“Good-bye, couch,” I say aloud, my throat unexpectedly tight. Cole tosses the trash bags down the slope after it, and the two of us climb back into the cab in a contemplative silence that lasts until we’re out on the highway with the clean wind blowing in through wide-open windows.
“About that camping trip,” Cole says. “I was thinking next weekend, if you still want to go.”
He keeps his gaze on the road ahead, both hands on the wheel. I can feel his caution, the way he’s trying to make it easier for me to bail, in case I’ve changed my mind. My feelings need sorting and my thoughts need organizing, but the answer to this question is easy.
“Yes.”
Now he glances at me, his eyes a question. “You’re sure?”
“I’m not going to pass on campfire-roasted hot dogs.”
The smile that lights his face makes me feel like I’m one of my own wishing stones, skimming over sun-spangled water. His hand reaches for mine, and for a long time there’s no need for either of us to say anything.
But even the best of wishing stones can’t soar forever, and with Cole’s next words the cold, dark waters of reality close over my head.
“Have you heard anything from Katya?”
My body goes cold, then hot again. My heart starts to beat out the command for retreat, but we’re driving sixty miles an hour and there’s nowhere to hide.
“Not in a couple of days,” I answer, carefully. “How’s she doing?”
“They discharged her from the crisis house a couple of days ago. I thought she might have been in touch with you.”
“I haven’t heard a word.”
I’m telling the full-on truth, but it feels like a lie. Cole doesn’t know what I’ve done, how I’ve meddled. The people who run the crisis house don’t know, either. Fear envelops me in a fog that wipes away all memory of my fleeting moment of joy.
Even if she’s fine, if she’s gone back to Tom or somewhere else, safe and sound, this secret will always be an albatross around my neck. I’m going to have to fess up to Cole, and what that will do to the balance of a still-fragile relationship I don’t know.
“Talk to me,” Cole says, his fingers tightening around mine. “Second thoughts? What is it?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.” I try to speak lightly, but my words are heavy as granite. My lips feel dusty, and I scrub at them with the back of my right hand. My left is still tangled up in Cole’s.
He doesn’t ask again, letting the silence speak for him. And so I tell him about my phone call to Tom, about our meeting in the park, about how it all turned out. When I’m done, he still says nothing.
This is it. The end. I start to pull my hand away, but his fingers tighten around mine, tight enough to hurt, not that I’m complaining.
“She made it back to the crisis house,” he says as we slow down for the first stoplight into town. “Seemed fine, but applied for permission to leave. The crisis house is always voluntary, but we do assessments before they go. I talked to her myself.”
“And you let her go?”
Worse and worse. If I’ve pushed her toward another suicide attempt, then I’ve also dragged Cole into the middle of it. Like he doesn’t have enough weight to carry already.
“She seemed well,” he goes on. “Not happy enough to ring alarm bells. Contemplative. Not so angry. And I’ve broken the confidentiality code telling you that much.”
He releases my hand, and I make good use of it, wrapping both arms around my belly to hold myself together. “Did she say where she was going?”
“She did. I’ll try to contact her. I can ask her to call you.”
“Thanks. That would be good.”
“Rae?”
I’m too busy fighting back a squall of tears to answer.
“Good call, getting those two together. I should have pushed her harder to be willing to meet with him.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
He shrugs. “Counselors are bound by all sorts of rules. We don’t like to take risks, and we can break confidentiality under very limited circumstances. You did the sensible thing. She needed to hash that stuff out with her husband. Maybe it helped her.”
“Maybe. You’re not mad, then? Or—disappointed? Or thoroughly convinced that I’m hopelessly broken and in need of repair?”
We’re driving down my street. Cole pulls into my driveway and shifts into park before he answers.
“I think maybe you need a little splinting.” He unbuckles his seat belt and scoots a foot in my direction. “And so do I. So maybe we could—”
Before he can finish the sentence, I have my own seat belt off and am closing the rest of the distance between us. His arms go around me, his lips meet mine, and all of my shields evaporate with the intensity of our kiss.
Chapter Eighteen
“You went camping? On your first date?” Corinne’s eyes shine with excitement and what might be a hint of vicarious lust.
“It wasn’t our first date. The Oscar Event was our first date. And then he took me to meet his grandmother, and then we went to the dump. So, fourth date. Besides, just because we went camping doesn’t mean we slept together.”
She snorts. “That’s a bunch of bull hockey, and you know it. He’s yummy.”
“And you are nearly old enough to be his mother.”
“Which makes him extra yummy.” She grins, unrepentant. “Please tell me you didn’t insist on separate tents.”
Heat creeps up my neck and into my face. It was decidedly a one-tent weekend. My body warms to the memory of strong hands, exploring lips, a—
“Hot damn.” Cor slaps her thigh and bursts into a whoop of laughter. “Don’t bother trying to lie to me.”
I lift my chin and give her a dignified stare. “Are you going to give me report?”
“I was hoping for a report from you.”
“Which you already got. So.”
“Oh, fine. Be like that. There is nothing to tell. Everybody is exactly the same as they were on Friday.”
“What about Nancy?”
