by Pamela Ribon
Plus I was just too sick. I didn’t think I could handle anything other than getting into a bed and swallowing a painkiller.
I heard the squeak of her faucet as she closed the tap.
“I’ll come back,” I said. “You know I will.”
“Frankly, I don’t care if you do,” she snapped. “You obviously don’t give a shit about me, or you’d think of something, you quitter.”
And then she hung up on me.
If only Mr. Carlton were still alive, I could call him for advice. He was the one who really knew how to deal with Smidge, who always stuck up for me. “Now you be nice to Danielle,” he’d tell his daughter. “She’s gonna be the only friend you have left one day.”
At this point Smidge didn’t look too terribly sick. It’s not like people were stopping her at the grocery store to ask if she was okay. My point is, Smidge wasn’t dying that day, and she wouldn’t die the next. She hadn’t died in the months I’d been on pause, living under her every whim. I dropped everything because it seemed like after she said she was sick, there was no tomorrow and even less of a guarantee for a day after that. With a terminal diagnosis, “the end” seems at once an immediate terror pressing down and this fuzzy finish line way out in the impossible distance. When each day passes without death, you start to believe it will never come.
I needed to be by myself for just a second. If I was really possibly going to give up my life and everything in it to morph into someone else’s, at least I could mourn the last of my independence, the shreds of what was Danielle Meyers. I couldn’t ask Smidge for that, but I could take it.
Smidge could probably use some time away from me, too. She should be alone with her family; stop thinking of it as a project that needed finishing. Henry was clearly getting suspicious and frustrated. You were acting up so often at this point you were basically holding a sign that read I need you to talk to me, Mama.
If I removed myself, not by choice but by doctor’s orders, perhaps the family could return to a unit of three, and I could go back to a life that seemed quite quaint in comparison.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t getting out of Ogden that easily. That podunk, stupid-ass town only had two flights out per day, and I’d already missed my second chance at freedom. That left me with a night where I was effectively, electively homeless.
The cost of a flight to Los Angeles was more than most people in Ogden pay for a mortgage. No wonder people end up staying forever. I could visit my cousin in Manhattan, or I could feed my family for the next two months. Guess I’ll never leave. I’ve seen New York on the TV, anyway.
The Cottage, Ogden’s only decent hotel since the Chesterfield closed long ago, was booked solid. The only other option, the 75 Motel and Diner, was a known bedbug factory. Not to mention I believe you aren’t allowed a room unless you plan to turn tricks in it.
I just wanted to be somewhere quiet where there was a bed and maybe someone to run a bath for me. I needed someone who wasn’t Smidge. Someone who didn’t mind the attention being placed—even temporarily—on me.
I called Tucker with a single question.
“Have you had the chicken pox?”
NINETEEN
Tucker answered his front door wearing a surgical mask.
“That’s very funny,” I said.
“Smidge gave me this actually. It’s from that time you guys were traveling in dangerous areas. Jenny got a dollhouse. Henry got a knife. Smidge got me a three-cent SARS mask.”
Tucker welcomed me in with a hospitable pat to my arm, which caused me to double over in pain.
“Ohhh,” I moaned, gripping my biceps as my vision whitened hot into stars. “This thing is terrible.”
“My grandfather had it once, up near his eyes,” Tucker said. “It’s the only time I ever saw that man cry.”
“Please don’t touch me. I’m in so much pain.”
“I think you wrote me a poem that went something like that our senior year.”
“You wish.”
“No, not then. You weren’t the prettiest thing back then, California. No offense.”
“You’re lucky I’m so tired.”
“Your sickbed, ma’am,” Tucker said. “Please take to it.”
The couch was folded out into a bed, complete with clean sheets and lots of pillows. On the side table rested a bottle of Advil and an unopened plastic jug of water. A stack of fashion magazines sat beside a mason jar filled with yellow daisies.
“This is the nicest bed I’ve ever seen in my entire life,” I said, desperately wanting to flop into the safety of warm blankets and soft pillows. But flopping was definitely on my list of forbidden verbs. I opted for a more gingerly slide.
Tucker ducked into the other room as I inched myself toward a reclined state. He came back holding a laundry basket, which he unpacked at the foot of the bed.
“Okay,” he said, quickly giving his ball cap an official adjustment before he presented a pair of fuzzy slippers and a robe. “I don’t know your size, but I saw these at Walmart and it seemed like the kind of ugly thing you’d like to wear when you don’t feel good. I do mean you, specifically. You strike me as a girl who goes pretty ugly when you’re unwell.”
“You’re right.”
Next came a heating pad. “I don’t know if this will help, but Pee-Paw clutched this to his chest and cried a lot, so maybe if it gets that bad, there’s this.”
I closed my eyes and tried to stop myself because I could feel the laughter bubbling up inside. “Huhhrrrrrrr,” I said.
“What is that, what you are doing?”
“Hhrrrrrrr,” I said again, determined to keep my shoulders from shaking. “Hrrrrreeee.”
