by Liza Palmer
“Kale,” I repeat. Huston smiles, finally calming down.
“You have to really know what you’re doing in the kitchen to buy kale,” Leo says dreamily.
“A kitchen… isn’t that where the doggie bags from business dinners go?” Huston asks, yielding.
“I haven’t made something without a hot dog in it for years,” Abigail sighs. I laugh. Abigail sneaks a quick glance at me, smiling.
“John’s waving me in,” Huston says, walking toward the hospital room. Abigail follows at his heels.
“You’re such a weird kid,” I whisper to Leo, as we trail.
“It was either that or growing my fingernails to like twenty feet or something,” Leo says, opening the door to Dad’s hospital room for me. “I would think you’d prefer the grocery lists.” I shoot him a quick look and focus in on the scene already in progress.
“—Our privacy,” Dennis finishes. I only catch the tail end of his request, but I can certainly guess how it began.
“Mr. Hawkes—” The head nurse looks to Dennis.
“Noonan. Mr. Noonan,” Dennis corrects her.
“Mr. Noonan, once again, I’m afraid Mr. Hawkes has a right to know what’s going on with his father’s health. He has his power of attorney. I know this is going to be a difficult transition, but I’m sure—” Connie clutches at Dad’s hand, never turning around. No longer even noting our presence.
“Ms—” Dennis begins.
“Nurse Miller,” she answers.
“Nurse Miller, this man has no right to any information, I assure you. He was no son to Ray. He left you… he left all of them… when?” Dennis stutters.
“Twenty-two years ago,” Huston finishes. His voice is steady and low. My heart breaks into a million pieces. Again.
“Twenty-two years ago! He wasn’t a father to them at all!” Dennis announces.
“Whatever our relationship, it’s simply not pertinent to the power of attorney, Mr. Noonan,” Huston explains.
“Not pertinent! Get a load of this guy,” Dennis guffaws.
“Then why did he put his name on the document, Mr. Noonan?” Abigail asks, her voice calm, but climbing.
“I don’t know… you could have, you could have made him,” Dennis answers.
“He could have just as easily put your name on there,” I say. Huston looks from me to Dennis. Abigail does not shoot me a look. We all wait for an answer.
“This isn’t helping,” John whispers, looking mostly at me.
“You don’t even know the man,” Dennis argues, using the same reasoning I did just this morning.
“My name is on that document, Mr. Noonan. I intend to see that Dad’s estate is handled the way he wants. The way the power of attorney legally allows,” Huston says, his voice clear and calm.
“You’re going to take our house away,” Connie sobs.
“I don’t intend to do any such thing,” Huston answers.
“All of our belongings are going to be put out on the street,” Connie sobs again.
“I don’t intend to do any such thing,” Huston says again.
“Then why do you even want the power of attorney?” Dennis questions again.
“Because my father wanted me to have it,” Huston answers.
“Why do you want Dad’s power of attorney?” I ask, stepping to Dennis. The room stops. Everyone turns to Dennis. Silence. Waiting.
“Isn’t one of you a criminal?” Dennis blurts, looking at the head nurse. All eyes shoot to Leo: the doe-eyed boy genius standing in the background. He looks like he might start to cry.
“Don’t you dare—” I bark. Leo wipes at his eyes and looks away. Huston steps forward. Abigail walks over and stands close to Leo.
“Why don’t we all just take some time to cool off?” John cuts in, eyeing both Huston and me. We both stop. Abigail wraps her arm around Leo. He melts into her.
The head nurse takes this opportunity. “Why don’t we all give Mr. Hawkes some time to rest. He’s stable and it would do him some good to have a little quiet. Do you all mind?” Nurse Miller asks. Dennis stands on the other side of Dad’s bed awaiting the answer. I gather myself, unable to look at John, and step back. Despite how conflicted I am about Dad and this whole arrangement, I know this isn’t right. We do have a right to be here. For whatever reason, Dad wants us here.
That power of attorney is an engraved invitation to Dad’s deathbed.
Huston shifts his weight. “I just want what’s best for Dad.” He tries to get Connie’s attention. She doesn’t look up or make eye contact. He lets out a long sigh. Oh, Huston.
