by L. E. Rico
“Yeah…and I think your nose is broken,” she counters with a mixture of concern and irritation. “What on earth was going on with you two? Why were you fighting like that?”
I look back at Win, who’s looking down at the floor now.
“You know what? We can tell you all about that later. For now, I think we need to bring you to the hospital…” I get to my feet and face my brother. “Win, I think maybe, under the circumstances, I should be the one to take Jameson to the E.R. Are you…are you okay here with the baby?”
“I can take care of my own son,” he spits resentfully.
“That’s not what I asked. We can take the kid with us or call one of his aunts…”
My brother takes a deep breath. And then another. And another. I recognize the technique he uses to get his emotions in check.
“No, we scared the crap out of him. It should be me who Jackson sees when he wakes up.”
I look skeptically at Jameson, but she nods her agreement. That’s that, then. I help Jameson get to her feet, careful not to jostle her injured limb.
“I’ll call you from the hospital and let you know what time we’ll be back,” I tell Win.
“No, it’s going to take a while for them to see her, and they’ll want to do x-rays. Jameson, I’ll take him home with me tonight and you can call me later and let me know what you want to do about tomorrow.”
“Yes, okay,” she murmurs as we move slowly toward the door. Once she’s stepped over the threshold and out onto the porch, I turn back to my brother.
“This isn’t over, Win. Not by a long shot.”
Even as I utter the words, I’m hoping to God that I’m wrong.
Chapter Nine
Jameson
“What a clustertastrophe,” I mutter as we sit in the plastic orange chairs of Mayhem General Hospital, waiting for me to be called back for an x-ray after my initial intake.
“I’m sorry…a what?” Scott asks from beside me. “I don’t think that’s the word you’re looking for—”
“I know the word I’m looking for,” I snap at him. “We try to be careful about what we say in front of Jackson—he parrots everything. It took months to get him to stop calling poor Bryan a douche.”
Scott snorts so loudly that people turn to look at us. “Uhh, sorry,” he mutters to them. “Yeah, okay, cluster…tastrophe it is… Jameson—”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what? You don’t know what I was about to say?” he objects.
“I do. You want to apologize for doing whatever it is that you did or saying whatever it is that you said leading up to that…clustertastrophe back at the house.”
He raises his brows and looks down at his hands folded in his lap contritely. “Yeah, that’s about the size of it. And I am sorry. But you need to know that Win started it—”
Oh, bad, bad choice of words. I’m in pain, and I’m furious. “Really? ‘Win started it’? That’s the best you’ve got?” I manage to yell in a whisper. “Your father’s upstairs in this hospital, fighting for his life, and you two are in his house fighting…over what? Money? Property? Assets? What’s so important that it landed me in the E.R., Scott?”
His light brown eyes hold mine for a long moment before he turns them back to his lap. “My birth certificate.” He says this so softly that I’m not sure I heard him right.
“Your…birth certificate? Why would you and Win be fighting over that?” I demand in a slightly less-harsh manner.
“I—I need it. And some other paperwork, too. They’re in a safety deposit box at the bank, and Win refuses to give them to me. He’s pissed about the whole healthcare proxy thing, and now he’s waving around the fact that he’s got power of attorney.”
Well that sounds just about right, knowing Win. And I do know Win. Well enough to be sure that Win always has an end game. If he’s holding this stuff back from Scott, it’s not just a power play. I’m about to press him for more details when I hear my name called by a pink-scrubbed nurse with a clipboard.
“Can I… Do you want me to…” Scott looks so pathetic that I give up on being furious for the moment.
“Yes, you can come.”
He helps me to my feet, and we follow the pink scrubs to a tiny examination room.
“Hey, I know you,” the nurse says, looking between my intake form and my face. “You’re a nurse. You worked up in maternity, right?”
“I did,” I agree, trying to place the young woman. “Until my son was born. But I’m planning to come back soon…” I lean forward to peer at her nametag, “Crystal.”
