While My Sister Sleeps (28 page)

A nurse came in. Charlie took Christopher's elbow. “We'll be right outside,” he told the woman and waited only until the door was closed before murmuring, “She's all hot air.”

Chris kept telling himself that, but there was a catch. “She says she has pictures.”

“Compromising ones?”

“They can't be. I wasn't with her but that one stretch, and there were no pictures.” He paused, then said, “My relationship with Erin was just getting off the ground. I didn't want her finding out.”

“Did she?”

He shook his head. “Liz knows that. It's her ace in the hole.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Tell her to take a hike.”

“There's a risk. If you told Erin, you'd eliminate it.”

Chris let out a breath. “Easier said than done. She'll be upset.”

“Explain why you did what you did.”

“Last fling?” He made a disparaging sound.

“You have to tell her something.”

“We've, uh, had some differences lately. She says I don't talk enough.”

“Maybe you don't.”

“
You
never did.”

Charlie slid him a puzzled look. “I talked enough.”

“I never heard it.”

“Were you in the bedroom with Mom and me?” Of course
not. “Parents don't talk about everything in front of their kids,” Charlie went on. “Your mother and I talk at night when we're alone. She always knows what I'm thinking.”

“I thought that with Erin, but she says no. You and Mom work together, so you don't have to come home at night and give a play-by-play of your day.”

“Erin can work at Snow Hill.”

“That's not the point.”

“Maybe it should be. She's been a help this week. I'd rather have her with us than somewhere else. She could even bring the baby.”

“Snow Hill's no place for a baby.”

“It worked for you kids. But if you don't want it, find a better solution. Come on, Chris. Be positive.”

“This week?” He snorted. “Fat chance.”

His father was quiet. “Life goes on, Chris. You raised the issue of Liz. It'll be here with or without Robin. Same with you and Erin.”

“Erin's being unreasonable. So what if I'm quiet. You're quiet. That works for Mom. Erin just doesn't get it.”

“No, Chris,
you're
the one who doesn't get it if you don't acknowledge her needs. Sharing feelings is hard. If someone disagrees, you feel offended—especially if that someone is the person you love. But the solution isn't to clam up. Mom would be upset with me if I didn't express my thoughts. I just do it in a way I'm comfortable with. You have to find what you're comfortable with. To refuse to do it at all is cowardly. You could start by telling Erin about Liz.”

Chris didn't like that idea. But it might be the only way to neutralize Liz. “You wouldn't vote to reinstate her?”

“And undercut Molly? No.”

“What about severance?”

Charlie considered that. “Four weeks’ pay, maybe. That'd be a compromise.”

Chris wasn't sure she would go for it, but that took him to the next step. “She'll fight me. Will you make the call?”

“Oh-ho no, my boy,” Charlie said, pushing off from the wall as the nurse left Robin's room. “This one's all yours.”

AT
home, Kathryn sat on her bed with her laptop. She was wearing her robe, its pockets filled with tissues she had used, crying as she read Robin's files. She was glad she was alone. She couldn't be strong, just couldn't. To be able to cry, to sob, to shriek without anyone hearing was a luxury.

Molly was right. If these files were to be believed, Robin wanted to meet Peter; but there were other wants that Kathryn hadn't imagined, either. Reading about these made her look twice at the mother she had been, and what she saw didn't please her. Her heart might have been in the right place, but she had missed the core of who Robin was. She had chosen to see a Robin who was made in her own mold, rather than one shaped by Peter, Charlie, even Molly. This other Robin was a revelation.

That was why, at last, she was drawn to
Who Am I?
Craving the answer, she opened the file.

I'm a fraud
, Robin began but caught herself.
Maybe that's an overstatement. Let's say I'm an actor. I play the part of the star, and I do a convincing job. Do I love giving speeches? No. And cutting ribbons is boring as hell.

The part about running is real. I couldn't fake that. But I have my mother to thank. She gave me the motivation when I had none myself.

So I'm a RUNNER. Who else am I?

I'd say I'm a DAUGHTER, only I don't do much for my parents. They're the ones doing things for me. Same with being a SISTER. Molly does more for me in a day than I do for her in a month. And the bitch of it is, I now know that I'm not even completely a SNOW.

So who am I?

In order to BE someone, you have to be passionate. Molly is passionate. She LOVES her greenhouse and LOVES her cats. She LOVES the house, even when I criticize it for every little fault that I see. She LOVES being the traveller, which may not be obvious to her, because she also LOVES being home. But when she's with me on the road, we actually SEE the city we're in. When I'm alone, I'm in and out. Could be Dallas, could be Tampa, could be Salt Lake City. I barely notice.

I have lots of friends. So I'm a FRIEND. But they're not here in the middle of the night, and besides, they're more like an entourage than a group of friends. If I stopped running, we wouldn't have much in common.

Who do I WANT to be? I want to be all of the above, only I don't have the time. OK, I don't MAKE the time. Because I'm too busy being an actor playing the part of a runner who is so busy racking up wins that she doesn't HAVE a clue about who she wants to be.

Nana used to slow me down when I was little. She'd catch me there in her arms and hold me without saying much at all. When I squirmed to escape, she said, “Just be, little Robin. Just be.
”

I think that if I could do that, I would be able to decide who I am.

