When We Were Sisters (23 page)

26

Robin

Children are perceptive. They know when storms are brewing. Children are also willing to overlook clouds gathering above them if an adult pretends skies are sunny. Nik and Pet must know Kris and I are having problems. But when I told them I thought it would be fun to visit Aunt Cecilia in Florida over the holiday, they took me at my word.

I guess it helped that Kris bought each of them bare bones smartphones with GPS tracking in case they got into trouble, and he made sure they got on their nonstop flight instead of leaving that to Elena. They have friends who split their time between mothers and fathers. Maybe it seems normal, considering. Or maybe, deep inside, they know this is something they'll need to get used to.

On Wednesday we swam and lazed in the sun, and I let Cecilia and Donny take them shopping for “Florida clothes.” My sister's found a certain anonymity here, which brings her pleasure. The locals pretend to ignore her, and because they do, tourists decide they've imagined that
the
Cecilia is buying T-shirts and flip-flops at CVS with everybody else. Of course sunglasses and silly beach hats help, too.

Now, as Cecilia's housekeeper puts the finishing touches on the only vegan Thanksgiving dinner my kids will likely ever have, Fifi—everyone in the unit has taken up Fiona's nickname—is tossing Frisbees to Nik and Pet. All three of them are just barely holding their own. Nik has been in the water once, and Roscoe, with his matchstick legs, beat Pet to the Frisbee a moment ago and dragged it down the beach.

Mick plunked to the sand beside me to watch the game. “Fifi loves kids. She always wanted a brother or sister. But by the time she was old enough to care, her mother and I knew we weren't going to last.”

“I'm not sure Kris and I are going to last.” The moment I said it, I wondered why. The words could be construed as an invitation. I feel an undeniable spark igniting whenever Mick is near, and I think he does, too, but neither of us has acknowledged it.

“What's he like?”

“Quiet. Controlled. Responsible.” I thought a bit more. “Married to his job.”

“That's part of the reason my marriage ended.”

“Were you sorry?”

“Not really. If she'd forced me to choose, which I guess in a way she did, I would have chosen my career.”

“What was wrong with her that you would have made that choice?”

“Are you asking what's wrong with
you
?”

I was. In our weeks on the road Mick and I had talked about almost everything except our mutual attraction. His films were an outgrowth of his wisdom. And he could be trusted.

“I can't help thinking if Kris wanted to be home more, he could find a way.”

“Home with you, right?”

“Right.”

“Fifi's mother needed attention. Lots of it. Still does, and Fifi gives it to her.”

I had noticed how much attention Fifi gave Mick, too.

“My emotional energy goes into my films,” he said. “I couldn't hold her hand every time she needed it. I loved her, but I couldn't stand living with her. She drained me.”

Did I drain Kris? I honestly didn't think so. For years I'd asked for so little. We were building something together. We both thought so. Then I made the mistake of asking for more.

“You probably know this, but before I took this assignment I almost died in a car wreck.”

“Cecilia told me.”

“It changed everything. Afterward I realized I was halfway to invisible. I let that happen, but Kris doesn't see it.”

“Because you're still visible to him?”

“No, I think he just stopped looking for me a long time ago.”

“Then he's a fool.”

I wished it were that simple. “Kris believes that providing for us equals love. His own father is an artist and a political rabble-rouser. They were poor—”

“That figures.”

“Kris doesn't want us to be poor or insecure. I understand that. I'm just not willing to live with the consequences anymore.”

“What about Kris?”

This was the hardest part to tell. “Since the accident he's closed himself off. He's never once asked me how I'm feeling. It's like he doesn't notice I almost died. He wants to work even harder, but now I won't let him. So he's furious.”

“There he was, working all the time to keep you secure and safe, and you almost got yourself killed. Of course he's furious.”

I was startled. This was an insight I hadn't reached on my own. “The car was totaled. I lost one of my closest friends, and
Kris
is the one who gets to be furious?”

“You're furious, too, Robin. You don't know that?”

