but he knew. He
had
to know.

The most fun I've had all year was the few days I filled in for the drama teacher. That includes
everything
else I've done, even the hair spray commercial that was shown nationally. Even
the times Glen and I have gone out. I absolutely
loved
teaching that class.

I don't have the certification required for a full-time teaching position. Oh, there are ways around that, but I have to decide if this is something I really want to the exclusion of all else. I don't know. It was a point of pride with me, too. A teacher is what my mother always said I should be. I refuse to believe she knows me so well.

Last week, when Gwen called me to audition for a bit role in
Tom, Dick and Harriet,
a pilot for a situation comedy, I hesitated. Normally I would have leaped at the chance. I hemmed and hawed until my agent asked if I actually wanted this audition, because she had thirty other clients who'd die for the opportunity. I told her I wanted it, but I don't know if that's true anymore. I'm finally close to the goal I've been after for ten years—and I'm on the verge of saying no to it all. I wish to hell I could figure out what's wrong with me.

Perhaps it's all the worry about Victoria, who still isn't speaking to me. My sister's attitude has really got me down. I've tried to explain, but the minute she recognizes my voice, she hangs up the phone. I went to her house but she wouldn't answer the door. I sent her a letter, which she blatantly ignored. A week later I mailed her a schmaltzy card about the bond between sisters. I thought if anything would work on her, it would be that. Still, not a word. I wonder how long she intends to let this continue.

Fine! Whatever! If that's the way she wants to be, then it's her loss. I've done everything I can to repair our relationship.

Mom's having difficulties with her, too. My mother called me twice last week. Twice! Apparently, Victoria's embarrassed that Mom knows about Roger's explosive temper. It seems my sister had hoped we'd all blindly look the other way and pretend
this is acceptable behavior. In your dreams, big sister—or maybe your worst nightmare.

It isn't just the falling-out with Victoria that's bothering me, or the job dilemma. The breakfast group is deeply involved with Julia and her baby. Little Zachary isn't responding as well as Dr. Jamison would like. It's tearing poor Julia apart. She's spending as much time as she can at the hospital. When she isn't with the baby, then Peter is. Julia's mother is retired now and thankfully, she's filling in at the shop. Georgia is there, too—she took vacation days to do this—and one of Julia's customers. An older woman whose name I don't remember.

Adam and Zoe finally came around. After months of claiming they wanted nothing to do with this baby, they're helping out at home and at Julia's shop, doing whatever they can. They've been incredibly helpful these last three weeks.

The situation is so intense. We all know it can go either way with Zachary. He might be all right; he might end up disabled. If he lives… Statistically, the odds for normal development aren't in his favor, and there's always that ten per cent who don't survive. Julia's in agony over it and blames herself, which makes no sense. We tell her repeatedly that she did everything she could, but she doesn't listen. She's going through this terrible guilt. If she'd eaten better, rested more, tried to do less…Everyone understands how she feels, although we know none of it is true.

Dr. Jamison has been wonderful. I remember when Liz first started seeing him and what a jerk we all thought he was. Our opinion of him has taken a one-hundred-and-eighty degree turn. He's been so kind to Julia and Peter, answering their questions, spending time with them. He hasn't minimized the dangers of Zachary's situation, and although it's painful, I know Julia wants the truth.

Last Thursday, we threw a baby shower for her. Clare gave Zachary Justin Murchison a silver baby spoon with his name engraved on it, plus three outfits. We all laughed because Zachary will probably be close to a year before he fits into them.

Liz knit him a cap and booties that look impossibly small and delicate, and she gave Julia a complete collection of Beatrix Potter stories. I found a store in L.A. close to the studio that sells clothes especially designed for preemies. My baby gift was the cutest little outfit that looks more like doll clothes. It was more than I could afford, but I don't care.

The baby shower lifted Julia's spirits. Mine, too, and everyone's. I never realized how strongly I'd feel about Julia's baby. My admiration for her grows all the time. In some ways, she's stronger than the rest of us put together. When she first discovered she was pregnant, I expected her to quietly terminate the pregnancy. I wanted to ask her why she didn't, especially when it became clear what an inconvenience the baby was going to be in all their lives. We would've understood and we certainly wouldn't have judged her. But she didn't do it.

Julia has taught me so much about inner strength and conviction. Even now, when the outcome with Zachary remains so uncertain, in my heart of hearts, I feel she did the right thing.

What with my own career, or lack thereof, my sister's problem and Julia's baby, I feel emotionally drained. This heat isn't helping, either. It's miserable, and just now that's the way my whole life feels.

 

Karen set aside her journal and took a sip from her glass of iced tea. She stretched out her legs as she tried to make herself comfortable on the patio chair—a cast-off she'd rescued from her parents' garage. At least this apartment had a balcony, tiny though it was. She sighed; her confusion seemed to be
growing, until she felt as though she was walking in waist-deep mud. Every step forward was impeded.

Wiping away the sweat on her face, she got out of her chair, wincing as her bare thighs stuck to the vinyl cushion. She recalled summers as a child when she'd wait with her sister to hear the ice-cream truck come down the street. Then she'd race Victoria to see who could reach it first.

Her heart ached constantly over the estrangement between her and Victoria. In the past, weeks had often gone by, whole months during which they didn't speak, but that was different. It just meant they lived dissimilar lives, had dissimilar interests. It didn't mean they didn't care about each other. They were
sisters
.

“That does it,” Karen muttered and without further thought, went inside to grab her wallet and car keys, then headed out. She made only one stop along the way.

