Diminishing blood circulation.
Those were the words the nurses used, but Angel could hear past the words to the meaning. It was ending. His life was leaking away. Even yesterday he’d been ready to fight for it, but today he was too tired.
He wondered what he had to live for, and even as he had the thought it pissed him off. He’d lived a life that left no real mark, had no real meaning. He saw that now, saw it with a clarity he should have possessed all along.
Yesterday he’d been visited by the man in the room next door. Tom Grant.
“It’s damned terrifying,” Tom had said. Just like that, he’d thrown the, fear and uncertainty on the bed between them, as if it were nothing to be ashamed of, as if a man didn’t have to be strong.
Angel had been his asshole self at first. He hadn’t wanted to see himself reflected in Tom Grant’s eyes, hadn’t wanted to admit he was as sick as Tom. “Ah,” he’d said meanly, “so you’re the heart transplant patient twice removed.”
Tom had laughed, weakly.
It was the laughter that defused Angel’s anger, and the honesty that pierced his armor.
“The worst part,” Tom said, “is waiting for a donor. It makes you feel ghoulish and sick and perverted. And damned.”
Angel had finally looked at the man, his puffy, medicated face, his flimsy hospital gown that covered a multitude of bloody, oozing, intubated atrocities, his tired, tired eyes, and felt as if he were looking into the future.
To his horror, Angel found himself starting to cry. He couldn’t remember when he’d been so humiliated. “Christ,” he muttered, wiping his face with his sleeve.
“I’ve cried more tears than a baby. Don’t worry about it.” Tom leaned close. “You gotta focus on how much better you’re going to feel when it’s over. I know it’s scary to think about, but once it’s over, it’s like … a gift.”
Angel sighed, wishing he could have such simple faith. “It isn’t going to happen for me, man. God isn’t going to give me another chance.” He forced a cocky smile. “I can’t even blame the Old Man. I’ve been pretty much of an asshole.”
“Don’t do that to yourself,” Tom said. “Don’t make this about morality or goodness or redemption. It’s about medicine. Pure and simple. Good people are murdered as often as bad people. And everyone deserves a second chance.”
Angel wanted to believe it, but it was too late in life to change that radically. He was selfish and reactionary. He had the devil’s own temper and he always had. And becoming famous had made it even worse.
He’d accepted the truth about himself a long time ago—he sure as hell wasn’t going to change now. What was the point?
He was dying. He understood that now, and after Tom left, Angel had lain there, waiting for his next breath, and the next, and the next, waiting for each feeble beat of his heart. A surge of loneliness had come over him then, settling deep and heavy in his ragged heart. He’d wanted someone—anyone—to sit with him, hold his hand, and tell him it was all right.
He’s not like you, Angel. He hurts easily.
Her words had come back to him, stinging his conscience. He’d only ever loved two people in his life—Francis and Madelaine—and he’d hurt both of them.
The crazy part was, he’d never really meant to, never wanted to, at least. Suddenly he was thinking of the past, of the times his big brother—no more than eight years old himself—had hidden Angel from their drunken mother, the times Francis had tried futilely to turn her wrath on himself instead … times they’d sat in that old weedy lot beside the trailer park and spun their shaky dreams together.
How had he forgotten all that—how had he walked away from it?
Slowly he reached out and picked up the phone, dialing the number Madelaine had left him. An answering machine picked up on the third ring.
Angel left a message and hung up.
Angel was more than half asleep when he heard his door open. Quiet footsteps moved into the room.
Ah, he thought with relief, Attila the Nurse with his fix.
He opened his eyes and saw a tall man standing in the door. He had wheat-blond hair and pale skin and blue eyes, and he was wearing a gray UW sweatshirt and faded Levi’s. For a second, Angel had no idea who it was, then he realized.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “Is that you, Franco?”
“Hi, Angel.” It was the same voice after all these years.
