I want to compliment his bedside manner, but I don’t have the energy. Later I’ll tell him.
I don’t know if he’s left yet, but my eyes are already fluttering closed.
Isaac’s head peeks in. When he sees I’m awake, he says, “I’m taking Claire to school.”
I roll over, try to lift myself up on my forearms, but they don't work. There isn't enough energy in my body to do that, let alone care for Claire.
“Thanks,” I mumble, burying myself in my pillow. I don't want to know what I look like right now. And I definitely don't want Isaac to see me like this.
“Get some rest. I'll take care of everything.”
“Isaac, wait.” I turn my head so my lips are exposed. “Claire needs a lunch. No peanut products. And a morning snack.”
“Aubrey, I got it. Promise.”
I ignore him. How could he possibly know everything I know? “You have to write her name on the snack.” I close my eyes. I'm exhausted.
Isaac laughs quietly. “OK. Lunch, sunflower butter and jelly sandwich. Snack with name written on it. Couldn't mess it up if I tried.”
“Don't try.” My voice is muffled by the pillow.
The door falls softly into the jamb. I turn my head and let out a long exhale. I feel weird. A weirdness that extends beyond this flu.
Uneasy.
Someone else is going to take care of Claire today. I'm always the one to do it. This is the sickest I've been in years. Today Isaac will do all the things I normally do. These things aren't difficult. They don't require any special training, but they're my job.
A chill sweeps over me, my limbs jerking from the suddenness of it. It takes every ounce of strength I have to get to my dresser and pull out a sweatshirt. Once I'm huddled in bed, my knees pulled into my chest, I close my eyes and pass out.
When I wake again, it's from the sound of a soft knock.
Isaac must have come home early. Or I slept all day. My phone is lost somewhere in my sheets, so I can't check the time.
“Come in,” I call quietly.
The door opens. Lucia stands in the doorway, her face etched with a concerned smile. The rust-colored skirt she’s wearing reaches the ground, the sleeves of her jean jacket are rolled up, and a stack of gold bangles makes a tinkling sound as she sends me a small wave.
“Can I come in?” She steps in the room without waiting for my answer.
“Be careful, Lucia,” I warn as I sit up, surprising myself with my strength. “I think I have the flu. I don’t want to get you sick.”
With her hand, she brushes away my protest. “Nonsense.” She sits beside me on the bed, one leg tucked underneath her. “The flu, you say?”
I lift my arm, so I can talk into the crook of my elbow. “I think so. My body aches and I'm so cold. I had a fever during the night.”
Lucia leans closer, and I shrink back. I do not want to be responsible for getting Isaac's mother sick. “Are you hungry?”
“Not really. I'm OK. I just need to rest.” She frowns, so I decide to try again. “I’ll eat some crackers after I take another nap. I promise.” I feel bad. Lucia doesn't need to waste her time here. I can get myself crackers, for goodness sake.
She stands. “You rest. I'll just clean up a little, and, when you wake up, I will bring you crackers.” She scoots from the room before I can tell her I can make do on my own.
Suddenly I'm very tired. Even that short conversation has exhausted me.
I hear the TV go on in the living room, but the sound doesn't bother me. I like knowing that beyond these walls, someone is out there who cares.
My second nap of the day is interrupted by something less gentle than Lucia's knock on my bedroom door.
A loud, tinny sound barges through my sleep and continues while I pull myself from my groggy state. It stops, and a few moments later, my door opens. Lucia's eyes open wide when she sees me awake.
“I hope my cooking didn't wake you.” She's wearing a green apron with flowers embroidered on the waist, just above the pockets.
“No, not at all.” I smile weakly through my fib.
“I made you something I always make Isaac and Lauren when they're sick. I'll be right back with it.”
She cooked for me. Something she makes for her own children. There's an odd feeling in my chest right now, and it's not related to my illness. It's heavy, but it's...happy.
Lucia comes back with a tray. I sit up, and she puts the tray across my lap. It has little legs that fold out so I don't have to balance it.
