While My Sister Sleeps, page 25
“What way?”
“They're not proactive when it comes to emotional things. If they can avoid something tough, they do.”
“Dad doesn't.”
“Dad's an exception.”
“David Harris doesn't. He could have run right past Robin and just phoned for help. Do you still wish he had?”
Kathryn was a minute answering. “No. He wanted to help. If Robin's problem had been less severe, he might have saved her life. He had no way of knowing how bad it was.”
“He's a nice guy. Very honest. And reasonable.”
“Unlike Nick.”
“Oh, Nick is so in love with Robin he can't see straight.”
“Are you defending him?” Kathryn asked.
“Dismissing him, more like,” Molly remarked. “But maybe I am. Defending him, I mean. I let him use me.”
Kathryn sank deeper into the pillows, setting the mug on her middle. “You were too busy living in Robin's shadow. Too busy thinking that everything she had was the best.”
“Did you know he was still in love with her?”
“The cynical part of me guessed it.”
“But you do know it was one-sided. She didn't want him.”
“Yes,” Kathryn said. “I know that now.” Finishing her tea, she put it on the nightstand, slid lower, and reached for Molly.
Molly wanted to think about that particular concession and about other things her mother was saying. But stretching out in her mother's warmth, she was lulled. She was Kathryn's daughter, would always be that. The fit seemed better.
She didn't hear another thing until morning. Kathryn slept on. Gratified to be able to give her mother this additional brief respite, Molly crept out of the room.
KATHRYN hadn't been to the nursing home in six weeks. As Molly drove her there now, she kept telling herself that Marjorie wouldn't know the difference; but when the rambling Victorian came into view, she felt unbearable guilt. And fear. She wanted her mother to be the mother she knew. She wanted—needed—that woman.
The nurse at the front desk lit up, worsening her guilt. “It's good to see you, Mrs. Snow. It's been a while. Sunday brunch is always special. Will you be joining us today?”
“Oh, I don't think so,” Kathryn said. She wasn't sure how she would feel seeing her mother, and then there was Robin. Charlie would be with her by now, but Kathryn had to get to the hospital herself. This was the longest she had been away from Robin's bedside.
Of course, Robin wouldn't know. Kathryn just wanted to be with her daughter during the little time they had left.
“Go on up then,” the nurse said. “She's in the lounge.”
Trying to keep pace with Molly on the stairs, Kathryn felt stiff. A week of sitting would do that, and driving into a tree hadn't helped. Determinedly, she lifted one foot after the next.
Halfway up, she stopped. Last time she was here, the pain had been intense. Now it all rushed back—the sadness, the hurt, the profound sense of loss.
“Mom?” Molly asked softly from the step above.
“I can't do this,” Kathryn whispered, gripping the bannister tightly.
Molly was suddenly beside her. “You can. She's your mother. You love her.”
“She isn't the same as she was.”
“Neither are you. Neither am I. Neither is Robin. We all change, Mom.”
Kathryn eyed her beseechingly. “But will she know it's me?”
“Does it matter?”
Simple logic. How to argue? Love was love. Kathryn loved Robin, though her mind had ceased to function. In its finality, that was oddly easier than this. Marjorie might know her. Or she might not. But yes, she was still her mother.
Taking strength from Molly, Kathryn started up again. The instant they came within sight of the lounge, she spotted Marjorie, looking so pretty—so peaceful—that Kathryn might have thought she didn't belong there. Eyes half-closed, Marjorie sat alone on a love seat, listening to soft church music. Her gray hair shone, one side tucked behind an ear to show off a pretty pearl earring. She wore a baby blue sweater and white slacks. A small smile played in the corners of her mouth.
Heart melting, Kathryn crossed the room and, kneeling, took her hand. “Mom?”
Marjorie opened her eyes. They grew bright with a small burst of pleasure. “Well, hello.”
Kathryn wanted to believe the pleasure was from recognition, but she remembered what Molly had said. Anyone new would generate this little spark. It was an ingrained social response.
