by Sarah Ready
Gerry nods. “Sure enough. Five years after David left, I saw an article in the newspaper. An American boat named The True Love had been shipwrecked off the coast of Russia. There were no survivors. The next week, I boarded a steam liner. My peach tree was growing and I was convinced David was still alive. And that’s all for today.”
“Wow,” says Matilda.
I take a quick peek at Gerry’s hand. Her left ring finger has a thin gold band. Does that mean she found David? Or did she marry someone else? It doesn’t matter, I chide myself.
“What about you, girl? What’s your name? What’s your story?” asks Gerry.
After a moment of silence I look up. The question was directed at me.
“Dany,” I say.
“That’s a boy’s name,” says Cleopatra.
“I think it’s lovely, dear,” says Sylvie.
“Thank you,” I say. “I don’t have a story. I met my fiancé when I was a freshman in college. He checked all the boxes and I checked his. He proposed. Our wedding is in a few months…” I stop. “He, uh…we’re postponing…just a bit.”
“The wanker gave you the cancer kiss-off didn’t he?” says Cleopatra.
“What’s the cancer kiss-off?” This from Matilda.
I don’t know what it is, but I have an idea.
“No, he didn’t. He merely needs some time. He’s overwhelmed.”
“What a wanker,” says Cleopatra.
Sylvia clicks her tongue, “I believe the kids call them jerk-offs.”
“Wanker has a better ring,” says Gerry. “Wanker,” she annunciates.
“Wanker?” asks Matilda.
My cheeks burn.
“He is not,” I say loudly. I’m shocked at the forcefulness of my voice. My hands shake as I smooth them over my pants and settle back in the chair.
“He’s not,” I repeat. My lips press tight against unexpressed emotion. Shawn is the key to getting my life back on track—beating all this and being okay again. Loved.
Sylvie looks at me with sympathy. Cleo stares at me with a disbelieving expression.
How dare they judge my life?
I swipe at a stray tear.
“Pardon me, but I’m not like any of you. I don’t want to be your friend. I don’t want to tell stories. I don’t want to bond over chemo chats. I’ll be out of here soon and I’ll go back to my life. My fiancé will get back together with me and everything will go back to normal. I’ll get out of here. I’ll forget all of you. And everything will be back to the way it was before any of this happened. You’re all just part of a bad dream that I want to go away. So leave me alone. I don’t want to be one of the girls.” I pick up the magazine and hold it in front of my face. My hands are shaking and I feel dizzy and ill.
“Rude,” says Cleopatra.
“Fiddlesticks, dropped another stitch,” mutters Sylvie.
My face is burning behind the magazine. I want to get up and walk out, but I’m attached to the IV and this infernal chair.
The silence is thick and awkward.
After a few minutes, Sylvie clears her throat. “A piece of advice, dear. Cancer is a wake-up call. Whatever you’re doing in your life at the time of diagnosis, you should start doing the opposite. Because whatever you had going before…it wasn’t working.”
I don’t lower the magazine. A single tear falls down my cheek.
Nothing was wrong with the life I had with Shawn. Nothing. I clench my jaw at the little voice inside me that whispers otherwise. What about the coldness between you? it whispers. What about how you never show your true self? it says.
I close my heart to the voice. My life was perfect before. Perfect.
And I don’t need their friendship or their sympathy.
“When I get out of here, my husband Steve and I are going to take a second honeymoon,” says Matilda in a soft dreamy lilt. “We always talked about taking one. But life got so busy we never got around to it. He used to come into the kitchen while I was doing dishes. He’d pretend that my rubber gloves were silk and that I was a princess at a ball. We’d waltz in the kitchen. We haven’t danced in years. I’m going to dance on my second honeymoon. I love to dance.” Matilda’s voice is soft and I can tell she’s smiling.
I’ve never danced with Shawn. Not once. I frown. Maybe I’ve been too passive. I can take a more active role. Tomorrow, I’ll go and confront Shawn. I’ll set him straight. The wedding is still on. The cancer will be over and done with in no time. Everything will be wonderful.
