by Carla Damron
“You have a little devilment in you,” he said, lowering the glass. “And all this time I thought you were my angel.”
“Not an angel. Definitely not.” She kicked her feet into the air, her Topsiders dangling from her toes.
Mitch leaned back, sliding his arm behind her. He’d not done that before. Nobody had done that before, not since she was a little girl. She scooted a few inches closer to him.
“This is nice,” he said. “I could stay here all day.”
“If we stay all day, you’ll miss baseball practice.” She was counting on Mitch leaving by 6:00. Dad got home at 6:15.
In a bold move, she let her head rest in the crook of his elbow, casting a sideways glance to gauge his reaction. His smile was a faint flickering of lips, but full of promise. He tilted his head so that it touched hers. Warmth spread like fingers in her chest, unexpected and delicious.
“Maybe I should miss it,” he whispered.
As he leaned closer, his breath skimming her neck, a new sensation pulsed through her, starting from deep inside, from a place below her stomach. What was happening to her?
Mitch stopped the swing to set his glass on the floor. Lena clutched hers like she needed it for grounding. He turned, brushed knuckles under her chin so she would look at him. And kissed her.
But this was a different kiss from his others. She felt it down through her chest, her abdomen, down between her legs, a stronger pull, like she could reel all of Mitch inside her, and she wanted him there. She needed him there. This was so new, all of it, and it exhilarated her. And terrified her a little.
When his lips released hers, she took in shaky swallows of air, kept her eyes closed, scared and desperately wanting. . . . What? She didn’t understand, but she hated for it to end.
“Lena,” he whispered. “What you do to me.”
She opened her eyes then, to look at him, catching his embarrassed glimpse at his body, at the new bulge straining the pants of his baseball uniform. Kissing her had caused that?
When she took another sip of tea, her hand shook.
He gripped her fingers, their two hands clutching the glass. “I’m going to kiss you again.”
She thought it a little funny that he would announce it this way, but she sank against him, pressing her lips harder against his, relishing the concept that this was new to him, too. His tongue flicking into her mouth startled her, but she liked it. Again, that feeling inside, stronger now, like the two of them fit together to become something whole. She could feel the power of Mitch, his hand that could snag a fly ball and fire it to home, his arms forceful enough to bat a pitch out of the park, these ropey muscles quietly holding her like he could keep her still forever.
He pulled back. “Damn. Lena—”
Her name hung in the air like a wisp of smoke. Mitch grabbed the porch swing chains and slid away. She didn’t want him to. A half foot between them felt wrong.
The sound of a car pulling into the driveway made her stiffen. Please not Dad. No, it was Abby’s bright green Volkswagen. Abby slammed the car door and hurried up the walkway, her dark hair in a long braid down her back, wearing that ridiculous tie-dye tee. When she reached them she paused. “What’s going on here?” Abby asked with a suspicious arch of her eyebrows.
“Nothing,” Lena said, eyeing the door in a telepathic message for her older sister to leave them alone.
“Doesn’t look like nothing.” She turned her assessing gaze to Mitch, brows lifting even higher.
“Abby,” he said tightly.
She burst out laughing then. “The look on your faces!”
“Shut up,” Lena replied, ready to smack her sibling.
Abby moved to the front door. “You might want to wrap things up. Dad’s probably on his way.”
Lena glanced at her watch.
“Maybe it’s time I met your father,” Mitch said.
“I don’t think so.” She leapt from the swing and straightened her blouse.
Mitch pushed the swing back as though he had no reason to budge from it. Lena scanned the street for a sign of Dad’s car.
“You’re already late for practice,” she said, her voice tight.
“I don’t care.” He patted the seat. “It’s still warm. Sit.”
Her instinct to sit with him almost overwhelmed her need for him to leave, but Dad was coming, and it was Friday, which meant he’d gotten off work early and headed straight for the Elks Club.
