Chapter 35: Good News and Bad
Kate opened her eyes and stretched, her body stiff from sleeping in the big recliner instead of her bed. This new sleeping position was an experiment, and when the first ray of pale pink sunlight hit the edge of her window, she started the countdown.
Five... Four... Three...
She didn't even make it to two before she flew to her feet, flung herself into her bathroom, and hurled.
Well, sleeping upright isn't the answer, she told herself as she washed her face. Maybe tomorrow I'll try nibbling crackers before getting up. The internet had tons of advice, and some of it might even work.
Or I should just make the call. Her purse sat on the dresser, and at the bottom of the least-used zipper compartment sat a business card, a present from Carole. Who had gotten it from Deirdre Hannegan at the law office.
Dr. Caitlan Flynn, Obstetrics and Gynecology, MD, PhD, FACOG.
What was the alternative, if she wasn't pregnant? A little fear clutched Kate's middle, squeezing it just hard enough to get her attention. Mom's problems had started like this, too. Too old for morning sickness, Katie, her mother had joked, back when her mother was still speaking to her. Then Mom got the test results, and she wasn't wise-cracking anymore.
The woman in the mirror stared back at Kate, the color coming back to her cheeks now that the hormonal storm had passed. It was like the rain-storms on the Island, oddly enough. Within minutes, clouds would gather and darken to deep blue-gray. Then the sky would explode, soaking everyone with water so sweet and cool, you just wanted to lean back your head and let it run down your throat. When the rain-storm was spent, little tendrils of mist would rise and swirl about.
Dancing rain fairies, Claire had once called them. At the time, Kate thought it was just a picturesque figure of speech.
Now, after Hurley's last visit, she knew better.
Kate finished washing her face, then stuck her head into Aaron's room. The doorway which connected his room and Claire's was open, and the neatly-made beds showed that those two were already up and about. Aaron's laughter floated up from the big lower-level room, the one which Mittelos had used for their encounter-group sessions, back when the Topanga Canyon house was still a corporate retreat center.
Kate heard Claire say, "Look, Cuddlepie, if you don't want to use your brush, try fingers instead." Obviously they were busy with what Kate privately called The Project.
She munched a piece of toast left over from Aaron's breakfast plate, then reached automatically for the coffee maker before stopping herself. Even the smell of brewing coffee made her retch, much less drinking the stuff. Grimacing, she heated a mug of water for peppermint tea, a recommendation of Carole's.
Claire must have heard the microwave beep, because she called up the stairs, "Kate, is that you?"
"Yeah, I'll be down in a few minutes."
Steaming mug in hand, Kate headed downstairs to the big room, where Aaron darted towards her. "Mummy! Mummy! Come see what I painted!"
"Slow down, Aaron. Mummy has hot tea." She set the mug out of reach.
He grabbed her hand and tried to drag her across the room. "See? See, Mummy?"
Claire looked up with a wide smile. She had taped a wide, long swath of heavy butchers'-block paper to one of the walls for Aaron to use as a canvas. Despite his smock, Aaron had rainbow splashes of paint all over his hands up to the elbow, and a wide swath of blue streaked his hair. "Isn't it nice, Mummy Kate? It's just like Mummy Claire's."
Across the span of paper, Aaron had painted one blobby, broad-leafed tree after another. Big red and pink flowers on stems decorated scribbly green lawns. Behind one of the trees, a crude dinosaur's head peeked out, the rest of his body invisible.
Kate knelt down by the little boy. "It's beautiful, Goober."
Claire had stuck a paintbrush behind her ear, and her own apron was covered with paint as well. "He's been working really hard." She poured a little red tempera paint into a small plastic cup for Aaron. "Here, I think these flowers need a few more petals."
Scrunching his face in concentration, Aaron dipped his forefinger into the paint, and started to dab red dots around the green stems.
The Project had come along splendidly. "You've made a lot of progress," Kate said, gazing at Claire's own painting.
"Haven't I, though?"
The longer wall had been transformed by a great painted tree, lush and full-leaved, whose curling branches curved out everywhere. Birds rested on its limbs, their magenta and yellow tail feathers swirling down around the tendrils at the branches' ends. Nearby, Claire had sketched out mountains whose high, scooped-out shapes soared sky-wards.
