Extraordinary (23 page)

“You should not try to speak, my queen. I have been given permission to say a few words, just to reassure you. All is well. I am making progress, if slowly, with the girl. I am almost there. And my sister remains at the house quietly with the woman, taking care of her, just as she was doing before you collapsed. My sister may have taken advantage of the situation, but she is being entirely useful and obedient at last. Are you not, sister?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. It's just the way my brother says. And I apologize again for upsetting you the last time we spoke. And to promise that I will only stay in the human realm for a little longer to care for the woman.”

“We must leave now. My queen, be calm. Everything is proceeding as it ought. The girl has been fighting me, it's true. She is strangely strong, just as my sister said she was. But she is alone now, confused, vulnerable, and very near to complete despair. I am pushing her hard. She will break soon. Very soon. I can feel it. Very soon, she will give us what we need.”

It was in the fifth week of Catherine's coma, just after noon on a fiercely, hurtfully bright Sunday morning. Phoebe had been at the hospital with her father until the small hours of the morning, and had then left her mother's bedside and gone with her father across the street to the hotel suite he'd rented. But even though she was tired, Phoebe was unable to sleep. She eventually left Drew a note, pulled on a short, dark, sleeveless dress, which was the only thing she had at the hotel that wasn't dirty, and come back to Catherine.

She had been there, alone, ever since.

To call Catherine's room “private” was stretching a point. Like the other rooms in Critical Care, it had a wall of glass where it faced the nurses' station. But Phoebe had long since stopped noticing or caring that her every move could be observed. She washed her hands and forearms carefully at the sink, counting to thirty as she rubbed with the antiseptic soap. Then she pulled a chair up next to where Catherine was lying in bed at the center of a bewildering number of attached machines, kicked off her silly high heels, and put her hand loosely, stroking, on Catherine's upper arm.

“Hi, Mom,” she whispered. “It's me.” Phoebe thought of that poor swollen brain inside her mother's head, and added, “It's Phoebe. Your daughter. Who loves you.” Catherine might have memory issues. Brain injury was tricky that way. Phoebe wasn't sure if these memory problems came into play only after the comatose person woke up, or during the coma itself, but there was no harm in playing it safe.

“Dad's sleeping,” Phoebe said. “That's your husband, my father, Drew. Drew Vale. I hope he's sleeping, anyway. It's pretty early in the morning. Sunday morning.”

She transferred her grip to her mother's hand, squeezing it gently. It was hard to believe that her mother would need these little extra prompts about who was who. Why wouldn't Catherine Rothschild be the sharpest coma patient there ever was?

Beyond the anxiety that lived in Phoebe always these days, she was aware of restlessness and of a desire for something she couldn't name. She began the sort of typical aimless chatter she'd been using lately with her mother.

“Your heartbeat looks good, Mom. And your blood pressure. You'd be amazed how much I've learned about reading these machines. I know exactly what all of them do and I know what your readings ought to be.

“I watch everybody and everything all the time here. I'm like a hawk. The other day, on grand rounds? One of the interns was going to peel back your eyelid. I know—icky. But that wasn't the problem. If they have to check your eyes, they have to check your eyes. It was that he didn't put on gloves! So I stopped him. He said he'd just washed, but I didn't care. How was I supposed to know that for sure? You can never be too careful, I told him, and he agreed with me. And he put on gloves.” Phoebe trailed off. The last thing she'd meant to do was describe her new obsession with germs. There was no reason to risk getting Catherine all bothered about it too. “Anyway.”

She hadn't liked watching that intern peel back Catherine's eyelid. For some reason, it was worse than seeing somebody take Catherine's blood, or even do things to Catherine's feeding tube. She squeezed her mother's hand again. And then suddenly, vividly, she had a flashback to being in the bathroom in the house on Nantucket that last night, when she had not confided in her mother about Ryland, even though she had sort of wanted to.

She looked down at her mother's face. It was one of those times when Catherine didn't look as if she were in a peaceful slumber. Her forehead was deeply creased and her neck muscles looked tight, as if she, herself, were being prevented from speaking.

Catherine's eyelids twitched. For a moment it was almost as if she were going to open them. “Mom?” said Phoebe. “Mom?”

Nothing happened.

Phoebe counted the lines across Catherine's forehead and at the corners of her mouth. She touched her mother's soft cheek, cupping it in her hand. “Mom,” she said, softly, uncertainly. “Oh, Mom. I miss you.”

An urgent feeling swelled in her. Catherine was fifty-nine years old. She was in a coma. What if they had no more time? What if there would never again be a real conversation? What if this opportunity to tell her about Ryland was the only one Phoebe would ever have? If Phoebe grabbed this chance, did that make her selfish, immature, unethical, small, stupid, and just plain wrong?

“I need to tell you something, Mom,” Phoebe said aloud. “I wanted to tell you before. When we were in the bathroom on Nantucket, and you said that thing about how sometimes it's a boy that comes between best girlfriends? Remember that?

“Well, maybe you knew and maybe you didn't. Maybe you were guessing. But you were right. There is a boy—a man—in my life, and it caused problems between me and Mallory. My best friend, Mallory Tolliver, remember her? We're not friends anymore. Can you imagine that, Mom? Mallory's not even coming to school these days. I hear she's home taking care of her mother. And she's being homeschooled over the Internet or something.

“But you know what, Mom? I keep expecting Mallory to show up here, at the hospital. To sit here with me and Dad. She was like my sister. And I can't believe she doesn't care enough about you to come. Or even to call and ask me how you are! Not that I'd take the call.

