by Ari Rhoge
An at-home nurse started frequently attending to Dad — about three days a week. Sometimes she even took care of cleaning and cooking, thank God. Of course, Dad despised her. He muttered nasty things about the motherland, and refused to call her anything but Brunhilda. He was pretty chastised for it.
“For God's sake, Dad. Her name is Anka.”
“I don't care. She has a thick Eastern accent and a hinting of a unibrow. You can't expect me to not call her Brunhilda. It's like waving a carrot in front of Bugs Bunny.”
It was a slow recovery process, but, if he invested enough effort to be this rude, you knew something was going on successfully. Mom chirped around like a mother hen, as always, insisting he stay in bed for about 90% of the day until the idleness drove him partially mad. Even so, they started a ritual of taking slow evening walks outside to work in some exercise. Sometimes we would spy them coming back from the living-room window. Their arms would be linked as they trailed slowly, Dad murmuring a joke and Mom giggling so much that you suddenly remembered that she actually had laugh-lines.
Being back home made me feel like a little kid again — I was so ungodly thankful for spring break. Things were peaceful, save for your occasional sister tantrum, or Anka storming out from something obnoxious and borderline sexist that Dad might have muttered while she fed him pureed shit. And with Jane things were looking up. We didn't speak about anything that had happened before Dad's heart attack. It seemed tidied up and in the past.
But I was still disappointed, and I couldn't understand why. I felt kind of stupid.
I guess it was because I had expected something more after Darcy left. I had expected him to call that day, then the week after. When a solid month flew by without a word, I wondered if I had left things badly and torn up and screwed over. I questioned my behavior. I didn't know why I even gave a damn. Honestly. Will had probably forgotten about it.
He had probably forgotten about me.
“Lizzy?” Jane asked, one afternoon, while we were coming back from shopping. We were unloading groceries from the trunk of our car, and I looked up with surprise to find her watching me intently. “You're so quiet.”
“I'm not.”
“You are.” She took a bag from me. “You get that way, did you know? I'm not used to you being an introvert.”
“I'm not an introvert,” I grinned. “Come on, Janey.”
“You get this look in your eye.”
“You're so analytical, Doctor.”
“I'm serious,” she said, laughing, touching my cheek fleetingly. Jane sighed. “You used to tell me everything. Can't I help?”
“I'm fine,” I assured her, softly. “I'm fine.”
I followed her back inside, to where music was playing faintly from the living room. Marin was ridiculously studious, sacrificing spring break to jump ahead with some reading. As a consequence, she had to study with her stereo on. Personal quirk. We didn't mind so much, even though we had to be subject to frequent repeats of Regina Spektor. That chick is catchy.
Marin looked up and smiled for an instant, then buried her face back in her book. I snorted, retreating to the kitchen.
“That girl needs to understand what a vacation is,” I muttered, unloading a plastic bag full of apples. “I'm worried about her.”
“I think she likes studying.”
“Jane, don't scare me like that.”
She grinned at me, pinching my cheek. “See, I like you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like yourself.”
“When am I not myself?”
“Lately?” she considered, drumming her fingernails on the counter. “Often. I don't know, maybe you got the winter blues two months too late.” Jane brightened, gasping. “Oh! We should so get you out one of these days. We'll cut your hair. Buy new clothes.”
“What for?” I snorted, opening the pantry doors. “There's nobody here to impress.”
“It would be for you, Lizzy,” Jane insisted. “Girls don't really improve themselves for guys — let's face it. We use it as a pick-me-up.”
I considered this. “Yeah, you're kind of right. And here I was secretly smug about my hair reaching my rib cage for the first time in two years.”
“It's pretty,” Jane said, smiling, raking her fingers through it. “I like that you wear it down, now.”
“Okay,” I said, laughing, turning around. “I officially feel like I'm 10 again. We're at our parents' house, and we're helping with dinner, and people are giggling, and you're playing with my hair. I feel like we should be eating raw cookie-dough in our PJs now.”
“Would Hey Arnold! be on in the background?”
“Hell yeah, Hey Arnold! would be on in the background.”