For a moment I couldn't draw a breath. Because, of course Mick was right. I was beyond furious. I was willing to end my marriage rather than remain the same woman who had gotten into that car the night of the accident and given up my seat so Talya could die in my place.

I rested my face in my hands. Mick put his arm around me and his lips close to my ear.

“Your husband is about to lose something wonderful, something irreplaceable. He thinks he's doing everything for you, and he's angry you can't see his sacrifice. Kris wants to take care of you.”

“Is that what men do?”

“I don't want to take care of anybody. Not even Fifi. I let her take care of me, and so does her mother. We both have to remind ourselves she needs things. It has to be conscious, and half the time I forget. I don't have a selfless bone in my body. Your husband sounds like he might have too many.”

“This is an odd way to defend him, Mick. By criticizing yourself.”

“I'm not defending him. He's making a big mistake.”

I lifted my head and patted his hand in thanks. We went back to sitting side by side, arms in their proper places. But I was struggling not to cry.

After a few moments, he spoke again. “You want a partner. You want to be a partner. Not all men are cut out for that.”

“Kris thinks I'll get this out of my system.”

“Does he really?”

I scooped up sand and let it dribble through my fingers. Did he? Because we hadn't talked, really talked, in so long I didn't know what my husband thought. I was projecting, and it was the best I could do.

Mick knew it was time to change the subject. He stood and offered me his hand. I took it, and he helped me up. I saw Pet looking our way and dropped his hand immediately.

The five of us and Roscoe walked to a point not far away where we watched sailboats on the horizon. Nik hadn't said much since his arrival. He seemed happy and excited to be doing something so exotic when his friends were watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade and entertaining ancient aunts and uncles. But he hadn't told me he'd missed me, or said anything about what was going on at home. I'd heard all about school, but like his father, with Nik the important things usually go unsaid.

Now he made a point of facing me. “Dad likes the beach.”

I wasn't sure how Nik knew this since we'd only rarely gone as a family, and we'd never been to Sanibel, although we'd had a standing invitation since Cecilia bought
Casa del Corazón
.

And why hadn't the children and I just come without Kris? Why had I wrapped my life so tightly around his and let him call the shots?

“He would be here if he could be,” Nik said, as if he knew my thoughts.

This was Nik fighting for his family, as direct as he would ever be. I manufactured a carefully noncommittal answer. “It's the pits to have to work on a holiday.”

“He said he'll eat at a restaurant.”

“At least he'll have turkey,” Pet said.

She and Nik made faces. Cecilia had warned them they would be eating tofu for dinner. I happen to know she ordered a roast turkey from a deli and while most of the meal will be comfortably vegan, all the meat eaters will be satisfied.

“Pet, you and I have a pie to make.” I looked at my son. “Do you want to help?”

“Aunt Cecilia said I could listen while she and Gizzie work on their song.”

“Go for it.”

We started back, Pet carrying Roscoe, who'd worn himself out. “What special things do you like for Thanksgiving dinner?” I asked Fifi.

“It's always different. We usually go to a restaurant. I get to choose.”

She and Pet, who has adventurous tastes, compared their favorite cuisines while I thought about being juggled between parents on holidays. Nik picked up shells. Mick fell behind to film a phalanx of terns on the shoreline with his tiny GoPro camera. Everything felt so comfortable, so normal, but in reality there was nothing normal about this. At home on Thanksgiving I never had time for a leisurely walk. I cooked all day, determined to give my family and Kris's parents the best. By day's end I was always exhausted.

And I loved it.

Maybe I
was
furious, as Mick had pointed out, but I still missed my husband and the life I thought we'd been making together.

Inside the house Cecilia and Gizzie were cozied up to a grand piano in the sizable great room. Gizzie is closing in on fifty, but he still looks like a kewpie doll, with a froth of orange hair above black-framed glasses. He wore a loud floral shirt, plaid shorts and sandals with straps that crisscrossed halfway up his calves. He was playing snatches of melodies, and Cecilia was stopping him to comment or sing a different line.

All those years ago Gizzie was probably the first person in New York who realized Cecilia had what it took to reach the stars. He's famous in his own right now, but they still collaborate. Their best songs are written together. The theme song for
At the Mercy of Strangers
will probably be extraordinary.

