Her mom looked up from her lap. Even through her matte cream-colored foundation, her cheeks were flushed and shiny. “It was more of an emotional affair than a physical one. Yet I never told Harry about your dad’s cancer. He didn’t find out until we started officially dating last year, and he was stunned I hadn’t confided in him. But I didn’t want sympathy. I just wanted to escape, I guess. To be someone else for a little while.”
Sherry’s words suddenly echoed in Olive’s head. Being a mother and wife is all about selflessness. Giving up every molecule of your soul. The thought froze the retort that had been on her lips: You wanted to escape from us? Why weren’t we enough for you? She tried to take a step back and put into perspective what her mom had just said. In the middle of the bleakest years of her life—her beloved husband of twenty-six years fighting a losing battle with acute myeloid leukemia, her adult children depressed and clingy—her mom had needed to shake free of that life for a little while.
The tiles were slick with sweat under Olive’s bare legs. She shifted her position and sat cross-legged, not caring about her exposed underwear or the wrinkles she was probably pressing into the skirt of her dress. “Did you ever tell Dad?”
Her mom shook her head. “I couldn’t bring myself to. He was so weak, and I didn’t want anything to come between us, especially at the end. I still question that decision. If it was really best for us, or just best for me. But your dad talked about me remarrying a lot. I would get so angry with him. He would say things like, ‘When I’m gone, I don’t want you pulling off at a rest stop just yet. You’ve still got a lot of miles in you, Hepburn,’ and ‘God help the man who falls in love with you. He’s never going to be the same again. I know I haven’t been since the day I met you.’”
Tears as fat as pearls slid down her mom’s face, leaving pale streaks behind. Olive stood and handed her a damp washcloth. Her mom pressed the washcloth to her face. It was so silent in the bathroom that Olive could hear the gravelly sound of wheels on the sidewalk outside. The maid with her cart, probably, arriving to clean the bungalow next door.
Olive’s anger and indignation were slowly seeping out of her like air from a leaky beach ball. Her mom, Kathy Watson, née Rogers, soon to be Kathy Matheson, was—surprise!—a fallible human being, just like Olive. Her patience, her generosity, her unconditional love—all of those qualities coexisted with less worthy ones. With secrets. Olive wished she had known this last year when she and Phil had broken up. Maybe it would have lessened her self-loathing.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry for making you talk about this on your wedding day.”
“It’s actually a relief to have finally told someone. It was eating away at me. But I’m sorry if what I did hurt you.” Her mom’s voice was muffled by the washcloth. She removed it; under the fluorescent lights, her face was a smeared mosaic of pink, white, and beige. “Did I ruin it?”
Olive didn’t know if she was referring to their relationship or her makeup. “Let’s go out to the patio,” she said. “The natural lighting will be better, and we’ve got only twenty minutes now to get you ready.”
Red and purple tropical flowers hung over the edge of the roof and wound their way through the decorative wooden brackets. Olive’s mom sat in one of the rattan chairs, and Olive dumped the necessary tubes and bottles on the table. She swiftly reapplied the foundation, covering up the evidence of her mom’s tears, and brushed on a rosy, blushing glow, fit for a bride.
“It’s so strange, isn’t it? You helping me get ready for my wedding. Not the natural order of things.”
“Blue, gray, silver, or um, silver-gray?” Olive asked, showing her the squares of eye shadow.
“Silver-gray.” She obediently closed her eyes so Olive could dust the eye shadow over their lids. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like one of those pushy moms who’s always nagging her daughter about weddings and grandchildren.”
“It’s okay,” Olive said. “Please don’t say anything, but Phil proposed in February.”
Her mom opened her eyes and blinked a few times, sparkles of eye shadow raining from her lashes. She seemed to be thinking hard about something, and Olive knew she was probably remembering the engagement announcement dinner in March and how Olive had blown off her concerns about her relationship with Phil then. “You turned him down?” she asked softly, comprehension dawning on her face.
“I wanted to say yes, but I couldn’t.” Olive passed a tube of pearly pink lipstick to her mom.
