by Tracey Lange
Taking this trip right now was a bad idea. He should stay here and meet with Billy Walsh about missing another loan payment. He should stay and make sure there were no more delays with the opening of their second location. If one more thing went wrong at the new site, one more unexpected expense came up, he was sunk. Not only would he lose the business, he’d likely lose his family as well.
* * *
He arrived at LAX around 7 P.M. and Uber’d straight to the hospital, a half-hour ride through the congested highways and streets of his sister’s adopted city. It was hard to picture her there, among the hazy sprawling metropolis that went on as far as the eye could see. If she’d been looking for the complete opposite of their hometown, with its population of ten thousand and village-feel, she’d found it.
Once Denny had been alone on the plane, nursing a beer with nothing but time to think, it had really sunk in. Sunday could have been killed or killed someone else. She’d always been so responsible, annoyingly so at times. This just didn’t fit with the sister he knew. Truth was he didn’t know her anymore. Whenever they spoke it was all surface info, fleeting and forgettable. Everything she said indicated she was living the dream.
The dream had brought Sunday to the West Coast in the first place. She’d always wanted to be a writer, and five years ago she up and moved to LA after receiving a job offer to write content for websites. Anyone who knew her was dumbfounded by her decision. She’d never so much as mentioned leaving New York. Her entire family was there, and they were a tight-knit group.
But what truly stunned everyone back then was that she left Kale. Not a family member or friend saw that one coming. Certainly not Kale.
The Uber dropped him in front of the vast medical complex that was Cedars-Sinai and it took him a few minutes to locate the non–intensive care unit. A nurse looked Sunday up in the computer and pointed him in a direction with a room number, informing him that visiting hours were over soon. He wheeled his carry-on down the wide, hushed corridor. His hope was to get a key to Sunday’s apartment and stay there, avoid the cost of a hotel. Though she didn’t know he was coming yet; he’d decided to surprise her. And maybe he’d been a little afraid she’d tell him not to bother.
The door to her room was open, the lights lowered for the evening. He parked his case under the window, turned to her, and sucked in his breath.
Fading sunlight streamed across a sleeping Sunday, who looked small and shrunken in the adjustable hospital bed with the side rails. The first thing to grab his eye was the large splint on her left arm that ended above her elbow. It was propped on a pillow beside her. As his gaze moved upward, he couldn’t help the “Jesus Christ” that slipped out. Her face was covered in varying shades of deep red, which, he knew from personal experience, would turn lovely hues of purple. There was a white bandage across her nose; maybe she’d broken it. The longer he looked, the more details seeped in: small cuts on her cheeks, presumably from glass. Lacerations on her arms, some creeping out from under the splint. An angry gash on the left side of her forehead that had been stitched up. They had an IV going into her arm and a heart rate monitor clipped to her finger.
Without taking his eyes off her battered face, he lowered himself into the chair by the bed. Memories hit his gut like tennis balls from a machine: Sunday running to him in tears in grade school because Bobby Brody flipped up her skirt. Denny and Kale had made Bobby pay sorely for that one, and it had been well worth the parent conferences and detentions. The time she had to serve a three-day in-school suspension in junior high after punching a boy who called Shane a retard. Throughout her sentence Denny, Kale, and Jackie had taken turns giving her the thumbs-up and making faces through the classroom window for moral support.
He thought about what a good sport she’d been, up for a Hot Wheels session when he had no one else around, letting the boys rope her into ball games and skateboard stunts. How she would stand with her arms crossed and hip cocked when she meant business. The way she cheered louder than anyone else at his and Kale’s soccer games, and spent endless hours helping Shane.
Floating just under the anger was the stinging realization that he missed her. Or maybe that was part of the anger. He didn’t know.
* * *
Dr. Kelley, thatch of white hair on a tall rumpled frame, stopped in a few minutes later to provide a report. Her arm was fractured and would be put in a hard cast the next day. She had sustained a concussion that could cause short-term migraines or nausea. The cuts on her cheeks and nose would heal, though the gash on the side of her head would leave a scar. And the bruising would fade over time, but first it would get worse. Dr. Kelley—Dad would be glad to know her medical care was in Irish hands—wanted to see how she was doing with the head injury, but she’d likely be discharged in two to three days.
When the doc mentioned her blood alcohol level had been 0.19 Denny felt his shoulders slump. He’d assumed she was over the limit, but not by that much. As the owner of a pub he was well versed in BAC levels. At around a hundred and twenty pounds, Sunday had probably consumed five to six drinks, possibly more depending on how long she’d been at it. Maybe this was a thing with her now, this kind of drinking.
He ended up spending the night in the hospital, dozing in the chair next to her bed. But he’d had to work for it after the nurse initially said no.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Brennan—”
“Please, call me Denny.”
The young brunette in blue scrubs smiled up at him. “Denny. I’m sorry, but it’s against hospital policy.”
