The Time Between (32 page)

He leaned closer. “Yes?”

My head throbbed as thoughts moved in and out of my consciousness, and I reached to grab hold of one before I forgot it. “Do you believe in second chances?” I closed my eyes, the pain in my head too intense for me to think clearly or to even understand what I was asking. “Or do you think we only have one shot at happiness and we’d better milk it while we have it because when it’s gone it’s all over?”

He sat back, his slender hands spread wide on his thighs. “I think both. I think it’s what you make of it, like a choice. You can choose to move on or you can choose to dig in your heels. Why?”

Because I died again yesterday, and then I woke up because I think I’ve been given another chance.
I shook my head, no longer sure. “Why are you here? Where are Mama and Eve?”

“Eve wanted to come, but her doctor said no—too many germs and your condition wasn’t critical. Your mother can’t drive and somebody needed to stay with Eve. So Eve sent me. Don’t worry—I wanted to come. Make sure you were all right and drive you home when they’re ready to release you.” He indicated the table next to the bed. “Eve asked me to bring you that. She actually made me come home and get it after we knew you were okay.”

I looked at my bedside table, where instead of flowers sat a Piggly Wiggly grocery bag. “What is it?”

“I don’t know. Eve just told me to give it to you.”

I looked into his eyes and for the first time saw only my sister’s husband, an old friend, a person I’d grown comfortable with. Eve had been right when she’d said that we would never have made it together, that we were too different. I tried to picture him flying airplanes, or climbing a tree to bring me down, but I could not.

“Thank you,” I said, indicating the bag but meaning so much more. I shifted myself into a sitting position, pausing for a moment to quell the rising nausea, so I could open the bag. Glen unknotted the handles and pulled it open, and I leaned forward, realizing as soon as I did that I didn’t need to take anything out to know what it was.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s something Eve made for me,” I said as I reached in and pulled out the burgundy wool jacket and rubbed it against my cheek. There was no note, but I didn’t need one. In the special way between sisters, we didn’t always need words to communicate. But I remembered what she’d said when she’d given me the suit, right before I’d told her that I’d wanted her to die.
You are smart, and strong, and beautiful, and brave. And that’s never changed.

“Is it clothing?” Glen asked.

“Sort of. More like a suit of armor and Superwoman costume done up in wool gabardine.” I pressed the fabric against my head as if it could take the pain away, then placed the jacket back inside the bag and knotted the ties closed. “Can you push the nurse’s button, please? I need to get out of here.”

“I guess I can’t convince you to stay a little longer—just to make sure?”

“No. And if you could just drive me to Children’s Hospital, you can drop me off—I can take a taxi home or ask Lucy to come get me.”

“Don’t even think of calling Lucy or a taxi. Call me. And I could stay if you need me to,” he said, his expression earnest.

“Thanks, but no. Eve needs you at home.”

His look was unconvinced, but he pushed the nurse’s button anyway while I remembered a secret keeper basket with an unfinished pattern and wondered what was beneath the lid.

Eleanor

T
he Medical University of South Carolina Children’s Hospital was one of the best in the country. I kept repeating that to myself on the short drive between hospitals, my mind busy with images of a little girl who’d fought cancer and won a reprieve, and praying that she’d inherited the courage of her aunt who’d taken her sister across war-torn Europe and an entire ocean to save her life.

Glen insisted he would come with me to make sure I didn’t pass out in the middle of the parking garage, his tight lips a silent reproach for checking myself out of the hospital before the doctors thought it wise. He’d barely slid into a space before I’d thrown open my door, then immediately misjudged the distance and stumbled onto the pavement, spilling my purse and its contents.

Glen lifted me gently, then put my belongings back into my purse. “You’ve just been in a serious accident and have been given painkillers. Stop trying to act like you’re the old Ellie.”

I stared at him, blinking at him through a haze of pain and old memories, recalling what Eve had said the last time we’d spoken.
I liked the Ellie you used to be, and I wish she’d come back.

“Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to bring her back.” I indicated the Piggly Wiggly bag with the suit inside that I’d left on the seat. “Can you bring that, please?”

He sent me a questioning look but did as I asked. I didn’t bother to explain, knowing that Eve would have understood and that was enough. Clutching the bag was like having my sister with me, the sister who believed me to be strong and brave. It didn’t take my fear away, but it made me calmer, more centered. As if all the emotions swirling around inside me had been reined in and gathered together in a single manageable pile.

