by Olivia Jake
BETTER
THAN
NONE
By
Olivia Jake
Copyright ©2014 Olivia Jake
All Rights Reserved
To anyone who’s lost a loved one, a best friend, a parent:
This book was a true labor of love. All of my books hold a special place in my heart, but this one is very, very different than the others. It’s still a romance, but to those who’ve read my other books, there aren’t any whips or floggers in this one.
Everyone deals with and processes loss in their own way. For me, writing this while caring for my mom helped as much as it could.
Be strong,
Olivia
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To my Sunshine, thank you for everything. The list is far too long to detail here. To my friends, thank you for listening to me cry and telling me it was ok to feel everything I did. Thank you for checking in before, during and after. And just plain thank you for being there. To Sarah, thank you for a beautiful book cover. Mostly, to Bev. I wish you were here to read the final draft. This one’s for you.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 1
On the face of it, checking out my mom’s prick of an oncologist’s package while he was reviewing her chart wasn’t exactly progress. Then again, the bar was set pretty low. Practically subterranean. So for someone with such a messed up approach to men and relationships, not having the urge to do something inappropriate that would wipe the smug look off his face when he caught me looking was a step in the right direction. Perhaps it was more of a stumble. But it had taken me a while to get to where I was, so the likelihood that I could change overnight was slim. Who knew what steps I would have taken if I’d met this same man in a bar, but that wasn’t me anymore. In fact, it took me most of my life to realize that who I was couldn’t have been more different than who I wanted to be.
Apparently, my mom noticed too. Perhaps not his package per se, but the whole package, as it were. She actually squeezed my knee. She was so giddy at how good-looking he was. And a doctor no less. And Jewish. Oy. The trifecta. I knew this guy’s type, and regardless of what was on the surface, I bristled. I’d fucked men like him, just to prove to myself that I could. It was immediately clear that this guy was an arrogant jerk. Though he hadn’t yet said a word, the way some people could make others feel warm with just a smile, it was the exact opposite with him. It wasn’t just the door opening and closing, a cool wind blew in when he made his entrance.
“I’m Dr. Rosenberg.” He introduced himself first to my mom who was having a hard time wiping the grin off her face as she gave him a dainty handshake. Even in her seventies, she still tried to flirt. Then I shook his hand, with a firm grip. I hated weak handshakes. Especially with someone who already thought they were better than me, I always tried to make a point not to give them just one more leg up. I was sure it was lost on him, but it made me feel infinitesimally better.
He made eye contact with both of us as he shook our respective hands, and then sat down on the rolling stool, legs wide apart, as his focus was now on reading my mom’s chart. It was hard not to look. The man was practically flashing us, sitting so freely offering a view. Even though he may have seemed like a jerk, I couldn’t help but check him out. I’d always looked at guys’ packages. Unfortunately, I let my eyes linger a bit too long as he looked up from her chart and caught me. I immediately flushed, but instead of smiling or even smirking, he barely even registered it, like of course I was checking him out.
“So, Barbara, I’ve reviewed your charts, and right now we’re in the early stage of fact finding. We’ve got your CT scans back and yes, there’s a mass, but until we get in there and see it from the inside, we won’t know what it is.”
He continued talking for a solid ten minutes. I know, because every time I tried to break in, he didn’t once pause long enough for me to ask a question. Finally, he stopped to take a breath and I saw this as my chance.
“So even given everything…” was all I managed to get out when the asshole started talking again. Right over me.
I tried “But…” “Um…” “Excuse me…” “Ah…” Nothing. He just kept talking. Every time I tried to interject, he’d cut me off and talk over me.
“Can I ask a question or does that not fit into your speech?” I asked, finally raising my voice.
Apparently, Dr. Rosenberg didn’t like my tone and just stared at me, waiting. Now that I finally got my chance, I almost forgot what I wanted to ask. After an awkward moment of silence, my words came back to me. It was hard not to let this man intimidate me, but what did I care what he thought of me?
“We’ve both done a fair amount of research and —”
“Research?” He interrupted, with smug amusement. His eyebrows slowly lifted along with the corners of his mouth. He casually folded his arms over his chest and leaned back.
The heat of a flush spread over my cheeks and I nodded, but I straightened my spine and said as calmly as I could, “Yes, research.” Now, it felt like a conversation rather than just a monologue. Unfortunately, it also felt like a pissing match.
“Really? What medical school did you go to?” he asked, his arrogance growing, as if it could get any bigger.
That was it. We were the God-damned patients.
“Dr. Rosenberg, with all due respect, which is a hell of a lot more than you’re giving to me and my mother right now, we have some questions. Now, whatever medical school it is that you went to, it’s clear that while I’m sure they taught you all kinds of things about diagnosing disease and all of medical aspects of the job, it appears that no one ever taught you about bedside manner. Or perhaps, if they did, you chose not to take that course, because if you had . . . ”
The amusement on his face increased, like he was enjoying this, enjoying the challenge. I didn’t care. The more I talked, the more emboldened I got, even as my mother’s hand touched my knee.
