Reserved for You
Page 9
“And we’re out!” the floor director shouted. “Back in three.”
Paul let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, sucked in another, and promptly stopped breathing again.
As the commercial break rolled, he concentrated on exhaling and inhaling in a calm, deliberate rhythm. The hair and makeup people swooped in. Calynn held her face up to be powdered, then turned to him. Her grin was predatory, sharp, and made him think of peasants waiting for the guillotine to slice through a royal neck.
“That was the easy part,” she said, “watching the edited recap of your date with Fenella. Now comes the good stuff. Ready to do this?”
“No.”
She laughed and patted his knee. “Perfect. That’s exactly what we want. Emotion, drama, tension.”
“Believe me,” Paul said, trying to ignore the wispy man in skintight jeans plucking at his hair, “there’s plenty of tension.”
“Don’t think about being live. It’s no different than any other segment we’ve done. Forget about the hundreds of thousands of people watching. Don’t look at the cameras. You’ll be fine.”
The thirteen women were ranged on two extra-long couches on either side of Paul and Calynn’s club chairs. Laurette sat closest to Paul, Fenella closest to Calynn. They’d all watched the dating segment on a monitor off stage. Paul squirmed more than once. Was that really how he looked when he smiled? With those deep lines cutting his cheeks, and the horizontal one below his bottom lip? Maybe he should grow a beard.
“One minute!” yelled the floor director.
At least they hadn’t shown his reaction to Jemma on the boat. Either the cameras hadn’t caught it, or the editor had chosen not to use it.
He couldn’t get that kick of connection out of his head. When he was a kid, he’d had the wind knocked out of him playing hockey. The feeling was similar— disbelief, panic, shock.
“Thirty seconds!”
The bright lights illuminating the set made it impossible to see the rest of the darkened sound stage. Was Jemma out there, watching him? His groin tightened.
“Ten seconds!”
Calynn smiled at the women, gave Paul another encouraging pat.
“Five...four...three...two...”
At the floor director’s point, Calynn took over. She smoothly delivered her intro, before turning to Paul.
“You’re an internationally trained chef, and a restaurateur. Explain to me what results you wanted in this week’s Kitchen Challenge.”
As Paul answered, slipping into dialogue with Calynn, another part of his brain marveled at how skilled she was. Starting with a question in his comfort zone, she warmed him up, let him relax into the taping, while moving the process forward.
“So that’s how you came to choose Laurette’s dish”—she smiled apologetically at the dark-haired woman to Paul’s left—“as the least palatable to your tastes. Now, your chosen dish was created by Fenella. We saw your date with her, but give me your take on how it went.”
“I’m afraid Fenella was a little uncomfortable. I hope it wasn’t me.” Giggles rippled through a few of the women on set. Not Fenella, who sat rigid, hands clasped. She hadn’t taken her eyes off him since the segment began. Sweat dampened the base of his spine. “It was an inspiring experience, for both of us. The orcas were simply awesome. It’s hard to realize how big they are, how exhilarating, how free, until you’re right there beside them, in their own environment.”
Calynn’s eyes lost their focus for a split second, as they did when she listened to directions from the earpiece she wore. “What about Fenella? What was it like, getting to know her better?”
He didn’t miss his cue this time. Less whales, more woman. “I was proud of how she overcame her jitters. She was a good sport, and I have to admit, very cute in that survival suit.”
“You’ve had time to consider, Paul. Now it’s time to let Laurette and Fenella know your decision.”
He drew a deep breath. Calynn had coached him before the show to take his time, draw out the drama, but he simply couldn’t do it. The tension was too much for him—he couldn’t imagine what the two women were feeling. He shifted in his seat, toward Laurette on his left. “Laurette, I’m sorry we didn’t have time to get to know each other better. But I’ve decided Fenella will stay.”
He heard a gasp from his right. Laurette stood up, and he followed suit, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “Be well, be safe,” he said. Laurette walked off the set.
