Three Wishes (11 page)

Bree hadn't been thinking about having a child. She hadn't been feeling desperate about it, hadn't heard any biological clock ticking. So she was surprised when her eyes filled with tears.

“I'm sorry,” the doctor said. “This is the worst part of my job. The good news is that you're alive. If you'd been left lying in the snow, you'd have bled to death.”

She knew that. And she was grateful. And she really
hadn't
had her heart set on having children.

Still, there was an awful emptiness, a sudden sense of loss.

“In every other respect, you're healing well,” the doctor went on. “I agree with Dr. Sealy. No reason why you can't go home. Take it easy for the next few weeks. Add activity a little at a time. Listen to your body. It'll tell you what you can do.”

She continued to stare at him through tear-filled eyes.

He rose from the bed, gave her hand a pat, and smiled. “I have to get back to St. Johnsbury. This is a long way to come to make rounds.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat.

“Well, then,” he said, “good luck to you.” He turned toward the door.

“Dr. Meade?” When he looked back, she said, “What if I lie perfectly still?”

He seemed confused.

“If I lie perfectly still, will less scar tissue grow?”

“No. Scarring is a natural part of healing.”

“There's no way to prevent it?”

“No.”

She swallowed again, took a breath, thought of the benevolent being of light, and felt less alone. It was all right, she reasoned. So she wasn't destined to be a mother. She supposed it made sense. She hadn't grown up in a house full of kids. She didn't have a maternal role model, or even a husband. She wouldn't know what to do with a child of her own. Besides, she didn't want to be tied down, after being finally free after so long.

So fate had simply formalized what her instincts had always known.

She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, took another breath, and smiled at the doctor, who lifted a hand in farewell and turned again toward the door.

That was when she saw the mole on the back of his neck.

Once the breakfast rush at the diner was over, Flash came to the hospital and drove Bree home. She didn't tell him what the doctor had said, didn't see the point, since she didn't know how she felt about it herself. All her rationalization notwithstanding, there was still an unexpected emptiness. So she pushed it from her mind.

The weather helped. The sun was bright and the air warm; the roads were dry. It was the type of autumn day she loved, the type when the smallest pile of raked leaves, heated by the sun, perfumed the air for miles. If the jostling of the Explorer as it barreled along caused her discomfort, it was soothed by the rush of the breeze past her face.

The roads grew progressively familiar. Not a thing had changed while she had been gone, it seemed. The Crowells' rusted Chevy still sat in the tall grasses of the field beside their house, the Dillards' front lawn was still filled with pumpkins for sale, the Krumps' three-year-old triplets still clustered on the big old tire that swung from the sprawling oak at the side of their house.

Everything was just as it had been prior to the snow a week before—just the same, yet different. The trees looked larger, the sun brighter, the colors richer. The smiles of the people they passed were broader, their waves higher. Even Bree's old Victorian seemed less prim as it welcomed her home.

She went up the front walk hugging the bubble bowl that Julia Dean had sent. The few flowers left in it were so feeble that Flash had wanted to leave it behind, but Bree wouldn't hear of it. Julia's arrangement had been the first splash of color she had seen, waking up in her hospital room. Then, it had seemed a link between the world she had glimpsed beyond and the earthly one to which she'd returned. Her need for that link was greater now than ever.

5

T
om was unsure of his place, with Bree suddenly home. Each time he drove past her house that first day, a different car was parked there. Talk at the diner revolved around who was sitting with her when, who was cooking for her when, who was cleaning for her when. Directly or indirectly, most everyone in town had a role.

For the first time in years, he thought about his own hometown, small and so like this one. He hadn't appreciated it then, but he did now. Having lived in the city, having been one of those who were too busy—or self-important—to care about a neighbor's woes, having felt the brunt of isolation during his last few months there, he found it heartwarming to see Panama rally around Bree. A schedule was drawn up to ensure that during those first few days, at least, she was never alone.

No one asked him to take a turn. So he approached the group that surrounded Flash, making final arrangements. Jane Hale had known Bree since childhood, LeeAnn Conti had worked with her for years. Dotty Hale and Emma McGreevy, both a generation above, spoke for the town. Liz Little was simply a friend.

“I'd like to do my part,” he said. “I feel responsible for her needing the help.”

All six regarded him with eyes that ranged from cautious to cold—a sobering experience for a man who had once had the power to charm by virtue of simply walking into a room.

“Thank you,” said Emma, with a curt smile, “but we take care of our own.”

He absorbed the rebuff as his due. But it didn't stop him. “I'd like to be considered one of your own.”

Emma looked at his fading shiner and the livid line beneath it. “After half a year? I think not. Besides, we don't need help with Bree. We have it all arranged.”

“All but the nights,” he said, when she would have closed the circle and shut him out. He had overheard enough to know where they stood. “You're still working that out. I can help.”

Emma fingered the short strand of pearls that circled her neck. “You wouldn't know what to do.”

“Bree says he does,” Jane said in a quiet voice.

Dotty scowled at her. “What's there to do in a hospital? This is at home.”

“I can help there, too,” Tom said.

“Can you cook?” asked Liz.

Emma waved a hand. “No need for him to cook. We have plenty of food.”

“It'd be nice if he could heat up what's there.”