She didn’t ask why. She held the lipstick distractedly in her fist, like she wasn’t sure what to do with it. Then she leaped from her chair and enfolded Olive in the large, white arms of the hotel bathrobe. “Oh, honey.”
Olive let herself be enveloped, giving in to her mom’s love. Her body relaxed. She pressed her nose against her mom’s shoulder, which smelled like bleach and felt scratchy. Barefoot, they were the exact same height.
“We’re cut from the same cloth, you and I,” her mom murmured into her ear. “Always dwelling on the past. Always second-guessing every single decision.” She stroked Olive’s hair. “But sometimes you just need to dive headfirst into the water.”
But you don’t know what I’ve done, Olive wanted to say. You don’t know how I hurt Phil last year and how he wasn’t able to forgive me. And even though I’ve been given a second chance, my mistake just won’t go away, and I can’t not tell him like you didn’t tell Dad, because it’s so important to me that he forgives me this time, that he understands, and that we can live our lives together without secrets. Even if I don’t tell him, I’m so scared that I’ll screw up again in some way and he’ll cast me off. He’s been through so much with his dad, and if I let him down, too . . . It’s just too much pressure sometimes. And this second chance? Isn’t it so that I can fix my impulsive behaviors from last year, the times I “dove in headfirst”? I can’t afford to give up my control now.
Olive pulled away so she could see her mom’s face. She was riveted by the beauty and light there; it was like seeing her for the first time. And she realized that even though her mom didn’t know about her repeat year or the one-night stand, she understood Olive’s fears and worries all the same. Cut from the same cloth, Olive thought. Maybe she was right.
Olive heard hurried footsteps approaching and turned to see Verona clattering up the path in stilettos, three bouquets of flowers in her arms.
“We’ve got ten minutes to go!” Verona called out to them. “Everyone’s there. Even the officiant. You’re not dressed?”
“We’re a lot further along than we look,” Olive replied. She crouched down and retrieved the lipstick, which had rolled under the table. She gave it to her mom. “Put this on in the bathroom. I’ll help you with your dress.”
Her mom gave her a wide-eyed look and disappeared inside.
“What did you say to her?” Verona asked. “Did she change her mind?”
“No, of course not. The wedding’s on. We were just talking and lost track of time.”
Verona gave her a disapproving look and set the bouquets on the rattan chair. Olive didn’t have time for her disapproval. She rushed into the bungalow, where her mom was just emerging from the bathroom in her dress. The dress was light and gauzy, calf length with a deep V-neck and flowing sleeves like butterfly wings. Her brown hair sailed behind her like its own wedding veil.
“Zip me up?” she asked Olive. “I don’t want to be late. I don’t want Harry to think I’m standing him up.”
She grabbed the beaded handbag on the nightstand and flew to the door.
“Wait,” Olive cried. “Your hair. The gardenia.” She dug in her own purse for the clear plastic box Rowena had given her this morning; inside was the delicate white flower.
Her mom stood still for her in the doorway. Olive tied her mom’s hair back and gently pinned the gardenia’s petals in place.
“Beautiful,” she
said. “You’re beautiful.”
They were all waiting for them on the beach. Harry in his white linen, Christopher out of place in a dark suit coat and tie, Phil in a green polo shirt that matched the color of the ocean. The officiant stood underneath a bamboo archway draped with organza. It was the same image emblazoned into her memory—except for Phil’s added presence—but it looked very different. Olive took her place on the warm sand by her mom’s side.
Chapter 16
A flat-screen TV would look great on that wall,” Phil said, spreading his arms out to the size of the imagined TV. He stood in a totally beige living room.
“We don’t have a flat-screen TV,” Olive said with a laugh. She pulled a pen and notebook from her handbag.
“Not yet. But if the genius of the place requires it . . .” He came up behind her and kissed her neck. She reached around and caught his lips with hers.