“Oh. My. God. You won’t believe how crazy things have gotten since you were here! Did you know that the cafeteria has gone all like ‘healthy’? No donuts or ice cream or cake or pie or candy or—”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I break in, realizing that she’s going to go on and on if I don’t. But it’s only a temporary stopgap measure because she’s on to the next subject in a flash.
“Right? So sad! Oh! And did you know Marla? Marla Mapplethorpe? You know, from the nephrology unit?”
I didn’t know her, but that doesn’t stop Crystal.
“So, Marla left her husband, that’s Bob, for her neighbor, he’s Rob. But then Rob’s wife Carla found the two of them holed-up all cozy in their upstate cabin…like you know…naked and stuff. Well, Carla just about went berserk! And in the middle of it all, Bob shows up, wanting to strangle Rob, only Carla’s whacking away at him with a lacrosse stick.”
“Wait—she’s whacking away at Bob…or Rob?” Scott asks from next to me.
If my arm weren’t throbbing, I’d elbow him in the ribs for encouraging her.
“Oh, no, that was Rob she was wailing on. You know that poor man needed fifty stitches? And they were pulling splinters out of his…like you know…for hours! Good Lord did he scream! And all the time Carla’s there screaming at him and Marla’s there screaming at her and Rob’s just scratching his head.”
“Oooookay…” I say. “Well, about my arm…maybe an x-ray?”
“Oh, yeah, sure, sure, sure,” she says, waving at me dismissively. “I’ll get ya good and fixed up. You know, we’ve got the prettiest pink casts these days…”
I shake my head. “No, no pink for me. I look terrible in pink.”
But Crystal’s not paying attention to me; she’s looking at Scott, who glances my way helplessly.
“But you know, in the end, I’ll be darned if it didn’t all work out! Turns out that Carla and Bob hit it off while they were at the police station waiting to be bailed out…”
“Beep-beep!” An older orderly sticks his head in the door. “Did someone need a ride to radiology?” he asks.
“Right here!” Crystal says cheerily, jumping to her feet. “Now, depending on the severity of the break—and judging by the size of that thing, I’d say it’s pretty severe—they might need to reset the bone. And that’ll take a while ’cause the doc might want to put you under…”
“No, really?” I groan. I knew this was a good possibility, but I’d hoped… “I can stay awake for it,” I assure her.
Crystal throws her head back in a peal of laughter that makes the light bulbs vibrate in their sockets. “Oh, Jameson, you are a funny one! No, no, I tell you what, Teddy over here’s going to take you for your x-ray and then a doctor will see you…so, it’s gonna be a while. But…you know, I’m about to go on break. So maybe your friend here wants to go with me to the cafeteria. I can get him up to speed with all the gossip, and then he can fill you in when you’re done!”
I decide to throw Scott a lifeline because I know he’s too polite to decline the offer.
“Ah, well, thanks, Crystal, but Scott has things to do…”
But apparently, he’d prefer to drown.
“No, that’s fine. Besides, we never did eat dinner, and I’m starving,” he explains sheepishly.
I shake my head. “All right, all right. You two go have fun. But Crystal, please make a note in my chart about the pink ca
st and also no Oxy. Okay? I cannot do Oxy under any circumstances. Got it?” I confirm as Scott helps me into Ted’s wheelchair.
“Off we go!” Ted declares and starts to push me down the hall.
“No pink, Crystal!” I call back over my shoulder. “And no Oxy!”
She waves at me, already leading Scott toward the elevator in the other direction. I just catch a snippet of their conversation as we turn the corner.
“So… Scott, is it? What’s the deal with you and Jameson? She’s married to a lawyer, isn’t she?”
Oh, yeah, this has clustertastrophe written all over it.
Chapter Ten
Scott
By the time I wolf down some of the “healthy” cafeteria food, I’ve got the deets on Sonya in pathology and her triplets, Frank the custodian who now prefers to identify as Francesca and whom all the nurses flock to for her makeup tips, and a certain doctor who’s being sued for removing the wrong pinky. I’m wondering if maybe Crystal had anything to do with that last one because she seems to have trouble following directions. Not only does she send Jameson home with a hot pink cast, they’ve pumped her full of Percocet—AKA Oxy. I guess we’re lucky Jameson wasn’t having a kidney removed.