Calynn closed the show, inviting viewers to make comments on Facebook and Twitter. “Did Paul make the right choice? Let us know. Join us next week for a new Kitchen Challenge. Will Fenella win a second date with our Chef d’Amour? Or will it be another of our ladies? And who will go home next? We’ll see you then.”
“We’re out!” shouted the floor director. “Good show, everyone!”
CHAPTER TEN
“Your blood pressure is perfect, Mrs. Hedge.” Dr. McQuade released the Velcro cuff from Miriam’s upper arm. “Let’s take a listen now.”
Jemma stood in a corner of the examining room, ankles crossed as she leaned against the wall. Gone were the days when she could allow Miriam a private visit with the doctor. As she worsened, Jemma needed to know as much as she could, about her condition, about her treatment.
About the future.
Dr. McQuade discreetly lifted the back of Miriam’s blouse and leaned over, stethoscope snug in his ears. Miriam smiled nervously at Jemma, who stuck out her tongue. Miriam chuckled, her tense shoulders relaxing.
“No laughing,” the doctor said, mock scolding.
Jemma rolled her eyes, and Miriam smothered another giggle.
“All right, Mrs. Hedge.” He grabbed a clipboard. “Almost finished. Let’s do a couple of simple tests, shall we?”
“I’m not very good at tests,” Miriam said.
“You’ve done these before.” He patted her hand. “Let’s start out easy. What day is it?”
“Friday,” Miriam said, with a triumphant glance at Jemma.
“Where are you?”
“At your office.”
Dr. McQuade smiled. “Yes, but where is that? What’s my name?”
“Why, you’re Doctor...Doctor...” Her cheerful expression faded. Jemma’s heart beat faster, her stomach clenched.
Dr. McQuade patted Miriam’s knee. “That’s okay. Let’s move on.” He handed Miriam the clipboard. “See this space here? Would you draw me a clock? Point the hands at quarter to three.”
Miriam bit her lip. She hesitantly put pen to paper. “Thank you,” Dr. McQuade said. “Now, how about this. See these shapes?” He pointed to the page. “Copy them for me, as best you can.”
Concentration wrinkled Miriam’s brow.
After an excruciatingly long time, she held out the page. The doctor nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Hedge.”
He encouraged her through a few more straightforward requests, before inviting Miriam and Jemma into his office. It was a cramped corner, with a desk buried under stacks of file folders, and more papers piled on any available flat surface, except the two burgundy vinyl covered visitor’s chairs. He gestured them to sit and cautiously made his way to the other side of the desk.
“I’m sure this won’t come as a surprise, but your Alzheimer’s is progressing more quickly than we had hoped.”
Jemma hated how he referred to it as your Alzheimer’s. As if it was something Miriam owned, something she valued.
“Are you positive?” she asked brusquely.
Dr. McQuade considered a moment, and handed over the clipboard.
Miriam’s clock was an incomplete circle with two lines bisecting it randomly. The shape she’d been asked to copy, two intersecting pentagons, was unrecognizable.
Jemma wanted to weep. She forced her question past numb lips. “So, what can we do? What’s next?”
Dr. McQuade toyed with a pencil, sliding it end over end from one hand to the other, his focus resting with compassion on Miriam. “
It’s clear the medication is no longer helping. I’ll have to report the results of today’s tests. It is likely the Medical Services Plan will refuse to continue paying their portion.”
Miriam turned to Jemma. “What’s he saying? I need my medicine.”
“I’m sorry, Miriam,” Dr. McQuade said. “But I can no longer prove to the government the medication is keeping your condition under control. They have a strict policy.”
“Jemma?” Miriam whispered, agonized. “I need my medicine.”
Jemma swallowed. The prescription was pricey, and according to the doctor, useless. She was barely providing for Miriam as it was—adding an unnecessary expense would strain their finances to the limit.
She clasped Miriam’s hand. “If the medicine isn’t working, you shouldn’t take it. It’s not good to take medicine you don’t need.”
“But I do need it.” Miriam’s fragile fingers tightened on Jemma’s and her eyes filled with tears. “Honest, Jemma, I do.”