“Steph, honey…” she whispered.
Even that didn’t deter me from telling this jerk what I thought.
“If you had any bedside manner, or were ever sitting on this side of the exam table,” I continued, “then perhaps you’d have a shred of compassion as to what the patient and their families might be going through and you might actually let them ask their questions, no matter how simple or obvious they might be.”
My heart was pounding so hard, by now I really had lost my train of thought. So I just continued with my diatribe, taking my anger at the situation out on Dr. Rosenberg. “I understand that you’re not interested in our questions, and this is all rote to you, but it’s new to us. We’ve never had cancer before, so if you’ll just humor us and let us ask our pedestrian questions, I would appreciate it.”
His smugness seemed to wane.
“And perhaps you could try to consider what it’s like hearing the words ‘you have a mass on your pancreas and it may or may not be cancer’ as a patient rather than just dispensing that like you’re telling someone the weather forecast.”
Now his expression changed. Apparently, something I said hit home. Or maybe he was just t
ired of listening. Either way, the cocky grin disappeared and he took a deep breath as he rubbed the back of his neck.
“Okay, Stephanie, what would you like to know that I haven’t already explained?” His tone was now one of resignation, like somewhere he lost interest in the fight.
Which unfortunately, took it out of me too.
“Forget it, I’ve lost my train of thought.” What was the point of arguing with this man? “So our next steps are to go to the surgeon and the gastroenterologist?” I asked rhetorically, just repeating what he had told us. I had to say something.
He nodded. I turned to my mom, mad at myself that I had lost it.
“So, right now, Doctor, it might not be cancer?” She asked softly.
He nodded again. “You don’t look like a pancreatic cancer patient. You’re not jaundiced, your blood work looks good, so all we know right now is that there’s a mass there, but we don’t know what it is.” He paused, like a normal person, letting my mom ask the next question, but when he spoke, he made eye contact that he held for a long while, alternating between the two of us. His hazel eyes were piercing.
“And even though my sister died of it…” my mom trailed off.
“Barbara, before we jump to conclusions, we need more information,” he said and then turned to me. “And I would strongly encourage you to stay off the internet. Whatever you’re reading there will only fan the flames of worry. Trust me, I’m the doctor and what we know, whatever we find will be specific to your case.” Apparently, he’d had enough and got up. “Once you see the other doctors and we have the results of the endoscopic CT, then we’ll know more. I’ll see you in a week.” He shook both of our hands, making sure to make that damn eye contact with both of us as he did.
After he left, my mom turned to me, “Stephanie! Why were you so rude to the doctor?”
I exhaled loudly. “Jesus, Mom! I wanted to ask some questions and every time I tried, he just bowled right over me. The guy is a condescending asshole.”
“Oh, honey, you’re overreacting! And did you see how handsome he is? And no wedding ring,” she said with a lilt. Like no wedding ring equaled her hearing wedding bells in my future.
I shook my head and said with disgust, “Mother, Ted Bundy was handsome too. Seriously, Ma, it doesn’t matter what he looks like.”
My mom might have cancer and all she thought about was that he was a good-looking doctor. I took one more deep breath and stood up, holding out my hand for her. All the piss and vinegar was gone and I was mad at myself for losing it. I was supposed to be the strong one.
****
“Marty?” The next morning I tentatively knocked on my new boss’s doorframe, waiting to be acknowledged.
“Steph,” Marty looked up, smiled and waved me in. “Come on in. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine. Uh, I hate to ask since I’ve only been here a few weeks, but I need to take my mom to another doctor’s appointment this Thursday. It’ll just be a couple hours, and I’ll make it up, I just…”
“Do you really think I’d say no?” he asked as he cut me off. It was as if he were hurt that I asked.
I smiled sheepishly and shook my head even though I wouldn’t have blamed him if he did. This was the third appointment already. “No, I just hate asking, that’s all. And I wouldn’t if it weren’t…”
Before I could finish again, Marty’s smile turned into a flat line as he leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Everyone has a personal life. Taking your mother to the doctor isn’t asking for a favor. You do what you need to do, okay?”
“Thanks, Marty.” I turned to go before he could ask any more questions.
It wasn’t just that I hated asking, it was also that I really didn’t want to share. There was something about Marty though that felt like he could see right through me, and if I’d lingered in that doorway any longer, I worried he’d see something I was desperately trying to keep hidden.
Marty was the owner and lead creative director in the office, but he seemed more like the surrogate uncle to everyone. In the three short weeks I’d been at Blank Slate, I’d seen most of the forty or so employees at one point or another go into Marty’s office to chat, complain, brainstorm, and sometimes, close the door. Invariably, whoever came out after one of those closed-door sessions looked like a different person than when they’d walked in. My office was right next door to his, and with the way the vents worked, I could often hear, if not the conversation, at least the tone and tenor. I didn’t really want to listen, but sometimes it was impossible not to. Plus, being new, I figured it wasn’t the worst way to get my bearings and a sense of who was who.