The vivid forms weren't realistic, looking more like illustrations in a children's book. Kate recognized the places, and walked towards the wall as if hypnotized. "It's the Mesa, and the mountains around it."
Aaron had given up on petals, and was now daubing green paint-leaves on his trees with his fingers. "What's a mesa, Mummy Kate?"
"A big, flat space of land high up in the mountains, just like Mummy Claire's painted here."
Then Kate's breath vanished, and all she could do was stare. In the center of the Mesa, Claire had sketched in a dark horse, and was now bringing it to life. Charging across the Mesa grass, its mane and tail flew behind as if caught in a wind-storm.
Although the paint shone wetly, Kate touched the horse's flank, which left a blue smudge on her finger. "Where did you... How did you know about that? Did Sawyer tell you?"
Claire was adding white streaks to the horse's flanks, to create the effect of a sheen on its blue-black hair. "Tell me what?"
It was so long ago. The raft on which they had all placed their hopes for rescue had been wrecked by the Others, and Sawyer had been shot. He returned to the survivors, weak and sick. When Kate had taken him outside the Swan Hatch for some fresh air, they had both seen the beautiful animal, which had even let Kate curry its long mane with her fingers. As she touched the painting, she could almost feel the silky horse-hair, the warm flank.
Claire continued to apply paint. "You're going to smudge it, now."
"Sorry. Did you... imagine this?"
A faint pink tinged Claire's cheeks. "Dreamt it, actually." She washed her brush, then mixed up a dark gray-green for shadows. "I dream about the Island all the time. Especially since Hurley left."
"He's coming back tomorrow night, isn't he?"
Claire's face broke into brightness, sun coming from behind a cloud. It was all Kate needed to know.
A phone began to ring to the tune of "Catch a Falling Star."
"That must be yours," Kate said, casting about the room.
Claire pointed with her brush, her hands splattered with paint. "It's over there in my ditty bag. Mum's gone to the shops, she probably has a question about the marketing. Do you mind?"
"Of course not." Kate rummaged through Claire's big leather bag, full of dog-eared sketchbooks, boxes of crayons and a child's coloring book, as the phone played its tinny little tune. Finally she found it at the bottom. "Hello? Kate Austen here."
"Ah, finally someone picks up." The alto voice was calm, modulated.
Claire gave Kate a questioning glance, and Kate half-covered the phone. "It's Deirdre Hannegan." She then said, "Deirdre, how are you?"
"Never better. You want the good news first, or the bad?"
That was straight and to the point, wasn't it? A crawling anxiety wormed its way through Kate's insides, set in motion by something in Deirdre's tone. Kate glanced over to Aaron, assessing how much she could say in front of him, even though he was deep in concentration over his painting. "The good, please."
"We found your friend Desmond Hume. He's fine, just a little worse for wear. He spent a month in a jail cell in Tongatapu, before the British High Commissioner could take custody of him."
"Tonga-where?"
"Capital city of the Kingdom of Tonga, about five hundred miles southeast of Fiji. A few days ago the embassy staff took him to Suva, then put him on a plane to Heathrow. They didn't even attempt entry into the United States. His wife and child met him in London."
Kate let out a breath that she didn't even know she was holding. "It's about Desmond," she said aside to Claire. "He's fine, back in England with Penny."
"That's wonderful. Hurley will be so glad to hear it."
"You know, that phone does have a speaker." Deirdre sounded slightly annoyed.
Aaron piped up, "Who's Desmond, Mummy Kate?"
"Ssshhh, dear, Mummy Kate's on the phone."
"But you let Mummy Claire talk to you! Why can't I talk to you too?"
The books all said the same thing about kids at this stage, that they were obsessed with fairness. "Sorry, Deirdre. The speaker wouldn't be convenient right now."
"Very well. Now for the less pleasant." Deirdre paused, as if giving Kate a second to prepare, and Kate's stomach clenched again. "Mittelos received word of your mother, Diane Janssen. She's been transferred to Mother of Mercy Hospice in Des Moines."
