“Oh, so it was her fault that you killed her?” Frank buried his head in his hands. “What did you do with her then, this twit?”
“Well, as far as the police are concerned, Brittany lost control of her car and is at the bottom of Grapevine Lake.”
“You don’t think they’re going to notice that there’s no blood? And what about the two little holes in her neck?”
“Listen Frank, they’re not going to find her for a while and by that time, she will have bloated into such an unrecognizable mess that it won’t matter. Don’t worry,” she said patting him on the knee. “It’s handled.” At least she thought it was, but the times and DNA tests had changed since the last time she’d killed someone who wasn’t already dying.
His eyes widened. “It’s handled, huh? You think your life is manageable right now?” His voice crept higher with each word.
“Oh, don’t get all twelve-steppy on me. I made a huge mistake. It won’t happen again. Okay?” Deep in the trenches of denial, she didn’t believe her own words, even as they left her mouth.
He shook his head and flipped off the light. “I love you, Ronnie, but I’ll never get used to this side of you.”
“Join the club.”
The Dallas Country Club was invite-only and Veronica was definitely not a member. She sprinted as quickly as she could through the artfully decorated hallways towards the bridal suite, but the full-body Spanx contraption was limiting her mobility. Rich, mostly white eyes stared at her at every turn. She was normally quite stunning, but her first attempt at warm glowing skin made her look as though she was suffering from that Michael Jackson disease, viti-something or other. The yellow dress only accentuated her dermatological disaster.
Julie waved her into the suite with a bemused expression.
“What happened?” she asked, shutting the door quickly behind her.
“Spray tan gone wrong.”
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” Julie patted her on the shoulder. “Are you okay? You feel a little clammy.”
“I’m fine. I just had the AC set to arctic on the drive over. I’ve been hot flashing all over the place. Fucking hormones.” Veronica planted herself on the olive-green couch to avoid stepping in front of the large mirror. “Do you need me to do anything?”
“I need you to tell me the truth. How does this look?” Julie grabbed a brown wig with fringed bangs, waved it in front of Veronica, and then placed it carefully on her head.
Veronica stared from different angles to give the impression that she was carefully considering it. “I don’t know. It looks kind of wrong for your face or something.” She wanted to swallow the words as soon as she’d said them.
Julie removed the wig and dabbed at her eyes. “You’re right.”
“Aw, hell. Don’t cry. It’ll ruin your makeup.” Veronica handed her a box of tissues. “Julie, everyone knows what you’ve been through in the last year. You don’t normally wear a hair piece, so why start today? Did Marie put you up to this?”
“No, I just want this day to be perfect. Ya know? It’s bad enough I’m going to be dead soon.” Julie’s lips quivered.
“Don’t say that! I’ve worked in hospice long enough to know that you, my dear, are not at death’s door.” Veronica squeezed Julie’s knee. She knew full well that her friend had two, maybe three months left, and that was if she were lucky.
“Okay. You’re right.” Julie stood up to study her reflection in the mirror. “Can I at least draw on some eyebrows?”
“Yes. Everyone looks better with eyebrows.”
Despite the beautiful room, the yellow dresses and the upbeat music promising everlasting love, the wedding was a forlorn affair with only forty people in attendance. Most of them were from the hospice facility. A fourth of them would be dead in less than six months. Six of them, the ones who chose to be cremated, would undoubtedly be Veronica’s breakfast, lunch or dinner. She eyed them longingly as she pushed the lasagna around her plate. The last time she’d attempted a tiny nibble of food to fool a date, she dry-heaved for hours.
Once the bride and groom sealed the deal with a kiss, Mike never left his bride’s side. Her house, her savings account and her life insurance policy would now all go to him. Veronica knew there was something a little off about his careful attentiveness and people pleasing behavior, but who was she to interfere with true love? She was just the nurse.
2
Veronica glided into room 212 without a sound. She kept the light off, lifted the blanket and inspected Ethel’s toes. They were blue.
