by Gina Ardito
“Where’s this Garrett character now?” Josh asked.
“I don’t know,” she murmured with a careless shrug. “Back at the frat house, I guess.”
“So, where’s this frat house?”
“No,” I interjected. “It’s over, Josh. Let it go. Your sister’s okay, she’s learned her lesson, she’s not going to see Garrett again.”
“The hell it’s over. I can’t believe you kept this from me, Frannie. You should have called me the minute she showed up in the emergency room.”
My throat constricted, and my tongue grew thick in my mouth. I understood his disappointment, but he had no idea about the legal repercussions I faced. “Contacting you wasn’t an option for me.”
“It should have been.” He rose, his anger hot enough to reheat the cooling pancakes. “I have to get to work. Can I trust you to take her straight home after this?”
The dig pierced my sensitive feelings. “Of course,” I retorted. To hide my hurt, I bent and pushed the plate of pancakes in front of Desiree. “Eat, sweetheart. I’ll be right back.”
I followed Josh, who’d stormed to my front door, his heavy work boots thumping across my hardwood floors. “Jeez, Frannie, how could you not call someone? If not me, my parents or one of my sisters?”
“Josh, I couldn’t,” I repeated for the hundredth time. “If she’d just appeared on my doorstep, I would have picked up the phone right away. But she came to me as a patient in the hospital. And it’s against the law for me to divulge any details regarding a patient’s condition without permission. Believe me, I was just as surprised to see her in the E.R. as you were to find her here. If I’d have called anyone without her knowledge or consent...” I shook my head. “I could lose my medical license.”
“Who would have complained?” he demanded. “You think I would have told the medical board? Or my parents would have?”
“It doesn’t matter. I can’t cross that line. Even for you.”
“Let me get this straight. Suppose, next time she shows up in the E.R., she’s in a lot worse shape. Maybe even beaten nearly to death. You wouldn’t call her family to be with her?”
“Not if she were conscious, lucid, and insisting that I not tell anyone. No.”
His eyes narrowed to feral slits. “So, if it came down to telling me about something that might affect my sister’s life or your job, you’d choose your job. Right?”
A sick feeling of déjà vu kinked my gut, but I tried one last argument. “It’s the law, Josh. A law I happen to agree with. When a patient comes into my exam room, I need to be able to make an informed decision about how to treat that patient. And if a patient isn’t one hundred percent honest with me because he or she is afraid of repercussions from outsiders, including family, I can’t make that informed decision. In fact, a treatment I order could actually do more harm than good. I know it’s hard for you to understand—”
“Right,” he interjected. “Because I’m just a wood jockey. I keep forgetting. You know, I never figured for the type to value a job over family. Glad we got all this straightened out.” He yanked open the steel door, swinging it wide, then slammed his palm against the latch of the storm door. “Goodbye, Dr. Florentino.”
No kiss, no softness, no hint of a smile on his face. He simply stepped out onto the porch and strode swiftly away.
I closed the door and leaned my forehead against the cool metal.
“I’m sorry, Frannie.” Desi laid a hand on my shoulder, and I straightened.
“It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”
Desi shook her head, her almond eyes welling with tears. “Yes, it is. If I hadn’t been here when Josh showed up, this never would have happened.”
I wanted to scream my frustration. Her being here wasn’t the issue. It was the secrecy that ate at Josh. And I couldn’t blame him for that. If my baby sister had wound up in the E.R. after an assault—and asking for a pregnancy test!—I’d want to know, too.
“It might not have happened today,” I assured her, “but eventually, this kind of issue would have divided us.” On a sigh, I shooed her back to the kitchen. “Don’t worry about Josh and me. Finish your breakfast and then I’ll take you home.”
“You’ll just drop me off out front, right? I mean, I don’t want my mom to know I’m with you. If you don’t come in with me, I can tell her Casey’s dad took me home.”
