Always the Last to Know(7)

“I’m a rock, Mom.” Her voice shook a little, but she was. She really was. She drove efficiently and safely, always using her turn signal.

We didn’t talk much. But she reached over and took my hand and squeezed it. “Whatever happens,” she said, “we’ll get through it.”



* * *



— —

By the time we got to Farmington, John was already in surgery. He was still alive, the nurse told us, but it was a critical situation, given his age and the location of the aneurysm.

According to the paramedic report, John had been riding his bike. In January, down Canterbury Hill Road, and honestly, why? I mean, sure, he had to have his hobbies, and when he started that whole silly running/biking/swimming thing last year, I was relieved that he’d found something to keep him occupied. But riding a bike in January? That’s just foolish, even if today had been real nice.

“Based on his injuries, the doctor thinks he had the stroke first and then fell smack onto the pavement, which is why his face is banged up,” the nurse said. “He didn’t raise his hands to protect himself.” She demonstrated how someone would instinctively cover their face. “He has a concussion on top of the stroke, and his nose is broken, but the bleeding is the big problem right now.”

“Will he live?” Juliet asked. My strong girl, asking the hard questions.

“These things are hard to predict,” she said. “Try to keep good thoughts. We’ll tell you more as soon as we know.” She put a hand on my arm. “I’m sorry. I know this is incredibly hard. I wish we had more information.”

“Thank you. You’re very kind.”

“I’ll call Sadie,” Juliet said.

“Oh. Yes. Do you want me to?” I asked. “Maybe I should, don’tcha think?”

“No, Mommy. You sit down, okay? I’ll be back in a few. I’ll bring you a coffee and a snack. There’s a Starbucks here. I’ll be right back. Text me if there’s any news.” She smiled suddenly. “I can hear your Minnesota.”

“Oh, can you, now?” I asked, exaggerating the accent as a joke, and we managed a little laugh. It was true; stress brought out the accent.

Off she went, and as ever, I was so grateful that she was mine, and here.

The family waiting room on this floor looked like an airport lounge, sleek and cheerful. I found a chair and sat down, still in my winter coat. The chair was meant to look like a Morris chair, sturdy and reassuring. A good choice for this place.

When we first moved to Stoningham, I’d loved tag and estate sales and combed half the state looking for antiques that needed a little sanding, some repairs. John still worked in family law then, and we had to be smart about money, what with all the house costs we had—new kitchen, bathrooms, a leak in the roof, a new boiler. But we also had to furnish the place.

One day, I’d come across a beautiful wooden chair with leather cushions and clean lines. It cost ten dollars. I brought it home, cleaned and oiled the leather, polished the wood, and presented it to John when he came home that night. He’d been so pleased. So pleased. It was a vintage Morris chair, we learned, and John sat in it every night until he moved it to his study.

It was the best gift I’d ever given him.

I wondered when he moved it from the living room into the study.

The bag I’d forgotten I was holding gave a strange buzz. Right. John’s things were in there, those slippery, strange clothes that were thin as paper but somehow kept you warm. Honest to Pete. He was too old to be an athlete. I’d tell him that if he lived. He could take up fly-fishing or something. My fingers closed on his phone and pulled it out.

It was his work. John still did some consulting here and there. Shoot. I should tell them, shouldn’t I? He loved some of those folks. I typed in his code (0110, our anniversary), but it didn’t work. He must’ve changed it after being hacked or something, not that he said anything to me. I typed in his birthday. That didn’t work, either. Sadie’s birthday. There.

His screen was lit up with texts. I put on my reading glasses.

After a second, I took off my reading glasses and put the phone down. Held down the little button so it would turn off. My face felt hot, my hands like ice. My heart felt sick and slow, flopping like a dying bird.

I glanced around. Could anyone tell? Were they looking at me? Did they know?

No. Everyone else was worried about their own people. I should worry about John. His brain was bleeding. Juliet would be back in a minute.

Shame. That’s what I felt. Shame and humiliation, and fear that everyone would see on my face what I had just learned.





CHAPTER THREE





Juliet


On the day her father had his stroke, Juliet Elizabeth Frost was considering leaving her perfect life and becoming a smoke jumper in Montana—husband, children and job be damned.

The thing was, her life really was perfect. Excellent health, fabulous education, a career as an architect that earned her a ridiculous salary. She had a husband who loved her and was from London with a dead-sexy accent to boot. They had two healthy daughters and lived in a beautiful home overlooking Long Island Sound. Juliet drove a safe, fancy but not too pretentious German car. They brought their daughters on vacations to places like New Zealand and Provence. She spoke French and Italian. Her boobs had survived nursing two babies, and while they might not be perky anymore, they weren’t saggy, either.