by Carla Damron
“I got it on sale.”
“Of course you did. It’s always on sale, isn’t it? The purse you bought last month. The pants and leather belt before that. Being on sale excuses everything.”
“Daddy?” Byron blinked up at him.
“Come on, big guy. Let’s turn on Sesame Street.” Tonya herded him to the living room and did what she promised herself she’d never do: turned on the TV to babysit her child. When she returned to the kitchen, John was opening a beer.
“What’s our balance on the Visa account now?” He flipped the bottle top into the trash. “I haven’t seen the thing in a few months.”
“It’s not bad. I’ll get it paid off, I promise.”
“Not bad?” He searched her face as if looking for the edges of the lie.
She almost said “under two hundred” to pacify him, but it took four clicks on the computer to uncover the truth. Nothing pissed off John more than deceit.
“Seven fifty. But I’ll pay off the balance in a few months, I promise.”
“How do you propose to do that? Jamison giving you a big fat raise because you wore that outfit?” He tilted his head back, the Budweiser rim poised between his teeth, reminding her of Byron when he first learned to manage the bottle on his own.
“It’s my problem. I’ll figure it out.” She busied herself with the food though her appetite had fled. As she spooned out the teriyaki, a plump piece of chicken skimmed across her lapel before landing on the plate. “Damn it!”
She grabbed a paper towel to blot away the sticky sauce.
“Oh, great. You ruined it already.” John shook his head as he watched her. “Christ, you spend a fortune and spill sauce down the front.”
“It’s not ruined.” Her hand trembled as she ran warm water on the towel and rubbed the soft fabric. It shouldn’t be a big deal, but having John scrutinize her every move didn’t help. Wiping away the last trace of sauce, she said, “There. But I think I’ll go change.”
“Good idea.”
In the bedroom, she slipped off the suit and hung it at the front of their crowded closet. John might be right, she shouldn’t have bought it. Of course, if John would forgo a few Friday afternoon happy hours, the Visa bill could be paid much faster, but she didn’t see him offering that sacrifice. Not that it mattered, the suit was hers now, and she was glad. She had never felt like she did today when she had it on. Maybe a warrior needed her armor.
Back in the kitchen, John had Byron in his high chair drinking juice from a sippy cup. The food remained on the counter, because apparently John wasn’t up to the effort of dishing it out on plates. She divvied up the rice and teriyaki, cutting a few hunks of chicken into Byron-size bites. With his favorite Dora the Explorer spoon, Byron smashed his supper into orange mush before putting any in his mouth. More mess for Mom to clean up.
“I think I may have a solution to the Visa bill problem.” John finished the beer and went to the fridge for another one.
“What?” Tonya sat at the tiny table, trying to summon an appetite since she’d paid for this food.
“I talked to this woman I know, Carol Greer. She works for a law firm that does a lot of car wreck cases. I told her about what happened and she had some good ideas about how to handle it with the insurance company.”
“Handle what? They pay to get the car fixed. They’ll cover our doctor bills, but Byron and I are going to be fine. I don’t know why we need an attorney for that.”
John shoveled chicken into his mouth. “Okay, but here’s the thing. Mr. Hastings is at fault. He’s liable for more than our expenses, according to Carol.”
Tonya lowered her fork. “You have to be kidding. Mr. Hastings is still in ICU. I think he’s been through enough.”
“Okay, okay. I get it that you don’t want to sue Mr. Hastings. His insurance company will handle the settlement. And don’t say you’re fine. Byron had two nightmares last night. You broke a bone in your nose and you look like hell.”
“Thanks. I appreciate the compliment.” This conversation had her craving a beer, too, but she was too tired, and one of them needed to get the little guy bathed, read to, and put to bed.
“I’m just saying it’s worth looking into. The lawyer’s charges come from the settlement, so it won’t cost us anything. And we could sure use the money.” He reached over and squeezed her hand, a gesture so unexpected that she stared at him.
“Think about it, honey.” His face softened as his thumb stroked her knuckles. She savored the tenderness in this touch. It had been a long time.
