What She Wanted

by Julie Anne Lindsey

  His steel-blue eyes bore into me. A flush moved across his pale skin. “You always are. Until you aren’t. Accept my apology, already.”

  “Fine.”

  “Good.” He adjusted the pillow under his shoulders and winced.

  I lurched forward, hands hovering, with no idea how to help. “Are you okay?”

  He rubbed his chest. “Sore, but I’ll live.”

  We relaxed into awkward silence. I chewed my lip to stop myself from asking the biggest question on my desperate mind. Did you know my dad moved back to town? Closely followed by, Is that what you were arguing about when you had your heart attack?

  People passed the open doorway, chatting merrily. The air-conditioning powered on and off. Nurses zipped around the floor, and my mind wandered. The race cars zoomed around a dirt track, pointlessly, tenaciously, going nowhere as fast as they could. If I stayed in Woodsfield all my life, I’d be one of those cars. The guy at Ray’s had sent me two texts asking for more money to hold the apartment. I’d held him off with the promise of another cash delivery. I needed to tell Mark about the move. He wouldn’t need to work all the overtime with one less mouth to feed. Things would be easier for him, less stressful.

  “Did you bring the diary?”

  I pulled my attention from the television and curled protective fingers around my bag. I hadn’t told him about finding the box in his shed. “What?” He couldn’t have it back. We had to share her now.

  “I heard you reading. I couldn’t say so at the time, but I heard you. I thought you were her at first, and that I’d finally joined her and her mother. You sound so much like she did. I’d nearly forgotten her sweet voice until you read to me. She came flooding back as if she’d never left me.” He paused to search my face. “Do you have it now?”

  I nodded. He’d heard me.

  “Will you read to me again?”

  “Which part?” How much had he heard?

  “Anything. You choose.”

  I liberated the journal and turned the pages carefully. Reading to someone I didn’t think could hear was different than reading to someone ready to hang on every word. I cleared my throat and found the passage I thought he needed most.

  “I’ve made a major decision today, Katy. When I finish high school in the spring, I’m going to go to college. Don’t worry, I’ll go part-time and take you with me to the daycare there so we won’t have to be apart long. I’m going to study nursing and help other sick people find hope. Being a mom will be my number one priority, but I also want to make you proud. I think we can have a nice life on a nurse’s salary. What do you think? I have an A in science, and I’ve been poked with enough needles to know what that’s all about. I watched your grandma get sicker while the nurses rallied around her. I think they were part of the reason she recovered. They insisted she could do it, and she believed them. We had chocolate cupcakes. I’m going to bake you chocolate cupcakes for your first birthday. It’ll be our tradition. Here’s a little secret advice: Don’t let Dad know you’re baking. Oh my goodness. Do not. Your grandpa is a chocolate frosting junkie, and he’ll leave your cupcakes naked. Trust me. Bake when he’s not home.”

  Mark chuckled and shook his head in amazement. “Go on.”

  “What he’s really good at, though, is advice and triage. He’s never led me astray, and he’s bandaged every skinned knee and elbow I’ve had since birth. Mom hates the sight of blood, but Dad hates the sight of me in pain more. He’ll help you, too, if I’m not around. Always ask him to blow on the alcohol before applying the bandage. It tickles, and I think he likes that part.

  “He really wants me to get chemo, but I want to make sure you’re safe first. Chemo was rough on Mom, but, in the end, she pulled through. I can’t lose you and then die anyway. I can’t lose you and live without you, either, so Dad agreed to let me wait for treatment. He didn’t want to, but he’d never intentionally make me unhappy. He respects me enough to let me choose. You can’t imagine how much that means to me. He’s a really good dad, Katy. He’s going to be an amazing grandpa.”

  A little sob stopped my words. I lifted my eyes to check on Mark. He rubbed heavy hands over his mouth and huffed. His shoulder bobbed with years of unleashed grief. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

  I didn’t know if he was talking to me or Mom. I stared helplessly. Stupidly.