I see immediately why it was that Jameson didn’t want the Oxy—it’s like she’s knocked back a bottle of Stoli, chased it with a flask full of Jack Daniels, and floated a Long Island iced tea on top of it. Loopy doesn’t even begin to cover the state of Jameson O’Halloran Clarke when we pull up in front of her house on Orange Avenue. No, she’s good and hammered.
“I don’t… Why won’t this stupid thing…” She huffs with impatience when she’s unable to extricate herself from the seat belt with her one good hand.
“Hold on, let me help you,” I say, jumping to get out and come around to her door. When I open it, she looks up at me, her green eyes wide, her face earnest.
“I was right about the arm. It’s broken in two places,” she informs me for the fourth time.
“I know. And now you’ve got that very fashionable pink cast,” I repeat for the fourth time as I help her out of the truck.
“I’m fine. You can just leave me here and I’ll be good,” she says, even as she’s swaying from side to side. “Just…leave me here.”
“Uh-huh.”
I dig around in her bag until I find the house key and somehow manage to get us both up onto the porch and through the front door without falling. The O’Halloran house is dark and still. And empty. I find the light switch in the entrance way and hold the door for Jameson. She walks to the middle of the living room and then stops, staring around her blankly. “Uhh… Hmmm….” She doesn’t seem to have any clue what should come next.
“How about I fix you something to eat?” I suggest. “You never did get dinner, and you really shouldn’t be taking pain meds on an empty stomach like that.”
She seems to consider this and then shakes her head. “Nope. Not hungry. But I’ll tell you what I could use…a shower.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “A…a shower?”
She snorts at me and points. “You should see the look on your face!”
Oh, good. She’s just joking. Hard to tell right now. “So you don’t want a shower, then?”
“What? No, I do. I do want a shower, Scotty Scott. I’m dying for a hot. Steamy. Shower.” She walks up to me and pokes my chest on the three last words for emphasis.
Oh, crap. She’s not joking. I take a deep breath. Okay, okay, okay. I can do this. Just helping a family member. Sort of. Not really. Not at all, actually.
“Uh, Jameson, I don’t think I can help you out…in the shower, I mean…”
Another stupid-silly snort from her. “No, no. I just need some help getting naked, you silly goose!”
“Ummmmm…” I look down at her blouse, then her jeans, then back up at her face, feeling a mixture of concern and alarm rising from the pit of my stomach and lodging right in my throat.
“Ughh, will you please just come over here and unbutton the buttons on my blouse?” she asks impatiently. I follow her instructions without comment, my big clumsy fingers fumbling to push the delicate pearl buttons through their holes. Once I’ve finished and the blouse is hanging open, I start to step back, but she’s not having it. “Wait, wait, wait. We’re not done yet.”
This has red flags all over it. Ex-sister-in-law, attractive woman, woman I’m attracted to, woman with impaired judgment. Oh, hell, I’m in a world of trouble here.
“Jeans, please,” Jameson directs.
“I’m—I’m sorry?” She can’t possibly want me to…could she?
“I can get the zipper down—Lookie…” She demonstrates her zipper prowess by pulling hers down. “But I can’t get the pants…you know…down.” She uses her one good hand to tug at the waistband but makes only marginal progress. She’s right; she does need help.
“Umm, okay, so let’s see how we’re going to do this,” I begin, trying to survey the situation from a practical standpoint. Of course it’s as easy as pulling her jeans down, but what if her panties come along for the ride? Or I see something I shouldn’t see? Then an idea occurs to me. I run to the bathroom and come back with a towel.
“Here, hold this up,” I say, helping her pull the material to her body. Then I reach around and gingerly tug the denim down until she’s able to step out of the legs. “Excellent!” I declare, proud of my handiwork. “Why don’t I go start the shower running for you…”
“Wait!” she whines. “We’re not done yet!”
“We’re not?” Crap.
“I need you to unhook my bra for me.”
What? No, no, no, no. That’s way past trouble. That puts me squarely within the city limits of apocalyptic disaster. “Oh, hey…maybe we should wait for Bailey to get home for that,” I suggest quickly.