Emma tried shaking her head. “No matter. He can't stay with her.”

Jane dared a soft “Why not?”

“Good
God,
Jane,” Dotty flared, “how can you even
ask
that? He said it himself. He's responsible for putting her there.”

“It wasn't his fault,” offered Flash. “She doesn't blame him.”

“Still,” Dotty insisted, “looking at him will only remind her of bad things.”

“He's famous,” said LeeAnn, with a curious glance Tom's way.

Emma granted. “More like
in
famous. Goodness, LeeAnn, Dotty's been waving those articles in front of your nose for a week now.”

“Do you really want Bree to spend the night with a womanizer?” Dotty asked.

“Alleged
womanizer,” Tom corrected. “Just because the tabloids loved writing about me doesn't mean everything they said was true.”

Dotty brushed his comment aside. “You can't stay with her. It isn't proper.”

“Why not?” Jane asked again.

“Because . . . he's . . . male.”

“So's Flash,” Liz said, “and he's spending the night.”

“Bree's like my sister,” Flash reasoned. “I've known her for years.”

“So have you,” Dotty told her daughter. “You're a selfish one, wanting him there to spare you the work.”

“That's not it at all. I
do
want to help. In fact, I can sleep better at her house than at ours. You wake up all the time.”

“Do I tell you to get up with me? I do not. It's not
my
fault you sleep so lightly every little noise spooks you. Good
God,
Jane. I'm your mother. You complain about me, you complain about Bree . . .”

Tom saw Julia Dean watching them from a booth. She looked torn, as though she wanted to join the group but didn't dare. What with the way they weren't welcoming him, Tom didn't blame her. What with the way Dotty was going after Jane, he
really
didn't blame her.

“The thing is,” he said to end the last, “you all have other things to do during the day. I don't. I can sleep all day if I want. Look at you, Liz. You can't sleep all day. You have three young kids.”

“But I love Bree,” Liz said. “She house-sits with our cats whenever we go away, and she never lets me pay her for it. I owe her this.”

“Me, too,” Tom said, but Emma was moving on, paper and pencil in hand.

“All right. It's Liz tonight, LeeAnn tomorrow night, Flash Sunday, Jane Monday. Abby wants Tuesday night, and then we'll regroup.” Throwing a smug look Tom's way, she drew a line across the bottom of the list, and that was that.

 

But Tom couldn't stay away. He left the diner at eight, saw two cars in Bree's drive, drove past and down the turnpike to the mall, where he rented a movie. Reversing the trip, he arrived back at Bree's shortly after nine. The two cars had been replaced by Liz Little's Suburban. Satisfied that Bree was in capable hands, he went home and put the movie in the VCR. He watched it for half an hour, before turning it off and snatching up the keys to his car.

Bree's Victorian was a behemoth of a house. It was tall and lean, made all the more so by its setting on a rise.
Staid
was one word Tom might have used to describe it,
stark
another. In the absence of a moon, not even the dim lamplight seeping from the lower-floor windows added cheer. The house felt cold. He never would have matched it with Bree.

Climbing the front steps, he crossed the porch to knock softly on the old wood door. After a minute's wait, he gave another knock. He was about to go around to the back, when the door opened.

Having fully expected to see Liz, he was startled to find Bree. She looked so waiflike in the meager porch light, with dark eyes in a pale face, framed by long, dark, damp hair, and the rest of her lost in her huge fleece robe, that something tripped inside him.

“Hey,” he half whispered. “I didn't mean to get you up. Where's Liz?”

Bree's voice wasn't much louder than his, though he suspected she had sheer physical weakness to blame. “On the phone. One of the kids is sick. She's talking with Ben.” She reached for his arm and drew him in, then closed the door and leaned against it.

He stayed close. “How do you feel?”

“Tired. Friends keep coming. And I'm grateful. But it's hard to say no when they want to talk.”

“Go on to bed. I'll talk with Liz.”

For an instant, looking up at him, she seemed on the verge of tears, and for the life of him he didn't know what to do. What he wanted to do was hold her, but that didn't seem right. So instead he simply asked, “Are you okay?”

She swallowed, nodded, and eased away from the door. He followed her as far as the bottom of the winding staircase, and then it took everything he had just to watch, instead of walking beside her or even carrying her up. But they weren't at the hospital anymore. This was personal stuff.

When she had reached the top and disappeared down the hall, he looked around. The foyer in which he stood was large and opened to an even larger living room. Furnished in dark woods with frayed fabrics, both areas looked tired. Like the outside of the house, they didn't fit Bree.

Liz Little's voice came from the back of the house. Following the sound, he found himself in a kitchen that was old but functional and clean. Liz had the telephone cord wrapped around her hand and was saying, with what sounded like dwindling patience, “On his forehead. Hold it flat on his forehead until the strip changes color.” She paused. “I
know
he won't lie still, but believe me, it's easier doing it this way than the other way.” She paused again. “Well,
hold
him there. Come on, Ben,” she pleaded, “you're a whole lot stronger than he is. You can immobilize him for two minutes.” She listened, pushed a hand through her hair, spotted Tom. She held his gaze while she said, “Yes, I'm
thrilled
that he wants me, but the fact is that I'm not there.”