Jemma closed her eyes. Miriam’s words had triggered a long-forgotten memory.
When she was twelve, Jemma had desperately wished to attend a summer acting camp. Alice had told her they couldn’t afford it, but she’d refused to accept that decision. Instead, she’d run errands, babysat, dog-walked—anything to earn the registration money. The day she’d made the final few dollars necessary, she’d rushed home, to find Alice rifling through the old glass jar in which she’d put her savings.
“You understand, don’t you, baby?” Her mother had said, an ingratiating smile on her face. “I’ll pay you back right away. I need it right now. Honest, Jemma, I do.”
Alice never repaid the money. Miriam found out what happened and miraculously Jemma had been able to attend the camp. It had been one of the best weeks of her life.
She opened her eyes. Miriam stared at her, any hint of rebellion gone, only despair and denial haunting her face. How could she refuse her? Her grandmother’s peace-of-mind was worth the sacrifices she would have to make to afford the additional cost.
“Will it hurt her, to keep taking it?” she asked the doctor. “Could it make her worse?”
He paused in a deliberate way before answering. “No.”
“Then write the prescription, please,” she directed Dr. McQuade. “If Miriam says she needs it, she needs it.”
“The mass is ended. Go in the peace of Christ.”
“Thanks be to God.”
The recessional hymn began. Paul sang along as the priest, lectors, Eucharistic ministers and altar servers made their way down the aisle.
Sunday morning services had punctuated each week of his childhood. As an adult, he was less than dedicated, although when he did attend he found the ritual gestures and responses soothing. One of his greatest joys was seeing his mother’s face light up when he stepped into the pew next to her.
“You’re coming for lunch?” Beatriz asked him as they made their way slowly to the nave of the church.
“Of course, Mom.”
“You’re a good son. Even if you don’t come to Mass often enough.”
He smiled and dropped his arm around her sturdy shoulders. “And you’re a good mama. Even if you worry too much.”
His father waited in the parking lot. His habitual gruffness was not softened by his faith. He came each week, attended the solemn feast days, participated in the religious festivals the immigrants had brought with them to their new country.
And hardly ever cracked a smile.
Paul followed his father’s sparkling-clean but aged sedan through the quiet Sunday morning streets. For as long as he could remember, the whole family gathered after church for a fry up breakfast at Joe’s Place. Paul had never known if his father had chosen the name, or if it had simply evolved over the years. When he was a kid the sign had been a homemade one, painstakingly hand-printed by his mother, tacked over the door. On the twenty-fifth anniversary of his parents’ arrival in Canada, Paul and his two sisters had presented them with a professionally designed back-lit sign. Beatriz had cried. João had stared, silent, intense, as it was placed in position. He hadn’t said one word of thanks, but Paul knew he was the one who polished it, who replaced the bulbs behind the facade, who paid to have it fixed after a kid with nothing better to do and a rock in his hand smashed it.
By tradition, the meal was crowded, noisy, and fattening. Today Titia Benedita and Titio Jorge were there with Daniel, as well as one of Paul’s sisters, Grace. Several old friends had joined them, and conversation bubbled in both English and Portuguese.
Grace plopped onto a bench beside him, her plate loaded with fried eggs, bacon, hash browns and perogies. When his parents started the restaurant, they’d served the food they knew, the food they’d grown up with. But over the years odd bits of ethnicity had worked their way in, and the menu now featured baron of beef and spaghetti along with traditional sausages and fava beans, green soup and sweet rice.
“So, how’s my big brother?” She nudged him with her elbow.
“Not too bad. How are you? Still seeing what’s his face?”
“Nah.” She shoveled a heaping forkful into her mouth. Five foot two, she was amazingly slender considering the amount of food she consumed. “I’m too young to settle down.”
He found himself wondering how Jemma ate. Did she pick away at her plate, or was she as ferocious as Grace? “Is that what he wanted?”
She gave him a dry look. “Sex, yes. Marriage, no. But I told Mom it was because he wanted to get married, and he was Protestant.”
“Nicely played.”