“George? Is that you?” Ethel’s voice creaked like old wooden stairs.
“Nope. It’s just me. How are you feeling?” She gently tucked the blanket under Ethel’s feet.
“George won’t leave me alone. I’m so tired.” Ethel stretched her arms like a cat, sinking deeper into the bed.
“Is George your husband?” Veronica lowered the railing and sat down next to her.
“Lover. He’s right behind you.” She raised a curved arthritic finger.
Veronica turned to look behind her. “Well, hello there, George,” she said to the saline drip.
“I know you can’t see him,” Ethel coughed, choking on the phlegm.
“Would you like some water?” She reached for the pitcher.
“No.” Ethel struggled to sit up. Her eyes were cataract gray but there was clarity within the cloudiness. “He says you can help.”
Veronica stood. “Help?” Veronica nervously scanned Ethel’s chart. “With what?” She knew the dark, back alley this conversation was headed towards, yet it always made her a bit jumpy when her reputation preceded her.
“Will it hurt?” Ethel pulled the blanket towards her neck.
Veronica exhaled. “No. You won’t feel a thing.”
“Really? Can we do this before my daughter gets here tomorrow?”
“If that is your wish.”
“It is. Please help me.”
Veronica nodded silently and upped the morphine drip.
“She wants my house.” Ethel closed her eyes. “But she can’t have it. She’s meaner than a sack of rattlers, that one.”
“Do you have that in your will, Ethel?”
“Yes. I sure do. Thank…” And she was out.
“Good, girl.” Veronica stroked Ethel’s cheek. She didn’t anticipate an interruption, but she checked the hallway anyway. Empty. Marie and Kenneth were either chatting at the nurse’s station or in with other patients. Silently, she closed Ethel’s door and returned to her side. With just a slip of the IV, it was like eating a five-course liquid meal with the benefit of a straw. No muss, no fuss.
Veronica scrawled Ethel’s time of death as 4:12 a.m. on the chart. She had people to notify and copious amounts of paperwork to fill out, but she had plenty of time and enough blood to carry her through the week. It was a peaceful, ethical, well-timed death, which equated to a good night.
They weren’t always good. Left to their own circadian rhythms, most people died at 11 a.m. At Heartwood Hospice, most people flat lined between 4 and 5 a.m., the hour before shift change. To prevent the sun’s rays from turning her into Texas toast, Veronica left right at six. The morning crew hated her for not pulling the occasional double, but she had what they didn’t—seniority. In a pinch, she’d retreat to the trunk of her car, but now the morning shift knew not to expect her to sit around and chat. She wrote stellar notes, the patients liked her and so did their families. She was golden.
But after fifteen years, give or take a few, people began to question the fact that she never aged. Everything about her remained the same; the thick curly locks never grew an inch or grayed, the crow’s feet never deepened, nor did she gain or lose an ounce of weight despite the fact that she never ingested food. Only the places changed. And after falling off the wagon, it was approaching departure time.
“Ethel’s gone,” Veronica said as dryly as if she were reporting the weather. Marie and Kenneth’s eyes were fixed on an iPad.
/> “Where did you get your spray tan?” Marie asked.
“Tropi-Tan. It was horrible. If I were you, I’d just bake in the sun before your trip, Marie.”
“Holy shit!” exclaimed Kenneth. “That can’t be real.”
“She was eighty-three with stage four lung cancer, Kenneth. Did you expect her to live forever?” Veronica said and picked up the phone.
“Oh, my god, Veronica. You have to see this,” Marie said like the town gossip in a sewing circle.
Veronica placed the receiver in its cradle and turned to look at the video. In grainy black and white, she saw Brittany’s body being dragged down the hall of Tropi-Tan by a streaky blob. The newscasters hinted at demonic possession. The family pleaded with the viewing public about the whereabouts of their daughter, Brittany Anne Jameson, saying her name as clearly and as slowly as possible in an attempt to humanize her. At the end of the newscast, they hinted that the police discovered a second video taken by the pervy owner that took place in room four, but its contents wouldn’t be available until the morning newscast. Stay tuned!