  He pulled the sheets to his chin and rolled onto his side, pointing the back of his head to me. His body shuddered with emotion.

  “I’ll come back in the morning.” I gathered my things and crept from the room, pulling the door closed behind me. I nearly ran down the hall to the elevator. If I could’ve run to another life, I would have.

  * * * *

  On Wednesday, I rubbed a circle in the fog clinging to my bathroom mirror. “Happy birthday. You are officially an adult.” I didn’t look any older, despite the purple crescents underlining my eyes. I felt older, but that was another issue all together.

  Dean and Heidi sent birthday wishes via text. Both wanted to get together. I gave them the same spiel. “Visiting Mark. Will call u later.”

  Yesterday’s visit had been full of loaded looks and small talk. I guessed he was embarrassed for crying in front of me, but I couldn’t be sure.

  Today, I had to tell Mark I was moving out. The lunatic from Ray’s had texted and left voice mails all night about the apartment. He threatened to lease it to someone else. He threatened to raise the rent. He wanted more cash to hold it. He wanted a signed lease. He was a nuisance, and I’d ignored him as long as I could. I had the signed lease and his money in my bag, so I’d promised to stop by in the afternoon to make it official.

  This would be nothing like my last birthday. Last year, Mark had worked voluntary overtime, and Heidi had been at her aunt’s home in Delaware. Mrs. B had taken me to breakfast, and I’d spent the rest of the day alone, eating Nutella from a jar. What a difference a year made. I’d daydreamed a lot of things about my eighteenth birthday that day, but I hadn’t seen any of this coming. Mark in the hospital. Dean Wells in my life. My dad back in town. An undercurrent of disappointment rolled in. My dad was close enough to celebrate with me this year, if I wanted. I didn’t. If he’d wanted, he could’ve celebrated every year with me. He hadn’t. So, why did I feel like the bad guy for ignoring him when he made a reappearance in my life? Why did the guilt keep me awake at night? Why’d I look for him everywhere, only to be mad when I found him and disappointed when I didn’t?

  I’d learned from my obsessive research that Joshua was married. His wife’s name was Elizabeth. She was thirty-three and from Caldwell, which might have explained why he’d lived there for the last couple years. Her family owned a masonry business, which might’ve been how he got a local job. According to public records, he and Elizabeth had applied for a marriage license six months ago and were married soon after. The baby bump probably had something to do with that, which only made me, illogically, angrier. His life had nothing to do with mine. Or, it hadn’t until he’d moved to my town and showed up at my door. Funny, he hadn’t mentioned Elizabeth. Was that what he wanted to talk to me about? Why?

  I picked the tender skin around my thumbnail. Today was about me and Mark. Not me and Joshua. There wasn’t a me-and-Joshua. I rehearsed the “I’m moving out” speech on my way to the hospital. I wasn’t trying to be a brat or to make a statement. I just wanted to unburden us. It was my first act as an adult, and a gesture of freedom seemed appropriate.

  Rose met me near the elevators. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure.” I glanced nervously toward Mark’s room. I wanted to get the speech over with. The anticipation was burning an ulcer through me. He’d probably be relieved. Everything would be fine. We would be fine. For the first time in history, we were on speaking terms, so life was good. Complicated, but good.

  Rose handed me a folder stuffed with crisp white papers. “This is your grandpa’s recovery plan. He’s doing well, but he needs fu
ll-time care for a few more days.”

  “Okay.”

  “His insurance wants him home today. They won’t cover any more time here.”

  “But he just woke up from a coma.”

  “And now he’s ready for a recovery plan.”

  I blinked. “What does that mean?”

  “He’ll need a caregiver at the house. Maybe for a few weeks. It depends on his progress, and progress depends on his motivation to recover.”

  The shoebox of bills came to mind. He’d never pay off the medical bills he already had, and I couldn’t imagine what heart surgery cost, plus all these days in a room with nurses around the clock. There was no way he could afford in-house care either. What would that cost? “The insurance has to help. It’s the whole point of having insurance.”