She grinned. “Have you seen Nalia lately?”
He sipped his coffee, shook his head. “You?” The baby of the family, Nalia was finishing off a history degree at Simon Fraser University.
“She’s up to her eyeballs in finals, but we text.” She squirted a generous dollop of ketchup on her eggs.
“Are you ever going to stop eating like a teenage boy?”
“Why should I?” She chugged a glass of milk. It left a white moustache under her nose and Paul wiped it off with a paper napkin. “Thanks. You coming by this week?” Grace managed a seniors’ care home. Paul had taken to dropping by on Tuesday nights, after the show was done taping.
“That’s the plan.”
“You’re the talk of the house. My people have done nothing but natter about it.”
“I’m glad they enjoy it. We’ll see what happens this time.”
“We started watching the show. Mrs. Carvalho said it was the least we could do.”
She had barely launched into a nitpicking review of his performance—as she insisted on calling it—when Beatriz sat across from them. Paul greeted her with relief, hoping for a reprieve.
“Oh, you’re speaking of the show! Paul, I love it. You look so handsome on TV.” Obviously not.
She continued enthusiastically. “That Fenella, she is beautiful. You would make gorgeous babies. Do you like her very much?” Her gaze pinned him. He squirmed. Grace laughed.
“Mom, you know I’m not doing the show because of that.”
“But they are such lovely women! All smiling, with perfect hair and pretty clothes.”
“That’s because of the wardrobe manager and make up people and hairstylists. I don’t imagine they look that good every day.” An image of Jemma lying on the wet ground in baggy coveralls rose to his mind’s eye. She hadn’t been at her best then. Yet the memory of those piercing blue eyes staring at him from the pavement...
What would happen to his mother’s baby lust if he introduced her to a pink-haired, black-clothed, wicked fairy?
“Beatriz! Have you seen the photos of my new grandchild? Such a beauty!” The spate of Portuguese from one of his mother’s oldest friends flew across the room.
Paul endured one more long-suffering, soul-searing stare. “Inez, she has grandbabies.” His mother swept away.
“You’ve met someone, haven’t you?” Grace said.
Paul started. “What? No.”
“Did, too.” Grace giggled.
Paul glared. “I did not, have never, and will never get gooey-eyed. Over anything.” He paused, considering. “Except an exceptional torte. Or a perfect soufflé.”
Jemma shoved a coin into the slot of the lock box and jostled the grocery cart out of the train of others. She rattled across the pavement and through the automatic doors.
The third week of taping was about to begin. Nothing she’d seen in the last two weeks had caused her to rethink her opinion that reality programs were less about reality than they were about melodrama. In fact, much had happened to reinforce that belief. Yet as she rushed from one errand to another, answered Benedict’s bellowing summons and found a way to squeeze ninety minutes into each hour, she discovered she relished the challenges.
She knew her way around the sound stage blindfolded and could anticipate issues before they became problems. She found satisfaction in seeing the set prepped and ready, in watching segments run smoothly through taping. And if she had to work her butt off to make it so, that was okay.
Every day she received her pay stub she had to stop herself from running to Lainie and wrestling her to the ground in glee. With Henry’s debt finally discharged and a job that paid better than any she’d ever had before, Jemma felt able to face anything. Which was lucky, because each day Miriam clung to her arm and pleaded, “I need my medicine, Jemma. I need it.” Jemma would kiss her powdery cheek and promise to keep buying it.
It was killing her, though. Not the cost. But the all-to-recognizable signs the prescription was no longer helping. She worried more and more about leaving Miriam alone. Soon she would have to arrange more structured care.
Jemma pushed the buggy into the produce section. Grocery shopping for the Kitchen Challenge was one of her favourite duties. Being able to buy anything, without worrying about cost, was a joy. It made doing her personal shopping, when she had to watch each penny, easier to bear.
She picked a papaya, held it to her nose, smelled its perfume-y scent. Chose eleven of the fruits and put them in her basket, and moved on to pineapple. This week’s challenge was tropical flavours. Coconuts were next on the list