“Wow. Well that was certainly something you don’t see every day,” said Veronica and returned her attention to the phone.
“I know, right?” Kenneth slapped the desk. It was hard to shock a hospice nurse, but this video appeared to do the trick.
“I need to inform Ethel’s family of her death, if you will excuse me,” said Veronica, dialing the demon daughter’s digits.
“Ethel’s gone?” asked Marie.
Veronica nodded. “4:12. Is this Rebecca Edwards?” Veronica shifted her weight from side to side. “This is Veronica Bouchard from Heartwood. I’m sorry to inform you that your mother, Ethel Bernstein, passed away this morning.” Veronica pressed her finger against her free ear and strained to understand Rebecca’s slurred words. “Yes, I was with her when it happened. Will you be coming in?” She knew the answer but asked anyway. “Okay, we’ll have her transferred to Davis. Once again, I’m very sorry. Good night.”
Veronica rolled her eyes and placed the phone down. “Too drunk to drive.”
“Hey, Veronica. Was it the tanning place by your house?” asked Marie.
“Yeah. Tropi something or other. It was horrible.”
“That’s the place!” interjected Kenneth.
“And that means what, exactly?” Veronica’s mind raced for an appropriate slogan to calm her down. How important is it? Easy does it. Think. She picked up the phone and dialed Davis Funeral Home.
“You should talk to the police. That owner probably jacked off watching you prance around in your birthday suit,” said Marie.
“You could totally sue that place,” added Kenneth.
“First of all, I don’t prance. Secondly, I assure you that nobody jacked off in response to my naked body. Oh, hello, this is Veronica at Heartwood. I have a patient that made pre-arrangements. She just passed. No, she wasn’t an organ donor. Ethel Bernstein. Yes. Okay, then. Thank you.”
Upon her return home, Frank followed Veronica into the dark room, closing the door behind him to seal out the light.
“Did you happen to catch the news tonight?” he asked.
“Yes.” She settled into the recliner as Frank towered above her in the darkness.
“Well?”
“Will you turn the light on?”
Frank pulled the string. Warm pink light filled the small space.
“I’m afraid this unfortunate turn of events will hasten my departure.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. Her head was throbbing.
“But, what if…”
“What?” she interrupted.
“I came with you.” Frank knelt next to her, taking her cold hands in his.
“And leave your group, your life? Don’t be ridiculous.”
Tears welled in his eyes. “You are my life.”
“Oh, Frank. Please don’t make this more difficult than it has to be. I love you. More deeply than any other person I’ve ever known, but…”
“Can’t you just, you know…” His pale blue eyes pleaded with her.
“No, absolutely not. You don’t want this, Frank. You’re an addict. And let me tell you, those first few years are the worst. I’ve been as ethical as possible, well, with the exception of this latest debacle, but it took years to get to that point. You’d be like a toddler at an ice cream buffet and I don’t have the patience to be anyone’s mother. Not now.”
She kissed him on the mouth. The salt from his tears lingered on her lips. “We’ll talk more about this later.”
He looked as if he’d aged ten years in the span of three minutes.
“That is, if you want to,” she added.
“Of course I do.”
Frank squeezed her hand and stepped out into the kitchen. From inside the room, she could hear the familiar voices of NPR and the clinking of dishes in the sink. She prayed she wouldn’t have to leave, at least not yet. If it were possible, and she knew it wasn’t, she wanted to live out the rest of her life and die with Frank, the only man to love and accept her exactly for who she was.
