by Mary Simses
“Grace, let me take over,” Mitch says. “Have a rest.”
“No, I’m fine.” My arms ache, but I can’t stop. I can’t give up. We’re attached, Scooter and I, my hands and his heart. I glance at Mitch. He’s perfectly still, his eyes on Scooter, his lips moving slightly. He’s saying, Come on, come on.
And that’s when it happens. Scooter blinks, three tiny flutters, and then his eyes open just a little and he starts to wheeze and cough, his chest moving as he struggles to breathe. For a moment he looks straight at the ceiling. Then his eyes dart around, and he finds Mitch, crouched at his side.
“Dad.” Mitch beams, lets out a nervous laugh, and clasps Scooter’s hand. Scooter’s breathing is raspy and ragged as he stares at his son.
“You collapsed,” Mitch tells him. “You stopped breathing. The ambulance is coming. You’re going to be okay. Just lie still.”
Scooter nods, clutching Mitch’s hand.
The emergency sirens begin as a faint, high-pitched hum, like bees in a field searching for a good place to land, and then rise to a wail as the trucks race down Main Street. A fire engine and an ambulance pull up in front of the store. Six emergency medical techs burst in, carrying orange boxes and a stretcher.
“Over here,” Mitch waves. “It’s my dad. He passed out, but he’s breathing again.”
One of the men introduces himself as Lieutenant Bryce. He asks Mitch questions and talks to Scooter, letting him know what’s going on, while the other EMTs move him onto the stretcher and hook him up to monitors and machines. There’s a steady bleep, bleep, bleep coming from one of the monitors, and I watch the screen, comforted by the rhythm.
“All this fuss?” Scooter whispers, looking at Mitch. He glances at me and gives me a weary smile. “I feel okay.”
“I think we should let them do their jobs,” Mitch says.
He holds Scooter’s hand as they lift the stretcher and carry him through the store. I’m on the opposite side of the stretcher, and when Scooter extends his other hand, I take it, relieved at the warmth I feel in his fingers. He looks at me as though he’s going to tell me something, but I can see he doesn’t have the strength. And then the emergency techs slide the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, Mitch jumps in after it, and the doors close.
Chapter 23
A dependent clause is a group of words
that has a subject and a verb but cannot stand alone as a sentence.
Preparing to return home after one has been away often entails tying up loose ends.
I’m here to see Mr. Dees,” I tell the receptionist at Mercy Hospital the following afternoon.
She removes her yellow headband and slides it back over her hair. Then she clicks a few computer keys, rattling the wooden bracelets on her arms, takes my picture, and hands me a stick-on visitor’s badge. I proceed to a bank of elevators, where a man in a wheelchair, his leg in a cast, waits with a white-uniformed aide.
Scooter’s room is on the third floor, and when I get there the door is almost completely closed. I give a quiet knock, but there’s no response, so I knock again. Then I slowly open the door and peek inside. It’s a double room, but the first bed is empty. Scooter is lying in the other bed, by the window, his head raised to a forty-five-degree angle, his face turned away from me. An intravenous stand holds two bags of clear fluid, a tube running from one bag into his arm. Monitors near the bed emit beeps in various tones and produce small mountain ranges of lines that jag across the screens. The television is on, old black-and-white footage of Frank Sinatra performing somewhere, but the volume is low, and I can’t hear what he’s singing.
I tiptoe into the room. “Scooter,” I whisper, thinking he may be asleep.
He turns. “Hey, if it isn’t my hero.” He’s got a pale-green breathing tube clipped to his nose. There’s a book on the bed, a Tom Clancy novel, and a vase of yellow tulips on a set of drawers against the wall.
I lean in and give him a hug. The sheets smell of antiseptics and constantly recirculated air. I kiss his cheek, scratchy with day-old whiskers.
“What a nice surprise,”’ he says. “Here, bring that over.” He points to a chair in the corner. I drag it to the bed.
“Well,” I say, taking a seat, “after that scare you gave us yesterday, I figured I’d better come over here and see what’s going on.”
