Every hour or so, Heather left the I.C.U to spend a few minutes with
the members of the support group in the lounge. The faces kept
changing, but there were never fewer than three, as many as six or
seven, male and female officers in uniform, plainclothes detectives.
Other cops' wives stopped by too. Each of them hugged her. At one
moment or another, each of them was on the verge of tears. They were
sincerely sympathetic, shared the anguish. But Heather knew that every
last one of them was glad it had been Jack and not her husband who'd
taken the call at Arkadian's service station.
Heather didn't blame them for that. She'd have sold her soul to have
Jack change places with any of their husbands--and would have visited
them in an equally sincere spirit of sorrow and sympathy.
The Department was a closely knit community, especially in this age of
social dissolution, but every community was formed of smaller units, of
families with shared experiences, mutual needs, similar values and
hopes. Regardless of how tightly woven the fabric of the community,
each family first protected and cherished its own. Without the intense
and all-excluding love of wife for husband, husband for wife, parents
for children, and children for parents, there would be no compassion
for people in the larger community beyond the home.
In the I.C.U cubicle with Jack, she relived their life together in
memory, from their first date, to the night Toby had been born, to
breakfast this morning.
More than twelve years. But it seemed so short a span. Sometimes she
put her head against the bed railing and spoke to him, recalling a
special moment, reminding him of how much laughter they had shared, how
much joy.
Shortly before five o'clock, she was jolted from her memories by the
sudden awareness that something had changed.
Alarmed, she got up and leaned over the bed to see if Jack was still
breathing. Then she realized he must be all right, because the cardiac
monitor showed no change in the rhythms of his heart.
What had changed was the sound of the rain. It was gone. The storm
had ended.
She stared at the opaque window. The city beyond, which she couldn't
see, would be glimmering in the aftermath of the day-long downpour.
She had always been enchanted by Los Angeles after a rain--sparkling
drops of water dripping off the points of palm fronds as if the trees
were exuding jewels, streets washed clean, the air so clear that the
distant mountains reappeared from out of the usual haze of smog,
everything fresh.
If the window had been clear and the city had been there for her to
see, she wondered if it would seem enchanting this time. She didn't
think so. This city would never gleam for her again, even if rain
scrubbed it for forty days and forty nights.
In that moment she knew their future--Jack's, Toby's, and her own--lay
in some far place. This wasn't home any more. When Jack recovered,
they would sell the house and go . . . somewhere, anywhere, to new
lives, a fresh start. There was a sadness in that decision, but it
gave her hope as well.
