While My Sister Sleeps (36 page)

“Change is good,” Kathryn said. That was the day's lesson, as fine a Sunday sermon as any.

“You said you'd never retire.”

“I may have been wrong.”

“What would you
do
without Snow Hill?”

“I don't know.” She hadn't thought of it before now. Exhausted as she was, though, the idea held appeal. What was it Robin had written in
Who Am I?
about Marjorie urging her to just BE? Another lesson there, too.

“Nothing is imminent. But you and Chris managed just fine without me this week. If Erin took over some of what your father does, he and I could travel. We could sleep late. Maybe focus on developing a Web-based Snow Hill. Who knows.”

“Willows?” Marjorie asked, bringing Kathryn back.

“They're beautiful trees, Mom. They like water. Look,” she pointed, “there's one way over there by the stream. See how low the branches dip, and when they sway in a breeze …”

The conversation was so easy and her mother's curiosity so innocent that Kathryn felt a new calm. Born of a night at Molly's place, reinforced by the woman Marjorie was now,
Kathryn couldn't fight it. Calm was good. Some battles couldn't be won.

Again, she thought of Robin. If ever there was a fight that couldn't be won, it was in that hospital room. Her Robin wasn't there anymore. Accepting it—grieving and moving on to a place where the memories were good—suddenly seemed better. Charlie knew that. So did Molly and Chris. Even Marjorie did, whether she remembered it or not. Robin had always been a ball of energy. She wouldn't want to lie in bed doing nothing.

Kathryn talked quietly with her mother for several more minutes. Without knowing, Marjorie
had
helped. But Robin was Kathryn's child, and the final decision was hers to make. Much as she had cursed that fact in the last few days, she saw it differently now. Now it was about freeing Robin. That was a gift.

She didn't speak as she left. She would be back to see Marjorie soon, very soon. Before then, she faced a challenge that she couldn't put off. She waited until they were on the road, then asked Molly to tell her everything she knew about organ donation.

FTER NEARLY A WEEK OF ENDLESS WAITING, A
single phone call got things going with unsettling speed. Agents from the organ bank were at the hospital within hours, and though they were every bit as compassionate as Molly had been told, the meeting wasn't an easy one. Her parents and Chris, and even Erin, looked stoic; she herself felt weak.

The final decision is the family's
, the agents kept saying.
We won't rush you.
But how not to feel urgency? The instant the papers were signed giving these people access to Robin's medical records, there would be no turning back.

Molly had been the one pushing for organ donation, but there were moments when she would have given anything to slow things down—because what no one said, but everyone in the room knew, was that once the mechanism for harvesting Robin's organs was put into place, life support had to end.

The doctors promised that death would come quickly and without pain. Once the machines keeping Robin alive were turned off, it was final. For all her new insight, Molly had trouble accepting that.

Not so Kathryn. Composed while Molly was tearful, she listened quietly to everything the agents said. She asked questions, perhaps with a tremor in her voice, but she never broke down. She nodded her understanding when the agents talked of the emotions the family might feel, but declined their offer of counseling. Having made the decision, she was committed.

Molly envied her that. Her mother had come a long way from those first horrifying hours. So had Molly, but she still had a ways to go. Her stomach was knotting and her legs were weak—classic symptoms of hitting the wall. She tried to dredge up Robin's mantra, but couldn't quite remember it. Her eyes were glued on her mother.

Kathryn held the pen, hesitating for an instant while she looked at Charlie, then at Chris and Molly, but her message was one of conviction.
We have to do this. We love Robin too much to not let go.
Her face was pale, and though her eyes reflected agony, they were clearer than they had been all week. Finally, she lowered them and signed the papers.

Moments later, the Snows were alone in the conference room. No one spoke. Molly's heart was breaking. For all her talk of accepting what couldn't be changed, she didn't want her sister to die.

Chris was the first to speak. His voice was low. “When will they do it?”

Kathryn pressed her lips together, then nodded. “Later today. When we're ready.” Seeming to understand Molly's regret, she reached for her hand. Her voice was light. “So many different
organs they can use. But they won't take her heart. That'll always be ours.”

“I don't want this,” Molly breathed.

“None of us does, but it's one of the few things we know Robin wanted. She would like knowing she was helping other people. There's a huge need. You told me that. How can we not do this?”

“But it means—”

“Robin can't come back,” she said, giving Molly's hand a little shake. “She can only lie senseless in that room down the hall. I've been with her all week, Molly. I've talked and begged and demanded. I've
prayed.
But she doesn't respond. She can't. And that's unfair. It's not the way she wanted to live. And then there's us. She wouldn't want us holding an endless vigil. She would want us
doing
things. She would want us at Snow Hill.” Her voice softened. “Turning off the machines is a technicality. Her mind is already gone. Her spirit lingers, but it's tied to her bed because we are. If we want it free, we have to do this for her.”

Molly heard an echo of her father and saw no inconsistency. Yes, Robin's soul was in heaven. Her spirit, though, was different. It was the part of her that lived on in everyone she left behind. In that regard, what Kathryn said made sense.