Scooter grimaces. “That was a little dramatic, wasn’t it? Sorry I put everybody through that.”
“Oh, come on. There’s nothing to be sorry for.” I pat his shoulder. “Don’t be silly.”
“I heard you were the one who gave me CPR.” He looks out the window, where a tree branch taps the glass, and then turns back to me. “You saved my life, you know.”
“No way. It was a team effort. Everybody was doing something—and it all worked.” I think about the poster. Save a Life! Know CPR! I think that must have been the most important thing I ever learned from my old job. Maybe that’s the real reason I was there. Maybe that’s how life works. You don’t always know at the time when something powerful is happening to you. It’s not until later, when the pieces fit together, that you figure it out.
“Do they know why you collapsed?” I ask.
“The doc said it was my heart—the rhythm. I guess it’s off a little.”
“Your rhythm.”
“Yeah. They’re doing some tests to figure out why. I already had an echocardiogram and a stress test. You know, the one where you have to run on a treadmill?”
“It’s not anything…serious, is it?”
“I hope not. They said they’ll know more tomorrow.” A nurse comes in, looks at the IV bag, where the glucose is making a silent drip, drip, drip, adjusts something on the bag, and leaves.
Scooter glances at the monitors, conversing in their blinks and beeps. “If it were up to me, I’d be out today. I feel fine.” He sits up a little straighter and reaches for the cup of water on the table beside him, but it’s too far away.
“Just let them do what they need to do,” I say, walking to the table. “You’ll be out of here soon enough, and you don’t want to pass out like that again.” I pick up a stainless steel pitcher and pour some water into the cup. “You really had us worried.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know,” he says with a flick of his hand. “Mitch tells me the same thing—let them do their jobs.”
Mitch.
I wish I could forget the look on his face when he walked into the little office, closed the pocket door, and said, I thought we agreed you weren’t coming back. I hand the cup of water to Scooter.
“Well, Mitch is right.” I straighten the blanket on Scooter’s bed. “And I’m sure you’ll be out of here in no time.” Scooter hands me the cup, and I put it back on the table. “You know, there’s nothing like having a fresh start, an opportunity to see things differently. It’s like getting a second chance…at everything.” I adjust Scooter’s pillow behind his head. “So this could be a fresh start for you, where you make sure you’re healthy, and then you’ll be ready to take on the world again. Maybe in a whole new way.” I walk back to the chair and sit down.
“The first day of the rest of my life kind of thing?” Scooter says.
“Sure. There’s always another first day. We can always restart and reinvent ourselves, right?”
“Guess so,” he says. “Today’s as good a day as any.” He taps my hand. “Hey, speaking of getting out, they said I ought to be out of here on Sunday. Maybe you could stop by my house. Celebrate my freedom. I’ll even make you a cup of coffee.”
“That’s very tempting, Scooter, but I’ll have to take a rain check. I’ll be home by then.”
He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll be back in Manhattan.”
His shoulders droop, as if gravity is just too big a force to be reckoned with. A heavy feeling begins to settle inside me. “Tomorrow’s my dad’s party. And then I’m leaving first thing Sunday morning.” The room is quiet except for the beeps and the fa
int sound of Sinatra singing “It Was a Very Good Year.”
“Oh, sure. I understand. I just didn’t realize you were going so soon.”
I laugh. “I’ve been here for more than two weeks. I need to find a job, pay my bills, and get myself back on track.” I glance out the window, where a single white cloud is making an appearance. “I’ll come see you next time I’m in town, Scooter. I promise. I’m planning to be back soon.”
“Okay,” he says. “You’ve got yourself a date. We’ll grab some sandwiches at Tulip’s again and take them to the green.”
“Okay, but it’ll be my treat.” I glance at the vase of yellow tulips. “Did she give you those?”
“Who?” Scooter asks.
“You know who. Tulip.”
He blushes.
“You stud.”
He laughs.
I refill his water cup and pull the table closer to the bed. “I’ll call you on Sunday before I leave,” I say, giving him a hug.