“We’ll need you to set up a meeting with the finance department, the legal department and Mr. Hawkes’ primary care doctor—so we can all get up to speed,” John adds, looking at the nurse.
“I’ll arrange that for first thing tomorrow morning,” Nurse Miller says, throwing us a bone.
“He’s… he’s stable?” Abigail asks.
“He’s gotten through the worst. He had the clot blaster shot within an hour of the stroke and now we’re just waiting on the neurologist. He’s a fighter,” Nurse Miller adds. Find a point on the horizon. Find a point on the horizon.
“We’ll be back at seven a.m.,” Huston says.
“Mr. Noonan?” Nurse Miller asks.
“We’ll wait for them to leave, so we can have a moment alone with Dad, then we’ll head home. Let Dad rest,” Dennis says.
“That’ll be fine. Thank you, Mr. Hawkes. Mrs. Hawkes-Rodriguez, Ms. Haw—well, just… there’s so many of you… thank you… all of you.” Nurse Miller breathes a little easier and ushers Huston out into the ICU. Leo grabs his laptop and the motorcycle helmet that’s been underneath his chair and follows us out, his eyes welling up and red. Abigail takes her purse off the chair, hitches it over her shoulder, and walks out as well. John waits. Watching. Wary.
“Please give us some privacy,” Dennis instructs us. Once again, my compulsion to do exactly the opposite of what people tell me to do flares. Dennis eyes me, waiting for me to leave. I grab my purse, pull it up on my shoulder. I need to touch Dad, to see if he’s real, I need to let him know I’m here. That I was raised right. That I’m strong.
I push off the glass wall and in a fugue state walk up to Dad’s bedside. I see John reach out his hand to stop me, but he quickly pulls it back. He helplessly looks on. Connie looks up, but I keep my eyes on Dad. I reach out and touch his knee, the left knee—so he can feel it. My hand closes around him, warming him. I look up at his face. From this angle all I can see is the oxygen mask and the shock of gray-blond hair.
“It’s Grace. We’re all here,” I say, holding his knee and touching my father for the first time in twenty-two years.
chapter ten
My arms itch, Mami,” Emilygrae says, presenting her twin casts to Abigail as we walk out of the hospital. To say I’m shocked—to say we’re shocked—would be the understatement of the century. I wait for Leo, holding out my hand. He shifts his helmet to the other hand, his laptop now safely inside his messenger bag, and takes my hand. He brushes at his eyes with his fist and gives me a little smile.
“Where’s Papi? Where’s Papi? Where’s Papi?” Mateo sings.
“Working,” Evie sighs.
“My arms itch!” Emilygrae says again.
“I know, mija. Let me just—” Abigail stops, reaches into her huge purse, and pulls a decorative chopstick from its depths.
“Where’s Papi? Where’s Papi? Where’s Papi?” Mateo sings again.
“Honey, he’s holding down the fort,” Abigail says, holding up the chopstick.
“You said fart,” Emilygrae trills, immediately plugging her nose.
“Fort, mija,” Abigail says, pulling Emilygrae’s hand away from her nose and plunging the chopstick deep into the casts, one at a time. Emilygrae looks like a puppy getting her tummy rubbed. Huston pulls his cell phone out of his coat pocket, checks the screen, and slides it back.
“You know, your mom once broke h
er leg so badly that she had to wear a cast, too,” Huston says, finally calming down. Mateo presses the button for the elevator.
“You broke your leg?” Evie asks.
“I fell down some stairs,” Abigail says, shaking off the conversation.
“You fell off the couch,” I correct. Leo giggles. The entire group smiles and breathes a little easier. Our little Leo is giggling again.
“You broke your leg falling off a couch?!” John laughs. I try not to stare at him. I try to think about Tim. Thinking about Tim brings back the nothingness. I wonder whether all that nothingness is such a good thing. I shake my head and refocus.
“Where did you get that couch?” Mateo asks.
“The couch has been gone a long time now,” Abigail explains. We all load into the elevator. All eight of us.
“Was it a giant’s couch?” Emilygrae asks, doing a little twirl—knocking into Huston. He lovingly steadies her.