Dark-haired Pat, Gizzie's partner, wearing a suit and tie, was stretched out on the sofa. Donny was reading in the corner.

This was my family for the holiday weekend. An eclectic, exotic mix of talented superstars. I was lucky to have them and glad to be here.

I wondered what cuisine my husband would try tonight. Would he stick with the old standbys mass-produced in some all-American restaurant in Norfolk, or would he opt for Indian or Thai? Whatever he chose I was certain I would never know, just like I was certain that when Kris called to wish our children a happy Thanksgiving, he would not ask to speak to me.

27

Kris

We ordered Thanksgiving dinner at an upscale seafood chain. Merv, me and his company controller, an anemic-looking blonde who seems as depressed as I am. Merv explained he'd invited Josie to dine with us because her family was out of town for the weekend. Like me, Josie had probably been roped into working today, so her family made plans without her. I was itching to point that out to Robin as evidence that women sometimes put jobs before family, even on an important holiday. But our problems are large enough that no example—especially one that's clearly making the example herself miserable—will fix them.

Turkey with all the trimmings was featured on tonight's menu, but I couldn't make myself order a chain version of what Robin does so brilliantly. I wondered if she was cooking for Cecilia and my children. It's unlikely. There are probably others spending the weekend in Sanibel, too. Maybe half of LA's music scene is dishing up cranberry sauce and sweet potatoes served with a flourish by a trio of celebrity chefs. Maybe in a few weeks I can turn on the Food Network and enjoy the meal vicariously.

“Your salmon okay?” Merv asked.

Seconds elapsed before I realized I was the only person at the table dining on salmon. Considering how little attention I'd paid, I could have chewed and swallowed the cedar plank it was cooked on.

“Excellent. And your...shrimp?” Shrimp seemed like a safe guess, although what had once been swimming in the ocean was now swimming in an opaque red sauce on his plate.

“I eat here a lot. This is one of my favorites.”

“I can see why.” Although honestly, I had no clue.

“My husband is allergic to seafood,” Josie said. “And one of my little boys. It's a nice treat for me.”

She looked like she'd rather be eating rusty nails, but Merv took her at her word. “Nice of you to stay over and do the tour this weekend.”

Her smile was tight enough to suppress whatever she really wanted to say. I flashed an answering one in sympathy.

“So you liked what you saw?” Merv asked me. “We'll finish in the morning, then you can be on your way home. Bet that wife of yours is cooking up a feast.”

Josie pushed her plate away, as if her taste for seafood had been eternally satisfied after one skewer of scallops. “What's on the agenda for the morning?”

“I'll show Kris a couple more stores, then we're heading over to the outsourcing facility.” Between bites of whatever he was eating, Merv launched into a tirade about the hideous burden of reporting what came into and went out of the facility, the new legal parameters for registration that he hoped to avoid, and ridiculous inspection standards in the wake of a fungal meningitis outbreak that had been traced to another compounding pharmacy chain in Massachusetts.

“We're the good guys,” Merv said. “Back in the nineteenth century all prescriptions were compounded by the village apothecary. You and me? We might not even be here to have this little talk if our great-grandparents hadn't been able to count on them. Nowadays, you need a dosage different than the big companies think you ought to have? A different flavor for your kid who won't take cherry antibiotics? How about marshmallow? We can do that. Two medicines in one? We can do that, too, so you don't have so many pills. Something that always worked for you before but's suddenly discontinued?” He turned up his hands. “You need a compounding pharmacy. Right, Josie?”

I was reminded of a doll Pet owned as a little girl. She would pull a string at the back and the doll would recite rotating phrases. Josie looked as if her own string had just been jerked and jerked hard.

“We can provide things like preservative-free eyedrops, because our facilities are sterile.” She sighed, although I doubt she realized it.

Merv set off on another tirade on the evils of big drug companies, the FDA, inspectors who were only interested in checklists and the price of equipment that met today's standards. I tuned him out since I'd already heard this and simply nodded whenever there was a significant pause.