“Except for Nancy. Nancy is moving out.”
“She’s doing what?” I blink, trying to imagine the home without Nancy. She’s been here longer than I have.
Corinne leans forward, obviously savoring this bit of news. “Apparently, Mason bought a house. It’s wheelchair friendly, and there’s a suite of rooms for his mother.”
“No.” I shake my head, remembering all of the times I’ve seen Mason drunk. “He can’t take care of her.”
“Home care worker already hired. You and I both know she doesn’t really need much care. She doesn’t really need that chair, either—gets around just fine when she wants to.”
At some point—sooner rather than later—every resident in this place is going to die. I know this. Nancy’s death seems years away, though, and when I think about my life unfolding through the years, she’s always in it, infusing my day with her special brand of crazy.
“He drinks. It will never work out.”
“Currently sober and says he plans to stay that way. Besides, it’s their decision, Rae. We don’t have a say-so.”
“I guess. I’m happy for her.”
But as I go through my evening, despite the warm glow I get whenever I think about Cole, happy isn’t what rises to the top.
When I go in to check Nancy’s blood sugar, Mason is there.
He looks different. His eyes are clear and focused. His face looks leaner and firmer. “Oh good,” he says. “Just in time. I have a favor to ask.”
“Ask away.” I’m always careful not to agree to favors until I know what they are.
“Can you show me how to do the finger stick thing and use the meter? So I can help her when I take her home?”
“Sure. My pleasure.”
“No need for that. Give that shit to me.” Nancy grabs both meter and lancet from my hands and lays them out in her lap.
“It’s easy. Clean the finger with alcohol.
Poke it with the lancet and make blood. Stick the strip in the meter, touch it to the blood, and bingo! Blood count in three-two-one seconds.” She runs competently through the steps as she speaks, triumphantly showing me a blood sugar of 120.
“All this time.” I glare at her, and then start to laugh. “All the nights I scrambled to find time to do that for you.”
“I’m a drama queen. I require a great deal of attention. What can I say?”
Mason fakes a worried look. “I’m letting myself in for all kinds of surprises, I see.”
“Be afraid,” I tell him. “Be very afraid. When’s the big move?”
“Tomorrow. No point waiting.”
“Well, then.” I shift my weight from one foot to the other, feeling suddenly lost and ill at ease. “I’ll miss you,” I tell her, realizing that I’m also going to miss Mason.
“No, you won’t.” Nancy sits up ramrod straight, in her most queenly manner. “You will be coming to visit. Bring a kitten.”
Mason shrugs his shoulders at me, but there is laughter in his eyes. “How about Saturday? You’re welcome to bring that Cole person. And Katya, if she’s still around. And, of course, a kitten.”
“To keep? Or to visit?”
“To visit,” Mason exclaims.
“To stay,” Nancy objects.
“Maybe since we’re just getting settled, it would be best to—”
“Don’t tell me what’s best. I’ve got a lot of years on you. I think I’m capable of making decisions.”
“I don’t want a cat pissing in my brand-new house.”
“Aren’t you the same one moaning about how I deprived you of kittens when you were a vulnerable child? Forget the one-kitten thing, Rae. Bring us a litter.”
I leave them bickering, but an idea follows me out of the room and dogs my heels for the rest of the shift.
When I get home, despite the fact that it’s Monday and 2:00 a.m. their time, I call my parents. Payback is a wonderful thing.
My mother picks up first. “Leila? Is everything all right?”
“Everything is fine. I’m sorry to wake you.”
She laughs. “We weren’t sleeping. We thought we’d try online gaming and got hooked. Richard, save your place and come to the phone. It’s Leila.”
“It’s only Monday,” I hear him say in the background, and I can’t suppress a smile. “Elizabeth, my dear,” he says into the receiver, “how are you? How is Katya?”
“Katya doesn’t live here anymore.”
Silence on the other end, except for dramatic breathing. I know they are making gestures to each other, signaling their initial reaction to protect me and also deciding who will be pressed into first response.
“Oh, honey,” my mother says, “we’re so sorry. She seemed such a lovely girl, too.”
“There will be other women,” my father adds. “Although I imagine it’s more difficult to find a same-sex partner. A smaller pool to choose from. Are there specific signals? Do lesbian women let you know somehow that they’re, um, available?”
I’m tempted to let them go on believing, they are so much enjoying themselves. But I have to tell them the truth.
“Actually, I’m dating a man. His name is Cole. We went camping this past weekend.”
The breathing on the other end of the phone turns judgmental. Before they can begin to voice their disappointment that I’ve cheated on my lover, I dive back in. “Katya was only a friend. You got that part all wrong. I ran over her with my car, and she needed a place to stay for a bit.”
This really silences them. Now I can barely hear the breathing. Maybe I’ve given them simultaneous heart attacks. “Are you still there?”
“We’re here.” My mother sounds cautious, as if she’s unsure whether being there is a good idea.
“She was suicidal and chose my car to ride in front of. So I wanted to help her.”
My father clears his throat. “Why didn’t you tell us? Either of you. You just let us go on.”
“Katya was enjoying having parental units approve of her. Hers only wanted her to have babies. So she thought you both were wonderful, and you made her happy. I didn’t want to screw that up.”