Angel’s first emotion was pure elation, a quick Thank God that someone cared, that someone had come. Then he thought of Madelaine, of Francis and Madelaine together, and jealousy started, sudden as a dart, piercing through the joy, ripping a little piece of it away. Then there was guilt, acrid and sour, the memories of Angel’s betrayal and Francis’s hurt. He forced a cocky grin. “It’s good to see you, bro. Glad you had time to stop by.”
Francis flinched. Angel immediately felt like a jerk. But wasn’t that always the way of it? Why couldn’t he ever do or say the right thing around Francis?
“How long have you been here?”
“Not long,” Angel said at last. “I had another heart attack in Oregon and they flew me up here.”
“Another one?”
He shrugged. “Technically it’s an ‘episode of heart failure,’ but it sure as hell feels like an attack.”
“Are you going to be okay?”
“I’m always okay—you should know that.” He faked a smile. “They’ll pump me full of drugs and send me home. Nothing to it.”
Francis pulled out a chair and sat down. He looked older than his thirty-five years, and there was a sadness in his blue eyes that made Angel uncomfortable. Francis had always been such an optimist.
“How’ve you been, Franco?”
Francis didn’t smile. “That’s a hell of a question after all these years. What am I supposed to say, Angel? ‘I’ve been fine. How about yourself?’”
Again Angel had said the wrong thing. He wanted to save this moment, make something of it, but he didn’t know how. He and Franco had been fighting for all their lives—at least, Angel had been fighting with Francis, and Francis had taken it. He didn’t know how to stop the cycle, how to break out of the mold and say, Let’s start over.
“Have you seen her?” Francis asked.
No coyness there, not from Franco. No beating around the bush about who she was. Angel felt a sudden, undeniable friction settle into the room. “Yeah, I’ve seen her.”
“And?”
Angel studied his brother, noticing that he was still blond and still had the lean body of a long-distance runner. Yeah, he was the same old Francis, nearly perfect in every way—good-looking and decent and moral. The kind of man a woman would feel safe with, loved by. The ideal guy to step in and mend a sixteen-year-old girl’s broken heart.
The thought made Angel mad.
“Well?” Francis said.
“What do you want to know, Franco? Did I screw her? No, I didn’t. It’s a little tough hooked up to a heart monitor.”
He saw the distaste in his brother’s eyes, the disappointment. Francis sighed, ran a hand through his hair. “I know you didn’t… sleep with her. That’s not what I was asking.”
Angel felt like an insect before his brother’s penetrating gaze. And the worst of it was, Angel knew it was all in his own mind, knew that Francis felt none of this tension, none of this childish competition. But, as always, Francis brought out the worst in Angel.
“Are you screwing her?” Angel asked, sickened and shamed by his own question, but unable to hold it back.
Francis eyed him, saying nothing for a long time. Each second of silence felt like an hour. “I’m a priest,” Francis said finally.
Angel felt a rush of relief, then a surprising pride. He remembered all the times he had sat on the front stoop with his big brother, listening to ten-year-old Francis’s dreams of becoming a priest. “You did it, huh? Good for you.”
“All in all, it’s been good. It made Ma think God would overlook everyth
ing about her.”
Angel found himself smiling. For a second, it felt as if they were kids again. “If she made it to Heaven, you’ve been screwed.”
Francis laughed. “That’s for sure.”
“What’s it like, being a priest?”
“Good. A little … lonely sometimes.”
Angel saw unhappiness in his brother’s blue eyes, and a vague shadow of dissatisfaction. He knew suddenly, the way he used to just “know” things about Francis, that his brother was talking about Madelaine again. “You love her.”
Francis flinched, then gave a feeble laugh. “You always could read my mind. Yeah, I do.”
It hurt, that sad, quiet statement of fact. It irritated the hell out of him that it should hurt so much, after all these years. “And she loves you,” Angel shot back. “Probably one of those sordid, heart-wrenching Thorn Birds kind of things. What do you do, lock eyes over the Communion wafer?”
“She’s not a Catholic.”
