We stood in the middle of the living room, side by side, gazing at ourselves in the mirror. “Are those Disney princesses? Did you steal this from Maura?”
“Cosmetic issue,” I said quickly. “We’ll paint over it.”
Jerry stared at himself, at the empty sleeve hanging loose on his right side. “Now, what would I do with a mirror?” he said softly to his reflection. “Stare at my ugly mug all day?”
“It’s for the phantom pains.” I cleared my throat. “I spoke with an expert, and he said that when the pain hits, you’re to look at your whole self in the mirror, and your brain will remember the amputation, and the connection will shut down the pain receptors.”
“I don’t have a whole self.”
“Jerry—”
He kissed the top of my head. “Sorry. I’ll give it a try. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. If it doesn’t work after a couple of tries, I’ll take it away, okay?”
Jerry shrugged. “Let’s hope this expert knows what he’s talking about.”
Yes, let’s hope. Was I crazy for listening to Darryl? My gut told me no.
Jerry stretched his good arm overhead. He made a face, and I thought about how unsatisfying it must be to leave the other side unstretched. Did he always feel slightly off balance?
“Do you mind if I take a nap?” he asked, sounding exhausted. “I’d tell you to go ahead and leave, but old Scrooge McDuck out there wouldn’t pay you if you did, and I don’t want that.”
“My job is to make you comfortable,” I said, guiding him into the bedroom. “If you need a nap, you take one.” I took his jacket, and he slowly climbed under the covers.
“Don’t let me sleep more than an hour,” he said, voice fading. “I’ll be up all night staring at the moon if you let it go on longer than that.”
“Consider me your personal wake-up call.” Squashing the impulse to kiss his forehead like I did Kevin’s and Patrick’s at bedtime, I carefully closed his door, leaving it open a crack just in case.
Paul stood at the sink when I returned to the kitchen, back to me, hands on the sink, muscles straining against the washed-thin gray sweatshirt that covered his upper body like a film.
“Do you want some cocoa?” Friendliness didn’t work with Paul, I knew that, but I didn’t have much else.
“You gave my father chocolate and whipped cream?”
Easy, tiger. “He only drank a few sips. There’s one for you, do you want it?”
“No, I don’t want it.” He filled a glass with tap water and downed it in two gulps, washed the glass out, dried it, and put it back on the shelf. I wasn’t used to such fastidiousness. It made me nervous.
“Look,” he said, finally meeting my eye. His were etched with weariness and something else I couldn’t name, something in the neighborhood of resignation. “I don’t know much about you, how much training you’ve had, or what your level of education is. I’m not paying you much, so I can guess at those answers.”
My mouth opened, wanting to defend myself, but my brain hadn’t caught up, so nothing came out.
“I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but I’ll do it if I have to.”
“What did I do wrong? Is it the cocoa? I don’t make it a habit to give him sugar, but if you’d like to make a list of what he can and can’t—”
“That’s not the primary concern.” Paul hesitated for a beat, then grabbed my hand and tugged me toward his father’s bedroom door. “I want to show you something.”
“He’s sleeping in there.”
“Then we both better be quiet.”
Paul’s hand engulfed mine like an oven mitt, and I resisted the urge to pull away. We tiptoed through Jerry’s bedroom, the older man snoring lightly. Paul ushered me into the small bathroom and shut the door behind us, holding the knob in place so it wouldn’t make a sound. He flicked the light on, and the awkwardness of two people in a cramped space—one of whom was built like a mountain—had me shuffling my feet in an attempt to claim some personal space.
What was it like to live life like that, to inhabit a body so much larger than everyone else’s? His build kept people at a distance, but his height did, too, because he could see the things people would rather keep hidden—the bald spots and gray roots, the thick layer of dust on the top shelves, the cobwebs and cracks in ceiling plaster. Did we seem very small to him? Did he like the distance, or did it make him feel like a man standing at the top of a tall building, watching all the silent lives unfold?
