“Did you get those last boxes packed?”
“I don’t want to talk about boxes.”
There was another stretch of silence, filled only by the muted sounds of Geary Street traffic and faint sprinklings of childish laughter from the Chan house two doors down.
She calculated the risk of dashing through the deepening twilight.
“The lemon tree looks bad,” he said, his tone remarkably similar to the one she used to inform family members of a grim prognosis. “I could take it, trim the branches back. Get it some of that citrus food.”
“No.” She rubbed her arms again, blaming the chill on encroaching bay fog. “It’s okay where it is.”
“It’s dying. You’re letting it die, Leigh.”
“I’m what?” she asked, hearing the accusation in his tone and feeling the ruthlessly unfair barb of it strike deep. “Let me get this straight: I’m killing the lemon tree. I’m taking lousy care of my sister. What’s next? I’m failing to roll out the red carpet so your girlfriend can waltz through my ER anytime she wants?” She raised a palm, saw that it was trembling. “And wait—let me guess. Next I’ll be a shrew for saying that I hate it—hate it—that you’re stuffing her down my throat at the stables.”
He took a step closer and started to reach out but stopped. “C’mon. I’m not saying any of that. You know I’m not. You know me.”
Tears stung her eyes. “I thought I did, once. But . . .” She shook her head. “The only thing I know now is that I’m not going to have to deal with this much longer. You can’t know how good that makes me feel. And here’s all you need to know.” She raised her hand and touched her fingers one by one as if she were instructing a patient for aftercare. “The lemon tree doesn’t matter. Caro is doing great.” She took a breath and looked him full in the face as she ticked off her last point. “I need the last of your boxes out before the leasing agency—”
“They’re out.”
“Good.”
He stared at her for a moment before retrieving his shirt and yanking it over his head. “I’ll bag up what’s in the wheelbarrow and put the tools away. Then I’ll go.”
“Good,” she said again, her heart cramping as she walked back to the house.
Twenty minutes later, she heard his car start. She held her breath as it idled at the curb and pulled away. She called the stables, learned that Frisco had required another injection of Banamine, that his resting heart rate was forty-nine and his breathing was normal. Intestinal rumblings were present, but fewer than normal. He’d drunk some water. And hadn’t touched his hay. Patrice, bless her, was on top of things and would check him during the night. She’d call if there was a problem. And, she’d added, Maria had drawn a picture of Frisco and Tag walking under a glittery rainbow. It was taped to his stall.
Leigh tossed her grass-stained scrubs in the hamper and took a shower. Then pulled on an old pair of olive drab riding sweats and padded downstairs to fix a sandwich. But she found there was no deli turkey and only a few slices of wheat bread, because . . . She smiled. Because her sister had eaten it all. Healthy appetite, holding down a job, making plans for college. See, Nick? I’m right. Caro’s fine. She waited for the sense of triumph or even a small prickle of residual anger, but all that came was the memory of falling and the feel of her husband’s hands as he swept her up. Warm, steady. Hands and heart, she’d wanted to believe that.
She opened a can of tomato soup, found some crackers, and had her dinner alone at the breakfast bar that had always been their substitute for a table. She spooned her Campbell’s, told herself freedom was a good thing, and tried not to picture Nick in this same kitchen, laughing as he made his famous Greek soup.
“Avgolemono,” he’d say slowly, accenting the lemono and taking her in his arms. “The secret to getting it right, Mrs. Stathos,” he’d whisper against her hair, “is to add the hot broth and lemon juice to the eggs slowly and stir, stir. Stick with it; don’t stop. . . . Don’t ever give up.”
She stared at her bowl of tomato soup. Nick had hoped that the lemon tree—a gift to remind her of their honeymoon in Capri—would provide lemons for avgolemono. Enough fruit for a family someday.
Family. Leigh spread her hands over her abdomen, imagining once again how it would have felt to have carried the baby to term. To have him or her in this house now. Three months old, beginning to smile, blinking up at her with eyes as dark as Nick’s. Her throat squeezed around the ache of the what-ifs: What if she’d told him as soon as she’d suspected she was pregnant? What if planning for a baby had stopped the arguments? prevented Nick’s downward spiral of grief after Toby’s death—kept him from turning to Sam?
