While My Sister Sleeps (23 page)

MOLLY
wasn't angry when she first finished reading the journal. She was just unable to believe it was true. The idea that Robin had a different father was ridiculous. She was a Snow. She had always
been
a Snow. Besides, the chances of Kathryn keeping such a monumental secret for so long was improbable.

The trouble was, Robin seemed to believe it.

Needing proof it wasn't so, Molly went into Robin's room and dug her picture box from the junk that remained in the back of the closet. Sitting on the bed, she opened it and began sorting through the photos. Robin was right. Here was the documentation of a life—and yes, the snaps of Aunt Rose with her heart-shaped face, looking so very much like Robin. That would have been convenient for Kathryn.

And still, Molly wasn't angry. What she felt was threatened. Someone was saying that everything she had been raised to believe was based on false assumption. Robin was right.
If you aren't who you thought you were, who are you?
Molly had asked herself that question more than once in the past few days.

The life she had known was coming apart.

Clinging to the familiar, she slept with the box—actually kept it on her bed with her hand touching its nubby leather. Her first thought when she awoke was that she had to share these pictures with her grandmother, but it was too early to go to the nursing home. There was no going back to sleep, though.

She showered and this time put on a tunic over capri leggings. Brushing her hair, she pulled it back in the clip Robin had brought her from Egypt, then headed for Snow Hill.

Chris's car was parked in the lot. Concerned, she went to his office. He was slouched in his tall leather chair, his head back against the headrest, his eyes tired.

“Have you been here all night?” she asked.

He raised a shoulder. Yes.

“I'd ask what's wrong, only what a stupid question is that? Chris, does the name Peter Santorum mean anything to you?”

He looked blank. “Should it?”

“No. No. Just wondering.” She left before he could ask why.
Four days ago, she might have blurted everything out, but it seemed more prudent now to wait.

The greenhouse helped with that. There was no sense of loss here, but rather the sense of renewal that came each day at dawn.

The nursing home was something else. As lovely as it was, there was a sadness to it. The same visitors parked in the lot. When a car stopped coming, it meant someone had died.

Her grandmother was finishing breakfast in the small dining room on the third floor. Leaning over Nana's shoulder, Molly gave her a hug.

Marjorie looked up in surprise. “Hello.”

“It's me, Nana. Molly. You look like you're done eating. Can we take a walk?” She helped her grandmother up and, threading an elbow under Nana's frail arm, guided her out. Thomas was staring from the next table, but Marjorie seemed unaware. The day was young; she hadn't met him yet.

Molly talked softly as they went down the hall. “You look pretty today, Nana. Is that the sweater Mom gave you for your birthday?” It was pale blue, finely knit. When Marjorie didn't reply, she asked, “Did you sleep well?” Then, when they reached the solarium, she remarked, “What a
beautiful
day.” Awning windows were open. The air smelled of fall.

Molly settled Marjorie in a brightly cushioned wicker chair and pulled another close. Then she leaned forward and took her grandmother's hands. “Okay, Nana,” she began, “this is really, really important. I'm going to say a name. I want you to tell me if it sounds familiar.” She watched Marjorie's eyes. “Peter Santorum.” There was no flicker of recognition. “Peter. Santorum. Does that name ring a bell?”

Marjorie turned in alarm. “A bell? I … I didn't hear.”

“No, Nana. There's no bell.” She tried again. “Have you ever heard of a man named Peter Santorum?”

Marjorie tipped her head, but her eyes were blank. Seconds later they fell to Molly's tunic. “Pretty color.”

“It's lilac, your favorite. But this is important, Nana. Your daughter is Kathryn. Did she date Peter Santorum? He played tennis.”

Her grandmother frowned. “I was running.” Her eyes brightened. “Did I win?”

Molly wasn't alarmed by Marjorie's confusion. She had seen it in her grandmother many times. Marjorie was pulling a memory from the messy closet of her mind and, in the process, was thinking it applied to herself. Those memories, like the nerve cells in her brain, were all tangled up.

Peter's name wasn't registering.

Molly tried a different angle. “You have a granddaughter named Robin. Who is Robin's father?” A light went on, but only in her own head. “Last time I was here, you said robins come early. Was your Robin born early?”

Marjorie seemed worried. “I don't know if I finished. I … I can't remember.”

Easing back, Molly removed the box from her tote and pulled out a picture of Robin. There were others around Marjorie's room, but this was a fresh one. “Here she is. Do you remember her, Nana?”

Marjorie studied the photo. “Did she finish?”

“She did,” Molly said encouragingly, though she felt a catch inside. She was referring to an imagined race
—any
race—certainly not life itself, and that was the crucial one right now. Pulling out a second photo, she said, “This is Kathryn. She's your daughter.” Marjorie stared at the picture. Molly put the two photos side by side. “Kathryn and her daughter Robin. Is
Robin's father Peter Santorum, Nana? Think back. Do you remember?”

Marjorie went from one picture to the other.

“It's really important, Nana,” Molly said, applying more pressure. “I need to know if this man is for real, and you would know. You're Kathryn's mother. She would have told you if she was pregnant before she got married.
Think
, Nana. If I've ever asked you anything important, this is it.”

Marjorie studied Molly with worry-filled eyes.

Coming out of her chair, Molly took her grandmother's face. Her hands were gentle, but she was desperate. “I need to know this, Nana.
Think.
”

The older woman's eyes filled with tears. “I… I was supposed to run my race.” She started to cry.

