Ties That Bind (7 page)

“That's probably Mari,” Margot said, smiling with relief.

“Hope she's just late and not lost,” Werner said, addressing his comments to the table. “Or broken down somewhere. Wouldn't surprise me.
She
drives an Audi.”

He rolled his eyes meaningfully and then, seeing that Margot had covered her ear with her hand so she could hear what the caller was saying, lowered his voice.

“Or she did the last I heard. She only lives a few hours south, but she can't be bothered to come see us. And she never invites us down there, not even for Olivia's kindergarten graduation. Never calls unless she wants something. I told her about buying an Audi, didn't I, Lil? Those things are always breaking down and they cost a fortune to fix. I told her over and over, but would she listen?”

Lillian, who was only half listening to him, her attention (and mine) being divided between her husband's monologue and Margot's phone conversation, which was filled with too many long pauses and short responses to be a chat between sisters, frowned.

“Sweetheart,” she said, clamping her hand over her husband's without looking at his face.

Werner put down his fork, looked at his wife with surprise and then at Margot. By that time, we were all looking at Margot.

“Yes. All right. We'll be right there.” Margot ended the call and turned to face her parents. Her eyes were wide and her face drained of color.

Lillian rose from her chair. “What is it?”

“There was an accident. Black ice, the policeman said. Mari skidded off the road and went over an embankment. He didn't know how long she'd been there before they found her. He found Mari's phone on the floor and saw I was the last person to call ….”

Werner got up and stood next to his wife. “Where are they now?”

“In an ambulance. Two ambulances. One for Mari and one for Olivia.”

Lillian's hand covered her mouth. For a moment, she dipped lower, as if her knees might give way, but Werner grasped her around the shoulders and pulled her body in close to his.

“How bad is it?”

Margot shook her head. “I don't know. The officer just said we should get to the hospital as soon as possible. But,” she said, choking on her own words, “I think it's bad, Daddy. I think it's very bad.”

E
verything was upside down.

My dad has always been the impatient one, the person who honks at people who drive even one mile per hour under the speed limit and barks at checkout clerks whose registers run out of tape. But when we got to the hospital and had to wait while an officious woman scanned our identification and attempted, unsuccessfully, to print out our visitor badges, it was my mother who bristled at the delay.

“Our daughter is here, Mariposa Matthews, and our granddaughter, Olivia Matthews,” Mom snapped. “They've just brought them in. There was an accident. A serious accident! Why are you keeping us waiting?”

“It's for your own protection,” the woman replied dully, frowning as she tapped on the computer. “And the protection of the patients.”

“I don't
need
to be protected!” My mother's voice rose to a nearly hysterical pitch. “I need to see my daughter and my grandchild, do you hear me? Right now!”

Dad put his arm around Mom and patted her on the shoulder. “Calm down, Lil. Miss, can't we leave our identification here with you and get the badges later?”

The woman glanced up at him. For a moment, I thought she was going to waver, but then she pressed her lips together. “I'm sorry, sir. Hospital policy. Every visitor must be cleared through security and wear a badge.”

Philippa, who'd volunteered to come with us while Evelyn and Charlie stayed at my house to clean up, stepped up to the desk and took off her coat, revealing her collar.

“I'm Philippa Clarkson, the new pastor at New Bern Community Church.”

The woman looked up from her keyboard in surprise. “That's my church. You're taking over for Reverend Tucker?”

“Just for a few months, until he's feeling better.”

“I'm sorry, Reverend. I didn't recognize you. Normally, I never miss services, but I wasn't able to go today. I'm new here and you know how it is,” she said with a trace of bitterness. “The low man on the totem pole gets stuck working the holiday.”

“That's all right, Cheryl,” Philippa replied, glancing at her name tag. “It's good of you to sacrifice your own Christmas celebrations to help people who are going through such a hard time. Do you think it might be possible to let me escort the Matthews family back to the ER? Since I'm a member of the clergy …”

Cheryl bit her lower lip. “I don't know, Reverend. It's kind of irregular and, like I said, I'm new here. I went six months without a job before I found this one. I don't want to risk losing it, but …”

She looked at Philippa and then at my parents, her eyes resting a moment on my mother, who was weeping on Dad's shoulder.

“Let me check with my supervisor.”

 

Five minutes later, a tired-looking nurse wearing a cranberry red cardigan and necklace of red, green, and blue Christmas lights ushered us to a waiting room. “Dr. Bledsoe will be right in to talk to you.”

My mother clutched at the nurse's arm. “Where are they? When can I see them?”

The nurse smiled sympathetically and rubbed her palm over the back of my mother's hand. “Soon.”

Mom sat down on a beige sofa with her pocketbook in her lap, clutching at the handle, her back stiff and eyes alert, as though she were waiting for a bus and was afraid she might miss it. Dad sat down next to her, but she seemed not to notice.

“Perhaps I should go find somewhere else to wait,” Philippa said, looking at me uncertainly.