“I know I was wrong in how I acted with her. I lied to her. But it's not really about that. It's about how she sees me. She doesn't actually like me much. But you know what? The person I always thought she was—that person would have understood me. And she'd, you know. She'd still care about me. But she doesn't, so that means she was never who I thought she was.”

Phoebe discovered she was crying. “I'm sorry to bother you with this, Mom,” she said. “Please don't think I care as much about Mallory as I do about you. You're the main person I'm worried about. You're the main person I love. It's just that I miss her too.” She got up. “I have to go get a tissue. I'll be right back.” She went back to the sink, where she blew her nose and then carefully washed up again, including rinsing her face. She caught the eye of a nurse who stopped in the doorway.

“Everything okay?” said the nurse.

Phoebe nodded. “Fine. Thanks.” She stood back while the nurse entered and began checking Catherine's vital signs.

“Your mother is holding her own here,” said the nurse. “And it would be good if you got some rest. It doesn't help your mother if you don't. You have to keep your chin up.”

Phoebe hated that expression. “Thanks,” she said, but did not move. When the nurse left, Phoebe went back to Catherine's side. She pulled the chair close and put her head down on the bed as close to her mother's as possible and held her hand again. Now, she realized, she was tired. So tired.

But she still hadn't told her mother about Ryland. She had ended up talking about Mallory instead. And—oh, God. How could this be? She didn't want to talk about Ryland. The very thought made her feel empty. She reviewed all the words in her head. The right words to tell Catherine.

She couldn't say it out loud. But still it had happened. Things had been said that she knew were true. Everything Ryland had said to her was true.

There's just something really wrong with you
.

Phoebe had been absolutely naked when he'd said this.

It shouldn't have hurt like it had—like it did—it shouldn't have—but—but—

If only she could tell someone.

If only she could tell her mother.

She clenched her mother's hand in hers. “I know you love me, Mom,” she said softly. Then the words began to pour out. Different words, but words she meant. “I want you to know how wonderful your love has always made me feel. I know I'm not really special and wonderful. I mean, as a person.

“No, don't disagree with me. I know you'll want to. I love you for that. But just listen. I'm coming to understand something. It's that you can be made to feel special and extraordinary by someone else, when they love you. But that doesn't actually
make
you special and extraordinary. Not for real.”

Phoebe leaned in close, close. She dropped her voice to an even softer whisper. “I was thinking at first that it couldn't be taken away. But now I'm not sure. Because the truth is—Mom? The truth is that I'm not those things. I'm not extraordinary like you. I'm only special to you and Dad. I see that now. Alone, I'm ordinary.”

Then something very odd happened. All Phoebe's agitation suddenly drained away. A strange, fatalistic calm filled her. She sat up. She released her mother's hand.

It felt almost a relief to have said it out loud, at last. It felt as if she had just become unstuck. And maybe the truth was ugly, but if it was, in fact, the truth, well then. It had to be faced.

“I'm ordinary,” she whispered again.

And having said it, she felt the truth of it. She felt it to her bones.

She was actually worse than ordinary; she was sort of nothing.

The next second, Phoebe was desperate to see Ryland. Why, exactly, she didn't know. But suddenly she felt she couldn't survive another hour without seeing him, talking to him, telling him that she finally got it. She had finally grown up and faced the truth about herself.

She knew with everything in her that it would please him to hear it. And she wanted to please him—it was all that was left—

When Ryland didn't respond to a text message, or to a call, she found that, for once, she could not simply wait for him to get back to her.

She got into her car and went by Ryland's apartment. But his car was not there, and when Phoebe squinted up from the street at his window, she could see that the apartment was dark. Once more, she tried calling; once more, he didn't respond. She pressed the disconnect button in frustration.

She ought to have gone home then. For a few minutes, Phoebe even believed she was doing exactly that. But instead, some internal robot took over the driving, and she found she had turned her car toward the neighborhood where Mallory and her mother lived, thinking that Ryland might be there with them.

She slowed down just before the Tollivers' house. Light gleamed softly behind its drawn living room curtains, and Ryland's car sat next to his mother's in the driveway. So, he was there. They were all there. A complete family.

Phoebe parked across the street, where she had a good view of the house. She turned off the motor and the lights, and sat with her arms crossed on the steering wheel and her cheek resting on her arms, watching the house and feeling her heart beat just a little faster than normal in her chest. After a minute or two, without even thinking about it, she reached for her inhaler and automatically took a couple of long, steadying puffs. Then she got out of her car. Somehow she was on the Tollivers' front steps, somehow she was reaching, not to press the doorbell, but for the doorknob. And then she was turning that doorknob, and finding the house unlocked.

By now, her heart was racing; she could literally hear her pulse thudding in her ears. “Hello?” she called out as she came through the door. “It's Phoebe.” Her voice was shaky.

“Hello!” Phoebe said again. She was in the foyer now, looking over into the living room.

“Hello, Phoebe,” Mrs. Tolliver replied serenely. She sat on a big cushion on the floor, with three magazines open in front of her, and a large pile of Skittles in a candy dish to her left. She didn't seem surprised to see Phoebe, or perturbed. She looked pleased. She even smiled. She said, “Come on in!”

A quick look around told Phoebe that Mrs. Tolliver was alone in the room.

“Oh, nobody else is here,” said Mrs. Tolliver. “They're off . . . you know. To that place where they go.” She reached to pull a nearby cushion invitingly closer. “Have a seat. Skittle?” She held up the candy dish. She added perkily, “They think I don't know all about them, but I do.”

Never had Phoebe seen Mrs. Tolliver smile so much. In fact, Mrs. Tolliver appeared more lucid and, well, normal, than ever before.

The part of Phoebe that had been driving her toward Ryland suddenly eased up. It was enough to be nearby.