While My Sister Sleeps (12 page)

When her stomach growled again, she opened the fridge. There were more energy drinks, along with tofu and yogurt. There was also a chocolate cake, definitely Molly's contribution to the food supply. She pulled it out, intent on having a piece, only to realize she wasn't in the mood. Chocolate cakes—or cupcakes with frosting and sprinkles, or glittery butter cookies—were the most fun to eat while Robin watched in disapproval. If Robin wasn't there, what was the point?

Molly pushed the cake down the disposal. Thus purged, she heated a turkey frank, wrapped it in pita, drizzled it with mustard, and downed it in two seconds flat. Craving something
warm to drink, she took an envelope of hot chocolate from her side of the cabinet. Like the cake, though, it lacked appeal. So she brewed a cup of Robin's ginseng tea and carried it into the den.

It was a small room, just big enough for bookshelves and a desk. Molly had already packed the books that had been on her own shelves, but Robin's were still full. The top one held a neat lineup of sneakers, one pair more worn than the next. The shelf beneath held a random arrangement of books, and, on the lowest shelf, carelessly placed accordion files bulging with papers.

Sitting on the floor, she opened one. It was stuffed with term papers, tests, and class notes from a decade before. Replacing that file, she took another. This one was jammed with race entry forms, speeches Robin had given, and newspaper clippings of her own wins, the wins of her friends, and articles on every aspect of running. There were even several running magazines crammed in. Nothing was chronologically arranged.

She had to open more files before she found bills—electricity, gas, rental. Robin had lived in two other apartments before they moved here together. Molly found leases for two of the three. She found credit card bills, dental bills and, yes, medical bills referencing Robin's endless little mechanical problems; but none mentioned her heart. Molly was thinking that Jenny Fiske had to be wrong, perhaps had mistaken something Robin had said, when she found an envelope from Robin's primary care physician. It was tucked a little too neatly at the very back of the file. Molly might have missed it if she hadn't put the folder on her lap to stuff the bills back inside.

“Dear Robin,” the doctor wrote, “I'd like to reiterate your cardiologist's optimism. As frightening as a cardiomegaly diagnosis can be, since you've been asymptomatic, the prognosis
is good. You're one of the lucky ones who are alerted by a hereditary condition. If your father hadn't told you about the problem, you might have ignored symptoms down the road. Forewarned is forearmed. The cardiologist has discussed medication with you. Your running shouldn't be affected, but it is crucial that you see one of us immediately if you experience any of the symptoms we've mentioned. If all is well, I'll see you at your regularly scheduled appointment.”

The letter was dated eighteen months earlier. But it made no sense to Molly. Charlie had denied a history of heart problems. Either he was lying, or Robin was.

Dropping the letter, she scrambled up and went into the bathroom. Having always ceded the medicine chest to Robin's running remedies, she had no idea what was inside. Looking now, she found over-the-counter products, and a single bottle of prescription painkillers. Not surprisingly, it was barely used. Robin hated taking anything but vitamins.

Rushing to the kitchen, Molly searched her sister's stash of vitamins, thinking she might keep a bottle of heart medication there to pretend it was just another healthy thing to take each day, but each bottle Molly found appeared to be nothing but vitamins. Back down the hall, she rummaged through the night-stand by Robin's bed, then through her dresser drawers. No pills.

Of course, discussing medication with a doctor didn't necessarily lead to taking it, especially where Robin was concerned.

Temporarily at a standstill, Molly returned to the den. After putting the bills back, she put the file back on its shelf. She reread the doctor's letter before returning it to its envelope. The woman practiced out of Concord. Molly could contact her.

Right, Molly.
If the goal was helping her mother, calling either
Charlie or Robin a liar wouldn't help. Besides, the heart damage was done.

Molly didn't understand how she couldn't have known. Even if Robin planned to keep it from her, wouldn't something have accidentally slipped out? She racked her brain, trying to recover even the smallest mention. Yes, Robin had been more worried lately about being with people who were sick, but that was understandable. The stakes were higher than ever in the races she had entered.

Frustrated, Molly tucked the letter in her pocket and turned on the computer. Here was something she could definitely do. So many notes of concern on both her and Robin's e-mail accounts, sweet notes from people who cared—all deserved an answer. She sent simple ones to acknowledge the kindness of the sender, but gave little medical detail. She sent similar notes to some of those who had left phone messages.

When she finished, it was after one. Wide awake, with that letter sitting in her pocket like a hot stone, she went into Robin's room. It was as messy as always. Here, too, Kathryn might have wanted things left alone. But Molly had been cleaning up after Robin since they had moved in together, and Robin never seemed to mind. She liked being pampered. Neatening the room was something she would want. It was the least Molly could do.

Finding penance in it, she carefully made Robin's bed, hung up a nightshirt, pushed dirty clothes into the laundry bag on the back of the door. She put away two fanny packs, took the book that was open facedown on the bed and closed it, using the cover flap as a marker. It was a book on self-motivation. Opening it again to the page Robin had been reading, Molly suddenly heard her sister's voice, deeper than her own and with a resonance born of passion.
Training is the tough part.
Not everyone can do it. When you do that long run, with no water stations, no TV crews, no crowds cheering you on, it's hard. But that's the point. The long run helps develop the mental toughness you need to run a marathon. It's during the long run that you learn how to cope.

