I Wish You Happy: A Novel

by Kerry Anne King

  All day I tell myself my uneasiness is a product of my overactive imagination, fed by sleep deprivation and the traumatic events of the last few days. But it persists, lurking in corners, stalking my every move.

  An hour before it’s time to go I can’t stand it anymore. I pop out of the bathroom, an open mascara bottle in one hand, the wand in the other. “Seriously. You should come. I can pick up a wheelchair so you don’t have to use the walker.”

  “I’m not crashing your party,” Kat says, cuddling a lapful of kittens. “Besides, who would take care of these guys?”

  “I could stay home.”

  “No. Not on account of me.” There’s a warning in her tone.

  “You’re still not strong. I can see how much you’re hurting, even with the oxycodone. What if—”

  “Rae. Stop. You need to have a life.”

  “But—”

  “There are no buts. I’m not going. You are. End of story. You’re getting mascara all over your pants.”

  Damn it, she’s right. I’m not sure I even have another pair of jeans, and I am not wearing scrubs to my one social outing of the year. Back in the bathroom I blot at the black streak with a damp washcloth, managing only to smear it.

  “It will be dark,” Kat calls from the living room. “Nobody’s going to notice.”

  I pop back out, careful to cap the mascara this time. “It won’t be dark right away. Not during the drive.” And then I blurt out what I’ve been avoiding telling her. “Cole is picking me up.”

  Her lips press together and fold in at the corners before she can duck her head to hide her face.

  “I can call him and cancel. If you wanted to come. Or I could stay home. I don’t think I even want to go.”

  “Be careful with a guy like that. Not that it’s any of my business.”

  “I can meet him somewhere else. So you don’t have to see him.”

  “That’s ridiculous. This is your house. He’s your friend. Do what you want.”

  Such a dangerous little phrase those four little words make. Do what you want. Nobody on the face of the planet ever says that line and means it. The tension in the room alone tells me that what Kat wants is certainly not what she thinks I want, but that she’s hoping I’ll change my mind. Not about the Oscar Event, but about Cole.

  “A lot of fuss about a dead rat,” Kat says. It’s the sort of statement my mother would make. I picture Kat as a child of six, earnestly discussing science with my father and putting together anatomical models with my mother. All of them enjoying each other and speaking the same language. No bewildering meltdowns over imaginary friends. No tears and heartbreak over words never even spoken.

  Kat is right, of course. It is a lot of fuss over a dead rat. The part of me that was excited about the party deflates, and I just stand there, limp and tired and trapped by forces beyond my control.

  “Oh God. I’m sorry,” Kat says, but it’s too late. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. You look great. Come hug me, and then I’m going to vanish.”

  Squashing unease, hurt, and a small, futile anger, I follow her directive, leaning down to hug her where she sits in the armchair. Her breath catches and she squeezes me tight. “Forgive me,” she whispers in my ear.

  “We’re good. It’s fine.” I pull away and smile at her to demonstrate the truth of this.

  “You’re missing something,” she says, tilting her head to one side and looking me over. “I know. Earrings.”

  “Nobody’s going to notice. It will be dark.”

  She smiles at my joke. “Wait. I have the perfect ones for you. Let me get them.”

  “Kat, don’t. It’s not worth the effort.”

  “Let me. I want to give you something. Hang on.”

  I watch as she painfully hoists herself to her feet, using the walker as an anchor, and shuffles into the bedroom. She’s gone long enough to make me fidget, worrying whether she’s okay, wondering when Cole will arrive.

  Finally, Kat returns. She hands me a small jewelry box. “Here. I want you to have them.”

  Inside the box, on a white satin lining, nestle two fire opals.

  I touch them with a reverent finger, and rainbows shift across the surface.

  “They’re gorgeous.”

  “They’re yours.”

  I shove the box back toward her. “I can’t take these. It’s too much.”

  “I owe you. Let me give you something. Please.”

  I shake my head.

  “Just for tonight, then,” she says. “I want to see them on you. Here, let me.”

