I sense a presence before I lift my head and open my eyes. The girl is crouching next to me, her blond hair tumbling around her face. Her blue eyes are filled with tears. She reaches out a hand and touches my arm. “I don’t want you to be sad. Will you be my friend?”
I can’t find the words so I just nod. She takes my hand and pulls me up. “Let’s go swing…okay?”
When I free myself from the dream, my face is wet with tears. Dani. If not for her, I’d have been a first grade dropout. We were best buds during our school years. In fact, we were so tight, the other kids called us Danimel. It soon morphed into Danimal, as in, “Hey, Danimal, you two coming to my party tonight?” Instead of fighting it, we embraced the nickname, signing yearbooks with a paw print.
Other than Sandra, Dani is the only person who knows of my ability to read souls. Instead of believing it’s a curse, Dani thinks it’s cool. One time, though, she didn’t listen to me. It was when I told her not to marry Eddie and it caused a rift between us. After Destiny was born, we re-connected and she began urging me to come to 3 Peaks. Did she want me here because she needed help? I try to remember our phone conversations. Mostly, she talked about the baby, how much she loved being a mom. She rarely talked about Eddie. Maybe I should have paid more attention.
Is the dream a cry for help? My first impulse is to run to Dani’s room. Think before you act, Melanie. My mother’s voice. It’s three a.m. Popping up at Dani’s bedside in the middle of the night is probably not a good plan. If somebody calls security and I’m ejected from the hospital, I’ll have a hard time getting back in. Better stay put until morning. My mother would be proud. Instead of acting, I thought it through. Exhausted by the unaccustomed cerebral workout, I close my eyes.
Seven a.m. I waken to a sudden increase in the noise level. A shift change is underway. I grab my backpack and find a restroom. After taking care of my bursting bladder, I splash cold water on my face, peek in the mirror and gasp in surprise. Prior to leaving home, I’d hacked off my long, unruly hair. New life. New hair. Each time I catch a glimpse of myself, it’s like looking at a stranger. A stranger with spiky black hair, a permanent tan, bright blue eyes and a tiny mole next to a mouth turned up at the corners despite my pessimistic personality. The blue eyes and permanent tan are compliments of my sperm donor father, or as Sandra refers to him, that damn Spaniard who knocked me up and split. I finger-comb my new do, pinch my cheeks to add some color and head up the stairs to Dani’s room.
An LPN is attending to the older lady in Dani’s room. She looks up when I enter. “It’s a little early for visitors.”
“I’m Dani’s sister. Just got here last night. I’ll brush her hair and wash her face.”
The LPN shrugs. “Be my guest. I’ve got a bunch of others to take care of.” She hands me a plastic basin, a fresh towel and washcloth. “You might try talking to her. I told her husband too, but he hasn’t been around much. Sometimes people in a coma can hear you.”
Dani had shifted during the night. The bedcovers are tangled and twisted as if she was thrashing around. Seems like a good sign. I tidy her bed and fill the plastic basin with warm water. I wring out the washcloth and gently pat her forehead and cheeks. The bruising on her face is more apparent in the harsh daylight.
“Hey, girlfriend, it’s Mel. I’m so glad to see you. I can’t wait to tell you what’s up with me.” I lower my voice to a whisper in case the LPN is eavesdropping. “I’m off probation. I’m now a free woman.”
I jabber like a jaybird while I give Dani a sponge bath. After ten minutes, the water is cold and I’m running out of words. I rub moisturizer on her dry lips and drop a kiss on her cheek. “Can’t wait to see the baby.”
Her eyelids flutter. Whoa, should have mentioned the baby earlier. “Love the picture you sent me of Destiny. She looks just like you.”
I blather on, trying to recall every baby description I can come up with. Cute as a button. God’s little angels, etc. I run out of steam after, “I bet she even burps on command.”
In the silence that follows, Dani moans and rolls her head from side to side.
I take hold of her hands, lean close and whisper, “What is it, Dani? Look at me so I can help. You don’t have to say a word. I’ll know. Okay?”
