Crap on a cracker.
It seemed as if Matthew’s temperament had also seeped into my writing. Deleting the last paragraph, I took a sip of my coffee.
Koral had texted me the morning after what should have been her triumph, spouting her hatred for him. Thankfully, she didn’t get into details about what had transpired, but it seemed as if he’d left her high and dry, which had never happened to her before. Koral was the kind of girl who got offers left and right. She wasn’t a slut per se, but she definitely got around the block. It seemed as if Matthew was immune to her feminine wiles. I almost wanted to do a victory dance. Key word: almost. Matthew didn’t deserve anything but a punch in the face. He’d acted like an asshole that night. It didn’t matter we weren’t together; you don’t flirt with me and then in the next breath¸ take my friend home to have sex with her. It breaches basic ethics.
A glance at my watch alerted me I had thirty minutes to get to my parents’ house. They resided in West Seattle, which meant I would be late. Throwing my stuff into my bag, I shifted it over my left shoulder and hauled out of the coffee shop and into my car. The traffic gods looked upon me fondly and I managed to glide over the bridge with ease. I pulled into my parents’ driveway behind my mom’s brand new BMW, an anniversary present from my dad. Thirty years together, minus the year they were divorced.
My car door slammed shut as I stepped into my mom’s prized flowerbeds by accident. “Oops,” I muttered.
I walked hastily up the winding stone path to the stately front door. About to knock, it swung open and my parents’ maid smiled widely in greeting. Henrietta had been with us since I had been a toddler. She was viewed more like a close friend than hired help. For the past few months, she had been gone due to a family emergency back in Jamaica.
I returned her smile and threw my arms around her neck. “I’m so happy you’re back! I missed you.”
“I missed you too.” Letting go, she clasped my hands between hers. Concern bright in her eyes. “You look tired.”
“Yea, you could say that.” I shrugged. “Exams.”
“Nothing else?”
Henrietta had enough on her plate as it was with her ailing father. I didn’t want to add another crease between her brows.
“Yes, nothing else. School is always insane before spring break.”
I could tell she didn’t believe me, partly because of my awful lying skills, but also because she had a knack for seeing through my bullshit. Her loyalty as fierce as her love prevented me from getting into trouble with my parents when she caught me red-handed .
“Okay, choonksey,” Henrietta said, which meant “sweetheart” in her native tongue. “Let’s go greet your parents. Your mother made your favorite -- chicken pot pie.”
“YOU made chicken pot pie. My mother would burn it.”
Chuckling, she linked her arm through mine and led me into the sitting room. My parents were reading in their respective chairs each with a glass of whiskey in hand. After being together so long, their tastes mirrored each other’s.
“Look who’s here,” Henrietta announced.
My father folded his newspaper and set it down on the ottoman. Crossing the room, he kissed me lightly on the cheek. His signature after-shave tickled my nose.
“It’s nice to see you, darling,” he said.
“You too. I heard there’s chicken pot pie on the menu.”
“Is that the only reason you come by to see us? For food?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
A grin split apart his cheeks, shaving twenty years off his weathered appearance. Back in the olden days, my dad used to be beach bum who had two loves, his surfboard and the ocean. He hadn’t exactly been liberal with the sunscreen and had the sunspots to prove it. Nevertheless, my father’s dashing good looks hadn’t diminished. He was a hot commodity amongst the women at my parents’ country club.
“Good!” My father eyed my one size too large sweater and jeans. “You need to eat. You are drowning in your clothes.”
I refrained from pointing out that this was how I preferred it. Better to conceal my curves than flaunt them. I didn’t want men to get the wrong idea.
My mom approached us and swatted her husband’s comment away. “I think she looks beautiful as always.” She quickly folded me into her arms. “Although a reddish orange blouse would bring out your eyes, Camille.”
Of course, a compliment was never simply a compliment. It had to be followed by a critique. I glanced back at Henrietta, but she had slipped out of the reading room. Smart woman. I wish I could do the same.
