Home Again

She turned on him, balling the report in her fist. “Don’t you think I know that?” Her voice cracked. “Leave us alone now.”

“Certainly. Dr. Allenford said he could have the Lear down here in forty-five minutes.”

“Yes,” she said dully, stroking Francis’s soft, soft cheek. “I know the procedure.”

He left as quickly as he’d come, and when he was gone, she wished he hadn’t left. It was too quiet in here; the electronic noises were so soulless, so inhuman.

“Oh, Francis,” she whispered. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

She couldn’t make a decision like this alone, and yet there was no one to take the burden from her shoulders. Angel was Francis’s only living relative, and God knew he couldn’t help her. It would be inhuman to ask it of him.

The minutes ticked by, one after another, stitching into some endless quilt of time, minutes existing, then not existing, falling away.

It was so precious, time. Why was it you never realized that until it slipped through your fingers and lay forgotten at your feet?

“Why is that, Francis?” she asked, stroking his hair. She kept hoping against hope that he would hear her, blink his eyes, twitch one finger, something. But there was nothing except the droning hiss of the machines and the quiet strain of her own breathing.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, feeling as if her soul were being slowly ripped in half.

She understood at last how so many of

her patients’ families had felt in this moment. She wanted to rail at the injustice of it all, but she’d learned long ago that life was unfair and unpredictable, that death stalked a family right up to the dinner table without once emitting a sound—she knew all this, had known it since she was six years old.

She knew, too, what Francis would have her do right now. He would want his death to mean something. And if he could save Angel’s life, Francis would do it in a second, without hesitation. She knew that Francis’s heart—his wonderful loving heart—could save his brother’s life.

But could she do it? Could she authorize the end of Francis’s life support? Could she live with herself if she did? If she didn’t?

Slowly she kneeled on the cold linoleum floor, and brought her hands together in prayer. “Please, God, help me make the right decision.”

She waited, breath held, for a sign of some kind.

There was nothing but the click of the cardiac monitor and the whoosh-thunk of the respirator. She squeezed her eyes shut. “What do I do?” she whispered. “Help me, God, please….”

You know, Maddy-girl. You know.

She lurched to her feet and stared down at him, studying everything about him, looking for … something that meant he’d spoken.

But of course, she knew he hadn’t. His voice had been in her own mind. After a long minute, she straightened her shoulders and walked from the room.

Outside, Lina sat slumped on one of those uncomfortable chairs that hospitals set out for family members. At Madelaine’s arrival, she jumped to her feet.

Her eyes were puffy and red, her cheeks streaked with dried tears.

Madelaine touched Lina’s cheek in a gentle, intimate gesture that wasn’t enough, wasn’t nearly enough. “I need to talk to you about something….”

Lina squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. “You think I don’t know what it is, Mom? I’ve been sitting out here for almost an hour. I heard the diagnosis and the prognosis.” She gave a laugh that was bitter. “I am a cardiologist’s kid, you know.”

Madelaine looked at her daughter in awe, and saw for the first time a hint of the woman that Lina would someday become—strong, focused, independent. “Yes,” she said softly, wanting to say more but unable to find the words.

Lina bit down on her lower lip and stared at the curtained window. “You know what he would want.”

“Yes.” To her horror, she felt herself starting to cry, right there in front of her daughter, in front of the one person on earth she was supposed to always be strong in front of. But the tears came anyway, flooding, burning.

Lina took a hesitant step forward. “Don’t cry, Mom. He … he wouldn’t want you to cry.”

Madelaine reached for her daughter, pulled her into a desperate hug. They stood that way for what felt like hours, holding each other, swaying in their grief, crying and stopping and crying again. Finally Madelaine drew back, gazed down at her daughter’s beautiful, tear-filled eyes, and gave her a trembling smile. “I love you, baby, and I’m so, so proud of you right now. You’re stronger than I ever was.”

“So what happens now?”