While My Sister Sleeps

It was a variation of Molly’s argument. And it did hold some merit.

‘You love Robin to bits,’ Charlie went on. ‘You always have. No one would question that.’

‘I wanted so much for her.’

‘She’s had so much,’ he urged. ‘She’s lived more in her thirty-two years than many people ever do, and you were the force behind it.’

‘I’m all she has.’

‘No. She has me. She has Molly and Chris. She has more friends than any of us. And we love her. Yes, Molly too. Molly’s had to live in her shadow, not always a fun place to be, but she does adore her sister. She covers for Robin a lot.’

‘Do you believe her about Duluth?’ Kathryn asked in a moment’s doubt.

‘How can I not? You set yourself up for that one, my love. No daughter tells her mother everything, especially when she knows it’ll disappoint.’

‘I wouldn’t have been disappointed if Robin had told me she had an enlarged heart. Worried, yes.’

‘You’d have discouraged her from running.’

‘Probably.’

‘What if she didn’t want that? What if she wanted to take the chance? She’s an adult, Kathryn. This is her life.’

Is? Kathryn thought. Or was? She had criticized Molly for using the past tense, but if Charlie was right, and the Robin they knew was gone, everything changed.

She had always thought she knew Robin through and through, and that what she wanted, Robin would want. If that wasn’t so, and if Robin couldn’t express her wishes now, how could Kathryn know what to do?

This wasn’t the time for a crisis in confidence, but Kathryn suffered one nonetheless. It had been a long time since the last such crisis. She was rusty at it.

Crises in confidence had been the norm when she was growing up, something of a family tradition. Her father, George Webber, was a lumberjack. Then a carpenter. Then a bricklayer. Then a gardener. At the first sign of discouragement in one field, he moved on to the next. Same with her mother, Marjorie, who ran a little cottage industry–first knitting sweaters, then sewing tote bags, then weaving country baskets. Everything she produced was beautiful–or so Kathryn thought. When business was brisk, Marjorie agreed; but at the first sign of a lull, she moved on.

Kathryn learned from her parents. She raced for the town swim team until she realized she would always be second tier, at which point she turned to violin. When she couldn’t get beyond second seat in junior high, she turned to acting. When she couldn’t get beyond chorus in the high school musical, she turned to art.

That was when she met Natalie Boyce. Head of the high school art department, Natalie was a free spirit prone to wearing wild clothing and speaking her thoughts. Kathryn was mesmerized by her confidence and no match for her resolve, neither of which she saw much of at home. At Natalie’s suggestion, she started with watercolor. She immersed herself in the basics of brush control, palette, texture and wash, and she thrived on Natalie’s encouragement. Natalie loved her use of line and shape and saw a natural feel for space in her work–but timidity in her use of color. Kathryn tried to be bolder, but her life was more muted tones than vibrant ones. So she switched from water-color to clay.

Natalie was having none of that. They talked. They argued. Their discussions went beyond art to life itself.

Kathryn returned to watercolor. She worked at it doggedly through her last two years in high school. When she applied to art school, the strength of her portfolio was her use of color. But it wasn’t until she left her parents’ home that she was able to articulate what she had learned.

Her parents were loving people who wanted to provide for their family–wanted it so badly that they went from one thing to the next in an endless search for a smash hit. What they didn’t understand was that smash hits didn’t just happen but took talent, focus, and hard work.

6 (#ub02bbdb4-800c-53f7-9f2e-2b2079b3618a)

The friends in the lounge were runners, clustered at a small table in a knot of denim, spandex, and backpacks. Molly recognized them as Dartmouth graduate students with whom Robin often worked out. They had no connection to Jenny Fiske.

Had she known that, she wouldn’t have rushed out. But it was too late. She was surrounded before she could retreat.

‘My cousin was in the ER last night with her little boy,’ one explained. ‘How’s Robin?’

‘Uh, we’re not sure,’ Molly managed.

‘I ran with her three days ago and she was fine,’ said another.

And a third, ‘We talked in the bookstore just yesterday.’

‘I heard it from Nick Dukette,’ put in a fourth.

‘Nick?’

‘Newspaper Nick. He saw it on the police blotter this morning, and he knows I know Robin. He said she’s in critical condition.’

Molly was taken aback. Nick claimed they were good friends; but if that was so, he should have called her first. Granted, she had her cell phone on vibrate and had been distracted enough to miss it.

Pulling the phone out now, she scrolled down. Okay. There it was. A missed call from Nick. No message.

Nick was a reporter for the state’s largest paper. On general assignment when Molly first met him, he had since been named to head the local news desk; but with his strength in sniffing out a story, he was a shoo-in for investigative editor at the next change in command. Like Robin, he had star written all over him. And he was hungry for it. He had piercing blue eyes that could either drill or charm, and he used them well. Had he been a lawyer, he would have chased ambulances; he was that addicted to breaking news.

Molly admired his doggedness, but there was a downside. What Nick knew, the world might soon know.

Kathryn would be horrified and would surely blame Molly. She had to talk with him.

But first these runners. Denying Robin’s official condition was absurd. The question was how much more to say, and the key was saying it quietly. The lounge wasn’t empty. A woman and her daughter dozed on one sofa, a family huddled on another.

Molly leaned into the group. ‘The official status still is critical condition,’ she said, because anyone calling the hospital would hear that. ‘We’re waiting for follow-up tests.’

‘Was she hit by a car?’

‘No. It’s an internal thing.’

‘Internal, like organs?’

Molly gave a quick nod.

‘Will she be okay?’

‘We hope so.’

There was a moment’s silence, then a quiet barrage.

‘Is there anything we can do?’

‘Can we make calls?’

‘Does she need anything?’

‘Positive thoughts,’ Molly said and was momentarily startled when one of the women she didn’t know gave her a hug. She was even more surprised to miss the warmth when the woman pulled back. Unable to speak, she waved her thanks and, cell phone in hand, made for the door.

Waiting just outside in the hall, standing half a head taller than Molly, was the Good Samaritan. His tie was loose, collar unbuttoned. He was visibly relieved when she stopped. With the earlier scene rushing back, how could she not? Her first thought was to apologize for her mother’s abominable behavior, but he spoke first.