A Week at the Lake (13 page)

T
wo days passed and every so often, for no discernible reason and without warning, Emma moved something else. Her hand. A leg. One shoulder. Mackenzie felt a flickering of hope each time.

Zoe gasped with excitement when Emma's eyes fluttered open. But no matter how carefully they watched her afterward, she didn't open them again. A day later Mackenzie saw Emma turn her head in the direction of a sound. The restless twitching continued, but it was agonizingly sporadic. It was a bit like watching a glacier melt; you had reason to believe that one day it would be nothing but liquid, but not necessarily in your lifetime.

Still, Emma continued to improve. The ventilator had been turned down and the “weaning to room air” was well under way. The arrival of the physical therapists, who'd been moving Emma's limbs on a regular schedule since her injury, now seemed a good harbinger and not an exercise in futility.

Drs. Brennan and Markham confirmed that Emma was “lightening up” neurologically, but while the signs were encouraging, Emma remained absent.

Eve Michaels did not become warmer or fuzzier. But she didn't stop coming, either. She and Rex arrived daily at one p.m. so that Mackenzie, Serena, and Zoe could go to lunch, then left when they returned. Rex's face always looked strained while Eve's was oddly serene, though it might have been the Botox. Mackenzie didn't know whether they came
out of love or for appearances, but their arrival and departure became an expected part of each day.

It was late afternoon. Zoe had gone down to the gift shop for a pack of gum. Mackenzie and Serena sat in Emma's room. Hyperalert, they kept their eyes trained on Emma, waiting for something more to happen. More movement. More awareness. More Emma.

“We just have to stay positive,” Mackenzie insisted.

“I am,” Serena said. “I'm positive I need something definitive to happen.”

“I know.” Mackenzie's eyes stung from staring so hard and the effort not to blink.

“I had this dream last night that we went on a quest. Into a fairy tale. We were searching for a prince to come and kiss Emma awake.”

Serena took her eyes off Emma long enough to shoot Mackenzie an incredulous look. “Did we find one? I mean, I have doubts that they even exist in fairy tales anymore.”

“Yes, well, dreams aren't always filled with logic.” Mackenzie's had been filled with bizarre images she'd rather forget.

“Hey. Maybe we should rent a prince charming for the day. You know, get one of those services to send one over. Maybe Emma's subconscious or whatever's at work at the moment would react to a little theater. Or maybe you could get Adam to do it. I mean, he definitely looked the part when he dressed up for that Halloween party. He may be the only man I've ever met who actually looks good in tights.”

Mackenzie flushed. Adam had the golden locks and build of a fairy-tale prince, but he hadn't been behaving in a particularly prince-like manner. “If I thought it would help I'd put him on a white horse and let him ride into the neuro ICU,” she said. “But I'm not sure kissing someone else's husband is ever a good idea. Not even in the fairy-tale world.” Her tone came out more brittle than she'd intended.

“Wow,” Serena said. “Where did that come from? And when
did you turn into such a prude? I think you've been living in the hinterlands for too long.”

Mackenzie snorted. “I don't think wives in New York or LA appreciate sharing their husbands any more than the ones in the Midwest do. It isn't about geography.”

“What is it about, then? This conversation, I mean.” Serena's voice had risen. “Because at the moment it's not feeling about Emma at all.”

Mackenzie had no answer. Or excuse. Except that her nerves were stretched so tight she could practically feel them quivering. Still, she hadn't meant to lash out like that. Serena's attraction to other women's husbands wasn't something new. And while she'd never particularly approved of it, she'd never taken it quite so personally before. “Sorry. I seem to be overreacting about a lot of things,” Mackenzie said. “Your personal life, fairy tale or otherwise, really isn't my business.” Besides, it wasn't like adultery was contagious or anything. She had no reason to doubt Adam's fidelity, not even with this protracted separation or how hard he'd suddenly become to reach.

She was lost in thought, reassuring herself that Adam's excitement over what was happening for him in California was no reflection on her or the state of their relationship, when the first monitor alarm went off. Her eyes swung to Emma as the door burst open and white-coated people rushed into the room.

E
mma:

I hear angry voices. A bell. I'm hot. Covered in coals. The darkness begins to blur around the edges with white. The sounds fade away.

Suddenly I'm standing in the closet of my Malibu beach house. Staring stupidly at the motorized racks of clothing and the shelves of designer “fuck me” heels that are lit and showcased more lavishly than the
Mona Lisa
at the Louvre.

