I Wish You Happy: A Novel

by Kerry Anne King

  A trilling sound from the house startles all three of us, so out of place is the ringing of a phone. It rings twice before I even know what it is.

  “That will be for you,” Tana says to Cole. “Nobody calls me here.”

  The phone rings again, and Cole dashes across the yard to answer.

  “Be patient with him; he means well.” Tana pats my hand, then starts loading the glasses onto the tray.

  “You really don’t think I’m broken?”

  She turns back, already moving toward the house with the tray. “I think you’re Rae. Balance is the quest of a lifetime.”

  I want to believe her, but my belief in my own brokenness is stronger than her words. What does she know of me? We’ve just met. Rae isn’t even my legal name.

  My feet weigh about fifty pounds each as I plod out of enchantment, through the transitional zone of the house, and out into the blazing heat of the front yard. The door handle on Cole’s truck burns me; the seat is hot enough to scorch my butt and the backs of my thighs.

  Cole gives his grandmother a quick hug and gets in without a word. He opens the windows, instead of turning on the AC, and the road noise is sufficient to prevent casual conversation.

  The silence that grows between us is more complex than the silence on the way out. When I glance at Cole, he is intent on driving, his forehead creased, seemingly unaware that I am here beside him. Maybe it’s the crisis call, or maybe it’s something from the visit.

  Maybe it’s me. I’m becoming entirely too outspoken lately, blurting out what’s in my head instead of keeping it to myself.

  “You think I need fixing.”

  He jerks at the sound of my voice, as if I’ve wakened him from sleep.

  “What? No. I think you’re wonderful. You may have noticed that.” He smiles, but it’s a half smile, distracted, and the first tentacles of returning anxiety start probing my belly.

  I should stop. This conversation isn’t going anywhere I want to go, but my mouth has a life of its own. “I also noticed that you took me to your grandmother so she could fix what ails me.”

  “I thought she might help you manage. I watch you floundering under the weight of everybody else’s emotions, and I hoped she could spare you that.”

  “Floundering. That’s a flattering image.”

  “Drowning, then. You have to admit, you got in way over your head with Katya.”

  “She tried to kill herself with my car! What do you expect to happen?”

  “So you don’t think you have a little problem with codependency?”

  “I think since you’re the one who likes to go around playing rescuing hero, maybe the pot is calling the kettle black.”

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth I want to call them back, but they’re already expanding into squat black blobs of ugliness. I should say I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that what I’ve done is release a truth that should never have been spoken. I can’t apologize for saying what’s true.

  It’s not the first time I’ve blurted out things that live in the realm of the unconscious and should stay there. Cole’s hero complex makes him a good man. He helps people. He’s been good to me. Any other woman would accept that at face value.

  Not me. Nope. As usual, I’m ruining everything.

  Already I feel him withdrawing into a protective shell. He might accept this truth about himself, embrace it. But he’ll always resent me for calling it out. I see what is meant to be hidden, know what I’m not supposed to know. This is the place where every close human relationship has ended for me. Sooner or later.

  Please, let me be wrong.

  I realize I’m squeezing my hands together until they’re bloodless, and I unlock them, one slow finger at a time. The light hurts my eyes. I almost hold my breath with waiting for him to say something, anything, but mile after mile unfolds and he remains silent.

  “I’m sorry it ended up like this,” he says, when he pulls up in my driveway. “Not what I had in mind, at all.”

  “Can we talk about it?”

  “I’ve got a crisis to deal with. I’m sorry.”

  “Right. I almost forgot.” I scramble out of the truck, the world blurring through a haze of tears I don’t intend to let him see. Nice brush-off. Convenient. He’s just being responsible. Don’t call me; I’ll call you.

  I’ve got my key in the lock, the door already opening, when he calls after me, “Don’t forget about the camping thing. I’ll call you.”

  I spin around at that. He waves as he backs out of the driveway, and then I’m standing on my porch, alone, letting all of the heat into the house.