“I totally understand. The last thing I want is to get anyone in trouble.” He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it slightly, and stepped closer to her, glanced at her name tag. “It’s just, I traveled across the country today, Amy, so I could be here when my little sister wakes up. You know, so she’s not alone, and scared.”
She glanced over her shoulder and leaned in. “Tell you what. I’ll try to be the one to check on her tonight so no one else comes in here.”
He gave her a broad smile. “Thank you.”
“But, if someone else catches you…”
Denny touched her arm. “You were never here.”
She pointed at him and grinned. “I’ll see if I can find an extra dinner tray for you.”
He winked at her as she turned to go.
“Some things never change.”
It took a moment to realize the raspy voice belonged to Sunday. She peered at him from the bed, her eyes so puffy it was hard to tell they were open.
He pointed after Amy. “She’s going to bring me dinner.”
One side of his sister’s mouth curled up. “Course she is.”
He sat down in the chair next to the bed. She was like someone he hardly knew and yet so familiar. Strangers with shared memories.
“I can’t believe you came,” she said.
“Thought I better see what the hell was going on out here. How’re you feeling?”
She took a breath and winced. “Like it’s all about to start hurting.” Her voice cracked and her speech was slow, probably due to her swollen everything. “How do I look?”
“Like hammered shit.”
She tried to smile.
He crossed his arms.
After a moment she turned toward the ceiling and swallowed, blinked several times. Tears spilled down toward the pillow and Denny’s body deflated a bit. He had planned to keep his distance, fulfill his obligation in a cool and professional manner. Be the big brother and make sure she was okay but allow his disapproval to leak through.
Instead, he reached out and gave her good hand a squeeze.
She squeezed back. “Thanks for coming.”
* * *
When the Uber turned off the highway the next morning and headed into an industrial area, he questioned if he’d gotten the address right. He didn’t know LA, but he knew a sketchy part of town when he saw it.
He was glad he had stayed with her overnight, even though actual sleep was
impossible in the rigid plastic chair. They didn’t talk much. She was exhausted and even minimal movement caused pain. Besides, she had no memory of the accident, had trouble sustaining a simple conversation. But throughout the night she woke for short intervals, turning to him each time, as if to make sure he was still there before she drifted off again. When someone came early in the morning to prep her arm for a cast, he figured that was his chance to catch a shower at her apartment.
He was dropped off in front of a nondescript two-story stucco building crisscrossed by a rusty metal fire escape. There were bars on all the lower windows. Over the years Sunday had hinted at a nice building, a trendy neighborhood. He had no idea when she moved to this shithole. Maybe she’d always been there.
His concerns were confirmed when the key she’d given him actually fit the exterior lock. He climbed a flight of stairs, walked down a dim, narrow hall, and entered her studio apartment—or was there a name for something smaller than a studio? It was barely a room, with a phone-booth-sized bathroom and a “kitchen” that amounted to a mini-fridge, a microwave, and a hot plate.
But as he soaked it in he had to smile: tiny as it was, she’d made it hers. The walls were painted a light gray, and the large area rug was a swirl of muted pastel colors. A double bed sat along one wall, the comforter covered in large blue butterflies. The opposite wall was occupied by a gold retro love seat and a simple desk, which held a laptop and a pile of yellow legal pads.
There were more signs of his sister in the narrow jam-packed bookshelves, with more books stacked on the floor, and a linen bulletin board hanging above the desk. It was covered with photos, most of them pictures of family. Him and his siblings at various ages. Their parents in front of the Cathedral of the Holy Cross in Boston a few years before Mom died. A large picture of the exterior of the pub, the Gaelic translation of their name front and center over the door: Ó’Braonáin. There were also pictures of Kale and Sunday together, a couple from high school, others from years later. None of the photos were recent, and none with faces he didn’t recognize.
Several small framed drawings sat on the desk—a sketch of their house in West Manor, simple portraits of each family member. Jackie’s work. He must have sent them over the years. With a little prick of resentment Denny wondered if Sunday stayed in closer contact with Jackie than she did with the rest of them.
He sat in her desk chair and swiveled around to take a closer look. Some landscape prints on the wall, probably Impressionists, because those were her favorite. A clothing rack that was less than half-full, but Sunday had never been big into clothes. A corner shelf with a few basic dishes. He picked up a black polo shirt that was lying on the arm of the love seat. A badge pinned to the upper left side read “Welcome to Dick’s Diner!”
None of this jibed with the life he thought his sister was living, with her intimations of a developing career and busy social life. How many times had he lambasted her in his mind while he schlepped Mom and Shane to all their appointments, tried to save Jackie from himself, moved his family back into the house because Dad needed help … Visions of her soaking up sun at the beach or partying on some roof deck, living the life of Riley. No one to worry about but herself. At least in that scenario he could understand why she left and stayed away. This was worse. Her life here appeared downright lonely, but she still chose it over coming home.
* * *
After she was discharged the next day they both took an Uber to her apartment. She was quiet on the drive; she had been most of the morning, like she was deep in troubled thought. It had started when she carefully heel-toed to the mirror in the hospital bathroom to survey the damage up close.
