Fly Away (Firefly Lane 2)

“I needed that,” she said, wiping her eyes.

“And I would tell Tully I’m sorry, too. I was wrong to blame her. ”

Marah nodded but said nothing.

Johnny thought of all the mistakes he’d made with this girl, the times he’d walked away when he should have stayed; the times he’d remained silent when he should have spoken. All the wrong turns a single father makes when he’s in over his head. “Can you forgive me?”

She gazed at him steadily. “I love you, Dad,” she said.

“I love you, too, Munchkin. ”

Marah’s smile was weak and a little sad. “What about Tully? She probably thinks—”

“What would you say to her right now?”

“I’d tell her how much I love her, but I won’t get a chance. ”

“You’ll get a chance. You can tell her when she wakes up. ”

“I have a little trouble believing in miracles these days. ”

What he wanted to say was, Don’t we all? What he said was, “Your mom would hate to hear that. She would tell you that everything works out the way it’s supposed to and not to give up hope until you have to, and—”

“Certainly not then,” Marah said quietly, her voice an echo of his.

For a beautiful second, he felt Katie beside him. The leaves rustled overhead.

“I want to see Dr. Bloom again, if that’s okay. ”

Johnny looked up briefly, saw a movement of the shadowy Mason jar. Thank you, Katie. “I’ll make an appointment. ”

Twenty-six

September 14, 2010

9:13 A. M.

On the day before Tully was to be brought home, the Ryans and Mularkeys descended on the house on Firefly Lane like a professional cleaning crew. Dorothy had never seen people work so hard or get along so well.

The back bedroom—Tully’s at fourteen and now again at fifty—had been stripped down and scrubbed and painted a beautiful sky blue. The hospital bed had been delivered and set up to face the room’s only window. From her place in bed, Tully would be able to look through the open sash window, across the vegetable field, to her once-best-friend’s old house. The new bedding—picked out by Marah—was pretty white matelassé with a raised floral pattern, and the twin boys had chosen pictures to put on the dresser—there were at least a dozen of them, all told; pictures of Kate and Tully throughout their lives, of Tully holding a pink-faced infant, of Johnny and Tully accepting some award onstage. Dorothy wished she had a picture of herself and Tully to add to the collection, but there simply were none. In the middle of it all, a nurse showed up from the coma care company and talked to Dorothy for at least two hours about how to handle Tully’s daily care.

When everyone finally left, Dorothy walked from room to room, telling herself she could do this. She read through the nurse’s handouts and materials twice, making notes in the margins.

Twice, she’d almost gone for a drink, but in the end she’d made it through, and now she was in the hospital again, walking down the bright corridor toward her daughter’s room. Smiling at one of the floor nurses, she opened the door and went inside.

There was a man sitting by her daughter’s bed, reading. At Dorothy’s entrance, he looked up. She noticed several things about him at once: he was young, probably not more than forty-five, and there was an exotic, multicultural look to him. His hair was drawn back into a ponytail and she was pretty sure that beneath his white doctor’s coat would be worn, faded jeans and a T-shirt from some rock band. He wore the same plastic clogs that were her favorite.

“I’m sorry,” he said, rising, setting the book aside. She saw it was something called Shantaram. It was a thick book and he was halfway through it.

“Are you reading to her?”

He nodded, coming forward, extending his hand. “I’m Desmond Grant, an ER doc. ”

“Dorothy. I’m her mother. ”

“Well. I should be getting back to work. ”

“You visit her often?”