by Alison Kent
“Thanks, Ten.”
“Nice to meet you, man,” he said to Angelo.
“Likewise,” Angelo responded with a wave.
His gaze on Ten Keller’s truck as it backed out of the drive, Angelo asked, “So if the house is a memorial to Sierra, what about Oscar?”
Luna took a deep breath. “I don’t have access to anything of Oscar’s. I’m not sure how to personalize the center for him.”
Because he couldn’t help himself… “Next time his brother stops by, ask.”
“Yeah. That’s not going to happen. But I do need to figure out something.” She gathered up her hair, knotted it at her nape, and held it there for a long moment before letting go. “I think I should go see him. Maybe that would help.”
Because of their earlier conversation? He couldn’t believe he was going to ask her this, but… “Do you want me to go with you?”
She turned to him, a question in her eyes. “Would you do that?”
“For the center. For Sierra.” For you, he added silently, not sure why he couldn’t give voice to the words. Especially with the lies she continued to tell. All he knew was the closer he kept her, the more he earned her trust, the easier it would be for her to slip up the way she had when she’d admitted Sierra and Oscar had planned to go away.
“Thank you for offering, but I need to do it alone. Turns out I’ve got more things to say to him than I’d thought.”
“Even if he can’t hear you?”
“Sadly, that makes it easier to say them.”
“You know Oscar never set foot in this house,” Angelo said.
“I know.”
“It’s weird to think about that, how he and Sierra shared everything else, but she wouldn’t bring him here.”
“Did your parents never meet him?”
“At concerts, sure. Other school functions. Most related to the music program. But his parents were usually there, too, and making sure our young lovers didn’t get too close.” Because that had worked out so well. “Too late with that, weren’t they?”
She pressed her lips together, anger a flash in her eyes. “They hated that. Hated sneaking around. They wanted their families to share in their joy. Instead…” She left the thought unfinished, shaking her head as she made her way back to the house, and leaving Angelo to wonder about all the things she hadn’t said.
CHAPTER TWELVE
On the outside, the Hope Springs Rehab Institute looked less like a hospital and more like a complex of business suites. Pebbled walkways wound from the asphalt parking lot through the landscaped grounds. The one-story building, shaped like a capital E, had two long patient wings, a shorter center facilities annex, and a long main corridor housing offices for administrative and medical personnel.
As the automatic doors whooshed closed behind her, Luna removed her sunglasses and stood for a moment in the foyer, getting her bearings before locating reception. Her conversation with Angelo had left her unnerved and driven to make this visit. She’d gone home, checked on her mother, showered off the grit of day two spent at work in the house, and come here before she could change her mind.
The thought that she might have done so shamed her. Her failure to make this visit before now shamed her even more; what was wrong with her? Oscar had been her friend. He’d been the most important part of Sierra’s life outside of her cello, and Luna could very well be mistaken about that. Seeing them get out of his car at the hospital that day… Sierra in a gorgeous red dress that emphasized her baby bump, her eyes almost as red from crying. Oscar’s just as damp, but not all of his tears from sorrow. Luna had known that because of the way he’d smiled.
Shaking off the memory, she made her way to the window and signed in, then spoke to the young woman who opened the frosted partition: “I’d like to see Oscar Gatlin. Last I knew, he was unresponsive, but I’d still like to visit if I can.”
“I don’t believe he’s restricted, but let me check his file.”
Luna listened to the click of the keyboard as she took in the clusters of wingback and club chairs spaced along the long hallway and looking much like the seating areas in any Starbucks. What was missing was the aroma of coffee, the indie music, the hipsters with their dark-framed glasses, MacBooks, and smugness.
She shook off the thoughts; what was wrong with her? She loved Starbucks. And indie music. It had to be the truth of why she was here making her bitter. Oscar Gatlin would never again enjoy a pumpkin latte or compose music with any Mac software suite.