Tucker gave a slow, disappointed shake of his head. “You’re trying not to laugh.”
With the little that was left of my breath I managed to whisper, “You said ‘Peeeeee-Pawwwwww.’”
“Nice. Real nice.”
“Please say it again.”
“You know, I hope you do laugh, and I hope it makes your skin burn, you ungrateful woman.”
He twirled on his heels in mock offense, stomping to the kitchen. “Just for that, I’m going to go make your soup too hot,” he announced.
He was making me soup.
I was the closest to happy the shingles would let me be.
Two hours and two bowls of soup later, the painkillers were starting to work.
Tucker sat across from me in a chair, watching with an amused expression.
“When is your flight?” he asked.
“Tomorrow.” I smashed my face into the pillow.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Look at you.”
“Look at you,” I said. “This is what you’re supposed to do for someone when they’re ill. You did everything right. I’m such a bad person.”
“Change your flight,” Tucker said. “Stay here and get better. Then you can go home. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like shit.”
I felt myself dozing off. Still, I managed to say, “Thank you.”
It was dark. When I woke up, Tucker was still watching me from his place on his recliner. An open book rested in his lap.
“What’s going on?” I asked, disoriented.
“You were talking,” he said. “Just now. You asked me if she’s going to be mad at you.”
I tried to sit up, but it hurt too much. I needed another pain pill. “I said that?”
“I’m guessing you meant Smidge. But you also said something about a lizard, so it was probably just dream babble. You’ve got a little drool on your chin. I wasn’t going to say anything, but I just did because I don’t want to stare at it.”
I wiped my face and checked the time. “It’s late. Really late.”
“Yeah, I’m going to bed. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” He stood, stretching out his back. “Plus, I don’t sleep too much. You take another pain pill now. I’ll wake you up for breakfast.”
I raised my hand to touch him. He wa
s too far away, so I stroked the air between us like he was a beautiful mirage.
“You are . . . so amazing,” I said. “Why, sweet angel, have you landed in my life?”
“That’s more like it. Danielle Meyers, this is how you’re supposed to talk to me.”
For the next three days I faded in and out of consciousness as Tucker made sure I occasionally had a shower, changed pajamas, or ate some of his amazing roast chicken.
Sometimes that’s all that matters about a man, Jenny. That he knows how to cook a meal. Give me someone who knows what vegetables to toss into a roasting pan and into which part of the stove it all goes once he’s done.
The last night before my morning flight to Los Angeles, a night when I was feeling three hundred percent better—enough to wear actual pants—Tucker created a “dinner table” out of his bed, with equal amounts of pillows and trays, so that I could recline while eating. There was even a place to rest my wineglass.
There was a basket of bread, a butter dish, a liter of bottled water, and a small bucket of ice. He’d placed two Vicodin on a saucer for my “dessert.”
“I probably could have eaten this one at your actual table,” I told him. “I’m feeling much better.”
“I like that we’ve eaten half of our meals lying down.”
“I’m doing my best to try to eat this like a lady, but this chicken is made for eating with my hands.”
“Do it,” he said, reaching over to grab a drumstick. “When chicken’s this tasty, I say ditch the forks.”
“I’d toss the bones when I’m done, but I don’t want to ruin your carpet.”
“Reason enough why I need to get another dog.”
“No, the reason you have to get a dog is because you have dog toys in your Jeep like you still have a dog.”
“How do you know that?”
“I saw them when you picked me up at the airport.” I looked around his bedroom, which I’d spent quite a bit of time in, considering I had kept my clothes on the entire time. “I can’t believe you live in this big place all by yourself.”
Tucker snapped his napkin. “I wasn’t supposed to. That dog left with a lady, remember?”
“I do, but when was that?”
“About six years ago.”
“Six years? You act like it was six days! You’ve still got her stuff in this side table!”
“You went through my side table?”
“That is not the point.”
“It might be.”
I dropped back against the pillows. “You don’t have anything hanging on your walls. And look at that.” I pointed at his closet. “It’s half empty, like you are waiting for someone to move in. Like you can’t take up all the space or it’s bad luck.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, okay.”
“No, seriously, Tucker. That is nuts.”
“She might come back.”
“Isn’t she still in Germany?”
“Kentucky.”
“Well, she’s practically a neighbor.”
Tucker stacked his plates, cleaning up the space in front of him even though he was nowhere near finished eating. “I guess you’re just fine being divorced and it never bothers you.”
“I didn’t say that. But I don’t live like we might get back together.”
“You don’t even know her.”
“Well, she left you, so I know she’s an idiot.”
Tucker slid a tray off the bed and carried it to the kitchen. I knew his feelings were hurt, but it didn’t feel like I’d said the wrong thing. It was like trying to talk someone into riding a roller coaster. It was only scary when you hadn’t done it yet. Unless he was afraid of heights. Then it would probably never be fun.
“I’m sorry, Tucker!” I called out. “Come back. I’m sorry.”