  Chapter Seventeen

  My not-so-bright idea hits me at work, in the middle of my shift.

  I’ve been in a state of betwixt and between all day. I miss Katya; I miss the kittens. I miss Cole. All day yesterday, all day today, I’ve caught myself listening for my phone to ring, which it steadfastly refuses to do. At the same time, it’s good to be alone in my own space with time to think and let all of the emotional trajectories settle out.

  Everybody at work is still buzzing with friendly gossip about the Oscar Event. More than one person got a little extra plastered and needed a ride home, from the sounds of things. I’m included in their casual conversation, their laughter. Instead of recoiling from the camaraderie, I find myself on the inside of a few jokes. It feels unusually pleasant and easy until I walk into Nancy’s room, where the whole illusion of normalcy blows up in smoke.

  She sits in her bedside chair, all bedecked in her sparkly evening gown, her hair perfectly styled, makeup in place. From the expression on her face, however, she is not amused.

  “What’s up?” I ask her, getting ready to prick her finger and test her blood sugar. “You look like the queen of a country in the midst of a revolution.” I smile at her. She does not smile back, and she snatches her hand away from me. I don’t need super sensors to know she’s angry.

  “I don’t want my blood sugar tested.”

  “Oh, come on, Nance. Don’t be difficult.”

  “If I don’t want my blood sugar tested, I shouldn’t have to have my blood sugar tested. My body, last time I checked. Free will.”

  “And what brought on this attack of free will, if I might ask? I notice you have also chosen to not eat your dinner.”

  “I’m not hungry. I don’t want my blood tested. Go away and leave me be.” Her tone is imperious and haughty as she waves me off with a beringed hand.

  I know well enough what her problem is, but decide to give her privacy. Corinne told me all about it in report, how Nancy was put out with Mason for getting so drunk at the Oscar Event he couldn’t drive her home, how he’d promised to make it up to her by taking her out for dinner. And now here she is, all dressed up with no place to go.

  I’m debating whether calling Mason and telling him to get his sorry ass up here would fall under codependent behavior, when Tia pages me to the phone. Maybe it’s Mason calling me. Maybe he’s had an accident, and I’ll have to feel guilty for my uncharitable thoughts. Maybe he didn’t have an extra set of keys and needs the ones I lifted on the night of the Event.

  I pick up the phone. “Hello?”

  “Rae, you’ve got to get me out of here.”

  “Kat?”

  “I’m not kidding. I’ll do anything. You can put me in a straitjacket. Keep me in handcuffs.”

  “I can’t—”

  “There’s a psychotic guy here. He thinks the radio is talking to him, directly. The voice from the mother ship. And there’s this manic woman who can’t sit still or stop talking for like two seconds at a time. You have got to help me.”

  I feel the emotional pull, inexorable as the tide. She doesn’t belong there, doesn’t belong in a hospital. What if she tries to kill herself again? My fault. Can I live with that?

  And there’s that hated codependent word again. I poke at it to see if it will bite me. It growls a little. Cole’s probably right. Bernie’s probably right. Tana’s
theory that I’m fine as I am is insane. I’m not high up on some empath continuum; I’m a codependent, dysfunctional mess. Maybe I should embrace all of that and just go with it. Some people are born to be wild. I’m born to be codependent.

  “Rae?” Kat’s voice demands over the phone. “Are you even listening?”

  “I’m listening. I’m thinking.”

  “They’ll let me out if I have a place to go. I know I’ve already taken way too much advantage of you, but I thought maybe—”

  “No.”

  Such a strong word. I like the round, solid shape of it in my mouth. I resist the urge to dilute it with excuses or rationale and just let it be its unembellished self.

  “No? You mean I haven’t taken too much advantage of you?”

  “I mean no, you can’t come and stay with me.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.” But the guilt is creeping in now, insidious and slippery. Maybe I’m being selfish. Kat’s life at stake. I could help her.

  She’s safe where she’s at.

  “When did you get to be such a hard-ass? You’ve been hanging out with Cole. I can tell.”

