Shore Lights (44 page)

Hannah
.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, then crossed herself. Hannah was only four years old.

She lingered in the hallway between the cafeteria and the entrance to the ER, watching Maddy and Rose fill out the endless reams of paperwork. She wanted to walk over to them and say something comforting, but she couldn't think of anything that wouldn't sound trite and insincere. She'd only met Hannah last night, after all, and how much of a connection could you forge with a four-year-old over supper and a teapot?

Still, there had been a connection between them, a very real one.
Click
. Like the sound of a door being unlocked. Once, when Hannah was pouring water from Rose's bedside pitcher into the samovar to serve pretend tea, Kelly had experienced the sensation that Hannah was somehow taking her in hand, teaching her things she needed to know.

None of which made the slightest bit of sense, no matter how you looked at it.

But then, who would have imagined that the little girl with the sad blue eyes would be rushed by ambulance to Good Sam less than twenty-four hours later?

She forced herself into the corridor and toward the waiting area. Rose disappeared into the ladies' room while Maddy leaned against the doorway to the office with her eyes closed.

Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of Kelly's footsteps.

“Kelly.” Her eyes widened. “What are you doing here?”

“It's my grandmother,” she said, determined not to get weepy. “They think she's—” She couldn't say the word, so she shrugged instead, a big up-and-down motion of her shoulders.

“Oh, honey.” There was nothing but compassion in Maddy's eyes as she reached out to touch her hand. “I'm so sorry.”

Click
. Another connection she didn't understand.

“I saw you and Mrs. DiFalco and—” She forced herself to take a deep breath. “Is Hannah very sick?”
Stupid question. How could you ask such a stupid question?

Maddy's eyes welled with tears, but there was still nothing but kindness in her expression. “I don't know, Kelly. She's restless, yet we can't seem to rouse her from sleep. She keeps pulling at her pajamas, the sheet, the blanket—Rose heard her mumbling something, but we couldn't understand her.”

Dread washed over Kelly and she struggled to keep the fear from her eyes. Maddy's description of Hannah's condition sounded exactly like the way Grandma Irene had been acting all day.

No
.

She refused to let her mind move in that direction. She tried to will the thought into extinction. Suddenly she longed to see Seth, to see her father, to hold Grandma Irene's hand. Terrible things happened every moment of every day. You could be walking down the street one morning, young and healthy and happy, and a car could jump the curb and your life, your future, your hopes—everything, gone in an instant.

“Ms. Bainbridge?” A nurse popped out of the admissions office. “Your daughter's in Room 2. I'll bring the rest of the paperwork back there for you to sign.”

Maddy thanked the woman, then turned again to Kelly.

“I'd better get back before my dad wonders where I've disappeared to,” she said.

“Thanks,” Maddy said, kissing her swiftly on the cheek. “I'll say a prayer for your grandma.”

 
ROSE LEANED AGAINST the narrow sink in the closet-sized rest room and took a deep breath. The air barely made it into her lungs. She closed her eyes and tried again.
Breathe
, they all say. Just breathe deeply and your anxieties will melt away like snow in spring.

Of all the hospitals in South Jersey, why did it have to be Good Samaritan? If she wasn't feeling so fragile right now, she would appreciate the irony. She had been diagnosed here at Good Sam, had surgery at Good Sam, endured chemo and radiation at Good Sam. And all because it was the one hospital her family and friends rarely used.

Secrets required planning, and Rose had always been good with details. Of course it was inconvenient—Good Sam was a longer drive—but blessed anonymity was well worth it.

And now there she was, selfishly wrestling with her own ridiculous fears while her beloved granddaughter lay sick in the ER and her prickly and equally beloved daughter struggled to hold it all together.

You should be out there helping her, Rosie, not cowering in the bathroom
.

“Tell her,” she said to the terrified old woman in the mirror. “Tell her while it's still your choice.”

Before someone else took matters into their own hands and told Maddy for her.

 
“IRINA! YOU'RE NOT to tease your sister like that. You are late for your studies, and Monsieur LeGrand says your grammar is most appalling. Come along! Come along!” It is most important that the girls learn to speak perfect French as befits their position in Russian society.

But Irina knows Natalya will not punish her. The big house is filled with love, each floor, every room, and she knows it will always be that way
. . . .

 
IRENE CONTINUED TO hover in some sort of half-world. A feeling of sorrow permeated the room, almost visible like fog rolling across the snowy beach. Aidan had finally gotten it through his head that there wasn't going to be a happy ending this time. Irene was dying. Each shaky inhalation of breath moved her closer to that moment when respiration would slow, her heart would stop, her life would end.

Nurses came and went. They checked Irene's bedclothes, wiped her brow with a damp cloth, swabbed her mouth with what looked like a cotton lollipop, tried to offer her sips of water, which she refused to take. Each step toward the end choreographed with the tight precision of a ballet.

She is thinking of Nikolai, her beloved Kolya, and the look in his beautiful blue eyes when he sees her in this lovely dress
. . . .

 
THEY HAD STOPPED suggesting that he might like to go home for a while, that there was little point to being there. She didn't know. She didn't see. She didn't care. “It could be hours, it could be days,” the doctor said.