“Albondigas.” Lucia grins proudly.
“Excuse me?” I say, confused.
She laughs, the sound musical. “The soup. It's called albondigas. Mexican meatball soup, basically.”
The steam swirls up from the bowl, and I lean in, sniffing. “It smells like heaven.”
“Tastes like it too.”
Lucia's unabashed opinion of her own cooking makes me chuckle.
“What?” she asks, smiling, her hands lifting while her elbows stay at her waist. “I know how good it is.”
I take my first bite and oh, oh, oh it's what heaven must taste like. I look at Lucia and nod my approval, then spoon more into my mouth.
Like a proud mama bird, she sits carefully on the end of my bed and watches me eat. The bowl is half empty when she leans back on her hands and opens her mouth. She closes it, opens it again.
“How are you, Aubrey? Aside from this temporary sickness.”
I set my spoon on the tray and pick up the sparkling water. I take a long sip before I set it back down.
“I’m fine.” I'm always fine. Always.
Lucia eyes me. “Are you sure? You've been through a lot in the past month. If I were in your position, I don't think I'd be fine.”
I pick up the spoon and dip it into the bowl, picking up only the broth. I taste tomatoes, garlic, and onions, plus bits from the meatballs. I was wrong last night. This is the best thing I've ever had. The ice water doesn’t even come close.
I swallow and pick up more. Lucia watches me intently, waiting for me to answer her question. She's not like my dad. She won't accept my I'm fine.
With a full spoon suspended over the bowl, I say “Technically, I'm OK. I have Claire, her arm is healing, we have a beautiful place to live, and she's happy. There isn't much more to it than that.” I shrug, offering a small smile. I’m proud I can speak in long sentences again.
Lucia surveys me with shrewd eyes. “But what about you?”
“What about me? My job is to take care of Claire. And I'm doing that.”
She shakes her head. “Who takes care of you?”
“I don't need taking care of.” I learned that a very long time ago.
Lucia's face tells me just how much she disagrees with me. Her eyebrows rise and the corners of her mouth turn down.
I finish my soup and drink the water. The bubbles tickle my throat.
Lucia stands and takes the tray off my lap. She sets it on the nightstand and looks back at me. Her eyes are kind, but they're also concerned.
“Get some sleep.” She leans down and kisses my forehead. My stomach tenses when her lips brush my skin. The heavy and happy feeling is back.
She retrieves the tray, looking back at me. “You know, everyone needs taking care of.”
“Thank you for the soup.” I've just realized I hadn't yet thanked her.
But Lucia shakes her head slowly, like I didn't understand her. “People need more than soup.”
She leaves, and I lie down. I'm beat but my head is alive. Swirling and churning, conflicted feelings from a day spent being cared for by Isaac's mother. I'm a grown woman. I haven't needed anybody in a long time. I don't ask for help. I don't want it, and I've never thought I needed it.
Lucia came here today and didn't ask me what I needed. She knew. And it's clear she thinks I need more than soup.
I’m sick for three more days. Lucia comes every day to take care of me. She brings magazines to read with me and salti
ne crackers to munch on. I request her albondigas one more time. Isaac and Claire love the epicurean perks of living with an ill person. On the last day, when it’s clear I’m almost back to normal, I go for a walk with Lucia. The coffee shop a few streets over is our goal. They have homemade red velvet whoopie pies that are so delicious, I swear my taste buds cry when I eat one.
We're quiet until we get out of Isaac's neighborhood and onto the main street.
"It's good to see you healthy again. Isaac was very worried about you."
"Why? It was just the flu." I shrug my shoulders. We reach the intersection, and I push the walk button.
Lucia waits until I look at her, then she rolls her eyes at me. Our past few days together have taught me a lot about Lucia. She loves telenovelas (“It connects me to my heritage.”), she can't stand flies (“Do you know they throw up every time they land?”), and she rolls her eyes when she disagrees with you and doesn't want to say anything but really wants to make sure you know she disagrees.
"What?" The walk sign appears, and we cross.
"Nothing, nothing."