“Things are so tight right now,” he said. “We could use some help.”
John was a hard man to argue with, especially when he was right.
CHAPTER 7
Sandy Albright growled at the coffee pot. Not that she was mad at it. In fact, she had become a caffeine worshipper since abandoning her other addictions. It was the hour that made her groan: five AM. She had to be at work in two hours, but insomnia had her awake since two, sleep deprivation being a fabulous perk to her new sober life. No pills, no zzzzs.
As she interrupted the brewing cycle to pour herself a cup, she felt a warm little body weaving between her ankles. A fuzzy bedroom slipper with legs mewed up at her. Sandy stepped around it to get to the table, but the creature beat her there, jumping onto the table top and nearly toppling over her mug.
“Scoot,” she muttered, elbowing the beast out of the way, only to have it cry out again.
“Well aren’t we up early?” Her cousin Sean appeared in the doorway, dressed in striped pajama bottoms and a Wicked t-shirt, his blond hair standing in chaotic waves atop his head. Even though he’d been her roommate for two years, Sean took some getting used to.
“You know me. Couldn’t contain my excitement and all,” Sandy replied. At least this was day three back on the job. She’d survived the sucky first two days: the scrutiny and urine dip stick from Marie Hempshall, and the whispers from most of the staff, including housekeeping, for God’s sake. She’d gone home tired and hungry and eaten half a large pizza day one, finished it day two. But she had not gotten high.
Day three should be a snap.
Sean opened the refrigerator and rummaged through the shelves, removing a carton of eggs and a pack of sausage. His cat leapt from the table to check what else might be hidden in the fridge.
“Good morning, my precious!” Sean scooped up the creature. Miss Saigon rubbed her whiskers against his.
“Why are you up so early? Do you have a morning shift?” Sandy asked.
“Honey, you know I don’t do before noon. Just thought I’d see you off this morning. Now, omelet or scrambled?” He held up the eggs.
“You’re cooking me breakfast?” Sandy moved to a stool beside the granite-topped kitchen bar.
“I’m thinking omelet.” He returned to the refrigerator for cheese and a green pepper. The bedroom slipper purred.
As Sandy lowered her cup, Sean handed her a slip of paper. “Jesse called, four-thirty. And five-fifteen. S.”
Seeing Jesse’s name made her catch her breath. She had been desperate for his call that first week in rehab. Her cell phone stayed under her pillow, like she was a pathetic preteen, but she stopped leaving messages when he didn’t phone back. She’d come to believe he was a part of that life she’d had to let go. “Why didn’t you give this to me last night?”
“I figured you had enough drama going back to the job. Sorry.” This from the drama queen of the universe. He cracked eggs into a bowl. Oil sizzled in the pan as she refilled her mug. “Aren’t you going to call him?” Sean asked.
“At five A.M.?” She could imagine Jesse’s sleep-drunk voice answering. But what if someone else answered? Given Jesse’s history—or what she thought was his history, the man loved being so mysterious—it could happen. She didn’t need to face that today.
Sean turned to face her, spatula in hand. “So. I . . . uh . . .”
She pressed the mug against her chin. Sean stammered when he w
as talking about money.
“I know I’m behind in rent,” Sean said. “But I’m getting paid tomorrow and I promise I’ll have a check for you.”
She hadn’t realized, when she’d let Sean move in, that she was essentially adopting him. They were both refugees from a family that couldn’t accept them, but at least Sandy had grown up. Sean, at thirty-one, still waited tables, took classes at the U, and drove a used and sputtering bright orange Kia. An eternal nineteen-year-old.
Sandy had known her cousin was gay before he had. It wasn’t easy being homosexual in South Carolina, but when Sean embraced who he was, he did it with zeal, despite efforts by the rest of their family to shove him back in the closet. Sean’s parents hardly spoke to him anymore, and Sandy’s father, ever the evangelical preacher, prayed for “Sean’s condemned soul.”
Sandy wondered if he prayed for her soul, too.
