Saving Meghan(79)
“It’s not a charade,” Becky said. “Meghan has mito, and Dr. Fisher can prove it.”
“Dr. Fisher,” Carl bellowed, “is as fucked up as you are!” His face contorted with fury. Zach tensed, ready to defend himself if need be, but Carl stood his ground. “His kid died from this disease, and he’s trying to make it right. Don’t you get it, Becky? You may think you’re playing him, but he’s playing you. He’s playing us all. He’s as deluded as you are.” Carl’s arms fell limply to his sides. His head bowed.
“What are you going to do, Carl?”
“Do? I’m going to talk to my lawyer—and I don’t mean our lawyer, Becky.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying there is no way I’m going to let you cut open my daughter again.”
CHAPTER 36
BECKY
Becky was amazed, and more than a little sad, to discover that everything she needed, the essentials to survive, could fit into a single suitcase. Her house—this palatial, often overwhelming abode, with its too many rooms filled with oversize furniture, shelves stocked with knickknacks, walls graced with photos and paintings—all of it she now saw as an illusion. It was a cold veneer applied to cover cracks in a marriage that had broken open the day Sammy died and was never properly repaired.
Meghan’s illness may have been the tipping point, but Sammy was the beginning of the end for her marriage. Becky was now ready to take her life in a new direction, one without Carl, or this house, or the memories it contained. The hard part would be leaving her daughter’s belongings behind because that was Becky’s center, her grounding.
In Meghan’s room, Becky rifled through the closet, searching for clothing to take to White, hoping to get approval to give them to Meghan, when she noticed a freestanding bookshelf pressed up against a wall, partially hidden by a colorful array of hanging clothes. It was an odd sight, Becky thought, to keep a bookshelf tucked inside a closet, but even stranger to see the unit was turned around so that the shelves were up against the wall.
Becky ducked low to avoid the tangle of clothes overhead and spun the bookshelf around. The unit was lightweight, easy to move, but the dark closet made it difficult to see the contents of those shelves. Using the flashlight built into her phone, Becky illuminated a fifth of vodka and two unopened bottles of wine. There was also a wooden box, held shut with a clasp. Becky eyed the alcohol, dumbfounded. She had no idea Meghan had been drinking. Maybe it was the stress of her sickness, pressure from her peer group, or the strain in her and Carl’s marriage. Whatever the reason, Becky blamed herself. She should have been more attentive, more aware. As a teenager, Becky had done the same—stolen from the liquor cabinet and hid her boozing from Cora, who probably would not have noticed if she had kept a bottle on her dresser.
Becky opened the box and peered inside, expecting to see drug paraphernalia. Relieved to find only papers and trinkets, she sighed aloud and spun the bookshelf back around, leaving the items undisturbed as though they were part of an archeological find. It was a shock to discover her daughter’s secret hiding place, but Becky did not dwell on it for long. She had more pressing matters to address, namely, leaving her husband and her home for good. Everybody has secrets, Becky thought as she backed out of the closet.
Becky carried her suitcase downstairs. Filled with slacks, blouses, undergarments, toiletries, and probably too many pairs of shoes, it weighed a good deal more than she’d anticipated. She had made a reservation at a nice hotel in Boston, not far from White Memorial, where she could be alone with her thoughts and regrets.
She did not want to have a failed marriage, but she could not abide Carl’s hard-line approach, his doubts, or his accusations. He had not returned home after storming out of Dr. Fisher’s office. His only communication had been a cold text informing her that he’d be working late and would probably crash on the sofa in his office, something he had done often over the last few years. In response, Becky had left him a note on the kitchen counter saying only that she was staying at the Copley Plaza Hotel for a few days, doing some soul searching. If Carl did not get that “soul searching” was a euphemism for irreconcilable differences, that was his problem.
Carl might think he had all the power, the best lawyer, the strongest case, but Becky was not about to keel over in a fetal position, or hide out in her hotel room, sipping Sprite Zero. She had someone to see, an appointment she had made, someone to tip the balance of power in her favor.
* * *
JAVA DU Jour was a coffee shop equidistant from White Memorial and Becky’s hotel. Becky found a table facing the door and waited for Kelly London to arrive. At five past the hour, Kelly came breezing in. She scanned the crowd for Becky, who saw her first, stood, and waved to get her attention. Kelly looked put together as always, with a blazer, a dressy blouse unbuttoned to an alluring degree, and hip-hugging gray slacks. If they weren’t potential adversaries, if Kelly did not hold tremendous sway over Meghan’s fate, the two women might have hugged briefly instead of shaking hands, which they did with a degree of formality.
“Thank you for meeting me,” Becky said.
“You made it sound important.”
They ordered lattes at the counter and returned to the table Becky had saved with her coat. The spring was getting warmer, and soon summer would be here, but this would be a summer like no other. Assuming Meghan was sprung from the hospital like a prisoner making bail, there’d be new issues to address. Where would Meghan live? How would she and Carl split time? How could Becky be sure Carl would look after Meghan the way she would? Her daughter’s health would complicate the already complex dynamics of divorce. But those were questions for another time. Step one in Becky’s grand plan was to get Meghan out of White, which meant getting the biopsy redone against her father’s wishes.