Fabulous. Desiree still hadn’t learned her lesson. And I’d just lost someone who’d come to mean a great deal to me—for protecting her from her own stupidity. Absolutely fabulous.
****
Emily
Once Margie went home on Friday morning, no new roommate took her place, so I wound up with a private semi-private room, all alone with no one to talk to—except, of course, my mother-in-law. When she didn’t show up on Friday, I originally assumed Roy had told his mother about my intention to leave him—one positive to come out of my decision.
But Saturday morning, promptly at ten, she ambled into my quiet room and settled herself in the chair near the window. Which begged a question from me.
“Who’s watching the kids?”
“Roy has Gabriella and Luke at the park. Corey’s golfing with his grandfather, and Melissa went shopping at the outlet mall with her friends.”
Shopping? I sat up. “Where’d she get the money for shopping?”
Even before that smug smile crept over her thin lips, I knew.
“Does Roy know you gave Mellie money?”
She waved me off. “What difference does it make? He’s got enough on his shoulders, thanks to your...episode.” She managed to make my heart attack sound like a typical Wednesday on her favorite daytime soap. “If my husband and I can help ease Roy’s burden by taking care of his older two while he spends time with his little ones, and you get your rest, I don’t see the harm.”
Now, she didn’t see the harm. A few days ago, when she was the target of Melissa’s sharp tongue, I got the lecture about how I’ve spoiled my kids. Today, though, they were Roy’s kids.
“Mellie was being punished,” I told Sylvia. “Roy had specifically told her she was grounded for the weekend.”
Sylvia harrumphed. “Funny how she didn’t mention that to me when she asked for money for the mall. Since my son never lied to me, I can only assume Melissa’s bad behavior is your influence.”
Sighing, I rolled over and closed my eyes, not exactly feigning exhaustion. I don’t know why I bothered to fight anymore. I would never win.
Never.
Unaffected, my mother-in-law grabbed my remote control and turned on the television. Weekends meant no dose of who’s-sleeping-with-whom on her usual stories, so she opted for a televised shopping channel.
A tidal wave of loneliness and self-pity dragged me under. My family was having a fun weekend. Without me. While I was stuck in this hospital bed with Mrs. Killjoy. Awesome.
Squeezing my eyes shut against the possibility of breaking into tears, I reviewed my conversation with Dr. Calderon, focusing on the what ifs, should I or shouldn’t I, and who was to blame.
What if Roy and I hadn’t married all those years ago? Would we have wound up together eventually, anyway? Or would we have gone our separate ways? What if I’d given Mellie up for adoption, finished high school, and gone on to college? Would I have stayed in Snug Harbor? Roy, a senior when I got pregnant, had been mulling over college choices as far away as Texas when he’d tabled all those dreams for me and our unborn child. What if I’d let him go? Would he have come back?
I squeezed my pillow and tried to force the questions out of my head. After so many years of juggling childcare and housework before racing to my day job, this level of inactivity and self-analysis left me twitchy.
The ennui of the oily salesman hawking overpriced cubic zirconia jewelry took its toll, and I must have nodded off because the next thing I remember, a voice above me said, “Em?”
I jerked awake to see my husband’s face leaning over my head.
“Hey,” I said, the glimmer of a smile quirking my lips. My heartbeat sped up at his presence, reviving memories of our years together. My husband had, at one time, been a wiry, gangly young man who’d made the sun shine simply by smiling at me. I assume those were the days of laughter and chocolates that Margie talked about. “How are you?”
Dumb question, really. Right now, he looked ghastly: pale face, dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, hair sticking out in a dozen different directions, and a frown etching cavernous wrinkles in his cheeks and brow. Compared to the energetic boy of my memory, this lethargic man had aged five decades overnight. When had he become so old- and tired-looking? He was only thirty-five, for God’s sake. Electrical charges of guilt zapped my conscience. Was I wrong to leave now, during a time of tears and turnips?
“I’m okay,” he said, a statement we both knew was a blatant lie. “You?”
