Part 1 (2/2)

Until now, Meredith had clung to hope. But a call to her mother's doctor had revealed that she had only days to live. An aggressive treatment of chemo and radiation had failed to halt the progress of the disease.

Meredith had hoped against hope. She'd known deep inside that the rapid deterioration was its own prophecy. She'd known, and yet she had not accepted it.

Grief and regret tore at her heart. Grief for her mother, for the loss of a life that was ending far too early. Regret that she had never completely made peace with her, that the remnants of old wounds had kept them apart.

She pasted a smile on her face, balanced the large bouquet of flowers in her hands, and went inside.

Her mother lay quietly, unmoving, in the bed. She hadn't been moved to critical care from the room she'd occupied for the past two weeks. Instead Meredith's father had hired private duty nurses to care for her twenty-four hours a day. He'd been convinced she would be more comfortable. Her mother always had been a very private person.

The nurse sat beside her mother's bed now. Her father, she knew, was in court. There was an important case.

'There is always an important case.'

That excuse had been only too familiar. A distant mother. An absentee father, except during those times he planned her life.

Her mother's eyes were closed. Her face looked skeletal, her once l.u.s.trous blond hair nearly gone. The nurse stood and took the vase and flowers from Meredith. The room was already filled with gaily colored flowers. They made her mother look even more pale. Faded.

”How is she?” Meredith whispered to the nurse.

The nurse indicated the door, and Meredith followed her outside into the hall.

”You'll have to talk to the doctor about that,” the nurse said.

”I know he'll give me the medical information. I already have that. I want to know how she's feeling.” Her worry overrode her usual courtesy.

The nurse--Betty Akers, Meredith remembered--did not seem to take offense. ”Not well,” she said softly. ”She's taken a turn for the worse. I think she's... given up. But she's been asking for you.”

”I can stay a few hours. I have a court hearing at two.”

”She's drifting in and out of consciousness. I don't know how long before she wakes again.”

”If she doesn't wake before I have to leave, I'll be back as soon as possible.” She'd planned to visit her mother this evening, but that was before the doctor told her that her mother was failing rapidly, far faster than anyone had thought. It had been telling, but not surprising, that it had been the physician who called, not her father.

She went back into the room and sat on the chair next to her mother. She looked at the face that had been so beautiful. Beautiful and distant. Marguerite Rawson had been the perfect hostess. The perfect wife. Sometimes Meredith thought she was also the perfect mannequin. Emotion seldom showed in her face. Affection was a brief smile.

As a child, Meredith had eaten in the kitchen. Her father didn't think young children should be allowed in the dining room with adults. A housekeeper--a long succession of housekeepers--always put her to bed. Play was ballet cla.s.ses, which, being taller than the other girls and more awkward, she detested.

Once Meredith finished her homework, her father always gave her another task. It wasn't good enough that she pa.s.sed her courses. She had to be the best in her cla.s.s. If she received less than an A, she received a bitter tongue-las.h.i.+ng about being lazy and worthless.

Her mother had never protected her from the attacks. She'd never dried her tears.

Meredith had learned not to cry, not to reveal any sign of vulnerability.

But she was crying now. Perhaps the tears weren't falling down her cheeks, but she felt them trapped at the back of her eyes. Tears for all that was, and all that had never been.

She picked up her mother's hand. It was purple now from multiple needle p.r.i.c.ks. And impossibly fragile.

The touch apparently woke her mother. Eyes flickered open. Once a vivid sapphire blue, they now looked dull and sunken.

”Meredith,” she said in a thin voice.

”I'm here,” Meredith said, wanting to tighten her hold on her mother's hand yet afraid she might hurt her.

Her mother's gaze flicked over to the nurse, who had been reading a book. ”Please ... leave us,” she said with labored breath.

The nurse rose and looked at Meredith. ”I'll be right outside.”

Meredith waited as the nurse retreated.

”I want you to do... something for me.” Her mother stopped as if even that sentence exhausted her.

”Anything,” Meredith said.

Marguerite Rawson said nothing for several moments. Emotions crossed her face. Meredith wondered whether she was having some kind of internal argument.

Then, haltingly, ”You ... have a ... sister.”

Meredith just sat there. The news was like a thunderbolt striking her. ”I don't understand.”

”I was ... seventeen. Pregnant. My parents were ... furious. Mortified. Daddy thought it would destroy his career.” Her mother swallowed hard and pain etched her sunken face.

”Squeeze the ball,” Meredith urged her. The pain medication was self-controlled now.

”Later,” her mother said. ”I... please find her. My ... trust fund. I am leaving it to you. And to her.” She searched Meredith's face, as if seeking approval.

Meredith knew about the trust fund. It had been established for her mother, who had never used it. Meredith knew it was meant to go to her. But that had been the least of her thoughts. She made an adequate income with her practice.

”How...?”

”Memphis. I was... sent to Memphis. She was born in... February.”

Her mother suddenly jerked. She squeezed the small rubber ball that released the narcotic into her veins. She turned back to Meredith. ”Promise me.”

”When, Mother? What year? I need more.”

”Seven ... seventy.”

”Father? Does he know?”

A tear worked its way down her mother's face. She seemed to nod, but she didn't answer directly. Instead she looked away as if she were staring into another place. Another time. ”I'm ... sorry. Not a good mother. I... didn't have anything ... left after...”

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