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“But—”
“But nothing. You’re going to Tommy’s house. Corrin might need to pick you up from soccer practice, too. I don’t know when I’ll be home. ”
“What’s wrong?” Lucas asked, his sleep-lined face drawing into a worried frown. They knew about emergencies, these boys, and routine comforted them. Lucas most of all. He was like his mother, a nurturer, a worrier.
“Nothing,” Johnny said tightly. “I need to get into the city. ”
“He thinks we’re babies,” Wills said, pushing the covers back. “Let’s go, Skywalker. ”
Johnny looked impatiently at his watch. It was 5:08. He needed to leave now to make the 5:20 boat.
Lucas got out of bed and approached him, looking up at Johnny through a mop of brown hair. “Is it Marah?”
Of course that would be their worry. How many times had they rushed to see their mom in the hospital? And God knew what trouble Marah was in these days. They all worried about her.
He forgot how wary they could sometimes be even now, almost four years later. Tragedy had marked them all. He was doing his best with the boys, but his best wasn’t really enough to compensate for their mother’s loss. “Marah’s fine. It’s Tully. ”
“What’s wrong with Tully?” Lucas asked, looking scared.
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They loved Tully so much. How many times in the last year had they begged to see her? How many times had Johnny made some excuse? Guilt flared at that.
“I don’t have all the details yet, but I’ll let you know what’s up as soon as I can,” Johnny promised. “Be ready for school when Corrin gets here, okay?”
“We’re not babies, Dad,” Wills said.
“You’ll call us after soccer?” Lucas asked.
“I will. ”
He kissed them goodbye and grabbed his car keys off the entry table. He looked back at them one last time—two identical boys who needed haircuts, standing there in their boxer shorts and oversized T-shirts, frowning with worry. And then he went out to his car. They were eleven years old; they could be alone for ten minutes.
He got into his car, started the engine, and drove down to the ferry. On board, he stayed in his car, tapping his finger impatiently on the leather-covered steering wheel for the thirty-five-minute crossing.
At precisely 6:10, he pulled up into the hospital’s parking lot and parked in the artificial brightness thrown down by a streetlamp. Sunrise was still a half hour away, so the city was dark.
He entered the familiar hospital and strode up to the information desk.
“Tallulah Hart,” he said grimly. “I’m family. ”
“Sir, I—”
“I want an update on Tully’s condition, and I want it now. ” He said it so harshly the woman bounced in her seat as if a slight current had charged through her body.
“Oh,” she said. “I’ll be right back. ”
He walked away from the reception desk and began pacing. God, he hated this place, with its all-too-familiar smells.
He sank into an uncomfortable plastic chair, tapping his foot nervously on the linoleum floor. Minutes ticked by; each one unraveled his control just a little.
In the past four years, he’d learned how to go on without his wife, the love of his life, but it had not been easy. He’d had to stop looking back. The memories simply hurt too much.
But how could he not look back here, of all places? They’d come to this hospital for surgery and chemotherapy and radiation; they’d spent hours together here, he and Kate, promising each other that cancer was no match for their love.
Lying.
When they’d finally faced the truth, they’d been in a room, here. In 2006. He’d been lying with her, holding her, trying not to notice how thin she’d become in the year of her life’s fight. Beside the bed, Kate’s iPod had been playing Kelly Clarkson. Some people wait a lifetime … for a moment like this.