I believe there is a need for compounding pharmacies. That's not an issue with me. But I was already uncomfortable with some of what I'd seen on today's tour. Merv's nostalgia for the village apothecary carries over to his shops, particularly the one in nearby Virginia Beach. They're cluttered and dusty. The pharmacist-manager at that Pedersen's should have been practicing golf strokes with his cronies for at least a decade. Did the guy love his job or was Pedersen such a miserly boss he couldn't retire? Had he stayed with Pedersen so long because nobody else would hire him? Was he mentally acute enough to mix medications?

Those questions triggered more personal ones. Would I keep working well into my seventies? By then, would I have any reason to stop? My kids would be gone. And my wife?

Pedersen excused himself to find the men's room, and Josie and I were alone.

“You would rather be with your family, wouldn't you?” I asked, still caught up in self-examination.

“My God, yes. Pedersen's such a—” She realized what she'd said, and in horror tried to retract it, but I stopped her.

“Does this guy ever stop talking?”

Now we'd traded Pedersen insults. Neither of us could report the other without fear of being reported ourselves.

“Never.” She looked as if she wanted to burst into tears, but I was beginning to think that was her normal expression.

“There must be other benefits to your job.”

“I'm looking for another one. Job, not benefit.” The revelation seemed to make her feel better. “I'm giving notice next week. I'll serve my kids beans and corn bread every night, if it comes to that.” She smiled, a real smile this time. “And next year, Thanksgiving turkey.”

“Pedersen's lectures getting to you?”

“You know I can't say much.”

I leaned toward her. “This will be off the record.”

“He'll make a fool of himself if he sues. Don't get involved.”

“It's my job to be sure he doesn't make a fool of himself.”

“God himself can't pull off a miracle like that one.”

I waited, but nothing else was forthcoming. I knew she'd said all she would or could, and by then Pedersen was on his way to the table again, this time ranting about the crowd in the men's room.

Pedersen insisted on dessert. I avoided the pumpkin pie and had pecan, which Robin never makes. I was almost home free. I would call my children from the hotel room and wish them a happy Thanksgiving. Before they left town I'd programmed their new phones so they can only communicate with family members and 911. Even with those restrictions I know they'll be carrying them everywhere for a while because of the novelty.

Robin and I haven't spoken since I told her I would be working today. I'd texted the children's flight times, and she'd texted back to say she'd gotten the information and would be waiting.

And whose fault is that? I have an uncomfortable feeling I'm not going to like the answer once it finally becomes clear.

I'd had the good sense to drive to Norfolk, so tonight I had my own car and didn't have to depend on Pedersen. At the restaurant door I wished my dinner companions a good evening and tipped the valet twice what I normally do, since the young man had been forced to work today, too.

The moment I pulled away I noticed a car that had been lingering in the drop-off area pull away, too. That was normal enough, but for the ten-minute drive to the hotel, every time I looked in my rearview mirror I noticed the same silver-blue sedan right behind me, even when I tested my theory by switching lanes and darting in and out of traffic. I wasn't worried. To my knowledge nobody had any reason to shadow me unless my wife has decided I'm having an affair instead of dinner with a blowhard.

I had chosen a motel near the interstate in hopes I might have a head start for home if we finished our business today. Things didn't work out that way, but tomorrow I would leave as soon as I could. No one would be home to greet me, but I might be able to get some serious work done without Pet and Nik, so when they did return I could spend a little time with them.

I took the exit, sped through a yellow light and made a sharp turn. I was relieved when I pulled into the parking lot and nobody followed me. I found a slot near the corridor that led to my room, but I kept the engine running. Wise move. When the silver-blue sedan came around the corner, I pulled out again and drove to the front, parking under the roof over the entranceway. I turned off my engine and got out my phone, punching in 911. But I waited to press Talk.

The car pulled up directly behind me and a man stepped out. He held up his hands, then extended them palms first, as if showing me he was unarmed. Not that he couldn't have been hiding a gun in his pocket. This is Virginia, after all, and getting a concealed-carry license is as easy as proving you're twenty-one, minimally competent and moderately law-abiding.