Her mother, last seen a little over a year ago in the Foltz Justice Center's grimy conference room, her lips bluish despite the cannula which delivered its steady boost of oxygen. Piteously she begged to see her grandson, reeling under Kate's harsh last words, "I don't want you anywhere near him!"
Deirdre was still speaking, but Kate barely heard her. Finally, Deirdre's voice pierced the static in Kate's head. "... And she's been asking for you, repeatedly... She doesn't have long, maybe a week at most. That's optimistic."
"A week?" Kate repeated. She started to reel. There was no furniture in the big room, only a few yoga mats rolled out for Claire and Aaron. As Claire guided Kate down onto one, Kate continued to speak. "How do you know all this? Never mind, I've got to get ready and—"
"Ms. Austen." Deirdre could have commanded armies. "Mr. Norton would like you to come to the office as soon as possible, so that you and he can discuss things further. Can you be here in an hour? His court appearance was canceled this morning, and he has an opening."
"You want me to get from here to downtown in an hour? Are you kidding me?"
"If you leave in ten minutes and take the Hollywood Freeway instead of the I-10, you'll make it."
"Just barely."
"Ms. Austen, I have to take another call. See you here in an hour, with luck."
The phone went dead.
As Kate dashed up the stairs, Claire followed closely behind, Aaron in her arms. "Kate, you sure you don't want me to drive you? I mean, I know I just got my California license, but you look upset."
"No, it's fine. I'm fine." From her closet, Kate yanked out the first dress she found, and pulled it on over her camisole. She shimmied out of her pajama bottoms and stuffed her feet into a pair of ballerina flats.
"Where are you going, Mummy Kate? Can I go, too?"
"Not this time, Aaron." She's asking for me. Mom's dying, and she wants to see me. The thought spun in Kate's head like a wheel. She dragged a brush through tangled curls, then gave up and twisted the tumbled mass into a loose bun.
Claire turned to Aaron. "Snugglepot, go to your room and find a pair of bathers, okay? We'll clean up downstairs, then Mummy's going to take you for a dip."
As soon as Aaron was out of the room, Kate said, "It's my mom. She's sick, like in not-going-to-live sick."
"Oh, Kate, I'm so sorry. I knew she was bad off, but this—"
"And when I tried to tell Deirdre that I wanted to go see Mom, she cut me off. Told me to come down to the office."
"She probably didn't want to say anything over the phone."
"Claire, I was so awful to Mom when I cut a deal with the DA, when Mom agreed not to testify. The things I said to her—"
"I know how that goes, Kate. Look, if you don't want me to drive you downtown, maybe I should go wake up Sawyer—"
"No!" Oh, damn, she hated to over-react like that with Claire, but there wasn't time to explain anything right now. She gave Claire a hug and a peck on the cheek, saying, "I'll tell you everything when I get back," then scooted out the door.
Deirdre was right. The Ventura and the Hollywood both were pretty passable for mid-morning, with just a few slowdowns. Meanwhile, the 511 hotline told her about an accident on the eastbound I-10, with multiple lane closures. Luck was with her.
When Deirdre ushered Kate into Dan Norton's office, the first thing Kate noticed was the ring. It had to be at least two carats, and it gleamed like a super-nova under the bright fluorescent lights. "So, I guess congratulations are in order."
"Thank you," Deirdre said, obviously pleased with herself.
"Have you set a date?" As soon as the words flew out of Kate's mouth, she wished she could have taken them back. During her own week-long engagement, she had hated it whenever people brought that up.
Deirdre just smiled. "Depends on our work schedules."
Dan Norton's eyes followed Deirdre out the door. "Thanks, Didi." Then he trained his full attention on Kate. "I'm sorry to hear your mother's taken a turn for the worse."
"I appreciate that. Now, do you mind telling me why I had to drive down here in rush-hour traffic?"
"Your timing was perfect, Miss Austen," and he drew the soft "s" sound out, deliberately. "The geek boys from Data Privacy Solutions finished sweeping the office right before you got here. I can't say the same thing for the security of cellphone calls."
"And how do you know all this about my mother? There's supposed to be such a thing as medical privacy."