“Bitching.”
“Jane, you don't say 'bitching'.”
“I know, but the heart wants what the heart wants.”
I started cracking up when Mom entered the room with a laundry basket, the cordless phone sandwiched between her ear and her shoulder. She was smiling widely and laughing, and we caught snippets like, “oh, thank you, Doctor. Of course. Well, I'm sure you'd have to ask John about that. God knows the man is stubborn.” It took her about three more minutes before she could cut her conversation short, and by then Jane had already set tea out, because she secretly wants to be a housewife. Or a geisha.
“Doctor made a house call?” I couldn't help but ask, laughing obnoxiously. Jane snorted, and I apologized — “I'm sorry. I know it's terrible. I couldn't help myself. Maybe you should give me a corny-pun quota to fulfill each day.”
“I'll consult the rest of the tribe,” Mom mumbled, smirking. “No, Dr. Shaw just wanted to confirm an appointment. He took a liking to your father. Well, everybody takes a liking to your father. Then we wonder where his ego comes from.”
“Not Anka,” said Jane, dryly. “Not a fan.”
“No, not Anka,” Mom sighed, miserably, passing a hand over her eyes. “That poor woman.”
“Back at U of P, though?” asked Jane, thoughtfully. “When is it? I'd like to drive Dad.”
“Don't bother, honey. It isn't until a week from now,” Mom sighed, setting the basket aside. She began folding and sorting, glancing up quickly. “It's not that unpleasant of a visit. It's a wonderful team we've managed to find. Expensive… but you know about the medical bills,” she murmured.
I blinked up at her, puzzled. “No, what about the bills?”
“Oh, you know,” she sighed, wiping her brow with the back of her arm. “You have to know by now, Lizzy. Of course, he told me to not say anything… but it's been practically a month. He's definitely called you.”
“Wait, what?” Jane said, laughing, taking a seat at the island. “Mom, you're not making sense.”
Mom looked up cautiously, and her eyes grew wide. “Seriously? You don't know.”
“Seriously, we don't know,” I repeated, shrewdly, crossing my arms. “Who's he? Who exactly are you talking about?”
“God, what's his name…” she murmured, raking her hair back into a short, stubby ponytail. “I should know this. I mean, it was his connection to U of P that got us the surgery with Shaw to begin with — all hospital expenses paid and everything. Look at me, I'm a horrible person — I can't even remember his name.”
Jane's blue eyes had widened considerably. “Wait. Health insurance didn't cover?”
“Bypass? Honey, there's only so much it can cover,” Mom sighed, fiddling with her bangs in the way she does when she's normally trying to recall something. She clapped suddenly, a smile widening on her face. “Darcy! That's it. William Darcy. For some reason I was thinking Dawson, of all names. I don't even know a Dawson. Well, Dawson's Creek, maybe.”
The only reigning emotion I had was confusion. Severe, troubled, disturbed confusion. Jane's mouth was hanging open, and the deer-in-headlights look wasn't really her thing, either. I gaped at my mother, and cleared my throat. “Will Darcy called you.”
“Yep.” She looked alarmed,
then, begging, “can you just pretend that you knew? He made me promise to keep it a secret. I didn't even realize who he was until later. Darcy, that's the name of your old housemate, right? I knew it sounded familiar for some reason.” She continued nonchalantly, taking a seat.
Jane was staring at me, and I struggled to regain some logic. “Mom,” I said, desperately, placing my hands on her shoulders. “Are you sure? Are you sure it was Will Darcy?”
“Of course,” she smiled. “Nice boy, I think. A little chilly over the phone. A little highbrow — but who am I to criticize? He practically saved your father. Oh, for God's sake, Lizzy, you look like you've just seen a ghost. He really didn't say anything about it?”
“No,” I mumbled, lamely. “Not a thing.”
The doorbell suddenly rang, and Mom perked up, craning her neck to see the hall. “Marin!” she hollered, with no concern that she was screaming right next to us and threatening to pop our eardrums. “Marin, get the door! It's Anka —— we have an appointment.”