The very slow approach of the Mercury was a bad sign. When drunk, Dad inched along, convinced he wouldn’t cause an accident or get spotted by the police. Lena closed her eyes, devastated. There would be no preventing it now. Mitch would meet her Dad. And would run like hell.
“Is that him?” Mitch asked.
She nodded, fighting tears. “You could leave if you hurry.”
His foot stopped the swing. “What is it, Lena? Are you ashamed of me?”
Her mouth dropped open. How could he think—she had not told him anything different. Like her mother and Abby, she let nobody see the truth. She looked at Mitch, at the pain reflected in his dark eyes, pain she caused. “No,” she whispered. “I’m ashamed of him.”
Dad parked, halfway in the drive, halfway on the grass, and emerged from the car. His dark hair, slicked back by Vitalis, looked as it had that morning, but little else did. His unknotted tie hung like a sash down his white shirt. His suit jacket, which had been neat as a pin when he went to work, was now a bundle under his left arm. His venture up the walkway was unsteady, but when he spotted them, he smiled. “How ma girl?” he slurred.
“Fine, Dad.” She hurried over to hold on to him as he climbed the steps.
Dad paused in front of Mitch, swaying a little. “Who’s this?”
Mitch stood and extended a hand. “I’m Mitch Hastings, Sir.”
Dad gripped his fingers and shook. “Ball player?”
“Baseball team, sir.”
“Baseball? I play . . . played football. Running back. Fast in mah day.”
Lena winced, praying this wouldn’t launch into a drunken reminiscence of pretend glory days.
“I’m sure you were, sir.”
“Mitch was just leaving. He has to get to practice,” she said, taking Mitch by the hand and guiding him away. As she marched him down the brick path to his car, she heard the screen door shut, Dad bellowing for Mom, Abby yelling that she was on the phone. Dad screaming back that she should watch her tone. Typical day for the Parker household.
Mitch stopped at the driver door and turned around to face her. She couldn’t look at him. “Lena?” he spoke gently.
“You should get going.”
“Lena.” With his thumb, he nudged her chin up so she would face him. The tears filling her eyes probably made her look even more pathetic.
“You are so beautiful,” he said, and pressed his lips against her forehead. “The most beautiful girl in the world.”
Then. That moment, when he knew it all and loved her anyway, she had known she would marry him.
The second time she had fallen in love with him had been last year, during her illness. Strange that such a bond could evolve in that wreckage. It had been a tether for her when the cancer left her adrift, when the monster tried to pull her from this earth.
“You saved me,” Lena whispered, again reaching for the cold flesh of his hand. “Why can’t I save you?”
She wanted to memorize him. Every curly hair in his eyebrows. Each knuckle on his hand and freckle on his chest. Of course there were no surprises, she knew his body almost like her own, but she hadn’t memorized him before, and she had to file these details in a place of permanency in her mind.
What else to place there? The smell of Brace aftershave and Werther’s Butterscotch. The feel of heat in their bed, his body like a furnace no matter what the temperature. The way he looked at her like she could fill up all his empty places.
She had to be strong. She would hold Mitch’s hand until all three children were here.
Until the transplant team arrived, until his liver and corneas could be harvested to maybe change another life or two. She would be here for him the only way she could.
And then would come goodbye.
The door behind her opened a little, a white stripe of light penetrating before she heard a voice. “Mom? Okay if I come in?”
“Of course. You don’t have to ask.”
Sims entered, ducking his head and knotting his hands in the fold of his jacket. Sometimes he still looked twelve years old to her: the mischievous boy who painted “scumbag” on his younger brother’s book bag and shattered her Wedgewood vase with a slingshot. He came to her side and whispered, “Is there anything else you need me to do?”
“Did you reach Abby?”
“I’ve tried. I left word with the Washington office. Left messages on her satellite cell phone but she hasn’t called back.”
This was what she expected; her older sister again out of touch. The only real family Lena had, other than Becca and the boys.
“Elliott’s flight gets in at three,” Sims said. “I’ll leave in a little while.”
“Take Becca. I think she could use some fresh air.” How Lena worried about her youngest. She was far too young for a loss like this.
