And not just anyone, either. This was Claire Cavenaugh, the woman who’d sat by Diana’s bedside hour after hour when she was ill, playing dirty-word Scrabble and watching soap operas. Joe remembered one night in particular. He’d worked all day, then headed for Diana’s hospital room, exhausted by the prospect of another evening spent beside his dying wife. When he’d opened the door, Claire was there, wearing nothing but her bra and panties, dancing. Diana, who hadn’t smiled in weeks, was laughing so hard there were tears on her cheeks.
No way, Claire had laughed when he asked what was going on. We are not going to tell you what we were doing.
A girl has to have some secrets, Diana had said, even from the love of her life.
Now it was Claire in a bed like that, in a room that smelled of despair and looked out on graying skies even in the height of summer.
There was probably nothing he could do for her, but how could he live with himself if he didn’t try? Maybe this was God’s way of reminding him that a man couldn’t hold on to old fears if he wanted to start over.
If she were here right now, Diana would have told him that chances didn’t come any plainer than this. It was one thing to run away from nothing. It was quite another to turn your back on a set of films with a friend’s name in the corner.
You’re killing her, and this time no pretty word like euthanasia will fit.
He released a heavy breath and reached out, pretending not to notice that his hands were shaking and that he was suddenly desperate for a drink.
He pulled out the films and took them into the kitchen, where full sunlight streamed through the window above the sink.
He studied the first one, then went through the rest of them. Adrenaline made his heart speed up.
He knew why e
veryone had diagnosed this tumor as inoperable. The amount of skill needed to perform the surgery was almost unheard-of. It would require a neurosurgeon with godlike hands and an ego to match. One who wasn’t afraid to fail.
But with a careful resection . . . there might be a chance. It was possible—just possible—that this one thin shadow wasn’t tumor, that it was tissue responding to the tumor.
There was no doubt about what he had to do next.
He took a long, hot shower, then dressed in the blue shirt he’d recently bought and the new jeans, wishing he had better clothes, accepting that he didn’t. Then he retrieved the film, put it back in the envelope, and walked over to Smitty’s house. Helga was in the kitchen, making lunch. Smitty was in the living room, watching Judge Judy. At Joe’s knock, he looked up. “Hey, Joe. ”
“I know this is irregular, but could I borrow the truck? I need to drive to Seattle. I may have to stay overnight. ”
Smitty dug in his pocket for the keys, then tossed them.
“Thanks. ” Joe went to the rusty old ’73 Ford pickup and got inside. The door clanged shut behind him.
He stared at the dashboard. It had been years since he’d been in the driver’s seat. He started the engine and hit the gas.
Two hours later, he parked in the underground lot on Madison and Broadway and walked into the lobby of his old life.
The painting of Elmer Nordstrom was still there, presiding over the sleek black high-rise that bore his family name.
Joe kept his head down as he walked toward the elevators. There, making eye contact with no one, his heart hammering, he pushed the up button.
When the doors pinged open, he stepped inside. Two white-coated people crowded beside him. They were talking about lab results. They got off on the third floor—the floor that led to the sky bridge that connected this office building to Swedish Hospital.
He couldn’t help remembering when he’d walked through this building with his head held high; a man certain of his place in the world.
On the fourteenth floor, the doors opened.
He stood there a half second too long, staring at the gilt-edged black letters on the glass doors across the hall.
Seattle Nuclear Specialists. The business he’d started on his own. There were seven or eight doctors listed below. Joe’s name wasn’t there.
Of course it wasn’t.
At the last second, as the doors were closing, he stepped out of the elevators and crossed the hall. In the office, there were several patients in the waiting room—none of which he knew, thank God—and two women working the reception desk. Both of them were new.
He considered walking straight down to Li’s office, but he didn’t have the guts. Instead, he went to the desk.