While My Sister Sleeps (32 page)

Frustrated that he had to rationalize this, he wasn't in the most receptive of moods when the honk of a horn stopped him, just as he was back home, about to go inside. It was Nick Dukette, who didn't have school files to give him David's home address, but who had learned it anyway.

Sweaty and disgruntled, David stood with his hands on his hips and let Dukette come to him. He was holding a large
manilla envelope. “The papers I promised,” he said, giving the envelope to David.

“That was fast.”

“I've been working on this for a year. It's only a partial. But what's here gives you a taste of what I'm doing.” His voice lowered. “Any news on Robin?”

David shook his head.

“She's still on life support?”

“As far as I know. Look, I don't know if I can do anything with these. I'm not in my family's inner circle.”

“Is anyone else visiting Robin—friends, other runners?”

“I don't know.”

“Have you visited?”

“No. Why do you ask?” David had no intention of making things easy.

Nick studied the gravel, then the trees. “Hard to eat, sleep, carry on …” He looked at David. “Have you ever loved someone?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, it sucks,” he exclaimed with a rawness that gave authenticity to the words. “How do you explain thinking about someone all the time? I sure as hell can't. The bitch of it is that we were probably all wrong for each other. We are both head-liners. Paired up, that can be lethal. But I figured she could only run so long, and then it'd be okay. But now she's on life support. How do I live with that?”

He looked like he might cry. David did not want to see that. He didn't want to believe that anything about the man was honest.

But Nick Dukette, standing there trying to get a grip on his emotions, did seem sincere.

Giving a little, David said, “Listen, I'll read what you've written. Can I get back to you?”

Nick didn't even seem relieved. He remained grief-stricken. “Sure. My number's inside.” He looked at the trees, then back. “You have no cause to like me. No cause to
trust
me. You know what newspaper people do. But this is not for the paper. I haven't been in the city room for two days. Don't even know when I'll go back. Don't
care.
But I'm begging you, if you hear anything about Robin—if anything changes—will you let me know?”

David agreed to do that.

OLLY KEPT UP ON THE LATEST IN HORTICUL
tural thinking. There were always new blights, new treatments. She believed that if she was familiar with them, she would be ready to act should her plants get sick.

She felt the same now about organ donation. Familiarizing herself with the process would make things easier when the time came. Kathryn couldn't think about it yet; but when she was ready, Molly wanted to be able to help.

Had it not been Saturday, she would have called the social worker who had been at Thursday's meeting. Her second choice was her favorite of the nurses caring for Robin. The woman was pleasantly plump, as physically soft as her nature was warm. When Molly asked if they could talk, the nurse guided her to an empty room.

“Organ donation,” Molly said, but quickly cautioned, “Please don't mention this to my mother. She's not there yet.
It's only been two days since it became an option.” Hesitant, she eyed the nurse. “How long does it usually take?”

“That depends on the person. Your mother and sister were unusually close.”

Molly made a sound of agreement. “Unusually close” was putting it mildly.

“Your mother hasn't wanted to see a minister,” the nurse observed.

“Her qualms aren't religious. They're personal. She isn't ready to let Robin go—not that I am,” Molly added quickly, “but Robin did register as an organ donor. Can you tell me how that works?”

“Of course. It's really very easy. When the time is right, you let us know. We contact the New England Organ Bank, which sends representatives here to meet with you. They explain the procedure and obtain consent. They're experienced in this, Molly. They counsel families on the emotions involved.”

“What are those?”

“Ohhh,” the woman breathed, “they run the gamut. Some family members are angry; they don't want to be doing this. Some are resentful that another person gets to live while their family member does not. Most are simply heartsick at losing a loved one. Organ donation can sometimes even be a comfort. Some people want to know everything about the recipients, some want to know nothing.”

Molly was curious. “Would we actually get names?”

“No. Privacy laws prevent that.”

“But I've seen clips on TV of recipients meeting donor families.”

“When a recipient wants to thank the donor family, the organ bank may put the two in touch, but only if the donor family agrees. More often, anonymity holds. The representatives
from the organ bank may say, ‘We have seven patients in Boston waiting for hearts, six waiting for kidneys,’ and so on, but they don't give specifics.”

“Then the recipients would be in New England?”

“Not necessarily. The local bank works with a national network to get organs to the right recipients. If the right patient is in the Pacific Northwest, the organ goes there.”

“Can we specify a recipient?” Molly asked, thinking that if Kathryn could hear stories, even physically
see
the people who were waiting for transplants, it might move her in that direction.

But the nurse gave a small smile. “Other than a family member donating, say, a kidney to a relative, that isn't done. Can you imagine the mess if it were—charges of favoritism, lawsuits claiming discrimination? Once in a while, you hear about a famous person being popped to the top of the list, but that's usually rumor, not fact. Organ banks are dedicated to fairness.”

That was actually okay, Molly decided. Robin would want her organs doing the most possible good. “How soon is it done after a person dies?” she asked, for the first time actually moving beyond the decision itself. Though it had to be asked, the question chilled her.