She stood, angry with herself for going down that path again. She hadn’t wanted a baby; that had been one of the reasons they’d argued. The timing in her career, the danger in his; she hadn’t felt ready. To imagine that telling him would have changed anything, stopped things from ending up where they were right now . . .
The image of his face came to her. His expression as he’d stood near the hedge, talking about the lemon tree. “You’re letting it die.” It had felt like he’d been talking about so much more than a tree. As if he was blaming her for all of it. After what he did?
The familiar anger swept back, and she welcomed the way it wrestled down the painful doubts. A baby wouldn’t have changed things. Their marriage had been floundering. They’d separated; it was ending though they hadn’t dared to say it aloud. Even if she’d agreed to stick with the Christian couple’s counseling, it wouldn’t have helped. Their marriage had been as doomed as that lemon tree.
+++
Nick stood beside his car on the hill at Alamo Square, gazing at the view that never failed to move him. San Francisco—Hayes Street to the south, Fulton Street to the north, Scott Street to the west, and Steiner to the east—lit by a full moon suspended in the night sky like a Chinatown paper lantern. It cast a golden glow over the famous panorama: the row of “painted ladies” Victorians in the foreground and a light-dotted skyline beyond, the Transamerica Pyramid, the tops of the Golden Gate and Bay bridges, city hall. And down Divisadero Street, where his restaurant had been. Still was, except that now it was a Mexican bakery, wedged between a tattoo parlor and a yoga studio.
He sighed. Niko’s. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he’d used the skills he acquired working in his foster parents’ Greek café in San Jose, waiting tables and cooking in Bay Area restaurants. Then taking out loans, first for culinary school and finally to start his own business. His vision combined with an infusion of capital by several entrepreneurial SFPD officers he’d met at the gym. An irony, considering how many times he’d scraped against the law during his adolescent years. But it had worked. He cooked; they ate. They talked; he listened—to stories of the community, action-packed tales of rescues and arrests, of kids whose lives they’d touched, saved, changed. It wasn’t long before Nick started to feel a part of it. He began to want that for himself and felt a calling like he’d never experienced before. An orphan, a troubled youth . . . who wanted soul-deep to become a cop. He’d already started online courses in police science when a beautiful young doctor walked into Niko’s, fell in love with his lemon soup, and . . .
And now she’s walking away.
He leaned back against the BMW and closed his eyes for a moment, remembering Leigh’s terse litany these past few days. “Leave me alone. . . . Don’t come here again. . . . You don’t belong here. . . .” She’d made it all too clear that their marriage was over, as dead as that lemon tree. When was he going to get that through his thick skull?
The verses about love came before he could stop them: “It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.” First Corinthians. Words that he, like so many others before and after, had wanted to include in their wedding ceremony. But he’d let Leigh talk him out of it and into using something more “contemporary.” Then, of course, their love had failed. His fault. And nothing he’d done since had ever
fixed it, ever would. He’d be divorced on October 3, a matter of days; he’d find someplace to live, try to move forward with his life.
His cell phone buzzed on his belt. He squinted at the number, then exhaled slowly and answered. “Sam.”
“Great, I caught you.”
Nick stared out at the lights, trying to tell which belonged to a Greek restaurant that was now a Mexican bakery. Impossible. And pointless. “Yes,” he said softly. “You did.”
“Elisa still wants to give you that macaroni butterfly. I don’t suppose you have time to come by? She—we—would love to see you.”
“I was going to Buzz’s to take a shower; I’m pretty grubby.”
“There’s a shower here.”
“Don’t come here again. . . . You don’t belong here. . . .”
“But if you’d feel more comfortable at Buzz’s . . .” Sam’s voice trailed off.
“I’ll shower, then be at your place in half an hour.”
+++
“I was making one last call to check on Frisco,” Leigh explained, setting the phone down as Caro walked into the kitchen.
“How is he?”
“The vet’s going to check him again tomorrow.” Leigh stifled a yawn. “Sorry. I’m kind of tired.”