Her eyes fly open. I stare into her clear blue eyes, unchanged since the first day we met. Her eyes are unchanged, but sadly, her soul is not. Dani’s soul has always been bright yellow, filled with sunshine. I’ve always loved Dani’s soul. Looking at her soul made me happy. Now, it makes me want to cry. Dani is suffering and not only from physical pain. The light in her soul has been extinguished and her shiny soul is now a putrid brownish-yellow, streaked with flaring hotspots of anguish.
I put my mouth next to her ear. “What’s happened to you?”
Her eyes fill with tears. She squeezes my hands and struggles to form words. “Baby. Want baby.”
“Where is the baby? Where’s Destiny?”
Dani sighs and the light leaves her eyes. Her grip on my hands goes slack. I charge out of the room and run to the nurse’s station. “Room 312. She’s waking up. Call the doctor.”
Chapter Five
I huddle in the hall and watch as official-looking medical folk trot in and out of Dani’s room. At first, I tried to remain in the room, tucking myself into a corner. A sharp-eyed nurse looked me over and barked, “You. Out.”
Thirty minutes later, I spot Eddie emerging from the elevator. Unshaven and rumpled, he wears jeans and a flannel shirt not unlike my own. When he sees me he stops. “You’re here?”
“Where else would I be? Dani’s my friend.”
“Huh,” he says, as if puzzled by my strange priority. “Is she awake?”
“She woke up for a few minutes. It’s the reason they called you.”
He shifts from one foot to the other. “She talk to you?”
I shrug. “Not much.” I can think of no good reason to tell the big jerk anything.
He reaches for the door.
“Let me know what’s happening.”
“They kick you out?”
I nod.
He pushes the door open. Before it closes, I listen for the sound of Dani’s voice, but hear nothing but the low murmur of her medical team and the hissing of machines. A few minutes later, Eddie emerges, flanked by the nurse who’d ousted me and a man dressed in slacks, dress shirt and tie. Her doctor?
Eddie points at me. “She lied to you. She’s not Dani’s sister.”
I bristle. “I’m the closest thing she has to a sister. She needs me. When I talked to her, she opened her eyes.”
The nurse turns to Eddie. “You’re the husband, Mr. Morgan. It’s your decision. Can this person see your wife, or not?”
His expression hardens. “Not.”
The man speaks up. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave, Miss.”
My face grows hot with anger and frustration. I know it will do no good to argue, but poor judgment has never stopped me before. “Apparently you don’t want her to get better. Did she wake up when Eddie talked to her? Or, did he bother to talk to her?”
The man and woman exchange a glance but keep silent.
I glare at Eddie and pick up my backpack “Yeah, that’s what I thought. She responded to me. She was coming out of her coma. And now she’s not.”
The man holds up a cautionary hand. “I’m Dani’s doctor and I can tell you these things take time. If she’s really waking up, it will happen whether you’re here or not.”
“Yeah,” Eddie sneers, happily reinforced by his wife’s physician.
“Fine.” I’m aware I sound like a pissed off teenager. I start down the hall and call over my shoulder. “But, I’ll be checking. And, she better damn well get better or it will be on you, Eddie.”
Still burning, I gallop down the stairs. I know the last statement I hurled at Eddie was incredibly impulsive and stupid. My hostility toward Dani’s husband will make it nearly impossible for me to help her stay alive. �
��Damn you, Mel,” I mutter. “Do you have to blurt out whatever passes through your birdbrain?”
I continue my self-scolding until I hit the main floor. I need coffee and food so I can start my job search. I follow the sign to the cafeteria, pick up a tray, and zero in on a big, gooey cinnamon roll, the last one left on the plate. Apparently I’m not the only unhealthy eater in the hospital.
After I pay for my roll and coffee, I have exactly eighty-two dollars and forty-nine cents left in my pocket. I need to find a job. Stat.
True, Sandra will wire money if I ask. No way will I ask.
I pick up a copy of today’s newspaper and make my way to a tiny corner table. After a slurp of coffee and a big bite of roll, I turn to the help wanted section. Four glowing résumés burn holes in my backpack. All I have to do is find the right match. I will not be seeking employment in a hospital or work as a nanny. My mother is scared to death I’ll snatch another baby even though I’ve assured her I won’t.