  “Look, if you want out of there, maybe you should call Tom.”

  A small hesitation. “I can’t.” Her voice sounds uncertain, though, and I push the issue.

  “He’s your husband.”

  “And he knows where I am and hasn’t come to see me. In case you hadn’t noticed that.”

  I close my eyes and breathe. Somewhere, in that indeterminate instant between inhalation and exhalation, I get my bright idea.

  Codependent? Probably.

  Meddling? Oh, hell yes.

  “What level are you on?” I ask her.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know—locked up with no escape, or they’ll let you go out for a bit if you’re with a friend.”

  “That last one. Only I don’t have any friends. Apparently.”

  “This non-friend will try to arrange an outing. All right? Maybe we can just go sit in the sun or something.”

  “Please. Anything. It’s not like I’m a huge flight risk.” Her tone is bitter. I hold my silence, rather than remind her that killing herself is flight of the permanent variety, and she’s proven herself at huge risk for that.

  When I don’t answer, she sighs, heavily. “When?”

  “I’ll get back to you. I have to go, Kat.”

  I feel the familiar bubble of grief and guilt when I hang up, but with a little something new, a bright thread of anticipation.

  The rest of the night passes at the usual rapid-fire pace. Dressing changes on pressure sores, skin checks, medication problems. One of the residents takes a bad fall requiring an ambulance and a trip to the hospital. I’m in the office trying to get charts updated before my shift ends, when Tia walks in.

  “Crazy night, eh?” she asks.

  “You might say that.”

  “Sorry to bother you, but Nancy is still sitting up. I’ve had no luck with budging her. Want to try your charm?”

  Sure enough, our resident drama queen is still sitting in her chair, clad in her sparkly dress. Her chin droops on her chest. She’s snoring. A tiny rivulet of drool runs down the crease from the corner of her lip to her chin. She looks old, and sad, like a cast-off toy. I put my hand on her shoulder and give it a gentle shake.

  “Nance. Come on. Time to go to bed.”

  She startles awake, wild-eyed, clearly not recognizing me for a few seconds. Her hand smoothes the dress over her knee. Her forehead wrinkles in confusion and concentration.

  “It’s ten o’clock here at Valley View, and time to be getting out of your party frock and into bed.” I try to restate the facts to give her clues without insulting that sharp intelligence that is going to kick back in at any minute.

  “I am tired. What am I doing in my chair? And I’m hungry. I didn’t eat, did I?” And then the full realization kicks in. “He didn’t come,” she whispers. “He promised, but he didn’t come.”

  Her sadness floods into me, a dark river that wants to sweep me away. I thrash about for something solid to hold on to, and find the tree in Tana’s garden. With that, I also find the demarcation line between my own emotions and Nancy’s. I feel sadness for her, anger at Mason. It’s not overwhelming or all-consuming. I can handle it.

  Nancy’s feelings do not belong to me.

  This is a novelty. I want to test it, play with it, but Nancy interrupts.

  “So, are you going to stand there all night, or are you going to help me get into bed?”

  “I’m going to help you get into bed. Let’s start with that dress.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not taking it off.”

  “Come on, Nance. It’s a beautiful dress, but it won’t make a comfortable nightgown.”

  “I am wearing this dress until Mason comes to take me for dinner. Don’t argue.”

  “Far be it from me to argue with you. I would never win. All right, then. That’s a fancy new nightdress you’ve got there. You’re a trendsetter. All of the ladies down the hall will be wanting one, too.”

  Nancy laughs at that. We get her to the bathroom and then into bed. I fetch her some toast and peanut butter from the kitchen, which she practically inhales, mindless of the crumbs falling onto her dress and into her bed.

  “If I could go back in time,” she says as I’m turning to go, “I would be a better mother.”

  “Maybe you should tell him that.”

  She gasps, theatrically, back to her usual self. “Me? Admit guilt? Say I’m sorry? Surely not.”

  “Good night, Nancy.”

  On the way out to my car I spot Mason in the parking lot. He leans against his car, smoking a cigarette.

