“Don’t talk like that, Mamma—we don’t know anything yet.” Then I hold her until she stops.
At eleven o’clock on the dot, Rosa, my favorite nurse on staff, comes to tell us that one of us can see him now. “You go first, Mamma.”
Without even looking back, she races down the hallway to the ICU.
When she’s gone, I rush outside to check my phone. I’ve always tacitly ignored places with cell phone bans, assuming those rules didn’t apply to me. Yet now, knowing there’s an off chance that the radio waves could somehow interfere with the machines helping my father breathe? I am all about following the rules, and woe be to anyone who doesn’t. There was a pharmaceutical rep in here yesterday who made a motion toward the BlackBerry clipped to his belt, and when he saw the daggers I was staring at him, he apologized before hurrying off.
I’ve been sending Deva dozens of 911 texts since she’s been away on the hope that she may have reception. I’m not sure what she might be able to do, exactly, but for crying out loud, she can bend the space-time continuum. Stands to reason there’s some way she might help fix a critically injured old man. But I don’t hear back from her, much as I feared.
I head back to the waiting area and thumb through a decorating magazine, looking at but never actually seeing any of the brightly colored couches or funky knickknacks on the pages.
When my mother finally comes out to tag me in, she’s even paler and more gaunt than when she went in. All she can say is “No change.”
So I take my turn with my dad. I walk into his room, which is a shock each time I see it. Dad’s bed is on the end of the row, curtained off from the others in the unit, which means he has a solid wall on one side where a hopeful painting of a rainbow hangs. If my mother were in her right mind, that thing would have been placed on a gurney and wheeled out of her line of sight in the first five minutes.
Daddy’s propped in his bed at a thirty-five-degree angle. He’s covered with wires monitoring his vital signs, and there’s a ventilator doing his breathing for him. All I want to do when I see him is cry, but on the chance that he can hear me, I opt to deliver a message he’ll want to hear.
“Daddy, hi, it’s Liss. I hope you’re not too uncomfortable. The doctors are taking great care of you and they tell us you’re doing so well!” That’s a bald-faced lie, but it’s best he not understand how grave his condition is. I place my hand on his unbroken shin, as it’s one of the only areas that’s not hooked up to something or another.
“Hey, I was in your library yesterday. I found your notes for your manuscript! I can’t believe you don’t have arthritis from writing everything out longhand. You really are old-school, aren’t you? So I have a little surprise for you once you recover. I’ve been putting everything into a Word document for you; that way you’ll have an easier time when you’re ready to edit. And, Daddy? Your story is really good.”
That? Not a lie at all. His book is a legal thriller in the same vein as Steve Martini or John Grisham, but there’s a certain underlying sweetness to his long-suffering protagonist that’s uniquely Daddy. I felt like I’d won the lottery when I ran across the big box of yellow lined legal paper, covered in Daddy’s tidy handwriting. I guess he must have been taking notes for years in down moments between meetings and trials. He wasn’t going to write his book when he retired so much as simply type up what he’d already penned.
“Anyway, I also found your recipe for that special Bolognese sauce that you love. I stopped by the market last night on my way home and I’m going to teach myself to cook by making it and freezing some for you.”
I continue with my cheerful monologue for half an hour. After I’ve talked myself out, I sit with him for a while and watch the rise and fall of his chest. I wish there were something else I could do for him. I wish he could understand how both Mamma and I have come around to being on Team Daddy and, when he pulls out of this, everything’s going to change for the better.
When it’s time to switch again, I see that Mamma’s not alone in the waiting area. I recognize the people who are with her, but not in this context. One of them has dark hair and the other is slight and blond. As I come closer, I almost feel like I can’t believe my eyes.
“Nicole?”
She springs up when she sees me and wraps herself around me. “Oh, Liss, we came as soon as we heard about George.” Normally I’d be none too pleased about Charlotte’s presence, but just spotting her here in this waiting room wearing a loose pair of cargo pants and a T-shirt that’s neither tight nor covered in obscene language is one of the greatest gifts that I could receive. Nicole’s life is truly back as it should be, and that brings me tremendous comfort.
Nicole smoothes my hair as she speaks. “I know everything’s weird right now, Liss, but you’re my oldest friend and I have to be here for you. Whatever else has happened, I can’t turn my back on you. How can I help?”
She’s shocked by my answer, yet she willingly complies.
* * *
I spent the afternoon in the cafeteria with Nicole and Charlotte. Charlotte, of course, never once looked up from her (non)blingy ringy-dingy, but Nicole’s eyes danced as I demanded she tell me everything about each one of her children. We looked at a million candids, and at this point, I can grudgingly admit the little ones are cute. As for Charlotte, apparently Nicole and Bobby have been paying for her to see a voice coach, because she really wants to try out for American Idol next year. I wish her the best, and when it’s time for her to find a music publicist, I’ll be right there . . . with a referral. Nicole and I are okay now. No matter what else happens, we’re okay, and that’s the only reason I’m not completely out of my mind at the moment.
When visiting hours ended, Mamma insisted I go home and get some rest. I insisted she do the same, but come on: This is my mother we’re talking about. She said she didn’t plan on going anywhere until his condition improved.
