Three Wishes (39 page)

He was returning the camera to its case when he remembered the last roll that had been developed. The envelope lay unopened on top of cookbooks on the kitchen counter. He pulled the pictures out and went straight for the ones of a beatific Bree at the height of her pregnancy. Helplessly, he smiled. She was something else.

Smiling now at the thought of photographing mother and child, he absently flipped through the rest of the pictures, taken during Nancy Anderson's visit. He was at the bottom of the pile when his smile faltered. Flipping back a few, he looked more closely at one picture, then another, and another. All were of Nancy, Julia, and Bree together. In each, the three women wore look-alike smiles—and suddenly, suddenly, it made total sense: Julia knowing that the woman in the diner wasn't Bree's mother . . . Julia offering Bree her own wedding gown . . . Julia in her garden, defending Bree's mother to Tom . . . Julia offering encouragement and support as Bree's pregnancy progressed.

He might have felt a twinge of anger, if all hadn't been so right with the world. But it was a time of forgiveness. And he wanted Bree to know.

He picked up the phone to call, changed his mind, and raced upstairs for a shower. He had just finishing dressing, intent on driving to the hospital, creeping into Bree's room, and doing his best to contain his excitement until she woke on her own, when the phone rang.

It was five in the morning. He reached for it with a grin, thinking it was his incredible wife on his brainwave again, but it wasn't.

“Mr. Gates, this is Dr. Lieber at the medical center.” His voice was tense, the tone urgent. “I think you should come.”

Tom went cold. “What's wrong?”

“We really need you here.”

His heart started to pound. “What's wrong?”

“I'm afraid we have a problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“With Bree. She's had an attack.”

For a minute, he couldn't breathe. “Attack?”

“Heart attack.”

Oh, God.
His voice rose. “Is she alive?”

“I think you should come.”

“Is she
alive?”
he yelled.

There was a pause, then a quiet “No. We did everything we could, but she had been gone too long when we found her. I'm sorry.”

The cold spread through him, ice in his veins.

“Will you come?” the doctor asked.

Tom swallowed. “Yes. Fifteen minutes.” He hung up the phone and stared at it, pushed a hand through his hair, blinked.

Three wishes. One for heat, one for a mother, one for a child. And after the last?

It couldn't be, he argued with himself. There had to be a mistake. She had made it through the delivery, had been
fine
just two hours before. Besides, she couldn't have had a heart attack. She was too healthy for that. She was too
young
for that.

He swallowed again, feeling sick to his stomach. So was the call a joke? Not possible. No one,
no one,
would joke that way, especially not on Christmas morning.

If it wasn't a joke, though, it might be a mistake. Telling himself that was it, he lifted his keys from the kitchen table as he ran past. He was already in the truck when he thought to call Julia. Leaving the door ajar, he raced back inside and was nearly at the phone, when he changed his mind. He couldn't call her. Bree wasn't dead. There had been a mistake, that was all.

He drove through the predawn dark at the kind of speed he hadn't dared attempt the night before, but Bree wasn't in the car now, and time was of the essence. He had to get to the medical center to straighten things out.

Leaving the truck at the front entrance, he ran inside and up the stairs. One look at the somber faces gathered at the nurses' station, stark against a backdrop of tinsel and cheer, and the cold in him became dread.

Paul Sealy separated himself from the group. Looking devastated, he clutched Tom's arm. “The nurse checked at three-fifty. Bree and the baby were both sleeping. When she made rounds less than an hour later, Bree was gone.”

Tom didn't understand.

Paul didn't seem to, either. “Her heart just stopped. There was no warning. No violence. The resident used defibrillators, but it was too late. She must have died right after that three-fifty check.”

Tom frowned. He ran a hand through his hair.

“I don't know what happened,” Paul said. “We tested her. Her heart was sound.”

“Where is she?” Tom asked in a raw voice.

“In her room. We moved the baby to the nursery. He's doing fine.”

Tom barely heard the last. He was already on his way down the hall to the room where he had left Bree alive such a short time before. He paused briefly at the door. She was sleeping. That was all. Sleeping. Three steps, and he was beside the bed, but the instant he touched her cheek, he knew.