"In a perfect world, yes. Let's just say that Mittelos Bioscience has been following your mother's case for quite some time now."
What the hell was that supposed to mean? Dan Norton's fingers formed a perfect steeple under his chin, just like the game she used to play with Aaron. Here is the church; here is the steeple; but inside, Dan Norton's eaten the people.
"Let me explain something to you, Kate. Can I call you Kate? There's a great glory road which runs through this city, all the way from Malibu to Riverside. When you're sailing along at ninety on a clear night, that road's so smooth you don't even know it's there. It's like coasting along on angels' wings, or so it seems.
"Until you hit a pothole and go flying. Then Didi and I show up with the meat wagon, and hopefully there's something left of you to scrape off the pavement. That's what we do, Didi and me. We drive up and down the glory road, picking up and patching up the casualties.
"You were the luckiest woman in LA when you slipped back into the country under the wire. Good trick, because as far as everybody was concerned, Kate Austen had never left the country at all, and thus wasn't lost in another plane crash."
Kate had to stall for some time, to pull herself together. "Excuse me, I... need some water."
Dan reached into the mini-fridge right by his desk, and handed her a bottle, cold. "Of course, it didn't hurt that a good friend in Probation and Supervision owed me, big time."
Kate's new parole officer, a stone-faced woman of about sixty, had fiddled through her papers casually, as if Kate hadn't missed two meetings. Five minutes later, the woman showed Kate to the door, without the usual check-list of questions. Some gift horses you just don't look in the mouth, and Kate hadn't. "Whatever you did, Dan, thanks."
"The five-figure donation in your name to the Probation Officers' Benevolent Association didn't hurt, either. Your current predicament, though... Now if we had eight, nine months, it would be easy-peasy—"
"I don't have eight or nine months," Kate snapped. And not just because Mom is dying.
"Hear me out. You remember Melissa Dunbrook, don't you?"
Kate shuddered at the memory of the dark-haired, hatchet-faced district attorney who had pursued her case. She hid her hands behind her purse, so that Dan Norton wouldn't see them shake.
"Melissa's ambition has only grown since you last met her. Now she's reaching for the brass ring, challenging her boss in November for Chief Prosecutor. So while the law limits you to a $1,500 donation, there are other ways to grease the skids. If Dunbrook gets elected, I think I can convince her to quietly drop your parole restrictions."
"She despises me." Kate spat out the words, still chafing under the contempt which the DA had rained down on her during her trial. "And you want me to bribe her?"
"Don't be ridiculous. As your attorney, I can't advise you to do anything illegal. Although you did have some interesting stories about how you and your fellow returnees managed to lighten the burdens of detention."
Kate clamped her jaws shut, remembering the genial Officer Nariki from Tarawa Atoll.
"Human beings are the same world-wide, aren't they, Kate?"
Whatever Dan was hinting at, she might as act as if she knew what he was talking about. "Pretty much."
He opened a battered road atlas and thumbed through it. "I know they've got computer programs now, but somehow I can't see them replacing one of these. Not to mention no electronic record. Ah, here we go."
The page displayed an interstate highway map of the United States, and Dan traced his finger along the southern route from Los Angeles to Des Moines, Iowa. "Two days there, with a break for sleep, and two days back. Plus a week or two to attend to your family affairs. I think your new PO would appreciate an extra two weeks of vacation as well."
Slow anger started to lick around Kate's edges. The chair's coarse upholstery chafed the back of her legs, and she kicked herself for picking a short skirt. Oh, great, here come the tears again. She didn't know what she hated more, the lawyer sitting before her, or the emotions which washed over her like an Island cloud-burst. "This is my mother you're talking about. She's not a 'pot-hole.'"
Dan continued with his train of thought, as if he hadn't even heard. "Call me sexist, but I don't usually recommend that women take long cross-country trips alone." His bemused expression told her that she could burn a bra right in front of him, and he couldn't care less.
"Wouldn't flying be easier?"
As Dan closed the road atlas, he chuckled. "If it were me, I'd never get on a plane again in my life. Not to mention that an airline check-in is proof-positive of a parole violation."
