Convicted, стр. 92

“What you did was a big risk. You told me you weren’t ready. Thank you.” Reaching for Claire’s hand, Meredith squeezed and said, “I’m not your only connection. Did you talk to Emily about Nichol?”

Claire’s relieved smile disappeared. “I did”—“She doesn’t want me to see her”—“Not yet”—“Until they’re sure”—“I’m better.”

Meredith’s heart broke. “What do you want?”

“She showed me pictures”—Claire’s voice lightened—“She’s beautiful!” Lifting her moist green eyes toward Meredith, Claire added, “I want to hold her”—“in my arms.” When she closed her eyes, a renegade tear slid down her cheek. “I’ve missed so much.”

“But there’s so much more to experience. We’ll get you better. You’ll be holding Nichol in your arms soon.” Meredith questioned, “How did your family reunion go?”

Claire sighed and shrugged her shoulders. She lifted her fork and began to eat. After a few bites, she offered, “There were a lot of questions.” “I’m tired of talking.”

“It’s all right. You don’t need to tell me anything.”

Hurriedly, Claire offered, “I didn’t tell them your last name.” “I just said”—“Meredith”—“That won’t get you in trouble?”—“Will it?”

“No, I’m using Jerry’s last name—Russel.”

Claire exhaled. “Good”—“can you keep visiting?”—“Will you?”—“Please?”

“Oh, yes!”

Though most of her sentences were incomplete and her words slowed with each sentence, Claire told Meredith she didn’t know what to do when Emily and John walked in. The last memories she could recall of her sister, Emily was mad at her. Thankfully, Emily wasn’t mad; instead, she was relieved! During most of the meeting, they talked about Nichol.

It was a much busier day than Claire had experienced in a long time. Although it wasn’t late, after Claire stopped eating, Meredith asked if she wanted help getting ready for bed. Claire didn’t want to accept Meredith’s help, she’d already accepted too much; nevertheless, fatigue prevailed.

Soon, Claire was in her nightgown and ready for sleep. As Meredith was about to leave, she remembered something else she’d brought Claire. “I almost forgot. I have a present for you.”

Meredith went to the food cart and removed a large package, wrapped in pink paper with a brighter pink bow, from the bottom shelf. The colorful box was a stark contrast to the bland room. When she turned back toward Claire, she saw a spark in Claire’s eyes she hadn’t seen in years.

“Do you want to open it now?” Meredith asked as she set the box next to Claire on the bed.

Claire nodded and whispered, “Yes.” Yet, instead of moving, Claire stared at the box.

“Is there a problem?”

“The paper”—“It’s so pretty.”

Meredith eased the bow off and carefully ran her finger under the tape. With the paper loosely covering the gift, she left it beside Claire on the bed. Apprehensively, Claire removed the paper and took off the lid. Pushing the tissue paper aside, she revealed three bright pink throw pillows. Two were circular and one was a square with ruffles. Hugging one of the pillows close to her chest, Claire smiled and asked, “Can they stay here?” “It would be great to have color.”

“Yes, and I’ll bring more color! We’ll get this room to reflect how much better you’re doing!”

“Oh”—“I’d like that.” Closing her eyes, Claire added, “I wish...”

Meredith waited for Claire’s voice to regain strength. When it didn’t, she asked, “What do you wish?”

“You’ve done too much”—“I can’t”—“ask for more.”

Meredith lifted Claire’s chin until their eyes met. “You saved me from jail today; what do you wish?”

“For the gray”—“to go away.”

“It will. Each day, we’ll make everything more colorful.”

Claire shook her head. “No”—“the gray in my hair”—“I’m not that old”—“What will Nichol think?”

Meredith smiled. “Oh, honey, I’ll be back tomorrow, and we’ll bring color back to your hair. What color do you want to be?” With a grin, she added, “More pink?”

With her head settled on her pillows, a faint smile came to Claire’s lips. “No, I like brown”—“I like brown”—“a lot.” Her eyes closed.

Meredith set the box on the floor, placed the pillows next to Claire and covered her with a blanket. Gathering Claire’s dinner dishes, she thought about Claire’s words. Yes, Meredith remembered the stories of Claire’s hair. She also knew the color of Tony’s eyes. It went without saying—Claire definitely liked brown.

Tomorrow, Meredith had a new goal—Claire’s hair would return to the beautiful shiny chestnut color she had in college. As she turned off the light and closed Claire’s door, Meredith giggled. Her job description was ever changing—soon she could add beautician to her resume.

It's not so important who starts the game but who finishes it.

—John Wooden

The tropical sky darkened; hues of orange and red faded to black. Tony looked out toward the now calm sea as the ball of fire which warmed their world, once again, found its home below the horizon. As evidence of the ravaging the sea had endured at the hands of the tropical storm, seaweed and driftwood littered the normally pristine white sand surrounding the lagoon. The shore wasn’t its only victim. Palm trees lay precariously strewn across paths, over one another, all around the island, downed by the strong winds.

Tony paced between the windows and Claire’s delivery bed. Their mattress needed to be replaced, what difference did it make if their baby was born upon it? Madeline exchanged the cool compress on Claire’s forehead for a cooler one and fed Claire ice chips. Tony watched; however, his attention was divided between his wife and the men he’d sent out to sea. Every so often, he’d look out toward the water hoping—praying—for signs of Francis and Phil. Nearly two hours earlier, he’d received a call saying they were on their way back with Dr. Gilbert. The trip usually lasted thirty to forty minutes, so they should’ve arrived over an hour ago. Occasionally, Tony’s gaze would meet Madeline’s. Though she didn’t say a word, he knew by her furrowed brow that she too was worried. He just didn’t know if it were solely because of Francis, who’d warned them hundreds of times about navigating a boat after dark, or if it was also about Claire.

Claire’s stifled cries brought Tony away from the reflective glass panes to their brightly lit suite. Every light in their room was on, along with multiple additional lamps that Tony had retrieved from around the house. Claire’s contractions were occurring closer and closer together. He knelt beside her bed, kissed her cheek, and waited for her response. One moment, she wanted him near—the next moment, she didn’t want to be touched. At one time during the evening, Madeline cornered Tony in the bathroom, while he dampened more cloths for Claire’s head. “Monsieur, what Madame el is saying and feeling, it is normal. She needs you to stay strong.”

Tony nodded. He didn’t know what normal was anymore. His whole world was different than he’d ever foreseen. The addition of their child would only further propel it into an oblivion he never before knew existed, and as for strength—he could do that. It was his thing. If he could endure the pain he saw in Claire’s eyes in her stead, then he would without hesitation.

“You don’t have to be strong,” Tony encouraged. “Scream if you need to scream.” This time, she took his hand and squeezed. For a moment, he considered screaming. Never before had his petite, gentle wife exhibited so much strength. He worried the bones in his fingers may not survive; and then all at once, her grip lessened and the clouds of pain floated away revealing shiny emerald eyes as tears slipped down her cheeks.