“But we haven’t decided on this place yet.” This was the fourth condo they had looked at today. Olive had to work in an hour, and she was already feeling burned out. “You don’t like that there’s only a one-car garage, there’s not enough cabinet space in the kitchen for my liking, and we both thought the window in the shower was creepy.”
“But I like it better than any of the others we saw today. It has more character. And it’s definitely closer to our price range.”
“You just like the gym and tennis courts.” She tapped her pen against the chart she’d made in her notebook, outlining the pros and cons of each condo they’d looked at.
“That may have swayed my opinion somewhat.”
“Well, we don’t have to pick just from the condos we saw today. And we definitely don’t have to decide this minute. We have plenty of time.” She closed the notebook and returned it to her handbag.
Plenty of time. It was late August, and Olive and Kerrigan’s lease on the upper flat of the pink house didn’t expire until the end of September, and Phil had his place until mid-October. Not that Kerrigan knew Phil and Olive were looking at condos. Olive had had several opportunities to tell her friend that she and Phil were planning to move in together, but every time the moment presented itself, she got cold feet. The promise she’d made to Kerrigan haunted her. You don’t see me going anywhere, do you? I’m not moving out.
She rationalized this in many different ways. She wanted to protect Kerrigan from the news until she had some kind of solution for Kerrigan’s living situation. She didn’t know what this might be. The ideal roommate to take her place? A cute, affordable apartment in the downtown high-rises that Kerrigan had always admired? A condo in the same neighborhood as—or better yet, right next door to—Olive and Phil’s?
And when it came right down to it, would Kerrigan really feel betrayed? Moving out was natural, a part of growing up. They were both twenty-five years old, after all, and had lived together for the past seven years. It seemed unlikely that Kerrigan would expect this to go on much longer. Last year Olive had moved out because she needed a change and wanted to be more mature; she could see how Kerrigan would have found this hurtful or insulting. But this year she was moving out because her relationship with Phil was getting more serious. It should be a happy occasion—a celebration of the next step of her life. Surely Kerrigan would understand that and want the best for her friend, especially since Olive wanted the same for her.
Yet even this line of reasoning couldn’t dispel Olive’s guilt. She kept imagining Kerrigan’s misery when she’d found out 2011 held nothing for her to look forward to. Or even worse, when she’d found out that she and Olive had drifted apart as friends last year. But Olive refused to let their friendship dissolve this year. She would make Kerrigan a priority even if they weren’t living together. She would prevent the injury she had caused her friend last year.
All of this back and forth wouldn’t have been worth it if it weren’t for Phil. When Olive had first mentioned the idea, as they lay in his bed and she bemoaned the fact that she still had to drive home and change for work, Phil’s eyes had lit up with boyish excitement. And the more they talked about it, the more enthusiastic she became. She envisioned painting the walls together, breakfast in bed, playing with Cashew in their own yard, and best of all, coming home and crawling into bed beside him every morning. It was one step closer to marriage. It was a commitment that wasn’t as hard for her conscience to say yes to. And living together would give her more chances to observe Phil, study his mood, and pick the perfect time and way to tell him the whole truth. Or some of the truth, a little at a time, so as not to overwhelm him. She needed him to know and accept her for who she was, flaws and all, before they could progress to the next step in their relationship. The prospect of creating a home together made this task seem less insurmountable somehow.
The real estate agent, evidently hearing a concluding note in Olive’s voice, chose that moment to wander back into the living room. “Any other questions I can answer?” she asked. She halfheartedly gave them her card, as if sensing they wouldn’t be calling.
Phil dropped Olive off at her apartment so she could change into her scrubs. She walked around to the driver’s side to kiss him good-bye. His arm rested outside the window, revealing the golfer’s tan lines that were so common for him at this time of the year. His hand was paler than the rest of his arm, as if he were still wearing his golf glove. Suddenly, she felt overwhelmed by how much she cherished each of these little details. His funny tan lines, the dark freckle under his left eye, the Mickey Mouse boxers she knew he was wearing because he was running low on clean clothes and desperately needed to do laundry.
