First Light (16 page)

“Sorry. Go ahead.”

When Patrick knelt beside her, he said, he saw that Sarah was conscious but unable to speak. She appeared not to recognize him or to understand him when he spoke to her. She tried to sit up, but couldn't.

“She fell and hit her head,” I said.

“Maybe,” he said. “But she fell because she had a stroke.”

“How bad is it?”

“At her age,” he said, “it's always bad. She's in the ICU. I don't know if they'll let you see her.”

I talked my way into Sarah's stark little cubicle in the Intensive Care Unit. The nurses gave me five minutes.

She appeared to be asleep. An oxygen tube was pinched onto her nostrils, and a machine was tracking her blood pressure, pulse rate, and blood oxygen. Another tube snaked down to her wrist from three or four clear plastic bags hanging on what looked like an aluminum hat rack.

I pulled a folding chair beside her bed, held her hand, and talked to her about the Red Sox. When I squeezed her hand, she gave me a weak squeeze in return. I wanted to think that she recognized me, had heard and understood what I'd said to her, and wanted to reassure me that she was okay. But I realized that her hand squeeze was probably just a reflex.

Afterward, I found a doctor who told me that they didn't yet know how seriously Sarah had been impaired, but that she undoubtedly had been impaired, and that, given her age and health, it most certainly was irreversible. The blood flow to part of her brain had been cut off. She might've lost her
speech or the use of some limbs. Her personality could be changed, and she would very likely experience memory loss. “Multi-infarct dementia” was the term the doctor used.

Patrick's quick action, he said, had probably saved her life.

They were giving her anticoagulants. Surgery wasn't out of the question, although in her frail condition, and considering the advanced progression of her cancer, the doctor seemed to think it a poor risk.

He didn't say it, but what he meant was that surgery would be a waste of time. Sarah was a terminal case either way.

She would not die, the doctor said. Not tonight, at least. Not from her stroke. That was the good news.

She would, of course, soon die from her cancer.

When we got back to the house, I told Patrick to go find Eliza and Nate and bring them to me, and I went out onto the patio to have a smoke. The sun had just set over America, and from where I sat behind the Fairchild house looking westerly, I had a good view of the sunset's pink reflection on Vineyard Sound. The afternoon wind had died, and the water's surface looked as flat and glossy as a pane of glass. It wasn't hard to imagine schools of stripers and bluefish and bonito swirling and splashing out there, chasing bait-fish, just waiting to eat the fly that I might cast in their path. Some dark cigar-shaped clouds hung low and motionless over the horizon. They looked like blimps hovering there. Their backs glowed gold, and their bellies were the same pink as the sea.

I'd just stubbed out my cigarette when Eliza came out. She was wearing a yellow bikini top and a wide-brimmed straw hat and sunglasses and a flowered silk sarong. It rode low on her hips, showing off her flat stomach and girlish belly button. She was, naturally, carrying a glass.

She flopped onto the chaise beside me, crossed her legs, and took a sip. “You heard, huh?”

“About Sarah? Yes. Patrick and I just got back from the hospital.”

“She was very upset about the nurse,” said Eliza. “She really hated that old battle-ax who came yesterday.”

“You think that's why she had a stroke?”

She shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Patrick might've saved her life,” I said.

Eliza shrugged. “He's very devoted to her.” She held up her glass. “G 'n' T,” she said. “Want one?”

I shook my head.

She took another sip. “So now what?”

“We're waiting for Nate and Patrick. I want to talk to the three of you at the same time.”

“Oh,” she said. “Sounds heavy. Give me a hint.”

“Nope.”

“So how'd the meeting with the nature freaks go?”

“Eliza—”

“Yeah, yeah.” She held up both hands and smiled. “Sorry.”

A few minutes later Patrick came out onto the patio. “Uncle Nate's on his way,” he said. “Pissing and moaning, but he's coming.”

Eliza put a hand on Patrick's arm. “You saved your
grandmother's life,” she said. “I'm proud of you, dear.”

