The Summer of Good Intentions (30 page)

“You fainted,” Maggie said now, rubbing her back while the nurse checked her vitals. “At least this time you were sitting down, though.”

Virgie began to smile, but at that moment, Dr. Reynolds knocked and entered the room.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

“I'm sorry,” Virgie began, but he held up a hand.

“No need to apologize.” He sat down on a swivel stool across from her and folded his hands. “It can be quite a shock.”

“Her vitals are fine, Dr. Reynolds,” the nurse said as she ducked out of the room.

“Good. Thank you.” His kind eyes studied Virgie. “Are you feeling up to a few more questions?” She glanced at Maggie, then nodded.

“Okay. Good. So, tell me what you do for work.” Dr. Reynolds listened thoughtfully while she explained she hosted her own show on a Seattle news station.

She stopped herself. “Wait. Will this interfere with my job?” The diagnosis was still too new, too raw.

“Probably not,” he offered. “It's hard to say. It's early. It's quite possible you won't have a relapse for another ten years and you'll lead a perfectly normal life in the meantime.”

He pulled a prescription pad from his white jacket pocket and began scribbling. “We've made some remarkable advances in medication that can help reduce the number of exacerbations and even slow the progress of MS.” As he wrote, Virgie struggled to understand the meaning behind his words.

“Wait. Are you saying this is a life sentence?” She could hear the stitch in her voice. “There's no cure? It will eventually get me in the end?”

She watched as he ripped multiple white sheets of paper off his little pad. “I'm afraid we haven't found a cure for MS, per se, but many people with MS go on to live long, happy lives, often with minimal relapses. In the end, something gets us all, doesn't it?”

She knew he was trying to be supportive, but Virgie didn't want to hear it. She was accustomed to dealing in blacks and whites; there was the truth and there was not-the-truth. She wanted time lines, promises that she would continue to lead a long, productive life with, perhaps, a few minor setbacks.

He handed over the prescriptions. “I'm prescribing Avonex for you to start. It's a shot that you'll need to take once a week. You can administer it yourself. Leslie, our nurse, will show you how. There are other drugs available on the market, but let's wait and see how you do with the Avonex. Many of my patients have had good luck with it, meaning it's helped delay or even stop the onset of further lesions. There's also a prescription here for Prozac. Some of my patients find it helps them deal with the initial diagnosis.”

His delivery was so matter-of-fact that Virgie found herself wondering how many times a day he gave this little speech. “Does it work immediately?”

“What, the Prozac?” he asked. She nodded.

“Usually it takes a few weeks before you'll start to notice a difference. But again, if you don't feel like you need it, you shouldn't feel compelled to fill the prescription.”

“Oh, I'm pretty sure I'll need it.” She folded the prescriptions over and stuck them in her purse. “What else could happen?” she pressed. “There are other scenarios you're not telling me about.” She felt the silence sit between them as he pondered her question.

“The disease progresses in different ways for every individual,” he explained delicately. “For the kind you have, relapsing/remitting, most patients do quite well for many years before they notice any significant impairment, like having to rely on a cane for balance.”

“A cane?” She felt her eyebrows shoot up involuntarily. “I can't use a cane! I'm only thirty-five.”

“Whoa. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.” Dr. Reynolds held up two hands. “I didn't say that you
would
need one, only that some people do, and not for quite a long time. Physical therapy can be helpful, too. But let's explore that possibility later, if we need to.”

Maggie reached across for Virgie's hand. “Thank you, Doctor. You've given us a lot to think about,” she said.

Dr. Reynolds nodded and stood. “I know I have, and I'm sorry it's all so overwhelming. Why don't you review the materials that Leslie will give you and we can set up a time to talk later, once you've had a chance to digest everything?”

Virgie nodded, but she hoped Maggie was listening. Because the doctor's words were spilling over her, great, crashing waves of information.

When he left, Maggie leaned in and hugged her. “Oh, Virg,” she said gently. “I love you. We all love you. We're going to get through this, okay?” Her big sister's words were all it took for Virgie to break, great sobs wracking her body for the first time since Arthur's body had washed up on shore. She was crying for herself, for her dad, for Gloria, for all of them. Life was so short. You never knew how good you had it.

Until you didn't.

Maggie drew a warm bath for Luke and tested the water with her hand. She swirled around the bubbles that clumped together like tiny islands. “Perfect,” she declared. Luke lowered himself in, sinking his entire body into the suds until only his face peered out. “I'm going to throw in some laundry while you soak,” she told him.

“What?” he pulled his head up slightly, unable to hear underwater.

She laughed and repeated her words. “Okay.” He sank back down.

They'd arrived home yesterday, though frankly it felt like minutes ago. Maggie had intended to head up to Maine today, but then Virgie's little doctor's appointment had turned into yet another crisis. As soon as they came home, her sister closed herself off in the guest bedroom. Maggie brought up a cheeseburger for dinner, Virgie's favorite, but it sat untouched outside her door. She hadn't even opened the door for Lexie or Soph when they knocked.

What would her sister do?
Maggie hated the thought of Virgie going back to Seattle by herself. Even if the progression of MS could be halted, Maggie didn't think anyone should have to bear the weight of an illness by themselves.
We're family,
she told Virgie on the ride home from the hospital.
Families take care of each other
.
Why not think about sticking around longer? Maybe get an extended leave of absence until you figure out what you want to do?
Even if Jackson were as terrific as she said he was, she'd known him for a total of what? Maybe eight weeks? Could Virgie really count on him if she needed help?