Sims placed the jacket on the reclining chair next to the window where Lena had spent the night. The nurses had brought a pillow and blanket but there had been no possibility of sleep.
“I called Dad’s office too. Margaret said Phillip was due back tomorrow. He still hasn’t answered her calls but she said he’s bad about forgetting the charger for his phone.” Sims offered a little shrug, as if he needed to apologize for Phillip. It was something his father would have done. So much of Sims came from Mitch. His wide shoulders and bald—or in Sims’ case, balding—head. The way he fretted about things he couldn’t control.
“Anyone else I need to call? Does everyone know . . . who needs to know?” Sims needed to be busy; this had been true even when he was a child. When their second son came, two-year-old Sims became quite a handful, until Lena figured out that he felt important if she let him help. “Mama, I’m a good big brudder,” he would say.
“I’m sure there is someone else but I can’t think right now.” Her voice vibrated, the fatigue leaking out. Sims’ head shot up, eyes wide and worried, so she gave him a little smile. “It’s okay,” she said.
“I was thinking maybe I should take Dad’s cell phone,” Sims said. “Since Phillip is out of town, someone should take client calls.”
“I think it’s in that drawer.” She pointed to a small table and Sims rushed to open it. The manila envelope contained the phone and Mitch’s worn leather wallet.
“Don’t turn it on in here,” she cautioned.
He nodded, but gripped the thing like it held some important secret message, his lips tightening into a thin, pale line.
“What’s wrong?” She moved closer.
“Nothing. Just . . . nothing.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but merely pocketed the phone. “Just thinking about Dad’s business.”
“We can’t worry about that now.” She smoothed the blanket over Mitch’s legs, not wanting the cool breeze from the vent to chill him.
“Guess I’ll get going then.” Sims shrugged into his jacket and moved to the door. As she watched him leave, she realized that not once had he looked at the man in the bed.
CHAPTER 5
Becca stared out the passenger window of her oldest brother’s Bronco. When Sims had asked her to come with him to pick up Elliott, she had jumped up from the waiting room chair like a Pop Tart, desperate to get away. Away from the creepy antiseptic smell, and having to watch Sims pace around like a cat needing a litter box, and being nice to all the adults who kept stopping by and asking her “how ya doing, hon?”
She looked at the dashboard clock. She had missed having lunch with Dylan, but Kayla would have told him what happened. When Becca went back to school in a few days, she’d bravely approach him and ask, “Is today good?” Or, even more courageously, say, “Meet me in the cafeteria at noon.” Maybe he’d smile, kind of nervous, and nod, “yes,” and they would sit together and laugh at the school’s suck-food lunches. Maybe it would be the first of many hours together. Maybe.
Sims thumped the steering wheel. “Damn traffic.”
Blossom Street always had cars backed up, inching along no faster than earthworms, but his bitching about it didn’t change a thing.
He waved his hands like a madman at the burgundy Nissan in front of them. “Did you see that! The light was yellow! Why did that idiot stop?” Sims liked to yell at other drivers. Their mom would cluck her tongue and shake her head when a car cut in front of her, but Dad never complained. He drove as slow as a little church lady and, come to think of it, other drivers probably yelled at him.
When would Dad get to drive again?
It would be better once they got him home, back to his own bed, and Becca would bring him meals on a tray, and they’d fend off Spats so he could eat. They would watch TV together, even those awful Matlock reruns if that was what he wanted.
“We’re gonna be late,” Sims said.
“What time does Elliott’s plane get in?” Becca asked.
Sims checked his watch. “In ten minutes, if his flight is on time. But you never know.”
Sims floored the accelerator, which was completely unnecessary, then settled into the same speed as the other zillion cars clogging the road. His cell phone rang, but it played “Carolina in My Mind,” which was the ringtone she’d downloaded for Dad’s cell. Sims pulled it from the pocket of his jacket.
“This is Sims Hastings.” He sounded like his name was very important.