“No,” my father said hoarsely. He glanced at my mother, who was staring straight ahead. “If you don't mind, Reverend,” Dad said, looking up at Philippa, “I'd appreciate it if you could stay with us for a while. At least until the doctor comes.”

Philippa nodded and sat down in a chair across from my parents.

I hesitated before following the others through the door. Sensing a presence, I looked down the hall to see a man with gray hair and black-rimmed glasses who was taking off a blood-spattered lab coat while the nurse in the cranberry sweater stood behind, holding out a clean one, guiding his arms into the left sleeve, then the right, before nodding her head toward me, toward me and the door of the room I dreaded to enter.

I
stood with my back against a pistachio-colored wall, taking a moment to catch my breath while Margot and her parents were in one of the administrative offices, filling out paperwork. My cell phone went off, vibrating in my pocket and making me jump. Looking down at the screen, I was happy to see the words “Mom and Dad.”

Mom was on the kitchen phone and Dad on the bedroom extension. They'd called to wish me merry Christmas and get the reviews on my sermon, but I didn't want to talk about that. The only thing on my mind was the Matthews family.

“It was so awful. She was alive when the ambulance arrived, but there was nothing they could do. Apparently, the car skidded off the road and over an embankment. It was a back road, not very well traveled. They think she was trying to take a shortcut so she'd get there faster. There's no way of knowing for sure how long the car was down there before someone noticed the broken guardrail and stopped to investigate. Could have been hours. Anyway, by the time they found her …”

“Oh, that poor family,” my mother murmured. “To lose a child and a grandchild …”

“No,” I corrected her. “Only Mari was killed. The granddaughter is alive. At least for now. The doctor didn't offer much hope of her surviving the night.”

“Have they seen her yet?”

“She's in intensive care. They have strict rules about visitors. I don't suppose it makes any difference. She's unconscious.”

“Even unconscious people are sometimes aware of the presence of others,” my father said. “If the worst happens, it would be a great comfort to the family to see her now. At least they'd have the memory of seeing their granddaughter alive, and knowing she died surrounded by people who love her.

“Encourage the doctors to let them see her, Pippa,” he continued, using his pet name for me. “A minister can have a lot of influence inside the walls of a hospital.”

“True,” I said, remembering how a quick flash of my white collar got Margot and her folks past the security desk. “I'll do that. But I feel at such a loss. Acing three sections of systematic theology does not prepare you for something like this. I feel like I'm flying by the seat of my pants here ….”

“Get used to it. The feeling never really goes away. Just don't try to come up with any words of wisdom,” my father cautioned. “That's the last thing they need or are prepared to hear right now. Just be there for this family. That's all for now. Later, things will get more complicated. Death, especially of an adult child, always comes with baggage. But you can do this, Pippa. If not, God wouldn't have put you there.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Call and give us an update when you can. In the meantime, we'll be praying.”

I heard the sound of urgent footsteps coming down the corridor and looked up to see the nurse in the cranberry sweater, Polly, coming toward me. “Hey, I have to go, but I'll call you later. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” they chorused. I ended the call just as Polly reached me, a little out of breath.

“Father Clarkson …” She stopped herself and shook her head. “Sorry, I'm Catholic. Your collar keeps throwing me. Reverend Clarkson, I think you'd better come down to the office.”

“Why? What's happened?”

“I don't know. A policeman came looking for the Matthews family. He's talking to them right now. I just thought you might want to be there.”

H
ow long did my sister lie dying at the bottom of that snowy ravine, shivering as the snowflakes, softly treacherous, fell on the car, covering the evidence of her peril in a shroud of white while, only miles away, everyone walked on eggshells as Dad chewed his ice and called her inconsiderate and irresponsible and I hid out in the kitchen, thinking the same thing? How long? Minutes? Hours?

Olivia knows, but she can't tell me. Her tiny body is small and still under the white hospital sheet. Her thin chest rises and falls with the mechanical regularity of a metronome, the pace of her breathing dictated by the ventilator.

She barely knows me. I'm not even sure she knows my voice, and I don't want to distress her, cause her to wonder, even in a twilight moment of semiconsciousness, why a stranger is in her room, so I say nothing. Careful not to disturb the needles, I hold her hand, hoping she'll think I am Mari and rest easier, believing her mother is at her bedside. If she wakes, though the doctors continue to tell me there is little chance that she will, someone will have to tell her what happened. Me, I suppose. I can count on my fingers the number of times I've been in the same room with my niece. Even so, I'm responsible for her now.

I don't know how much time elapsed between the moment Mari's car skidded off the road and help arrived, but it was time enough for my sister to realize the seriousness of the situation, to confront the reality of death, and in a lurching and painful scrawl, to scratch out a note leaving her child to me, a note that went unnoticed until the battered body of Mari's car was dragged up the embankment and the tow truck driver notified the police of his discovery.

