Home Again

She turned to Lina, who was still standing in the same place, her face paler now, her eyes filled with tears. “He’s dead,” she said dully.

“No. He’s alive. He’s in surgery.”

Lina started to cry. “Oh, Mom …”

Madelaine got to her feet and stood there, shaking. She took a deep, steadying breath. There was no time for this panic, this fear. Later she could fall apart, but now Francis needed her. Lina needed her.

She handled it the only way she knew how with cold practicality. She donned the invisible white coat and became Dr. Hillyard, who dealt with these crises every day.

She went to Lina and pulled her daughter into her arms, holding her close. She felt Lina’s arms curl around her at last, felt the shuddering of Lina’s body against hers, felt the moisture of Lina’s tears against her neck. “Shh,” she whispered, stroking Lina’s damp cheek.

“We’ve got to be strong for Francis now. There isn’t time for what we’re feeling. You go get dressed and pack us a bag. I’ll call the airline.”

Lina shook her head. “I can’t.”

Madelaine gripped her daughter by the shoulders. “You can. You have to.” She softened a little bit, as much as she could allow herself. “He’s in surgery, Lina. That means he’s still alive. He needs us.”

Lina looked up, her mouth trembling. “We need him, too, Mom.”

The few small words hurt so badly that Madelaine felt her own tears rising, cresting. “Yes.” She said the word in a whisper of her normal voice, but it boomed into the silence like a scream.

The drive to the airport and the flight to Portland seemed to take forever.

Madelaine stared out the airplane’s small, oval window, seeing her own ashen features reflected in the fake glass. Her eyes looked like black holes burned into flesh-tone plastic; her mouth was a colorless crease.

Finally the plane started its ear-popping descent. Madelaine turned to Lina, saw the pallor of her daughter’s cheek, the involuntary tremble of her lower lip.

She ached to say that Francis would be okay, but she couldn’t make that kind of promise. The physician in her was too ingrained to trump the mother who wanted to offer unconditional hope.

“Don’t stare at me, Mom.” Lina didn’t blink or turn, just gazed steadily at the burgundy-upholstered seat in front of her. A tear squeezed past her eyelashes and rolled down one colorless cheek, splashing on the nylon seat-belt strap.

Tentatively Madelaine reached out, covered Lina’s cold hand with her own.

Quietly Lina said, “I think he’s dead.”

“No,” Madelaine answered quickly. “He’s in surgery. If he were dead …” She couldn’t go on, couldn’t think about it. Her throat closed up. “If he were dead, I’d feel it.”

Lina turned to her then, her eyes wide with hope. “What do you mean?”

Madelaine slipped her fingers through Lina’s and held her hand until the flesh warmed again. Twisting slightly in her seat, she rested her head against it. “I was sixteen when I met Francis.” She closed her eyes, remembering a dozen moments all at once. She saw him on that day when he’d come to the doctor’s office to rescue her—the cavalry in the form of a bookish, starry-eyed eighteen-year-old with a heart as big as the whole outdoors. She’d been huddled alongside the public telephone, nervously jumping every time the door opened, certain Alex was going to come thundering through at any second. But it had only been Francis coming for her, reaching for her, taking her hand. Maddy-girl, you’re on the wrong side of town.

Help me, she’d whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. And his one-word answer, so easy, so fast. Forever.

Madelaine tried to find the words. “I’d know if he were dead. I’d feel…”

“What?” Lina pleaded.

“Nothing.” She covered her heart with her hand, feeling the thudding pulse of her own life. “In here, I’d be empty.” Her voice cracked as the images returned—Francis smiling, laughing, holding her hand, drying her tears, calling her his Ma

ddy-girl. “I don’t think I could breathe without him … and I’m breathing.”

Madelaine fell silent, lost in the world of her memories. It took her a moment to notice that Lina was sitting too still, the tears rolling one after another down her cheeks.

Madelaine touched her daughter’s chin. “Oh, baby …”

Lina swallowed hard, stared out the window behind Madelaine. “I yelled at him,” she said in a quiet, anguished voice. “The last time I saw him …”

“Don’t do that,” Madelaine said in a rush.