All the Good Parts

by Loretta Nyhan

  She eyed me suspiciously. “Are you the rental agent?”

  “Nope. I live here.”

  “Not for long,” she muttered.

  “No,” I said. “I want to get out before the mold problem ruins my lungs.”

  “Mold?” She hugged her arms protectively around her slight frame. “That causes cancer, or diabetes, or something major.”

  I smiled weakly. “I’m hoping the damage is reversible.”

  “I told Jason I’m not selling the house.”

  Estelle had been pretty quiet since the start of my home-health visit, so it took me a moment to realize she said something. It didn’t help that I was also lying on my side on her kitchen floor, trying to figure out why her fridge was leaking yellowish water. “What?”

  “You are a grown woman. You’re supposed to say, ‘Pardon me?’”

  “All right, I’ll play,” I said, and parroted her phrase in a terrible British accent, tacking on a “milady” at the end, a la Downton Abbey.

  Not even a hint of a laugh.

  “Jason thinks I should go live in one of those residence halls by the forest preserve.”

  “Forestview Assisted Living?” I switched off my flashlight, mystified by the undercarriage of a refrigerator built before I was born. “It’s not so bad. I hear they have real chefs working there, and it’s pretty social.”

  “Forestview sounds like a mausoleum. And I hate bingo.”

  “I think those seniors are more into yoga and salsa dancing.”

  “Then they’re making fools of themselves,” she snapped.

  “I’m sure you’d find something to occupy your time,” I said, treading carefully. “Wouldn’t it be nice to know someone is always close by to help if you need it?”

  “I don’t need any assistance.”

  I laughed. “Then I’d like to know what I’m doing here.”

  “You’re hired help,” she said. “You come and you go and you’re not waking me up at all hours to take my medicine or restricting my eating habits. People get ill in those places. They’re cesspools. I won’t go.”

  I thought of Jerry’s MRSA infection and acknowledged she might have a point. “Jason’s worried about you. Maybe if you could have a talk with him, to tell him you can still live independently, he’ll reconsider.”

  “He doesn’t have the legal right to force me,” she insisted, ignoring my point completely. Was Jason as stubborn as his mother? If yes, then I wanted to be very far away when those two battled it out.

  “Maybe if you spoke with him, he’d leave me alone,” she continued, flashing an awkward, toothy smile. “You could tell him I’m fit as a fiddle.”

  “I can’t evaluate your health,” I said firmly. “I’m not a doctor.”

  “So you think I’m unhealthy? You do, don’t you?” Her voice rose. “Have I given you any indication that I’m sick? Why wouldn’t you discuss this with me?”

  “I don’t think you’re sick,” I said quickly, gathering every bit of patience I possessed. “I only said I couldn’t evaluate you. I’m not even a nurse yet.”

  She visibly calmed. “I forgot you’re still in school. Did you fail college the first time, is that what happened?”

  “I majored in art when I was younger.”

  “Well, that was stupid.”

  “It was a decision I made. Now, I’m making another decision to become a nurse.”

  “Then why in the world do you want a baby?”

  “Because I have a lot to offer a child,” I said confidently. It felt good to say it out loud.

  “The only thing a child has to offer you is heartache,” she replied.

  “I don’t think that’s true.”

  Estelle shrugged. “To each her own, I suppose.”

  “Now, that’s the truth.”

  “On to more important things,” she said, shifting in her seat. “Can you fix this refrigerator?”

  “Those wires under there look like a plate of spaghetti. I don’t even know where to start.”

  “What am I supposed to do with all my food?”

  “Tell you what. I’ll call a repairman, and if he can make it out soon, I’ll sit with you until he leaves.”

  She nodded, satisfied. “The Boston Strangler was a repairman. That’s how he found his victims.”

  “He’d be no match against us.”

  The repairman, a sweet-faced grandfatherly type, decided he’d much rather fix the refrigerator than strangle two bickering women, and was done in an hour. Estelle wrote him a check, and we sat in the kitchen together for a cup of coffee before I had to get home. I’d promised Donal and Carly some babysitting time, and I looked forward to it. I didn’t know how much longer I’d have with the kids.