Realizing that Robin might be on her last long run now, Molly grew weepy; but along with tears came a glimmer of hope. If anyone had mental toughness, Robin did. If anyone could pull through, she could.

Believe in yourself
, Robin always told running groups,
and you'll make it happen.

Drying her eyes, Molly grabbed a large canvas bag and began filling it. There was the picture of Robin wearing the laurel wreath in Boston, and a framed article that had appeared in
People.
There was the running book she had coauthored and, from the corkboard, handwritten letters of adoration from would-be runners. There was the hat she had worn running London and the singlet and shorts she had broken in for New York. There was her lucky wristband. And her favorite running shoes. And her journal.

Molly dug the journal from the closet, which was a total disaster. Narrow but deep, her closet was packed full of everything Robin didn't want to look at day to day. Robin claimed mice lived at the back. Molly hated mice—which was one reason she loved the Snow Hill cats and might be good reason to have a cat where she lived—but even aside from that, this closet would be the pits to pack. CDs were tossed in with a tangle of headset cords, MP3 players, and multiple generations of iPods. Tee shirts with race names were strewn about, along with plaques, rolled photos, and other memorabilia. And there were more diaries, dating back to Robin's childhood.
My Book
, Robin called each, and Molly had long since read every one,
hoping in vain for a dramatic divulgence of her sister's darkest secrets. By the time Robin reached high school, she called them journals and filled them with reports on the races she had run. Once she graduated from college, she stopped writing.

Molly took the very last journal. It was only about races. But running defined Robin. If these things helped make her hospital room more personal, if some hidden vibe could spark her back to consciousness, they should be there.

CHRIS
couldn't sleep. He didn't understand how a person could be alive one minute and dead the next. The fact that Robin's heart was beating was a technicality. The damage was done. Robin was gone.

He knew things like that happened. He remembered 9/11. He remembered Virginia Tech. He just hadn't personally known anyone who had died like that.

Erin's voice came quietly through the dark. “I wish I'd known Robin better. I kept thinking there'd be a time when she wouldn't be running so much, maybe even when she'd have a baby and we'd have more in common.” Her voice turned his way. “Do you think tomorrow's test will be any different?”

“No.”

“What'll your Mom do?”

He had no idea. They had never faced anything catastrophic before.

“The machines could keep Robin alive forever,” Erin said. “Would the hospital allow that?”

“If the insurance pays.”

“Does it?”

“I can't go there yet, Erin.”

“How can you not?” she asked. “Your sister's about to be declared brain dead.”

He might have snapped if she hadn't sounded so upset herself. She also happened to be right. Today—tomorrow—they would face a decision. Insurance might pay. But if Robin's brain was dead, what was the point?

Climbing out of bed, he went down the hall to Chloe's room. In the pale yellow haze of a butterfly night-light, he looked at her. She was lying on her back, her hands up by her head, her mouth nursing an imagined bottle. Even asleep, she was sweet.

He couldn't think of life without her, but it hadn't always been that way. He hadn't been ready for kids and had gone along with Erin only because she wanted one so badly. He had been hoping that getting pregnant would take a while, but two months was all it took; and even then, he didn't focus on having a child. It wasn't until the sonogram showed something resembling a human being that it hit him. A subsequent sonogram increased the feeling, and then, when Erin got big and the baby started to move under his hand, he was completely won over. He adored Chloe the instant she was born.

“I'm sorry,” Erin said from the door. “I didn't mean to make things worse. Are you okay?”

He nodded.

She came to stand beside him. After a minute, she reached into the crib and smoothed the baby's blond hair. “I can't imagine …”

“Me either.”

“I didn't know what to say to your mom.”

“What's there to say? There's no solution.”

“Maybe it isn't about solutions. Maybe it's about helping Kathryn.”

Chris felt an anger come from nowhere. “Maybe Robin should have thought of that. How could she have kept racing if she knew she had a heart problem? She should have thought about what we'd go through, what
Mom
would go through if something happened to her. But Robin was into Robin. It was always about her.”

“We were the ones who put her on a pedestal.”

“Not me,” Chris declared.

“Well, I did. I thought she was amazing. I was totally intimidated.”

“Most people are.”

“I feel closer to Molly.”

“Molly's more human.”

“That's unkind.”

“It's realistic.”

“Robin is brain dead.”

“I know that, Erin. She's my sister. Don't you think I'm hurting, too?”

Erin faced him in the dark. “Maybe if we talked it out—”

“Look, this is a tough time for me.”

“The nurse mentioned social services. Maybe we should be talking to them.”

“I'm not talking to strangers.”

“They're trained in things like this. They know what we're facing.”

“They can't cure Robin.”

“This isn't about Robin anymore.”

One part of Chris knew that. But he couldn't focus on what Erin wanted. “It'll be about Robin until her heart stops. Give her that much, okay?”

ATHRYN USED A PULL-OUT BED IN ROBIN'S
room but slept sporadically. Nurses came and went, and the equipment beeped and hissed. Rarely did an hour pass without an alarm ringing somewhere in the unit.