“It's about time,” he said. He looked up. “Here he is.”

Nate had come from around the side of the house. He was still wearing his overalls and work boots, but he'd abandoned the cap with two bills and his shotgun. He was holding a beer bottle. His big hand went all the way around it.

I nodded to him. “Sit down, Nate. I need to talk to the three of you.”

Surprisingly, he simply nodded and sat.

I leaned forward and looked at each of them. “I wanted to say what I've got to say to you all at the same time, so we could all be sure you don't have different stories or different understandings. Okay?”

They nodded.

“As you know, Sarah has had a stroke,” I continued. “The doctors believe she'll be impaired, though they can't yet say how badly or in what way. She may lose some of her memory. She may not regain her speech. She could lose the use of her limbs. She might not be able to process what one of us might say to her.”

Eliza started to speak. I held up my hand. “I realize you understand these things. I'm only telling you so that what I have to say next will make some sense.” I paused. “It's possible that Sarah will be incapable of making an informed decision about the disposition of her property. As you know, I'm down here specifically to arrange for its sale, which is what she wants. I have her durable power of attorney. Therefore—”

“Wait,” said Nate. “You saying you can sell our place without my mother's okay?”

“I can do that, yes,” I said. “That's what a durable power of attorney means.”

“But,” said Eliza, “you really wouldn't—”

“Yes,” I said. “I can and I would. Sarah has made her desires very clear to me, and it's my job to carry them out. At this point, both the Isle of Dreams Development Corporation and the Marshall Lea Foundation have made serious offers. If Sarah is … impaired … it's my job to consider their offers, complete the negotiations, and finalize the sale. I called you here to tell you that that's what I intend to do.”

“Just a goddamed minute,” said Nate. “You tryin' to tell us that you're gonna sell our property and we got nothing to say about it?”

“It's not your property. It's your mother's.”

“But we're her family,” he said. “You're just a fucking lawyer.”

“I'm not just any fucking lawyer,” I said. “I'm Sarah's fucking lawyer. That makes all the difference.” I glanced at Eliza, who was peering intently at me through her sunglasses, and at Patrick, who had his arms folded and was studying his lap.

“Look,” I said. “I'm very sad this has happened to Sarah, and believe me, I didn't ask for this responsibility. But I've got it, and it's my job to exercise it, and I just wanted to explain it to you.”

“So you can sell all this”—Eliza waved her hand around—“without Mother's approval, then?”

“I can do whatever I believe she would approve of,”
I said. “If I didn't, I wouldn't be doing my job. I intend to get it done as quickly as possible, because …”

“Because she might die, you're saying,” said Nate.

“Yes.”

Patrick cleared his throat. I nodded at him.

“What happens if she—she does die?” he said.

“Before we settle the property matter, you mean?”

He nodded.

I shrugged. “Sarah has a will.”

“And we're her heirs, right?”

“Yes,” I said. “The three of you, equally.”

“How would you fit in, then?” he said.

“If Sarah dies,” I said, “I'm the executor of her estate.”

“Meaning … ?”

“Meaning, I will see that her will is executed.”

“And you can't sell the property.”

“No,” I said. “Not after she dies. Her will specifies that her estate be divided equally among you. Then whatever you agree to is what'll happen.”

“We've never agreed on anything yet,” said Patrick.

I shrugged. “Well, maybe you should think about giving it another shot.”

After Eliza and Patrick and Nate went their separate ways, I went into the house, called J.W., and told him what had happened.

“I suppose you don't want to go fishing tonight, then,” he said.

“I don't see why not,” I said. “There's nothing I can do for Sarah.”

“I've been thinking of begging off myself,” said J.W.

“Why?”

He told me how he'd spent the day talking with people about Molly Wood and looking for her car, and how he'd finally found it in a long-term parking lot in Vineyard Haven.

“
You
found it?” I said.

“Yup.”

“Were the police looking for it?”

“Yup.”

“But they didn't find it.”

“Nope.”

“You did.”

“Yup.”

“So what makes you so smart?”

“Clean living, I guess.”