Lucia and I have become friends, I think. She's Claire's grandma, but it’s more than that. We've bonded. In all of the craziness since Claire broke her arm, I didn't expect to gain a friend.
Lucia rolls her eyes again, but this time she cracks a smile.
I laugh at her. “Come on.” I hold open the door to the coffee shop. “You can tell me exactly what you think after we sit.”
The moment my butt is in the seat, she starts talking.
“I want you with Isaac.”
My mouth falls slack around my big bite of whoopie pie. I chew and swallow, using my napkin to wipe the crimson crumbs I know must decorate the corners of my mouth.
“Lucia, Isaac and I have been over this. We’re co-parents. That's it.”
“But why? Why stop there?”
“This situation is hard enough. We don't need to complicate it with romance.”
Lucia sits back and sips her coffee. I wait for the eye roll but it doesn't come.
“I get that,” she says. “Really, I do. It's just... Isaac has put work first for so long. He was determined to be a doctor, then he became one. Now what? He's always wanted to be a dad, especially since…” She stops, coughs into a fist. Alarm widens her eyes the tiniest bit. She picks up like there was never a pause in her statement. “Since his dad is so amazing.”
I let it pass.
Reaching across the table, I cover her hand with my own. She's so warm. “He's a dad now. I'm sorry it took him so long to become one. If I could’ve told him, I would have.”
“I get it. Life is eventful. It has a way of racing forward without asking if you need to stop and take a breath.” She tucks her hair behind her ears and smiles wistfully. “I've been married to Isaac and Lauren's father for thirty-six years, but I remember the beginning. The fear, and uncertainty. The should I's and shouldn't I’s.” She stares down into her coffee, her eyes far away.
Lucia is beautiful. Delicate lines border the corner of her eyes and make parentheses on either side of her mouth. She has an elegance to her. Maybe it's in the lift of her chin. Or in the confident way she talks, like she's a woman who knows. She gets it. Whatever it is. Lucia Cordova understands something I don't.
“Your son…” I pause, mulling over my next words. Lucia looks up, back from wherever she went a moment ago. “He’s amazing, from what I can tell. But Isaac and I, we're in this awkward situation. We're parents to Claire, yet we've never been on a date.” I feel the heat in my cheeks. “I mean, that night…" I look away. Mortification fills me. How can I talk about this with her?
“Aubrey, it's just sex." Lucia makes a noise with her tongue, an admonishing cluck. “Everyone has sex. Even me." She gestures with a hand to her chest, her laughter throaty.
“I'll make sure I don't mention that to Isaac," I say, laughing with her.
“Our family is very open. Though he might not want to hear about his mom and dad in that way."
It's hard enough to imagine my parents ever even knew each other, let alone did what they needed to do to make me.
“I am curious though..." Lucia’s lips twist after she trails off.
“Ask away."
“That night... Did you two not use protection? I thought I'd had enough sex talks with Isaac when he was younger that he understood the importance of protection."
Beneath the table my hands fold together, my fingers intertwining. I take a deep breath.
“We did.” Memories of that night come down on me like a curtain. Isaac, sexy as hell with his shirt off and his pants unbuttoned, leaning over me on his bed. We'd used protection. And yet… “I went over it in my head a hundred times after I got the positive result. I don't know what went wrong. I really don't." I shake my head, still as confounded today as I was that day in my bathroom, staring at the plus sign. “I don’t think he made a mistake, but maybe our judgment was clouded. From alcohol and—” I purse my lips. I've said too much.
Lucia smirks. “Passion?” She raises her eyebrows.
I nod. Now I'm really embarrassed.
“So you and Isaac had passion? When you barely knew each other?" She makes the clucking sound again. “I wonder if you still have that fire between you?"
“Claire is between us now. She's our priority." I'm resolute about this. Claire needs two clearheaded, strong parents. There is no room for messy, dramatic romance.
Lucia watches me for two seconds, her eyes searching my statement for weakness. Then she rolls them.
It's her biggest eye roll yet.