I’m halfway across the room when I hear his voice. “Grace, I think my son is in love with you.”
I stop. That can’t be. Not based on the way Mitch has been acting, that’s for sure. “Mitch? In love with me?” I say. “No, Scooter. He’s angry with me, and I think he kind of hates me. He’s definitely not in love with me.”
“Angry with you, hates you. Why would you say that?”
“It’s a little complicated. Just take my word for it.”
Scooter gives me a skeptical look. “Sometimes we think we know what people are feeling when we really don’t. I know my son is in love with you, Grace.”
I picture Mitch’s face when he said I can’t have you working here anymore. “I don’t think so, Scooter.”
But as I walk to the door, I begin to wonder, what if he’s right? What if, by some strange chance, Scooter is correct? Before my notorious news segment, Mitch and I were getting along well. We were having fun together. And I’m certain he was making a pass at me at the lighthouse. I know he was. Mitch. The bike guy. The history teacher. Could that be? I feel a bit light-headed thinking about it, as though I’ve just gulped down a big glass of champagne. He’s smart, he’s funny, he’s good-looking, and he adores his father, all great qualities. But as I think about this some more, I remember the cold way he looked at me the other day in the shop. I remember his tone. And I know it can’t be true.
“I’ll call you on Sunday,” I tell Scooter. As I walk away, a very young Frank Sinatra is singing “Let’s Fall in Love.”
An hour later I open the door to the Sugar Bowl. Faded lobster buoys hang from one of the walls, and in the corners of the room, fishnets dangle, with buttery-colored slipper shells and knobby periwinkles laced among the strings. I’m not sure how I feel about this decor. The place doesn’t look the same. With the shell photos they’d already hung, and now these new nautical additions, it seems like a whole different Sugar Bowl.
But when I glance again at the fishnets, I remember the shells Renny and I used to collect in plastic pails, rinse in Mom’s strainer, and set out to dry on the railing of the back porch. And I think maybe it’s possible to find something good in anything, even if it’s new and different.
Peter waves to me from one of the booths, and I walk over and slide onto the bench across from him. “Hi,” I say.
“Hi yourself,” he says. “How are you?”
“Better than I was the other day.”
“I was worried.”
“I know. And I’m sorry I didn’t call you back.”
“Or text me until last night?”
I grimace. “I know. I needed to think. A lot happened since I saw you.”
A young waitress wipes down the table and asks us what we’d like to drink. We both order coffee.
“I’m sorry I ran off,” I say, pushing my menu to the side. “I was having a tough time. With the movie. That scene. The dance.”
“I knew something was up,” he says.
I clasp my hands and put them on the table. “The problem is, I’ve had that whole event stored in my memory for a long, long time. I know everything that happened, from the second Cluny and I got to the yacht club until the end of the night. At least, I thought I knew.” My mind runs to the movie scene where Tom and Courtney danced, and then to the fight that followed. “I don’t remember anything about that fight with Pratt Greeley.”
“You wouldn’t, Grace. That happened the next day, downtown.”
Our waitress returns with a carafe and pours coffee into our mugs. “No wonder. At least I know I’m not losing my mind.”
“You’re not losing your mind,” Peter says.
“Do you remember talking to me about your parents? I mean, did we really have that conversation?”
“I thought we did,” he says, adding some milk to his coffee. “If I didn’t mention it to you, I probably wanted to. That’s what was going on at the time with my parents, and it was important to me, so I wrote it into the scene.”
Why did I think this was a story only I had the right to tell, as though I owned the copyright to it? Why didn’t it ever occur to me that Peter had his own story, that he might have put his own spin on things?
“I’m sorry, Peter. I’m sorry about running off and not calling you back and being so weird about all of it.” I look at the paper place mat on the table, not wanting to meet his eye. “When I saw you that first day at the Sugar Bowl, I was convinced I was in love with you all over again. I thought maybe we could pick up our old relationship and get back together.” I look up. “But there was really something else going on.”
He puts his hands over mine. “I think whatever’s going on with you has a lot more to do with Renny and the past than it does with me. I wish it didn’t. I wish it really was about me, but this isn’t a movie, where I can write the story the way I want it to play out.”
