Let Him Live (15 page)

M
EG STOOD AT
the top of the staircase and looked down at the whirlwind of activity below. Carpenters were hammering boards, putting the finishing touches on a sun deck and a doorway that had been added on to the old Victorian house. Painters and decorators hurried from room to room behind her, dragging bolts of cloths and cans of touch-up paint. She heard her mother’s voice call out, “Hurry up! The reporters and TV people will be here in less than an hour.”

“Where do you want this tray of hors d’oeuvres?” another voice yelled from the kitchen.

“Put it in the fridge, and don’t forget to take the others out of the oven,” Mrs. Jacoby answered. She was standing on a ladder, held steady by
Alana, and hanging a plaque above the mantel, next to an oversize rendering of the Wayfarer Inn.

Meg knew the inscription on the plaque by heart, for it had been a gift to Mrs. Jacoby from all the candy stripers who’d worked together the previous summer. It was dedicated to Donovan’s memory. She still couldn’t believe it had been eight months since he’d died. At the time, she didn’t believe she’d ever get over it, but although she still missed him terribly, the sharp pain of loss gradually had turned into a dull ache over the months.

She was positive that her involvement in the renovation of the house had made the time pass more quickly. She remembered with perfect clarity the day Mrs. Jacoby had come to her and her mother and asked, “May I talk to you about something?”

Donovan’s mother had looked pale and borne the marks of her grief. His final days in ICU had still been fresh. “It’s about the house,” Mrs. Jacoby had said once Meg’s mother had served them tea by the pool.

“Is something wrong with it?” Meg had asked.

“I can’t live there.”

Meg had been dumfounded. “Why not? Donovan wanted you to have it. It meant so much to him.”

“I can’t live there knowing so many parents such as myself have no place to stay when their children are in Memorial waiting for transplants.”

“We’re working as fast as we can to raise funds
for the Wayfarer Inn,” Meg’s mother had said. “It’s going well, but these things take time.”

“That’s just the point. So many of those kids don’t have time to wait. I have an idea—a way to help out.” That day, she had outlined a plan to renovate her house, add necessary rooms, and open the house up as a temporary inn until the other could be built. She’d said that she and Brett would live there and be a source of support for parents whose kids were facing transplantation. “It seems so logical,” she had added, after presenting her plan. “Donovan chose that house because of its proximity to the hospital. Volunteers can help me. We can cook and keep the rooms neat and baby-sit younger siblings. I’ve thought about it very carefully, and it’s what I want to do.”

In the end, the board of the League had thought it an excellent idea. They had allocated money for the renovation and appointed Mrs. Jacoby coordinator of the Wayfarer Inn, with the offer of extending the job to the new house once it was built. Meg had been pleased for her. It was something Mrs. Jacoby obviously wanted to do, and it seemed to give her a new lease on life.

Now, in less than an hour, journalists and TV anchors from Washington and Virginia would be showing up for the formal dedication of Wayfarer One. Meg stepped aside as a decorator hustled past, juggling rolls of wallpaper.

“You must be very proud,” she heard a familiar voice say.

Meg turned and saw Mrs. Vasquez standing
next to her. “I didn’t have too much to do with all this. It was Mrs. Jacoby’s idea.”

“I know how you’ve helped,” the nurse insisted. “And I’ve seen copies of the letter you and Alana helped Donovan write. It’s raising a lot of money for the cause.”

“We’re still a long way from building the main house.”

“I’ve heard about a year. That’s not so long.”

Meg shrugged. “I’ll be a senior by then.”

“Will you work at the hospital next summer?” Mrs. Vasquez asked.

“I’m not sure.” Meg wasn’t sure she could go through another summer like the last one. How did long-time nurses like Mrs. Vasquez manage it year after year, caring for people who sometimes didn’t get well?

“You want to know something?” Mrs. Vasquez asked.

“What?”

“You’ve really got a knack for medicine.”

Meg stared at her in amazement. “Who, me?”

“I didn’t always think that,” the nurse continued. “When you first appeared on the floor I thought, ‘This one will be gone by the end of the week.’ But you fooled me. You not only stayed, you exhibited a real gift for doctoring.”

“A gift? Me?”

Mrs. Vasquez laughed. “Don’t sound so shocked. I’ve been in this business for over twenty years, so I’ve seen plenty of professionals—and believe me, not all of them should be in the business.
No, true medicine requires the gift of caring. Your father has it. And from what I’ve seen, you do too.” The nurse patted her arm. “For what it’s worth, you might think about becoming a doctor. I know you’d make a good one.”

Meg let Mrs. Vasquez give her a quick hug, then watched her hurry away. She mulled over the conversation. A doctor? Impossible!

“Are you going to stand there gawking all day, or are you going to come down here and give us a hand?” Alana called up to Meg from below.

“I’m coming,” Meg called back. She took one final look at the upstairs area and at the stained-glass window set in the stairwell. The beautiful colors spilled over the landing and brought back the memory of the first day she and Donovan had toured the house. She felt his presence. Certainly, he was with them this day. As was the secretive JWC, whose identity remained a mystery despite her mother’s efforts to ferret out information.

Meg knew that Donovan would be proud of what was going on in his house. She bounded down the stairs, dodging a man tacking down new carpet. Meg knew she’d never be able to give large sums of money to people in need, but she did have other things to offer. “Hey, Alana,” Meg shouted as she reached the floor. “I’ve been thinking … maybe we could go to med school together? What do you think about a career in pediatrics?”