First to Die

Chapter42

THAT NIGHT, Claire Washburn took a cup of tea into her bedroom, quietly closed the door, and started to cry again. "Goddamn it, Lindsay," she muttered. "You could have trusted me." She needed to be alone. All evening long, she had been moody and distracted. And it wasn't like her. On Mondays, a night off for the symphony, Edmund always cooked. It was one of their rituals, a family night, Dad in the kitchen, boys cleaning. Tonight he had cooked their favorite meal, chicken in capers and vinegar. But nothing had gone right, and it was her fault. One thought was pounding in her. She was a doctor, a doctor who dealt only in death. Never once had she saved a life. She was a doctor who did not heal. She went into her closet, put on flannel pajamas, went into the bathroom, and carefully cleansed her smooth brown face. She looked at herself. She was not beautiful, at least not in the way society taught us to admire. She was large and soft and round, her shapeless waist merging with her hips. Even her hands- her well-trained, efficient hands that controlled delicate instruments all day- were pudgy and full. The only thing light about her, her husband always said, was when she was on the dance floor. Yet in her own eyes she had always felt blessed and radiant. Because she had made it up from a tough, mostly black neighborhood in San Francisco to become a doctor. Because she was loved. Because she was taught to give love. Because she had everything in her life that she ever wanted. It didn't seem fair. Lindsay was the one who attacked life, and now it was seeping out of her. She couldn't even think of it in a professional way, as a doctor viewing the inevitability of disease with a clinical detachment. It pained her as a friend. The doctor who could not heal. After he and the boys had finished the dishes, Edmund came in. He sat on the bed beside her. "You're sick, kitty cat," he said, a hand kneading her shoulder. "Whenever you curl up before nine o'clock, I know you're getting sick." She shook her head. "I'm not sick, Edmund." "Then what is it? This grotesque case?" Claire raised a hand. "It's Lindsay. I rode back from Napa with her yesterday. She told me the most awful news. She's very sick. She's got a rare blood disorder, a form of anemia. It's called Negli's aplastic." "It's severe, this Negli's anemia?" Claire nodded, her eyes dim. "Damned severe." "Oh, God," Edmund murmured. "Poor Lindsay." He took her hand, and they sat there for a moment in stunned silence. Claire finally spoke. "I'm a doctor. I see death every day. I know the causes and symptoms, the science inside out. But I can't heal." "You heal us all the time," Edmund said. "You heal me every day of my life. But there are times when even all your love and even your amazing intelligence can't change things." She nestled her body in his strong arms and smiled. "You're pretty smart for a guy who plays the drums. So what the hell can we do?" "Just this," he said, wrapping his arms around her. He held Claire tight for a long time, and she knew he thought she was the most beautiful woman in the whole world. That helped.