whispered.
“Skye. Wake up. Wake up, dear. It’s your mother.” Augusta spoke to Skye the way she talked to her daughters’ answering machines, as if she knew someone was sitting there listening, unwilling to pick up the phone.
“Mom, she’s sedated,” Clea said.
“Caroline told me she spoke to her,” Augusta said, sounding injured.
“Just a few words,” Caroline said, wanting to cushion the fact that she had been there and her mother had not. That had always been the case, and Augusta was very sensitive about it. Caroline felt the all-too-familiar pressure in her chest. Skye was so injured and troubled, her mother was so infuriating and needy, and Clea was kowtowing to beat the band. Caroline wanted to rush out, slam the door behind her, head for the airport, and get on a plane to anywhere.
“If she needs her sleep, let’s let her be,” Augusta said, sounding frustrated. “She’ll talk to me tomorrow. In the meantime, let’s go find Peter. He’s here, isn’t he?” And she left Skye’s bedside without another word.
Caroline and Clea drew together. With their mother gone, the old feelings came back: just the three of us, Caroline thought, holding Clea’s hand and looking at Skye. The way it’s always been. Three sisters on a lonely mountaintop, told to hunt by their father, holding hands when he turned his back. They had always taken care of each other.
Catching up with Augusta at the nurses’ station, the women heard the charge nurse say that Peter was with Skye’s doctor, who was just finishing up with another patient.
Augusta raised her dark eyebrows. No one could mistake her displeasure. She watched with silent disdain as the nurses moved methodically about their tasks. What did she want them to do? Caroline wondered. Make Skye’s doctor finish with his other patients faster? Serve cocktails?
“I’m going to go mad if that doctor doesn’t hurry,” Augusta said. She spoke in her normal voice instead of a whisper, and nurses up and down the corridor turned to look. “They’ll have to admit me to this very floor if I have to stand here another minute.”
“Mother, shhhh,” Clea said.
“I have no respect for a doctor who makes the mothers of his patients wait like this,” Augusta continued. “I think it’s very rude.”
Caroline and Clea exchanged a glance. Whenever their mother became this imperious, it meant she was very scared. She refused to accept the things she couldn’t stand, the details of life she found too awful. Twisting reality was Augusta’s way of marshaling her own sanity. Clea slid her arm around Augusta’s slender shoulders, snuggling against the fur coat their mother had thrown on over her jeans and sneakers. Caroline felt her own rage start to abate.
“Doctors do it on purpose,” Clea said. “They like to make the mothers really squirm, waiting to talk to them. Ministers do it too. Peter learned it in divinity school.”
Augusta shook her head, her lips tightening. She was not about to laugh at anything. She was putting forth her best lofty grande-dame air, gazing appraisingly down the corridors as if she owned them. Like Caroline, Augusta Renwick had contributed to this hospital. Since Hugh’s death, her sojourns here had been for opening ceremonies, board meetings, or events involving her chaplain son-in-law. Coming to the psychiatric floor to visit her youngest daughter was most assuredly not in her realm.
Finally Peter came along, wearing his clerical collar and dark trousers. He was talking to another man. He kissed Augusta and Caroline, then pulled Clea into a massive hug. Caroline watched the way they held each other, whispered a few words, looking deeply into each other’s eyes until a slow smile came to Clea’s troubled face. Then he introduced Dr. Jack Henderson, the head of their substance abuse unit.
“How do you do?” Dr. Henderson said.
“Pleased to meet you,” Augusta said warily.
“Hi, Jack,” Clea said, stepping
“Skye. Wake up. Wake up, dear. It’s your mother.” Augusta spoke to Skye the way she talked to her daughters’ answering machines, as if she knew someone was sitting there listening, unwilling to pick up the phone.
“Mom, she’s sedated,” Clea said.
“Caroline told me she spoke to her,” Augusta said, sounding injured.
“Just a few words,” Caroline said, wanting to cushion the fact that she had been there and her mother had not. That had always been the case, and Augusta was very sensitive about it. Caroline felt the all-too-familiar pressure in her chest. Skye was so injured and troubled, her mother was so infuriating and needy, and Clea was kowtowing to beat the band. Caroline wanted to rush out, slam the door behind her, head for the airport, and get on a plane to anywhere.
“If she needs her sleep, let’s let her be,” Augusta said, sounding frustrated. “She’ll talk to me tomorrow. In the meantime, let’s go find Peter. He’s here, isn’t he?” And she left Skye’s bedside without another word.
Caroline and Clea drew together. With their mother gone, the old feelings came back: just the three of us, Caroline thought, holding Clea’s hand and looking at Skye. The way it’s always been. Three sisters on a lonely mountaintop, told to hunt by their father, holding hands when he turned his back. They had always taken care of each other.
Catching up with Augusta at the nurses’ station, the women heard the charge nurse say that Peter was with Skye’s doctor, who was just finishing up with another patient.
Augusta raised her dark eyebrows. No one could mistake her displeasure. She watched with silent disdain as the nurses moved methodically about their tasks. What did she want them to do? Caroline wondered. Make Skye’s doctor finish with his other patients faster? Serve cocktails?
“I’m going to go mad if that doctor doesn’t hurry,” Augusta said. She spoke in her normal voice instead of a whisper, and nurses up and down the corridor turned to look. “They’ll have to admit me to this very floor if I have to stand here another minute.”
“Mother, shhhh,” Clea said.
“I have no respect for a doctor who makes the mothers of his patients wait like this,” Augusta continued. “I think it’s very rude.”
Caroline and Clea exchanged a glance. Whenever their mother became this imperious, it meant she was very scared. She refused to accept the things she couldn’t stand, the details of life she found too awful. Twisting reality was Augusta’s way of marshaling her own sanity. Clea slid her arm around Augusta’s slender shoulders, snuggling against the fur coat their mother had thrown on over her jeans and sneakers. Caroline felt her own rage start to abate.
“Doctors do it on purpose,” Clea said. “They like to make the mothers really squirm, waiting to talk to them. Ministers do it too. Peter learned it in divinity school.”
Augusta shook her head, her lips tightening. She was not about to laugh at anything. She was putting forth her best lofty grande-dame air, gazing appraisingly down the corridors as if she owned them. Like Caroline, Augusta Renwick had contributed to this hospital. Since Hugh’s death, her sojourns here had been for opening ceremonies, board meetings, or events involving her chaplain son-in-law. Coming to the psychiatric floor to visit her youngest daughter was most assuredly not in her realm.
Finally Peter came along, wearing his clerical collar and dark trousers. He was talking to another man. He kissed Augusta and Caroline, then pulled Clea into a massive hug. Caroline watched the way they held each other, whispered a few words, looking deeply into each other’s eyes until a slow smile came to Clea’s troubled face. Then he introduced Dr. Jack Henderson, the head of their substance abuse unit.
“How do you do?” Dr. Henderson said.
“Pleased to meet you,” Augusta said warily.
“Hi, Jack,” Clea said, stepping
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