I searched the want ads for jobs fitting my résumés. Dog walker/pooper-scooper. Zip. Gardener. Nada. House painter. Nothing. Waitress. Score! A café called Nick’s Place needs an experienced waitress. According to my résumé, I am over-qualified, having worked for several years at an establishment called Sandy’s Pub and Eatery. True, the restaurant is my mother’s kitchen. But, how hard can it be to take orders and deliver food?
I finish my breakfast and head for the restroom. Job interviews require I don’t look like I’ve just hitched a ride on an eighteen-wheeler. After changing into my job-hunting clothes, I check out my image in the mirror A disheveled pixie clad in black jeans and a wrinkled scoop-necked T-shirt glowers back at me. I hope body heat will smooth out the wrinkles. I remind myself to look pleasant.
The bus drops me off in front of a shabby-looking establishment. The sign across the top of the building assures me this is Nick’s Sports Bar and Motel. Motel? Sure enough, I spy an L-shaped line of cinder block motel rooms behind the main building.
A closed sign hangs in the front door window. I peer around the sign, detect movement inside and rattle the door handle.
The door opens a crack. “We’re closed until 4.” A man’s voice.
“I’m here about the waitress job. Have you filled it yet?”
The door flies open. A muscular thirty-something guy looks at me with an appraising brown-eyed gaze. “How old are you, honey? We serve adult beverages here.”
I pinch my lips together for a brief moment. Now is not the time, Mel, even if he did call you honey.
I try to keep my expression neutral and stare at the bridge of his nose “I’m twenty-two. Would you like to see my qualifications?”
“Sure, come on in.” He steps away from the door so I can enter. He leads me through a dimly lit dining area consisting of booths and tables. The back of the dining room features a long bar topped with polished dark wood. An open window to the kitchen is visible behind the bar. Despite the gloomy interior, the place smells of soap and furniture polish overlaid with the aroma of French Fries. Damn, it smells good!
“I’m Nick Holloway,” the guy says, as we step into a long hallway. The restrooms are labeled Jocks and Jockettes. Action photos of athletes, both male and female, line the walls. Holloway takes a right turn into a sparsely furnished office.
He waves me into a chair. “And you are…?”
Oh, yeah, job interviews require social interaction. Remember, Mel?
“Melanie.” I hand over the document lovingly crafted by my over-zealous mother. “Melanie Sullivan.”
He scans my résumé, places it on the desk and folds his arms across his chest. I risk a glance into his eyes, just long enough to search for the telltale signs of an evil nature. Fortunately, his soul looks fairly bland.
After a brief silence, he says, “Your qualifications are fine, Melanie. Here’s my problem. Things can get rough in here. I keep the ruckus down to a minimum, but I can’t be on your tail, protecting you every minute. If some guy grabs your ass, tell me and I’ll toss him out, but, bottom line, so to speak, you have to be able to take care of yourself. You’re pretty small, so I’m afraid you might get pushed around.”
I narrow my eyes and stand, pointing at the résumé. “Did you read the bottom section, the part about my hobbies?” Nestled between the lies, there is a shining beacon of truth.
He picks up the paper and reads aloud. “Knitting scarves. Gardening. Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. Black belt. What the hell is Brazilian Jiu Jitsu?”
His office is pretty small, but there’s plenty of room for what I have in mind. I drop to a crouch. “Come out from behind the desk and I’ll show you.”
He laughs. “You’re kidding. Right?”
“No.”
His brows shoot up in surprise. “Are you going to hurt me?”
“Not if you submit.”
He pushes his chair back and stands. “And if I don’t?”
“Then, I hurt you.”
Looking wary, he steps to the side of his desk. “Now what?”
I move closer to him. “Try to grab me.”
He lunges at me like I knew he would. Sidestepping quickly, I grab his wrist with both hands and whip my left leg around his body, striking the back of his knee. Caught off balance he crashes to the floor, face down. I land hard on his upper arm with both my knees and use the strength of my body to force his hand back in a wristlock. Inside my head, I hear the voice of my instructor. “Apply enough pressure and the pain will drive all rational thought from your opponent.”
“Ouch, goddammit!” he yelps.
“Do you submit? Say it.”
“Hell, yeah. I submit.”
