Carrie Vaughn - Kitty and the Silver Bullet

"Dad, hi."

Ben propped himself on his elbow, watching me, his brow creased with concern. He'd probably sensed something in my voice, and in the way my whole body went rigid.

"Can you come up here today? This morning?"

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Your mother's checking into the hospital."

"What?" My voice came out too high-pitched. "Why, what for?" Ben's hand moved to my leg, a comforting pressure.

"Did she tell you she went in for a mammogram last week?"

"No. Wait a minute—how long has she known about this?" She'd known something was wrong during our phone call on Sunday and didn't tell me. My eyes stung, suddenly, painfully.

Dad took a deep breath—a calming breath, preparing for exposition. It couldn't have been that bad, I told myself. If Dad could be calm, nothing could be that wrong.

"She went in because she found a lump," he said. "It could be nothing, it could be benign. They'll remove it and run the tests. She'll only stay there overnight. It's perfectly routine."

Was he trying to convince me, or himself?

Dad continued. "She didn't want me to tell you. She said she didn't want to be a bother just in case it turns out to be nothing. But I think it would mean a lot to her if you could be here."

If not for her, then for him. Maybe the weight of fear and uncertainty would be easier to bear if there were more of us to carry it.

"Yeah, sure I'll be there. What time? Where?" I took the phone to the next room in a search of pen and paper. Found it, scribbled down Dad's instructions. Repeated them all back. Mundane details kept the brain numb.

"Sorry about waking you," he said. "I wouldn't have called if I didn't think it was important."

"No, it's fine, I'm glad you called. Dad—how are you doing?"

"It's going to be fine. We'll go in and get this taken care of, and everything'll be fine." He spoke with an edge of desperation. He said the words as if he thought speech would make them fact.

"That didn't really answer my question."

After a pause, he said, "I'm holding up. Mom's the important one right now."

"Yeah. I'm coming up. I'm leaving right now."

"See you soon."

We hung up. I set down the phone and returned to the bedroom. I started pawing through the closet for clothes. My hands were shaking.

"Kitty?" Ben said, watching me from the bed.

"I have to go to Denver. I have to go right now."

"Just like that? Exile over?"

"Ben—it's my mother."

"I know, I heard."

I thought about taking a shower, to wake myself up. No, too long. Clothes—jeans, T-shirt. No, something nicer. Blouse. I dressed quickly. Put my hair up.

Ben dressed as well. He followed me to the front of the house, watched me scoop up my bag, rush around looking for shoes—then he took my car keys out of my hand.

"I'm driving," he said.

"You don't have to go."

"Kitty—you're a wreck. I'm driving."

I started crying. Ben held me. It only lasted a minute, then I pulled myself together. No time to panic. No time for despair.

In ten minutes we were heading north.

Fighting with morning traffic, it took us three hours to get to Denver. Ben knew where the hospital was and drove us straight there. "I'm not just a lawyer," he'd explained, grinning. "I'm an ambulance-chasing lawyer."

Good thing he came along. The parking garage was packed, but he patiently wound our way up each level until we found a spot. Then I couldn't figure out what button to push on the elevator to get us to the hospital lobby, and once in the lobby I stood at the end of intersecting corridors and froze, uncertain where to go. Ben steered me in the right direction each time, finally pointing me to an information desk.

I held my stomach, which still hurt. Cramps still gnawed at me. My insides emptying themselves out. I was still sick.

"Don't say anything," I said, walking close to Ben. "Don't tell them about it. The miscarriage, I mean."

"Okay."

I leaned on the information desk. "I'm here to see Gail Norville, she was supposed to check in this morning."

The receptionist took way too long to type in the name and search in her database. Almost, I was ready to believe that it had all been a mistake. Mom wasn't really sick, she wasn't here at all, it was a big misunderstanding, and I'd get to throttle Dad over it later.

"Here she is," the receptionist said brightly. "In the outpatient ward, she's scheduled for surgery in an hour, but right now she's in room 207, one floor up, then turn right."

I was already away from the desk and on the move toward the elevator. Ben said, "Thank you," behind me.

The elevator moved too slowly. I wanted to growl at it. Ben and I stood together, side by side, arms touching. The touch calmed me a little. At the very least, it kept me from screaming.

One floor up, the elevator opened into a standard institutional corridor: off-white floor and walls, faintly humming fluorescent lights, doors and hallways branching off. I saw people moving, things happening, but only focused on the numbers above the doors. Turn right, 201,203…

The door to room 207 stood open. I had no idea what I'd find inside. I crept in, shoulders bunched up, so tense I thought I'd break.

Everybody was there—my whole immediate family. Mom, Dad, big sister Cheryl, her husband Mark, their two kids. Mom lay in bed, wearing a cloth hospital gown. The bed was cranked up so she was sitting up, and she had my sixteen-month-old nephew Jeffy in her lap, entertaining him with a stuffed tiger. Three-and-a-half-year-old Nicky was with her father, sitting in a chair in the back. She was red-eyed, face squished up, crying and unhappy, like she could sense that the grown-ups were upset but couldn't understand why—only that something was wrong. Mark was trying to distract her. Cheryl sat in a chair next to the bed, hovering over Jeffy, and my father, Jim Norville, hovered over her.

"Hi."

Everyone looked at me. For a moment, the smiles stopped being so forced.

"Kitty!" Mom said, laughing.

I practically fell on top of her in my rush to hug her, however awkwardly, with me leaning over her and her pushing off from the bed. "You're here, you're really here!" she mumbled into my hair.

"Why didn't you tell me? You should have told me," I muttered at her.

"That's exactly what your sister said," she answered.

"Mom!"

She shrugged, unapologetic.

Jeffy blinked at us, kind of blankly, and batted the tiger. We regarded each other. "Um, he's gotten bigger, hasn't he?" He was barely sitting up by himself the last time I saw him.

"Well, duh," Cheryl said, grinning at me.

I had to hug everyone then, moving around the bed to get to my sister and Dad.

"Thanks for coming," he whispered.

"Had to," I said.

I waved at Mark and Nicky. Mark waved back, and Nicky stared. My arrival seemed to disrupt her blubbering, and now she seemed as blankly fascinated by the new arrival as her brother. She hadn't doubled in size like Jeffy had—I actually recognized her from our last visit. But she clearly didn't remember me. I wasn't enough a part of her life for her to remember.

Kids. Dammit. Those two were as close as I was ever going to get.

No tears, not here. I stood back and took a good look at my family. My first family. We looked like a family—all of us relatively athletic, fit, like some kind of country club advertisement. Mom and Dad met on their college tennis team and still played a couple times a week. Dad's brown hair was going a rather distinguished gray. The girls all had the blond hair, though Mom's had almost turned the color of ash.

For a moment, Mom didn't look like Mom. She hadn't put on makeup, her chin-length hair was straight, unstyled, and the hospital gown left her looking lumpy, untailored. Mom was an extremely put-together woman. This version of her was unmistakably ill. She had no overt symptoms. She smiled easily enough. But the anxiety was there, in the tension of her jaw and hands.