  “I’m going to take off,” I said after washing her dishes.

  Estelle pursed her lips. “I need to see your purse before you go.”

  I’d let this go way too far. “No,” I said, overarticulating the word.

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “When are you going to trust me?” I said, trying to ignore the image of Maura’s horrified face as I rifled through her things. “Haven’t I proven myself?”

  Estelle brought a hand to her face, and I noticed she was trembling. “Get your damn purse, Leona.”

  “Fine.” I dashed down the hallway, yanked my purse from her closet, and dropped it on her lap.

  She took her time. With a table in front of her, she could line up my belongings and study them more closely. “What’s Chipotle?” she asked, picking up a receipt.

  “Lunch.”

  “You spent too much money on lunch. Don’t you stick to a budget?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

  She weighed my wallet in her palm. “You should put your coins in a box, they’re dragging your purse down. The leather will bulge at the bottom.”

  “You know what, Estelle?”

  “W-what?” she said, growing apprehensive when she caught my expression.

  I stalked out of the kitchen and down the hall to her bedroom. Estelle’s black, shapeless handbag drooped from her bedpost.

  She didn’t say anything when I returned. I plopped myself down at the table and dumped the contents of her bag, which weren’t all that different from mine. Wallet, eyeglasses case, tissue packet, and . . .

  “Gum! You chew gum, too. You dirty dog!”

  “Only when I feel a migraine coming on,” she sniffed.

  I ran my hands over everything, complete with running commentary. At first, I relished the feeling of justice being served, but then, as I examined her lipstick, which was worn down to nothing, the coupons carefully clipped from magazines, and the other belongings of a woman who held on so tightly to what she had, I felt a connection to her, thin and fragile, but there. When I glanced up at Estelle, she’d stilled, watching me. She held my wallet, her thumb moving slowly over the leather. I picked up hers. “Every time you demand to sift through my personal belongings,” I said, wondering if I knew what I was doing, “I’m going to do the same to you. Understand?”

  She nodded. “That’s fair.”

  “It is?” I’d half expected an argument.

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  “Well, okay then.” I began to pack up her things. She left mine on the table.

  “You should consider skipping lunch every once in a while and using the money to invest in a higher-quality wallet,” she suggested. “I can help you choose one.”

  “I’ll consider it.”

  “Good.”

  I returned her purse, but she hadn’t let go of my wallet.

  “Can I have that back?”

  “Of course,” she said. When she pressed it into my palm, her other hand came up, and so quickly I almost thought I imagined it, she squeezed my arm.

  “See you on Tuesday, Leona,” she said, and retreated to her bedroom.

  “See you on Tuesday, Estelle,” I called, and let myself out.

  Nursing 320 (Online): Communi
ty Health

  Private message—Leona A to Darryl K

  Leona A: Thanks for last Saturday. I’ve been giving what you said a lot of thought. I don’t think you’re right about everything, but I think you are right about some things.

  Darryl K: I can think I’m right about everything, but you shouldn’t. It would mean you weren’t thinking for yourself, and that would disappoint me.

  Leona A: I hope this doesn’t disappoint—I’m not moving to Ireland. I’m staying here to finish up my nursing degree. I think I’m going to try for a job in geriatrics—I’m suited for it.

  Darryl K: Glad to hear it! You’ll make a wonderful geriatric nurse. You have a talent for lifting people’s spirits, and God knows we oldsters can be weighted down by so many things.

  Leona A: Thanks.

  Leona A: Oh . . . and I paid the sperm bank a visit.

  Darryl K: Yes! Call your insurance company and demand they cover it. Sorry, I’m obsessed with medical bills because I have so many I could use them to insulate my house this winter.

  Leona A: Speaking of medical stuff, what’s going on with you? How was the scan on Tuesday?

  Darryl K: Looks like Willie won’t have to bring out the good stuff. Though I could probably use all the wheatgrass I could choke down.

  Leona A: Oh, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.

