by Tawna Fenske
“What? Why?” I shouldn’t be talking with Jon’s mother about what’s between his legs, but I have to know the story.
“The neighbor’s dog got neutered the week before,” she explains. “Jon was confused about what sort of surgery he’d had. The more we tried to explain it, the more agitated he got, until we finally let him go ahead and inspect things.”
“And then he was happy.”
“Yes.” She smiles, pleased I’m getting it. “It’s sometimes best to just go with what the patient wants.”
Jonathan is unfazed by our conversation. He’s still holding my hand, still operating under the assumption we’re a happily married couple.
“Best day of my life,” he says, squeezing my hand. “Our wedding day. So many flowers.”
I glance at his mother for guidance.
She takes it all in stride. “You always did love the flowers.” She glances at the monitor over his bed, and I remember Jon telling me she used to be a nurse. “Remember how you’d ride your bike through that big field of daisies?”
“Zinnias,” he says, slurring the word so it comes out sounding like a German curse word. “I grow them, you know.”
“You grow zinnias?” I glance at Wendy, who doesn’t bat an eyelash.
“What kind?” she asks.
“Oh, all kinds,” he slurs, still holding my hand. “Pink and purple and chartreuse and turkey and soap.”
I should probably say something. “That sounds…nice.”
Jonathan beams. “They are! I won a blue ribbon for them at the Deschutes County Fair last Febree-rary.”
“Congratulations.” Never mind that the fair happened in August, and I know for a fact he was here at the hospital for pre-surgical testing. “I’m sure they were beautiful.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Not as beautiful as my wife, though.”
The look he gives me is so sincere, so heartfelt, that my stomach plummets into my pelvis. Good God, I’ve never had anyone look at me like this.
I’m saved from responding when a nurse bustles into the room. “Look who’s up and around.” She hurries over to check a monitor. “Good morning, sleepyhead. How are you feeling?”
Jonathan grins. “Meretricious.”
The nurse frowns, but I’ve got this. “Meretricious,” I repeat. “Whorish, superficially appealing, or pretentious. I looked it up last month when I saw it in a word puzzle.”
His mother and the nurse respond with perplexed nods, but Jon just grins. “That’s my girl,” he says. “Smartest babe around.”
Everyone smiles, and I’m not sure if the nurse has a clue she’s dealing with a guy who is not playing with a full dick.
Deck.
Good lord, I’m glad I didn’t say that out loud. My command of English is better than most native speakers, but being around Jon seems to scramble my brain.
“Your vitals look good,” the nurse says, jotting something on a clipboard. “Are you experiencing any pain?”
He shakes his head, still gripping my hand in his. “Nope. No siree. I’m always happy when I’ve got my wife by my side.”
“That’s so sweet.” The nurse smiles as she makes another note on the clipboard. “How long have you two been married?”
“Oh,” I say, wondering if I need to set things straight for the medical record. “He’s actually not m—”
“Blanka’s been just wonderful for him,” says Jon’s mom, flashing me a conspiratorial smile. While she didn’t answer the nurse’s question, she did answer mine. “Seems like they’ve been together forever.”
“Right,” I agree, rubbing the pad of my thumb over Jon’s knuckles. “And we’re still madly in love.”
Was that too much?
Jon flashes a smile, and I decide to run with it. Just because marriage scares the hell out of me in real life doesn’t mean I can’t play along with the fantasy.
I keep going. “Being married to Jonathan has been a dream come true.” My heart’s pounding in my ears, and I wonder if I should stop while I’m ahead. “Being with a guy who treats me like I hung the moon and stars and all the constellations—what woman wouldn’t want that?”
Me. I’ve never wanted that. I’m fiercely independent, dammit. I own my own home, I have a fulfilling career, and not once have I wished I had a man around to snuff out my light so his can shine brighter.
Everyone’s looking at me—the nurse, Wendy, Jonathan. I clamp my mouth shut and order myself to stop talking.
The nurse turns back to Jonathan. “Any nausea?”