“Mr. Gatlin is in room two-forty-two,” the receptionist was saying, bringing Luna back to the reason she was here. The other woman stood, leaning forward to point. “Down the hall to my right, it’s the second door. Hit the access button, and I’ll buzz you in. His door will be the second on your left down the corridor.”
“Thank you,” Luna said, taking a deep breath as she turned, walking lightly to keep her footsteps from echoing, even though she was the only person in the hall. At the door, she took another deep breath because she had no idea what to expect once she pushed through.
But she did push through, this corridor broadcasting the facility’s purpose with its bright lights and disinfectant smell and staff outfitted in matching blue scrubs. Seconds later, she was at room 242, fearing that if she stopped to think about what she was doing she wouldn’t be brave enough to go through with it, and shamed terribly by the idea.
Soft orchestral music that she thought might be Brahms played into the room from overhead speakers, and it was accompanied by soft beeps and wheezes of the equipment monitoring Oscar’s vitals. Her heart slammed in her chest as if trying to nail her to the door at her back, to keep her from having to face the boy she’d known who was now a man she didn’t.
“Hi, Oscar,” she said, approaching slowly and swallowing the lump of emotion threatening to choke off the rest of her words. He lay in a double bed raised at a slight angle, the sheets on the mattress a warm sunny yellow, the comforter a geometric pattern in navy and moss green. “It’s me. Luna Meadows. We were in school together.” She paused, letting that sink in if it was going to before adding, “I was best friends with Sierra.” All of which he would know.
She stared down at his expressionless face, soft and peaceful, yet drawn and aged, remembering the boy from years ago who’d stolen more hearts than Sierra’s with his lazy charm and smile that he never worked for. He’d been a pianist as well as a cellist, studying with Sierra but destined for even greater things. Sierra had never once resented his family’s connections, or the fact that it was those connections, and not his artistic ability, that would take him places she would never be able to go.
His eyes were barely open, as if he were drifting off to sleep, or fighting against waking up. As if any moment he would open them and look at her, grin at her, welcome her into his room. Luna knew neither was the case. He was in a permanent vegetative state, breathing with the help of a ventilator, fed through a tube. How his family dealt with this, she couldn’t imagine. She didn’t want to imagine. Even now, tears brimmed in her eyes, blurring her vision, and her chest ached fiercely, but she took a deep breath and went on.
“I don’t think you can hear me. But I wanted to come talk to you anyway, just in case. I want you to know what I’m doing, and why, and how sorry I am that I haven’t come to see you in all this time. I should have come to see you before now. We really were good friends, weren’t we? And good friends don’t abandon each other the way I did you. Please forgive me.”
Even if he could hear her, and did, she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to forgive herself, and, dropping into the chair at his side, she hated that she’d been so selfish, and so afraid. She reached out to hold his hand between hers. His skin was cool, his grip sadly lifeless, but she could feel his pulse in his wrist where it rested against her thumb. Sierra had loved his hands. She’d talked often of how he touched her, how gentle he’d been, how considerate, how sexy. And that had Luna thinking of Angel’s hands, the scars he
bore from his woodworking, how rough his fingertips, how calloused his palms.
“Do you remember the first day you walked Sierra to lunch? Well, I was there, too, so I guess you walked both of us. The genesis of my life as a third wheel,” she said, and found herself smiling. “Sierra always said you were a Teen People god. A Gavin Rossdale or Nick Lachey god. She said your hair made her think of coffee, and she loved your smile. A surfer smile, she said, with dimples that went on forever.
“And she was right about the mossy color of your eyes. Once she told me that if boy bands had cellists, there would’ve been mobs of screaming girls waiting for you outside music hall every day. That’s where we were when Sierra laughed and you heard her that first time. You’d just come through the door, and the girls were all over you, and she just thought it so ridiculous that society girls would act that way. I guess she thought they would have more restraint, but she was the one who did, and I think you liked that about her. She liked so many things about you.”
