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I nod at her neighbor and tell her quietly, “It’s Vivian. She’s fine. I’ll lock up.”
No longer concerned to leave me in the apartment, her neighbor nods and asks me to tell Vivian hello before heading across the stoop back to her place.
Too wired to sit, I pace the short distance between front door and kitchen. “Is he okay?”
“He’s fine. Physically, anyway. Dee overdosed. He called me last night around ten o’clock. I was sitting on the couch watching TV.”
I pick up the remote and flick off the television. “While folding laundry.”
It takes her a second. “You’re at my apartment.”
“I went to CRBI to surprise you. Amber didn’t know where you were. You scared the life out of me, Vivian.” Now that I know she’s alive and well, anger creeps in.
“Well, excuse me for not calling. I was trying to comfort my brother so he didn’t have to go through this alone.”
“How is Dee?” I rein in my anger enough to ask.
“Stable,” Vivian says, sounding groggy. “Finally. They think she took antidepressants in addition to drinking a lot of wine. Walt and I spent the entire night in the waiting room of the ICU. Finally, the nurse convinced him to go home and get some sleep, that Dee was going to be okay for a few hours while he rested. When we arrived at his apartment, he was pacing and half-crazed. I sat with him until”—there’s a pause while she presumably checks the time—“God. An hour and a half ago. I feel like someone kicked my head in. I’ve never been so tired in my life.”
“Walt didn’t use?”
“He’s sober. Thank goodness. I wasn’t sure until I arrived at the hospital, but he’s all right. I’m not going to be coming home any time soon, though.”
I blink at this announcement. I don’t know if she means for a day or two or a week or two. Or longer.
“I’ll come to you.” The next best logical thing. “I can charter a jet. Let me know what you need from home. I’ll pack you a bag.”
“I packed one,” she tells me.
“Okay, then give me Walt’s address. Did he rent the place on Palmetto?” I rummage through a kitchen drawer in search of pen and paper. “Better give me the hospital name too.”
“No.”
The word freezes me into a solid block of irritation. “What do you mean, no?”
“I have it under control, Nate.”
“Doesn’t change the fact I can help if you let me.”
“We don’t need help. There’s nothing to do. I’ll come home when things are settled.”
Hearing she doesn’t need my help is akin to her saying she doesn’t give a shit about me. Old childhood wounds wriggle out of my subconscious. I’ve been rejected before.
“You should have called me,” I bark, which is probably the wrong thing to say to someone who’s slept for ninety minutes in the last thirty or so hours. “I would have flown out with you. I could be there for you.”
“That’s not your job,” she replies coolly.
“Speaking of, I won’t hold the Grand Marin position open indefinitely.” It’s petty, but I’m angry, so that’s what I say.
“Fine. Don’t. My brother is my number one responsibility.” She’s calmer than I like. Meanwhile, I’m like an overheated Hot Pocket, a steamy mess inside, roughly the temperature of lava, and beginning to ooze from the cracks. “I’m going back to sleep. Lock my front door on your way out.”
“Vivian,” I say, my tone gruff. When she doesn’t respond, I think she’s hung up until I hear her draw a breath. Rather than argue, I mutter, “Call me when you wake up.”