I stare across the room at a faded yellow and red lobster buoy as servers walk by on their way to the kitchen. Norah Jones’s soft voice floats down from the ceiling speakers as she sings “Come Away with Me.” I never meant to lead Peter on. That’s the last thing I intended to do. I don’t know where to start, what to say. I feel as if there’s a rock in the pit of my stomach. I look at Peter, and I’m about to cry. And then he saves me.
“So, we’ve wrapped,” he says, with a smile that looks a little forced. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Right. You’ve wrapped. Congratulations on being done.”
“Well, we’re done here. Now it’s on to postproduction.”
“That’s where all the editing and the sound work and everything else gets done, right?”
He nods and takes a sip of coffee. “Ouch, that’s bad,” he says, looking at the mug and making a face.
I smile. “Some things don’t change.” I pass him the basket of sugar packets and sweeteners. “Can I ask you something? About the movie?”
He opens three yellow packets and dumps them into his coffee. “Sure.”
“I’m curious. What’s going on with Regan Moxley?”
He looks amused. “What do you mean, what’s going on with her?”
“Well, that picture of you together in the paper, for one thing. You guys looked kind of cozy. And Regan got a part in the movie.”
Peter shakes his head and chuckles. “Regan’s a piece of work, isn’t she?”
“Yeah, she sure is.”
“I like to keep her happy. She’s an investor in a project Sean and I are going to do.”
“Oh. An investor.” That’s not what I expected at all.
“Yeah. So I gave her a line. No big deal.”
“One line? Just a business arrangement, then?”
He sits back in his chair. “Yeah, of course. Why?” There’s a brief pause, and then his eyes go wide. “Wait, you didn’t think…”
I raise my hands. “Oh, no, no. Of course not. I knew it was some kind of, uh, business arrangement. I just wasn’t sure…about the details.”
He gives me a squinty-eyed lo
ok, and I feel myself blush.
We pick up our menus, and I grab the blue card that lists the specials. Tuscan Salad; Apple, Walnut, & Brie Sandwich; Potato Leak Soup. How can a restaurant misspell the word leek? I dig into my handbag and locate my fine-point Sharpie. I pull it out, remove the cap, and hold it over the card for a long time as I stare at the word. And then it suddenly occurs to me that I don’t give a damn if the Sugar Bowl spells the word with an a or an e. In the overall scheme of things, what does it matter? I drop the Sharpie, and it rolls along the table and falls onto the floor, where I leave it.
Peter places a manila envelope on the table.
“What’s that?”
“Open it.”
I pick it up. My name is on the outside, in my father’s scratchy handwriting. I pull out a sheaf of papers. All She Ever Knew by Grace Hammond. I flip through the first couple of pages. My screenplay. “Where did you get this?”
“Cluny gave it to me.”
“Cluny?” I wonder how Cluny got it, and then I remember her taking it from the chest in the front hall on Founder’s Day. I didn’t even want her to look at it, and now she’s passed it on to Peter. “Why did she give this to you?”
“She thought I should read it.”
Right. And what does Cluny know about screenplays? Now she’s made me look like a fool, and the last thing I need is another reason for Peter to think I’m a fool.
“Look, Peter. I didn’t want Cluny to see this. I didn’t want anybody to see it. And I certainly would never have given it to you. This is just something I wrote in college. It’s not very good, and I didn’t even finish it, as I guess you know by now.”
“Well, I read it,” Peter says. “And—”
“I know, I know.” I throw the pages on the table. “I’m sorry you had to waste your time.”
He looks confused. “Waste my time? I thought it was pretty good.”
“Cluny had no right to—wait. What?”
“I really liked it.”
I lean in a little closer. “You liked my old screenplay?”
“Yes. Good story line, strong characters, some great dialogue. I do think the father could be developed a little more.” He chuckles. “I love that scene where the mother goes to the hardware store and returns all the power tools the father bought. And it needs an ending, of course. You should write one.”