I decided I was safe enough, and I got out to face him, but I moved around my door and placed it between us.

“Want to tell me why you followed me?” I held up my phone as a warning.

He stepped out into the open. “I saw you eating dinner with Mervin Pedersen.”

“Last time I checked eating dinner is legal, even normal.”

“You're his lawyer, aren't you?”

Quite honestly, I would rather be almost anyone else. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he treats the people who serve him. At the end of our meal Pedersen made racist comments about a Sikh bussing a neighboring table and complained about our meals to our overworked server, as if hoping for a refund or at least free dessert. Once he headed for the exit I had tipped them both in apology. I wasn't about to have a heart-to-heart with this guy, though.

I took the offensive. “How do you know who I am?”

“He ever tell you he was forced to get a protective order against the father of the woman he killed with his filthy antibiotic?”

I studied him. Clearly
he
was the father, a tired-looking, balding man of about sixty, dressed in jeans and a pastel green sweatshirt. The sweatshirt, emblazoned with the University of Virginia's crossed swords, was sizes too small. Once upon a time it had probably belonged to his daughter.

“No contact,” he said, in affirmation. “I just follow him from a distance. Then I talk to the people he talks to.”

“You could be sued, you know. For defamation.”

“Not if what I'm saying is true. I'm told he'd have to prove it isn't. And me? I just tell all those people what it was like to watch my daughter die and not be able to do a damn thing.”

From my research I knew that the husband of the young woman who had died had settled out of court. All the victims had, and Pedersen was still furious he had been forced to pay. In fact, afterward he had fired his lawyers and come to us.

“You settled. Or rather your son-in-law did,” I said. “And Pedersen never admitted fault in her death.”

“No, that was part of the agreement. I never would have signed it, but then I'm just the father. Her husband wanted the whole thing over. He even tried to give me half.” From his tone I could tell he would carve out his heart rather than take a cent that had once belonged to Pedersen.

I was familiar with the amount, generous enough to put this matter to rest, or so I'd thought.

“Your daughter was very sick before she was treated. Pneumonia, right? Complicated by a heart defect? No doctor could say for a fact the tainted injection was the cause of death. How can you say it was if they couldn't? Won't you be a lot happier if you just let this go and move on with your life?”

He stared at me, and I tried not to flinch. I guess neither of us could believe I had said something so stupid.

He finally spoke. “You tell me. Somebody
you
love dies, and you think you just move on? I never had a chance to tell her how much I loved her. By the time her husband called me, she was in a coma. That happened to you, you wouldn't ask yourself every single day what you could have done differently? You wouldn't try to seek justice? What if she was
your
daughter or
your
wife?

My wife
had
nearly died. But I was lucky, more so than this man. Fate had waved her magic wand and someone else had died in Robin's place.

Revelations come at all times in all places. I answered the man's question silently. What had I done? I had distanced myself from the horror, from the recurring nightmare of a speeding car, from my love for my wife. Because when you love somebody that much? Losing her is too painful.

Just ask Michael, who used to live next door.

“I can't even imagine how much this hurts,” I said slowly, although I thought maybe I could.

“Pedersen's not stupid, which is a shame. After the first hint of trouble, before anybody could get in to do an inspection, he cleaned every single inch of the facility that manufactured that so-called sterile solution for those antibiotics. He got rid of outdated equipment and threatened his staff if they said anything about the cleanup to the inspectors. But people who used to work there tell me his standards were always lax, and he pinched pennies on supplies and equipment. Room design? Operations? Maintenance? They were all substandard. There were other problems, too, but Pedersen made them go away.”

“If this is true, why haven't those people spoken to the authorities? Threats or not.”

He cupped his hand and rubbed his thumb over his fingertips.

“A bribe?” I asked.

He didn't answer. Maybe answering was one step too close to slander.

I changed the subject. “Why did he have to get a protective order? Were you threatening him?”

“I was just having a conversation, asking questions, wondering how he slept at night. Pedersen said I made threats. The judge wasn't sure, so forbidding contact was his compromise. I stay back now, but not too far.”