  Darryl K: Yes, you do.

  Leona A: Okay. I do. FUCK. SHIT. Stupid fucking shit shit shitty motherfucking cancer.

  Darryl K: See? You did know what to say, and it was exactly the right thing. You’re very eloquent when you want to be.

  Leona A: Let’s hope Paul the Asshole feels the same way when I come a-calling to get my job back.

  Darryl K: Maybe start by just calling him Paul?

  Leona A: Solid advice.

  Darryl K: So, I know it’s been a while, but we need to talk about school.

  Leona A: We do?

  Darryl K: Yes, because now that we’ve added the wonderful quotes from our spirited single mothers, our project is finito. I’ll miss it, Leona.

  Leona A: I will, too. Hey, don’t we still need to turn in our reflective essays? We could work on it together—our last hurrah!

  Darryl K: Professor Larmon said we’ve got to write those solo. And that’s good, my friend. It’s time for you to leave the nest.

  Leona A: But nests are so cozy.

  Darryl K: They are. And so much more so when you build your own.

  Leona A: So it’s time for me to start gathering my sticks.

  Darryl K: Oh, honey, we don’t use sticks! Chicago brick, baby. No one’s blowing that sucker down.

  CHAPTER 30

  So I was going to gather my bricks. The first one I’d throw through Paul’s glass house—who was he to tell me to stay away from a friend? A few hours later, I drove over to Jerry’s, parking my car bumper to fender with Paul’s Mercedes. Fuck him, I thought, feeling pretty proud of myself. He was going to have to deal with me. I wasn’t leaving until I’d gotten my job back. Maybe even with a raise.

  I looked good, professional. I had taken a quick shower when I got offline, and after the last of the prospective renters filed out with promises of deposits and quality references, Maura and I sat in my bathroom while I did my makeup and fixed hers. She’d applied with a heavy hand, the black lines around her eyes accentuating not her pretty eyes, but her vulnerability. “You look like a puppy dog,” I said. “Makeup should add to the confidence you already have.”

  “What if I don’t have any?” she complained. “What then?”

  I smiled at her. “It’s there. But this might help you fake it until you figure out where it is.”

  I fixed her up and then offered my face for practice. Hesitant, she used a lighter touch on me than she did herself, and the result was better than I could have done. She wasn’t trying to cover up anything on me. I complimented her work, and she flashed me a quick, lip-glossed grin. “I’d fix your face every day if you let me live with you instead of going to Ireland.”

  “Not a chance, cupcake.”

  “Well, then give me a ride to the park?”

  I gave her a hard look. “No way. You shouldn’t be hanging out at that park.”

  “You don’t have the right to tell me what to do,” she erupted. “If I was living with you, then I’d have to listen, but since you’re too selfish to do that for me—”

  “Maura,” I said sharply. “I think, given the circumstances last time I took you to the park, that I do have every right to tell you no.”

  “I thought you said I should be confident,” she whined, deflating a little. “I was stating my perspective.”

  “There’s a definite difference between being confident and being obnoxious. You are being überobnoxious.”

  “I learned from the best,” she said, and huffed up to her room.

  I shook off my argument with Maura and checked my face in the shining surface framing Jerry’s screen door, straightening my scarf, and adjusting my long sweater over my leggings, tugging it gracelessly over my ass. Then I mentally slid my conversational filter into place, took a deep breath, and knocked.

  Paul answered.

  “You are going to give me five minutes of your time.” I smiled brightly, happy with myself for not giving him much of an out.

  “Just come in,” he said, and disappeared back into the darkened house.

  I followed him into the kitchen. It smelled of burned coffee and something sour, like an old dishcloth. The medicinal smell was less pronounced, hovering like the ghost of Lim past.

  “Where’s Jerry?”

  “I’m going to turn the light on, okay? It’s going to be bright.”

  I didn’t ask why he’d been moving through the house in the semidarkness because I was too bothered by why he didn’t answer the question. The overhead fluorescent assaulted my senses, and it took me a moment to recover. “Is Jerry out?” I asked, my stomach sinking at the offness of everything.