“My God. I look like something from a horror flick. Look at my eyes.” Her irises were swimming in pools of crimson and her face was moving into full-stage blue-purple bruising, darkest at the bridge of her nose. Her choice of a black cast exacerbated an already bleak picture.
“You burst a bunch of capillaries,” he said. “They’ll go back to normal.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. It happened to me once after a fight in high school.”
Shortly after that they were visited by a brusque LAPD officer who skipped all pleasantries, officially cited her for driving under the influence, and confiscated her license, replacing it with a temporary driving permit that was only good for thirty days or until her court date. Given her uneasy expression since then, the consequences seemed to be truly dawning on her.
Her movements were slow and unsteady as they climbed the stairs to her apartment, and as soon as they got inside she collapsed into her chair, resting her bulky cast on top of her desk.
“You hungry?” he asked. “I could run out and get something.”
She shook her head. Her face and body sagged as she looked around her apartment. He could almost watch reality setting in. She’d be thinking about her next steps: calling work, losing her license, lawyers’ fees, and hospital bills.
He sat on the love seat and made a decision he’d been deliberating about for the better part of a day. “I have an idea I want you to consider.”
She raised her ruined face to him and he tried not to wince. It still caught him off guard to see her that way.
“I think you should come home.”
Her eyebrows pushed down and then shot up. “To New York?”
“At least until you get back on your feet. Hear me out, Sun. The doc said you need time to recover. I would assume by now you lost your job. At the diner. But even if you haven’t, you’re going to lose your license for a long time and have no way to get there.”
“I can figure all that out.” She gestured around her apartment. “This is where I live. I can’t just leave.”
He sat forward, his elbows on his knees. “Everyone’s worried about you. You haven’t been home in almost four years, and that was just two days for the funeral. And now, you get into this accident—”
“No one needs to worry about me. I’m fine.”
He tilted his head and gave her a pointed look.
“I made a bad decision the other night, Denny, but I like my life here.”
He sensed that was true, to a degree. Her signature was all over this apartment and, based on the notepads on her desk filled with longhand, it seemed she was doing some kind of writing. But in the three days he’d been there he’d only seen evidence of loose friendships—an old guy next door checking on her, a couple of brief calls she received at the hospital—but no signs of people that were a significant part of her life. Meanwhile she had a house full of family back in New York who needed her.
He pulled out the big gun. “I could really use some help at home.”
She flinched, almost as if he’d yelled at her.
“Dad’s getting worse,” he said. “He refuses to get evaluated, but I’m afraid it might be early-stage dementia. He’s forgetful, and he can’t drive at night anymore. He gets confused and his vision sucks. A month ago he hit the big beam in the middle of the detached garage, took out the electrical. The ceiling almost came down.”
She turned to look out the small window over her desk, like she didn’t want to hear any more.
“Jackie’s checked out,” he said. “Shane’s doing pretty good, but his anxiety acts up a lot. Kale and I are trying to open the Mamaroneck location, but we’ve had major setbacks—”
“That’s enough.”
“Sorry if it’s hard for you to hear, Sunday. But some of us are in it every day, taking care of things.”
She thrust her face toward his and pointed to her chest. “I have been there and done that. I gave everything I had to this family. And look what it got me.”
“What the hell does that mean? You chose to leave.” He glanced around her apartment. “You chose this life.”
She shook her head. “I’m not going to let you emotionally blackmail me into coming back.”
Maybe that’s exactly what he was doing. But she’d stayed away for five years. If he cou
ldn’t get her to come home now, she probably never would. “Theresa took Molly and left to stay with her sister,” he said. “She said there’s too much going on at the house, and with the business. That I’m stressed out all the time and things need to change.”
She drew a sharp breath and for the first time since they started this conversation, her eyes softened. “I’m so sorry, Denny.”
Sunday was the last one in the family to know about the separation. There’d been a time when she would have been the first person he talked to about it. Just sitting with her now, sharing all this, provided some degree of relief. Like he wasn’t totally alone in it. For a second he was even tempted to tell her about Billy Walsh and the loan. But she could do nothing to help with that.
When she spoke again it was so quietly he wasn’t sure he heard her. “Maybe I could go. For a little while.”
“Seriously?”
She didn’t answer. Instead her eyes roamed around the room while she chewed her bottom lip.
“Look, I know it wouldn’t be easy, coming back. You had your reasons for leaving. But you have no idea how excited everyone would be.”
“Not everyone.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “Don’t worry about Kale, I’ll talk to him.”
“What about this DUI? I don’t even know when my court date is yet.”
“I got a lawyer buddy back home. He said you’re free to leave the state while all that is resolved, and he hooked us up with a DUI guy out here.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I just got out of the hospital. I need a little time.”
“What you need is your family. And right now, they need you too.”
She stared at him for a long moment before sighing in surrender. “Okay. I’ll come home.”
He slumped back against the couch. Thank Christ.
CHAPTER THREE
Sunday