Angel frowned. It wasn’t an answer at all. He felt the anger coming back, prickling him. Now, he thought. Shut up now and you’ll be okay. But on the tide of the anger came the words, unstoppable, unchangeable. “What’d you do, help her through the rough times after I left?”
Francis’s face turned surprisingly hard. “After you left, she was all alone. Alex cut her off and kicked her out of the house. She needed somebody.”
“And there you were,” Angel said in a bitter, sarcastic voice.
“And there you weren’t.”
Angel winced. “Touché, big brother.”
Francis moved his chair closer. “What in God’s name did you expect her to do?”
Angel squeezed his eyes shut He refused to feel shame now, all these years later. It was a useless waste of time. She’d obviously done all right for herself.
“She believed in you, Angel,” Francis said quietly. “We both did.”
Shame tightened his stomach. “Yeah, well, life sucks. People let you down.”
“They also change and apologize and seek redemption.”
“Don’t give me that saintly crap. It’s too late for me to apologize or change, and redemption is way out of my reach. I think I’ll just stumble along as I always have.”
“You aren’t going to see Madelaine anymore, then?”
“She’s my doctor.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”
Angel’s gaze snapped up. “Quit beating around the bush, Franco. You don’t want me screwing her—that’s what you’re trying to say in that holier-than-thou way of yours, isn’t it?”
“I don’t want her hurt again. Madelaine is … fragile.”
Angel thought of the ball-buster who’d read him the riot act about his heart and laughed out loud. “Yeah, a real magnolia petal.”
“I mean it, Angel. It took her years to get over you last time. Don’t break her heart again.”
Angel laughed bitterly. “Don’t worry, pal. If anyone’s got a broken heart, it’s me.”
With a weary sigh, Francis pushed to his feet. “I’ve got a couples’ retreat in Oregon for the rest of the month. I could cancel if—”
“If I’m gonna die tomorrow? Don’t bother. I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll come back and see you when I get home. Unless you’re going to disappear again …”
Angel sighed. Already the anger was gone, faded back into insignificance next to the power of his love for his brother. Again he wished that he’d held back, that just once in his life, he’d had some self-control. “I’ll be here, Franco.”
“Good.”
Angel forced a pathetic smile. “I’m sorry I yelled at you, man. Thanks for coming.”
Francis looked down at him for a long, long time. Then, slowly, he smiled. “You’re always sorry.”
“Yeah,” Angel said softly, stung by the truth of it.
Chapter Ten
Shoplifting.
The phone slipped from Madelaine’s hand and hit the floor with a clatter. She swayed and reached for the kitchen counter to steady herself. She took a deep breath, then another and another. Her shoulders inched back as years of discipline training kicked in. Quit pouting, girl. All a Milquetoast ever gets is wet.
She heard her father’s booming voice as if he were in the room with her. Buck up, act like a Hillyard and not some scared, stupid rabbit. Christ, you embarrass me, girl.
Madelaine shivered at the memory and pushed it away.
“Get your purse, Madelaine.” She spoke out loud to the too empty room. Woodenly she bent over and retrieved the phone, setting it down on the cradle with an exaggerated calm. Then she plucked her purse off the counter, slung it over her shoulder, and moved toward the front door.
Just as she reached for the knob, someone knocked. The door swung open as Madelaine stumbled to a stop.
Francis stood in the doorway. “Hi, Maddy.”
She noticed that he wasn’t smiling—odd, but she didn’t have time to care, couldn’t quite make herself care. “Hey, Francis,” she responded automatically. She waited for him to move or say something, but he didn’t. She blinked up at him, confused. “Did we have dinner plans?”
“No. I’m leaving for Portland tonight. I won’t be back for a few weeks. There … there was something I wanted to talk to you about…. I saw An—”
“Oh, yeah. Portland. Have a nice trip.” She gave him a distracted smile and waited for him to leave. When he didn’t she said, “I’ve got to go to … town now.”