Molly's heart broke. She wrapped Marjorie in her arms. She was sorry she had pushed, sorry she had expected more than her grandmother had in her, sorry because if something this shocking hadn't jarred the woman's memory, nothing would.

What hit Molly then went beyond an intellectual understanding of her grandmother's illness. She knew what Alzheimer's meant—had used the word often enough—but for the first time, its meaning was visceral. Marjorie's mind had deteriorated beyond repair, taking much of Molly's past along with it. The loss was staggering.

She wondered if this was what her mother felt and why she couldn't visit. Thomas was an excuse. The real reason was the pain of loss.

Molly didn't want to feel it either, but she couldn't close her eyes and turn away. That would be abandoning someone she loved. Her grandmother had comforted her more times than she could count. Now the tables were turned, and Molly had to be the one to give comfort.

The key, she realized as she held her grandmother, was letting go. The past was gone. She couldn't get it back. Here was a new reality.

Sad as it was to accept that, it brought calm.

MOLLY
wanted to share the insight with her mother. Letting go wasn't a betrayal, but rather a pure form of love. But letting go entailed acceptance of reality—and in the case of Robin's life, did reality include Peter Santorum? That question had to be faced.

ATHRYN LAID HER HEAD BY ROBIN'S HAND. SHE
had no energy—couldn't think, couldn't go down for lunch, couldn't talk on the phone. She could barely remember how busy her life had been four days ago. When it came to Snow Hill, she just didn't care.

Charlie touched her head. She struggled to open her eyes.

“Hey,” he whispered.

She tried to acknowledge him with a smile, but failed.

“Want anything?” he asked.

She moved her head no.

“I can't convince you to go home for a while?”

She repeated the motion and closed her eyes.

“This isn't good, Kath,” he said softly. “You shouldn't be here all day. It isn't healthy—not emotionally, not physically. You've barely slept in four days.”

“I can't sleep.”

“Then it's time to talk with someone. Therapist? Minister? Your choice.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” she whispered wearily.

“Which one?”

“I'll let you know.”

“Is Mom okay?” Molly's voice came from the door.

Charlie answered, “She's upset. This will pass. Come on in, sweetheart. Maybe if you talk with her it'll help. She's feeling sorry for herself.”

Kathryn wasn't being goaded. “With good cause,” she murmured and turned the other way. “Try again.”

For a minute, there was silence. Then, from close beside her, Molly said, “Peter Santorum.”

The name startled Kathryn. She opened her eyes. Lifting her head, she looked at her youngest child. “What did you say?”

“Who is he?” Molly asked.

Kathryn shot Charlie a quick look, but he seemed as startled as she was. And Molly was waiting with a determined look on her face.

“Where did you hear that name?” Kathryn asked.

“I read it on Robin's computer.”

“Where did she hear it?”

“He called her. He learned he had a medical condition that was hereditary—an enlarged heart. He wanted to warn her.”

Kathryn's thoughts began to scramble. She struggled to sort them out. “When was this?”

“A year ago last spring.”

A year-and-a-half ago. And Robin hadn't said a thing?
Feeling a stab of defeat, Kathryn closed her eyes. Suddenly the years evaporated, and she was back when it began.

She wasn't thinking of having a child when she met Peter Santorum. She was twenty-two, newly graduated and working
at a flower shop in downtown Boston. Her job entailed creating floral arrangements for some of the best hotels and restaurants in the city.

Peter was a tennis player, in town for the U.S. Pro Championships at Longwood. The Ritz bar was his off-hours hangout. Impressed by Kathryn's lobby arrangement, he came to the shop looking for a bouquet for his latest squeeze. He and Kathryn struck up a conversation and went out for drinks. One thing led to another, until Kathryn
became
his latest squeeze.

It lasted one night. When she discovered she was pregnant, she dug his contact information from the flower shop files and tried to call him. Getting through his handlers wasn't easy; she was a nobody. She didn't even know why she was calling. They had little in common. He loved crowds; she loved flowers. He loved the road; she loved home. A tiny part of her, perhaps, dreamed that he hadn't been able to forget her, and that he was footloose simply because he had never found the right girl.

To his credit, he didn't try to deny his role in Robin's conception. Nor, though, was he excited. “If you're calling for money,” he said quietly, “I'll pay. We'll make some kind of legal arrangement, but I can't be tied down. I'm going other places right now.”

He didn't go far on the professional circuit, though he subsequently established a lucrative tennis school, with branches in several cities. Not for a minute, though, did Kathryn regret having turned down his offer of money. She had pride, and she had a career. She also had supportive parents.

Then she met Charlie. Like Peter, he just walked into the flower shop one day, but there the similarities ended. Charlie wasn't buying flowers for a girlfriend, but for his secretary as a thank-you for making his life less miserable. It was a powerful opening line, delivered with such a rueful smile that they got
to talking, but there was no tumbling into bed this time. For the next three days, Charlie stopped by the shop on one pretense or another. Then he gave up pretending and simply stopped by to see Kathryn. Director of marketing for a local bank group, he called the shop his oasis from the pressures of work. They talked about his work and about flowers. Already a plant person, he asked lots of questions.

It was a week before he got up the nerve—his word, confessed much later—to ask her out, at which point she told him she was pregnant. He felt a moment's qualm—another belated confession—wondering whether she was looking for a soul mate or a father for her child, before deciding that Kathryn was worth it either way. When he simply came back and asked what kind of food sat best in her stomach, she knew she had a keeper.