My Sister's Keeper (32 page)

“
Whoa, Babe! When did this start?”

“
Don’t stop! Please.”

Her body tensed as I worked the ankle with both hands, kneading it as hard as I could. “It started four or five days ago.”

Peeking out of her pants leg, I saw the tiny tattoo that she got back in college and so proudly displayed before the accident; a brilliantly colored psychedelic butterfly no bigger than a half-dollar. “Can you move it?”

She pressed her lips together, held her breath, and concentrated on sending a signal to her foot. Her head twitched to the side once, then twice, then, all at once, her five toes spread slightly.

“
Oh my God! Did you do that?”

“
Did they move?”

“
Yes, they moved.”

Still straining, she dropped her chin and concentrated. As her toes spread again, her face lit up with both pain and excitement.

“
Babe!” I squeezed her foot and worked my fingers through the tissues. “Are you going to walk again?”

“
They’ve been telling me in therapy that it could happen.”

Mom stepped out of Dad’s room and wiped her eyes with a wadded tissue. “The doctor says there’s nothing more they can do for him except make him comfortable.”

I slipped Martha’s shoe back on, rose, and gave Mom a firm hug. “Maybe that’s all he needs now, Mom.”

She shook her head, dabbed her cheeks, and dropped onto a chair. Martha rolled up next to her and took her hand. I took a chair on the other side of her. “Mom?” I whispered. She didn’t look up, just stared into the tissue. “Mama, why’d you marry Dad?”

Her eyes came up to mine and glared at me.
“How dare you!”
they seemed to say.

“
I mean so soon after—”

“
After what?”

“
Uncle Charles—”

“
Oh, Baby. Why would you bring up Uncle Charles
now?
” She rose, staggered a few steps to the window and looked into Dad’s room laying her head against the glass.

“
Tell me about him, Mama. What was Uncle Charles like?”

“
Oh, Lord, Lord,
Lord
.” Tears filled her eyes. She wiped her nose. “Your Uncle Charles was a bright…handsome…gifted boy with big ideas. He even thought he could be President someday.”

“
What was he like? To be with, I mean.”

She waddled back to her chair. “Charlie…was kind. Gentle. Soft-spoken.” She wiped her eyes and nose. “And generous

to a fault. He’d give you his last dollar if you needed it.” She sat again. “He was smart, too, and could do anything he set his mind to.”

“
How did he die, Mama?”

“
Son, what’s got you so interested in your Uncle Charles all of a sudden?”

“
Just something Dad told me the other morning.”

She pulled a new tissue from her dress pocket and dragged it over her face. “Your dad’s been talking a little out of his head lately.”

“
But, how
did
Uncle Charles die?” Martha asked.

Mom waited a beat, then spoke matter-of-factly. “Uncle Charles died when the brakes on his car failed and he was struck broadside by a farmer hauling a load of fuel back to his farm. He was killed instantly and that’s all I’ve got to say about Charlie Baimbridge.”

I sat back and exhaled.
Kind, gentle, soft-spoken, and smart?
I pictured him riding around in his car with that cigarette hanging out his mouth and wondered what he’d think of the world today. How different our lives might have been if he’d lived. “I used to think I’d grow up to be President, too.” I mumbled.

Mom rolled her head to the side and looked at me. “Richard Baimbridge, what’s going on in that head of yours?”

I patted her hand. “Nothing, Mom. Nothing at all. Just curious.”

44

S
COTT HAD SEEN how panicked Sydney became when she realized Richard had seen her with
him,
and it hurt. And it angered him. He had taken her under his wing when another love had gone wrong for her. He’d showed her how to be strong and how to get what you want out of life. He’d built up her confidence and taught her how to set goals and take the necessary steps to achieve them. The way
he
figured it, she’d have nothing today had it not been for
him
. He glanced at her. She clutched her purse with one hand and grasped the door handle with the other.

“
I told you I’ve come into some money recently,” he said, pausing to let her respond. She didn’t. “It’s a lot of money, Sydney, and I thought how fantastic it would be for us to just pick up and go. We could go anywhere you’d like

anywhere in the world

and you’d
never
have to work again.”

“
I don’t want to leave here. I love my work and I
love
my studio.”

“
You say that now, but you’ll grow tired of it. And in a few more years—”

“
No, I will not!”

“
Trust me. In a few more years, you’re going to hate it. Then you’ll be wishing you’d come, but it’ll be
too late
, Sydney. This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer.” The car stopped for a red light.

Sydney looked at her watch. “I’m sorry, Scott. I really am. But, I—really, I—can’t.”

“
Why not, Sydney?” He raised his voice. “Why not?”

Sydney turned away from him and faced the side window. She knew if she didn’t answer, he’d be more likely to calm down.

“
Don’t think I don’t know what the hell’s going on here, Sydney.” He banged a fist against the steering wheel, and snorted, “I can’t believe
you
could be that
stupid!”
Sydney checked the time on her watch. “He’s a
murderer
, Sydney. He rapes young girls and then murders them!”

“
No he does not!” In one swift move, Sydney unbuckled her seatbelt, opened the door, and rolled out of the car. “You’re his
attorney
and this is the way you think?” The light turned green and the traffic began moving around her. She slammed the door, cut between cars, and stepped onto the median in the center of the six-lane thoroughfare. Up the road she could see her studio through the haze of tears in her eyes. The parking lot was jammed with cars and she needed to be there. Pulling her purse strap over her shoulder, she watched for a break in the traffic.