I wasn’t being truthful with Daddy when I said I’d make his sauce, but after I thought about it, I figured, why not? I’ve read the recipe enough times to memorize it, so on my way home, I stop at the Jewel to pick up mortadella and parsley, as we have everything else.
I’m making adequate progress with the preparation. I was able to chop everything without incident and things are moving along exactly as the recipe promises they will. The process is long and labor-intensive, so I understand why my dad never had the two spare hours it would have taken to properly cook it. He’d be so pleased at my effort, though. My onion really did turn golden brown and translucent, exactly as the recipe promised. My sauce actually reduced to the consistency it was supposed to once I added the beef stock and boiled it down. It’s such a minor victory, yet I feel like Daddy would be proud of me for having made the effort.
I’m just about to add the cognac—the part of the recipe that says “just a drop is enough to make all the difference”—when the phone rings.
“Hello?”
My mother is sobbing on the other end. “Lissy, baby girl . . . Daddy . . . Daddy didn’t make it.”
* * *
In the end, Daddy’s body couldn’t sustain his injuries and his heart gave out.
His wasn’t the only one.
Mamma is home now, under heavy sedation. She had a breakdown at the hospital and couldn’t make any of the decisions that needed to be made next. I didn’t think I could either, but I realized I owed it to my father to step up and be an adult for the first time in my life.
The great irony is that I wish he could have been here to see it.
I don’t know how to deal with my grief and my anger right now. Nicole told me to call her at any hour of the day, but I think I need time to process this myself. I just want to be alone with my thoughts of him as he was.
I’m too full of bitter hospital coffee and adrenaline to get any sort of rest, and I refused the offer of a sedative. One of us needs to be in her right mind around here. I’ve spent the morning walking through the rooms of the house and I’m furious
at how few traces there are of my father. There’s nothing of his personality or his taste in the living room or the sitting room or the four-season room. The dining room is more suited to an eighteenth-century French viscount than a sixty-something patent attorney who specialized in civil engineering cases.
I’m so angry right now, and I’m not sure where to direct it. I’m furious at my mother for never cutting him a break and placing such demands on him, especially in regard to me. How fair is it that he had to slave away in the office so that seventeen-year-old Lissy could drive around in a big, pink status symbol? How much extra work did he have to bear to pay my five-figure American Express bill? Don’t even start me on the six-figure circus that was my wedding. And what does he have to show for all his sacrifices now? With the way he planned his estate, Mamma and I are going to be set for a long time, but neither one of us wants anything except for him to be here with us.
The guilt I feel is almost unbearable, because I’m furious with him, too. Why did he allow us to call the shots? Why didn’t he ever say no?
But mostly I’m livid with myself. I had the unique opportunity to go back in time and do absolutely anything, and I was so selfish and self-absorbed that I altered my history just enough to buy a stupid purse and a big house. If I’d possessed the maturity to suck it up in the first place, to figure out how to live on my own, I’d never have time-traveled once, let alone twice. Then there would still be enough Incan tonic for me to go back and do the only thing that was important—saving my dad.
I want to hit someone. I want to throw something. I want to scream until I lose my voice. But I feel like engaging in such behavior would disrespect my father’s memory. I have to do something productive right now, no matter how small or insignificant. I need to feel like I’ve accomplished one tiny thing so I don’t go completely out of my mind.
I walk into the kitchen and I find all the mess from the Bolognese sauce right where I left it yesterday. My iPod is there, too. I planned on listening to music while I cooked, but some instinct told me I might want to listen for the phone. I so hate that I was right.
But I’m tired of hearing all the voices in my head, so I put in the earbuds. I press SHUFFLE and the song that comes on is Whitesnake’s “Give Me More Time.” Although technically a song about a breakup, the chorus hits home and the tears pour down my face and splash onto the countertop. I can’t stop thinking, If only, if only, if only.
In a daze, I dump the pot contents and all of the ingredients into the garbage disposal and I flip the switch. I feel an odd sense of satisfaction as a sink full of meat and vegetables disappears into the black hole of the disposal. Once the sink’s cleaned out, I load the dishwasher and I scour the Dutch oven. Hey, look at me, Daddy—doing dishes without being asked!
After I complete this task, I tackle all the tomato sauce and grease splatters on the range top before giving the counters a once-over with Fantastik. Then, with clean hands and much care, I retrieve the recipe to put back in Daddy’s file. I know he’s not coming back for it, but I just want to show him that I’m finally capable of respecting what was his.
Before I close the manila folder, my eye catches the line toward the bottom of the page.
It doesn’t take much more than a drop, but a drop is enough to make all the difference.
That phrase has been running through my head all morning and I don’t know why. It’s just a garden-variety word obsession, like that time Martin was watching some show on World War II and for the next three days I had the German term for submarine stuck in my head—unterwasserboot.
I decide to head upstairs for a shower, for lack of anything better to do. Once the word spreads about what’s happened, the house is going to be flooded with well-wishers and family and I probably should try to pull myself together by then.