Paul opened the medicine cabinet and began rifling through the pill bottles. His casual disregard for Jerry’s privacy unnerved me, but having nothing to do but wait until he finished, I pressed my back against the cold tiled wall and studied him. Paul’s hair had been cut recently, and he’d shaved, but not well. The raw, angry evidence of a razor mishap was a blot on the broad landscape of his neck, and a patch of bristly golden-brown hair peeked out from under his jaw. I could smell the sweat mixed with his cologne, and the sweatshirt had a rip at the bottom. Paul wasn’t perfect. I had to remember that.
Finally, he found the bottle he was looking for. “Have you given my dad any of these?”
“I’m not an RN,” I said, cringing at how defensive I sounded. “I’m not allowed to dispense medication.”
He ignored my defense and shook the bottle, which rattled with pills. “Notice anything strange about this?”
I took it from him and studied the label. A common antidepressant. Prescribed to Jerzy Pietrowski, twenty-five milligrams to take once a day with a meal.
Paul jabbed his index finger at the bottle. “Look at the date. It’s still full. He hasn’t taken any.”
The realization of my mistake hit me right as his judgment did, both bone jarring and icy, like a smack of winter wind rushing off Lake Michigan. Had I failed Jerry? Had I stuck too close to what I was supposed to do and ignored what I needed to do, as I’d done with Estelle? “I asked him if he needed a refill,” I said weakly. “He said no.”
Paul’s blue eyes were arctic. “And you believed him?”
“That’s my job, to ask.”
“Is it? Is that your job?”
“It’s against the rules for me to dispense medication.” I couldn’t look at him. Rules were the refuge of cowards. He knew it, and I knew it.
“Ms. Accorsi,” he said, his voice shifting into something more formal, almost as if he realized how close we were standing and had to distance himself somehow. “What, exactly, are you being paid for?”
“For . . . for caring,” I whispered, my voice crumbling into sand.
“That’s right,” he said briskly. “I suggest you start doing so.”
The beige floor tiles began to shimmer and blur. No. I will not cry in front of this man.
“Christ. Are you crying?”
Yes, you asshole. “Maybe he doesn’t need all those pills,” I said, swallowing hard. “He’s holding his own. For some people, recovery is a slow process. It’s natural for him to feel a little down.”
“So you aren’t allowed to dispense medicine, but you can make major, life-altering decisions about it.”
“I’ll talk to him. When I’m here, I’ll make sure he takes it.”
Paul nodded. He reached around me and turned the knob, opening the door to Jerry, who still slept peacefully. Shattered by how vulnerable he appeared, I stumbled into his room.
“Look, Ms. Accorsi,” Paul said, his voice low but not a whisper.
I turned to him, waving my hand toward his father, who lay stretched out on the bed, good arm cradling his stump. “Shhh . . .”
Paul brushed off my concern. “Once he’s really under, he could sleep through an alien invasion,” he said, but still he waited until we were in the hallway before continuing. Paul didn’t touch me, but as he spoke, his words grabbed me by the shoulders and shook. “You need to be better,” he said. “You know that, right? My father requires it.”
“I’m—I’m trying.” Tears threatened a
gain. I inhaled deeply, trying to keep them inside.
The corner of Paul’s mouth twitched, and for a moment I thought he might say something to lessen the sting. But I didn’t want to be let off the hook. He was a bully, but I was incompetent.
I looked at my shoes. “I’m going to clean the kitchen now.”
“That’s . . . fine,” Paul said. “I’m . . . going to finish up outside.”
“Fine.”
He moved away from me with a speed I’d assumed impossible for a man his size.
I dumped the hot cocoa down the sink and began to scrub out the mugs, watching as Paul hauled himself up the wooden ladder, mouth pulled into a frown.
Even if he made a good point, Paul was an asshole. But then, in a way, I was, too. Did I really think a Disney princess mirror would solve all Jerry’s problems? That I would float in like Tinker Bell, sprinkle fairy dust on his stump, and every little thing would be all right?
For someone who wanted to be a nurse—a good one—overlooking a patient’s needs was a grave offense.
But maybe Paul was wrong. Maybe I was doing the best I could, and the only thing incompetent about me was my self-esteem. Maybe he was just a capital A asshole.
