by Karen Booth
It was absolutely true that in New York, you could get anything delivered, especially if you were willing to pay for it. Case in point, the doctor Eamon was able to get to come to the apartment on very short notice. Her fever had gone down a bit after the Tylenol, but it was still above one hundred. The doctor was sure whatever she had was viral. For now, we were to watch her, keep her hydrated, and let her rest.
The doctor’s orders were no problem. I couldn’t bear to leave her side, so I curled up next to her in bed. My need to be with her came with an even stronger feeling than I'd had earlier that day in the office. I wanted to shield her from everything. I wanted to build a bubble around her and keep everything and everyone else out.
“Rachel wants to talk to you.” In the darkness of Fiona's room, Eamon handed me his phone and sat on the edge of the bed. “Go on. I'll watch her.”
I handed him the washcloth I'd been holding on Fiona's forehead and took the call, ducking out into the hall. “Rachel. Hi.”
“I didn’t want to bother you, but I had to get your take on things. Eamon can get a bit freaked out by things like this. He doesn't do well with illness, especially not since his mam passed.”
I tiptoed farther down the hall. “Oh, he's been wonderful with her. No freaking out at all. Or at least not as much as me. But the doctor assured us everything will be fine. And don't worry. I won't leave her side. I'll stay with her all night.” I knew very well that this was not a life-or-death situation, but for the first time, I felt like I understood what it must mean to be a parent. To want to switch places with someone. To want more than anything to take away their suffering. As difficult as it was to endure, something about it felt so right. Like I was where I belonged.
“Thank you. I'm so glad you're there. And not just for Fiona. I know Eamon needs you, too.”
If only Rachel had a few dozen hours for me to explain how much it meant to be needed, especially right now. “I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.” With everything as fucked up as it was, with my own sister hating my guts and making me persona non grata at the wedding I'd helped her plan, it gave me immense inner peace to be able to say that to Rachel and to know in my heart that it was absolutely true.
“He loves you, ya know. It's killing him a bit that you won't marry him.”
“He talked to you about it?”
“He did. Just now.”
“I never said I wouldn't marry him. Things have just been crazy.” As horrible as I felt at turning down Eamon's proposal, it had been the right thing to do. If we were going to spend our lives together, we had time to do that right. It wasn't that I'd wanted the perfect moment. I'd only wanted to go into it with a clean slate. Or as clean a slate as I could get. And the issue of his writing was going to weigh on us both until it got better. What if he never wrote another song again and it was all because of me? I didn't want to rob the world of Eamon MacWard.
“Katherine, I'm the last person to pressure anyone into marriage. I only know that I’ve seen in his eyes how much he loves you. He never had one-tenth of that for me. And it's not his fault. We were reckless. Except for Fiona, he and I were a mistake. But you two aren't. I know that.”
My worry over making mistakes had been inescapable since the day my mom died. When you botched something so royally, you’d do anything to make sure you never messed up again. You’d even play it inexplicably safe. “Did he write songs when you two were together?”
“All the time, but I think it was his escape.”
I wasn't sure how I was supposed to feel about this. I didn't want him to need an escape from me, but I wanted him to be able to find a way to write again. “He hasn't played me a single new song since coming to live with me. Anything he’s written hasn’t been good enough to share with me. Or so he says. The label and his manager are all over him about it.”
“That lot needs to shove off. All they care about is money. Maybe he's not writing because he's happy.”
Rachel clearly knew how Eamon worked, something I was only beginning to understand. I wanted him to be happy. I couldn't make him miserable. Not on purpose. “I love him, too. More than anything. I think he knows that.”
“If there's any chance he doesn't, be sure to tell him.”
I had one question perched on my lips. “You love him, don't you?”
Rachel laughed quietly into the phone. “I do. He and I will always be tied together. I just want him to have what he wanted when we were married.”
“Love?”
She waited for a moment to answer and I felt like I was clinging to every second. “You, Katherine. You’re all he’s ever wanted. It’s not easy for me to say that.”
I could hardly believe that she had the guts to be so real with herself. I needed to be living my life more like Rachel. “Thank you for saying it. I appreciate it.”
“Of course. I have to take care of you. You’re taking care of the most important person in my life tonight.”
“I’ll do a good job. I promise.”
“I know you will. I’m not worried about that.”
Rachel and I said our goodbyes. I hung up the phone and padded back into Fiona's room. “You can go if you want,” I said to Eamon. “I’ll stay with her.”
Eamon got up from the bed. “Maybe I'll go take a stab at writing.”
“Only if you feel like it. I'm sorry if I pressured you.”
“And I'm sorry I didn't tell you the real reason I didn't try to find you.”
I popped up and kissed his cheek. “It's okay. I want to think this was the way things were supposed to happen.”
“Are we calling it fate?”
“Something like that.”
Eamon wandered out of the room and I stretched out next to Fiona. She stirred and coughed, then rolled on to her side facing me.
“You okay, sweetie? Can I get you anything? A drink of water?”