“Go wash up. Dinner will be ready in five minutes,” my mom ordered.
“Okay.”
Taking the stairs two at a time, I padded down the hallway into my former bedroom. My mother had turned it into her office, but the original floral wallpaper was still tacked to the wall, peeling at the baseboards. I leaned against the doorframe and crossed my arms. Memories floated in the air along with dust bunnies. After the incident, my parents had pulled me out of Rolling Bay College and forced me to live at home with them while I transferred to a school closer by. Marlene never knew what’d happened that had caused the change in plans. She was too focused on being pregnant and single, which had been for the best. I’d wanted to pretend as if the events in the alleyway had occurred to someone else.
That summer, we’d hung out mostly at my house. Henrietta would satisfy Marlene’s insane pregnancy cravings like chocolate chip cookies with pickle ice cream while we watched reruns of Saved by the Bell. It was like being a teenager again.
When Luke had abandoned her, Marlene had said I was her saving grace, but what she hadn’t realized was that she’d been mine. Those three months had restored my sanity.
“Dinner!” Henrietta called from downstairs.
I took one last glance around, then closed the door. My parents sat around the dining room table that was done up like a four-star restaurant as I entered the cream-colored room.
“You don’t have to go all out on my account.” I plopped into a seat across from my dad and folded a napkin over my lap. “Seriously, this is too much.”
“It’s a special occasion,” my mother replied.
“It is?”
“Yes, your father ran into his old college buddy, Dr. Ross, at the supermarket, and he happens to be a top psychologist in Seattle. When your father mentioned how you are getting your PhD…” She glanced at my father. “Well, you can tell the rest, sweetheart.”
“There is a paid practicum open at his office. He will email you the details tomorrow and you guys can discuss it.”
My throat suddenly became dry. I swallowed a large gulp of water and spoke, “Wow. That’s great.”
“Isn’t it? This practicum could really skyrocket your career,” my mother said demurely.
Another gulp of water didn’t clear the baseball-sized lump. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t had other practica, but they were small compared to this opportunity. Dr. Ross was a premier cognitive therapist who has been praised as a genius. After reading countless articles written by him which were ahead of the curve in the field of clinical psychology, I had to agree.
But the nagging sense I had chosen the wrong career path had been pulling at me since Matthew and I had talked at Witness. He’d chased his dreams, why shouldn’t I? Oh yea, because the two hundred grand my parents had sunk into my education would be for nothing. Not to mention, the crushing guilt that would follow.
Henrietta placed the individual chicken potpies in front of us and set a large salad in the middle of the table. The home-cooked meal distracted my attention for now. I cracked the flaky pastry layer with the back of my spoon. Herb-scented steam rose from inside and reminded me of cold winter nights spent in front of a roaring fire.
My mother dabbed at her lips daintily. “So have you met any nice boys recently?”
“Men, Mom. They are men. They stopped being boys when I left high school.”
“I would disagree. Some men
never stop being boys.”
My dad raised his wine glass in solidarity. “Here! Here!”
She rolled her eyes. “That wasn’t a compliment, honey.”
My dad and I shared a mutual smile. We were pros at annoying her, which we did way too often. I arranged a perfect bite of crust-to-filling ratio and shoved it into my mouth.
“Holy crap,” I muttered. “This is amazing.”
“Watch your language,” my mom scolded.
“Sorry.”
Henrietta busted in with a pitcher of lemonade, and as she turned leave, I grabbed her sleeve. “Do you have any extra I can take home by chance?”
“There is already a container in the freezer for you.”
“You are my angel.”
She winked then returned to the kitchen, even though I’d dearly hoped she would stay. These meals were more bearable with her in the room. My mother had less of a chance of hassling me about my love life. At my age, she’d already been married and owned a house. This house actually. What she didn’t understand was that it didn’t work that way anymore. Women had careers before they had kids, or even husbands for that matter.
