Everyone waits for me to get up the stairs, which feels like it’s taking half an hour, but is probably more like sixty seconds. When I get to the top, a cute girl in skinny jeans hops out of her seat near the front so I can take it. This is my life now—hot young girls have to give up their seats for me on the bus. They don’t even have to be asked. They take one look at me and realize I need it.
I want to tell her no thanks. But that would be stupid. I need to sit or else I’ll be on the floor, flat on my face.
“Thanks,” I mutter as I plop down onto the seat rather ungracefully.
“You’re welcome,” she says in this slow, kind voice. I hate that voice.
Next time I’m taking a taxi.
_____
“Christ, Jeremy.” Dr. DaSilva is attempting to pry my right arm away from my chest, but he’s not having much luck. “This tone is getting really bad. Does it hurt when I do this?”
“Yeah,” I admit. It hurts so much that my eyes are watering from the pain. I wish I could just hibernate for the rest of the winter, or at least until I get another set of shots.
He moves to my hand, trying to open up my fist. “You’re not wearing your splint, I assume,” he says.
“You’ve got to be kidding me, Doc,” I say. “That thing stopped fitting me six months ago.” I watch his struggle to pry my fingers open. I can get it open in the shower just enough to wash inside, but that’s about it.
Dr. DaSilva has a deep crease between his eyebrows. He’s got to be sympathetic enough to my situation to give me the shots early. I can’t deal with another month of this. Not that the Botox shots are fun—they hurt like hell and I feel like I’ve got the flu for a couple of days after, but it’s worth it to get my arm to loosen up.
“So what do you think?” I ask him. “Time for more shots, right?”
Dr. DaSilva lowers himself onto the stool next to the examining table. The fact that he’s sitting down is a bad sign. Doctors don’t sit down to give you great news.
“Jeremy,” he says, “we discussed in the past that we can’t do the shots more often than every three months. If we do, you risk building up antibodies and the Botox won’t work anymore.”
The answer is no. Damn it.
“But there’s a bigger issue here.” The crease between his graying eyebrows deepens. “The problem is, the Botox isn’t going to solve your problem anymore. Your tone in that arm is bad enough that I can feel the tendons have shortened. Your arm is contracted. Even if we inject you, your hand isn’t going to open up entirely and your elbow won’t be straight.”
“It will be better though,” I say weakly.
He raises his eyebrows at me. “You understand the risks here, right? We’ve discussed it before.”
I nod. “Yeah, but—”
“Skin breakdown.” He ticks it off on his fingers. “Your fingers are going to dig into your palm and it will create ulcers. The skin in the fold of your elbow will break down. Also, difficulty with hygiene. How are you going to clean your arm if you can’t even open up your fist?”
“I know, but—”
“Difficulty with dressing,” he adds, ticking off a third finger. “I can’t even imagine how hard it is for you to get a shirt on and off. It’s just going to get harder.”
“Well…”
“And appearance,” he finishes. “I’m sure you know it does affect your appearance to have your arm contracted that way.”
My ears burn. Yes, everything he’s saying is true, especially that last bit. If not for my date with Noelle, I might not have been quite so eager to rush over here to try to fix my arm. I really hate the way it looks. The way little kids point it out at drug stores and ask what’s wrong with me. “So what am I supposed to do?”
“I’m going to refer you to an orthopedic surgeon,” he says. “They can do procedures to lengthen the tendons in your arm, which will give you some of your range back.”
“Surgery?” My stomach sinks. That isn’t what I wanted to hear. I haven’t had surgery since the time of my brain hemorrhage. “That’s really the only way?”
Dr. DaSilva folds his arms across his chest—a gesture I’m incapable of nowadays. “It’s what I’d recommend at this point. I don’t think the Botox is going to help you much anymore.”
Well, great. I thought there was a chance Dr. DaSilva would refuse to do the injections for another month, but I didn’t think he’d refuse me altogether and tell me I need surgery. I hate this.