“Pull over,” she told him. She would not get in a wreck because her stupid brother was on the phone.
He shook his head at her. “No, I’m not Mitch. I’m his son. My father was in an accident.”
“Pull over!” She shouted it, and Sims shot her a dirty look before wheeling into a parking spot.
“Yes, Phillip is still out of the country, but he’s due back soon. Is there something I can help you with?” Sims said. He mumbled a few “a-huhs” and an “I see” before raising his voice. “What do you mean the deal didn’t—”
Becca shook her head at his exasperated tone. Dad never talked like that with his clients. His voice was always calm: “I understand this is a frustrating process,” he’d say, his “a-huhs” soothing like warm water.
“I can’t help you. I’ll have Phillip call you as soon as he returns.” Sims ended the call and scowled. “Prick. Like I can miraculously print up some money, or make Phillip appear, or make Dad all better and . . .” He shook his head as he wheeled back into traffic.
Five minutes later they pulled into the Columbia Metro Airport parking garage, and Sims grumbled about the lack of parking spots before squeezing into a space between two other gigantic SUVs. She followed him to the crosswalk connecting the garage to the baggage claim. He stopped at a bench outside.
“We can wait here. Elliott will come out when he gets his luggage. That is, if he brought any.” Sims pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. Big surprise.
“Why wouldn’t he have luggage?” Becca asked. Coming all the way from New York, surely he’d need clothes and stuff.
Sims puffed out a plume of smoke. “He probably brought a carry-on because he plans to stay for just a few days. You know Elliott, places to go, people to see.”
Becca sat on the bench, in no hurry to leave. Once they had Elliott, they’d go back to the hospital. “Elliott has to stay longer than a few days.”
Sims gave her puzzled look. “We’ll see. Damn, I should have worn a hat.” He lifted his collar as a chilly breeze hit them. His ears and bare scalp always turned as pink as Pepto when he was cold, like Dad’s. Elliott wasn’t bald at all. He hadn’t been home in six months because it was hard to get away when you had gigs to perform, Dad had once explained. One day Elliott would be a
famous jazz musician, but you had to pay your dues.
“There he is!” Becca jumped from her seat. Elliott had on a long dark overcoat and a green scarf hanging around his neck. He smiled, dropping the handle to his rolling suitcase so he could wrap his arms around her and lift her into the air.
“How’s my girl?” he asked, his breath tickling Becca’s neck.
Sims stomped out his cigarette and gave Elliott a hug, holding on a little longer than Becca expected. “Hey Spanky,” Sims said.
“Hey yourself,” Elliott retorted, slapping his back. Sims pulled away, clearing his throat.
“Any luggage?” Sims asked.
“Nope. Just this.”
“You’re only staying a few days?” Sims’ voice was tight.
Elliott looked down at the bag he’d brought. “I’ll be here till Tuesday. Didn’t want to have to pay to check luggage. Stupid airlines rip you off however they can.”
“So we have you here . . .” Sims made a point of counting finger tips. “Five days?”
Elliott raked a hand through thick curls that were longer than when he came last time. “Is there a problem?”
Becca drew a breath, hoping this didn’t escalate. Her big brothers sometimes acted like fifth graders when they were together.
“Still no word from Aunt Abby?” Elliott asked, conflict averted.
“Nope. She’s tucked away in some Nicaraguan village. No phones.”
“Peru,” Becca corrected. She wished Aunt Abby would hurry up and call. She would come once she got the news. She would help them handle things, especially when Dad came home.
“Mom’s anxious to see you,” Sims said.
“How’s she doing? She sounded strange on the phone.”
“Strange how?”
“Chipper. Organized. Giving this long list of who had been notified, what has to be done.”
“We call that denial,” Sims said. “She thinks if she stays busy, she won’t have to deal with Dad’s dying.”
Becca looked up sharply at him. Why did people assume Dad was going to die?
She’d seen Grey’s Anatomy a thousand times and people sicker than Dad got better. Mom almost died and got better. Dad would, too.