Standing in front of her sister's door, she leaned on the doorbell.

Victoria appeared, looking frazzled and worn-out. She would've slammed the door shut if Karen hadn't put out her foot to prevent it.

“Remember when we were kids and we used to race to the ice-cream truck?” she asked.

“We're no longer children,” Victoria muttered. Her hand was on the door, ready to close it.

“I usually won, didn't I?”

“Is there a point to this question?” Victoria feigned boredom.

Karen was tempted to remind her sister that
she
was the actress in the family. “Here,” she said instead, and thrust out a chocolate-coated ice-cream bar with the wrapper peeled off. Unfortunately, in the late-afternoon heat, it'd already started to melt.

Victoria stared at it, as though she didn't know what to say.

“Go ahead, take it,” Karen said.

“Do you seriously believe that offering me
ice cream
will wipe out what you did? You don't get it, do you?”

“No. Why don't you tell me?”

“No.”

“I'm so sorry, Vicki. I never meant for any of this to upset you. I was only trying to help. I'm here now because I want us to talk this out.”

The bar continued to melt and Karen caught the melting chocolate in the palm of her hand.

“Come inside and get rid of that before it leaves a mess on my porch,” Victoria snapped. She opened the door wider so Karen could enter the house.

The foyer and living room were immaculate—even with a three-year-old underfoot all day. Karen's gaze fell on the coffee table and she was astonished to see that the magazines were not only in precise rows but stacked in alphabetical order.

“Throw that out.” Victoria eyed the melting ice-cream bar and nodded toward the kitchen.

Karen discarded it in the sink and thought it was a real shame her sister hadn't eaten it. Victoria was thinner than she remembered. Too thin.

“Where's Bryce?” she asked. Normally her nephew would be leaping around her the minute she arrived.

“It's naptime.”

Victoria didn't offer her anything to drink or suggest she sit down, so Karen stood with her back to the kitchen sink. A moment of stilted silence followed.

“How are you?” she asked. She searched Victoria's face and bare upper arms for bruises.

“None of your damn business.”

Karen swallowed an angry retort, reminding herself that she hadn't come here to argue. “How's Bryce?”

Victoria shrugged.

“How many times can I say I'm sorry?”

“I thought I could trust you… I thought, I hoped, you'd be the one person in the world I could talk to.”

“And then I blew it. Is that what you're saying?”

“How could you tell Mom? She's the last person I expected you to go to.” Victoria's sense of betrayal seemed to overwhelm her; fears gathered in her eyes. “Do you hate me so much?” she cried.

“No, of course I don't hate you—”

Victoria didn't allow her to finish. “Now Mom's full of questions and Dad talked to Roger, and everything's a thousand times worse, all thanks to you.”

“You don't actually think I could hate you?” Karen asked, close to tears herself. “You're my sister. The thought of anyone abusing you is more than I can bear.”

“Sure, it is,” Victoria taunted. “As I remember, you did your fair share of hitting me, too.”

“We were just kids!”

Victoria turned her back. “Go away.”

“No, I can't. I won't leave. Not until we've settled this.”

Victoria shook her head. “Nothing you can say is going to make things right.”

“You let your husband hit you.”

Victoria whirled around so she was facing her once again. “He didn't mean it,” she said heatedly.

Karen wanted to scream with frustration. How could her sister defend Roger? “Are you telling me it was an accident?”

Victoria refused to answer.

“You're furious with me because I said something to our
mother. That was an accident, too, but you won't even give me a chance to explain.”

“Roger loves me.”

“I love you, too,” Karen said. “You're my sister.”

It looked for a moment as though Victoria was prepared to listen. Karen could actually see the indecision in her face—until they heard the sound of a car door slamming.

“Roger,” Victoria whispered, and her eyes widened with panic.

A minute later, the door off the garage opened and Roger stepped into the kitchen. He hesitated when he saw Karen, and his lip curled with contempt.

“I didn't invite her,” Victoria explained hurriedly.

“If you know what's good for you, you'll get out of my house,” he threatened.

“Nice to see you, too,” Karen muttered.

Roger set his briefcase on the kitchen table and Karen watched as the blood drained from Victoria's face.

“I want to talk to my sister,” Karen insisted.

“She doesn't want to talk to you.”

“Victoria can speak for herself, thank you,” Karen said curtly, hands clenched at her sides. She wanted to hurt him the same way he'd hurt her sister.

“Fine, you tell her,” Roger ordered his wife.

“It would be best if you left now,” Victoria said, her voice low and pleading. “Please, just go.”

Karen wanted to leave, but she was afraid of what would happen to Victoria if she did. She couldn't understand why her sister let Roger control her like this, why she let him belittle and abuse her.

“Shall I phone the police?” Roger asked no one in particular. He opened the refrigerator and took out a beer.

“Maybe you should,” Karen said as calmly as her frantically
beating heart would allow. “I'm sure they'd be interested in talking to me.”

Roger slammed the beer down on the counter; at the violence of his action, Victoria cringed and leaped away. “Get the hell out of my house,” he shouted.

“I'll go, but Victoria and Bryce are coming with me.”

“No way.”

“Victoria?” Karen stared at her sister, silently begging her to walk out the door and not look back.

Her sister wavered, and for a few seconds it seemed that she just might do it.

Hope surged within Karen and she smiled in encouragement.

“Fine, go,” Roger stated calmly, as though bored by the whole scene. “But Bryce stays with me.”

Any chance of her sister leaving was destroyed by those few words.

“I'll stay,” she whispered.

Roger's smile stretched from ear to ear. “That's what I thought.”