When they told me about the note and what it said, I didn't know what to think, or say, or do. I heard the words, but couldn't respond to them, as if I, too, were trapped in some twilight sleep, unable to move, or believe, or understand why this was happening.

Is this my fault?

I wanted a child desperately. But not like this. Not in exchange for my sister's life. Not a child I am afraid to love, a child who will be mine only for an hour, a day, or two, who will slip away without recognizing my voice or seeing my face, and whose death will burn a brand of guilt into my heart forever.

I didn't mean it to turn out like this.

I want to wake up. I want to wind back the clock to yesterday and beyond, to find the moment where everything went so wrong, before the arguments and accusations, the jealousy and judgments, the thoughtless words, the icy patches, the skidding tires, the fall, the silence, the sirens, and the silence again, the terrible, terrible silence that will never be broken now.

I want to wake up. I want everyone to wake up.

I
've only been in New Bern for a week, but I'm on a first-name basis with much of the hospital staff. Cheryl was working the security desk when I arrived. When I reached into my purse in search of my driver's license, she waved me off.

“Don't need it, Reverend,” she said and pulled a laminated tag out of her desk drawer. “My supervisor said to make you a permanent I.D. badge. Now you won't have to waste time talking to me anymore.”

“Thanks,” I said, slipping the chain with the badge hanging from it around my neck. “But I don't consider talking with you a waste of time. How's your family?”

Her face lit up. “Great! Rich got called back for a second interview. Thanks for praying, Reverend. We sure could use the income.”

“When's the interview?”

“Thursday at two.”

I pulled a notebook out of my purse, the one I use to keep track of people's prayer requests, and jotted down the information. “Thursday. Two o'clock. I'll be praying.”

When I got to the nurse's station, I asked Trina to tell Margot I was there.

“You can tell her yourself, Reverend. She's passed out on a sofa in the waiting room.” Trina, whose brisk, efficient manner masks a very tender heart, sighed. “I tried to convince her to go home and get a little sleep, but it was no good. Can you talk to her? She looks just awful.”

“I'll do what I can. How is Olivia? Any change?”

“You know I can't discuss a patient's condition,” she scolded, “not even with you.”

A buzzer rang. Trina looked up and down the hall, searching for a white-uniformed subordinate. “What's the point in being the charge nurse if there's nobody to be in charge of?” she grumbled, getting to her feet.

“I can tell you one thing,” she said, looking over her shoulder before walking quickly down the corridor. “Three days ago, nobody would have given you odds on Olivia lasting out the night. But she's still here. She's a little fighter, that one. She just might end up surprising everybody.”

 

Margot was asleep on a vinyl sofa. She lay on her back with one arm crossed over her face to block out the fluorescent glare of the overhead light and the other drooped limply off the sofa cushion, dangling near the floor next to an empty bag of cheese puffs and a paper cup half-filled with cold coffee.

“Margot?” I whispered.

She jumped at the sound, her arms jerking as if she'd received an electric shock.

“I'm awake!” She sat up, blinking her eyes several times. “What is it? Is something wrong? How long have I been asleep? Why didn't somebody wake me up?”

“It's okay. Olivia's fine. I brought you clean clothes and something to eat. Charlie baked you some cookies and made me promise to make you promise to eat them.” I lifted the paper grocery bag I was carrying.

“Thanks,” she said, blinking again. “I'm not hungry right now. What time is it?”

“Four-thirty.”

She really did look awful. Her hair was flat on one side and poufed out on the other. There were mascara smears under her eyes and a coffee stain on her sweater.

“Margot, go home for a few hours. You need to get some sleep.”

“I did get some sleep,” she said defensively, glancing down at her watch. “I just slept for three hours. I feel fine.”

I doubted she'd been asleep anywhere near that long, but I wasn't there to start an argument. I tried another tack. “Your parents called me from the road. They'll be back in a couple of hours.”

I had offered to arrange a service for Mari at the church, but the family didn't want that. Instead, Werner and Lillian accompanied Mari's remains on the seven-hour drive to Buffalo, where they had made arrangements for interment in a local cemetery and a brief private graveside service conducted by their hometown minister. Margot stayed in New Bern to watch over Olivia. Given the circumstances and the seriousness of Olivia's condition, I suppose it made sense. However, I was concerned that Margot didn't have a means of saying her farewells to her sister. Funerals aren't for the dead, but for those who are left behind.

“When your parents get here, why don't you go home for a little while? They could call if there is any change. You could be back here in ten minutes. I'm teaching a new members class tonight, but if it'd make you feel better, I could come to the hospital after.”

Margot shook her head and rubbed her eyes. “Thanks, but no. I'd never forgive myself if Olivia suddenly woke up and I wasn't here. Or if she …” Margot stopped, refusing to give voice to her worst fears. “I'm not leaving.”

“Margot, you're stubborn.”

“I never used to be, but when it comes to Olivia …” She shrugged, unable to explain this sudden personality shift.

“Maybe your maternal instincts are kicking in.”

“Maybe.”