You need to be better. Was Paul doing me a favor or projecting his insecurities on me? He couldn’t convince his dad to wear a prosthesis or eat healthy meals. It seemed we were both amateurs when it came to taking care of Jerry.
The genetic squares sprang back to mind. Big As and little ones. (A)ssholes and (a)mateurs.
So . . . what were the chances our kid would be an asshole?
Right. I was pretty sure that any way you calculated it, (A)sshole was a dominant trait.
CHAPTER 9
Nursing 320 (Online): Community Health
Private Message—Leona A to Darryl K
Leona A: I got an 80. A stupid 80. On an open-book quiz. Woe, woe, woe . . .
Darryl K: A B- is nothing to be ashamed of.
Leona A: That helps a little. Thanks. It’s just that my 3.3 GPA means more to me than hot coffee in the morning. Or perfectly toasted bagels. Or bubble tea with those little tapioca pearls at the bottom.
Leona A: And that’s saying a lot.
Leona A: Darryl?
Darryl K: Still here! Got a cramp in my leg. Had to roll over my calf with a baseball bat.
Leona A: Did you see that on House?
Darryl K: Nope. Baseball bat pummeling as a form of therapy was created in the very small receptacle of practicality that lies on an overstuffed shelf in the closet of my mind.
Leona A: Wow. Okay. You’re a poet. Or you have an open dictionary in front of you. Hey, speaking of your mind, you didn’t mention what you got on the quiz.
Darryl K: I did fine.
Leona A: Darryl. Seriously.
Darryl K: 100. But it’s not that important. It’s just a quiz.
Leona A: Don’t do that. It’s wonderful. Good for you.
Leona A: So, since you’re so smart, can I ask your thoughts on a personal matter?
Darryl K: Go right ahead. I love personal matters.
Leona A: Even with your impressive intelligence, you’ve done stupid things before, right?
Darryl K: Often. Sometimes multiple times in one day.
Leona A: Do you think stupid begets stupid? I’ve been on a roll lately, and I’m trying to make a major life decision, but I’m terrified all the mistakes I’m making are a sign that everything I do right now will be a mistake. Stupid? Or not?
Darryl K: I don’t think you’re stupid. No one but you has used the word “beget” properly since Shakespeare and Marlowe were one-upping each other in Elizabethan England.
Leona A: I’m being serious.
Darryl K: I know, and that’s your problem. Overthinking things is the curse of the modern woman. These mistakes you’re making, did they leave anyone six feet under?
Leona A: Um . . . no.
Darryl K: How about maimed? Did it result in major destruction of property? A lawsuit? Long-term psychological damage? Bankruptcy?
Leona A: No. Well, at least I hope not. But . . . my actions still have consequences, you know?
Darryl K: Sneezing has consequences. So does drinking coffee. Filling your gas tank has consequences. Think about the explosion of possible outcomes when you mistakenly get in the slow lane at the grocery checkout! What I’m getting at is this—even if you decide not to do something—even if you try to stay perfectly still so your personal status quo is as calm as a lake in the dog days of summer—shit is gonna happen. You might as well take a risk.
Leona A: But what if taking that risk affects others? Isn’t that selfish?
Darryl K: Not unless you have foreknowledge that someone is going to get seriously hurt. Face it, real life often requires a great leap into the land of the unknown—a chaotic kingdom full of responsibilities and disappointments and joys and terrors, and built entirely on chance. Does that freak you out?
Leona A: No.
Leona A: Yes.
Darryl K: Good. You know that saying, “Do the thing that scares you”? I like that, but I want to add to amend it slightly—keep making choices that scare you until nothing does.
Leona A: Does that really work?
Darryl K: It did for me.
Leona A: But I’m thinking about doing something crazy.
Darryl K: Aren’t those the only things that can truly change our lives?
Leona A: I suppose so. But we don’t know if the change will be good or bad, do we?
Darryl K: And that mystery right there is the beauty of life.