“But no sign of Molly, huh?”

“Nope. She might've hopped on the ferry. The cops're checking on that. Zee's pretty upset. She doesn't think Molly would just go away without telling anybody. She's convinced something's happened to her.”

“What about you?” I said. “What do you think?”

“I don't know Molly any better than you do, but I guess I'm inclined to agree with Zee. She's got good instincts.” He hesitated. “Something else, too.”

“What's that?”

“Somebody slashed Zee's tire and left a note warning me to lay off.”

“Jesus,” I said. “So is Zee too upset to let you go fishing?”

“Zee would never not let me go fishing. If I don't go, it'll be my choice.”

“Of course it will,” I said. “So what is your choice?”

He was quiet for a minute. Then he said, “If we don't go, Zee will be more upset. We could hit Wasque at first light. I'll wake her when I leave, and we can get back before she has to go to work.”

“You're okay, leaving her and the kids alone?”

“We're not going to let some cowardly tire-slasher run our lives.” His voice was soft, but I heard menace in it. “Let's go fishing.”

“Fine by me,” I said. “What time is first light these days?”

“Well, the sun actually rises around six-thirty. The sky starts to turn pink about an hour before that. That's first light. The magic time. We should be on the beach about an hour before the sky turns pink.”

“Four-thirty, then.”

“Yeah. We should be on the beach with our rods rigged at four-thirty. Figure a half hour from here to Wasque.”

“And twenty minutes from here to your place,” I said. “So I'll set my alarm for three-thirty.”

“I'll have coffee,” said J.W.

“Lots of coffee,” I said.

For years and years, except on weekends, I've been going to bed a little before midnight. I usually read a few pages of
Moby-Dick
until my eyelids droop, which takes fifteen or twenty minutes, turn off the light, roll onto my stomach, and fall asleep instantly. My alarm goes off at seven.

Even when I have things on my mind, I sleep easily and well. Comes of having a clear conscience and a pure heart.

On this night, with my alarm set for three-thirty, I forced myself to turn out the light at eleven. Naturally, I couldn't get to sleep. I kept seeing Sarah Fairchild lying in her Intensive Care bed, her chest barely rising and falling, surrounded by the blinking lights and the ticks and hums of her machines.

And Molly Wood's face kept popping into my head. She had a great smile and a hearty, uninhibited laugh, and I remembered how she'd kissed my mouth when we were saying good-bye at the Jacksons'. I was absolutely convinced that she'd been as eager for our rendezvous at the Navigator Room as I'd been.

And mixed with these visions were mind-pictures of the beach at first light. Peaceful and quiet and utterly, hauntingly lonely.

The magic time, J.W. had called it.

The first time I turned on the light to check the time it was ten after one. Quick calculation: If I went to sleep instantly, I'd get two hours and twenty minutes of sleep.

Hardly enough. I'd be a wreck.

I tried like hell to fall asleep. I concentrated on it. And the harder I tried, the less sleepy I felt.

Tomorrow I had a lot to do. Fishing, of course. Then, maybe, home for a quick nap. But I wanted to visit Sarah in the hospital, and I should check in with Julie back in my office in Boston, and I had to discuss some things with the Isle of Dreams people, and I had a couple of questions for Gregory Pinto, and there was
Molly again, squeezing my hand and smiling up at me, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and her mouth soft on mine … what the hell had happened to her? … and I remembered how Sarah had squeezed my hand, too, and I figured it was about two o'clock, so I gave up worrying about sleep, because I simply wasn't going to get any … and then the alarm went off.

I came close to shutting it off, rolling over, and going back to sleep. But then Billy's taunting voice echoed in my head, calling me a wimp and an old man.

It took enormous strength and courage to stagger out of bed.

But I did it.

T
he two Vineyard Haven cops who showed up at the parking lot looked like they should still be in high school.

“My guess is that she caught a ferry to the mainland,” said one of them. “A lot of people park up here when they do that. The church isn't too happy about it, but they put up with it.” He peeked in the window and tried the locked door.