We walked as quickly as we could to the hospital entrance. I hated hospitals. Hated the antiseptic smells and the fake cheery smiles and patterned scrubs. I hated them mostly because they reminded me of my numerous trips to fix broken bones and twisted limbs—both mine and Eve’s—and withstanding my mother’s disapproving looks and reproachful sighs for me getting Eve involved in another one of my adventures.

“I can stay,” Glen repeated.

“I know, and I appreciate the offer. I do. But I want you to go home to Eve. There’s nothing you can do here. I still have my cell phone and I promise to call if I need anything, or need you to come pick me up—or I can always take a taxi.”

“Don’t you dare. Call me first.”

We were directed to a waiting area with brightly painted orange and yellow walls, the colors blurring as I scanned the empty orange chairs for Finn. Two women, both knitting, sat chatting quietly in one corner. The only other occupied chair was filled by a man I didn’t at first recognize.

The man stood. “Eleanor?”

Finn?
His sunken eyes reminded me of those of the homeless men I sometimes saw in Marion Square. He was in his shirtsleeves, without a tie, and he looked like a little boy, utterly lost and lonely. Without thinking, I slid into his arms, allowing him to bury his face in my neck.

I looked up in time to see Glen give me a gentle smile and a wave before leaving.

Finn and I held each other for a long moment without speaking, until he released me. Taking my hand, he led us to two chairs covered in bright orange fabric. I appreciated the idea of the crayon-hued walls and furnishings in an attempt to comfort the children with the familiar. But for the adults, no bright colors or cheery smiles could do anything to make us forget that we were in a place where sick and hurt children were brought to be put back together.

“How is she?” I asked, holding my breath for the answer.

He gently touched the white bandage on my forehead. “You shouldn’t have come. You’re hurt.”

“How could I not?” I felt the press of tears behind my eyes that I’d promised myself I wouldn’t shed in front of him. “It was my fault. It was raining so hard that it was difficult to see. I should have known to pull over and wait until it stopped. Or gone a different way—it’s such a bad intersection—”

He put a finger on my lips. “Stop. You did nothing wrong. It was an accident, nothing more. I don’t want to hear another word about it being your fault.”

I felt a tear wind its way down my cheek, and I brushed it away, wishing he hadn’t seen it. “How is she?” I asked again, trying not to think of all the reasons he hadn’t already answered me. “Can I see her?”

He looked down at our entwined hands. “She’s still in ICU, and they’re only allowing in immediate family members. Harper’s with her now. I had to step away to call her husband—he’s in London. And let others know . . .”

He clenched his jaw, working hard to regain control, to find territory he recognized. “She’s . . . so small. Even with the side air bag . . .” He didn’t continue, and I willed him to cry, knowing, too, that he wouldn’t. He would have been taught that along with the proper way to address a senator and how making paper airplanes and camping outside were endeavors meant for other boys.

I’d given up trying to hold back the tears, and I had to let go of Finn to reach into my purse for the wad of Kleenexes that I’d learned from my mother to always have on hand. For the first time I appreciated her words of wisdom.

“She is small. But Gigi has the strongest spirit of anybody I’ve ever met. If anybody can get through this, it’s her. I think she inherited it from her aunt Helena.”

A dark shadow passed behind his eyes, and an icy wave shuddered through my veins. “Don’t say that, Eleanor. Don’t say that Gigi is anything like Helena.”

Sharp pins pricked my skin, as if I were freezing from the inside out. “What do you mean?”

“There are things about Helena . . . things you don’t know.” He looked away, but not before I saw his eyes shutting me out. “Something dark. I don’t want to think Gigi has any of that in her. Not when we need to focus on the positive.”

I thought of the painting in the music room and the Reichmann family.
What does he know?
I found myself pulling back from him, unable to meet his eyes, unable to forget his barrage of questions at the Waterfront restaurant. Unable to forget how the old woman’s hands shook as she’d held the Herend rooster.

I recognized the cool, controlled voice when he spoke again. “I need to ask a favor.”

“Anything,” I said without thinking. Just like the old Ellie would have.

The two women in the waiting area stood, leaving their knitting on their chairs, and left the room, saying something about the cafeteria downstairs. We watched them until they were gone.

Finn continued. “Helena doesn’t know yet—about Gigi. I can’t leave the hospital, but I don’t want to tell her over the phone.”

“And you want me to tell her.”

He nodded. “Yes. I have a car and driver standing by outside that you can use. He can take you to your house first if you need to pick up some things, and then take you to Edisto.”