His head lolls as he shakes his head, but he’s still grinning. Probably the pain meds, but I like to think I’m helping. “Nope.” He turns and looks at me. “You know what’s great, though?”
“What’s great?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Your homemade bread.” He turns to the nurse with a reverence that’s almost holy. “She makes this cinnamon-raisin that’s just outstanding. The kids love it for cinnamon toast.”
The nurse smiles and adjusts the IV bag. “How old are your children?”
Children? Good lord, we’re still going. The nurse stops fiddling with the bag and regards me like I’m really a bread-baking wife and mother instead of an awkward hydrology researcher who makes out with strange men in hospitals.
Okay, just one man. And he’s not that strange.
“Um, the kids,” I try. “They’re—”
“Eloise is four and Sinbad is six,” Jonathan says proudly. “Want to see pictures?”
“Of course.” The nurse looks to me again, but Jonathan reaches under the covers, then frowns. “Hey. Where are my pants?”
His mother reaches over and readjusts the covers. “We’ll find them later,” she says. “For now, you should probably rest.”
He yawns, then looks at me a little morosely. “I never sleep well without Blanka in bed beside me.”
Funny that he remembers my name, but not the fact that we’ve never shared a bed. Or a life or children or—
“Did you remember to feed the cat?” Jon’s eyes are closed, so it takes me a second to realize he’s talking to me.
Now we have an imaginary cat? “Um—yes,” I assure him. “Yes, I did.”
“Good. That’s good.”
He falls silent, drifting off for good this time.
Or not. His eyes fly wide like he’s just remembered where he filed the cure for cancer. “Hey!”
“Hey, what?” I ask.
“I need to know about sex.” He looks from the nurse to his mom to me.
No one else answers, so I take the reins again. “Um—” I fumble through my brain for a clinical explanation, conscious how warm his hand feels glued to mine. “When two people care about each other very much…or maybe two strangers meet on Tinder, they—”
“I know how sex works.” He laughs, shaking his head. “I just need to know when we can have it.”
Heat floods my face, and I can’t bring myself to look at Wendy. The nurse, bless her, comes to my rescue.
“Dr. Warren will go over all these details with you when you discuss discharge information.” She makes another mark on her clipboard, smiling to herself.
But Jonathan is insistent. “Right, but I really need to know. Now, I mean.” He tries to pat my knee but ends up thumping the corner of the clipboard. “Our sex life—it’s like—out-of-this-world phenomenal.”
“Is it now?” The nurse is flat out grinning, not meeting my eyes.
Jon nods, undeterred. “Like cheesecake and sunset sailing and blowjob fantastic all folded into one, fat, juicy jellyroll.”
Wendy explodes with laughter, dabbing at her eyes. “That’s very poetic, son.”
The nurse can’t hold back her laughter, either. My face flames as she struggles to keep it together, giving Jon the sternest look she can muster. “The doctor will discuss this with you in detail,” she says. “Generally speaking, it’s a little quicker for kidney donors than it is for the recipients.”
“How long
?” Jon’s not letting this go, and I can’t decide if I’m flattered or mortified.
I also can’t help wanting the answer.
“A few weeks,” the nurse says at last. “But again, it’s up to the doctor to—”
“Weeks?” Jon’s voice is incredulous. “That’s too long. What about oral? Can I at least satisfy my wife in other ways?”
Oh my God.
“Why don’t we leave that to the doctor to go over with you?” The nurse throws me a sympathetic smile, then nods at Jonathan’s mother. “Your wife might not feel like talking about this in front of her mother-in-law.”
“Good point, good point.” This time when Jon’s eyes flutter shut, they don’t reopen right away.
The nurse makes a few more notes, then shuffles out of the room with a comment about the doctor coming by soon.
I’m too embarrassed to look at Wendy, so I’m startled when her hand closes over mine, “Thank you for playing along,” she whispers. “Working as a nurse, I learned it’s sometimes best to just go with it. To not upset the patient by correcting them or interjecting too much reality.”
“Of course.”