“
Sydney!” a voice called behind her. She turned and saw the face of Sylvia Whitford, one of her students’ moms, staring back at her from the window of a white Dodge Durango. “Get in.” Sydney rounded the car amid blasts from horns and jumped in. “Going to the studio?” Sylvia asked, the vehicle rolling forward.

“
Yes. Thank you.”

“
What happened to your head?”

Sydney had held up through the accident, the hospital treatment, seeing the stunned look on Richard’s face, and Scott’s proposition. But now, as her legs trembled, she placed a hand over her mouth and let the tears go.

“
Hey, hey!” Sylvia piped, whipping a tissue from an overhead holder and passing it to Sydney. “You’re okay now. You’re with me. We’re going to the studio.”

IT WAS QUARTER PAST TWO when I stepped into Dad’s room and stood at the foot of his bed. The room seemed darker than before. His right hand moved around as if searching for something. “What are you looking for, Dad?”

He opened his eyes, but didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular. They were weak and cloudy. The light seemed to bother him and he shut them. “Nothing,” he uttered. “Just stretching out a little.”

I shoved my hands into my trouser pockets, drew a heavy breath, and stepped closer. “What was Uncle Charles like, Dad?”

His chest rose high, then fell. After a minute, I took a chair.

“
He was a lot like you, Richie,” he said, his voice faint. “Same easy disposition, same smart looks.”

The monitor over his bed wrote an endless oscillating green line across its screen jolting with each heartbeat. “You said he was my father. How did that happen?”

“
Jesus, Rich.” His arm swept back and forth across the sheet. “They were together for two years.”

I laid my head back and expelled all the air in my lungs. “Okay. I get it.”

“
No, you don’t.” His voice was weak, his breathing labored. “Pearl and Charlie’s wedding was only three weeks off when he

” His hand moved to his face and clamped over his eyes. “—when he had the accident.” His dry, cracked lips moved without words as if rehearsing the story until he took a deep breath and continued. “He was getting the car ready for their honeymoon. A trip to the mountains

Asheville, I think

and I was supposed to put new pads on the brakes.” He gulped a breath and swallowed. “He left me the car that morning and told me I had to be finished before three ‘cause he needed it after that. I set it on blocks, pulled all the wheels, and was about to install the new pads when Buster Diggins came by with a gallon jug of moonshine whiskey and a girl he’d picked up hitchhiking. He said she needed a ride to Raleigh and he’d give me a hand with the brakes if I’d go with him and drive.”

The beep on the monitor sped up. His head flopped left and right. “The two of them had already made a dent in that jug and by the time we finished the brakes, it was more ‘an half gone and not one of us was fit to drive. We took off anyway and when I got back home late that night, I learned about the accident.”

I stayed quiet when he paused, not wanting to interrupt the flow. His hand continued to whip back and forth as he told the rest of the story.

“
The investigators said it was caused by brake failure

that the brakes had been installed wrong and everyone blamed me for what had happened.” His head flipped to the other side. “Charlie was dead and it was
my
fault and nobody was going to let me forget it.” His moist eyes opened, rolled in a circle, and closed. “I couldn’t take it no more. I ran off and stayed drunk for more than a month—until my mama found me and told me Pearl was pregnant with Charlie’s baby. With
you
.” His voice now a whisper.

I reached out and laid my hand on his arm.

“
You don’t know how it
was
back then, Richie. In those days, a woman with a baby and no husband had
no chance
of a normal life. I’d taken that from her. Mama said I had to do something to try to make up for it. She told me I had to
marry
Pearl, to make things right for her. So I went to her and told her I’d marry her and take care of her and the child, myself, as best I could. I don’t think she wanted to, but she married me anyway. But she never loved me

least not the way she’d loved Charlie.”

A tear appeared on his cheek. I leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “Thanks, Dad.”

He grabbed my arm and pulled me down close. “Don’t you be pressing your mama on that.”

I nodded. “I won’t.”

There was a brief moment as we stared into each other’s eyes that we
connected
. Man-to-man, friend-to-friend. Something passed between us—something
real.
I felt clean, fresh, energized. We just stared at each other with tears in our eyes.
Why could we not have had this moment twenty years ago?

As I left the room, I paused in the doorway and looked back. His eyes were still watching me and I felt for the first time in my life that I really knew him. I nodded, turned away, and left.

Scott had told me to call him later, so I went looking for a phone.

Finding a pay phone in the lobby, I rang Scott’s office. When I got him on the line, I asked him if he’d gotten a copy of Albert’s fingerprints.

“
You know I can’t do that, Mr. Baimbridge.” His answer surprised me, but then he added, “but I do have something here you need to see. Can you run by here? Now?”

“
Sure. Be right there.”

WHEN I WALKED INTO HIS OFFICE, Scott stood with his back to me looking out a window at the Cape Fear River. He had a drink in his hand. “What is it that you
want,
Richard Baimbridge?” He sipped from his drink.

“
Didn’t you have something you wanted to show me?”

He turned toward me. “Out of
life
, man. What do you want out of life?”