On Day Break, the newscaster warned of explicit content despite the early morning hour. It was horrifying to watch. Not because it was bloody or explicitly graphic, but because Veronica recognized the unmistakable shape of her fifty-one-year-old body. It was also in color. Long ago, she was told she would never reflect on film or in a mirrored surface because she had no soul. But the spray tan showed up, as did the paper panties. And for this tiny bit of reflection, she was grateful. She also thanked the God of her understanding for not revealing her face or the sagginess of her breasts. The world only bore witness to her perky behind and the piss poor paint job on her non-exfoliated flesh.
She ruminated on this tiny miracle all day until she stepped into the stand-alone building that held her twice weekly AA meeting. Cheaply framed slogans covered the walls, stains and cigarette burns littered the industrial carpet, while the constant hum of the dehumidifier kept the gray cinder block walls from crying. As always, the room was bustling with people, the smell of coffee and the sound of laughter, which always felt wrong. To her, addiction, in whatever form it manifested, wasn’t all that funny. Although Frank wasn’t actively drinking when they met, it was mutually decided that she would attend her own meetings. She initially showed up to appease him, but recently found she depended on them to get through the week.
Paula spotted her from across the room. “Ronnie!” she shouted and rushed to embrace Veronica with the enthusiasm of a parent greeting their child at the airport. Her sponsor, like herself, was an enthusiastic double winner, which made her doubly enthusiastic about working the program. Veronica hadn’t called her since the night of Brittany’s plunge.
“What’s the story, morning glory?” Paula ran a hand through her short spiky hair.
“Oh, you know, the same old, same old.” Veronica dropped her book bag on the jump seat by the door.
“How are you really doing?” Paula asked.
“Do you think maybe we could step out into the hall?” Veronica grabbed her purse form the back of the chair.
“Sure.”
The lighting in the hallway was dimmer and more conducive to admitting failure. Veronica leaned against the cool cinderblock.
“It hasn’t happened again. Okay? You don’t need to worry.”
“Why haven’t you called me?” Paula placed a firm hand on Veronica’s shoulder. She could smell bullshit from across a jampacked room.
“There was no need. I’m fine. I’m better than fine. Seriously, it all happened so quick,” Veronica lowered her head. “I didn’t even really want that drink, but I wanted to prove something, I guess.”
Exasperated, Paula exhaled. “You know, Veronica, you always wind up back where you left off. You’ll never be able to drink again. Ever.” Early in her own recovery, Paula had tried. One teeny-tiny sip of Merlot led to another DUI and a court ordered stint in rehab.
“I know, and I really messed thi
ngs up with Frank. I also hurt someone else in the process.”
“Bar fight?” Paula raised her eyebrows in disbelief.
“Something like that.”
“Have you made amends?” Paula’s phone beeped. She dug it out of her front pocket, briefly looked at it and shoved it back into her faded jeans.
“No.”
Paula remained silent with a stern expression.
“Not yet,” added Veronica.
“Get to work on that. Come on, the meeting’s about to start and someone needs to re-establish their sobriety.” Paula put her arm around Veronica’s shoulder and led her to a chair in the far corner of the room.
Amends were tricky. Later that night, in front of her computer screen, Veronica stared at Brittany’s public Facebook page. She contemplated posting “I’m sorry for your loss,” but those words coming from her—an anonymous middle-aged woman, who also happened to be responsible for her death—seemed trivial, bordering on serial-killer type taunting. Would one more ‘I’m sorry’ really lessen their grief?
Brittany had nine hundred and seventy-six friends. At least half of them had offered condolences or posted pictures of themselves with Brittany to prove their connection to her. They missed her laugh, her smile and her fun-loving nature. They said they’d see her on the flip side or that she was in a better place. They proclaimed her an angel. They lamented with sad emoticons that she would forever rest in peace and for that they were eternally sorry—so, so sorry. How could this happen to such a young, vibrant, not to mention smoking hot woman? Why, they wailed into the ether.
Well, why not?
Brittany’s mother posted her thoughts sporadically throughout the day, as if Facebook was a direct link to the mind and soul of her dead child. The Internet age was baffling to Veronica, but she did her best to keep up with the times.
Forever 51 Page 2