“No. Just stay with me. There's nothing worse than being lonely and sick.” How true that was. “I forgot to tell you something today. When we were on the subway and you were watching me.”
“What's that?”
“I saw your heart. I know what it looks like now.”
“You do?” I didn't want to sound so surprised and excited, but I couldn't help it. That day in the woods, I'd been worried I didn't have one at all.
She nodded, her eyes half closed. She curled into a little ball. “It's purple and blue and pink. With some red and orange mixed in. It looks like a quilt. It's all patched up.”
“It is?”
She coughed rather than answering. I rubbed her back and pressed the washcloth to her forehead again. Maybe it wasn't fate that brought Eamon back to me. Maybe it was something more. Maybe it was magic.
“I like your heart, Katherine. It's pretty. And it doesn't look like anyone else’s.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
On the Thursday before the wedding, I was in the throes of a scrape-me-from-the-ceiling panic. I'd been through my binder a million times, running down the minuscule tasks Amy had left for me. Yesterday, I called the florist and even stopped by her shop to double-check that the flowers were right. Delivery time and the country club address had been confirmed and reconfirmed. I checked in with the other bridesmaids to make sure they all knew where to be for the rehearsal and at what time. That was its own form of torture, since they'd all talked to Amy in recent weeks and I hadn't. They all thought everything was fine. Things were not fine, and it was the worst feeling in the world to hear other people talk about going out for drinks or dinner with her and Luke. Eamon and I should’ve been doing those things. Not anymore.
I'd asked for the time off from work months ago, right after Amy and Luke set the date for the wedding. I'd figured I would be aflutter with activity in the days leading up to the big day, stressed but happy from too much to do and lots of time with my sister. Instead, I was stressed out from doing nothing, which only gave me more time to stare down what the rest of my life might be like without her.
I marched into the bedroom to spring my plan on Eamon. Fiona was in Philadelphia with Rachel for a few days, but would return in time for the wedding. I missed her terribly. The apartment wasn’t the same without her. “I’m going to Connecticut to get my mother's necklace.” I’d been deliberate in not saying that I would try to get it. I had to succeed, and stating my intention to the universe felt like a necessary part of my endeavor.
Eamon looked up from his guitar, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. A notebook and pencil were on the bed next to him. “Now. You're going to Connecticut right now.”
“The clock is ticking and I can’t sit around for another minute with nothing to do.”
Eamon set his guitar aside and patted his lap. “I can always think of something to do.”
“Very funny. I'm being serious.”
“So am I.” He smiled and did that thing where he makes his eyebrows bob up and down. His expression fell quickly though. Probably because he knew I was not happy. “I’ll come with you. I'll keep you company on the train.”
“You will?” My plan of attack was getting stronger by the minute. If I was turned away at the door, I had backup. No retirement home receptionist stood a chance against Eamon’s charms.
He clapped his hands and stood. “Yeah. Let's get to the train station.”
I packed us a quick lunch and we retraced the route we’d taken at Thanksgiving, except we got off one stop earlier and took a car to Shady Pines. When we pulled up, I saw how much they'd airbrushed the photos on the website. The parking lot was an expanse of crumbling asphalt dotted with potholes full of watery muck. It was warmer now than at Thanksgiving, and whatever snow they’d gotten was in icy hunks refusing to melt, black like soot. A metal rain gutter had fallen from one corner of the roof, hanging perilously and bent in the middle. The brick façade was a jarring shade of rust, with stark white mortar along the joints. This wasn't the lovely picture I'd seen online. Or maybe I hadn't wanted to look closely enough.
Eamon didn't say a thing, bless his heart. He simply took my hand and led me up the walk to the front door. The lobby had a reception desk with wood-grain laminate, chipped and peeling at the corners. I was relieved that there wasn’t a picture of me on the wall with a note about how I shouldn’t be allowed in. A young woman with bright cheeks and a long red braid was busy hanging fluffy silvery garland around it. “Oh, hello!” She seemed genuinely pleased to see us. “Are you visiting someone today?” She scurried behind the desk and pulled out a clipboard with a yellow ribbon tied at the top and taped to the end of a pen. “Please fill in the resident's name and room number and I'll have one of the nurses bring them out. Or you can go to their room, whichever you prefer.”
I surveyed the large common area beyond reception. Dozens of residents were parked in wheel chairs, some in front of a TV or at small tables playing games. Some were sitting by themselves, doing nothing more than staring out the window or into their own lap. “I, uh. Well, this is complicated. I'm here to see my grandmother, Marjorie Price, but she's not expecting me, and, um…” How exactly was I going to explain the part about how she didn’t want to see me, either?
The receptionist cocked her head, pleasant hazel eyes blinking. And blinking. “Let me guess. Things are strained,” she said, matter of fact.
Now it was my turn to blink. “Yes. Exactly.”
“We get a lot of that. It’s complicated when a loved one is placed in a permanent care facility. Would you like me to notify Ms. Price, or would you like me to page Beverly, the nurse who works on her wing?”
I nodded like a kid who'd been asked if she wanted ice cream for dinner. “Beverly. Please.”