Maybe he doesn't trust the geek boys to have done a thorough enough sweep, Kate thought, as Dan's pointed glance bored holes into her. Or maybe this is just how Dan Norton covers his ass.
When Dan leaned back as far as the chair could go, it squeaked like a small animal was trapped under the rollers. "Do I make myself clear, Kate?"
"Perfectly."
An exhausted Kate pulled into the rear driveway of the Topanga Canyon house. She left the car running as the air conditioning blew and Emmylou Harris on the CD player finished up "Boulder to Birmingham."
With a long sigh, Kate killed the engine. Instead of going into the house, she picked her way down the flag-stone path to Sawyer's cabin, careful to avoid the occasional loose paver. Thankfully she'd worn flats. If she tried this in heels, she'd break something critical.
Sun filtered through the ridge of tall cedars, leaving slanted pools of shadow at their bases. Beyond the trees, a valley stretched out, lightly dusted with lavender and yellow spring flowers. Afternoon gold tinged the edges of brown hills dotted with scrubby green.
Sawyer's white wooden door stood open, and from it drifted the tap-a-tap of an electric typewriter. Kate wouldn't have figured Sawyer for a good typist, but the keys pounded out a swift rhythm, with only an occasional pause or tiny bell-ring at the end of a line.
There was a computer up at the house, but Sawyer didn't use it. Instead, he had bought an old IBM Selectric on EBay, along with a box of ribbons and correction-tape. He wadded up any spoiled pages, then burned them in the barbecue pit on the cabin's rear deck.
What's he writing, his memoirs? Whatever it was, Sawyer was hitting his stride now. She stood there for a short time, strangely soothed by the hyperactive-woodpecker noises, not wanting to bother him but very badly wanting his presence, a chest to lay her head upon, arms around her, somebody to tell her that things were going to be all right. Even when it was clear that they probably weren't.
The path to Sawyer's cabin crossed a short foot-bridge, which spanned a shallow ravine. Kate stood there for a moment, hesitating. He's busy. And it's not like he'd want to get involved in this whole sorry mess, anyway. As she turned to head back to the main house, her foot skidded on a stone, which broke loose and clattered down into the rock-filled gully.
A disgruntled "Son of a bitch!" sounded from inside, and the typing stopped. Then it was too late for Kate to make her escape, because Sawyer's tall frame filled the cabin door, barely clearing it. Shafts of sunlight lit up his fair hair like gold fire, leaving the rest of his face in shadow. His sleeveless t-shirt clung to his tight, muscular torso. A faint sheen of sweat covered his chest and brow.
When he saw her, his slight frown dissolved into concern. "Hey, Short-stack, Claire said you headed down to the shark-tank. Why didn't you come get me? I'd a gone with you."
"I didn't want to bother you."
"Wouldn'ta been no trouble." He stepped onto the foot-bridge, heading towards her, and she did the same for him. When they met almost half-way, he said, "Sorry to hear about your momma."
"Thanks, Sawyer." Something cold and reserved inside of Kate melted at the warmth in his tone. She took a step forward, then stopped. One more pace, and she would fall right into his arms. Instead, she inspected the boards beneath her feet. "You sure this bridge can hold us both?"
"Considering it survived Sir Hugo trompin' back and forth, I'd say yes." Sawyer rested both hands on the bridge rails, blocking her path, waiting.
One step was all it would take. She trembled, held back by one weight after another. All the years when her mom and dad were happy together. My real dad, Samuel J. Austen, so what if he wasn't the sperm donor, that's not what makes someone a father. All the years after the divorce when her mother still loved her, until she found someone who she cared about more.
The weight of the drunken fights, the beatings, the leering wretchedness, all gone now, up in flames and smoke. The stench of roasting meat overwhelmed the smell of mercaptan in the natural gas, when she blew that son-of-a-bitch straight to hell where he belonged.
The weight of murder, of taking lives, even though they deserved it.
I saved you a spark, Wayne. Boom.
I saved you a bullet, Samael. Crack.
