Taylor thought of making her stop. “Don’t let anyone see them.” She opened her eyes slowly and held her daughter’s steady gaze. “Please?”
What on earth could this mean? Her parents never kept secrets from each other. She was sure of it. They had always treated each other with such tenderness and respect; there was always such contentment between them. It had to be the drugs.
“Taylor? Will you get them for me?”
Hallucinating or not, she couldn’t say no. “Yes, Mama.” She kissed her mother’s cheek and smoothed her fair hair away from her sallow face. “Get some rest now, okay? I’ll be back later.”
Angela closed her eyes and seemed instantly asleep. Taylor checked the monitors again and there was no change. She pressed her lips to her mother’s temple and whispered in her ear, “Fight hard, Mama. I love you,” thinking she probably didn’t hear.
Her eyes still closed, Angela whispered back, “I love you, too.”
With one last lingering look, Taylor backed quietly out of the room.
Michael and Dad were leaning against the far wall, arms folded as if to ward off a sudden chill. Michael met her halfway for a frightened hug as her father pulled himself from a stupor.
His head shot up and his eyes grew round. “Is she—?”
“She’s resting.”
He exhaled a loud breath and Taylor realized what he’d been thinking.
“Did you find her doctor?”
He nodded, then clasped her hand between both of his. “I told him what you said.” He averted his eyes and she could see them glazing over. “He said she’s too sick for a transplant.” He looked back. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. It’s just too late.”
“No!” Taylor backed away and glared at him. “Mom’s a fighter. She’ll get better and we’ll do the surgery.” She lowered her voice and raised his chin with her finger, forcing him to meet her gaze. “Dad...you can’t give up or Mom will see it on your face.”
“You’re right,” he said, but without much conviction. “Let me go in and kiss her good-night. The doctor suggested we go home and let her rest. They’ll call if there’s any change.” He stumbled toward the door, paused, straightened his shoulders some and walked toward the woman who had been his wife and best friend for nearly thirty years.
Michael laced Taylor’s fingers in his. “Where are your bags?”
She stared after their father, unable to look Michael in the eye. Maybe she could fool Dad with her false hopes, but Michael could always see right through her. He was only twenty, five years her junior, yet it had been years since she’d thought of him as a kid. She met his sad gray eyes and remembered his question. “My bags are downstairs behind the information counter, but—”
“I know you want to stay, but if you don’t leave, neither will Dad. I’m worried about him. I can’t remember when he slept last.”
She didn’t want to leave, but she knew Michael was right. And then there was the matter of her mother’s request. Was there really something in the attic beneath loose boards? If there was and she could tell Mom she had found it and removed it, maybe it would buoy her spirits. It was grabbing at straws, but that was all she had at the moment.
Her father joined them in the hall, his chin back on his chest.
Taylor took his arm, and Michael moved to the opposite side. “Let’s go home, Dad. She’ll be better in the morning.” Her words sounded hollow to her own ears, yet like a gentle breeze, they fanned a low flame of hope.
After a fitful night of half expecting the phone to ring, at dawn Taylor sat up with a start when she heard her father tell Michael that he was taking a shower and to listen for the phone.
All night she had thought about her mother’s request and wished she could go exploring upstairs. But the night had been too still and the house too small for her to hide her movements, so she had waited. Now, as soon as she heard the water running, Taylor checked that Michael’s door was closed before darting up the attic stairs.
It had been years since she’d ventured up here, and the dusty smell of cardboard boxes and stored treasures reminded her of lazy afternoons with Mom, times when they had retraced the steps of old shoes and hats left behind by Grandma and Aunt Helen. Taylor stopped at the top step and eyed the old rocker in front of the window. A floor lamp with an arched neck and Tiffany shade waited next to the rocker for someone to pull its chain. Cross-stitched throw pillows rested at the foot of it all, where Taylor used to sit by the hour and listen to her mother’s stories of the Big Sky Country of her youth.
Particles of sunshine filtered through the aged organza curtains and spotlighted the old love seat on the opposite wall. The curved cherry wood trim on the back was in better shape than the willow green brocade upholstery. She could almost hear the cushions ripping if she dared sit on its fragile surface. She walked cautiously toward it, having no intention of sitting on it at all, wishing she didn’t have to touch it. If there were loose boards beneath it, she hoped they revealed nothing. Yet the sound of her own fast breathing told her there would be something there. Something she wasn’t sure she wanted to discover. Something that might tip the scales of their balanced little family, a good and loving family that was at the core of who she was.
Taylor stopped at one end of the small sofa, her arms still at her side. She closed her eyes and pictured her mother’s worried face when she’d made this strange request. There was no going back to the hospital without telling Mom all was safe.
Before she could lose her nerve, she lifted an armrest and moved the sofa silently away from the wall. Wide cracks bracketed two boards beneath and she fought the urge to run from this once-cozy space. Instead, she stooped and tugged at the planks, listening for the water to shut off downstairs, hearing nothing but the hammering of her own heart in her ears.
There, below the floor, were two cloth-covered journals, their delicate calico prints suggesting a woman’s loving touch. Taylor retrieved them quickly, replaced the boards and repositioned the love seat in the clean spots left by the claw-footed legs.
With the books tucked safely under her bulky sweater, she descended the stairs, raced to her old room, and pressed her back to the closed door before releasing the breath she’d been holding.
There. She had Mama’s journals. Dad would never see them, would never know their content.
But what did they say that would hurt him so much?
There was a soft rap on the door and Taylor jumped. “Taylor?”
Quickly she hid the books in her carry-on bag and then took a cleansing breath.
“Be right there, Dad.” Suddenly she felt as though she were part of some conspiracy. Would he see a guilty look on her face? She glanced at the mirror and practiced a calm she didn’t feel, then opened the door.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?”
His concern doubled her guilt and she struggled to conceal it. She’d had no reason to ever deceive her father before, but Mom had said he must never know. “I—I’m fine, Dad. Maybe we should leave for the hospital now.”