  Paul switched on the coffeemaker. “I’ve got a few minutes and then I have to go.”

  “You’re going out like that?” Paul wore a white T-shirt with pit stains peeking out from under his arms in yellow half-moons. Sweatpants hung loose from his hips, the waistband stretched and frayed. He leaned against the kitchen counter and fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. “Have a seat.”

  “Thank you, I’ll stand.”

  “Sit down, Leona. You’re making me nervous.”

  “Well, that’s a first.”

  “Please.” The plea in his voice shook something deep inside me. I sat.

  “What’s going on? Is he all right?”

  “No.” Paul pushed away from the counter and sank into the chair opposite me. “He’s not. He—I came over yesterday and found him on the floor in the bedroom.”

  “Oh, God!” Instinctively, I reached for Paul’s hand. He was trembling; I felt it under his skin like a tiny earthquake. Difficult as it was, I swallowed the rest of my questions and waited for him to continue.

  “He’d taken a handful of his painkillers, some antidepressants, and washed it all down with a bottle of vodka.” Paul’s voice sounded choked, like his throat was closing up and he was trying to talk into the small opening left. He wouldn’t look at me, gazing instead at our joined hands, though I doubted he was seeing anything but the image of his father on the floor, OD’ing. “He’s in the hospital,” Paul continued. “Intensive care.”

  “He’s alive,” I said, letting out the breath I’d been holding.

  “He didn’t want to be. This wasn’t an attempt, it was a mission for him.” Paul sat back and crossed his arms over his chest again, hugging himself. “He had seizures when the EMTs got here, and they couldn’t control them at the hospital, so he’s heavily sedated and intubated. I don’t know when he’ll wake. I came home to get some things, but then I’m going back to the hospital.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  Paul didn’t disagree—he didn’t say anything a
t all. The coffee gurgled, and he poured us two cups, frowning into his before taking a small sip. “It’s not good.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was talking about the coffee. “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “As long as it’s strong.” I watched as Paul shrugged and tossed his coffee down the sink. “Does Jerry need anything? I can put together a bag for him.”

  “I don’t . . . I really don’t know. All this time I thought I knew what I was doing, and I don’t even know how to pack an overnight bag for my father.”

  “You’re just in shock,” I said, trying to soothe him. “Let me take care of it.”

  He nodded, and I quickly made my way to Jerry’s bedroom. I ignored the stains on the carpet, and the indentations of countless pairs of shoes. It took a lot of people to save a man from dying in his own house. After tossing some clothes and toiletries into a gym bag I found in his closet, I wrapped the photo of Anna in a sweatshirt and placed it on top.

  Paul met me in the front hallway. He’d changed into jeans and a striped dress shirt that still held the dry cleaning tag. I tugged it off. “I’m driving you,” I said, stuffing it in my pocket. “No arguing.”

  “I wasn’t going to do that,” he mumbled. He ushered me outside and locked up behind us. “What good has it gotten me?”

  In the intensive care unit, hope is not a thing with feathers, lifting the mood with its weightless optimism, but something winding down slowly, with every beep and whir of the machines keeping its patients alive, with the low hum of televisions no one is paying the slightest bit of attention to, with the calm, imperturbable faces of nurses accustomed to managing bad news.

  “Is she family?” one such nurse said, not unkindly, tilting her head toward me.

  I held my breath.

  Paul gave a terse nod. She offered me a quick smile and passed over a clip-on ID tag.

  “How is he?” Paul asked.

  “No change,” she said. “But you haven’t been gone long. Don’t get disheartened.”

  The rooms all faced the administrative center, glass-walled terrariums displaying variations on pain and suffering. Paul put his hand on the small of my back, and I realized I’d stopped moving. We entered Jerry’s room, and I forced myself to breathe. His prosthesis sat in the only chair in the room, propped up, the healthy skin tone and fake muscles mocking the man lying on the bed, pale and slack, the flimsy plastic tubes running into his nose and mouth the only things tethering him to this world.