“It's me, Mom. Kathryn.”
Marjorie gave her a puzzled smile. Babies were like that, Kathryn realized. They wanted to please even before they knew what they were doing. Robin had been that way. And Kathryn had loved her for trying.
And so, in that moment, she loved her mother. “You look beautiful, Mom,” she said. “Were you enjoying the Sunday music?”
Marjorie's face was blank. “Sunday?”
“Church. We used to go—you, me, and Dad. Do you remember the music from church?”
Marjorie considered that for a time before saying, “I sing.”
“You do,” Kathryn replied with enthusiasm, as though she were talking to a child. Retrieval of even a tiny thread of memory was encouraging. “You were in the choir for a while. You loved singing.”
“I didn't know Nana sang in the choir,” Molly remarked.
“Oh yes. She did for the longest time. My father and I loved watching her.”
“Why'd she stop?”
Kathryn hesitated. She hadn't discussed this with her mother in years, but it might elicit a response. Watching Marjorie closely, she said, “I got pregnant.”
“But you were with Dad by then. So who knew?”
“Mom did. It bothered her.”
“But she loved Robin.”
“She came around,” Kathryn said, her own memory jogged. “There was a watershed moment right before my wedding. Remember that, Mom? I was running around trying to pack, because Charlie and I were moving. I had bad morning sickness, and I was scared of marriage, scared of having a baby, scared of leaving home.” Marjorie appeared to be listening—finding her daughter's voice familiar, Kathryn hoped. “So many changes in such a short period of time. I accused you of wanting me gone. You said I was wrong—that you wanted me there—that you didn't want this change in our lives.”
Marjorie smiled but didn't speak. Recognition? Hard to know.
“What did you say?” Molly asked.
“We went back and forth, each of us saying things that were increasingly dumb.”
“Like what?”
Kathryn hadn't thought about it in years, yet the words rushed back. “She said I was denying her unconditional pride. I said she was denying me unconditional love. She said I had been careless and unthinking. I said she was old-fashioned. Stupid things, but we let it all out. Then it was done. We just sat there looking at each other, feeling a bond that we couldn't describe.” There was actually more, Kathryn realized. When the dust settled, they talked reasonably about the inevitability of change, the idea that they had to let go what might have been and accept what was.
Kathryn thought about Robin and felt a knot in her belly. In the next instant, though, the knot loosened. Let go what might have been… accept what is.
She pressed Marjorie's hand to her throat. “You slept in my bed that night, just like Molly did with me last night. Do you remember that, Mom?” Marjorie's face was blank, but sweet— oh so sweet—and as familiar to Kathryn as her own. “But you don't,” she mused quietly. “I have to accept that. So much to accept this week.” She studied her mother's hand, fingers slender as ever. “Molly told you about Robin. How does a mother bury her child?” She looked up, pleading. “How, Mom? Please tell me. I need help.”
“I … I …,” Marjorie stammered, upset and clearly not knowing why.
Molly touched her grandmother's shoulder, but far from being reassured, Marjorie looked at her worriedly. “Do I know you?”
“I'm Molly.”
Marjorie's eyes flew back to Kathryn. “Who are you?”
“Kathryn. Your daughter. Molly's mother.” When Marjorie didn't react, Kathryn said, “I grow plants. I used to bring carloads of them to your house. They were from Snow Hill.” Peaceful again, Marjorie was listening—ample encouragement for Kathryn to continue talking. “You should see Snow Hill, Mom. It's gotten even bigger since you were there last. We're about to do a major rebuild of the main structure—it's that successful—and we've spread into some of the acreage I never thought we'd use. Rows and rows of trees and plants.”
“Plants?” Marjorie asked.
“Plants are what we do. They're who we are. I'm good with plants. Molly's even better. She's my heir apparent.”
“By default,” Molly murmured.
Startled, Kathryn looked up. “Why do you say that?”
“Robin was your heir apparent.”