“You’d think,” I answer. The elevator sags and descends.
“No, Em, just a regular couch,” Abigail explains. We stop on the third floor. No one gets on. It seems Mateo has gotten a tad overeager with the elevator buttons.
“A couch is just a big chair,” Evie adds. The twins are awestruck by this new information. Evie is now Stephen Hawking in their eyes.
“But that’s not even the funny part,” Huston begins, settling into prime storytelling mode. Mateo turns his attention away from the now lit panel of elevator buttons.
“Huston, please.” Abigail laughs.
“Your mom thought that her cast was waterproof. And when I tried to tell her that the doctor only meant that if a little water splashed on it, it’d be okay—” We stop at the second floor. The door opens.
“No water can go on my cast, Mami says! I have to take baths with samwich bags on them,” Emilygrae interrupts, urgently holding up her little casted wrists. The elevator door closes.
“Well, you’re super smarter than your mom was, honey,” Huston explains.
“You were quote-unquote babysitting me and Leo while we went swimming at the Woods’. Remember?” I add.
“Of course I remember, I almost died that day,” Abigail says.
“She was convinced it was waterproof, so she went right over to the deep end and jumped in. Cast and all,” Huston says, his eyes wide.
“Mami jumped in the pool?” Mateo yells.
“With a broken leg?” Evie adds. The elevator door opens on the ground floor.
“With no samwich bag on it?” Emilygrae’s face is contorted with worry. We pour out of the elevator.
“That’s bonkers,” Evie droopily sighs.
“I sank to the bottom of that pool so fast. I could see your two goofy faces at the ladder, just looking down at me. Laughing hysterically, while I slowly drowned,” Abigail says, slowing her pace as we walk toward the doors.
Leo laughs. “I’d forgotten about that!”
“Uncle Huston had to dive in and pull me out,” Abigail says, taking Mateo’s hand. Evie grabs Emilygrae. I hold on to Leo. I glance back at John, with his hands still in his pockets. Our eyes meet again. My adulterous body reacts and it takes everything I have to look away.
“You must have weighed close to seven hundred pounds with that cast hanging off your leg,” Huston says.
“You never told us you broke your leg, Mami,” Evie says, forgetting for just a moment that she’s supposed to be unimpressed with everything and everyone.
“Well, now you know why,” Abigail says, laughing.
“Mom was so mad at you,” Huston says.
“Yeah… she…” Abigail trails off.
The laughter subsides and a hush falls over the group as we open the doors to the parking lot. One by one our smiles evaporate. Mom. I let out a small residual sigh, swing my purse forward and begin the excavation for my car keys. Leo smiles at me. I wiggle his hand around in mine and smile back. Abigail brushes Mateo’s wild curls out of his eyes. Huston’s cell phone rings again. He quickly answers it.
“Huston Hawkes? Yes, sir. Just a second.” Huston puts his cell phone down, “It’s Dad’s lawyer. See you here at seven?” he asks the now dispersing group. Everyone nods. Everyone deflates. Abigail and the kids wave their goodbyes and head over to their awaiting minivan. John stands next to Huston while he finishes talking to the lawyer. I motion to Leo to hang on a second and run after Abigail.
“For you,” I say, passing her a can of Coke from my purse.
“Thanks,” she says, hesitantly taking it.
“See you tomorrow?” I ask.
“Seven a.m.,” Abigail answers. I give a quick wave to the restless natives just inside the minivan. Abigail climbs into the driver’s side. She puts the Coke in the cup holder.
“For later,” she says, and backs out of the parking space. I watch them leave and walk back over to Leo.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Leo sighs, looking off into the distance.
“It was a shitty thing he said,” I say, trying to get him to look at me.
“Shitty, but true,” Leo says, his eyes welling up again. I take a deep breath.
“We all make mistakes. Do things we regret,” I say. Leo finally looks at me.
“It wasn’t a mistake and I don’t regret it,” Leo says, a smile breaking across his tearstained face.
“Well, maybe I’m the only one who regrets things,” I say, noticing that Huston has finished his phone call and that he and John are now in deep discussion.