“I had a lovely lunch with Martha the other afternoon,” my mom said.
“My therapist? That Martha?” I set my spoon on the table. “Because that’s wrong on so many levels.”
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
Desperately, I looked over at my father who took an avid interest in his dinner. He wouldn’t touch our squabbles with a ten-foot pole. Said they were like quicksand, once you were in, the only way to get free was to chew your own leg off.
Seeing I had to fight this battle by myself, I spoke. “Did you discuss my problems over a nice cup of tea and a croissant?”
“Your name didn’t come up actually,” my mom replied. “But Martha did mention her son who sounds like a very nice young man. He is in medical school at UW. Maybe you know him? Charles Ludkey.”
“Seriously? You want me to date my therapist’s son?! She knows my deepest, darkest secrets, and to her, I’m probably fifty shades of fucked up. I would question her mental wherewithal if she even allowed this little ploy of yours.”
“I want to see you happy, Camille.”
“I am happy!”
“You are letting your twenties pass you by, which isn’t healthy! You are either in your apartment, studying, or at school.”
“Getting your PhD isn’t exactly a walk in the park. You need focus and dedication.”
She folded her hands onto the table and leaned back into her chair with her legs crossed. The pose she went into when she was about to deliver the winning punch. “It seems to me you are avoiding, Camille, and as much as you try to bury what happened to you under a pile of textbooks, what’s going to happen when those textbooks are gone? Another breakdown?” My mother softened her tone when she caught sight of the tears shining in my eyes. “You have been given a second chance, my darling girl. Live, date, fall in love, get your heart broken.”
My thumb swiped under my lower lash line. “I have.”
“You have what?”
The pity in my parents’ gazes compelled me to spin the web of lies that followed. A web I wouldn’t be able to disentangle myself from no matter how hard I tried. I should have followed my father’s lead and kept my head down and my mouth shut. Being my mother’s daughter though, that wasn’t an easy feat.
“I met somebody,” I replied.
“You have?!” my mother squealed. “Who? Did you meet him in your program?”
The first guy that popped into my head came spilling forth. “No, we met through Marlene. He’s the lead singer of Five Guys.”
“A musician?” my father asked warily.
“Yea, but not like a deadbeat one hustling for gigs in tiny bars. He’s hugely famous.”
My mother cocked her head to the side and tapped her finger against her lips. “The band does sound familiar. I might have caught them on Saturday Night Live last weekend. Can’t remember though. Rock and roll isn’t really my kind of music.”
That was an understatement. My mom only listened to country because, in her words, it was like a soap opera but more intellectual.
“Is he nice?” my father questioned.
Matthew was like a jaguar who’d rip your throat to shreds without blinking.
“Yea, super nice and smart. A real standup guy.” My parents raised their eyebrows at that term, “standup guy.” Besides Benjamin, my dating history had been less than first-rate. “You guys will like Matthew a lot. Promise.”
“Great! Bring him to dinner next Sunday.” My dad smiled widely, matching my mother’s.
“No! He can’t; he’s on tour.”
“According to my iPhone, he doesn’t leave for another 2 weeks.” My mother waved the offending device in the air. She peered closely at the screen. “This Matthew is very good looking.”
I wanted to tunnel a hole into the floor and run backwards to ten minutes ago. I’m an idiot. It’s not like I could bring a blowup doll to dinner and pretend it was Matthew. And I certainly couldn’t fess up to my lie. My parents would bestow the crazy hat on me. What the hell was I going to do?
Shifting on the paper-covered exam table, I glanced at my Rolex. A quarter past noon. The nurse left ten minutes ago and told me the doctor would be with me shortly.
Shortly, my ass.
Not a patient person by nature, I drummed my fingers to a beat only I could hear. I had been racking my brain to come up with a chorus for my new song. Luke had been helping me, but since getting married, he’d fallen into a state of wedded bliss. A song about heartbreak wasn’t his cup of tea at the moment.