“Not when it came to Snow Hill. Snow Hill was always yours.” She frowned when Molly looked surprised. “You didn't know that?”
“No.”
“Plants?” Marjorie asked again.
“And trees,” Kathryn said gently. “We sell pine trees and maple trees. And weeping willows, cherries, Russian olives, and oaks.”
“I'm a shade person,” Molly argued softly. “I work behind the scenes. I couldn't run Snow Hill the way you do.”
“Change is good,” Kathryn said. That was the day's lesson, as fine a Sunday sermon as any.
“You said you'd never retire.”
“I may have been wrong.”
“What would you do without Snow Hill?”
“I don't know.” She hadn't thought of it before now. Exhausted as she was, though, the idea held appeal. What was it Robin had written in Who Am I? about Marjorie urging her to just BE? Another lesson there, too.
“Nothing is imminent. But you and Chris managed just fine without me this week. If Erin took over some of what your father does, he and I could travel. We could sleep late. Maybe focus on developing a Web-based Snow Hill. Who knows.”
“Willows?” Marjorie asked, bringing Kathryn back.
“They're beautiful trees, Mom. They like water. Look,” she pointed, “there's one way over there by the stream. See how low the branches dip, and when they sway in a breeze …”
The conversation was so easy and her mother's curiosity so innocent that Kathryn felt a new calm. Born of a night at Molly's place, reinforced by the woman Marjorie was now, Kathryn couldn't fight it. Calm was good. Some battles couldn't be won.
Again, she thought of Robin. If ever there was a fight that couldn't be won, it was in that hospital room. Her Robin wasn't there anymore. Accepting it—grieving and moving on to a place where the memories were good—suddenly seemed better. Charlie knew that. So did Molly and Chris. Even Marjorie did, whether she remembered it or not. Robin had always been a ball of energy. She wouldn't want to lie in bed doing nothing.
Kathryn talked quietly with her mother for several more minutes. Without knowing, Marjorie had helped. But Robin was Kathryn's child, and the final decision was hers to make. Much as she had cursed that fact in the last few days, she saw it differently now. Now it was about freeing Robin. That was a gift.
She didn't speak as she left. She would be back to see Marjorie soon, very soon. Before then, she faced a challenge that she couldn't put off. She waited until they were on the road, then asked Molly to tell her everything she knew about organ donation.
FTER NEARLY A WEEK OF ENDLESS WAITING, A single phone call got things going with unsettling speed. Agents from the organ bank were at the hospital within hours, and though they were every bit as compassionate as Molly had been told, the meeting wasn't an easy one. Her parents and Chris, and even Erin, looked stoic; she herself felt weak.
The final decision is the family's, the agents kept saying. We won't rush you. But how not to feel urgency? The instant the papers were signed giving these people access to Robin's medical records, there would be no turning back.
Molly had been the one pushing for organ donation, but there were moments when she would have given anything to slow things down—because what no one said, but everyone in the room knew, was that once the mechanism for harvesting Robin's organs was put into place, life support had to end.
The doctors promised that death would come quickly and without pain. Once the machines keeping Robin alive were turned off, it was final. For all her new insight, Molly had trouble accepting that.
Not so Kathryn. Composed while Molly was tearful, she listened quietly to everything the agents said. She asked questions, perhaps with a tremor in her voice, but she never broke down. She nodded her understanding when the agents talked of the emotions the family might feel, but declined their offer of counseling. Having made the decision, she was committed.
Molly envied her that. Her mother had come a long way from those first horrifying hours. So had Molly, but she still had a ways to go. Her stomach was knotting and her legs were weak—classic symptoms of hitting the wall. She tried to dredge up Robin's mantra, but couldn't quite remember it. Her eyes were glued on her mother.
Kathryn held the pen, hesitating for an instant while she looked at Charlie, then at Chris and Molly, but her message was one of conviction. We have to do this. We love Robin too much to not let go. Her face was pale, and though her eyes reflected agony, they were clearer than they had been all week. Finally, she lowered them and signed the papers.