Jonathan murmurs something softly in his sleep, and I realize he’s out again. I should be relieved. I should get up and find coffee or maybe check on Izzy.
But I’m glued to my seat, frozen inside the make-believe world spinning in the space between us. The marriage. The children. I picture waves of zinnias ruffling in the breeze and taste cinnamon and raisins on the back of my tongue.
I’d never admit this out loud, not to Jon or Wendy or even myself. But right now, with Jon’s fingers laced through mine and the rhythmic whoosh of his breath tickling the hairs on my forearms, I am already missing a life I’ve never had.
A life I never in a million years thought I’d want.
Chapter 5
Jonathan
Five days after surgery, I’m cleared to go home. They could have done it sooner, but the icy mountain pass separating the transplant center from Central Oregon had the docs erring on the side of caution. Besides, Izzy’s still here.
I swing by her room on my way out. She’s sitting up in bed wearing a pink T-shirt with her dark hair damp and loose around her shoulders. Bree’s in a chair beside her with one hand on her baby belly and the other clutching a fistful of playing cards.
“Uno!”
I hesitate in the doorway, not wanting to interrupt any sisterly bonding. Bree spent her whole life as the only Bracelyn daughter, and it’s cool how easily she scooched aside to make room for one more.
Izzy shifts in her hospital bed and lays down a card of her own. “I’m so sorry, but please draw four.”
Bree just laughs, then seems to sense me behind her. Turning around, she waves me inside with one hand cupped around her belly. “You just missed it. He’s been kicking like crazy all morning.” She slides her hand to the side, brow furrowing in concentration. “There!”
I hustle over, not wanting to miss my nephew’s tap dance performance. Bree grabs my hand and sticks it on a spot just below her ribs. “There it is again. Feel that?”
Whoa. “That’s amazing.” I drop into the adjacent chair as her belly ripples under my palm.
Izzy smiles and shuffles her cards into a neat pile on her lap. “I still can’t believe it. You’re incubating an entire person in there.”
Bree sucks in a breath as the little dude kicks again. “I can’t believe your mom did this seven times,” she says to me as she lets go of my hand. “Did your sisters kick like crazy?”
Izzy’s face scrunches in confusion and it dawns on me she’s not fully up to speed on our twisted family tree. We went from “hi, nice to meet you” to “let’s slice you open and yank out an organ,” missing a few steps in between.
“My mom remarried after she and Dad split up,” I explain for Iz’s benefit. “She and my stepdad have six daughters together. And yeah, they kicked like hell. Sometimes I could see elbows or knees moving around in there.”
Izzy’s eyes widen. “You have eight sisters?”
I pretend to count my fingers quickly, then nod to Izzy. “Don’t tell anyone, but you’re my favorite.”
Before Bree can slug me or wiggle away, I grab her in a tight, one-armed hug. “Don’t tell anyone,” I murmur loud enough for Iz to hear. “But you’re my favorite.”
Bree swats me anyway as I settle back into my chair. She’s careful to aim for the shoulder instead of anywhere near my incisions. “In that case, where’s my body part?” she asks. “To keep it all even and stuff.”
I consider my options. “Would you prefer tonsils or an appendix? I think I can live without either of those.”
“Bladder, please.” She winces and puts a hand on her belly again. “He’s determined to kick mine into oblivion.”
“I’ll have it giftwrapped and ready for the next major holiday. Fall equinox?”
Bree pretends to consider that. “Beyoncé’s birthday is September 4. I’ll take it then.”
“Deal.”
I glance at Izzy, who’s smiling at our exchange. She’s got better color than she did a few days ago, and she told me yesterday the transplant team said she’s showing no sign of rejecting the new kidney. “You’re feeling okay?”
“I feel amazing.” She sets her playing cards on the bedside table and reaches for a glass of water. “Did you know there are studies showing people take on traits of their organ donors?”
“God help us.” Bree jerks a thumb at me. “One of him is plenty.”
I grab Bree’s thumb and pretend to take a bite out of it as I address Izzy. “We promise to let you know if you start growing facial hair.”