The door opened and a woman dressed in a white coat entered. Her black, shiny hair hit the middle of her back, brushed to perfection. I snuck a glance at her nametag. It read Dr. Ahuja.
She stared at the clipboard in her hands that had my x-rays and CT scans I had done earlier. “Hello, Mr. Lee. I’m Dr. Ahuja, but you can call me Devika. I see you are experiencing some knee pain.”
“Yea, I...” Devika’s attention remained rooted on her clipboard as I began to speak. Annoyance bubbled to the surface. “I’m sorry, but can you look at me while I’m talking to you?” She seemed startled by my bluntness. Her opal-colored eyes met mine and I flashed her a disarming smile. “Thank you. Like I was saying, I slipped in the shower and landed on my knee. The swelling has gone down, but it’s still tender to the touch.”
The reason I’d slipped was conveniently absent. She didn’t need to know I blacked out and woke up God knows how much later with ice cold water beating down upon me.
Dr. Ahuja scrawled a note on the piece of paper. “Does it hurt to walk?”
“A little.”
“On a scale of one to ten? How bad?”
“Do you have one of those pain charts?”
She spun around on her stool. Rummaging through a drawer, she found what I was referring to and handed it to me. I’d been joking, but it seemed as if Devika didn’t have a sense of humor. That immediately crossed her off my list. Although after what happened between Koral and I, my list had burned to ashes. I’d used sex as a haven from my sins, but ever since Camille had re-entered my life, I couldn’t escape them. She was a five-foot-five, blonde, sassy-mouthed reminder that your past always catches up with you, no matter how fast you run.
“Well?” Dr. Ahuja prompted.
I glanced at the chart and pointed to the sad face with a six scribbled below it.
She took note of where my finger was placed. “Gotcha. I’m sorry to hear that.”
Her line of sympathy sounded mechanical, like a robot that hadn’t oiled its gears yet. She should practice her bedside manner. Setting the clipboard on the counter, she scooted to the edge of the exam table and began to probe my knee. I winced as she bent my leg.
Son of a bitch.
Icy hot pain seeped into my muscles. Inhaling, I bit the inside of my cheek while I waited for the pain to subside.
The torture ceased and Dr. Ahuja spoke. “It looks like a torn ligament. I’ll give you a knee brace to wear and we will check back in two weeks. Also, it would help if you continue to ice it, keep it elevated, and try to decrease your activity. So no running.”
“I don’t run.”
Her eyes grazed my torso. “But you workout?”
It wasn’t a pick up line, I recognized that much. Nevertheless, ruffling the doctor’s feathers tempted me, solely because she was a challenge and I liked a challenge. But then what? It’s not like we would sleep together.
“Sometimes,” I said.
She tore off a slip of paper and passed it to me. “No physical activity until the swelling has gone down. I’ll see you soon.”
With that she washed her hands and exited the exam room. Shimmying into my jeans, I tucked the paper into my back pocket.
Sean had recruited me to help him move into his new townhouse located in the Magnolia Neighborhood, a hilly peninsula northwest of downtown. His soon to be ex-wife was demanding a large settlement on top of keeping the house. So, while she got to live amongst his success, he had to downsize. Number one reason I won’t enter a marriage blinded by love. You do stupid things like not asking for a prenuptial agreement.
Double-checking the address, I parked the car in front of a modern structure, which was a far cry from his old Tudor-style home. I had to wonder if this was the kind of architecture he preferred or rather the kind he could now afford. With Seattle being featured in magazines as THE city to live in, development companies were coming in and replacing charm with flash. Hence the reason why buildings like Sean’s were cheaper. They were a dime a dozen while older brick establishments with character were fewer and farther between.
I closed my car door and locked it. Sean opened the front door as I was halfway there and watched my slow and measured steps.
An amused grin tilted his lips. “You’re like the old man you always were.”
“Shut it or else those boxes won’t get unpacked.”
“No offense, man, but I think it would get done faster by myself.”
Broken Lullabies Page 4