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“I’m fine to drive. I wouldn’t offer otherwise.”
The hurt look she delivers when she shakes her head again makes me feel like a failure, like I’ve wounded her. I swallow the feeling down and shake it off. I don’t need this. “Suit yourself.”
Her voice is so small I can barely make out the words when she says, “It’s just…I already called for a ride.” I turn at that and she cracks a sad half-smile. “But thank you.”
I imagine the expression I return is the same.
I look for Charlotte the next morning but she’s missing in action. And that bum Rudy Wallace is practically pacing in front of the diner by the time Sunday afternoon rolls around and there’s still no sign of her.
Chapter Four
Charlotte
It’s the most awkward family reunion imaginable. I think on it for the better part of an hour, but can’t remember how long it’s been since the four of us were in one room together.
I’m the only one who comes to see her. My father and brother have gone on with their lives. They act as if she died years ago and I used to hate them for it. I believed in miracles, and I could prove I still held on to hope by sitting vigil at her bedside, combing her hair and painting her nails.
I used to talk to her. I’d tell her what was going on in my life, ask her opinion when I had a problem. Or I’d ask her questions about our family, things I couldn’t sort out on my own. All the while I knew it was pointless. She has no answers for me.
So I come less frequently now—once a month at best since I started high school. Most of the nurses are really nice, but one or two of them, with their false smiles and cheery comments—Your momma’s going to be so happy to have some company today!—they make me feel ashamed for the way I’ve been neglecting her. During my last visit I encountered one of those nurses. She passed a seemingly harmless remark about how much I’d grown, that she hardly recognized me. But it was her tone, the way she said it. She might as well have told me I’m no more than a stranger to my own mother because I don’t care enough to come see her regularly. God, it burned. And she had no right. That lady doesn’t know what it’s like to pine for the kind of mother every other teenage girl has, only to sit here and stare at a corpse that refuses to die.
On that very day I decided to let my father and brother off the hook, realizing we all handle tragedy and grief in our own way. I was surely no better than them.
That last visit took place on my birthday. I wanted to show her my car keys, or maybe I just wanted to sit with someone on my special day. I definitely wanted something more than the casual toss of keys on the table and theHappy birthday, kidmy father threw my way before heading off to work. After leaving the nursing home that afternoon, I went home and ate a pint of chocolate ice cream while binge-watching some ridiculous reality show where spoiled, obnoxious kids plan their sweet sixteen celebrations for the better part of a year. It’s not like I wanted some over the top party where I changed my outfit three times and had a famous rapper performing just for me—hell no, I’d hate that. I’d have been satisfied with blowing out some candles on a store-bought cake.
Today we’re all gathered here because my mother has pneumonia. My father got a call sometime last night, letting him know his wife might not have much time left. He was probably in bed with his secretary when he answered the call.
I cannot bring myself to step foot inside the dealership now, not since my father started dating this one. Liza is only a few years older than my brother. She dresses in tight clothes, dons a full face of makeup every day, and wears the gaudy jewelry my father has gifted her from my mother’s jewelry box. I wanted to scream and rage the first time I saw a gold bracelet of my mother’s on her wrist. It looked so wrong. Itiswrong. But I don’t do that. I’m quiet, I’m obedient, I don’t rock the boat. Instead, I went home and sifted through all my mother’s belongings, taking anything that held sentimental value. I can’t believe Liza would want anything of hers anyway. If he proposes, would shewantthat engagement ring? I left it in the jewelry box, sure in the knowledge that it would curse my union if I ever did decide to go and get married someday.
He’s a tall man, my father, and he’s imposing, but he looks like a balding, chubby, fawning fool standing next to her. And she’s ridiculous—laughs at everything he says. When she’s not batting her eyelashes at my father, she’s staring at her gel manicured nails as if they hold the secrets of the universe.
There is one thing that I do have to thank Liza for. Her presence saves me from having to work alongside my father and brother. The one time Dad suggested I work at the dealership answering phones, I shot back in a sweet as sugar tone, “No thanks, Liza seems to have everything you need covered.” That was the end of that. Maybe it was a cheap shot, but sometimes I believe I’m doing him a service. He needs a reminder, someone to tell him he’s wrong to dishonor my mother.
The air in the room is stale, and the only sound echoing off the walls is the wet, sucking noises my mother makes as she struggles to take in air. My mother was intubated, but they removed the tube earlier this morning. Her eyes are closed. Her chest rises and falls. Lying in that bed, so thin you can practically see the bones beneath the skin of her forearms and fingers, I’ve never seen her look so fragile.
My father has been sitting in the same chair for hours, staring out the window. My brother, meanwhile, is in constant motion. He’s walking in and out of the room, pacing, making phone calls, distracting himself. They’re both waiting for the doctor to make his rounds and give us some news, perhaps a timeline. Maybe he’ll tell my father he can go home. He wants someone official to let him off the hook. Both of them are itching to get out of here. Can I really blame them?
I busy myself, rubbing cream into her hands and feet. I look like the dutiful daughter right now, but I’m no better than they are. I’m just going through the motions. I may be physically tending to my dying mother, but my mind is entirely elsewhere.
Daisy’s parents were pissed when Wes brought us to their doorstep, having driven us home in a squad car. I’ve never seen them mad—not ever. I imagine Daisy isn’t having a very pleasant weekend, but it serves her right. The girl took every shot handed her way. I couldn’t even get Daisy’s attention when I was ready to leave. No, I had to wait until she stumbled outside and spewed chunks. Then I had to call Wes when I realized we had no way to get home. He was the last person I wanted to call but my options were limited. My father was typically occupied with Liza on Friday nights, and I would have walked the five miles home with Daisy on my back in a downpour before calling my brother for help. And Wes was good about the whole thing—better than good. There was no lecture, and when I asked, he looked at me as if I’d grown an extra head when he assured me he would never tell my brother. It put me at ease, erased the concerns I still had over that weird goodnight kiss he laid on me last weekend. He was in good cop, concerned friend mode last night, and I was grateful.
At least Daisy had fun. I was too fixated on Simon to enjoy myself. And if she wasn’t all giggly and talking too loud at the party, I would have pointed out to her that Simon does not scowl all the time. No, I was watching him, watching him smile with lazy indifference and ooze charm when he was surrounded by his people.
It’s weird. He doesn’t play sports but he’s friends with all the athletes. The girls flock to him even though he doesn’t seem like the type to pursue them in return. The stoners are his buddies and Iknowfocus and determination when I see it—he doesn’t partake on a regular basis. He barely even drank from the red cup in his hand.
Simon is an enigma. He’s at the center of everything but on the fringe at the same time. Everyone is his friend but there’s something about him that screams loner. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to him. He keeps people at arm’s length, like me, and I want to know why.
Is he looking for me at the diner this morning?
I hope so.
When the doctor enters the room, the three of us stand in unison like we’re performing some bizarre synchronized routine. We look ridiculous. Collectively we’re guilty, sad, angry and tired. The verdict? She may not last the night. My father nods his head, half listening as the doctor drones on, describing her condition in detail.
I know what he’s thinking. We’ve been down this road before, been told she’s on death’s doorstep only to bear witness, mystified and bewildered, as she makes a—well, you can’t really call it a recovery when you’re in a vegetative state. Anyway, the last time this happened was over two years ago. Told the end was imminent, my father went ahead and contacted the funeral home to make arrangements. And I see it in his eyes now, he’s not convinced. He nods his head, tells the doctor to contact him if her condition worsens, blah, blah, blah. He wants to go home. So does my brother.
I want to stay, though. Something is telling me this is the end.
“You sure, honey?”
