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.”
13
Margot
How 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.
14
Philippa
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.”