She grabbed his face with both hands, drawing him closer to her, catching him off guard, and kissing him deeply. He responded in kind, nearly pulling her through the car window.
“Wow. What was that for?” he asked breathlessly.
She kissed the back of his hand. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he said, “and I can’t wait until we live together.”
Kerrigan wasn’t home, but Olive felt dishonest as she let herself into their apartment, as if it were a place in which she already didn’t belong. She guiltily removed the notebook from her handbag and slid it facedown into one of her desk drawers. She knew this was probably childish and unnecessary, but she didn’t want Kerrigan finding out the wrong way and before she was ready.
As she dressed in a pair of pink scrubs and tied her hair up in a high ponytail, she listened to her voice mail messages on speakerphone. The first two were from real estate agents returning her call. The third was from her mom, who sounded distraught. For a split second, Olive wondered if she and Harry had had a fight.
“Olive. How could you not tell me? Sherry Witan and I did lunch today. That poor woman. You know her mother died of ovarian cancer? I just feel so awful. Here I’ve been enjoying myself these past few months, and she’s been suffering all alone. If you’d only told me. Even if she wanted her privacy and wasn’t feeling up to visitors, I could’ve at least been praying for her. Call me back when you get a chance so I can scold you properly. Also we want to invite you and Phil to our Labor Day picnic.”
Relief washed over her. It didn’t bother her that her mom was annoyed, because she knew that a quick explanation of patient confidentiality would convince her that Olive couldn’t have done otherwise. Instead, now that Olive’s mom knew about Sherry’s breast cancer, her burden was lessened. Her mom would know how to console and encourage Sherry in a way that Olive couldn’t. Sherry would listen to her. Olive had tried calling Sherry twice since she’d been back from St. Lucia, and neither time had Sherry called her back. Olive speculated that she was either too sick or still too mad at her to pick up the phone. At least now she could get an update on Sherry’s health from her mom.
The ICU was louder than usual when she arrived, but she quickly realized that just one man was making all the ruckus. A heavyset, dark-haired man in his sixties was arguing with
Tina at the nurses’ station. He gesticulated wildly, yet Tina, who was only half his size, stood her ground.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Dodge. Visiting hours aren’t until eight o’clock. Hospital rules. You can come back and see your brother then.”
Mr. Dodge snarled something unintelligible and tried to go around the desk.
“Mr. Dodge! The waiting room is that way! And if you don’t listen to me, then I’ll have to call security and have you removed.”
Hangdog, the large man turned around and retreated to the waiting room, mumbling under his breath the whole way. As he passed Olive, she caught a strong whiff of alcohol.
“Let me guess,” she said to Tina. “He’s related to one of my patients?” The truth was she remembered Frank Dodge and his ill brother, Ed. They were a pretty memorable pair. Ed had cirrhosis of the liver, and Frank had shown up drunk and insisted that all good old Ed needed to make him feel better was a tumbler or two of Scotch.
Tina nodded. “This always happens. First it looks like it’s going to be a slow night—we’re under capacity, only eight beds full—and then some basket case comes in to make things complicated.” She grinned and handed her two clipboards. “But now he’s your problem.”
Olive tucked the clipboards under her arm and set off to check on her patients. Sometimes she wished this whole repeat year thing had a fast-forward button. There were moments in her life that just didn’t seem worth reliving; there was nothing she needed to change, nothing new to learn, nothing more to gain. She was worn out from her day of condo hunting with Phil and didn’t know if she was up to the Dodge brothers tonight.
Ed Dodge had a reddish nose shaped like a summer squash. His hairy arms were speckled with purple, spidery lesions. He was hooked up to everything but the ventilator. She skimmed through his chart before she took his vital signs. He’d gone through a battery of blood tests to measure his clotting factors and liver function markers to see how advanced his cirrhosis was. Fluid had collected in his abdomen, which had led to a pretty serious bacterial infection. There was an important note here. He was allergic to penicillin, and his cirrhosis had made him very sensitive to a lot of other drugs and their side effects.
The Repeat Year Page 21