A plate appeared before her, the omelet a plump half-moon edged by a lace of yellow. She took a bite, savoring the warm ooze of cheese and decided that when Sean cooked, she could forgive him almost anything. On the floor beside her, the cat gave her tail an annoyed swish.
Sandy was more of a dog person. She and her ex-husband Don had adopted a greyhound on their honeymoon and named it Chai. She hadn’t been sure she could love it; such a quiet, bony creature, a daddy-long-legs with fur, all tired out from his years racing. But he had a gentleness about him, his head balanced on her knee, his soft brown eyes blinking up at her like she was his savior. Don got custody after the divorce. Did Chai have the same adoration for the new wife? She hoped not.
“Don’t be cross with me, Miss Saigon,” Sean gave the cat a stroke. “No eggs for you. I’m looking out for your girlish figure.”
Miss Saigon was nothing like Chai, but Sean adored her. Another concession required to live with her cousin. But Sean was the one who visited during rehab, who rid their home of all alcohol and drugs before her return. Who got up at five A.M. to fix her an omelet.
She finished her breakfast and stood. “I’d better get ready for work.”
A QUICK CHECK OF MR. HASTINGS’S chart at the nursing station showed no change in his status, except that the transplant team had been scheduled for later that afternoon. Good. Finally closure for the family.
Outside Mr. Hastings’s room stood the youngest child, the daughter, leaning against the corridor wall, her head down, hair screening much of her face. So thin that if she’d worn the same beige as the wall she might not have been noticed. Sandy approached her. “Hey. You’re Becca, right?”
The girl looked up at Sandy, eyes squinting like she had a killer headache.
“You okay?” Sandy asked.
“I’ve seen you before. You’re Dad’s nurse?”
“Yep. I’m Sandy Albright.” She moved to stand beside the girl, her rear against the grainy vinyl wall.
“Dad’s had a lot of visitors today,” Becca said.
“Lots of people care about him. That says something.”
“He’s very nice to everybody.” Becca squeezed the hem of her jacket between her fingers, curling it up to cover her hands.
“Are you cold?”
“There’s this black guy,” Becca said, ignoring her question. “He hangs out in the cemetery at our church. Kinda creepy, but Dad’s always nice to him. Buys him stuff. Gives him little jobs so he can pay him some money.”
“Your dad does sound like a very nice man.” Sandy suppressed a sigh. Did this child understand her father was dying? As if this could be understood. She’d had her own experience with incomprehensible loss when she miscarried. After three years of trying to get pregnant, of fertility tests and hormones and, finally, in vitro fertilization, she’d lost her baby in the seventh month. People acted like it shouldn’t hurt like the death of a living, breathing child, but it had.
“When I had a sleepover party, Dad ordered us pizza,” Becca said. “He let us download a movie to watch, and while we were watching it, he made us cookies.”
Her father sounded like a good mother.
“He burned them a little but they weren’t bad,” Becca said. She had rolled up the bottom of the jacket, her arms tucked inside like a straight jacket.
“Becca, has your mom talked to you about your dad’s condition?”
“Everybody talks to me about it,” she said, pulling the jacket tighter. “But they don’t know him. They don’t know how much he . . .” Her words trailed off, her head dropping down.
Sandy leaned to the left so that their shoulders touched. “How much he loves you?”
The girl wasn’t crying. Her face wasn’t pinched and red; no tears leaked from her eyes. She looked as blank as an empty drawer.
“When I was six, he taught me how to ride a bike,” she said. “He made me wear a helmet, knee guards, and a thick sweater, even though it was spring, because he didn’t want me to fall and hurt myself. He was always doing stupid stuff like that.”
Sandy heard the “was.” Good. Maybe she did understand. “He was overprotective?”
“I kept asking about getting a learner’s permit to drive and he’d get nervous and say, ‘You’ll have to ask your mother about that.’ Mom said he’d be okay once I showed him how I was a safe driver.” A hand snaked out of the fabric. She stuck her thumbnail into her mouth and chomped down on the cuticle.
“Becca, all those people that keep coming to visit today. Do you know why?”