  “They help within their preset parameters. Recovery is individual, but insurance companies can’t gear their specs on an individual basis. They use guidelines. I’m afraid Mark’s stay has gone beyond what is considered reasonable and customary for his situation.”

  I gnashed my teeth. “What good is having insurance, if not to pay the hospital? Why don’t the doctors decide how much care is needed?”

  She planted a soft hand on my arm. “I don’t know, sweetie, but Mark’s insurance is done covering our services. He needs to go home in the morning, if not tonight.”

  My ears rang. Happy birthday to me.

  “I’ll talk to him.” If he blew a gasket, at least we were still at the hospital.

  Mark was eating green Jell-O when I walked in.

  “We need to talk.”

  His expression fell. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

  “No!” Jeez. “They’re kicking you out of here.”

  He set the spoon aside and looked relived. “Good. I’m tired of being here, and the bill’s going to be astronomical. When can I go home?”

  I waved a hand between us and flopped into my usual seat. “It’s not that simple. You’ll need in-house care for a while. The doctor wants someone around to check on you. You’ll need someone to drive you to appointments, too. Full recovery can take up to six weeks.”

  “What?” His face turned red. “I’m not an invalid. I’ve got to get back to work so I can pay for this little vacation. I can take care of myself. This is ridiculous. It’s all about money. Everyone wants more.” His rant trailed off. His teeth locked shut. I could practically hear his blood pressure climbing.

  “You can’t work. Probably not for another month. Recovery requires rest.”

  Mark let loose on a slew of curses to make a rapper blush.

  My phone buzzed with another call from the manager at Ray’s, and I rejected it. “I’d planned to move out today.”

  Mark turned his angry face on me. “Since when?”

  Since elementary school. “I have a lease in my bag for the apartment over Ray’s.”

  He guffawed. “That’s not a nice place. You can’t live there.”

  “Actually, I can. It’s not forever.” After what Rose told me, it probably wouldn’t happen at all. Now, I had Mark’s health to think about.

  His usual scowl fell into place. “What about college? Your grades are stellar and you joined the yearbook committee this year. Why aren’t you going to college?”

  I had no idea how he knew what my grades were or that I’d joined yearbook committee, but his tone curled my toes inside both sneakers. Anger boiled on my tongue. “You don’t get to wake up and pretend you have a clue about my life. You’ve ignored me for eighteen years. I’ll move out if I want to, and I can’t go to college. Do you even know it’s my birthday?”

  He blanched.

  I checked the monitors for any signs of another heart attack and gripped the arms of my chair. “I’m not going to college this fall because you didn’t sign the financial aid paperwork. I can’t go. I couldn’t even apply.”

  Mark barked a curse.

  Rose darted into the room. “Everything okay in here?”

  What was she doing? Lurking outside the door?

  “We’re fine.” Mark and I bellowed in unison.

  I stood. “I should go.”

  Rose sidestepped, successfully blocking the doorway. Her smile was a bit too Stepford for my liking. “Katy. Have you discussed what we talked about with Mark?”

  What? Hadn’t she eavesdropped on the entire conversation?

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  Mark shifted beneath the sterile white blankets. “What are you talking about? When can I go home?”

  Rose moved to his side and pressed the blankets tight around his legs. “You can’t go home until there’s an assurance of help there. Your insurance is done paying for a hospital stay, but the doctors won’t release you until they know you won’t end up right back here tomorrow.”

  Mark shot me an angry look. “I don’t need any help. I need to get back to work, and I sure as hell can’t afford to stay here five more minutes if the insurance isn’t picking up part of my tab.”

  I lifted my hand in frustration. “You can’t work for six weeks.” Didn’t I just tell him that?

  His face went from red to purple. “Then how the hell am I supposed to pay the bills?”

  Rose turned her maniacal smile on me. “Katy? Any ideas?”

