While My Sister Sleeps (35 page)

“I'd better call Dad and let him know you're here before someone finds the car and reports you missing.”

When Kathryn didn't argue, she made the call. Charlie was groggy until the words
crashed the car
, at which point he grew alarmed. “Put your mother on,” he said.

Kathryn waved her hand no, but Molly insisted, knowing her father wouldn't rest until he heard Kathryn's voice.

“There,” Molly teased when her parents were done. “That wasn't so bad.” At Kathryn's look, she offered to make tea.

Kathryn seemed ready to protest, but stopped. “That'd be nice.”

Molly pointed her toward a chair, but when she headed for the kitchen, Kathryn followed. At least there were no cartons here, which would mean a late night packing on Monday. For now, though, Robin's tea was still haphazardly piled in the cabinet.

Kathryn smiled sadly. “Your sister loved tea.”

“I keep trying different ones, thinking that somehow I'll reach her.” After studying the choices, Molly removed a box. “I'm making you jasmine chamomile. It's a stress reliever.”

“I don't feel stressed.”

“You're stressed.”

“Not right now. Will you have some?”

Molly put water in the kettle. “No. I've tried, Mom, but tea isn't my thing. I'm not Robin.”

“You don't need to be Robin.”

“But you love her.”

“I love you, too.”

“Not like you love Robin.”

“That's true,” Kathryn admitted, but her eyes were steady. “No mother loves her children the same. Each one is different.”

“Robin has so many good points.”

“Had,” Kathryn corrected quietly.

It was a sobering moment for Molly, a sign of how far her mother had come. Kathryn's use of the past tense was a nod to reality. A tiny part of Molly would have fought it, if Kathryn hadn't gone on.

“You have your own good points.”

“Y'think?” One minute Molly believed it, the next she did not.

“Robin saw your strengths. She envied you. Remember what she wrote?”

How could Molly not? She had read
Why My Sister Is Wrong
many times now. It wasn't what she had thought to find in any journal of Robin's—and made her all the sadder that Robin wasn't there to argue.

She dropped the tea in a mug, but by the time she covered it with simmering water, Kathryn had wandered off. Listening, Molly heard a small, upsetting sound. She followed it to Robin's room, where Kathryn was weeping, one arm wrapped around her middle and the other hand pressed to her mouth. Molly hugged her from behind.

“Who would have imagined …,” Kathryn gulped between sobs.

Molly waited until she quieted, which was when she noticed the cat, sitting alert in the middle of the bed, eyeing Kathryn warily.

Kathryn eyed it back. “Did this cat come with a name?”

“No. I'm calling her Sprite.”

“You know that once you name her, she's yours.”

Molly did. But this cat was hers anyway. She had come to her on the evening Robin left—maybe even at the exact same
minute
, though Molly would never know for sure. She did know she wouldn't be giving the creature away.

Kathryn wasn't wild about cats; but with the rest of the room dismantled, the bed would have to be shared. Plumping up pillows, Molly settled her against the headboard. The cat didn't budge.

Wanting to give Kathryn a little time alone with memories of Robin, Molly went back to the kitchen. After a while, she returned and sat cross-legged on the quilt.

“How do you feel?” she asked, watching Kathryn drink her tea.

“Better. It's strange. I don't feel Robin here. This is her bed in her room, but the cottage is you.”

“It always was.”

“I'm sorry you have to move. Want me to call Mr. Field for you?”

Among all the possibilities for stalling the move, Molly had considered that one but had ruled it out. “It won't do any good,” she said. As desperate as she felt, she was trying to be realistic. “He has compelling reasons for needing to sell. I have to move anyway. Robin and I were splitting the rent. I can't handle it myself.”

“I'll help.”

“No. He needs to sell and I need to get over it. It won't be any easier in six months or a year.”

Kathryn folded her legs sideways, then looked around again. “This place suits you. Like Snow Hill.” Growing pensive, she sipped her tea. “Snow Hill never made Robin happy.”

Molly knew it, but was surprised by her mother's admission. “What would have?”

“A week ago, I'd have said she would race for another few years, then coach.”

“Like Peter? Were you thinking of him?”

“Not consciously.”

“He's a nice person, Mom. Lonely.”

“His fault.”

“But still lonely. I think he was deeply affected by seeing Robin.”