There was a frustrated grunt, coming from Dad's study, down the hallway, and Mom rolled her eyes and sighed. She kissed my cheek, and told me not to worry, happily oblivious, and left the room in a daze of confusion and what-the-fuckery.
I was vaguely aware of Jane poking me.
“What?” I asked.
“You… kind of look like you want to throw up.”
“Nerves,” I blamed. “Oh, damn it — that's Mom's excuse. Jane, don't let me turn into Mom. Number-one fear.”
Jane raised her eyebrows, wincing. “If it makes you feel any better, I'm just as confused.”
I smiled a little, turning to her. I didn't even know if I could begin explaining my level of confusion. What was it called when you wanted to punch somebody and yet throw your arms around them in a soul-crushing hug at the very same time? It was called not normal, that's what it was. And suddenly I was blinking back tears, and I couldn't remember when I had turned into such a goddamn pussy.
He had been in the fucking car with me, too. Played dumb the whole time. It was infuriating.
Will Darcy was a liar.
Will Darcy was… kind of wonderful.
I buried my face in my arms, grumbling, “dear Lord, I'm confused.”
“It's okay, child — I love you,” Marin suddenly whispered in my ear. I yelped, and almost slid out of my seat, and she started laughing before helping me up. “You're so fidgety, Lizzy. And… holy shit, are you crying?”
“You're sniffily,” Jane suddenly said, concerned. “Lizzy?”
“I'm just really emotional lately.”
“Do you have your period?”
“Uh,” I said, laughing, dabbing at my eyes. “Personal much?”
“Is anything personal in this house?” asked Marin, reaching around the counter for a mug. She poured me a cup, and I took a tissue by the TV set, feeling silly.
I knew I had to pay him back, and I knew exactly what he would do. He would feel insulted if I even offered. And, let's face it, he might very well hate my mother for spilling the secret in the first place. But, for God's sake, why hadn't he told me? I searched my mind for reasons. I wondered if he wanted some silent glory or if he was embarrassed, and then I suddenly realized it.
He was just doing something genuinely good. He didn't want to do it for attention, he didn't want to do it so that anybody would owe him. He was doing something ridiculously good-hearted, and I didn't remember why I had ever questioned this capability in him. Because, despite Jane's judgments, despite every opinion held previously, Will wasn't an asshole.
He was a decent person. A good person, wrapped in layers and layers of this iron-like judgment. He could be stupid and dense and arrogant and assuming and… I could be stupid and dense and arrogant and assuming.
And, suddenly, I couldn't stop myself from smiling. Laughing, even. Irony was such a bitch.
Marin watched me skeptically. “Lizzy, are you on meds?”
“No,” I snorted, blowing my nose.
“Would you like to be?”
Jane sighed, tracing circles on the countertop obliviously. “I should call Georgy. We should pay them back.”
“He won't let you,” I said, quietly.
“I don't understand what could have possessed him to do this,” she said, curiously. “Really, if there's some ulterior motive here, maybe he's found it. And just think — now we have to meet up again. As if it wasn't uncomfortable enough the first time around,” she sighed.
I looked up sharply. “Don't say that.”
Jane frowned. “Say what?”
“You don't —” I paused. “— Jane, you don't know him. Don't judge him like that.”
“Lizzy, how can you, of all people…” she said, laughing, squeezing my hand. I watched her expression change. The smile slipped off her face, and she looked at me seriously. In the back of my head, I knew that she wouldn't be carping about Will Darcy in the near future. It was just instinctive. He deserved anything but.
Well, maybe on a rainy day I would tell her about Will's intervention in her relationship. With no loadable ammunition within three miles.
In the meantime, I had more important things to do.
Like get that boy on the fucking phone.
• • •
I didn't get in touch with Will Darcy.
It wasn't out of any lack of remembering (I frigging Sharpied a memo on my hand) — once I managed to call Georgy, she told me that he wasn't in town anymore. And after she gave me his mobile, he still didn't pick up. Because Will doesn't believe in “raising the bar” — he believes in really sucky, low-signal wireless networks. Jerk.
Not that I'm bitter or anxious or anything.