Towards the end of that third week, I started to get Marty’s pattern. He’d always listen first to whoever had walked in. I don’t think I ever once heard him interrupt. Then, he’d ask some leading questions, in which, invariably the visitor would have their oh-my- God-you’re-right- I-never-thought-of–it-that-way moment. Some battled until eventually Marty pointed out all the holes in their argument, and in the end, even some of the cockier employees ended up acquiescing, agreeing, understanding, and thanking him for whatever advice he doled out.
I already loved working there for myriad reasons, the first of which was, it was my chance to remake myself, to work with people who had no idea who I was, what I’d done or where I’d been. The second, it seemed like the perfect size creative shop. Not so small that it wasn’t legitimate, but not so big that it was a factory. Having hopped around from agency to agency, I’d seen my fair share of every size and while I would have thought that at this stage in my life, I’d want to be anonymous in a 200+ person shop, after interviewing with Marty, I felt like I had found my home.
My third reason was Marty. It wasn’t just that he was a good-looking man with a dimple that melted me when he smiled. Though that didn’t hurt. I realized that he was the first person who seemed to genuinely listen to me when I talked. One of the many things I learned from my relationship with my mom was that most people loved to talk about themselves. Which, given my goal of remaking myself, of not revealing my past, the fact that other people were typically all too happy to share eased my burden. Rather than deflect, I could simply change the course of a conversation and ask questions of whomever I was talking with and, voilà, question avoided.
With Marty, I actually felt like he was engaged in the conversation. The questions he asked weren’t to pry, but to get a sense of who I was or where my ideas came from. Yet as nice as his sincerity was, it also scared me. It was a lot harder to deflect and turn the conversation around when talking with him.
So as much as I appreciated his interest, I kept my head down and worked. I tried to be friendly with him and my co-workers, but had already wiggled out of invitations for after-work drinks. When I first started, my excuse was needing to get home to my dogs. “I have to get home to let my dogs out / let my dogs in / feed my dogs…” or some variation on that. But all too soon after starting, Barb got sick and now I had a ‘real’ excuse. I knew I couldn’t dodge people forever, but it was too soon to see if I could act like a normal person, as in have a drink or two, make idle chit chat, and then go home alone and be able to face everyone at the office the next day.
It was more important that I became the new Steph than bond with them. Still, I could see them thinking, ‘Wow, the new girl is hella boring. Probably doesn’t drink, won’t come out with us…’ And I thought, If you only knew.
Unfortunately, the thoughts in my head kept me lingering in his doorway a bit too long.
“Listen, my timing might suck, but who knows. It might be just what you need.” Marty paused giving me enough time to start mind-fucking myself, wondering what he could possibly be leading towards. “Every now and then, I have some of the employees over for poker and dinner. Nothing fancy, just a casual get together. I’d love it if you could join us this Friday.”
My heart started beating fast and my face grew warm. Definitely
not a poker face.
There was no way I could say no to my boss, especially after everything he’d already done for me. But the thought of being social with my coworkers terrified me.
“Not everyone gets invited. So, if you could keep it quiet…”
“Oh, yeah, definitely, of course. Um, I’d love to come. Thank you.”
“Good. I’ll email you my address and directions. It’ll give everyone a chance to get to know you better. And maybe give you a chance to have a little fun, given everything…”
With that he flashed a smile as I walked out. Fuck. This whole ‘new Steph’ was going to be harder than I thought.
CHAPTER 2
Marty’s house was gorgeous. It was up in the hills of Studio City, high enough that at night I could see all the twinkling lights of the valley making the area below seem like a wonderland rather than home to strip malls and porn. The house itself was a designer’s dream. Being creative, I wasn’t surprised that even the little I saw just on the outside, every detail was tended to, every tile, fixture, accessory was perfect.
I’d toyed with having a drink before leaving my place to calm my nerves, but worried it might be a slippery slope, as I knew all too well how one drink could turn into six.
After all those years of numbing myself, or as I euphemistically liked to call it, taking the edge off, I felt incredibly vulnerable in my sobriety as I walked up to Marty’s front door. With a little hindsight, I realized the edge that the alcohol removed wasn’t really an edge at all, but a red flag meter, any sense of judgment. That’s what was the alcohol stripped away. That, and eventually, my clothes. As fragile as I felt walking up to the door, I was actually far more vulnerable drunk than sober. But as uncomfortable as I was, if I were to really make a go of truly changing, I’d ultimately have to learn to be social and dip my toe into previously uncharted waters. I was like an adult who’d suffered some type of brain injury and had to relearn skills that most people developed as teenagers.