“Do you think telling Helena is wise? The whole reason I’m even in her life is because she broke down after her sister’s death. Maybe she’s not strong enough to know about Gigi.” My throat choked on Gigi’s name, even my words rejecting the thought of Gigi being hurt.

Finn stood and walked away from me as if to study the abstract painting on the wall, a painting that looked like melted crayons had exploded on the canvas. “There was more to her breakdown than just Bernadett’s death.”

I recalled my mother saying something about gossip on the island after Bernadett had died, how there hadn’t been an autopsy or a funeral announcement in the paper. About how family connections had kept details from the public. Yet all I could picture in my mind’s eye was a feverish Bernadett being smuggled out of Budapest during a bombing raid, and then through Europe, to save her life.

“What?” I asked, afraid I already knew.

He turned to face me. “Bernadett killed herself.”

My wound began to throb even more, as if some unseen hand had pressed on it. “Why?”

“I don’t know.”

I walked to where he stood, looking into his eyes to see if he was telling me the truth. But his eyes remained dark and shuttered, leaving my question unanswered.

“I’ll tell her,” I said. “For you.”

He pulled me into his arms, and I thought I felt his lips on the top of my head. “Thank you.”

We both looked up, then stepped back as Harper walked in. She wore the same clothes she’d worn the last time I’d seen her, when I’d gone to pick up Gigi at her house, but her hair was undone, her mascara smeared under her eyes, her pants and blouse rumpled. As I watched, she used the heel of her hand to dry her cheek.

I went to my purse and pulled out a clean Kleenex and handed it to her. She looked at it with surprise before taking it. “Thank you,” she said. She paused, and I waited for her to speak again, to accuse me of being responsible for hurting Gigi. But I was prepared, clinging to the ghost of the old Ellie, waiting to resurrect her.

But any fire that Harper possessed was extinguished beneath a pile of guilt and anguish. She loved her daughter. I knew that. She’d simply been too selfish to show it, and now it might be too late. She regarded me with haunted eyes. “She had on her seat belt, right? And was in the backseat?”

“Yes. Always.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. “I know. It’s just . . . It’s just that I always need a reason. . . .” Her voice faded away, her confession halted when she realized whom she was speaking to, afraid to admit to me that it was hard living in a world where there aren’t always reasons.

I moved to gather my purse and grocery bag to leave, but Harper held me back with a hand on my arm. “Gigi gave me this right before you picked her up today.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a folded picture. I froze, remembering the last time Gigi had drawn something for her mother.

She handed it to me and I opened it. I recognized me first, most likely due to the navy shorts and striped shirt the woman wore in the picture. Except in this rendition I also wore a beautiful set of wings that arched over my back. I held hands with a small blond girl dressed all in pink with a wide, beautiful, red-crayoned smile. The background was filled with swirls of black, depicting night, and a large moon hovered in the top right corner near two angels—a redheaded one and a blond one—flying up near the stars. On the ground in front of us was a large, waxy-white flower, a night-blooming cereus, its petals like sunbursts.

I wanted to cry and laugh simultaneously, but mostly I wanted to thank the little girl who’d drawn it.

“Do you know what it means?” Harper asked.

“I’m not sure.” My mind skipped over the events after the accident, like a stone across water, settling on the memory of the old Gullah woman and my father. I studied the picture. “I think it means that saying good-bye to someone doesn’t mean they’re gone from your life forever.” I touched the flower with my finger, feeling the wax of the crayon, its bloom as large as my crayoned head. “And that when all you’re given is one night to bloom, you should go for it.”

I looked up and met the eyes of a woman trying to make sense of a universe that sometimes made no sense at all.

I folded up the picture and handed it back to Harper. “Thank you for showing it to me.”

She shook her head. “I want you to keep it. And we can ask her about it when she wakes up.”

I smiled and nodded quickly, eager to leave before the dam holding back the tears broke. I was glad I couldn’t see Gigi in ICU. Because I didn’t want to think of her that way; I wanted to think of her as the little girl in pink holding the hand of an angel while two more watched over her.

“I’ll go now and tell Helena. Please keep me posted.”

“Thank you,” Finn said. And as Harper began to sob, he gathered her in his arms and I turned away, gathered my belongings, and left. The car was waiting where Finn had said it would be, and I climbed into the back.

I was grateful for the throbbing in my head that wouldn’t let me sleep, allowing me time to resurrect old prayers I hadn’t uttered in more than seventeen years and to wonder why an old woman who had been through so much would suddenly decide to end her life.