Kathryn was quiet. “Yes,” she finally said. “I think so. Meeting Robin was probably something he needed to do at some point in his life. This gave him an excuse. Your call dragged him here. Men are funny that way.”

“What way?”

“They're not proactive when it comes to emotional things. If they can avoid something tough, they do.”

“Dad doesn't.”

“Dad's an exception.”

“David Harris doesn't. He could have run right past Robin and just phoned for help. Do you still wish he had?”

Kathryn was a minute answering. “No. He wanted to help. If Robin's problem had been less severe, he might have saved her life. He had no way of knowing how bad it was.”

“He's a nice guy. Very honest. And reasonable.”

“Unlike Nick.”

“Oh, Nick is so in love with Robin he can't
see
straight.”

“Are you defending him?” Kathryn asked.

“Dismissing him, more like,” Molly remarked. “But maybe I am. Defending him, I mean. I let him use me.”

Kathryn sank deeper into the pillows, setting the mug on her middle. “You were too busy living in Robin's shadow. Too busy thinking that everything she had was the best.”

“Did you know he was still in love with her?”

“The cynical part of me guessed it.”

“But you do know it was one-sided. She didn't want him.”

“Yes,” Kathryn said. “I know that now.” Finishing her tea, she put it on the nightstand, slid lower, and reached for Molly.

Molly wanted to think about that particular concession and about other things her mother was saying. But stretching out in her mother's warmth, she was lulled. She was Kathryn's daughter, would always be that. The fit seemed better.

She didn't hear another thing until morning. Kathryn slept on. Gratified to be able to give her mother this additional brief respite, Molly crept out of the room.

KATHRYN
hadn't been to the nursing home in six weeks. As Molly drove her there now, she kept telling herself that Marjorie wouldn't know the difference; but when the rambling Victorian came into view, she felt unbearable guilt. And fear. She wanted her mother to be the mother she knew. She wanted
—needed—
that woman.

The nurse at the front desk lit up, worsening her guilt. “It's good to
see
you, Mrs. Snow. It's been a while. Sunday brunch is always special. Will you be joining us today?”

“Oh, I don't think so,” Kathryn said. She wasn't sure how
she would feel seeing her mother, and then there was Robin. Charlie would be with her by now, but Kathryn had to get to the hospital herself. This was the longest she had been away from Robin's bedside.

Of course, Robin wouldn't know. Kathryn just wanted to be with her daughter during the little time they had left.

“Go on up then,” the nurse said. “She's in the lounge.”

Trying to keep pace with Molly on the stairs, Kathryn felt stiff. A week of sitting would do that, and driving into a tree hadn't helped. Determinedly, she lifted one foot after the next.

Halfway up, she stopped. Last time she was here, the pain had been intense. Now it all rushed back—the sadness, the hurt, the profound sense of loss.

“Mom?” Molly asked softly from the step above.

“I can't do this,” Kathryn whispered, gripping the bannister tightly.

Molly was suddenly beside her. “You can. She's your mother. You love her.”

“She isn't the same as she was.”

“Neither are you. Neither am I. Neither is Robin. We all change, Mom.”

Kathryn eyed her beseechingly. “But will she know it's me?”

“Does it matter?”

Simple logic. How to argue? Love was love. Kathryn loved Robin, though her mind had ceased to function. In its finality, that was oddly easier than this. Marjorie might know her. Or she might not. But yes, she was still her mother.

Taking strength from Molly, Kathryn started up again. The instant they came within sight of the lounge, she spotted Marjorie, looking so pretty—so
peaceful
—that Kathryn might have thought she didn't belong there. Eyes half-closed, Marjorie
sat alone on a love seat, listening to soft church music. Her gray hair shone, one side tucked behind an ear to show off a pretty pearl earring. She wore a baby blue sweater and white slacks. A small smile played in the corners of her mouth.

Heart melting, Kathryn crossed the room and, kneeling, took her hand. “Mom?”

Marjorie opened her eyes. They grew bright with a small burst of pleasure. “Well, hello.”

Kathryn wanted to believe the pleasure was from recognition, but she remembered what Molly had said. Anyone new would generate this little spark. It was an ingrained social response.

“It's me, Mom. Kathryn.”