“Or developing Jon’s terrible taste in music,” Bree adds, yanking her hand away from me.
Izzy smiles, but there’s solemnity in her eyes. “If I get even a tiny sliver of your kindness and generosity, I’ll be thrilled.”
“I’m just glad you’re feeling better.” I glance at my watch. “I should get out of here. I’m trying to make it back before lunch.”
Izzy frowns. “You’re not driving all the way back to the resort, are you?”
“Definitely not,” Bree says. “I ordered a car for him. He’s not supposed to drive on pain meds—”
“Which I’m done taking,” I point out. “Only Tylenol now.”
“And he can’t fly,” Bree continues, ever the overprotective sister. “Because of blood clots. It says right on the printout with all the discharge instructions.”
“I’m going to regret giving you a copy of that,” I mutter.
“Everybody’s got one,” she says, lifting her chin a little. “Even Blanka. So don’t try getting away with anything.”
A ripple of heat moves up my arms at the mention of Blanka’s name. She had to go back to Bend for work, and I’m surprised how much I’ve missed seeing her every day.
“I’ll be careful,” I assure both sisters. “I’m cutting my ab workouts back to six hours a day, and I’m only shooting heroin on weekdays now.”
That earns me another swat from Bree, which I manage to dodge because I’m already out of my chair. I dispense another round of hugs before beelining it down to the parking lot where the town car is waiting.
I know I pretend to be annoyed by Bree’s overprotective caution, but honestly, I’m grateful. It’s nice to settle into the back of this plush car and breathe deeply in silence. I’d almost forgotten what solitude felt like. For weeks, I’ve been surrounded by doctors and nurses and family.
So much family.
Which I love, absolutely and completely. But sometimes a guy needs alone time.
Which lasts approximately seven minutes before I feel guilty for ignoring the driver like some rich asshole who’s too stuck up to make conversation with the help.
So, I chat with Gary. Turns out he raises pygmy goats on a small farm near Madras, and he’s got four grandkids under the age of ten. He hands me his wallet so I can admire pictures.
> “That’s Adelaide right there,” he says, eyes on the road as he taps the first photo in a sleeve. “And the little towhead with the dump truck is Jason.”
“They’re adorable,” I say as I flip to the next picture. “How old is the baby?”
“Six months in October. You got kids?”
“No.” I struggle to think of what else to add. “My lifestyle doesn’t really lend itself to that.”
“Huh.” Gary draws his wallet back and grins in the rearview mirror. “Maybe you need a new lifestyle.”
I laugh and glance out the window. “Not really an option.”
He doesn’t ask why, and I don’t elaborate. The conversation shifts to farm life and goat rearing. We’re an hour out of Portland when my phone rings. Apologizing to Gary, I slip it out of my pocket to see my mother’s number.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Sweetheart! Are you all checked out at the hospital?”
I shift in my seat, conscious of the tight pinch in my abdomen. The pain has been minimal so far, but my body delivers periodic reminders I’ve been sliced open and had my guts stirred around. “I’m in the car headed home now.”
Home.
Funny how the word slips out. It’s been years since I stayed in one place long enough to call anyplace home.
My mom doesn’t answer right away, and I wonder if she noticed. “You’re not driving, right?”
“Nope,” I assure her. “Just sitting here like a big, lazy loser.”
My mother snorts. “‘Lazy’ and ‘loser’ are literally the last two adjectives in the English language to ever describe my son.”
The pride in her voice is better than any combination of opiates I’ve been dosed with this week. I know at some point I should stop caring this much about making my parents proud.
But one glance in the car’s side mirror reminds me I’m still a walking, talking, spitting image of Cort Bracelyn. My desperate quest for respect won’t end anytime soon.
I need a subject change. “Did Jessie hear back from the Peace Corps?”
“Yes! It’s great news.” The oldest of Mom and Chuck’s girls is my sister with the thirst for humanitarian work, and my mom is practically vibrating with pride. “I was going to tell you, they asked for letters of reference. When you’re feeling up to it, maybe you could put something together for her.”