The gully beneath her feet wasn't deep, maybe ten or twelve feet at the most. It would be a nasty fall, though, because the stones at the bottom were sharp. She touched the hand-rails as if they could support all those years, and two tears ran down her face, one on each cheek.
She and Sawyer both took one step forward at the same time, met in the middle, and the bridge didn't collapse.
His chest was warm and his skin smelled like almond butter mixed with the crispness of cedar. He held her while she fought back the tears, stroking her hair, making little murmurs which didn't mean anything except that he was there, ready to listen. Even after she calmed down, she still let her face lie on that broad, smooth chest, and her arms went around his narrow waist before she knew it.
He was the one to pull back first. As he gazed down at her, chin lowered, she noticed bits of gray mixed in with the dark-gold stubble.
"Want some lemonade?" he said.
"What, that powdered stuff? No thanks."
"Powdered?" Sawyer looked insulted. "While you were at the lawyer's, Claire and them picked a basket of lemons."
"So you know how to make lemonade."
"Damn straight. Why don't you come inside and test it out? Then you can tell me what's got you all riled up."
There was nowhere to sit in the shotgun cabin's single room, except the twin bed and an office chair. She sat cross-legged on the bed, rather than disturb the manuscript papers spread out over the butcher-block table which served as a desk.
"This is good," she said as she sipped.
Sawyer settled himself into the mesh office chair. "Granny Tidwell's secret recipe. You got to boil the sugar first, make a syrup, then add the lemon juice and water."
"And you did all that while I was gone."
He clinked the ice in his glass. "Okay, Freckles, enough about my culinary aptitude. Spill."
So she did, starting with Deirdre's phone call, and ending with Dan Norton's veiled instructions. When she'd finished, Sawyer spun his chair around to the desk, and draped the Selectric with its black nylon dust cover.
Had she just wasted her breath? "You know, maybe I should just get out of here so you can get back to work."
"Hell, Kate, if I do that, how am I gonna have time to pack?"
"Pack?" Then it hit her, the knowledge that he was inviting himself along, and the sheer relief of it. "Thanks, Sawyer. Really. I was thinking about leaving tom—"
"Bright and early tomorrow, you got it. Kate, this ain't just for your benefit, me hitching my team to this wagon. I'm gettin' itchy feet, too. Missy Claire and Gramma Carole might be fine growin' lettuce and pickin' lemons, but—"
"I know what you mean. I'm going a little stir-crazy myself. Just wish it was for a different reason, though." Then she remembered. He had his own journey in mind, but was ready to put hers first. Still, it had to be said. "What about Jasper, Alabama?"
"Hell, Jasper can wait, Shortcake. Doubt anybody there misses me anyway." He got up and started to pace the cedar-smelling cabin, so cozy, yet not much bigger than a generously-sized prison cell.
She crawled off the bed, stretching as she gazed up at the main house, barely visible through the leafy trees which lined the path. Half to herself, she mused, "This was always a detour, wasn't it? Coming back here, to California."
Even before Sawyer spoke, the heat of his body told her that he had come up very close behind her. "How d'you mean?"
"Claire dreams about the Island, Sawyer. All the time, she says. Including our horse."
"Horse?" From over her shoulder, his breath rustled her hair.
"The black horse, on the Island. When you were so sick. I thought I was seeing things, but I wasn't. Because you saw it too."
Sawyer let out a low whistle, sending a caress of air over the back of her neck. "Damn, that girl can be spooky sometimes. I'd forgotten all about that."
"I never have." She couldn't see the swimming pool from where she stood, but Aaron's squeals and splashes wafted down the hill towards the cabin, followed by amused shouts from Claire or Carole, it was hard to tell which. They sounded so much alike.
Kate had done exactly what she had promised Jack she would do. Now she had to figure out what to do with the rest of her life, and maybe this trip would be the first step.
Sawyer's chin almost rested on Kate's shoulder. "They'll be fine, Shortcake."
"I know. And Hurley will be here with them too, if only for a little while."
Even though he didn't touch her, she could feel his laughter. When she turned around, she found him grinning. "Well, Missy Claire's just gonna have to give him a big kiss for both of us. Come on now, let's make tracks. That land yacht's not gonna pack itself."
(continued)