Caro picked an apple from the fruit bowl and tossed it between her hands. “You should be. How long did it take you to do all that lawn work? There must be three bags out there.”
Leigh’s heart cramped. “Not me. Nick. He pruned the hedge for Harry.”
“Oh. That sounds like him.” Something sad and vulnerable flickered in Caro’s eyes. “I see that the boxes in the living room are gone.” She was quiet for a long moment, tossing the apple back and forth. Then her eyes met Leigh’s. “Do you think Mom was right?”
“About what?”
“Happy endings—that there’s no such thing.”
Leigh’s stomach sank. “She actually told you that?”
“At the end of Cinderella, every time. Like a disclaimer.”
“Wait. She read to you?”
Caro laughed and the Evers dimple appeared beside her mouth. “Are you kidding? I meant the video. I always had a suitcase full of them. Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Little Mermaid; it was the first thing I packed up whenever we moved.” Her smile faded. “Did she tell you that, too? That happily ever after was so much bull; that you need to track down whatever you wanted in life, go after it, never, ever look back, and . . .” Sudden tears welled in her eyes.
“And nothing lasts forever.” Leigh breathed around the lump in her throat.
“I guess, in spite of that, I wanted to believe it could. But now after you and Nick . . .”
God, please, don’t do this. Not this, too.
A tear slid down Caro’s face.
“Oh, sweetie . . .” Leigh moved forward and drew Caro close, wrapping her arms around her, stroking her hair. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, feeling her sister’s shoulders shake. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Caro moaned. “And don’t worry; I’m taking my pills, staying sober. But I can’t seem to shake these feelings. . . .” She pulled away at the sound of frantic shouting in the distance. “What is that?”
Leigh rushed into the living room to find Antoinette standing in the open doorway, moonlight spilling around her.
“Thank the Lord—you’re here,” she gushed, staggering toward them with her snowy hair wild, glasses askew and cracked over a swollen and discolored eye. “It’s Harry,” she said, wringing her hands. “He’s frantic and I can’t get him calmed down. Please come quick!”
Chapter Eleven
Leigh grasped her neighbor’s arms, eyes scanning her bruised face and several tiny, scattered lacerations over the bridge of her nose, likely from the broken glasses. She had to ask. “Did Harry hit you?”
“Oh, my. No, dear.” Antoinette shook her head and the red frames slid down her nose. “I was trying to keep him in the bedroom and he pulled on the door, and I fell down. I’m fine, but we have to hurry. I’m worried that he’ll run off. He’s so confused. He thinks that it’s our anniversary and we’re going to the Tonga Room for dinner. He pulled his oxygen off and was rummaging through the closet for his dress clothes. He got so frustrated that he started to throw things.”
Caro glanced sideways at Leigh. “Do you think we should call 911?”
“No, please don’t.” Antoinette’s chin trembled. “They’ll take him away. That’s what happened to the husband of one of my friends from church. And he only got more confused. He never came home. Please. The visiting nurse keeps a vial of sedatives at the house. If you could help me . . .”
“Of course,” Leigh assured her. “But let me go in first. To feel things out, okay?”
Caro took their neighbor’s arm, and Leigh led the way down the porch steps and across the driveways, glad for the light of the full moon. Though, she thought, this particular lunar phase very likely had much to do with the events of the last couple of days. The overdose, the shoe assault, the confrontation with Sam Gordon, maybe even Frisco’s current state. She’d been in the ER long enough to know that the full moon inspired much more than romance.
They heard Harry before they saw him. His querulous voice filtered under the closed bedroom door, blending with Cha Cha’s agitated squawking. “We’re . . . late,” he shrilled. “Can’t be . . . late. Have . . . reservations.”
“Awwwk—forever and ever!”
“Harry, poor darling.” Antoinette stepped forward, but Leigh stopped her.
“Let me, Antoinette.” She flinched at the sound of something striking the door, then shattering. “Caro will help you get some ice on that bruise, and I’ll . . .” There was a loud thump behind the door.