  I still mean to say no, but instead I kneel in front of her chair and let her fasten them onto my earlobes.

  “Perfect. They suit you. Go look.”

  When I look in the mirror I don’t see my face at all, only those two shimmering stones and the way the color shifts and plays every time I move my head. I tell myself to take them off, to give them back, but Cole’s knock at the door scatters all rational thought right out of my head.

  Usually a silence is full of complex emotional noise, but when the initial small talk between me and Cole ebbs and leaves us with nothing to say, what lies between us is quiet and calm. I’m vividly aware of my own emotions, all of the colors and shadings of Rae, but Cole somehow keeps to himself.

  He catches me staring at him, trying to figure this out, and his eyebrow lifts in a question. “What? Is there peanut butter on my face?” He grins, and my heart does a weird little flip-flop. This unnerves me, and what I’m thinking pops right out of my mouth.

  “I can’t read you.”

  “Cole, the book of mysteries,” he says, lightly, his eyes back on the road. “Is that a problem?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.” I laugh. “Probably not?”

  “Let me help. The predominant mood for tonight is worried. Note the furrow between my brows and the tension with which I grip the steering wheel.”

  I peruse him for both of these signs and shake my head. “Poker face. Relaxed hands. Why the worry?”

  “When I said the Oscar thing had gotten out of hand—I meant really out of hand. Just so you know.”

  A cold twisting sensation threads its way through my belly. I don’t have a poker face, and I can feel the furrow between my own brows. “I don’t do crowds.”

  “This is—more than crowds. Your friend Corinne got a little carried away with the whole thing.”

  “Oh God. What did she do?”

  “If I tell you, I’m afraid you won’t come.”

  “Is that an option?”

  “It is an option. I’m not sure it’s a good one.” His hand reaches out and covers mine. There’s a diagonal scar running across the back. One fingernail is chipped. His touch feels warm, comforting, and isn’t asking anything of me. Instead, it feels like an offer.

  I curl my own fingers up between his, liking the texture of calluses, the way his hand is so much bigger than mine. We don’t talk the rest of the way. When he turns off the highway onto an unmarked road that leads to the beach, I want to ask him to just keep driving, just the two of us like this, joined by the hands, driving into the stars.

  But an Event is an Event, and there’s no escape from this one.

  The field next to the beach is already full of vehicles, and there’s a bonfire alight down by the water. It’s not dark yet, although the sun hangs low in the sky and the air is beginning to cool.

  Cor’s head and upper body are stuck inside the back of her SUV. She emerges when we park beside her and waves. “Hey, can you guys lend a hand?”

  “Ready?” Cole asks, his fingers tightening around mine.

  “You’re sure we can’t run away?”

  “From an Event of this magnitude? If you run, it will continue to grow and follow you around. Come on. Let’s do this thing.”

  “Are you a people person, Cole?” He doesn’t strike me as an extrovert. But my people-reading sense has been off lately.

  “Me? I abhor crowds. I was thinking a
few friends, a campfire, some contemplative thought. Maybe a couple of imported fireflies for effect.” He laughs. “Truth. But I started it. You’re the honoree. So we are in this thing together.”

  “Don’t you leave me here.”

  “Never.” He looks at me as he says it, his eyes truly seeing me in that way he has, and I feel like my entire being is limned in fire.

  “Help,” Cor calls again. She’s got a box in her arms, but it’s slipping away from her, and Cole runs to catch it. I peer into the back of her SUV. There is more food here than my kitchen sees in a week.

  “Holy smokes, Cor, you left the fridge and stove behind.”

  She laughs. “Once I get started, I can’t stop. You know? I took a trip up to Costco. The hot dogs and fixings were on sale. And then I saw the pies, and I couldn’t decide which one, so I bought five. And brownies. You’ve got to have brownies. The soda was a steal. And then I didn’t know if anybody else would bring plates and cutlery . . .”