  “You’re a little late.”

  “I was here on time. I just didn’t come in.”

  “She waited for you. In her evening dress. She’s sleeping in it.”

  He drops the cigarette and grinds it out with his heel. “Truth is, I was plastered. Couldn’t bring myself to take my scolding. I’m not a good son, Rae.”

  “Be better, then.” There’s too much entanglement here, too many layers of hurt and anger and betrayal between the two of them. Mason’s emotions, and Nancy’s, are still all tangled up in my heartstrings when I get into my car. I sit for a minute, open windows letting in the cool air along with a cloud of mosquitoes.

  I try an experiment, breathing in fresh air, breathing out whatever isn’t mine, feeling along all of the jagged edges of guilt and hurt and anger for the places where my reality intersects with Mason’s, with Nancy’s, with Katya’s.

  Not mine. Mine. Not mine.

  It’s possible to trace the lines, but just seeing where they fall is not enough. Maybe these emotions don’t belong to me, but that doesn’t make me feel them any less. I’m tired, and the mess is too complicated. Tomorrow, maybe, it will be easier.

  In the morning, fortified by sleep and coffee, my reality buffered by a night of absurd dreaming, I lay out my thoughts in black and white on a notepad. Written down that way, it’s easier to put things in perspective.

  Katya is not my responsibility. Despite the way it feels, my brain acknowledges this as reality. Cole would say she’s responsible for herself. But I have this crazy idea that maybe the marriage vows give her husband some responsibility in all this. All of that for-better-or-worse, for-richer-or-poorer jargon has to mean something. Tom needs to step up to the plate.

  And I need a phone number.

  I could ask Cole, but he won’t give it to me. In fact, I’m pretty sure it would reinforce his belief in my severe codependency issue. Which I don’t really have, outside of Katya.

  Google is my friend. Searching for Tom is pointless; every male Manares in the world seems to be named Tom or Tomas. Katya Manares, now, that’s a different story. Bingo. Only no phone number or address pops up. She’s unlisted. Unless, of course, I want to pay for the premium report.

  May
be I do. I click the “Preliminary Report” button. Maybe I’ll pay, maybe I won’t.

  Whitepages tells me what I’m about to see. Any criminal history, including speeding tickets. Family members. Job history. Addresses. Phone numbers.

  I feel like a stalker. Much as I want to talk to Tom, I’m not sure I can live with myself if I engage in this level of snooping behind Katya’s back. Fingers drumming on the table, I stare at the computer, and then push back my chair and look around my room.

  There are more productive things I could be doing. Like figuring out how to get rid of my ruined couch, for one. Katya’s sadness still lingers here. Everywhere I look there is a memory of her pain. This Tom person contributed to that, pushing her to have babies, feeding her guilt when she couldn’t. He needs to answer for what he’s done, if not to her, then to me.

  Stalker or not, I am going to have a conversation with this man.

  The wiser part of me rebels when I’m inputting my credit card information and I get the numbers transposed. I see this as an opportunity to think better of my behavior. To stop now, turn around, let this go.

  But I input the number again, and this time it takes. The web page spins for a minute, then presents me with a full report on Katya Manares, born Katya Nikolaevskaya. I’ve trespassed far enough and restrain myself from looking at anything other than her address and home phone number. She lives in Richland, or at least she used to live there, and I hope Tom still does. There is a landline listed; I’d feared maybe she only had a cell phone. I figure if Tom has a job, he’s probably already gone to work, but I dial anyway, just to see if the number works.

  When a man answers, I very nearly hang up on him.

  “Hello? Can I help you?” His voice is a warm baritone.

  “You don’t sound like I expected.”

  “Pardon me? Are you sure you have the right number?”

  “Is this Tom Manares?”

  “This is a Tom Manares,” he says, cautiously. “Manares Electric.”

  “If you’re Katya’s husband, then you are definitely the right Tom Manares.”

  “Who is this?” His tone shifts to suspicion and no longer sounds friendly.