My closet is the Taj Mahal of storage, a decadently unnecessary example of conspicuous consumption. Yet there is not one item in this two-thousand-square-foot testament to vanity that is designed for a pregnant woman.

I stand in the epicenter of this ridiculous closet crying great big tears of panic and self-pity. I'm in the middle of shooting a movie that does not require the extra padding I'm now carrying. My makeup person has taken to tutting over the breakouts on my face and has raised more than one overplucked eyebrow at the chubbiness of my cheeks, which have never been as chiseled as the rest of my family's and now look like a squirrel unwilling to let go of a cache of acorns.

Even I don't understand how this has happened. I've been in a dry spell to end all dry spells, a sexual desert without a sign of an oasis, even if
People
magazine remains convinced I'm having an affair with my costar. Which would be funny if it weren't so improbable. Calvin Hardgrove is perhaps the gayest leading man since Rock Hudson. Or my father.

I drop onto the settee and don't even care when my tears start to soak the turquoise silk upholstery. If my name were Mary I'd be tempted to claim immaculate conception. I've had sex exactly once in the last six months. And that was an accident, the result of one too many shots of tequila, that I've tried like hell to erase from my memory for all kinds of reasons.

By the time I realized I was pregnant, I was too far along to terminate, not that I think I could have. Now I'm too far along to hide my pregnancy. I come from a long line of inept mothers in both sides of my DNA. Even Gran, who saved me completely and whom I love more than anyone, admits she didn't do such a great job with her only child. I know she loves me, but I also think she sees me as her chance to make amends. Maybe I can learn from my grandmother's mistakes and get it right the first time.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror and can barely believe the tear-streaked, red-faced, puffy woman
staring back is me. I've always been too short, too round, too far from pretty, but now I'm downright ugly. And not just on the outside.

I had sex with someone I had no right to. And now I'm having a baby that shouldn't belong to me. I am lower than pond scum.

I sit and cry for so long I feel dizzy. My sobs echo in the cavernous closet reminding me just how alone I am. I can't call the people I most want to talk to. There are secrets and then there are secrets. There are worse things than being pregnant and alone.

H
er temperature's spiking. I've got 102. Increase the Tylenol. Bring the cooling blanket.”

Serena, Mackenzie, and Zoe watched helplessly as the medical people crowded around Emma.

“We've got to bring it down. I want a blood culture stat.” The doctors came and went. Hematologists. Pulmonologists. Infectious disease specialists.

“She's septic. Let's start the broad spectrum antibiotic while we wait for the lab results.”

Their voices remained calm and professional but there was no mistaking their urgency. Emma had moved from “lightening up” to frighteningly feverish so quickly it was hard to absorb. It didn't take a medical degree to see how rapidly she was deteriorating.

“But how could this happen?” Eve had arrived as they were ushered out of Emma's room.

“Dr. Brennan says that the spots where tubes and lines perforate the skin are always vulnerable to infection,” Mackenzie repeated what they'd been told. “They're trying to identify the source and strain of the infection now.”

“Good God.” Eve's whisper reflected the fear they all felt.

Unable to speak, barely able to breathe, the four of them
stood outside the room, watching through the glass as the medical team worked to control the infection now threatening Emma's life.

I
burn then shiver. Fire. Then ice. My body's temperature gauge is broken.

I don't know what's happening but whatever it is, it's different. The darkness is gone and I can see as well as hear. In fact, I'm floating above my body like you see in movies and hear about in near-death experiences. I look around for the tunnel of white light.

Gran?

I'm here.

Panic wells inside me. I haven't taken care of things. Haven't explained. Haven't apologized. I watch the medical staff move around my body. Touching. Adjusting. Assessing.

Mackenzie and Serena are pressed against the glass. The first friends I ever had. The only ones who loved me for me. I was wrong to do what I did. But I was also wrong to push them away.

Am I dead?

No.
Gran's voice is adamant, but worried.

Zoe's beautiful face is white with fear. Her eyes glitter with tears. Her teeth clench her lips. I feel how hard she's trying not to cry.

Eve's standing next to her watching me closely. Her face registers sorrow, pain, regret. But I'm not buying it. I didn't interest her when I was alive. Why would she be interested in me now that I'm dying?
She can't have Zoe, Gran. Not now. Not ever.