Dr. DaSilva reaches out and puts a hand on my good arm. He focuses his dark eyes on me.
“Listen, Jeremy,” he says, “why don’t you think about it? There’s no rush. I’ll do the injections for you in a month and I’m sure there will be some benefit. But if you change your mind, I’ll put in the referral for orthopedics.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I’d been hoping for some good news today, but I should have known better. But at least I’ve still got my date with Noelle tonight. No matter how shitty this appointment was, it can’t ruin that for me.
Chapter 30: Noelle
“This is fraud. You people should be sent to jail.”
My jaw tightens. One of my waitresses called me over because her customer, a man in his fifties dressed in shorts and a sweatshirt in spite of the freezing cold weather and the forecast of snow, has complained his burger has tomato on it. He is livid that we brought him a burger with tomato on it. You would think we murdered his firstborn.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I say as politely as I can muster. I’ve got a little extra patience today because I’ve got my date with Jeremy tonight. “It does say in the menu that the burger comes with tomato.”
The man pounds his fist on the table. “Yeah, in itty bitty little print!”
“Also…” I point to the menu opened up in front of him. “There’s a picture right here of the burger with a tomato on it.”
“Are you trying to be smart with me, young lady?” he snarls at me.
I’d have been a lot angrier about that comment if he didn’t call me “young lady.” Now that I’m thirty-seven, being called “young lady” has transformed from an insult into the highest compliment. It makes my day, even when I’m getting screamed at.
“We’d be happy to make you another burger without tomato,” I tell the man.
“No, it’s too late,” he says, shaking his head sadly at his tomato-laden burger.
“It will only be two minutes,” I promise him. “We’ll give you the next patty off the grill.”
“No, I can’t wait,” he says. “I don’t want you people wasting more of my time. I’m going to go somewhere else for lunch.”
It couldn’t possibly be faster to go to an entirely different restaurant than to wait two minutes for us to bring out another burger, but I don’t try to understand the crazy people who come into our restaurant. I just try my best to make them happy, and if I can’t, I show them the door.
“Noelle?”
A waiter named Bill is trying to get my attention. Since this man obviously is not going to be placated, I turn my attention to the next customer issue. God, why can’t anyone just eat lunch without complaining about the damn food?
Except this issue isn’t about the food. It’s about me. Well, me and Henry.
Greg is at the entrance.
“He asked if he could speak with you,” Bill explains. He lowers his voice a few notches. “He says he’s your ex-husband.”
“He sure is,” I murmur.
I watch Greg for a few moments. He’s hovering by the cash register, like he’s any other customer waiting for a table. When I first met Greg when he was in dental school, he was as skinny as a string bean, with a lot of red hair that stuck up straight in the air. If that awful blind date guy was Bert from Sesame Street, Greg was Beaker—the redheaded lab assistant who only spoke in a squeaky, unintelligible voice. I thought he was adorable.
But then as he got older, he looked less like Beaker and more like… well, a handsome dentist
. He put on some weight to round out his bony frame and even started working out. His red hair darkened and he got it cut short and stylish. He wasn’t a true ginger, so he was able to tan when he spent a day out in the city, riding his bike. As the years passed, I started to notice my Beaker-like husband was now turning heads.
At first, it was a source of pride—my husband was hot! But then after I gave birth to Henry and couldn’t quite take off the baby weight, and I felt too tired to style my hair or dress sexy, it started to worry me. But really, I was never that worried. I trusted Greg.
Big mistake.
“Noelle,” Greg says when he spots me. He smiles but it’s not the same smile I remember from our years of marriage. It’s a different kind of smile—almost patronizing. “I need to speak to you.”
Well, it’s too late to slip out through the back, so I should just get this over with.
I try to plaster a smile on my face as I make my way past the tables to get to Greg, but I can’t make myself do it. I could smile for the tomato guy, but not for Greg.
“What is it?” I say.
“How are you doing, Noelle?”