“You sound like her,” Tucker said as he returned.
“Your ex?”
“No. Smidge. Don’t do that. Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid. Like you have all my shit figured out. You don’t know everything.”
I found myself rubbing my chest in shock. “I’m sorry.”
“Everything reminds me of her, and I hate it. That’s why I asked you to stay. You make it different.”
“And I’m already in your bed.”
He patted my knee. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know. I’m just ruining the moment with jokes.”
“I appreciate that. I really do.”
“Maybe it’s because I’m afraid you’re about to try to kiss me again and last time there was personal injury. To my face.”
He nodded. “Don’t worry. Trying to kiss a girl after talking about your ex is tacky. But how about this?”
He leaned over and pressed the smallest kiss to my forehead, like he was wishing me good night.
I considered it for a second. “No, not very satisfying,” I said.
I kissed him because when a man makes roast chicken as good as Tucker’s, he deserves to be kissed. I pulled him to the bed because he’d relinquished that bed to me for the better part of a week without a single complaint. I pulled his clothes off because he’d given me medicine, on time and accurately, since I’d walked through his door. I pulled my clothes off because I could, because it no longer hurt to have skin, because Tucker had taken care of me like I was important. We pushed and kicked the plates, glasses, and trays to the floor because when two people tumble into bed after waiting the majority of their lives to find out what that might be like, no piece of glassware or cutlery in their proximity is safe.
We fell into that bed, into each other. There’s no other way to describe something that was at once unpredictable and inevitable. Our mouths and bodies locked on each other and stayed that way for the rest of the night.
I will not ruin your ideas of Uncle Tucker with any other details. I’m sure that’s more than you wanted to know. I only told you because sometimes I feel like you never really knew me. You had a lot of ideas of what I was all about, particularly once you got older, and I’m hoping this right here shows you that I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. Especially you.
TWENTY
In the morning I woke to find Tucker on his back, staring down at his chest while rooting around his belly button.
“The magic is over, I see,” I said with a yawn.
He turned and grinned. “There’s bread crumbs in there,” he marveled. The curls on one side of his head were mashed flat. A long line from his pillow cut his right cheek in half. “Your lips are still wine-stained,” he said, reaching over for another kiss.
When I opened my eyes, I saw the clock over his shoulder and jumped out of bed.
“I have to pack! I’m so late! Is that really the time?”
Pointing at the doorway, Tucker said, “You’re fine.”
There were my suitcases, packed and ready. My purse rested on a nearby table. My cell phone was plugged and charging.
“You packed all my stuff?”
“Not everything. I left your toothbrush and good-smelling face soap next to the sink. I don’t want to tell you that you’re in desperate need of those things right now, but I guess I just did.”
“You packed all my clothes,” I said, flattered.
“It wasn’t that hard, really,” he said. “You weren’t wearing anything. I did put out some jeans and a shirt for you. Not that I’m dressing you. I just put out that thing you like to wear a lot. I told you I don’t sleep very much.”
Thirty minutes later I was scrubbed and dressed, debating how best to say good-bye. In the shower I’d gone over a million different ways to tell him what I needed to say. I found him back asleep.
I was tempted to leave before I said something stupid, but his eyes popped open.
“Hey, pretty,” he said.
“Don’t get up,” I whispered.
“When are you coming back?” he asked, his voice low and hungry enough that I wanted to fold myself back into the warmth of his blankets, curve around the heat of h
is body.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But can you do me a favor?”
“Sure, that’d be new for me.”
“Could you not tell Smidge about this?”
His face froze as he made sure he’d heard me correctly. He sat up, still in awe. “Amazing. I’ve never actually felt myself stop caring about someone so specifically, so acutely before.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“What I think is you can go ahead and get on that plane.”
“Tucker.”
“Hurry! We wouldn’t want Smidge to be unhappy. She might tease you about me, and wouldn’t that just be too much for you to handle?”
“That’s not it. It’s hard to explain.”
“I’m sure it isn’t. You just don’t want to.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, as I reached for my bags.
“No, don’t apologize for being you,” he said. “This is my fault. I’m sorry I forgot you weren’t your own person.” He rubbed his arms, like the room had a sudden chill. “Just how indentured of a servant are you? Or is it really all about you not having a backbone?”
“Don’t be an asshole, Tucker.”
“There we go. That’s how I like an exit.”
I unplugged my cell phone and threw the charger into my purse.
“She’s a cancer,” he said.
It stopped me cold. “She what?” I’d misheard, but he didn’t notice my fear.
“You know what cancer does?” he asked. “How it mutates? How it jacks all the cells up, tells them to keep growing, keep making more cancer cells, and that’s how you get a tumor?”
“I know how cancer works.”
“Well, that’s how your little friend there works, too. She infects people with the wrong ideas. She makes them sick, and then she spreads her evil until the bad stuff grows, until they wither up and die. With you it’s even worse. You let her get inside your bloodstream, move up to your head, and mutate your life.”
“Good-bye, Tucker.”
