Between Sisters - Kristin Hannah [136]
“Be here tomorrow or I call People magazine and tell them you didn't visit your daughter who has a brain tumor.”
It was a long moment before Mama said, “I'm no good with this sort of thing.”
“None of us are, Mama.” Meghann hung up without saying good-bye, then punched in the 800 number on her calling card and dialed Sam. The phone rang once and she lost her nerve. She couldn't tell Sam this over the phone.
She slammed the receiver onto the hook and went back to her sister's room.
Bobby stood by the bed, singing softly to Claire, who snored gently. It brought Meghann up short.
Bobby looked up at her. Tears glistened on his cheeks. “She hasn't opened her eyes again.”
“She will. Keep singing. I'm sure she loves it.”
“Yeah.” His voice cracked.
Meg had never seen a man in so much pain; she knew the look in Bobby's eyes matched her own. “I'm going to go tell Sam in person. I can't give him this news over the phone. If Claire wakes up—” She caught herself. “When Claire wakes up, tell her I love her and I'll be back soon. Do you have your keys to my place?”
“I'll sleep here tonight.”
“Okay.” Meghann wanted to say something else but didn't know what. So she left the room. She practically ran for her car. Once inside, she hit the gas and headed north.
Ninety minutes later, she reached Hayden. She slowed down through town, stopped at the light.
And there it was: the silver Quonset hut.
Joe Wyatt.
He's a radiologist. Probably one of the best in the country. It came rushing back to her now, the stunning news that had been lost somehow, buried beneath a thick layer of grief.
Dr. Joseph Wyatt. Of course. No wonder he'd looked familiar. His trial had been front-page news. She and her colleagues had speculated about his fate over many a beer. She'd been firmly in his camp, certain he'd be acquitted. It had never occurred to her to wonder what had become of him after the trial.
Now she knew. He'd run away, hidden out. But he was still one of the best radiologists in the country. He saw things—possibilities—no one else did.
Yet when she'd come to him, sobbing about her sick sister, he'd done nothing. Nothing.
And he knew Claire.
“Son of a bitch.” She glanced sideways. The envelope from the hospital was on the passenger seat.
She turned the wheel hard and slammed on the brakes, parking along the curb. Then she grabbed the envelope and marched toward the cabin.
She pounded on the door, screaming, until she heard footsteps coming from inside.
When he opened the door, saw her, and said “What—?” she shoved him in the chest so hard he stumbled backward.
“Hey, Joe. Invite me in.” She kicked the door shut behind her.
“It's practically midnight.”
“So it is, Doctor Wyatt.”
He sank onto the sofa and looked up at her.
“You held me. You let me cry in your arms.” Her voice trembled; the ache in her heart only made her madder. “And you offered a referral. What kind of man are you?”
“The kind who knows his hero days are behind him. If you know who I am, you know what I did.”
“You killed your wife.” At his flinch, she went on. “If I'd known your last name, I would have remembered. Your trial was a big deal in Seattle. The prosecution of the doctor who euthanized his dying wife.”
“Euthanasia is a prettier word than manslaughter.”
Some of the steam went out of her at the soft sadness in his voice. She'd learned about that kind of sorrow in the past month. “Look, Joe. In an ordinary world, I'd talk to you about what you did. I might even take you in my arms and tell you that I understand, that anyone with a drop of compassion in their soul would have done the same thing. That's what your acquittal meant. I might even ask you about the road you've been on, the journey that led one of the country's best radiologists to this place. But it's not an ordinary world for me right now. My sister is dying.” She tripped over the word, felt the sting of tears. She tossed the oversize manila envelope on the coffee table in front of him. “These are her MRI films. Maybe you can help her.”
“I let my license lapse. I can't practice medicine anymore.