“Yeah, but I get it,” Leo says, working it out in his head. I can feel my BlackBerry vibrating in my pocket. I ignore it.
“You didn’t walk away,” I say… just barely.
“No,” Leo agrees, still working it out. I can see the wheels turning.
“So,” I say, eyeing Huston and John once more.
“We all died that day,” Leo starts, his theory now complete.
“Who’s the drama queen now?” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.
Leo continues unmoved, “It’s not like anyone actually dealt with it,” he says, finally finishing his equation. I look at him putting together all the factors and creating a working theory. My shoulders relax a little. Leo shakes his head and puts on his motorcycle helmet. His face squishes up as he flips up the glass visor.
He continues, “See you tomorrow? Seven?”
“Seven,” I agree, reaching through the open visor and pinching his cheek. He smiles, which looks hilarious, and walks to his motorcycle. I begin walking over to my car. I look over to where Huston and John were talking.
Gone.
My BlackBerry vibrates again. As I stand alone in the middle of the parking lot, a new rain just starting to fall, I pull the phone out of my pocket, see that it’s Tim, and send the call to voice mail as I walk to my car. I toss my BlackBerry on the passenger seat, start up my ancient BMW, press the clutch in and put the car in reverse. I look in the rearview mirror as a precaution.
John.
My foot quickly hops off the gas pedal and the car stalls in an elaborate symphony of backfires and rumbles. I unbuckle my seat belt and leap out of the car.
“I could have killed you,” I say, slamming my car door. The rain mists around us.
“You can’t keep arguing with everyone like that. It’s going to make this harder if you keep coming at people like you want to rip their throats out,” John says, his voice urgent.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, trying to get my bearings.
“Right, I need to be far more specific, I forgot,” John says, settling into his stance. I flinch, stunned. John’s mouth opens to say something, and then closes. Why I expect him to forgive me so easily is laughable, and yet I can’t help but want it more than anything right now.
“Don’t hate me. I can’t have you hating me,” I say, looking down.
John says nothing. I look up, not sure I can handle seeing anger in his eyes still. Our eyes meet and I see a flash of something. A hint of somet
hing. And then… it’s gone.
“I’m here as your family’s attorney. I no longer have any personal feelings about you one way or another. But as your attorney I am telling you, you have to control your temper,” John advises, his voice clear, his eyes cold. Whatever hope I had, whatever I thought that flash meant, slips away.
“Control my temper,” I repeat, nodding.
“That’s all.”
“Consider me advised,” I answer, shutting down, back to the Nothing. I look down at the ground, trying to catch my breath. I feel John hesitate. I look up, that nagging hope makes me look at his chest, to see if my name is still engraved over his heart. I can almost feel his skin under my hands, his black, wavy hair at my fingertips. His soft lips on mine. I move my gaze up his body and we lock eyes again. I can’t breathe. He holds my stare.
“Grace?” a voice calls. Who dares to call my name right now? I resolve to punch whoever it is smack in the face. The residue of John’s warnings about controlling my temper hangs in the air as I tighten my fist. I turn, my eyes wild, and see Tim casually ambling across the parking lot. I loosen my fist… a bit.
No. Please. No.
I see John steel himself, the vulnerability of the last moment completely gone, as he looks from me to Tim and back again.
“Grace,” Tim says again. This time it’s more of an exasperated statement. I can’t look at John. I step toward Tim, hoping somehow that John will simply not notice. Maybe he’ll think Tim is a kindly salesman who’s offering me a snazzy new vacuum. If only Tim would have brought a vacuum. A Dirt Devil, even. No such luck. John stuffs his hands back in his pockets and just… takes in the scene. He knows.
And suddenly, I know.
As Tim walks over to me, what I know for sure is that I never loved him. In reality, love wasn’t even on the table. He was the polar opposite of John, and I wanted to be anyone but me. The rain mists around us and I can’t seem to get a breath.
“Tim,” I say, hoping he’ll just drive back down to LA and forget he ever knew me. He doesn’t.
“I just called you. It went straight to voice mail,” Tim announces. I look guiltily at my BlackBerry on the passenger seat. Bad BlackBerry.