Everything.
11
Jack
* * *
I grip my sister’s purse, and stand outside the changing room in some poofy dress shop. Sissy has a date to the prom. I grind my teeth. My little sister is going to the prom so some football-playing meathead can—
Sissy swings open the door and steps out. She’s in a miniskirt dress thing. Too mini. Really, too mini. I have images of beefy football player hands sneaking up.
“No,” I say.
She stops mid step. “But—”
“No.”
She scowls at me. “This is the fifth dress I’ve tried on—”
“And they’ve all been terrible.”
She rolls her eyes. “This is ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous is Bert,”
“It’s Bret.”
“Bret,” I say, “getting all handsy on my sister.”
“He did not.”
“I saw you on the porch.”
“Are you kidding? Mind your own business. I’m fifteen. I’m allowed to have a boyfriend.”
She scowls at me. I raise my eyebrows. “Next dress. Floor length. High neck is preferable.”
“Seriously. Why are you such a caveman?”
“I became one when Dad dropped you at my door.” I lower my brow and put on a caveman voice. “You, sister. Me, big brother. Must protect.”
She rolls her eyes, then laughs. “There’s only one more dress. But if you don’t like it I’m getting the black one. No matter what you say.”
I flinch as she closes herself back in the changing room. The black one had a V-neck that reached her belly button.
“Why am I here?” I say as I scrub my hand over my face. That’s a rhetorical question. I’m here because Sissy came to me this morning, nervous and unsure of herself. The girls at school told her that anyone who is anyone buys their prom dresses from Madame Bovary’s, Madame Butterflies, Madame whatever this place is called. I’d not seen Sissy unsure of herself since the day she was dropped at my place.
She wasn’t even unsure when the surgeon took off her bandages and there was still swelling and bruising on her face. No. She handled it like a champ.
She’s only unsure when it comes to meatheads and prom.
I drag my hand across my face again and let out a long sigh. I want to do better for Sissy than play the overprotective brother. Unfortunately, she needs more than I can give.
Maybe she’s right, maybe I am scared.
I need some fresh air. I turn toward the front door of the little shop. But instead of a clear path, I’m bulldozed over by a tower of dresses.
“Ack.” A small squeak sounds from beneath the dress mountain.
I steady the woman under the pile.
“You alright?” I ask. My hands linger on the soft skin of her arms.
“Pardon me, would you please remove your hands from my person.”
“Huh?” I ask. My hands linger on the warmth of her smooth skin. Sissy would be proud. My descent to official caveman is complete.
I recognize the rounded vowels and the upper crust accent of that voice. I even recognize the current flowing between us.
She stiffens, then peeks her head over the dresses.
“You,” she says.
I clear my throat. “Me.”
She takes a step back. I frown down at my hands, still hanging in the air where she was standing.
“Did you find yourself a place to live yet?” I ask. Be
cause, clearly, I’m looking for trouble.
“Thank you. I have a place to live,” she says. Her eyes narrow on me. “I live with my fiancé, if you recall.”
Then her face flames red. I don’t know about her, but I’m remembering the excellence of her so-called fiancé.
“I was hoping you’d remedied that situation,” I say. Meaning she’d forgotten about the pencil neck that didn’t deserve her.
She gives a regal nod. “I apologize for inconveniencing you the other day. I was exploring options. Which is no longer necessary, as I live with my fiancé.”
I nod in agreement. Something’s odd here.
“Let me help you,” I say. I take the pile of clothes from her. “Celebrating something?”
She has a load of sequin and lace items to try on. She ignores my question. I hang the dresses in the second changing room. “Thank you,” she says. Then she closes the door.
Sissy opens hers and I turn to her.
“Well?” she asks.
I let out a long relieved sigh. The dress is shiny and navy blue. The neckline is at her collarbone, the hem is halfway to her knees. Her hands flutter over the dress then nervously smooth the material. She bites at her lip and looks at me questioningly.