“Feeling better,” I lied back. “Just bored.” And tired of his mother’s constant visitations. But I kept that thought to myself. I wouldn’t ruin my husband’s visit by focusing on his mother’s negativity. I folded down the sheet and placed my arms atop my chest before raising my bed to a more upright position. Over the mechanical hum of the elevating headboard, I asked, “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be working?”
“I took an early lunch hour. I thought we could talk. Just us.” He gestured at the empty bed near the door. “No roomies.” A wave of his hand encompassed the rest of the room. “No family members around.”
“Where’s your mom?”
“I sent her home with the kids.”
My grateful heart shimmied inside my chest, but I opted for an inaudible nod for Roy’s benefit. “Did she tell you she not only let Mellie go to the mall, but she gave her money, too?”
“Yeah. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it when I get home.” He sat in the chair near my window and skooched closer to my bed. “You saw Dr. Calderon yesterday, didn’t you? What did you think of her?”
“Nice.”
Silence greeted my reply. God, had we really become this awkward around each other? I guessed so.
He looked up at the television where someone had turned on the local news, and the meteorologist repeated the weekend forecast. Sunny, sixties, perfect time to get those pumpkins and apples or start raking those leaves, blah, blah, blah. When the sports reporter began his rabid spiel, Roy returned his gaze to me. “Did she...umm...say anything? You know, about you leaving?”
“She asked me where I planned to go and if I had a support system in place.”
“You had—have a support system at home.”
“No, I don’t.” Shaking my head, I sighed. “I haven’t had a support system in ages.”
His frown deepened, creating a chasm of misery on his face. “Neither have I, but I’m still coming home every night.”
Splinters cracked my heart. He still didn’t understand. I doubted he ever would. “This isn’t about you, Roy. You’re not the one in a hospital bed because you’ve had a heart attack. You’re not the one hearing from your doctor that you have to find a way to cut down on stress.”
The words spilled from his mouth, staccato. “No, of course not. Because if I had a heart attack, they’d find me dead. No one cares about the stress in my life.”
“Roy, stop, please.” I danced a fine line here. How could I get him to understand without leading him to assume I blamed him for abandoning me? “I care. I’ve always cared. About you, our kids, your parents, and a thousand other issues that no one else thinks about. But as a mom, I’ve always put myself last. Most moms do. We work full-time, take care of the family, handle all the household stuff. I even pay the bills and balance the checkbook. In our family, I’m everyone else’s support system.” I didn’t add the last segment of that sentence: but no one is mine.
“What do you want from me? You want me to take a second job so you can stay home and relax all day? I mean, I guess I can always tend bar at night. Or maybe I could take off on my own like you. Find a friend to stay with and leave the kids alone for a few weeks while I get my head on straight. What the hell. If you can do it, so can I, right?”
I forgot about the fine line I danced on. As far as I was concerned, he’d just obliterated it. “So, what is this? An ultimatum? I either change my mind and come home, or you’ll abandon the kids?”
“You’re abandoning the kids. And me.” He stood, his hand white-knuckling my bedrail. “Don’t worry, I’ll be there. I always am. You may think you’re the family’s super support system, but I’m the one who’s sticking around. I don’t have a choice. I never do. I don’t have anyone to foist my responsibilities on.”
“Roy, sit, please.” I took a deep breath, then another. Remembering Dr. Stewart’s admonition, I mentally counted to ten. By the time I reached seven, I could distance myself from the argument and see his side. He was scared. While I’d been thinking about leaving my family for a few weeks, for Roy, the news came out of the blue. And worse, by leaving him, I’d pulled his support system out from under him—shabby as I might have been at the job—and tossed all the other needy burdens on his shoulders. I placed my palm on top of his fingers, using a gentle, tenuous contact. “Let’s not fight, please?”
“I don’t understand you anymore.” His plaintive tone abraded the air between us.
“I know.” After all, I didn’t understand me, either, right now.