  I sat, stiff-backed, and closed my eyes for a quick ten count before reopening them. Mom would want Mark cared for. Loving him was number one on the list of what she wanted for me. “I can wait to move out.”

  Mark lowered his shoulders infinitesimally. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

  Rose nudged my foot with her orthopedic white sneaker.

  “I’m willing to make you a deal.” I’d come to talk to him about something anyway. This was as good a lead in as I could expect.

  He scoffed. “A deal.”

  “I’m not happy that you hid Mom’s things from me, but I have them now, and I want to keep them. No more locking them in your shed. If you can agree to that and one more thing, then I can keep living at your place until you’re well, and we can help each other.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’ll do whatever you need to make a full recovery, and you’ll help me complete this list.” I opened Mom’s journal to the right page and set it on his lap.

  He brushed his fingers over the faded pages, as if they would break or disappear. I knew the feeling.

  “I’ve read her words a thousand times. I think I love her more than anyone can love a person they don’t remember, and I want to honor her. She left me that list, and if I can accomplish all those things, I’ll know her sacrifice wasn’t for nothing. I’ve spent my entire life with no idea how magnificent she was. Now that I know, I want to be more like her, but I’m not, and I’ll need help.”

  Mark didn’t look up from Mom’s loopy script. He traced the lines with his finger.

  “She wanted some very specific things from me, and I want to do them for her, or at least try. I can’t know her like you did, but I can honor her if you’ll help.”

  Rose lifted her brows in question. “What’s on the list?”

  I took Mom’s journal from Mark and handed it to Rose. He didn’t protest, or look up.

  Rose’s eyes glossed with unshed tears as she read. She pressed a palm to her chest. “That’s beautiful.” She returned the book to me with a sad smile, squeezed Mark’s foot, and left us.

  He blinked back tears and cleared his throat before nodding in agreement. He outstretched a hand to me.

  It was the first time he’d ever shaken my hand.

  Callouses from a lifetime of labor hardened his skin. “Deal.”

  “Deal.” I’d stay with him until he didn’t need me anymore, and he’d help me honor my mother.

  Chapter 11

  Joshua was on my porch when I got home.

  I stopped at the end of the block. My heartrate picked up as insecurities plunged through me. My thoughts
ran to Dean. He’d wondered why we let others have so much control over us. He had no idea.

  I started forward with purpose. I was tired of feeling like that grieving little girl from the funeral anytime Joshua’s name came up.

  He stood when he saw me. “Hey.”

  “What do you want?” I asked, turning up our driveway at a clip. “Why are you sitting on my porch?”

  He lifted his brows, as if I was the crazy one. “It’s your birthday.”

  “I know that. I’m surprised you know that.”

  “What do you mean? I was there. Of course I remember it.”

  “You’ve had a funny way of showing it for the last eighteen years.”

  He lifted a little bag off the porch beside him. “This is for you.”

  I glared, hoping the bag would catch fire. Wishing I could yank it from his hand and smash him in the face with it. “No, thank you.”

  “Katy. I know I screwed up.”

  I guffawed, checking the neighborhood for nosy gossips. I didn’t want to have this conversation on the street, and I certainly wasn’t inviting him in. “I think it’s better if we don’t talk. You should leave. I’m sure you know how to do that.”

  He sat with a thud, as though I’d squeezed the air out of him. He squinted up at me. “We have to talk.”

  “No, we don’t. Whatever you want to say has waited this long. It can wait some more.” Maybe another eighteen years. “Keep your gift. You don’t owe me anything.” I sidestepped him, hoping I was right and his message could wait. In my family, it was possible he was dying.

  “I’m an alcoholic.”

  I turned on my toes and looked down on him from the porch. “You think I don’t know that? You showed up drunk at Grandma’s funeral.” How had he thought that looked? Not like a sober person, or someone who could not drink to deal with their life. “I don’t care what you are, so why are you telling me this?”

  “A lot of reasons. So you don’t follow in my footsteps, for one thing.”

  “I don’t drink.”