She paused, bowed her head to rest it a moment on their hands, strangely wishing that she’d accepted Angelo’s offer to come with her. She didn’t need him to do anything, or say anything, but just knowing he was there for her to lean on—though why she was thinking his offer meant he’d let her…
“Do you remember the Jennifers who ruled the cafeteria? How every day they picked on poor Jill… What was her name? The tall girl. Thin. Always telling lies. But the Jennifers… They were such terrible bullies, the way they would pound her sandwich flat and steal her chips and cookies. Sierra couldn’t stand it. And that day I crushed a bag of Cheetos and dumped the crumbs all over their heads? She told me you loved hearing that story. Of course, I didn’t love having to mop the cafeteria the rest of the month, but it was worth it.”
She stopped, took a deep breath, unsure why she was talking about things that he already knew and really didn’t matter. That wasn’t why she was here, and yet seeing him had her remembering those days. “I came to tell you that I’m building a school. Well, I’m not building it. And it’s not a school as much as an arts center. Mostly for music. A conservatory, I guess, though if things go well, I’d like to see about our nonprofit applying for an academic charter. I know how important St. Thomas was for you and Sierra.” Being able to provide the same resources through a public school would be such a dream. “I’m proposing we call it the Caffey-Gatlin Academy. I haven’t said anything about it to your family yet. I will, but the time needs to be right. I did tell Angelo, Sierra’s brother. He’s here in town.”
Her throat grew tight as she looked at Oscar’s face, searching for a hint of the life he’d been so full of. A contagious life, a life everyone around him had fed off of and loved. It was gone. All of it. He was a living, breathing shell, and breaking her heart. Had she caused this? Could she have kept it from happening? Was there any way she could’ve talked her two friends into another solution? Had there been another solution?
If she’d come here as soon as she was able after the accident, would he have known it then? Would he have heard her voice over all the others? Would he have listened when she told him about Sierra, and then let go? She bowed her head and caught back a sob, squeezing his hand as she did. In what seemed like the distance, she heard the door opening, and looked up, expecting to see a nurse.
Standing on the other side of the bed was Merrilee Gatlin, looking thunderously angry. The older woman was dressed in a suit Luna was sure was Chanel, her long strands of pearls and handbag and low-heeled pumps perfectly accessorizing the outfit. Luna, her nerves fluttering, had the fleeting thought that all the woman needed was a Patchwork Moon scarf, but Coco would’ve said no, all she needed was a hat.
“What are you doing here?” Merrilee asked, wrapping the fingers of one hand around the gloves she held in her other. “You have no business being here.”
Luna let Oscar’s hand go and retrieved her brown leather hobo bag from the floor before standing. “I came to talk to Oscar.”
Merrilee swallowed, looking from Luna to her son and back. “Oscar doesn’t talk.”
“I know that—”
“Oscar most likely doesn’t hear either.”
“I know that—”
“It’s doubtful Oscar is even aware of his family visiting. He certainly wouldn’t recognize a stranger,” she said, and having regained her poise, she advanced.
Luna circled the foot of the bed before Merrilee blocked her in. “I know that. But I came anyway.”
“Without his family’s permission?” the older woman asked as they stood toe-to-toe.
Though Luna wore boots, Merrilee’s pumps saw to her three-inch height advantage. But Luna would not be intimidated. “I wasn’t aware my visiting required your permission.”
“Common courtesy would dictate you ask us.”
Merrilee wasn’t worried about common courtesy. She was worried about controlling everything—and everyone—Oscar was exposed to. It was her nature. And Luna didn’t meet whatever criteria Merrilee used. “I told him what I wanted to say. I don’t imagine having any need to come back,” she said, though it killed her to do so.
“See that you don’t. I’ve been careful to keep him calm, to avoid any unnecessary stress.”
And Luna had always been unnecessary to Oscar’s life. Still, Merrilee was Oscar’s mother, and no doubt still grieving; how could she not be? This wasn’t the time or the place for bickering. “I came to tell him about the arts center—”
The other woman tossed up her hands in an expansive, exasperated gesture. “Why in the world do you think he would care about that? Even if he could hear you, he would have no interest in your little nonprofit.”