Grinning, I help him up. He rubs his wrist and collapses into his chair. “Jesus, girl, how did you learn to do that?”
“Brazilian Jiu Jitsu teaches smaller, weaker people how to use ground fighting and leverage. Plus the joint locks cause severe pain. My mom wanted me to be able to protect myself, so she started me in BJJ when I was twelve.”
I don’t tell him the main reason behind Sandra’s decision. My bad attitude and social awkwardness attracted bullies like iron filings to a magnet. Nick Holloway doesn’t need to know that.
I stand in front of his desk and look down at him. “So, are you going to hire me?”
Nick grins and raises his hands in the universal sign of surrender. “I submit. You’re hired.”
Chapter Six
After we hammer out the details, I can barely contain my glee. I’m now gainfully employed. Plus, I have a roof over my head and two meals a day. The roof over my head is in exchange for my services as a motel maid when one of Nick’s regulars doesn’t show up. Apparently, this happens frequently. How hard can it be to change bed sheets?
Since Nick’s Place is mainly a sports’ bar, the doors don’t open until late in the afternoon which will give me time to sneak back into the hospital and check on Dani.
My room is nothing to brag about, but it’s scrupulously clean. Along with the requisite bed and bath, it has heat and air conditioning and a microwave oven and a small fridge. I’m feeling pretty proud of myself. In less than twenty-four hours, I have a job and a home.
It’s a little short on personal touches, so I root around in my backpack and pull out the only picture I brought from home. Hope and Honor, age five. First day of kindergarten. Fighting back a wave of sadness, I trace the outline of our faces. Hope is dead. In my mind, so is Honor.
Nick asked me to come in at two-thirty so he can fill me in on my duties. Along with the key to my room, he’d tossed me a handful of V-necked pink T-shirts with Nick’s Place emblazoned in big, black letters across the boob line. “Wear one of these. Your jeans are fine.”
Clad in my waitressing outfit, I walk through the courtyard to the back of the restaurant. A sign next to the curb says, “Employee parking only.” Four spaces. Two are filled. One with a battered blue pick-up truck. The other with a beige, older model Chevy Impala. I wonder which one belongs to Nick.
>
I step into the immaculate kitchen and see the back of a burly, muscular guy in jeans and a white T-shirt standing over the industrial sized stove. He’s applying a whisk to a pot bubbling with something that smells yummy. I try not to drool as I breathe in the kitchen’s glorious mingled odors of bacon, cheese and French Fries.
The guy glances over his shoulder. “So you’re the new waitress?”
“Yeah, I’m Mel.”
“Myron,” he grunts and turns back to the stove.
Guess he’s not in a conversational mood. Fine with me. I shrug and step through the swinging doors. I find Nick behind the bar, wiping down its already gleaming surface. When he spots me, he turns his head and calls through the open window, “Hey, Myron. The new kid is here and she looks hungry.”
Is it that obvious? Maybe I am drooling. The big gooey cinnamon roll I’d scarfed down for breakfast was long gone.
Nick points at a bar stool. “Have a seat.”
Myron appears. He’s carrying a plateful of grilled cheese sandwich wedges and fries. It smells like heaven. He sets it down in front of me.
Nick says, “Meet Myron. He’s one of my fry cooks. He and another guy, Sammy, each take a half shift so they can work their other jobs.
“Actually, we just met,” I say.
Myron extends a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt. I give it a shake and glance into his flat gray eyes. A second glance tells me more. I see three vertical iron bars bisecting his spotty beige soul. If I’m not mistaken, Myron has served time in the gray bar motel. His bulging, tattooed biceps are a testament to the heavy duty power lifting, a favorite activity in prison.
Not my business. Not when my tummy’s growling like a jet engine warming up.
“Nice to meet you again, Myron. Thanks for the food.”
Without further ado, I dig into my food while Myron and Nick shoot the breeze. When I come up for air, Nick says, “I’ll show you around. Helen will be here soon. She’s my other waitress.”
He switches on the overhead lights and opens a low gate leading to an area adjoining the dining room, an area I’d missed on my first trip through the restaurant. Stools line the walls, but the room is dominated by two pool tables.
Affliction Page 3