“Apparently, to feed me sandwiches. If one more person asks me if I want something to eat I think I’m gonna kick them.” She said this with fire. A red drop of blood oozed from the finger and slid down her knuckle.
“You’ve nicked your cuticle there,” Sandy said, reaching for the hand. A pink flap of flesh opened below the nail, more blood trickling out. “Come on, let’s clean that up.”
The girl followed her to the family waiting room. Sandy told her to wait there as she went for first aid supplies. When she returned, Becca was standing by the door.
“Let me take care of that finger.” Sandy snapped on latex gloves and opened an alcohol pad. “This will sting a little.”
Sandy winced at the bleeding hand, dabbing with gentle fingers. She noticed several bruises on the girl’s forearm. “What happened here?”
Becca turned her arm over with a jerk. Were the bruises self-administered? Sandy pointed to her thumbnail. “I’m a biter too, you know. Or I used to be. It mainly happened when I was nervous.”
“I’ve tried to stop. I did once.” Becca folded her arms against her chest.
“You will again. This is just . . . a stressful time.”
“I hate this place,” Becca said. “No offense.”
Sandy smiled. “You have every right to hate the hospital. But you won’t have to hang around much longer.”
She snuck a look at the girl’s face to see if she understood, but there was no sign of recognition. She’d realize soon enough. Sandy secured a bandage around the thumb as Becca stared out the door.
“I’m going to go check on your dad,” Sandy said. “Do you want to come with me?”
“Mom’s in there,” she answered, as though some invisible gate had been locked.
Sandy started toward the room but hesitated. “Remember my name. If you want to talk, tell the nursing assistants to flag me down.”
“I’m fine, Sandy,” Becca answered. If only she were.
When Sandy entered the room, she found Lena Hastings by the narrow window, watching the rain. Her posture had changed from the day before; she looked sunken in, like something inside had crumbled.
Mrs. Hastings watched her as she checked vitals but said nothing. Sandy saw that the Stadol drip and saline needed to be replaced. She wasn’t sure what Mr. Hastings could feel, but it would not be pain.
“You’ve been kind to us.” Mrs. Hastings’ voice was hoarse from fatigue.
Sandy gave her a weak smile. “I was talking to Becca. She’s having a tough time.”
“She’s always been Mitch�
��s kid. I’m not even sure how to help her.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
Mrs. Hastings turned back to the window. Sandy moved closer. She could see the gray swollen sky, the tiny rivers of water rippling down the pane.
“Five days ago, I had my life,” Mrs. Hastings said. “We had just rebuilt it, you see, after I had cancer. And before—well, we had a lot to rebuild. But now it’s rubble. All of it.” She pressed a finger against the glass and slid it down, tracking a trail of rain. She looked wounded, but Sandy recognized something else in Mrs. Hastings’ eyes: terror.
Sandy was no stranger to fear. Her first night in rehab, when it felt like her life had been ripped from her, she lay on the hard, narrow bed, fighting tremors and nausea and wanting to die as the drugs leached out of her system. That had been the worst. No, not quite the worst, but close.
“I have these days ahead of me,” Mrs. Hastings said. “What am I going to do without him?”
Sandy had read about the seven stages of grief back in school, but for her it had been more like fifty. The telling people who still didn’t know about the miscarriage stage. The returning unworn maternity and baby clothes stage. The repainting the nursery stage. The finding out about Donald’s pregnant girlfriend stage. The discovery that drugs really, really helped stage, and look where that got her.
Sandy blinked, redirecting her thinking to her patient, busying herself with monitors that didn’t need adjusting and drips that she’d already checked.
Lena’s fingers swept the glass, down, then around, and up, as though drawing a figure she alone could see. “The transplant team is coming this afternoon. I only have a few more hours with him. This shouldn’t be about me.”
“But it is about you. You and your kids. And the others who love him.” It was always about those left to stumble on. For Sandy, drugs had been the thing that helped her bear it. Or at least, they gave her escape. She prayed Lena didn’t fall into a similar trap.
“You’re speaking from experience.”
Sandy flinched. Maybe she’d said too much, or maybe she wore her pain too close to the surface now.