“You might as well go home for a while and come back later.”

He told them he was staying put. Irene wasn't going to die alone.

It was toughest on Kelly. She couldn't stay in the room more than ten minutes at a time. Irene would make a sound or start plucking at the bedclothes, and his daughter's face would turn white, and next thing he knew she was off to make another phone call or buy another cup of coffee.

He glanced at his watch and saw it was almost seven o'clock. She'd been gone quite awhile. He wondered if this time she'd bailed for good. No matter how many times you'd been in its company, no matter how old you were, death was never easy.

“Daddy.” Kelly stood in the doorway. She looked stricken.

“What's wrong?”

She stepped closer and he could see she had been crying. “They brought Rose DiFalco's granddaughter into the emergency room.”

“Jesus.” He felt like he'd been sucker punched. “How bad?”

“I don't know,” Kelly said. “Maddy looks pretty scared.”

He was on his feet. “You mind being alone here for a while?”

Kelly shook her head. “I'll be okay.”

He saw the fear in her eyes and the resolve. This young woman who had seen too much of death already.

“If anything happens—”

“I know,” she said. “I'll find you.”

He had the sense of being trapped in a bad and familiar dream, the one where everything that matters is slipping through his fingers and washing out to sea. Last night he had almost believed the bad times were coming to an end, that maybe there was a chance to turn the O'Malleys' long run of lousy luck around and start over again. Figure out happy. Get a lock on optimistic. Maybe even snag one of those fairy-tale endings he had stopped believing in a long time ago.

 
SHE HEARS HIM leave the room. She tries to call out to him, but her words are a tumble of that long-ago language, of sounds that seem to begin somewhere beyond this shell of a body that lies dying on the white bed. She senses the girl, that lovely child whose name is so hard for her to remember, crying softly from somewhere close by. Is that love? She wonders. It has been a very long time. . . .

But it is only the girl with the soft hands and sweet voice who touches her, whispering in Irina's ear
. . . .

 
“I KNOW YOU can hear me,” Kelly said to Grandma Irene. “You may not be able to answer me, but I know you're listening to every word.”

She squeezed Irene's hand gently, and for a moment thought she felt the slightest pressure in response. The doctors would say it was only a reflex action, some involuntary motion that hopeful relatives invariably misinterpreted the way they misinterpret a newborn's grimace for a smile.

“I'll bet Grandpa Michael's waiting for you,” she said. “And Billy, too. You were the first one to explain heaven to me . . . do you remember? I was just a little girl, and you took the time to explain it all in a way I could understand. . . .”

She talked softly, drifting from subject to subject, trying to ignore the odd sounds Irene made from time to time. They sounded like words, but certainly not English words. Gaelic maybe? They almost sounded Russian, but that was ridiculous. Where would Irene learn Russian?

Click
.

Another connection made.

The samovar was resting on the chair in the corner of the room. She imagined she could see it shimmering and bright inside the shopping bag. A second later it was on her lap, almost on the edge of Irene's bed.

“I wish you could see this samovar, Grandma,” she said. “It's almost an exact duplicate of the one you and Grandpa Michael displayed at O'Malley's.”

She gently lifted Irene's hand and placed it on the curve of the handle.

“See? I was told it was in terrible shape, but Rose DiFalco polished it up. It's for her granddaughter . . . Hannah's four years old and she thinks it looks like Aladdin's lamp from the Disney movie. Hannah's in the hospital, too, right down the hall. They don't—”

Was she imagining it, or did a smile swiftly move across her grandmother's face as she touched the base of the samovar?

“I wish I'd known Grandpa Michael. He loved you so much. Everybody says so. I hope that Seth and I can be as happy as you and Grandpa were.”

She held her breath. Irene's long, beautiful fingers were tracing the leaves and vines entwined on the handle.

“They had dozens of samovars at the Russian Tea Room,” she babbled on. “You would have loved them. Our debating coach treated us to lunch there the day we won the Tristate Gold Medal.”

On and on she went, talking about everything that popped into her head while her grandmother's fingers inspected every inch of the samovar. It was a little unsettling. Irene's eyes remained closed, and the rest of her body remained perfectly still. Only those beautiful hands were in motion.

“Why a Russian samovar, Grandma? Why did Grandpa Michael buy you a samovar?” In a restaurant that had been filled with shamrocks and shillelaghs, it was definitely a strange choice.

Did he buy it because it was beautiful? Because it filled an empty space in the front lobby? Because it was the only type of teapot she didn't have?

Or maybe he bought it because it meant something that only the two of them understood.

Click
.

Irene began to whimper, and then the whimpers became loud sobs that brought a floor nurse running.

“What's wrong?” the nurse asked as she checked the IV line. “Did she try to get up?”

“She was running her hand along this teapot,” Kelly said, “and the next second she was crying.”

“Poor thing.” The nurse adjusted the drip, then stepped over to the computer terminal to key in the information. “I promise we'll find the right balance. We want to keep her as comfortable as possible.” She inclined her head in the direction of the samovar. “You might want to stow that. No use upsetting her any more.”