Luna thought about keeping quiet, but… oh why not? “Our little nonprofit has decided to call the center the Caffey-Gatlin Academy—”
“Oh no. Oh no. You will not put my family’s name on that, that… whatever it is.”
“It’s an education center. It will offer the sort of instruction Sierra Caffey needed a scholarship to St. Thomas to have. Not everyone has a tutor like Mr. Miyazawa in their corner pulling strings to see they can get into the right school.”
“And not everyone should. It’s a private school for a reason. To keep the public where it belongs.”
Luna’s hackles rose. “You know Sierra had Oscar’s talent beat, and he knew it, too.”
“He knew no such thing. And she certainly did not. She certainly did not,” she repeated, as if the emphasis would negate Luna’s words.
What was she doing here, trying to convince the mother of a very sick young man that he’d been less of a musician than she believed? And she’d thought Oliver Gatlin’s antics cruel. She was no better. And she might very well be worse. At least Oliver only attacked those capable of standing up for themselves.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. Not today.”
“See that you never do again.”
Luna said nothing. It wasn’t a promise she was willing to make. But it would be a long time before she returned.
Seeing Merrilee Gatlin left Luna rattled. The other woman had a reputation for often being rude, always being imposing, never being anything less than right. Luna hadn’t found her impressive, or particularly elegant, and definitely not dignified. But then, Luna hadn’t grown up in the societal circles where the Gatlins reigned.
She knew Dolly Breeze’s elegance of spirit and loved that the older woman now worked for both Ten and Kaylie. She knew the impressive genius of Mo Dexter, whom everyone in Hope Springs turned to for technical help. Her definition of dignity was the way Mitch Pepper had dealt with what fate had handed him.
Then again, her mood could be tied directly into seeing Oscar, and the shame of not visiting him regularly. She should have; he’d been such a good friend. No, he wouldn’t have known she was there. He certainly hadn’t today. And yes, seeing him in his condition left her incredibly sad… for his family’s loss, for her loss, for the loss of Sierra—something Oscar wo
uld never know. And oh, but she hoped he didn’t know. That he wasn’t trapped in an unresponsive body, but somehow still aware of that horror.
Whatever it was, she could not face Angelo until she had a better handle on her emotions. So why she’d driven back to the Caffey house instead of going home, she couldn’t explain, except they did have a deal, and several hours still remained in day two, and she was going to see this hashing out thing through to the end. It had nothing to do with feeling vulnerable and wanting to see him.
She pulled her car past the house and parked between the woodshop and the barn. Then, before Angelo could realize she was here, she got out of her car to walk. She headed toward the far side of the two structures, wanting to do nothing but breathe in the fresh air, watch the treetops sway in the breeze, listen to the birds chirp and the squirrels chatter. She wanted to do nothing but be alive. To remember her friends alive and here with her. She didn’t ever want to forget.
That, she knew, was why she’d never gone before now to see Oscar. She wanted to think of him thriving, the same way she always pictured Sierra. She’d seen her best friend’s casket lowered into the ground, but she hadn’t attended the wake, and had only viewed the graveside service from a distance, so she’d never seen Sierra’s body. She didn’t know what Sierra had been dressed in for her burial. She didn’t know who had fixed her hair, or if they’d done it the way she liked, not the way her mother wished she would wear it.
Had anyone besides Luna known these things about Sierra? Had her face been left bare, or carefully made up with the cosmetics the two of them had pooled their allowances to buy? Would someone have taken the time to find out Sierra liked deep purple eye shadow with soft moss green highlights, the colors used sparingly to bring out her eyes? Would someone have cared to get her blush right? Her lip gloss?
The idea that Sierra had been put in the ground wearing the dress she’d made their sophomore year in home economics, the dress she’d hated with a passion, with its Peter Pan collar and cap sleeves and hideous paisley print fabric, the dress her mother was so proud of… Her chest aching, Luna caught back a sob, leaning against the barn near the door, then giving in and sliding down to a squat, burying her face in her hands to cry.