“Harry?” Leigh called, close to the door, after watching Caro take Antoinette into the kitchen. “It’s Leigh Stathos, your neighbor. May I come in?” She waited a few seconds, listening. “Mr. McNealy?” She opened the door cautiously.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, naked except for a tuxedo shirt that he’d managed to put on backward like an old straitjacket. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and his face was pale, ashen. Beside him was an opened photo album, pictures strewn across the sheets, and a tangle of what appeared to be colored plastic leis, glittery party hats, grass skirts, and several dusty champagne glasses and tiki mugs.
“I . . . can’t . . . manage . . . these dratted . . . buttons,” he wheezed, looking up at Leigh with watery eyes as he fumbled with the backward shirt. “Can you . . . get my bride? She . . . always helps me.”
“Sure, Harry.” Leigh opened the door wider, and shards of broken glass scraped across the hardwood floor. She scanned the littered room and spotted the oxygen tank and tubing half-buried beneath a sequined gown. “But let’s get your oxygen back on first.”
“No!” he shouted, trying to rise to his feet. “No . . . time. The reservations. Tonga Room . . . won’t hold them.” He wobbled, then sank backward onto the bed, chest heaving and lips blue-tinged.
“There’s plenty of time,” Leigh reassured him, stepping into the room carefully to avoid the broken glass. She grimaced. Harry was barefoot. “Please sit back down. Let me get your oxygen.”
“Don’t need it!” he shouted, rising to his feet again. “Are you . . . insane, woman? Can’t dance with . . . that evil contraption.” He grabbed a champagne glass, hurled it at the dresser, and stumbled forward. “Antoinette! We’re late!”
Leigh turned as Caro arrived at the doorway, followed by Antoinette holding a bag of frozen peas over one eye. The other was blinking back tears.
“I have that vial of medicine,” Antoinette whispered. “I think if we could just give him a little shot, he’d relax. And forget all this business about our anniversary.” A tear slid down her cheek. “My poor darling. I shouldn’t have given him those photo albums. Harry’s very sentimental. Oh, dear. He’s breathing so hard. Sit down, darling, please!”
Leigh glance
d from Antoinette’s anxious face back to where Harry sat struggling for breath in his backward dress shirt. Harry needed oxygen. They had no choice but to call for help.
+++
“Thank you, Elisa.” Nick leaned forward on the couch and touched a fingertip to a glued and glittered piece of pasta. “I’ve never seen such a beautiful butterfly.”
The toddler, in Little Mermaid pajamas and smelling sweetly of strawberry shampoo, grinned at him. She wiggled closer and rested her palm, like a tiny starfish, on his leg. “Ith macawoni,” she said with her soft lisp. “Mommy made it.”
Sam’s face colored. “She means we worked on it together, don’t you, sweetheart?” She dropped her dish towel and walked around the breakfast bar to join them in the family room, her long skirt—sort of soft and pink and printed with flowers—fluttering as she moved. He’d never seen her dressed like that before.
She sat down beside her daughter and pressed a kiss against her downy blonde hair. “And now it’s time for a certain little artist to go to bed. And maybe—” she smiled over her daughter’s head—“if we ask nicely, Nick will read Goodnight Moon.”
“I . . .” He hesitated at the intruding image of Leigh’s face, rosy in the light of the rising moon. “Sure,” he said, pushing the memory away. “Would you like that, Elisa?”
“Uh-huh. Pleeease.” She bobbed her head, making her curls bounce.
“Good, then.” Sam lifted her daughter in her arms and stood. Her gaze moved over Nick’s face. “I’ll get her teeth brushed and tuck her in. It will only take a few minutes. I left the rest of the cake on the table.”
“Couldn’t,” he said, lifting a hand in protest. “I’d have to crawl home.” His eyes met hers and his stomach sank. Because he had no home and because he could see very plainly that she didn’t want to him to go anywhere tonight. Lord, what am I doing here?
He stood after they left the room and walked toward the fireplace, careful to avoid Elisa’s LEGO castle. Sam had added framed photos to the mantel since he’d been there last. Several of Elisa, and a photo of Sam and three other women standing beside a Chinatown storefront with plucked chickens dangling in the window. And one of her brother and Nick at Niko’s wearing aprons, arms raised and laughing as they danced the syrto.
Code Triage Page 11