She must have shown her qualm, because the nurse put an arm around her shoulder. “As soon as possible. In the case of someone like your sister, once a decision is made to turn off the machines, the wheels start turning. Recipients are located, often hospitalized even before the withdrawal of life support is complete. Once the death is confirmed, a doctor performs the procedure. Representatives of the organ bank whisk the organ to the recipient.”

It was all very clean and efficient—less so, though, when Molly thought of Robin. “Once the machines are turned off, how long would it take for her—”

“For her heart to stop?” the nurse finished in an understanding voice. “Without cerebral activity? Not long.”

“Would she suffer?”

“No. She feels nothing.”

Molly swallowed. The end seemed so near. “So, once it happened—once her heart stopped—she would be wheeled out of the room.”

“Taken to an operating room.”

“And afterward? I mean, like, at a wake, would we see anything?”

“You mean, disfigurement?” the nurse asked insightfully. She was either used to the question or simply attuned to Molly's thoughts. “No disfigurement. Great care is taken, so that even with an open casket, the loved one looks like herself.”

Molly nodded. Her eyes met the nurse's. “If I'm having trouble with this, I can imagine how much more my mother will have.”

“She's a strong woman. She simply needs to come to it in her own way.”

KATHRYN
knew time was short. Nothing, absolutely nothing about Robin's condition had changed, yet her daughter was slipping away. Finger-combing Robin's dark hair, Kathryn restored a bit of the look of a physically active runner; but Robin's forehead was too cool, her eyelids smooth. With each day, she became less the Robin Kathryn had raised.

Or perhaps it was Kathryn's own mind making the adjustment. Accepting.

Part of her was frightened by that.

Elbows on the edge of the bed, she took Robin's hand in hers and, kissing it, studied her daughter's face. “I love you,” she whispered. She wanted to say more, but her throat closed up; and when she would have thought she was all cried out, her eyes filled again.

Charlie touched her arm. “Let's take a walk,” he suggested softly.

And still Kathryn looked at Robin. She didn't speak. Robin no longer heard. Her mother accepted that—though the thought brought more tears. Blotting them, she rose. Charlie's arm was a solid support as they went down the hall.

Leading her to the lounge, he pointed outside. Far to the left was the river, but closer, on a patch of grass well shy of the bluffs, was a sign:
We're praying for you, Robin.
Nearby, seated in a loose circle, were a group of Robin's friends.

“Other friends have brought signs,” he said, “but this is the first group that guessed the right spot. I've been fielding calls from the press. So far, they're holding off.”

We're praying for you, Robin.
Kathryn started crying again. She pressed her face against Charlie's arm until she regained control. “This is
so
not like me,” she finally whispered.

“Crying?” he asked, drawing her close.

“Falling apart.”

“You're acting as any mother would. And you're utterly exhausted.”

“I'm torn—pulled here, pulled there. Final has never been so
final
before. What should I do, Charlie?”

“Oh, sweetheart. I can't make that decision for you.”

That struck her as being unfair. “Beginning of life, end of life—why is it always the mother's choice? When I was first pregnant, I had to decide whether to have a baby alone or to abort. Peter didn't offer an opinion. It was me. My choice.”

“At least there were choices.”

“They were both daunting. Choosing to abort is
painful
, even when it's done for all the right reasons. I would have suffered for years afterward and never have known Robin. This choice is even worse.”

“It's the cost of having a life worth living. Choices are easy when you have nothing to lose. Would you rather have led that other kind of life?” She was feeling perverse enough to say
yes
, when he added, “You couldn't do that, Kathryn. It's not in your nature. I've always loved your determination—the wholehearted way you go at things.”

“But now I'm giving up,” she said in self-reproach. This was the frightening part of accepting what was happening. Giving up was a betrayal.

Charlie answered with startling force. “No, Kathryn. If anyone has fought these last few days, it's you. No, it's not about giving up.” His voice gentled. “It's about letting go, and I say that in the most positive sense. At some point, you'll decide there's nothing else you can do and that hanging on only brings more tears.”

“Have you reached that point?” Kathryn asked.

He was silent, his eyes troubled. “I want to start remembering Robin the way she was. That'll only happen when this is done.”

“Is that enough reason to turn off the machines?”

“Not alone. No.”

“What would be reason enough?” She was looking for something. One concrete thing. A reason to rest on in the years to come.

“Your having made peace with the situation.”

That wasn't concrete, she thought. It was
nebulous.
Spoken
by Charlie, though, it was a challenge. “But she's not in pain,” she reasoned frantically. “She isn't suffering. There has to be a reason why that's so—why we can keep her heart beating indefinitely even while her brain is dead.”

“Some people do it to buy time until a miracle cure is found.”

“You believe in miracles,” she reminded him, wondering if even a tiny part of him would be willing to wait. That would be something to grasp.

“Miracles within reason,” he qualified. “When the odds are against something and it does happen, we call it a miracle. But in this case, the odds are too long. I've searched the Web, Kath. I've pulled strings with friends who know doctors. Not one of those physicians felt that with test results like hers there is any chance of recovery. Yes, we're buying time, but it's for
our
sake, not Robin's.”