So, I left it to fate. I sat down three nights later, and said, “fate, if I'm meant to get in touch with Will Darcy, I will get in touch with Will Darcy, somehow. If I'm not, then I won't. Clear and simple.”
Of course, I busied myself with house chores in the next couple of weeks. I stopped attempting calls because I felt like a bit of a stalkerish loser. I left a message with Georgy. And life went on.
When we returned back to Hertfordshire at the end of the week, I was pretty close to giving up. I felt like an idiot. He hadn't even called me back, even at the staggering extent of three voicemails and a message from his sister.
I started to reassess everything. Maybe I should have called him sooner. Maybe I should have been sincerer in thanking him, or acknowledging his efforts. Maybe I should have been less of a douchebag.
Then I was walking back from a psych class one warm Thursday morning, and it hit me so hard that I actually had to stop and think in the middle of campus.
Maybe he really didn't care about me anymore.
It made sense, didn't it? I had jerked him around for a while, and I had expected it not to have consequences. The ship had sailed. God, what if he hated me?
I felt like such a girl. Shit like this wasn't supposed to upset me so much, but it did.
It's amazing how self-doubt can absolutely wreck your self-esteem. Jane and I picked up a pint of Breyers that evening and watched Love Actually and Notting Hill, back to back. Not even shitting you.
“What is it with Hugh Grant and romantic comedies that serves as this omnipotent pick-me-up?” Jane sighed, settling between the cushions with two spoons. “He doesn't even seem all that romantic in real life. I mean, didn't he dump Liz Hurley for a prostitute, or something? Does nobody remember that?”
“Divine Brown,” I smiled, taking a spoonful. “—— I watch way too many VH1 countdowns.”
Jane sighed, resting her head on my shoulder, her finger curling around a strand of my hair. She had finally convinced me a week before to get it cut, a little past my shoulders with these wispy little side-bangs. I actually really liked it, but she wouldn't stop braiding. I swear, she just needs to have a little girl someday, just for the braiding and hair-playing purposes. Jane's a disaster.
“You're quiet,” she said, yawning into her f
ist, and taking a spoon.
“Long day,” I mused, smiling at her. “I think Charlotte wants me to quit. I yelled at a customer today.”
“You didn't,” Jane balked, tilting her head upward. “Lizzy!”
“Jackass made me go through three different orders until he was satisfied,” I grumbled, folding my arms. “It wasn't my fault — he just kept changing his mind. That place is sucking out my soul.”
“What did you do?”
“I might have spilled a nonfat latte.” A delicate pause. “On his crotch.”
“Is this why Charlotte called, earlier?” Jane narrowed her eyes at me. “You're… not working there, anymore — are you?”
“Nope,” I chirped, surprised at how happy I was.
“You loved it there.”
“Not really,” I murmured, tugging at a thread in the cushion. “I think I did. But between the arguments with Charlotte and the Wickham fiasco, there's just too much crap clouding that place for me. I want to start anew.”
Jane lowered her eyes, and nodded. I had finally caved, and told her about Wickham and Darcy. And Georgy. She had spoken on the phone with her the day before, for two hours. And it was incredible how much we missed her, then. We missed her so much it ached.
I sighed, and got up toward the kitchen. “Tea?”
“Please,” Jane yawned, stretching like some sleepy cat. She got up, and stood by the countertop. I grinned at her. Her blonde hair was pulled back loosely, strands framing her face. She was barefoot, and in jeans for once, hugging a fleece zip-up.
Jane cradled her mug, and looked up at me sleepily, taking a seat in front of our fishbowl. She gasped softly, tapping a finger on the glass. “Oh, no.”
“What?” I looked up, glancing at the fish bowl. “Damn it.”
“Ben Affleck.”
“He finally made Gigli.”
Jane winced, flailing her hands. “Oh, scoop him out already, I can't see that. I hate when they're all turned-over like that.”
I scooped out the dead little goldfish and put him on a square of paper towel.
“Jane, maybe we shouldn't get fish anymore.”
“Oh, Lizzy, look at him… poor little thing.”