Between Sisters

Joe opened the door—

Honey, I’m home

—and went inside.

The place looked exactly as he’d left it. He still remembered the day he’d come home from court—supposedly an innocent man (no, a not-guilty one)—and packed a suitcase. The only phone call he’d made had been to Gina. I’m sorry, he’d said, too tired to be eloquent. I need to go.

I’ll take care of the place, she’d answered, crying. You’ll be back.

I don’t know, he’d said. How can I?

And yet, here he was. True to her word, Gina had taken care of the place. She’d paid the taxes and the bills from the money he’d left in a special account. No dust collected on the furniture or windowsills, no spiderwebs hung from the high pitched ceilings.

He walked from room to room, touching things, remembering. Every stick of furniture reminded him of a time and place.

This chair is perfect, Joey, don’t you think? You can sit in it to watch TV.

Every knickknack had a story. Like a blind man, he moved slowly, putting his hands on everything, as if somehow touch elicited the memories more than sight.

Finally, he was in the master bedroom. The sight of it was almost too much. He forced himself to go forward. It was all still there. The big antique bed they’d gotten from Mom and Dad as a wedding present, the beautiful quilt that had come to them on Dad’s death. The old nightstands that had once been piled with books—romance novels on her side, military histories on his. Even the tiny needlepoint pillow that Diana had made when she first got sick.

He sat down on the bed and picked up the pillow, seeing the tiny brown spots that marred the fabric.

I don’t think needlework is a good therapy. I’m losing so much blood I’m getting light-headed.

“Hey, Diana,” he said, wishing for the days when he’d been able to conjure her image. He stroked the pillow, trying to remember how it had felt to touch her. “I was at the hospital today. It felt good. ”

He knew what she’d say to that. But he didn’t really know if he was ready to go back. His life had changed so much, degraded somehow into tiny bits that might not fit together again.

He hadn’t forgotten the way people looked at him at his old office. They saw him and wondered, Is that what a murderer looks like?

He stared down at the pillow, stroking it. “You shouldn’t have asked it of me, Di. It . . . ruined me.

“Well . . . maybe I ruined me, too,” he admitted quietly. He should have stayed here, in this community he’d cared so much for. His mistake had been in running away.

It was time to quit hiding and running. Time to stand up to the people who judged him poorly and say, No more.

Time to take his life back.

Slowly, he got up and went to the closet, opening the louvered doors.

Diana’s clothes filled two-thirds of the space.

Three years ago, he’d tried to box them up and give them away. He’d folded one pink cashmere sweater and been done for.

He reached out for a beige angora turtleneck that had been her favorite. He eased it off of the white plastic hanger and brought it to his face. The barest remnant of her scent lingered. Tears stung his eyes. “Good-bye, Diana,” he whispered.

Then he went in search of a box.

THIRTY

THE NEXT MORNING STU WEISSMAN CALLED CLAIRE. HE spoke in clipped, rushed sentences. She was so groggy and disoriented, it took her several seconds to understand him.

“Wait a minute,” she finally said, sitting up. “Are you saying you’ll do the surgery?”

“Yes. But this thing will be a bear cat. Could be a bad outlook all the way around. You could end up paralyzed or brain damaged or worse. ”

“Worse sooner, you mean. ”