Moments later, the Snows were alone in the conference room. No one spoke. Molly's heart was breaking. For all her talk of accepting what couldn't be changed, she didn't want her sister to die.
Chris was the first to speak. His voice was low. “When will they do it?”
Kathryn pressed her lips together, then nodded. “Later today. When we're ready.” Seeming to understand Molly's regret, she reached for her hand. Her voice was light. “So many different organs they can use. But they won't take her heart. That'll always be ours.”
“I don't want this,” Molly breathed.
“None of us does, but it's one of the few things we know Robin wanted. She would like knowing she was helping other people. There's a huge need. You told me that. How can we not do this?”
“But it means—”
“Robin can't come back,” she said, giving Molly's hand a little shake. “She can only lie senseless in that room down the hall. I've been with her all week, Molly. I've talked and begged and demanded. I've prayed. But she doesn't respond. She can't. And that's unfair. It's not the way she wanted to live. And then there's us. She wouldn't want us holding an endless vigil. She would want us doing things. She would want us at Snow Hill.” Her voice softened. “Turning off the machines is a technicality. Her mind is already gone. Her spirit lingers, but it's tied to her bed because we are. If we want it free, we have to do this for her.”
Molly heard an echo of her father and saw no inconsistency. Yes, Robin's soul was in heaven. Her spirit, though, was different. It was the part of her that lived on in everyone she left behind. In that regard, what Kathryn said made sense.
Still, Molly didn't feel her mother's calm. When Kathryn rose to return to Robin's room, Molly took the elevator to the ground floor and pulled out her phone.
Fifteen minutes later, David joined her on a stone bench in the patio. “I feel responsible,” she said after telling him of the papers Kathryn had signed. “I was the one who pushed for organ donation. Tell me I did the right thing.”
Five days and what seemed an eon ago, David had asked her the same thing. Taking her hand, he returned the support. “You did the right thing. Besides, it was what Robin wanted. You simply passed on her wishes and gave your mother information. The final decision was hers.”
“But is it the right one?” Molly asked. She would never forget that moment when the family was suddenly alone in the conference room—as if, with the signing of those papers, Robin was no longer theirs.
“The only issue is timing,” David said, soothing and calm in his own right. “Would you have felt better waiting?”
Yes, she thought. Anything to keep Robin with them.
But, of course, that was wrong. David had called her practical, and when the smoke cleared, she was. “Knowing there was no hope? No. This has been hanging over our heads since they declared her brain dead.” Turning off the machines. Ending her life. “Why am I having trouble now?”
“Because you love your sister,” he said.
She did. She couldn't recall the envy, the resentment, even what she might have called hatred at times. Right now, there was only love.
“You aren't the only one,” David said. Opening his backpack, he pulled out a sheaf of papers.
Nick. Molly knew it before she even read the front page. The Heart of a Winner: A Biography of Robin Snow.
“Not the most profound title,” David said, “and this is only a small part of what he has, but it's beautifully written.”
Molly turned to the foreword. Fame can be cruel, he wrote. The world of sports is filled with stories of stars who soar one minute and fall the next. In some cases, their bodies fail them, and they limp silently into oblivion. In other cases, the burnout is mental and the legacy more tarnished.
Then there are those like Robin Snow. She ran her first race at five, her first marathon at fifteen, and in the years between and since, she fought to do well At times, she was so nervous before a race that she was physically sick, at others so hampered by a physical injury that the only thing keeping her going was sheer grit. She claimed she wasn't the best runner, only the most determined. History supports her in that. For nearly every marathon she won, she had been a runner-up the year before. She always came back tougher, stronger, and more focused.
Ask about her greatest achievements, and she'll list San Francisco, Boston, and L.A. Ask about her most satisfying ones, and she'll tell you about the young girl in Oklahoma who had only run alone along rural roads until Robin ran with her. She'll tell you about jumping in to coach a running club in New Mexico that lost its coach to breast cancer two weeks before a major race.