I'd like to JUST BE, for a little while at least. Nana doesn't say those words anymore, but they're coming to me now. Must be her sprite.

Kathryn was sobbing again, loudly and unrestrained—this time for Marjorie. She missed her mother. Marjorie would have had something down-to-earth and sensible to say about what had happened to Robin. Or she might have simply called it the work of sprites. But hadn't Charlie, too, said that things happened for a reason?

Struggling to make sense of it all, Kathryn set aside the laptop and went downstairs. The kitchen looked like a party waiting to happen, with covered casseroles on the counter, dropped off only that morning. Others filled the freezer. Moreover, there were flowers in every room, not a one brought back from the hospital.

Preparation for a wake? No. Kathryn was past the point of cynicism. These gifts were to sustain her through this horrendous time.

She had friends, though she hadn't done much to earn their loyalty. She had a successful business, though its success was truly the work of a larger team. She had a mother she had deserted and a family she didn't hear. And
Robin
called herself a fraud?

With their lives in such flux, Kathryn had no idea who she was herself. Nor could she see the future.

At this moment of sheer exhaustion, the idea of just
…being…
sounded nice. Except that her firstborn was on life support pending a devastating choice, Charlie was deferring, Molly was arguing, Chris was silent, Marjorie was absent, and Peter was coming.

Focus
, she told herself. But on
what?

OLLY WORE A SUNDRESS ON SATURDAY MORN
ing. As Robin's emissary, she wanted to look good. In order to recognize Peter when he arrived, she pulled up pictures of him before she left home.

The airport was small and the plane a private one. He emerged from the terminal alone, with a single bag on his shoulder, and looked exactly like his photographs—same lean build, same polo shirt and chinos, same tanned face.

Recognizing him was the easy part. The hard part was knowing what to say. She did fine with the greetings
—How was your flight? Do you have any other bags? Have you been to this area before?
Once they were in the car, though, she found herself unsure of what he expected, of what she expected, of what
Robin
expected.

“Excuse the ride,” she said when he shifted his legs in what
looked like an attempt to get comfortable. “We don't have a limo.”

“This is fine. The company Jeep?” he asked in a nice-enough way.

“My Jeep. The logo is good advertising.”

“Is advertising your field?”

“No. I do plants.”

“Do?” he asked with either mockery or simple curiosity.

Giving him the benefit of the doubt, she said, “I run the greenhouse. Plants are reliable. Once you know them, you know them. No surprises.”

He was quick; he got it in one. “Surprises like me?”

“And Robin and my mother. They both knew and never told.”

He was quiet for a minute. Then he said, “I didn't know Robin Snow was my daughter until I went lookin’. I haven't been in touch with your mother. I never even knew if the baby was a boy or a girl.”

Molly resented that on Robin's behalf. “Weren't you curious?”

“I didn't want to know. Didn't want to feel anything.”

“But didn't you feel anyway?” she asked.

“Maybe. Once in a while.”

She shot him a look. He seemed serious. “How many kids do you have in all?”

“Back home? Three. One loves me; two hate me. That's not a great track record. Robin was better off with your dad.”

Stopped at a traffic light, Molly studied him. “I don't see any of Robin in you.”

“She's fortunate then.”

“Actually, she's not,” Molly said with mild annoyance. “I'd
rather she inherited your looks than your heart.” The light changed. She drove on.

“You were the one who asked me to come,” he reminded her gently.

Duly chastised, she softened. “I'm sorry. This is weird.”

“Does your mother know I'm here?”

“She does. Does your wife?”

He made a derisive sound. “Which one? Wife number one, two, or three?”

“There are three?”

“Four, actually—only the last took off with our financial adviser, so she has no idea where I am. For what it's worth, neither do the other three.”

“Why not?”

“I respect Robin's privacy. Did she tell
you
about me?”

“No.”

“Enough said.”

Molly smiled wryly. “That's something my brother would say. He's an accountant.”

“Then he's no friend of mine,” Peter said, but with humor. “Does he know about me?”

“My father told him last night.”

“So your father does know.”

“Oh, he has all along. For the record,” she said, needing to stress this because she was feeling like something of a Judas, betraying the family by bringing Peter here, “he's been the best father Robin could want. He adores her. Please do not go in there talking about wishing you'd been a father to her. She's had a wonderful father.”

“Hey,” he reminded her again, this time chidingly, “
you
were the one who invited me here.”

She forced herself to take a breath. “You're right. I'm just worried. It's been an awful week. I don't want to make things worse, but I want Robin to know that you've come.”

He might have remarked that Robin wouldn't know it. When he didn't, her regard for him rose a notch. She said, “Your sister is a runner. Does she know about Robin?”

“She doesn't know Robin is my daughter. None of my kids know either. Again, for Robin's sake.”

“Robin's or yours?”

He winced. “How old did you say you were?”

“Twenty-seven. And this is just my personality. If Robin were sitting behind me, she'd be kicking the back of my seat.” She paused. “If she were here, though, she'd be asking these questions herself.”

“She's lucky to have a sister like you.”

“I'm the lucky one. She's been an awesome role model. Talk about determination and self-discipline. I could never do what she does.”