Marjorie gave her a puzzled smile. Babies were like that, Kathryn realized. They wanted to please even before they knew what they were doing. Robin had been that way. And Kathryn had loved her for trying.

And so, in that moment, she loved her mother. “You look beautiful, Mom,” she said. “Were you enjoying the Sunday music?”

Marjorie's face was blank. “Sunday?”

“Church. We used to go—you, me, and Dad. Do you remember the music from church?”

Marjorie considered that for a time before saying, “I sing.”

“You
do,
” Kathryn replied with enthusiasm, as though she were talking to a child. Retrieval of even a tiny thread of memory was encouraging. “You were in the choir for a while. You
loved
singing.”

“I didn't know Nana sang in the choir,” Molly remarked.

“Oh yes. She did for the longest time. My father and I loved watching her.”

“Why'd she stop?”

Kathryn hesitated. She hadn't discussed this with her mother in years, but it might elicit a response. Watching Marjorie closely, she said, “I got pregnant.”

“But you were with Dad by then. So who knew?”

“Mom did. It bothered her.”

“But she
loved
Robin.”

“She came around,” Kathryn said, her own memory jogged. “There was a watershed moment right before my wedding. Remember that, Mom? I was running around trying to pack, because Charlie and I were moving. I had bad morning sickness, and I was scared of marriage, scared of having a baby, scared of leaving home.” Marjorie appeared to be listening—finding her daughter's voice familiar, Kathryn hoped. “So many changes in such a short period of time. I accused you of wanting me gone. You said I was wrong—that you wanted me
there—
that you didn't
want
this change in our lives.”

Marjorie smiled but didn't speak. Recognition? Hard to know.

“What did you say?” Molly asked.

“We went back and forth, each of us saying things that were increasingly dumb.”

“Like what?”

Kathryn hadn't thought about it in years, yet the words rushed back. “She said I was denying her unconditional pride. I said she was denying me unconditional love. She said I had been careless and unthinking. I said she was old-fashioned. Stupid things, but we let it all out. Then it was done. We just sat there looking at each other, feeling a bond that we couldn't describe.” There was actually more, Kathryn realized. When the dust settled, they talked reasonably about the inevitability of change, the idea that they had to let go what might have been and accept what was.

Kathryn thought about Robin and felt a knot in her belly. In the next instant, though, the knot loosened.
Let go what might have been… accept what is.

She pressed Marjorie's hand to her throat. “You slept in my bed that night, just like Molly did with me last night. Do you remember that, Mom?” Marjorie's face was blank, but sweet— oh so sweet—and as familiar to Kathryn as her own. “But you don't,” she mused quietly. “I have to accept that. So much to accept this week.” She studied her mother's hand, fingers slender as ever. “Molly told you about Robin. How does a mother bury her child?” She looked up, pleading. “How, Mom? Please tell me. I need help.”

“I … I …,” Marjorie stammered, upset and clearly not knowing why.

Molly touched her grandmother's shoulder, but far from being reassured, Marjorie looked at her worriedly. “Do I know you?”

“I'm Molly.”

Marjorie's eyes flew back to Kathryn. “Who are you?”

“Kathryn. Your daughter. Molly's mother.” When Marjorie didn't react, Kathryn said, “I grow plants. I used to bring carloads of them to your house. They were from Snow Hill.” Peaceful again, Marjorie was listening—ample encouragement for Kathryn to continue talking. “You should see Snow Hill, Mom. It's gotten even bigger since you were there last. We're about to do a major rebuild of the main structure—it's that successful—and we've spread into some of the acreage I never thought we'd use. Rows and rows of trees and plants.”

“Plants?” Marjorie asked.

“Plants are what we do. They're who we are. I'm good with plants. Molly's even better. She's my heir apparent.”

“By default,” Molly murmured.

Startled, Kathryn looked up. “Why do you say that?”

“Robin was your heir apparent.”

“Not when it came to Snow Hill. Snow Hill was always yours.” She frowned when Molly looked surprised. “You didn't know that?”

“No.”

“Plants?” Marjorie asked again.

“And trees,” Kathryn said gently. “We sell pine trees and maple trees. And weeping willows, cherries, Russian olives, and oaks.”

“I'm a shade person,” Molly argued softly. “I work behind the scenes. I couldn't run Snow Hill the way you do.”