Look Again - Lisa Scottoline [121]
“All I did was tell the truth.”
“Don’t pretend you have the moral high ground, because you don’t. Was it moral to spy on me? To search my computer? You even tricked my son into telling you where I was!”
“He wasn’t your son. He was their son.”
“He was my son.”
“Not legally.”
“He was my son until I said different.” Ellen felt angry tears, and at some level, even she knew she was yelling at the wrong person. She wasn’t angry at Sarah, she was angry at everyone and everything. Angry that it had happened in the first place. Still she couldn’t stop herself. “I would never do anything to hurt your children, no matter what.”
“You’re not worried about Will. You’re worried about yourself.”
“You know what, you’re right. I love my son and I want him home and I’m never going to have him again. But most of all, I want him to be happy. If he’s happy, I’m happy, and thanks to you, he’s in pain and—”
There was a noise behind them, from the other end of the living room, and Ellen turned around, shocked at the sight. It was Myron Krims, Sarah’s husband, but he was in a wheelchair. She had met him only once, years ago, and he had been walking fine. Then he was one of the top thoracic surgeons in the city, but he was clearly ill. His black sweater and khakis were swimming on him, and his hair had gone completely gray. Circles ringed his eyes, and his aspect looked vague.
“Dear?” Myron asked, his voice shaky. “I’ve been calling you.”
“Excuse me.” Sarah hurried to her husband, and Ellen watched as she bent over him, whispered something in his ear, then wheeled him out of the room. Sarah returned after a moment, her face a tight mask. “So. Now you see.”
For a minute, Ellen didn’t know what to say. “I had no idea.”
“We don’t advertise.”
“What happened?”
“He has MS.” Sarah straightened a suede pillow that didn’t require it.
“For how long?”
“For the rest of his life.”
Ellen reddened. “I mean, how long has this been going on?”
“None of that is your business. It’s nobody’s business but ours.”
Ellen saw a premature fissure in Sarah’s forehead and wondered why she’d never noticed it before. All this time she’d thought she was the only one on a single income, but she’d been wrong.
“I was doing what was right for my family.” Sarah’s voice remained controlled, and her gaze unwavering. “I was doing what I had to do.”
“You could have told me.” Ellen felt disarmed, grasping. “You could have warned me.”
“What would you have said? Don’t take the money?” Sarah snorted. “It was my family or your family. I chose my family. You would have done the same.”
“I don’t know,” Ellen answered, after a minute. She was thinking back to what the cop had said at the ER waiting room. It’s no-win. Suddenly she didn’t know anymore what was right or moral, what was legal or fair. She no longer took satisfaction in confronting Sarah. She wasn’t composed enough to analyze the situation. She couldn’t even tell what she would have done in Sarah’s position. She knew only that Will was gone, and there was a deep rent in her chest where her heart had been. Her shoulders sagged, and she felt herself sinking onto the couch. Her face dropped into her hands, and in the next second, the cushion dipped down as Sarah sat beside her.
“I tell you this,” Sarah whispered. “I am sorry.”
And at that, Ellen let slip the few tears she had left.
Chapter Ninety-one
Ellen got home, hollow and spent, raw and aching. She tossed her bag and keys on the windowseat, and stamped powdery snow from her snowy clogs. She took off her coat and hung it up, but it fell onto the closet floor. She didn’t have the energy to pick it up. She was thirsty but didn’t get anything to drink. She was hungry but didn’t bother to eat. She didn’t even have the strength to be mad at the reporters, following her back from Sarah’s, plaguing her with questions. Oreo Figaro came over to rub against her shins, but she ignored him and went upstairs to read Sal’s piece.
She clopped slowly up the stairs, the sound of her clogs like the ticking of a clock slowing down. She had never felt like this in her life.