It was cold as ice. He felt her neck, her arm, her hand. All cold, too cold.

He chafed her hand to warm it up and called her name in that same raw voice. Her face was pale and waxy, her lashes as dark on her cheeks as her hair was on the pillow. Her nose was delicate, her chin gently rounded. Her lips were curved in a soft, sweet smile.

She looked serene, even happy and beautiful, too beautiful to be dead.

“Oh, baby,” he whispered, bringing her hand to his mouth. It smelled of the lilac bath oil she had used the night before, and of antiseptic, where the anesthesiologist had swabbed it for a drip.

As he stood there, the smell of the antiseptic faded, leaving only a lilac softness. Against it, he made a long, low, keening sound.

No joke. No mistake. Bree—his Bree—was gone.

 

Time ceased to count. He sat beside her on the bed, holding her hand, stroking her arm, kissing her cheek. He told her he loved her and breathed warmth into her cold fingers. Pressing them to his throat, he studied her face, tracing every feature, memorizing texture and shape. He struggled to accept that she wouldn't—wouldn't ever again—come awake and break into the smile that he loved.

At some point, Paul joined him. Quietly, he asked, “Is there anything I can do?”

Hit by a sudden insane fury, Tom turned on him fast.
What happened?
he wanted to scream.
She was in your care, so why weren't you here? Why didn't someone check her sooner? You knew she died once, man. You knew it! How could you have done all those tests and not known her heart was weak?

His fury deflated with the realization that her heart hadn't been weak. The most he could manage was a stricken “Bring her back.”

Paul ran a hand around his neck. “What I'd give to be able to. The few patients I've lost died because of accident, catastrophic illness, or old age. I've never lost someone like Bree before.”

Neither had Tom. He touched her cheek. The chill of her skin went right through him, bottling things up somewhere deep in his gut.

“Is there anyone I can call?” Paul asked.

Julia. Tom had to call Julia. But he wasn't ready to share Bree yet. So he shook his head no.

 

Dawn broke after seven. Tom hadn't moved, other than to touch another part of Bree—her hair, her hip, her leg. Her feet were cold. Her feet were always cold, she had told him once. He remembered telling her what his mother had said about a woman's warmth being centered around her heart.

So was a man's, he thought now. His heart was broken. What warmth it had held had just seeped right out through the crack. He was nearly as cold as Bree.

“Tom?” came a frightened voice from behind. Julia was at the door, ghostly pale and visibly shaking. Her eyes were on Bree. “I woke up an hour ago with such an odd feeling. I couldn't shake it. So I drove over. They stopped me at the desk.” She approached, still looking at Bree. She carried a small gift. It fell to the floor, unnoticed, when she put out a hand to touch Bree's face.

Then she covered her mouth. Her gaze flew to Tom.

“It was her heart,” he said.

“No. She's just sleeping. Smiling at sweet dreams.”

Tom shook his head.

“But she was fine,” Julia protested. “Healthy.
Strong.
Women don't the having babies. Not here. Not anymore.” She whirled toward the door, as if to summon a doctor to treat what ailed Bree.

Tom stopped her with a hoarse “It's too late. She's gone.”

“No.”

“She is. I've been with her since a little after five. She isn't here anymore.”

Julia shook her head in denial still, but when she looked back at Bree, she started to cry.

Tom held her, for his sake as much as hers. They shared something, Julia and he. They both loved Bree deeply. Julia's tears expressed his own grief in ways that the ice inside him wouldn't allow.

After a time, she drew back and pressed a tissue to her eyes. Her voice was ragged and low. “I was going to tell her today. I wrote it all out in a little book for her to read, everything that happened back then, my reasons and what I felt.” She shot him a teary look. “You guessed the truth. After that day in the garden?”

“No. Not until a few hours ago. I was looking through pictures of you and Nancy and Bree. There's a family resemblance.” He thought to correct the tense, but couldn't, couldn't.

Julia touched Bree's shoulder. She smoothed out the material of the hospital gown and ever so gently kneaded the skin beneath. Her smile was so sad that if Tom's heart had still been whole, it would have shattered right then.