“It'll just be a moment.” She picked up the phone and rested an elbow on the desk. “Mr. Stein, no changing the channel without everyone's okay,” she called out.
An elderly man in a newsboy cap and high-water gray pants waved her off and sank down into a chair. Mr. Stein had apparently wanted to watch Wheel of Fortune.
“Beverly will be here in a moment.”
“Thank you so much.”
Eamon and I stood to the side and waited, not wanting to clog up the entrance, although no one was coming or going, which seemed so incredibly sad. The receptionist went back to her festive decorating and I decided that it was at least a good thing that pleasant people worked here.
“You must be Katherine,” a warm, familiar voice came from behind me.
I turned to greet Beverly, who was quite the opposite of what I'd expected. I'd pictured round and jolly, but she was rail thin and nearly as tall as Eamon. She carried herself with a hunch, like she’d spent her life trying to keep people from noticing her height. “I’m so happy to meet you. This is my boyfriend, Eamon.”
“Fiancé, actually. Katherine doesn't like to talk about it.” Eamon had decided that he was going to start referring to us as engaged, even though we weren't.
Beverly looked him up and down and then shot me a pointed glance. “How are you not shouting about him from the rooftops?”
“It's not an official engagement.”
“I’ve just asked her to marry me a few times.”
Beverly laughed quietly and shook her head. “It’s none of my business, but you might want to get this worked out, you two.”
I’m trying.
“So what can I help you with today? Come to see Ms. Marjorie? Is this about the necklace?”
“Yes. My sister gets married on Saturday.” The weight of it hit me hard. This was likely my only real shot at saving my relationship with my sister. “I had to try one last time, and she won’t take my calls so I figured it would be best in person. I worried that if I called ahead of time, she'd just tell them not to let me in the front door.”
“An ambush. I like it,” Beverly said. “You must love your sister very much to endure a direct hit from Hurricane Marjorie. I hate to tell you this, but she's a Category 4 today.”
I looked at Eamon, who actually appeared concerned. That made me feel one hundred times worse.
“Did something happen?” I asked.
“They ran out of biscuits at breakfast. Believe me, it doesn't take much to set her off.” Beverly's eyes softened and she put her hand on my shoulder. “But all we can do is try. Come on. Let's see what we can do about getting that necklace.”
Hand in hand, Eamon and I followed Beverly through a maze of halls. Every resident and worker we encountered greeted her. She seemed to be very popular. She stopped outside room 204. “I’ll go in first, but I'll leave the door open so you can hear what’s going on. I'll call for you when the moment seems right.”
My heart felt as though it was going to stage a coup against the rest of my body, but Eamon squeezed my hand again and that helped my pulse settle.
“Hello, Marjorie,” Beverly said from the other room. “I have a surprise for you. You have some visitors.”
“If it's my daughter, you can tell her to go away unless she's brought my suitcase and is packing me up to go home.”
Eamon and I looked at each other, half horrified, half stuck in this uncomfortable moment where my highly unreasonable grandmother held my fate in her hands.
“No. It's your granddaughter, Katherine. And her fiancé.”
“Even Beverly calls me your fiancé,” Eamon whispered into my ear.
“She's here to steal my Jennifer's things.”
“No. No. That's not it at all. Your other granddaughter is about to
get married. A girl needs something of her mother's when she gets married. Doesn't she?”
“In any normal family, yes. But our family is not normal.”
I suddenly felt the closest I'd felt to Grandma Price in a very long time. She was so right. And I couldn't let Beverly continue to argue with her. I had to take the reins. If an old lady threw me out of a nursing home, it couldn't be any worse than anything else that had ever happened to me.
With a nod, I let Eamon know that I was going in, but I only got a pace or two into the room before I came to a stop. The far wall was covered in photographs of my mother.
Eamon grabbed my arm from behind. “Katherine. You do look just like her.” He stepped next to me, his eyes drawn to what was essentially a shrine to my mom.
“Hi, Grandma.” She was perched on a small ice blue love seat, wearing the old lady version of a velour tracksuit in fuchsia pink. Every day of the twenty-plus years we hadn’t seen each other was evident—wrinkles deeper, eyes sunken, and a full head of white hair. It was difficult to look at her when it felt as though my mother was peering over my shoulder from the pictures on the wall.
“My God. Katherine.” Her voice made it sound like I was a ghost. Her eyes raked over me. I'd forgotten how difficult it was to fall under her appraisal. I was already flinching and wanting to shrink away.
But I had to stand up to her. I stepped closer, trying to focus on her and not the pictures I was both afraid of and eager to see, images I hadn’t seen since before my mother died. My grandmother scrutinized me with a narrow stare, but it wasn't her usual mean-spirited sneer. Perhaps that had been a childhood construct, something I'd built in my own head to explain the cruel things she'd said to me over the years.
“Grandma, this is my fiancé, Eamon. He's from Ireland.”
He offered his hand so readily I almost wished I'd warned him she might bite it off. But I hadn't, and she didn't—tiny victories. “Nice to meet you. Katherine has told me a lot.”