I take a deep calming breath. I can’t deal with the niceties. “I’m working now. What do you want?”
“I’m sorry to come here,” he murmurs. “But you haven’t been responding to my calls or emails, and Christmas is this week. I didn’t want to have this conversation in front of Henry when I pick him up tonight.”
“There’s nothing to say.” I look him right in his eyes. He used to wear glasses like Jeremy, but he got contacts around when he got hot. “We agreed I get Christmas and you get Thanksgiving. You got Henry on Thanksgiving, so I held up my part of the agreement.”
“But it’s Christmas…”
“This is the arrangement you agreed to, Greg.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Why are you being so stubborn? Are you trying to punish me?”
“I’m not trying to punish you.”
“Because you know you’re only punishing Henry.”
A vein throbs in my temple. “I’m punishing Henry by making him spend Christmas with his mother instead of you and your little honey?”
“Little honey?” he repeats. “That’s real mature, Noelle.”
“At least I didn’t call her your little slut.”
Greg lifts a finger and gets right up in my face. Prior to our divorce, I’d never seen his mean side. Honestly, I didn’t even know he had a mean side. “I’ll have you know,” he says, “that Dina and I are now engaged to be married, so you’re talking about my future wife. I’d appreciate if you’re respectful.”
It’s like he socked me in the gut. Greg and Dina are getting married. Getting married. I can’t believe it. Another woman is going to be married to my husband. And not just another woman. A woman who’s much younger and more attractive than I am.
“Well, congratulations,” I manage. “But it doesn’t change a thing. Henry is staying with me on Christmas.”
“In that case,” Greg snips at me, “you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”
“Oh, please,” I say. “You already had him Thanksgiving. You really think a judge is going to decide in your favor and give you every single holiday?”
Greg screws his face up the way he always does when he’s stuck in an argument he’s losing. “We’ll see, won’t we?”
And with those words, he spins on his heel and leaves the restaurant, letting the door slam shut behind him. (It also jingles a bit from the bell we placed above it, which reduces some of the impact of his hissy fit.)
Shit. I can’t afford to give my lawyer any more of my earnings right now. Even though he’d lose in court, I still can’t afford to fight him. This is so unfair. He’s already got a pretty fiancée who is ten years younger than me, an apartment twice the size of mine, and a job where he doesn’t get yelled at for presence of tomatoes (although, to be fair, he does sometimes get bitten).
I want to be with my son on Christmas Day. Why is he fighting me so hard on this?
Chapter 31: Jeremy
It’s snowing when I get out of Dr. DaSilva’s office.
I used to like snow. Well, I didn’t like driving in it. But I liked the way it felt giving way beneath my feet. I liked making snowmen with my friends, and even a few times with Taylor. And the city looked so cool decked out in a layer of white powder, before it turned all gray and black and sometimes yellow.
Snow scares the shit out of me now. It’s slippery. It’s slippery when it first falls, and it’s even worse when it turns into slush or ice. If it’s snowed any time in the last few days, I try not to leave my apartment. If I start to fall, I have no ability to catch myself—I’m going down. And even if I’m good at falling, I’d still rather not do it.
I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do for my date tonight with Noelle. Luigi’s is only a couple of blocks away, but if the snow gets much worse, it will be dicey. I may have to take a taxi those two blocks.
I walk very carefully. My eyes mostly stay on the ground, trying to avoid icy patches that will take my feet out from under me. It’s only a block to get to the bus. If I can’t walk a block, I shouldn’t bother leaving my house anymore.
Unfortunately, because my eyes are pinned to the ground, I don’t end up seeing Taylor until she’s right smack in front of me.
It’s never a great feeling to run into your ex-wife, but especially when she left you for another guy. And especially if she happens to be with that guy right now. And especially when they’re pushing a baby carriage.
Taylor had a baby.
I had no idea.