  I load up while she chatters on. Cole, loaded down with whatever is in that box, is already staggering toward the beach. A couple of ice-filled coolers are stuffed with drinks. A balloon centerpiece hovers above a table laden with snacks. People cluster around in little groups of two and three, laughing and talking. I’m shocked to realize I know them all. They smile and wave, as if genuinely happy to see me. A few come over to offer condolences on the loss of Oscar.

  It’s a party, I tell myself. People like parties. They do this on purpose, all the time. But the familiar dread is working its way into my bones.

  “What’s your poison?” Cole asks. “Soda? Beer? Cider?”

  I accept a cider. The bottle is icy cold, slick with condensation. A wind flows in across the lake. Cole steers me toward a log on the far side of the bonfire, his hand warm on the small of my back.

  We’re intercepted before we get there.

  “Hey, Rae! Sorry about Oscar. He was a cute little guy.”

  “Raphael, hey. I didn’t know you ever met him.”

  “Are you kidding? I used to smuggle him cheese when you weren’t looking.”

  Raphael is the occupational therapist at Valley View. He’s older than me. Stocky, graying, kind to the residents, and fabulous at lightly teasing them into complying with his exercise regimes. Despite his ready laugh and easy banter, as we walk past him I feel a heaviness trailing after me. Before I can begin to put thoughts to the unexpected emotion, I’m momentarily blinded by a flash of light.

  “And the guest of honor arrives,” a voice says. “You are Rae, correct? I’m Lorinda Thomas, reporter for the Statesman Examiner. Is it true this entire event is on behalf of a rat?”

  “Not precisely, since the rat in question is deceased.”

  When my vision clears, I see a woman with a camera standing just inside my personal space bubble. Her appearance is mousy and unremarkable, but her energy feels fierce. I don’t know how she knows me; I’m certain we’ve never met. My life is not fertile soil for reporters.

  “Must be a quiet news day.” Cole echoes my thought, steering me around her.

  She lets us pass, but turns and walks on the other side of me. “Honestly, I’m not here about the rat. Although, may he rest in peace and all that. I’ve got nothing against rats. But what I really want to know is how that woman is doing? The one you ran over with your car.”

  My feet stop moving. The reporter looks bigger, all at once, as if she’s towering over me, even though she’s about the same height.

  She flushes. “I can see you’d rather not talk about it. Can’t say as I blame you. And I hate asking, only it is a story and sort of my job.”

  Officer Mendez materializes beside her, so suddenly I feel like I’ve conjured him out of sheer desperation. “It’s a party, Rin. Come get a drink.”

  “Maybe later?” she calls over her shoulder as he tows her away. “I’ll buy you lunch.”

  “She has no comment,” Mendez says.

  I’m grateful for Cole’s steadying hand as I miss my footing and trip over my own feet.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  “Just nerves,” I tell him, gripping the sweating, ice-cold bottle to keep me grounded.

  “You don’t have to do anything but sit here,” he says as we settle down side by side on the rough bark of an old log. “I’ll protect you from the ravening paparazzi.”

  My laughter in response is fleeting. There are emotions coming at me from all directions. Some direct and forceful as rockets. Some insidious and vague, snaking around my feet, worming their way into my belly. Everybody here is laughing on the outside. Inside, where they’ve hidden whatever is incongruent with the party spirit, is another story.

  I shouldn’t have come.

  “How are we going to roast anything on that fire?” Corinne demands. “We’ll all burn to cinders before we get close enough to roast anything besides ourselves.”

  She’s right. This is not a campfire. This is a raging inferno. Good thing we’ve had plenty of rain this summer, or we’d be at risk of lighting the forest on fire.

  Raphael grins at her. “Patience, patience, it will burn down. Have a drink. Did you put anything good in those brownies?”

  “You’re bad.” But Cor is laughing as she pops the top on a can of Bud Light.

  I want her to come sit beside me. She’s easy. No subtext there, because whatever she’s feeling comes right out of her mouth and you know where you’re at. Since she pretty much loves everybody and is the most determined optimist I’ve ever met, where you’re at is a pretty good thing.