I don’t see my funny, con-artist-in-training little sister, I see the woman she’s going to become. I’m speechless.
“You don’t like it?” Her shoulders slump. She starts to turn around.
“It’s perfect,” I say.
She turns back. “Really?”
I nod. There’s a smile spreading across her face and suddenly I feel on top of the world.
“Bart has no idea how lucky he is.”
“Bret. His name is Bret.” She rolls her eyes.
“Yeah, exactly. Let’s get ice cream.”
She laughs and goes back in the changing room to throw on her jeans.
I lean back against the wall. While I stand there, I try not to stare at the closed door of the changing room Miss Drake is in. Daniella.
Like she heard me, her head pops out of the door. She looks around. Her eyes wide. Then she spies me.
“Pardon me,” she says.
I look behind me.
She sighs. “Mr. Jones.”
I point to myself.
She widens her eyes. “Yes.”
“What?” I say, and then, “Why are we whispering?”
She crooks her finger and motions me to come in the changing room. “I need your help.”
To say I’m stunned is an understatement. I look around the shop. There’s no one nearby. Okay, we’ve all heard about changing room hookups. I’m not opposed to having one if offered, but my sister is in the room next door for crying out loud.
I take a few steps to the changing room and let myself in.
The space is three foot by three foot. I bump into Daniella and she quickly steps back. Her calves hit the padded bench.
“Sorry,” I say.
Her shoulders shake and she sniffs. I look down at her tilted neck and the bare line of her shoulders. Her skin glows in the soft light.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
Her shoulders shake again. I take a small step back and try to see her downward-tilted face. She’s not laughing. As she looks up, I realize she’s crying. A large tear falls down her cheek. Then another. I’m confronted by my complete inadequacy. I don’t know how to help her. I don’t even know what’s wrong.
I deflect to humor. Because, when in doubt, make a joke.
“My sister’s in the next stall over. If you want to do the dirty we need to hurry.”
She stops mid sob and her eyes flash. Thank god.
“You’re so vile.”
I feel better. I’d take her anger over tears I can’t help any day.
“Hey, you invited me to the party.”
“Sorry,” she says. “Sorry.” She forcefully wipes the tears from her cheeks. “I, um…I can’t zip the dress.”
She turns around. The zipper hangs open and the curve of her back is exposed. At the base of her spine are two small dimples. I stare at them. I have the urge to place my mouth over them and suck.
“Can you please zip it up?” she asks in a tight voice.
“Alright.” My voice is gruff.
She stands stiff and still as I slowly pull up the zipper. It makes a low growling noise as I drag it along her back. I watch as goose bumps form. Her skin glows pink and smooth. I let out a breath and the hair at the nape of her neck ruffles in the current.
We’re so close I can feel the warmth radiating off her. The magnetic pull of her. She sways back toward me. I lean my head down. She smells like flowers. Like the freshness of first spring blossoms peeking up through the snow. I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath.
My fingers find the base of her neck. The zipper reaches its end.
Suddenly, I’m imagining this moment in reverse. I’m pulling down the zipper and Daniella’s not stiff, she’s pliant. She’s not whispering, she’s screaming.
The backs of my knuckles brush against the feathery softness of her curls.
“Thank you,” she says. She steps to the side and turns around. Her cheeks are red and her eyes are bright. Not with tears.
“My pleasure.”
She smooths the fabric down and looks in the mirror. It’s a lacy black dress with a low neck and a short skirt.
“Do you like it?” she asks.
“I like the zipper,” I say.
She looks at my reflection in the mirror. Her eyes narrow. “I’m not interested, Mr. Jones.”
I shrug. “You win some, you lose some.” My heart is doing flips, but in the mirror my face looks impassive.
