While My Sister Sleeps. Barbara Delinsky

Kathryn was still hung up on the enlarged heart issue. ‘Robin wouldn’t lie to me about something as important as a heart condition. She shared everything with me.’

      Let it pass, Molly told herself, but the remark was just too outrageous. ‘Did she tell you she got drunk with her friends the night after she ran Duluth?’

      Kathryn stared. ‘Robin doesn’t drink.’

      ‘Robin does. I’ve driven her home afterward.’

      ‘And you let her drink?’ Kathryn asked, shifting the blame. ‘And why didn’t she tell me about Duluth?’

      ‘Because you’re her mother, and you hate drinking.’ Molly took pity because Kathryn looked truly distraught. ‘Oh Mom, I wouldn’t have said anything if you hadn’t been so adamant that Robin wouldn’t lie. Duluth was a blip. No harm came of it. I’m sure that if you’d asked her outright whether she’d ever been drunk, she’d have told you. But she didn’t want to disappoint you. She swore me to secrecy.’

      ‘You should have honored that.’

      Molly hung her head. She couldn’t win. Discouraged, she looked at Kathryn again. ‘All I’m saying is that Robin didn’t tell you everything. She was human, like the rest of us.’

      ‘Was human? Past tense?’

      Charlie held up a hand. At the same time, from the door came a gentle, ‘Excuse me?’ It was the nurse. ‘We have people gathering in the lounge down the hall. They say they’re Robin’s friends.’

      Kathryn’s eyes went wide. ‘How do they know she’s here?’

      ‘I told Jenny Fiske,’ Molly said. Her mother was already angry; a little more couldn’t make it worse.

      Kathryn sagged. ‘Oh, Molly.’

      ‘It’s okay,’ Charlie said. ‘Jenny’s a friend. Molly did what she felt was best.’

      ‘Robin would want Jenny to know,’ Molly tried. She was actually sure about this. ‘She’s always been right out there with her friends. I think she’d want Jenny here. And she’d want that EEG, too. She liked knowing the score–likes knowing the score, likes knowing what she’s up against. I mean, think of the way she studies the competition before every major race. She wants to psych it all out–who’ll run how on a given course, whether they’ll break early, how they’ll take hills, when they’ll fade. She’s a strategizer. But she can’t strategize for this race unless she knows what’s going on.’

      When Kathryn continued to stare at her, Molly figured she had pushed as far as she could. And Jenny was in the lounge. The last thing Molly wanted was to have to be the one to talk with her. Plus she was worried about the nurse’s reference to friends, plural.

      Feeling responsible, she set off to do damage control.

      Kathryn wondered if Molly was right. Robin might want to know what she faced. The problem was that Kathryn didn’t. She wanted to see improvement first, which was why Molly’s spreading the word wasn’t good. ‘Why did she have to tell Jenny?’

      Charlie drew up a chair. ‘Because we put her in an untenable position. How can she talk with a friend of Robin’s and not tell her Robin is sick? Really, Kath, there’s nothing wrong with what she’s done. What happened to Robin isn’t a disgrace. It’s a medical crisis. We could use people’s prayers.’

      This time, Kathryn didn’t argue about prayers. She had begun saying a few herself. Doctors had been in and out all morning examining Robin, and they never actually denied Kathryn hope, simply gave her little to hold onto. Same with the respiratory therapist, who checked by every hour and refused to say whether he saw any change in Robin’s breathing. And the nurses? As compassionate as they were, repeatedly testing Robin’s responsiveness, they were cautious in answering Kathryn’s questions. Once too often she had been told that patients didn’t come back from the kind of brain damage Robin had suffered.

      Charlie took her hand. ‘Molly’s right, y’know. Not knowing is the worst.’

      Kathryn knew where he was headed. ‘You want the EEG.’

      ‘I don’t want any of this,’ he said in a burst so rare that it carried more weight. ‘But we can’t go back,’ he added sadly. ‘The Robin we knew is gone.’

      Kathryn’s eyes teared as she looked at her daughter again. Robin had been an active infant, an energetic toddler, an irrepressible child. ‘I can’t accept that,’ she whispered.

      ‘You may have to. Think of Robin. How can we know what to do for her if we don’t know the extent of the damage?’

      It was a variation of Molly’s argument. And it did hold some merit.

      ‘You love Robin to bits,’ Charlie went on. ‘You always have. No one would question that.’

      ‘I wanted so much for her.’

      ‘She’s had so much,’ he urged. ‘She’s lived more in her thirty-two years than many people ever do, and you were the force behind it.’

      ‘I’m all she has.’

      ‘No. She has me. She has Molly and Chris. She has more friends than any of us. And we love her. Yes, Molly too. Molly’s had to live in her shadow, not always a fun place to be, but she does adore her sister. She covers for Robin a lot.’

      ‘Do you believe her about Duluth?’ Kathryn asked in a moment’s doubt.

      ‘How can I not? You set yourself up for that one, my love. No daughter tells her mother everything, especially when she knows it’ll disappoint.’

      ‘I wouldn’t have been disappointed if Robin had told me she had an enlarged heart. Worried, yes.’

      ‘You’d have discouraged her from running.’

      ‘Probably.’

      ‘What if she didn’t want that? What if she wanted to take the chance? She’s an adult, Kathryn. This is her life.’

      Is? Kathryn thought. Or was? She had criticized Molly for using the past tense, but if Charlie was right, and the Robin they knew was gone, everything changed.

      She had always thought she knew Robin through and through, and that what she wanted, Robin would want. If that wasn’t so, and if Robin couldn’t express her wishes now, how could Kathryn know what to do?

      This wasn’t the time for a crisis in confidence, but Kathryn suffered one nonetheless. It had been a long time since the last such crisis. She was rusty at it.

      Crises in confidence had been the norm when she was growing up, something of a family tradition. Her father, George Webber, was a lumberjack. Then a carpenter. Then a bricklayer. Then a gardener. At the first sign of discouragement in one field, he moved on to the next. Same with her mother, Marjorie, who ran a little cottage industry–first knitting sweaters, then sewing tote bags, then weaving country baskets. Everything she produced was beautiful–or so Kathryn thought. When business was brisk, Marjorie agreed; but at the first sign of a lull, she moved on.

      Kathryn learned from her parents. She raced for the town swim team until she realized she would always be second tier, at which point she turned to violin. When she couldn’t get beyond second seat in junior high, she turned to acting. When she couldn’t get beyond chorus in the high school musical, she turned to art.

      That was when she met Natalie Boyce. Head of the high school art department, Natalie was a free spirit prone to wearing wild clothing and speaking her thoughts. Kathryn was mesmerized by her confidence and no match for her resolve, neither of which she saw much of at home. At Natalie’s suggestion, she started with watercolor. She immersed herself in the basics of brush control, palette, texture and wash, and she thrived on Natalie’s encouragement. Natalie loved her use of line and shape and saw a natural feel for space in her work–but timidity in her use