“Do you? Because you’ve changed. You’re colder and...I don’t know...stiffer, maybe. For a while, I chalked it up to your job. I can’t imagine that it’s easy keeping a calm head when people are screaming about accidents and break-ins. So if you didn’t really show much emotion at home...well...maybe that comes with years on the job. Like cops who tell jokes at grisly murder scenes, right? But the Emily I knew—the one I married—would crawl across broken glass, bare-legged, while on fire, before she’d turn her back on her kids.”
I sighed again, resettling my hand on the sheets. “I wish I could make you understand why I feel the need to take a break.”
“Oh, I understand. I know I’m not a hundred percent innocent. You and I aren’t a couple anymore. We’ve been acting like strangers for months. Every conversation between us disintegrates into an argument.”
“Like this one,” I muttered before I could stop myself.
“Like this one,” he repeated. “That’s why I called Dr. Calderon when you first told me you planned to move into that old woman’s apartment.”
His confession jolted me. I stared up at him, my eyes wide. “You did?”
“Yeah. After I stormed out of here, I couldn’t wrap my head around what had just happened. I called Dr. Calderon and stopped down at her office after work.”
“You did?” Apparently, surprise limited me to the same two word reply. The idea of big, strong Roy seeking out a counselor for advice shook my senses hard enough to knock me onto the floor.
He nodded.
“What did she say?”
“Since she hadn’t seen you yet, nothing helpful. She pretty much let me vent and then asked me what I thought you wanted.”
“What did you say?” Parrots had nothing on me when it came to repetition.
“The truth.” He bowed his head. “That I had no idea, that I haven’t been able to figure you out for months now.”
Figure me out? For months? What was I, a Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle? My temper rose a few degrees, and I took several deep breaths to tamp it down. “If you’ve been confused for so long, why didn’t you try talking to me?”
“When?” Acid dripped from the single syllable. “When I’m racing out the door first thing in the morning? When you come home from work at night and we’re both struggling with homework assignments and bath time? After we’ve collapsed into bed, brain-dead? Or on the weekends, while we’re running in opposite directions from one kid’s activity to another?” He sank into the chair again. “I was terrified when they called me to the E.R. on Monday. I really thought I
was gonna lose you. And all I kept thinking about was the last conversation we’d had.”
I hesitated, not one hundred percent sure what our last conversation had been about.
“I don’t remember exactly what we talked about.” Ha! This time, he mimicked my thoughts. “But I know we weren’t in a good place and had both said some pretty rotten things over the previous week. I hated thinking you might die with bad feelings between us.”
I still heard no declarations of love, but at least, he wasn’t telling me he’d miss me taking care of the house and kids for him. We’d finally progressed to my loss meriting almost as much grief as the loss of Freckles. Baby steps, I supposed.
“That’s why I didn’t argue when Dr. Stewart suggested we start seeing a counselor,” he continued. “I thought, ‘Here’s a way we can finally talk.’ You’d have to come with me because your doctor ordered it as part of your treatment regimen. And at Dr. Calderon’s office, we could not only air the problems between us without distractions, but we’d have someone unbiased who could help us pick up the pieces and put it all back together again.”
Margie’s words echoed in my skull. Those are the days I know we loved each other the most because we got through them. Together.
My mouth dried to dust, and I sipped tepid water from the cup on my bed table. “Is that what you want? For us to pick up the pieces and put our marriage back together?”
“I did.” He shook his head. “Now, I’m not so sure.”
Ouch. The barb struck my poor splintered heart, which I supposed, Roy had targeted with the sharp rebuke. My first reaction was to shoot back, but I stopped, breathed, counted to ten, sipped more water. I’d already hurt him so badly. Maybe it was time for me to tell him what I wanted. Maybe, instead of continuing to bottle up the problems until they fermented and soured our marriage, I should release them into the air. Maybe then we could actually tackle them. After all, he’d come here now to talk. So maybe we should both take advantage of the solitude and really talk.