“Maddy? I’m trying to tell you something important.” He moved closer, gazed down at her with concern. “What is it, Maddy-girl?”
His gentleness made her want to cry. It saddened her that even now, even with Francis, she had so much difficulty speaking of her problems. “It’s Lina. She’s been …” Her voice fell to a whisper. “She’s been arrested for shoplifting.”
“Oh, my God. It’s my fault.”
“What?”
“Come on, I’ll drive you to the police station.” He slipped his arm around her waist and started to lead her from the house.
She slammed the door shut and let herself be carried away by him, helped along. But as they reached the garage, she knew it was wrong. She’d given away too many moments like this with Lina, let Francis shoulder too many of the painful times of her life. She had to stand up for herself and be as strong a parent as she was a doctor.
She stopped.
Francis turned to her. “Maddy?”
“I’ve got to do this alone, Francis. I’m her mother.”
He took a quick step backward. “I left the number in Portland on your voice mail.”
She moved toward him, gently tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. “I’ll call you tonight and let you know how it went.”
“Will you?” Still he didn’t look at her, and there was a strange tension in his voice.
She touched his cheek, forcing him to look at her. When their gazes met, she saw the sheen of tears in his eyes, and it confused her. He looked hurt. “Francis?”
He stared at her for a heartbeat, then squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “Lina came to see me today. I let her down.”
“Oh, Francis …” She tried to conjure a smile. “I let her down, Francis. Me.”
“No. You’re greedy as usual, my Maddy. But this time I’m taking some of the blame.”
She hesitated. “Maybe you should come with me, Francis….”
“No, she’s your daughter and you need to handle this. Besides, I’ve got to get on my way. Four married couples need the advice that only their celibate priest can offer.” He smiled wanly and shook his head at the irony.
She wanted to say more, but she didn’t know what it was he needed to hear, how she could make this moment what he wanted it to be. For the first time ever, he felt like a stranger to her. “Drive carefully,” she said, not knowing what else to say.
“Don’t I always?”
She shot a meaningful look at the dented side of
his Bug.
He gave her a quick grin. “I’m leaving before you start in on my driving. ’Bye.”
She watched as he folded into the dented old Volkswagen and drove away. The car sputtered down the narrow road, then turned the corner and disappeared. And she was alone again.
She stared down the empty street, sighing quietly. Francis, her Francis, who wore his heart on his sleeve and his soul in his eyes. Francis, who loved them all so much and only wanted to be a part of their lives. All he’d wanted was to help. She forgot sometimes how easily he could be hurt.
Regret sneaked up on her. Once again she’d made the wrong choice, said the wrong thing at the wrong time.
But she’d make up for it.
When Francis got home from this trip, she’d make up for hurting him today.
Juvenile Hall was a hive of activity. Harried-looking men and women crisscrossed the tile floor like ants, talking and gesturing among themselves. Brown vinyl chairs lined the walls, most empty, but some of them filled with adults who looked as nervous as Madelaine felt. In the center of it all, a white-haired woman sat at a huge desk, answering the phone and directing traffic with a nod of her head or a flick of her forefinger.
Madelaine felt acutely conspicuous as she crossed the busy lobby and walked up to the desk.
The heavily jowled woman peered up at her. “Hello.”
She had to raise her voice to be heard above the din. “I’m here to pick up my daughter. Lina Hillyard.”
The receptionist flipped through some paperwork. “Oh. Shoplifter. John Spencer is the social worker assigned to her case. You’ll find him in room 108, down the hall, second door on the right.”
Madelaine moved along the crowded hallway without making eye contact with anyone, her purse clutched tightly against her side. By the time she reached room 108, she had a terrible twisting ache in her stomach and she was afraid she was going to be sick.
She paused at the open door to room 108. Inside, a young African-American man sat at a hulking metal desk in a brown-walled office. Three cups of obviously cold coffee stood in a precise line along the upper right edge of the desk. At her entrance, he looked up. “Can I help you?”