up.”
“No, I ... The cabinet with the combination lock?”
“Exactly. You had us set the combination for your birthday, remember?”
“Oh ... yes. It’s been a while since I ... since I needed to do any work in that lab. I’ll go check. Carry on.”
Gilbride turned and was gone. Just like that. Not a word about Sara Devereau. Jessie wondered how much of the conversation Sara had heard, and whether it registered that the surgeon who had done her first two operations had breezed in and out without even acknowledging that she was on the table.
Jessie felt the bowstring relax. Her shoulders sagged comfortably. The tightness in her jaw vanished. Gilbride had just saved her from making a decision she would have regretted for the rest of her life. There was still tumor in Sara’s brain—too much tumor for Jessie to believe her body could fight for long.
Fearless .
In the heat of the moment, with her friend on the table, swelling distorting the anatomy, and faced with a tumor among the most difficult she had encountered, Jessie had lost her objectivity. She had forgotten her promise to her friend and to herself.
Fearless .
“Ted, I want a new set of images of this sucker,” she heard herself say. “Everybody, this is the captain speaking. I want you all to just hunker down and let your honeys know you might be late for dinner. We’re going to be at this for a few more hours.”
Chapter 6
BOSTON’S FLEET CENTER WAS A NEAR SELLOUT. Pacing about the carpeted VIP room, Marci Sheprow could hear the crowd, like the white noise of the ocean. Both were sounds familiar to her. She had spent the first nine of her eighteen years living at home with her parents on Cape Cod. The next eight she had lived, essentially, in a Houston gymnasium, training with several dozen other gymnastics hopefuls. But unlike the others, Marci had made it to the pinnacle of her sport. Two Olympic golds and a bronze. She was back living on the Cape now, more often than before, anyway. And when the time came, maybe after college, she planned to take a piece of the millions she had already banked and buy a place near her parents.
She had no intention of competing in the Olympics again, but every time she said that, her coach and parents just smiled. They knew as well as she did that there was little about competitive gymnastics she didn’t love. And now she was riding a wave of incredible popularity, especially in New England.
“Hey, babe, what gives?”
Shasheen Standon, Marci’s closest friend on the U.S. team, was eating a pear, and offered a bite.
“No, thanks. My stomach’s a little queasy, and I’ve got a little bit of a headache.”
“It must be a virus. It sure can’t be nerves. You ain’t got none of those.”
“Come on. You of all people know that’s just b.s.”
Marci was famous on the team and in the press for her calm, almost blissful demeanor when she performed. She was approachable, though—not like those Russian and Romanian ice maidens. Still, her routines were described in the New York Times as “breathtakingly daring.” “The whole package,” another writer gushed.
“You know,” Shasheen said, “now that you mention it, you don’t look that great. Remember, this is only an exhibition. Maybe you should pack it in tonight. Let us second stringers have center stage.”
Marci punched her friend lightly on the arm.
“A team gold and an individual silver on the uneven bars. Some second stringer you are. I may cut back on my routine, but I can’t back out. I’m local. Do you have any idea how many family and friends I have out there? You stayed at my house last night. You know.”
“That was a pretty wild scene, that’s for sure, especially that Uncle Jerry of yours. Well, just go easy. Leave out some of the crazy Sheprow moves.”
“Maybe. Maybe I will.”
Marci bent over and effortlessly touched the carpet with her palms. At five foot five she was on the tall side for a gymnast, but she was
“No, I ... The cabinet with the combination lock?”
“Exactly. You had us set the combination for your birthday, remember?”
“Oh ... yes. It’s been a while since I ... since I needed to do any work in that lab. I’ll go check. Carry on.”
Gilbride turned and was gone. Just like that. Not a word about Sara Devereau. Jessie wondered how much of the conversation Sara had heard, and whether it registered that the surgeon who had done her first two operations had breezed in and out without even acknowledging that she was on the table.
Jessie felt the bowstring relax. Her shoulders sagged comfortably. The tightness in her jaw vanished. Gilbride had just saved her from making a decision she would have regretted for the rest of her life. There was still tumor in Sara’s brain—too much tumor for Jessie to believe her body could fight for long.
Fearless .
In the heat of the moment, with her friend on the table, swelling distorting the anatomy, and faced with a tumor among the most difficult she had encountered, Jessie had lost her objectivity. She had forgotten her promise to her friend and to herself.
Fearless .
“Ted, I want a new set of images of this sucker,” she heard herself say. “Everybody, this is the captain speaking. I want you all to just hunker down and let your honeys know you might be late for dinner. We’re going to be at this for a few more hours.”
Chapter 6
BOSTON’S FLEET CENTER WAS A NEAR SELLOUT. Pacing about the carpeted VIP room, Marci Sheprow could hear the crowd, like the white noise of the ocean. Both were sounds familiar to her. She had spent the first nine of her eighteen years living at home with her parents on Cape Cod. The next eight she had lived, essentially, in a Houston gymnasium, training with several dozen other gymnastics hopefuls. But unlike the others, Marci had made it to the pinnacle of her sport. Two Olympic golds and a bronze. She was back living on the Cape now, more often than before, anyway. And when the time came, maybe after college, she planned to take a piece of the millions she had already banked and buy a place near her parents.
She had no intention of competing in the Olympics again, but every time she said that, her coach and parents just smiled. They knew as well as she did that there was little about competitive gymnastics she didn’t love. And now she was riding a wave of incredible popularity, especially in New England.
“Hey, babe, what gives?”
Shasheen Standon, Marci’s closest friend on the U.S. team, was eating a pear, and offered a bite.
“No, thanks. My stomach’s a little queasy, and I’ve got a little bit of a headache.”
“It must be a virus. It sure can’t be nerves. You ain’t got none of those.”
“Come on. You of all people know that’s just b.s.”
Marci was famous on the team and in the press for her calm, almost blissful demeanor when she performed. She was approachable, though—not like those Russian and Romanian ice maidens. Still, her routines were described in the New York Times as “breathtakingly daring.” “The whole package,” another writer gushed.
“You know,” Shasheen said, “now that you mention it, you don’t look that great. Remember, this is only an exhibition. Maybe you should pack it in tonight. Let us second stringers have center stage.”
Marci punched her friend lightly on the arm.
“A team gold and an individual silver on the uneven bars. Some second stringer you are. I may cut back on my routine, but I can’t back out. I’m local. Do you have any idea how many family and friends I have out there? You stayed at my house last night. You know.”
“That was a pretty wild scene, that’s for sure, especially that Uncle Jerry of yours. Well, just go easy. Leave out some of the crazy Sheprow moves.”
“Maybe. Maybe I will.”
Marci bent over and effortlessly touched the carpet with her palms. At five foot five she was on the tall side for a gymnast, but she was
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