Now that I’m pretty much healthy, I feel like I need to get reacquainted with Isaac’s place. Four days confined to a bed has made me feel like a newcomer again.
I take a turn through his big, beautiful white kitchen. My fingers trail along the stainless-steel fridge, the island made of black wood, the marble countertops I needed so badly the first night I was sick. Part of me wants to spill red juice, just to see what it would look like in its marred perfection. The other part of me wants to never touch anything.
I'm in the pantry, rifling through boxes of crackers and bags of chips, when Isaac walks up behind me. He reaches over my head and pulls down a basket of oranges. I follow him to the counter and watch him peel one.
"You want?" He offers it to me.
I take it from his outstretched hand.
He peels a second orange and pops a segment into his mouth. I watch, transfixed. Something about the way Isaac chews is so manly. It's not annoying or gross. Shouldn't chewing be gross? Why isn't it for Isaac?
“Are you going to eat your orange?" He points at the fruit in my palm.
I look down at it. “I don't want to get any juice on your countertops. They're so..." I look around at them. “Clean."
He grabs a small plate from the cupboard and slips it under my hand.
“Not white?" I drop the orange onto the navy-blue plate and pull it apart.
“Huh?" Isaac grabs a bottle of red wine and pulls the cork.
“The plate. It's not white. Every time we’ve eaten, it’s been on something white. I thought maybe white is your thing."
His back is to me as he takes two glasses from the cabinet, but I see his head shake.
“Not my thing." He turns around, meets my eyes, and looks back down.
“Do you miss her?”
“No. Not like I should, anyway.” He shakes his head, like he’s confused about something. “We’d known each other forever, and I think I proposed because it seemed like that was what I was supposed to do. I was taking a next step on a path that had ended.” He shrugs. “But that’s over now.”
When he places my wine in front of me, I grab the glass and take a big drink.
“How did Claire go to sleep?" I ask. As excited as I was to be part of her nighttime routine again, I thought it prudent to wait one more day to make sure my illness is completely gone. I feel bad I haven't been well enough to help her t
o sleep. I was trying so hard to do everything just like I did when we were living with my dad, right down to the Eskimo kisses and twirly fingers at the door. I like to think my substitute can’t possibly do it as well as I can.
“She wanted a Natalie story."
My eyes fly open. Natalie story? From someone other than me?
“Oh, really?" I try to play it cool.
“Yep. I'm getting pretty good at them." Isaac blows on his fingernails and wipes them on the front of his shirt.
I raise a palm. “All right, all right. Cool your jets. Starting tomorrow I can resume the Natalie stories."
Isaac winces. “I don't think so. Claire said my elephant noises are better than yours."
I make a face. “What? No, no, no. My Morabi is spot on." I’ve got the sounds of Natalie’s pet elephant down, no question.
“Then do it."
“Um, no." I wouldn't be caught dead making elephant sounds in front of Isaac.
Isaac doesn't share my embarrassment. He raises an arm to his nose so it sticks straight out and up. A trumpeting noise comes from his throat, loud and frighteningly good.
I bend over and hold my stomach, the laughter competing for gulps of air. When I straighten, Isaac's twinkling eyes are on me.
“Do you want to hear an ugly truth?" he asks.
My laughter fades. “Are you finally going to tell me why you were in the bar that night?"
Something passes through his eyes, dulling their glimmer a fraction. “No.” He goes to a lower cabinet and pulls it open, but I can't see what's in it because his body blocks my view. “My ugly truth is that I don't care for red wine."
I lean on the counter and press my chin to an open palm. “Then what do you like to drink, Dr. Cordova?"
He reaches into the cabinet. “Tequila.” He comes away proudly holding up a bottle.
“Really?"
He laughs. “Well, yes. I am Mexican."
“Are you stereotyping yourself?"
“I guess. You want?" His eyes hold hope. He wants me to like what he likes.
“I've never had tequila." I know he's going to think I'm from another planet. Who has never had tequila?
Our Finest Hour (The Time Series Book 1) Page 16