For a split second the world went white. I wondered if I tossed my cell phone out the window, would everything immediately return to normal? I would drive home. Robin and I would probably argue, and I would go to sleep with her fuming safely beside me.
I pulled myself back into the moment. “What happened? Is she okay?”
“She’s at the Inova Loudon Hospital. Where you should be. I’ll be on my way there as soon as I make arrangements. But the doctor says she’s going to be all right. Moderate to severe concussion, dislocated shoulder, maybe mild whiplash. They want to keep her a night or maybe two to do more tests. As a precaution.”
I’m no expert but that didn’t sound too bad. My heart began to slow. “Do you know what happened?”
“She was in a car with three other women. She had that dinner—”
I wondered how Cecilia knew about Robin’s dinner. “Go on.”
“The police think the driver of the car that struck hers might have had a heart attack at the wheel. He ran a stop sign and hit the passenger side of Robin’s car. He died.”
“Robin was driving?”
“No, the car she was riding in. Somebody named Gretchen was driving, and she was injured, too, but not badly. So was a woman named Margaret. She was taken by helicopter to a trauma center.”
I knew these women, had known them for years. My heart began to speed again. “You said four?”
“Talya was in the car, too.” She paused. “I’m sorry, Kris, but Talya was killed. She was sitting in the death seat.”
“Death seat?”
“Passenger seat. That’s what Donny calls it.”
I don’t remember exactly what I thought next. Maybe that tonight Michael Weinberg was trying to deal with the worst news of his life. That the unidentified call on my phone was probably from the Loudon County Sheriff’s Office or the hospital where Robin had been taken. That my children were now at home with somebody—who?—and I needed to get to them immediately. That my telephone had been turned off while all this was happening because I’d had an argument with Robin.
And finally that my wife, who I have loved since the first time I saw her taking photographs across a crowded room, was in a hospital grieving the loss of our next-door neighbor. Talya, the young woman who had shared so many good times with our family, the young woman who Robin was closer to than any other woman in the world except Cecilia.
Cecilia had remained silent so I could absorb this. I made my way back to our call. “Why did they call you? How did they know who to call?”
“They checked Robin’s cell phone. I’m listed under her contacts as her sister.”
And then I said something supremely stupid. “You were foster sisters.”
She snorted. “I have a flight to arrange.”
“You don’t have to—” But Cecilia had already disconnected.
She didn’t have to fly in. Who knows what she was leaving and who would suffer, but Cecilia would come anyway. Because in her heart, and in my wife’s heart, too, even though they don’t share a single gene, they are honest-to-God sisters, right down to their bone marrow.
Cecilia
I’ve never liked hospitals. Three months ago I spent two weeks incarcerated in one, and now I like them even less. Sure, I still realize the occasional necessity, but I also realize how important it is to be freed as soon as possible. On that one point alone I agree with insurance companies.
For the majority of my childhood I escaped the notice of doctors. On the rare occasion when Maribeth—the woman who gave birth to me—focused long enough to realize I was sick, we sat in emergency rooms and waited. Once she left me alone for hours after telling me she was going to the bathroom. When it was my turn to be seen, the staff refused because Maribeth wasn’t present. Just as they were about to contact the police she showed up again with a good enough story to explain her absence.
Growing up, I heard so many of Maribeth’s good enough stories that I don’t remember the juicier details. I only know our wait began all over again. It was nearly morning before they diagnosed pneumonia and gave her a prescription and instructions for taking care of me. The only surprising thing? I think she actually filled the prescription. That was unusual enough to be memorable.
The smallish hospital where the paramedics took Robin two nights ago looks like hospitals in well-to-do suburbs everywhere. Tan facade of mixed materials, clever use of glass and soaring ceilings. Fresh, clean lobby to promote confidence. By the time I arrived in Leesburg, almost forty hours after the accident, visiting hours had already begun for the day. Traveling to Phoenix, then scheduling a flight to Dulles was surprisingly difficult, but I didn’t have enough time to wheedle anybody’s private jet.
Donny accompanied me, all personal manager and bodyguard, and now he was the liar who was taking care of the business of getting me to the right floor. “My wife Jennifer and I,” he said in introduction before he asked where we could find Robin. The receptionist didn’t even glance at me.
Donny has been my manager for close to five years, and he has a genius for handling difficult situations or spotting them before they erupt. Today I wasn’t dressed as a big star. One of Donny’s shirts streamed over my tank top and baggy jeans, and my hair was pinned underneath one of his ball caps. No makeup hid my infestation of freckles, but tinted Harry Potter spectacles shaded my eyes. If anyone had caught me on camera this would have been a “before” shot. “Your Favorite Celebrities and What They Really Look Like.”
Luckily no one had realized I was in Arizona, and apparently no airline or airport employees had reported us, either, so nobody had followed us to the airport or sent photographers to greet us when we landed.
When we were alone in the elevator on the way to Robin’s floor he asked how I was feeling.
I’m not sure how a genuine nice guy makes it in this business. Donny looks like a high school history teacher—a little too preoccupied to remember to get his hair cut regularly or clean his glasses. He’s easy to look at, brown hair and eyes, even features, but he never makes an effort to be more. He has some kind of advanced belt in karate, and he’s been known to sail a twenty-four-foot sloop through Pacific Ocean squalls on his own. So he’s muscular enough to keep fans at a distance, but by no means a bodybuilder. Unless he’s in high-level negotiations or in danger of being photographed with me, his uniform is a faded concert T-shirt and discount store jeans.
The casual facade fades when he’s concentrating on contract concessions or higher royalties. He’s focused, determined and unfailingly polite. Nobody tries to take advantage of him a second time. Despite that, everyone likes Donny. And me? I would trust him with my life, and do.
“I feel fine,” I told him. “I’m not fragile. I’m not falling apart.”
“Nothing I said implied you were.”
“Thanks to you.” I glanced at him. “You kept that whole mess in Sydney under wraps. Not a single headline about my suicide