CHAPTER 10
I thought about Darryl as I huffed through my Wednesday morning run. So he was a little bit reckless, but also smart and kind. My mind went back to the genetic squares, filling in Rs and Ss and Ks, and then I stopped. Could I offer those things as well?
Acting on what was essentially a pipe dream was reckless. I wasn’t sure about smart, but I had better be kind, given my profession. I scrolled through some random memories. I was usually kind, or at least I tried that option first. Uppercase K, I thought, smiling to myself. Darryl’s words had given me a jolt of self-appreciation. Score one for him.
My thoughts continued to flow, trying to piece together a face from his words, but I kept coming up with a vague comingling of Channing Tatum and George Clooney. Pure fantasy. I started again, gathering the facts I’d collected like poker chips.
Darryl was a nursing student, which, even in the twenty-first century, was still unusual for a guy. This denoted a degree of sensitivity.
He watched at least some television.
He encouraged me to be stronger without making me feel like I was somehow less than.
He’d survived a challenging situation and lived to tell the tale. No one dismissed fear so easily without having taken it head-on, and won.
So now I pictured a combo of Channing Tatum, Bear Grylls, and Mr. Rogers. In my mood, even that was strangely hot.
Turning the corner onto Catherine Avenue, I slowed, my breath coming ragged and shallow. I called what I did running, but it wasn’t, just an awkward kind of interval training. I ran like someone was chasing me for a few blocks, not superspeed, but with enough effort to wind me. Then I fast-walked for a while, stiff legged, arms pumping tight and close at boob level. I loved the way exercise ironed out the tightness in my muscles, the stress and worry evaporating off my body like steam. I burst into another run, pushing myself again, seeking to relieve the tension caused by Paul’s words. You need to be better.
So I would be, and he’d have nothing to do with it. Quad muscles screaming, I tore onto Stone, a quiet, residential street. A cloud wandered from the sun, and my eyes struggled to adjust to its coldly bright autumn rays, yellow light soaking the leaf-strewn sidewalk. For a moment, I wished my iPod wasn’t broken; my favorite running playlist, a mix of flute-heavy Celtic Braveheart-y tunes, would offer an incredible sound track to the colorful world before me.
But if I�
��d been wearing earbuds, I never would have heard the car inching behind me, staying a house or two back, its engine revving as the vehicle stopped and started, stopped and started. It was white, as far as I could tell, idling in the corner of my peripheral vision, and big, an SUV or a van.
The street was deserted.
I slid my key into the hollow between my index and middle fingers. Across the street, two ranch houses stood side by side, no fence between them. If I ran into that narrow spot and came out the other side, and then repeated the process one block over, I’d find myself in the safety of a busy street, with loads of bystanders. I inhaled deeply, trying to steady my breath, and took off, legs flying. I’d just made it to the houses when I heard, “Lee!”
Fuck. Donal.
I stopped short, nearly tripping over my shoes, and turned around.
It was his work van, windowless, the perfect getaway car for your garden-variety pedophile, something Carly begged me to camouflage with art. I’d painted an ornate claddagh on the side, but the cheap acrylic had mostly chipped off, the heart and crown missing, leaving only a creepy pair of gold, disembodied hands. If I were a kid, I’d take one look at that van and scream for my mother.
Donal pulled to the side of the road, reached over, and opened the passenger door. “Get in,” he said in an uncharacteristically bossy tone.
“But it’s Brophy-free day.” When I moved in, Carly insisted I pick one day I had completely to myself, and it had always been honored. On Wednesdays, I only saw or spoke to a Brophy if I initiated contact.
Donal ran a hand through his thick gingery hair. “It’s Brophy emergency day. That trumps all.”
My heart flew upward, wedging in my throat, which had gone instantly dry. “Are the kids okay? Carly?”
“For now,” he answered. “Can you get in, please? I need a word.”
Donal’s vowels, broadened and flat from so many years in the Midwest, shrunk up when he was nervous, his Irishness rising up to clip them in the jaw. I nodded, knees wobbly with anticipation, and settled into the front seat. He turned the ignition but didn’t drive, his body very still, eyes gazing out the windshield, glassy and unfocused, not really seeing.
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