It’s my mother who breaks the silence. “I wonder—do you know how proud we are of you, Leila?”
I don’t answer, can’t answer, but sometimes silence speaks more loudly than words.
“I see,” Mom says. I can hear the hurt in her voice and want to fix it, but of course there’s nothing I can say. “We aren’t good at saying these things, I suppose.”
“We pushed too hard,” Dad says. “Is that it? About medical school.”
“A little. I’m not ever going to be a doctor. I’m asking you both, once and for all, to please give up on that idea.”
Dramatic breathing on the other end of the line. I picture the hand gestures, the lifted brows, the shaking of heads. This time it’s Dad who ventures in. “We noticed you’re good with animals. Did you want to go to veterinarian school, then?”
“Not exactly.”
I tell them what I do want. I argue, I placate. I present scientific evidence.
They listen. They ask some intelligent questions.
“What do you think?” Dad asks, deferring to my mother as usual.
“It makes sense, after a fashion. She might as well use the money.”
“Agreed,” Dad says. “She’s not getting any younger. I say we put it in an account and trust that whatever use she puts it to will be right.”
“Wait,” I interject. “What money?”
“We’ve been putting money aside for medical school since you were a baby,” Mom says. “There’s a little extra now, what with interest.”
“I’d been thinking you’d have enough to start a private practice,” Dad adds. “But if that’s not what you want, then you should use it for what you do want. We have no need for it.”
My knees feel weak. “How much money are we talking?”
“What was it, dear?” Mom asks. “Something in the vicinity of five hundred thousand?”
“We put some in stocks. I’ll need to ask Victor to finalize some numbers and see when we can get it out without incurring penalties. How much do you think your school will cost, Elizabeth?”
“It’s Leila,” Mom protests.
“It’s Rae, and I don’t need that kind of money, that’s for sure.”
“Everybody needs money, the way the world is going to wrack and ruin. We won’t always be here to help you.”
I bite my tongue to keep from reminding them that I haven’t accepted any help in at least ten years.
“When you talk to Vic,” Mom says, “make sure to ask about that other investment, the one slated for our retirement.”
“Are we retiring? I was planning to work until I drop dead with a scalpel in my hand.”
“You don’t always get that choice, though, do you? Either one of us could come down with Alzheimer’s or . . .”
They are talking to each other now, on the phone, probably sitting side by side on the sofa. No need for me to listen, and I’ve got plenty to think about. There’s a certain wish of mine that could happen with that kind of money. Something that goes well beyond what I’d been thinking when I planned to go back to school.
“Mom?” I say. “Dad? Maybe you two kids can stay up all night, but I need sleep.”
“Oh, of course,” Mom says. “Good night, Leila.”
“Good night, Elizabeth,” Dad says. And then, unexpectedly, “Do you really want us to call you Rae?”
“You can call me whatever makes you happy.” I know who I am; it doesn’t matter.
“I hadn’t really thought about the effect of the two of us fighting over your name.” Dad’s voice takes on its intellectual tone, and I know he’s avoiding emotions in his usual way. “Might be a confusing thing for a child. I never thought about that until just now.”
“Where did Rae even come from?” Mom asks. “I always wondered.”
�
�Remember Grace?”
Silence. “Was she the babysitter?” Dad asks. “You know, the one with the butch hair and that VW bug car.”
“No. That one had some weird name. Amalie or something. I always wanted to spell it with an n.”
I interrupt their bickering. “It was the neighbor’s cat, the big orange one. His name was probably spelled with a y. I thought they named him after a ray of sunshine.”
“You named yourself after a cat?” Mom sounds thoroughly bewildered. Dad’s got nothing.
“Animals were always easier for me than people.”
“We should have had pets for you,” Dad says. “We didn’t see. I did like those kittens. Are you sure you don’t want to try a kitten, Angela?”
When I hang up they are arguing with each other through the phone line. An unusual fondness for my unorthodox upbringing floods through me. They do love me for me. Not Elizabeth or Leila, or their dreams for me. It’s not the money that tells me this, but the fact that my father almost called me Rae.
It takes about a month to work out the details. When I tell Corinne I’ve given my two weeks’ notice, shock drops her jaw clear to her chest, but for once no words come out.
“Breathe, Cor.”
“You can’t quit. We need you. The residents will all wither up and die.”
“No, they won’t.”
“You never did have any idea about what a breath of sunshine you are. You light up their world. They’ll all get depressed. I’m not kidding, Rae. Is it money? Ask for a raise. Or get them to adjust your schedule.”
I start laughing before she’s done. She’s so earnest and energetic, and I’ve got a secret that makes me feel like I can fly.
“I don’t see what’s so funny.”
“Because you haven’t let me finish. Money is so not an issue. My parents have turned over all of the money they saved for medical school.”
“That’s nice, honey, but it can’t be enough to—”
“Trust me, it’s enough. You don’t know my parents. Besides, just because I’m quitting this job doesn’t mean I won’t be back.”
“Now you’re talking in circles. Spit it out.”
I Wish You Happy: A Novel Page 27