Lisa Gardner - The Survivors Club

“Meg?”

“Just… a minute.”

And then again from down the hall. “I don't want her to end up like Carol. I couldn't stand it if she ended up like Carol. Oh Tom, what if we've failed her?”

“M-M-Meg?”

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you…”

“The doctors still aren't sure Carol's even going to make it. Meg's honestly grown close to the woman. What if she dies, Tom? What will happen then? My God, what will happen then!”

Meg bolted off the floor. She stumbled out of Molly's room.

“M-M-Meg?”

She careened down the hall.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”

“What if Carol dies, what if Carol dies…”

Meg got the toilet seat up. She leaned over…

Nothing. She'd never eaten lunch. She'd forgotten about dinner. Her stomach rolled and rolled and rolled, but there was nothing present to throw up. She moved over to the sink. Turned on the cold water. Stuck her head under the faucet and let the icy flow shock the distant images from her brain.

Minutes passed. Long, cool minutes while the water sluiced over her sweaty skin and dampened all the voices in her head. Cool, cool water bringing blessed nothingness back to her brain.

When she finally looked up, her parents were standing in the doorway. Her father appeared his usual stoic self. Her mother, on the other hand, had one arm wrapped tightly around her stomach, while her right hand fidgeted with the gold heart dangling around her neck.

“Meg honey?” her mother asked.

Meg straightened. Strange voices, faint rumblings returned to the back of her mind. Like faraway scenes, threatening to come closer, closer, closer.

Meg found a towel and used it to methodically blot her face.

“You okay, sweetheart?” her father asked.

“Just a little queasy. All that time in the hospital, you know.” She offered a faint smile.

“I'm sure Carol will be all right,” her mother said briskly. Her right hand was now furiously twisting the dangling gold heart.

“Sure.” Meg turned off the faucet. Rehung the towel. Ran a comb through her long brown hair.

“If there's anything you need…” her father tried.

“I'm fine, Daddy.”

“We love you, sweetheart.” Her mother this time.

“I love you, too.”

What were they doing? Saying so many words, but none of the ones that mattered. Lies. She had never realized it before, but sometimes love produced lies. Big lies. Whopping lies. Gigantic lies, all packaged prettily and offered up with the best of intentions. Protection through falsehood. That's right-a suburban panacea.

Her parents were still standing in the doorway. She was still standing at the sink. No one seemed to know what to do.

“I, uh, I have a wedding,” Meg said.

“A wedding?”

“Barbie and Pooh Bear. Didn't you get the invite?”

“Oh, Molly's marrying off Barbie again.” Her mother finally relaxed. Her hand stilled around her neck. “The hot-pink dress?”

“Absolutely.”

“Red platform shoes?”

“The kid's got style.”

“Well, by all means.” Her mother moved to the side, gestured for Meg to pass. “We wouldn't want to stand in the way of true love.”

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”

“Okay then.” Meg pasted the smile back on her face. She made it down the hall, where Molly sat uncertainly in the middle of her room, still clutching Barbie on her lap.

“Let's have that wedding!” Meg said with forced cheerfulness.

Molly looked up at her and positively beamed.

Hours later, the Pesaturo family went to sleep. One by one, the tiny rooms of the tiny home went dark. Meg turned off her own light. But she didn't go to bed. She went to her window. She stood in front of her window.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”

She stared at the night outside her window, and she wondered at the darkness waiting for her there.

Those rich chocolate eyes. That gentle lover's kiss.

“David,” she whispered, then licked her lips and tried out the name once more. “David. Oh no. David Price.”

At midnight, Jillian finally left the hospital. Carol had yet to regain consciousness. Her stomach had been pumped, her body purged. Now she lay peacefully beneath stark white hospital sheets, her long golden hair a halo around her head as a heart monitor beeped in rhythm to her pulse and a respirator pumped air into her lungs.

Coma, the doctors said. She had ingested nearly 125 mg of Ambien, or twelve times the recommended dose. Combined with the alcohol, it had shut down her system to the point where she responded only to painful stimuli. The doctors would test her again in the morning, see if she began to pull out once the levels of sleeping pills and alcohol in her bloodstream came down. In other words, they would poke and prod at her poor, peaceful body. See if they could inflict enough pain to jar her back to life.

Dan remained in the room. He had pulled up a chair next to Carol, where he had finally fallen asleep with his head on the edge of her bed, his hand cradling her wrist. From outside the ICU door, Jillian had watched a nurse drape a blanket around his shoulders. Then Jillian had turned to go.

The night was cold, a sharp slap against Jillian's cheeks. She still wore her suit from this morning, no coat, no scarf. She hunched her shoulders beneath the tailored blue jacket and shivered as she walked. The parking lot was nearly empty this time of night. Certainly no reporters anymore. In the news world, Carol's suicide attempt was already old. Been there, done that. As of six this evening, the hot story had become Tawnya Clemente's lawsuit against the city.

God, Jillian was tired.

At her car, she went through the drill. Peered through the windows at the backseat. Glanced at neighboring cars to make sure no one loitered. Unlocked her door with her left hand. Held her canister of pepper spray in her right. Preparedness was nine-tenths of the battle. If you don't want to be a victim, then you can't act like one.

She got straight into her Lexus, immediately locked all the doors, then finally started the engine. She glanced again at her backseat. Nothing but empty, shadowed space. Why did she have chills running up and down her spine?

She got her car in reverse, turned to back out and nearly screamed.

No. Eddie Como. No. It was all in her head, all in her head. The backseat was empty, the parking lot was empty. She turned back around, shoved her automatic in park and sat there shaking uncontrollably, the fear still rolling off her in waves.

Panic attack, she realized after a moment, trying to regain her breath. In the beginning, she'd had them all the time. It had been a bit since the last one, but then again, today had been a bad day. First Sylvia Blaire. Then Carol.

Oh God, Carol…

Jillian rested her head against the steering wheel, and suddenly started to cry. Second time for her in one day. Had to be a new record. She couldn't stop, though. The sobs came up from the dark pit of her, angry and hard and desolate, until her stomach hurt and her shoulders ached and still she choked out rough, bitter tears. This is why she didn't cry. Because there was nothing dainty or tragic about her grief. She cried like a trucker, and afterward she looked like a disaster, with red, blotchy cheeks and mascara-smeared eyes.

What if Sergeant Griffin saw her now? The thought made her want to weep again, though she didn't know why.

She could call him. He would probably take her call, even though it was after midnight. He'd probably even let her go on and on about her sister and the ache that wouldn't ease and the grief that knew no end. He would listen to those things. He seemed to be that kind of guy.