Apparently, the universe is bent on torturing me by dangling in front of me the one thing I can’t have. Miss Daniella Drake. I can have friendship, flings, meaningless relationships, and maybe, please maybe absolution, but not love. But goodness, do I want her. Like fire wants wood. But the thought of fire extinguishes my enthusiasm.
She studies me with a slightly annoyed expression.
Probably because I irritate and insult her every time we’re thrown together.
“Thank you. I appreciate your help. Since the surgery, it’s hard to lift my arms above my shoulders. Zippers are the worst. I do physical therapy but…I’m rambling.” She closes her eyes. “I ramble.”
“It’s alright,” I say. I’m speechless at the vulnerability I see on her face.
“Thank you,” she says again.
“You’re welcome.” I want to say more, but I don’t know how.
I quietly leave the intimate confines of the changing room.
Sissy stands outside the room, arms folded over her chest, a smirk on her face.
“Who’s handsy now?” she asks.
I shake my head and drag her and her dress to the checkout.
While we’re there she sees Bert and his friends on the sidewalk.
“It’s Bret,” she says.
“Go on,” I say. She rushes out.
I’m signing the receipt when I smell flowers and snow. I turn. It’s Miss Drake. Still in the knock-out little black dress.
“I’m going to wear the dress out,” she says. She blushes. I come to a quick realization that the reason she’s still wearing it is that she had no one to unzip her. And maybe no one to zip her back in once she’s home. Unless, of course, she’s expecting her fiancé to do the unzipping. A shot of irritation hits me. I bat away the why of that feeling.
“Please, put it on my tab,” Daniella says to the woman at the checkout counter.
“Of course, Miss Drake,” says the woman.
Daniella starts to walk out the door. I grab Sissy’s dress and rush after her.
“Hey. Hang on,” I say. I suddenly realized that this might be the last time I see Miss Drake. I don’t like that thought.
Maybe I still have a chance to win her over. Not under false pretenses. I’ve decided I’ll be upfront about the project.
; Right. The project.
That’s why I’m rushing after her. That’s all. With that in mind… “Let me buy you some ice cream. I was about to take my sister, but…”
She raises an eyebrow. “No, thank you. I’m meeting my fiancé for dinner. He’s expecting me.”
I push down a flash of jealousy. Not over the fiancé, but over the fact that she’s not having dinner with me.
I hold open the door for her. As we exit, we bump into a couple on their way into the shop.
“Shawn?”
Daniella is looking between the man and the woman. A sinking sensation fills me. Yup, slick suit, shiny shoes, too-narrow nose. It’s the fiancé. I watch as he drops his hand from the woman’s back.
“Daniella, hi. What are you doing here?”
Daniella’s face drains of color. She doesn’t respond. I don’t think she can.
Shawn continues, “I was out with Tammy. She’s been a comfort since the news…” He trails off. I’m sensing that Daniella was the news.
Daniella takes a deep breath. “Hello, Tammy. Nice seeing you again.” Her voice is strained politeness. She holds out her hand. Tammy gives a quick limp shake.
Shawn looks at his watch. “Look, Daniella, Tammy and I were heading out to dinner.”
Dang it.
How is Daniella still maintaining her composure? She has epic restraint.
Then something clicks. Prim Miss Drake was misleading me. She didn’t have plans with her ex-fiancé, and most likely she also still doesn’t have a place to live.
Her shoulders are drooping, and I have a sinking suspicion she might be about to cry. Not okay.
I step forward and put my hand to the small of her back.
“Ready to go?” I ask her.
She looks up, startled.
Shawn and Tammy study me in confusion. Apparently they hadn’t noticed me.
I give them my cat’s got the cream smile.
“Daniella and I have big plans. Dinner at the new Michelin starred place. A romantic evening with a bottle of wine in front of the fire. My baby got all dressed up and I’ve got to take her out.” I take a strand of her hair and proprietarily rub it between my fingers.
Her back stiffens beneath my hand, but I’m hoping she keeps her face placid.
“Who are you?” asks Shawn. His nose looks thinner when he’s angry. Good.