“I doubt she’ll be coming home. She doesn’t think I’m her mother.”
“Her…mother? Why would she think you’re her mother?”
“I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t want me for a mother, either…”
“Jameson, you’re not thinking straight right now…”
“Besides, I’m sure you’ve unhooked one or two in your lifetime, right?”
Suddenly we’ve abandoned wistful tears in favor of fits of giggles. It takes me a second to realize she’s leapfrogged back to our previous discussion. “What? Bras?”
“Yes, bras! Don’t you even pretend you’re bashful, Mister…Mister…” She pauses and seems to consider what it is she’s trying to get out. “Mr. Manly-Dead-Skull-Tattoo-Chest! You were half naked in the kitchen not six hours ago!”
Ugh, jeez. She’s right. If I’m honest with myself, I kind of enjoyed seeing her get all flushed in the kitchen. It gave me a thrill to know that I could have that effect on her. What I didn’t expect was the effect she’d have on me.
“Okay, let’s get this over with then…” I mutter, lifting the bottom of her shirt, unclasping her bra and stepping away as quickly as if there was a snake under there waiting to nail me with its super-duper-killer venom. And God knows I’ve got enough problems already. Still, the way she’s swaying and going back and forth between topics, leaving her alone isn’t an option right now. “You know, I’d like to hang around until you’re done if that’s okay.”
“Thank you!” she says with a nod and a smile. A smile that makes my heart beat a little faster. “You’re very sweet, you know.”
“Thanks.”
“Much sweeter than Win.”
“Yeah, well, sweet was never my brother’s strong suit.”
She giggles as I follow her down the hall toward the bathroom, where she reaches in and gets the water running.
“So they said it’s okay to get the cast wet, so you should be good. I’ll just wait out here in the hallway. But I’ll keep this door open so I’ll hear you if you need me, okay?’
“Hah!” she snorts and points at me. “You just want to see me naked!”
“Right out here,”
I repeat, stepping into the hallway and waving at her around the doorjamb. “You go ahead. I’ll just be sitting on the carpet here. Out here. Out of sight…” Then I turn around so that my back is to the wall and allow myself to slide down until my butt hits the hallway carpet. I hear her behind me as she shucks her clothing. The swish of her blouse. The thunk of her jeans. A few seconds later comes the jiggling of the plastic rings atop the shower curtain as she pulls it aside and climbs in.
“I’m in!” she confirms for me. And then there’s music. It’s coming from inside the bathroom—inside the shower itself, based on the muffled sound.
Before I can ask her about the apparently waterproof source of the sound, she starts to sing along. Unfortunately for both of us, Jameson O’Halloran Clarke is an appallingly bad singer. And it doesn’t help that I’ve never heard the tune—such as it is—in my life.
The song—which has something to do with someone being someone’s “next mistake” hits home for me—reminding me of all the pretty faces that have turned into huge mistakes over the years. Pretty faces that I walked away from because it was easier than trying to “work it out.”
“So we’re gonna get together,” she croons off-key, “and row down the Thames…”
The Thames? Really? Who wrote this song, Prince Harry? I start to suspect she’s putting her own spin on the words when she belts out, “Don’t say I didn’t make some popcorn for ya…”
“Jameson?” I call into the bathroom tentatively. “You okay in there?” Of course she is. She’s high as a kite, mutilating some bubblegum anthem that bears a shocking resemblance to my life. Except for the popcorn thing. And the Thames.
“Yup! I’m good. Scott?”
“Yes, Jameson?”
“You know, you’re very sweet,” she repeats.
“So I’ve been told.”
“Got a list of Starbucks lovers…they’ll make your latte plain…”
I find myself laughing out loud at the absurdity of this situation. I’ve been in town a little over twenty-four hours, and here I am keeping watch over my brother’s ex-wife who’s looped on opioids and doing karaoke in the shower. My brother’s holding my personal documents hostage, and my father is probably on his deathbed. I’m starting to think I made the wrong decision. Maybe I should’ve stayed in Mexico.