  But she’s busy playing hostess and isn’t likely to sit any time in the near future.

  And then the little groups part to make way for a procession.

  Nancy has dressed for the occasion, in a crimson evening gown that would probably pass muster at the real Oscars. Mason, always overdressed for Colville, looks working-class next to her extravagance.

  He is also obviously drunk and using the wheelchair as a support. As he reaches the transition from gravel to sand, one of the wheels sticks. The chair lurches dangerously sideways.

  Nancy shrieks, clinging to the arms.

  A dozen hands rescue her from disaster, righting the chair, rolling her safely to a position on the other side of the fire. Nancy orders them around with all the aplomb of a queen on a throne. Cor brings her a beer. Raphael brings a brownie. Tia spreads a blanket over her lap to protect her from the breeze that has begun to blow.

  Cole is laughing. “She’s a piece of work.”

  “You can say that again.” Mason settles heavily onto the log on my other side. “Nursing home hasn’t changed her one bit.”

  “I can only imagine what she was like when she was young,” I say.

  “She was, as Cole says, a piece of work.” Mason takes a long swig of beer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Cor saves us from any more conversation, approaching the crackling fire and clanging on a cowbell with a stick.

  “Listen up, everybody.”

  The babble of voices hushes. Just for an instant the sound of lapping waves, a hint of wind, clears my head. But then Cor’s voice goes on.

  “As you all know, this is not just a party. This is a tribute to Oscar, the rat we all knew and loved.”

  “Seriously?” Mason slurs. “This whole thing is really about a rat?”

  His voice carries through Cor’s dramatic pause.

  Maybe he’s thinking about sewer rats or plague rats. Maybe he shares Bernie’s opinion about naked tails. Everybody stares at him, and at me by proxy, sitting next to him.

  “I need a drink,” Mason says, and proceeds to finish his beer without stopping to breathe.

  Cor clears her throat. “As I was saying . . .”

  “For real?” Mason whispers loudly to me, his breath enveloping my entire head in a miasma of beery fumes. “I mean, cats. Rats. They go together like, like, I got nothing. They don’t go together.”

  Deciding to ignore the disruptio
n, Corinne raises her voice a little louder. “This is a memorial. So we’ll begin with a toast. Everybody got a drink?”

  Mason shakes his can, which remains empty.

  All around us, hands raise drinks up into the air.

  “To Oscar!” Cor says.

  “To Oscar!” voices echo in response.

  The only toasts I’ve ever been part of were at weddings and were instantly followed by laughter and voices and more drinking. Here, the silence remains, winding through the group like an invisible thread weaving us all together, just for an instant, with an acknowledgment of loss for a small white animal who was in the world for such a short time.

  I feel the tears encroaching, but the flavor of this silence gives me courage to hold my head up and let them do what they want. All around me, faces are serious, reflective.

  “Amazing how many lives can be touched by a small creature who is only on this planet for about the blink of an eye,” Corinne goes on. “Sorry. Just a minute.” She digs in her pocket for a tissue and wipes her nose.

  “Now, then. Due to a horrible accident, Rae didn’t even get to bury him. We can’t fix that now, but every grief needs something physical as a reminder. So, Rae, we all pitched in and got you this.”

  Cor bends over and reaches into a capacious beach bag, coming up with something white and fluffy, with a silvery satin tail. A plush rat, big enough to be mutant if it were real. She brings it over and presents it to me, ceremoniously.

  “To remember Oscar by,” she says. And then she envelops me in a hug, rat and all. My hands take on a life of their own, clinging to her, not letting her go, my face squashed into her shoulder, the rat a soft lump between our chests. She drops a kiss on the top of my head when I finally release her. There are tears on her cheeks.

  She clears her throat.

  “All right. Who wants to say something about Oscar?”

  “I never had the chance to know him,” Cole says. “I wish I had.”

  Raphael stands up, raises a glass, and takes a swallow. “When you first brought him to work, I thought you were crazy.”