You know, Virgie,
Maggie counseled,
sometimes even the most fabulous people need help. And, it's okay. People
want
to help—you only have to ask
. Virgie nodded, but Maggie could tell her mind was a thousand miles away. When they got home, Maggie went online:
An estimated 2.5 million people suffered from multiple sclerosis worldwide. It often went undetected for many years. Approximately 400,000 people in the U.S. had it. About 10,000 new cases were diagnosed each year. There might be a genetic factor.
She read that line twice, three times. Were they all carriers of an MS gene?

All their lives had taken a free fall the last few weeks with Arthur's passing. And now this. She liked to imagine that Arthur was hovering up above, watching out for them. But if he was, he was doing a pretty lousy job of it so far.

She got up to leave and found Mac, standing outside the bathroom door.

“Oh, hi, honey. I didn't know you were there.”

“Sorry.” He took a step back, sank onto the bed. He was quiet.

“What's going on? Everything okay?” She walked over to him and rested her hands on his shoulders. “Tracy will be here at seven tomorrow morning, if that's what you're worried about. She's great. The kids love her. You guys will be fine while I'm away.”

He nodded. “Thanks. I know we will.” He reached up and took a strand of her hair. He twirled it around his finger. “So, you know that thing we talked about earlier?”

Her mind wound through the litany of things they'd discussed lately. Virgie's diagnosis. The summer house. The possibility that Virgie might stay with them longer. The matter of Arthur's house and what to do about it. She arched her eyebrows.

“You know, about being foster parents,” he said quietly.

“Oh, that,” she said, dialing back her surprise. She'd had little time to give it more thought lately.

“I know it's important to you.” He hesitated and wrapped his arms around her waist, not looking at her.

“But?” she asked, her chest tightening.

“But.” Mac lifted his eyes and met her stare. “I'm still not sure.”

“Oh.” His uncertainty lay between them, a stretch of unfamiliar territory. She studied his face to see if he were talking in euphemism, another way of saying he
was
sure but didn't want to hurt her. Just not now, when she was already fragile. “Okay,” she said, her heart winging in her chest. “ ‘Not sure' doesn't mean no, though, does it?”

“No.” He dropped his eyes. “It doesn't.”

She ran her hands through his hair. “It's not like we have to make up our minds today. Besides, we still have to get approved.”

He exhaled. “Right. Thank you.”

He leaned toward her and rested his head on her stomach. “I just don't want to disappoint you. And with everything that's been happening lately . . .”

“Shh.” She didn't know what else to say. “We can discuss it later.” She felt a sliver of something—disappointment? anger?—but it was dulled by her own increasing weariness. “Keep an eye on Luke, okay? I'm going to throw in a load of laundry.” She pulled away from him and headed downstairs.

In the laundry room, six piles of dirty clothes greeted her. Even though she could have sworn she'd washed four loads before leaving the summer house. Had the kids simply dumped their suitcases here without any regard to what was clean, what was dirty? She picked up a T-shirt and sniffed, the fresh scent of fabric softener wafting up.

“Sophie, Lexie!” she called out. “Report to the laundry room, please!”

She heard groans from the family room, then dragging feet. “What is it, Mom?” Sophie poked her head around the doorway.

“Did you girls even check to see what's clean and what's not before emptying your suitcases on the floor?”

They exchanged looks. “I thought it was all dirty,” said Lexie.

“No!” Maggie understood her anger was disproportionate to the crime, but she couldn't help herself. Honestly, how much more could she be expected to do around here? “I told you girls that your clean clothes were folded on your beds before we packed at the summer house. Obviously, no one listened.”

“Here.” She threw them all back into the laundry basket. “Take these upstairs and sort the clean from the dirty.”

“But, Mom,” Sophie whined. “How can we tell?”

“Do the smell test,” Maggie advised. “If it smells fresh, like fabric softener, odds are it's clean and I don't want to see it again until it's been worn.”

They lumbered up the stairs, baskets in hand, while she began to sort a load of darks for herself and Mac. She tossed in sweatshirts, Mac's boxers, sweaty T-shirts, towels that still carried the smell of the ocean. So, Mac didn't want another child in their lives.
Possibly
didn't want another child, she reminded herself.
Okay,
she thought.
Breathe
. That didn't mean he wasn't happy with the life they'd created. To the contrary, he was content with three kids and didn't want to tip the scales further. “We're already playing zone defense,” he'd told her one night at the summer house, referencing the fact that, as parents, they were outnumbered in the Herington family. Two to three. Add another child in the mix and the ratio would be four kids to two adults.

Then why did Maggie feel so certain that this was the next step for her? That helping another child who might not otherwise have a home was what she was meant to do? She drew in a long breath and sighed. Maybe Mac was right. Their lives were crazy enough right now. Maybe she was nuts to think about signing up for more. Right now, she needed to help Virgie and get Arthur's affairs in order. The rest could wait.

As she neared the end of the dirty laundry pile, she spied a single sock at the bottom. It wasn't one of Mac's tube socks, and it was too big to be one of the kids'. She picked it up, turning it over in her hands. Maybe it was Tim's? It looked familiar. Then she realized where she'd seen another one like it. In Arthur's suitcase at the summer house. It was thick and woolly, and she'd remarked on it when she'd gone through his suitcase. What had he been thinking bringing such warm socks out in the hazy, humid days of July? She'd tossed it, along with almost all the other stuff that had been crammed into his suitcase and car. And now, here was its match.