Still, Molly didn't feel her mother's calm. When Kathryn rose to return to Robin's room, Molly took the elevator to the ground floor and pulled out her phone.

Fifteen minutes later, David joined her on a stone bench in the patio. “I feel responsible,” she said after telling him of the papers Kathryn had signed. “I was the one who pushed for organ donation. Tell me I did the right thing.”

Five days and what seemed an eon ago, David had asked her
the same thing. Taking her hand, he returned the support. “You did the right thing. Besides, it was what Robin wanted. You simply passed on her wishes and gave your mother information. The final decision was hers.”

“But is it the right one?” Molly asked. She would never forget that moment when the family was suddenly alone in the conference room—as if, with the signing of those papers, Robin was no longer
theirs.

“The only issue is timing,” David said, soothing and calm in his own right. “Would you have felt better waiting?”

Yes
, she thought.
Anything
to keep Robin with them.

But, of course, that was wrong. David had called her practical, and when the smoke cleared, she was. “Knowing there was no hope? No. This has been hanging over our heads since they declared her brain dead.” Turning off the machines. Ending her life. “Why am I having trouble now?”

“Because you love your sister,” he said.

She did. She couldn't recall the envy, the resentment, even what she might have called hatred at times. Right now, there was only love.

“You aren't the only one,” David said. Opening his backpack, he pulled out a sheaf of papers.

Nick. Molly knew it before she even read the front page.
The Heart of a Winner: A Biography of Robin Snow.

“Not the most profound title,” David said, “and this is only a small part of what he has, but it's beautifully written.”

Molly turned to the foreword.
Fame can be cruel
, he wrote.
The world of sports is filled with stories of stars who soar one minute and fall the next. In some cases, their bodies fail them, and they limp silently into oblivion. In other cases, the burnout is mental and the legacy more tarnished.

Then there are those like Robin Snow. She ran her first race at
five, her first marathon at fifteen, and in the years between and since, she fought to do well At times, she was so nervous before a race that she was physically sick, at others so hampered by a physical injury that the only thing keeping her going was sheer grit. She claimed she wasn't the best runner, only the most determined. History supports her in that. For nearly every marathon she won, she had been a runner-up the year before. She always came back tougher, stronger, and more focused.

Ask about her greatest achievements, and she'll list San Francisco, Boston, and L.A. Ask about her most satisfying ones, and she'll tell you about the young girl in Oklahoma who had only run alone along rural roads until Robin ran with her. She'll tell you about jumping in to coach a running club in New Mexico that lost its coach to breast cancer two weeks before a major race.

Robin Snow was an inspiration…

Molly put down the paper and burst into tears.

Drawing her close, David let her cry until her tears slowed, and even then he didn't speak. Sitting there with him on the stone bench, she began to let her heartache go.
Inspiration
was a positive word.

She was taking strength from it when he murmured, “Here comes your mom.”

Quickly drawing back, she wiped her eyes and glanced across the patio. Kathryn was near enough to have seen David holding her.

Coming closer, though, Kathryn didn't look upset. “Scoot over,” she said softly and, perching on the edge of the bench, extended a hand across Molly to David. “I owe you an apology.”

Molly vividly recalled Tuesday morning's scene.

“I've had misgivings, Mrs. Snow,” David said. “I caused a hard week for you and your family.”

Kathryn waved a hand
no.
“The week was a gift. It gave us something we wouldn't otherwise have had. We learned a lot—about each other, even about Robin. We needed the time to come to terms with her death. You gave us that. Thanks are inadequate, but they're all I have right now.”

For forgiving David—for
accepting
him—Molly had never loved her mother more than at that moment. With renewed confidence, she held out the papers. “You need to read these, Mom.”

When Kathryn saw Nick's name, she frowned. “Is it for the paper?”

“No. He gave them to David to read. Long story,” she said, seeing Kathryn's confusion, “but they say something important.”

Lifting the pages, Kathryn read silently at first, then softly aloud. “
Robin Snow was an inspiration to athletes around the world. No born champion, she struggled to overcome the terror of increasingly fierce competition and the rising pressure of running among America's elite. As she approached the Olympics and what would have been a triumphant high in her career, she was the first to cite the many advantages she had. Her family was at the top of the list.
” Kathryn's voice cracked. Taking a breath, she read on. “
She considered their support so crucial to her success that when she met a talented runner without the backing of family, she either found surrogates in the running community or filled in herself. She was in close contact with more than a dozen young women whom she had mentored this way.
”

Kathryn looked at Molly. “Is this true?”

Molly was as surprised as her mother. “It must be,” she realized. “Some of her e-mail is amazing. Robin was worshipped by those girls.”

“I want to ask them to the funeral,” Kathryn said, swallowing the last syllable of the word.

Molly might have started crying again if she hadn't been focused on Nick. “Could you tell how much he loved her? Is that tragic or what?”

“And those are only the first pages,” David said. “He describes races and events—and the details are accurate. I checked them out. But when he writes about Robin's character, his words glow.”

Kathryn was turning a page when she paused. “Why did Nick give these to you?”

“Because my family is in publishing. He's hoping I'll be a link.”