“Beautiful Bree,” she whispered. “Beautiful from the start.” Her words began to flow, seeming appropriate, even soothing. “I was so frightened when I learned I was pregnant. But she was life, after months focused on death. I loved her the whole time I carried her, and Hay wood loved me. He made me forget about Vietnam. We built a make-believe life together. I was so happy when Bree was born. Somehow, I thought, somehow it would all work out.”

She fell silent. Tom brought Bree's hand to his mouth and kissed it. Looking up, he wondered if she knew he was there. He wondered if she knew Julia was, too, and if she was listening to Julia's tale. He wanted that more than anything.

“Did your family know about Bree?” he asked.

Julia's sigh was rough. “God, no. We were Catholics. I had committed adultery. They wouldn't have understood. I had gone east to be with the wife of one of Teddy's war buddies, and they didn't even understand that. Teddy was an MIA. They thought I should be waiting at home by the phone. But,
Lord,
was it oppressive. I called home once a week to see if there was word. I couldn't bear calling more often than that Bree was two weeks old when I learned that Teddy was found. They had brought him to a hospital in Germany. He had lost a leg and was going to need care. I didn't know what to do.”

“Did you love Haywood?” Tom asked, as Bree would have.

“Like I loved Teddy?” Julia gave another sad smile before looking back at Bree. “Haywood was something to think about when I couldn't bear thinking about Teddy.” Her voice shrank. “But I loved Bree. I did.” Fresh tears slid down her cheeks. With near reverence, she drew a circle from Bree's cheek, over her forehead, past her other cheek, to her chin. “Bree,” she whispered. “Oh, Bree. Maybe if I'd been older, or more sure of myself. I was convinced that Teddy was dead. When I found out he wasn't, I felt so guilty. I had betrayed my wedding vows while my husband was living a nightmare. The pain of leaving you seemed just punishment for that.”

“Did you ever have second thoughts?”

“All the time. But Teddy was sick at first, and then Nancy was born, and Scott, and time passed, and it would have been even harder to tell them about Bree. Besides, Haywood had forbidden me to contact her. He threatened to expose me if I did. I had to wait until he died. Teddy died the month before.” She shivered. “An eerie coincidence.”

Nothing surprised Tom. Nothing at all.

“All this time,” Julia said with regret, “all this time I've been here, and I didn't speak up. I was afraid she wouldn't want me. It was enough to just see her. So I didn't say a word until the day she thought that other woman was her mother, and even then I didn't tell the whole truth.”

Tom was struck by the precision with which Bree's wish had come true. On the very day when she had wished to see her mother, Julia had come forward. The woman in the Mercedes had been a red herring.

“You were born in California?” he asked.

“Near Sacramento.”

“Who was Matty Ryan?”

“Me. Ryan is my maiden name. Martina was my middle name. When I was little, everyone called me Matty. Everyone but Teddy. I was always Julia to him.”

“Where did the name Bree come from?”

“My father. Bryce.” She touched Bree's hair. “Haywood let you keep that at least. I wasn't sure he would. It meant so much to me when I found out. My father was a powerful man, with a shock of thick auburn hair.” Her chin trembled. “Oh, Bree,” she whispered, “I should have told you sooner.” Softly, she wept.

Tom lifted the forgotten gift from the floor. It was small and compact, as a journal would be. He tucked it against Bree. “I think she knew. She told me how much you meant to her. She wanted you to be the baby's godmother.”

Julia's sobs deepened. Her words came, broken and wrenched, from behind the tissue she pressed to her nose. “I was so happy—early this morning—couldn't sleep—so I opened Bree's gift—an album for baby pictures—along with this.” She pulled a folded paper from her pocket and passed it to Tom.

Dear Julia,
he read.
This gift is really from my baby, so you'll have a place to put pictures of him (I just know it's a boy). He's going to love you. He'll know that he can go to you when he has a problem. He'll know that you love him. Since I know all that, too, I'd be honored if you'd be his godmother. I'd be honored if you'd think of Tom and the baby and me as your family in Panama.