I don’t think she recognized me either at first, because I’ve got on my big black coat and a black wool hat is stuffed on my scalp. But the crutch is a dead giveaway. I watch her eyes widen as she freezes. She’s probably thinking the same thing I am—should we pretend we don’t know each other? I’d be willing to go along with that.
“Jeremy,” she finally gasps. Her lips curl into the most artificial smile I’ve ever seen. That was the way she’d look when I’d manage to walk two steps in rehab, and she’d tell me how awesome I was doing. “Hi.”
The guy next to her stops short when he hears my name. Her new husband—Donovan. She called him Don. He’s a few years older than me, worked at the same company as Taylor, which is how they met. It just happened, Jeremy. I only met him a handful of times, and I can’t say I was very nice during any of those interactions. If I could have, I probably would have punched him in the nose.
I’d still like to, actually.
And I still can’t.
“Hi, Taylor.” I look over at Don, who is ducking his head down. “Donovan. And… who’s the baby? I don’t think I got the birth notice in the mail.”
Taylor’s round cheeks color. She’s put on weight since I last saw her, but it looks good on her. I think so, at least. “This is Alexa.”
I dare to look down at the infant in the baby carriage, and it’s like being stabbed in the chest. Taylor and I were supposed to have a baby together. This is supposed to be my kid. She’s supposed to be my wife. I’m the one who’s supposed to be walking with her down the street in this snow shower on a lazy Saturday afternoon. Instead, she’s got a kid with another guy, and I just came back from seeing a doctor who told me I need to have surgery so I’ll still be able to dress and bathe myself.
“Wow, what a blessing,” I say, which comes out a lot more sarcastic than I meant it to be. Or maybe it comes out just as sarcastic as I meant it to be.
Taylor blinks repeatedly, which is something she used to do when she was nervous. “It’s good seeing you again, Jeremy,” she says. “You look good.”
“Do I?” And I have to laugh, because what the fuck kind of patronizing thing to say is that? “Well, gee, thanks, Taylor. Here I was thinking I looked like shit, but you set me straight.”
“Jeremy…,” she murmurs.
“Look, buddy,” Don speaks up. He’s got a weak jaw with a dou
ble chin, and—just being real here—before my stroke, anyone would have said I was better looking. Now… well, there are the obvious issues with my right side, but I worry about my face too. I worry the weakness on the right side of my mouth is more obvious than anyone will admit. I try not to think about it though, because it will drive me nuts. “Why don’t you be nice? Everything that happened… it was a long time ago. We’re just trying to have a nice morning out with our family.”
Our family.
Taylor used to be my family.
Fucking prick.
“You better never have a stroke,” I hiss at him, “or else you might not have a family to spend time with anymore.”
Taylor’s face is scarlet. “Jeremy, please don’t do this…”
Don steps forward, his right hand balled into a fist as tight as mine. But unlike my right hand, his is very capable of punching me in the face. Will he punch a cripple? Probably not. I doubt this geek would throw a punch at anyone. If that asshole at Moonlight Diner didn’t punch me, I’m sure this guy won’t.
But I should quit tempting fate.
“Forget it,” I mumble. “Enjoy your weekend, Taylor.”
And then I turn away from them, trying to push away the sick feeling in my stomach. I’m sure they’re staring at me as I limp to the bus stop, but I’m past caring. Taylor—that’s a whole different life. I have a set of entirely new problems now, and a date tonight with a woman who’s every bit as sexy as my ex-wife.
Noelle.
Christ, I’m looking forward to seeing her tonight. If not for that, I’d throw myself in front of a bus.
Chapter 32: Noelle
“Mom, you look pretty.”
It’s sweet that Henry is paying me a compliment, but I wish he wouldn’t sound so shocked when he says it.
“Does that mean I’m not usually pretty?” I joke.
“Maybe a little,” he concedes.
And maybe I shouldn’t ask questions I don’t want to hear the answer to. Anyway, if Jeremy thinks I’m pretty, that’s all that matters. And he does. I can see it in his eyes.
How the Grinch Stole My Heart Page 14