Before I go to my room, I crack the door to check on my mother. She’s curled up on the bed with a pair of my father’s hideous golf pants—the ones she said made him look like Santa Claus on casual Friday.
Just when I think my heart can’t break any more, here I go again.
When I walk into my room, my toe connects with something that skitters underneath the bed. My mother’s always wearing—and subsequently losing—precious-gemstone earrings, and today doesn’t seem like the kind of day to discover she’s lost an emerald, so I squat down to grab it from under the bed.
But it’s not an earring I kicked. Rather, it’s the empty bottle of Incan fluid. I’m about to toss it in the trash when the phrase from the recipe runs through my mind again.
It doesn’t take much more than a drop, but a drop is enough to make all the difference.
I examine the vial but it’s clearly empty.
Emptyish, at least.
I mean, there’s a tiny, tiny bit of the viscous fluid clinging to the sides, but it probably wouldn’t even amount to fifteen minutes in the past, and what good would that do?
It doesn’t take much more than a drop, but a drop is enough to make all the difference.
But what if it did?
CHAPTER TWENTY
Through the Looking Glass
No.
A drop is enough to make all the difference.
This is crazy.
A drop is enough to make all the difference.
It can’t work.
A drop is enough to make all the difference. Okay, even if I were to somehow lick the drops off the side of the vial, I have no idea when or where I’d end up. I don’t know where the universe thinks I’m supposed to be right now. As bad off as I am right now, what if this takes me somewhere worse? What if this puts me in the backseat of their car during the accident? I don’t care about myself right now, but if something happens to me, it will likely kill my mom. I can’t take any unnecessary risks.
I leave the bottle on my desk while I shower. I’m actually a little relieved to have something to deter my focus, because otherwise I’d be crushed with overwhelming sadness.
A drop is enough to make all the difference.
I throw my damp hair into a ponytail and ignore my overflowing collection of lotions, potions, and unguents, because I could not give a shit about my appearance.
A drop is enough to make all the difference.
I pull on an old pair of sweatpants and one of my dad’s ancient UGA T-shirts and I sit down on my bed in full view of the vial.
A drop is enough to make all the difference.
I pick it up and turn it over and over again in my hands. Then I unscrew the top and pick at the stopper. This is crazy, because this thing is definitely empty.
Emptyish.
As I consider how to get tonic out of an empty bottle, I flash to last night, when I was making the sauce. When I dumped the tomato paste into the pan, there was a little bit left clinging to the sides. I remembered when I was a kid and my mom would be in Savannah on the rare trip without me, Daddy would make me spaghetti with jarred sauce. This was a huge treat, because we never got processed foods when Mamma was around. Anyway, once he poured the contents into the pan, he’d always swish a little red wine around in the jar to catch the stubborn bits.
Could it really be that easy?
(Easyish?)
And can I live with myself if I don’t at least try?
I very cautiously make my way to the bathroom, holding the vial as though it contained nitroglycerine and will blow the roof clean off with the slightest misstep. Once in the bath, I turn on the tap to a trickle. Very, very gingerly I place the vial under the stream of water and I fill the bottle three-quarters full. Then I replace the stopper, screw the lid back on, and shake it as though my life depends on it. Or a life, anyway.
After I’ve finished, I pry the stopper back out and there are microscopic oily blobs floating in the water. So this part worked, but I have no clue if the next part will.
I take a deep breath and turn to David Coverdale. “Wish me luck.”
I quaff it and . . . nothing happens.
I wait.
/>
And wait.
Nothing.
I thought this might work a little bit.
Maybe this stuff loses its power when diluted, or maybe you have to meet a minimum amount of the fluid, kind of like you have to spend ten dollars before you’re allowed to use a credit card.
I slump back against the wall.
Oh, Daddy, I’m so sorry. I wish I—
That’s when I feel the initial tingle, followed by a wave of endorphins, and I’m flooded with happiness. The joy starts in the back of my mouth and travels down to my stomach, a lot like the feeling when I have my first cup of coffee. The warming sensation is the same, too. Then I’m hit with another wave, only this time it makes me tired. I wait to see if I feel it again, and seconds later I do. The exhaustion is the tide pulling me away from consciousness. Sleep beckons to me and I stop fighting it and close my eyes.
Okay. Here I go again.
* * *
I’m afraid to open my eyes.
The place I’m in is silent and motionless, so at least I know I’m not speeding toward an embankment. And I’m lying somewhere comfortable, which I hope against hope to be my bed. But I’m too scared to see for myself.
I’ve never been a religious person—largely due to the Sunday-morning inconvenience factor and a flexible moral compass—but now seems like an excellent time to start praying.
Dear God,
Hi, it’s Lissy. I mean, Lissy Ryder? But You probably figured that out, because I can’t imagine You know many Lissys.
Okay, wait, that sounded superbraggy.
Let’s start again—dear God, please be with me. I’m not sure what to ask for, because I don’t know what needs to happen, so if You could maybe have my back while I figure it out, that would be great.
I’m really not good at this prayer thing, am I?
Sorry about that.
Here I Go Again: A Novel Page 24
