“I can't stay here anymore. I need to be with you for real.” He bends down to Etta, resting his palms over her cheeks and smiling. “Again you save me. Thank you.” He looks to God. “I’m still pissed, but thanks—I think.” With a kiss to Etta’s head, he grabs his coat and keys and heads off to stand vigil over my body.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Monday, July 24
As the clock across from my bed ticks over to four in the morning, lethargic steps approach my hospital room. Griffin enters, rubs his eyes, and slumps into a chair next to Jensen, who has finally calmed enough to sleep. Griffin curls onto his side and shuts his eyes. Knowing that I'm okay as can be seems to be as soothing to them as counting sheep.
He shifts so that he can curl into a fetal position as best as his tall figure can in a crappy hospital chair. You would think hospitals would have recliners for such horrible occasions. Would it be so difficult for the staff to get these guys cots? I sit on the floor between them, because it’s all that I can think to do.
Griffin peeks at my body and shakes his head. He then extends a hand toward Jensen, only to retract it when Jensen snores. “Never mind, you'll just think I'm nuts. Lord knows I already think I'm crazy enough, I don't need you adding to the concern over my sanity.” He looks to my body while shaking his head. “I swear, Lizzie, you may be in that bed, but so often it feels like you are one hell of a lot closer.”
“I’m right here,” I say while looking up to him.
“Weirdest damn thing,” he mutters. “Even for the briefest moment at work right after your accident …”
I kneel so that we are face-to-face. His eyes give little blinks, and a bit of water streams down. I’ve come to accept that it is futile, but I won’t feel like a friend unless I try to dry his tears. “That's because I am here, Griffin. I really wish you could hear me.” My hand tingles as it passes through him. His nose crinkles like it's itching. That's interesting. I touch the same area. “Griffin?” His face twitches, and he reaches his hand around to rub it.
I pull back. “Griffin, can you feel me?”
He fails to respond.
Another tear forms and falls. I reach to it while saying, “You’re gonna ruin your eyeliner.” His brow scrunches, and he rubs his nose again. His eyes search the room. “Weirdest damn thing.”
My hand goes to his knee. “Griffin, am I getting through to you?”
He looks down and shakes his head. “Losing my damn mind.”
Am I imagining this, or is he responding whenever I touch him while speaking? How can I get a definitive response?
I suppose I could …
I’m blushing just thinking about it.
Sorry, Jensen, but I’m really doing this for us.
My hand goes to the most private of all of Griffin’s places, and he fails to respond. Then I speak up. “Griffin, do I have your attention now?”
He jumps up and looks down to his crotch. “Something weird is going on here.” He almost has his hand on Jensen’s arm before he high tails it out of the room. “No way I'm waking Mr. Sex On Legs and telling him that something in this room is making my crotch vibrate. It'll freak Straight Boy’s shit out. I have got to get some real sleep!”
Sweet kitten whiskers! I gotta go with Griffin. I may have just found another key!
“I need this psychic to either tell me I’m nuts or convince me I’m not,” Griffin says. “Must be losing my mind!”
I can hardly keep pace with Griffin as he dashes out of his car to rap on the door of The Great Zolta’s home. The woman who answers looks like Amy Winehouse, minus the bouffant, while modeling yoga chic. Her eyes lock into Griffin’s kohl-lined ones before going down his intimidating body. Her feet creep back so smoothly I almost miss it, but Griffin is well aware. He puts on his Miss Manners voice. It's deep and manly, yet also soft and polite. He could easily sweet talk someone into bed with it. “Hello, is Miss Zolta home?”
The woman looks through fake lashes that are so dense it’s amazing that she can open her eyes. The corner, just inside the door, holds her attention. Wasn’t a baseball bat kept there? “Do you have an appointment?” she asks.
Griffin lowers his eyes to his hands to appear less threatening. “No, I'm—I’m sorry. I saw her about a year ago, and something in the cards came devastatingly true. We need her advice, pronto.”
She tucks jet-black hair behind her ears and avoids making eye contact regarding the bad news. Griffin is so upset that she’s already changed her demeanor. “Sorry, my sister’s on vacation. You want to make an appointment for next week?”
“Next week!” The words squeal out of him, and I expect him to stomp his foot like a little girl. “Psychics can't go on vacation! They are like public servants. How would she like it if the fire department said they would show up in a month? She should at least be on-call!”
Her expression goes flat, like cheesed off, comedic straight man type flat. “That is what happens when you make five times the money I do from my legitimate job. It's not even like she went to the Bahamas. She's on a culinary tour of France. Four weeks of eating her fat ass deeper into a chair while I house sit.”
“Son of a bitch!” Griffin’s hands fly into the air. “What the hell am I supposed to do?” Now I get the foot stomp I expected earlier, and his hands land firmly on his hips. I freaking love it when Griffin flames out! “I don’t suppose you have any special abilities?”
“Oh, sure. Of course I do.” She reaches inside the house, grabs a deck of cards, and tells Griffin to draw one and not show it to her. “Now, how about I tell you which card you are holding?”
Griffin’s brows cock. “Uh, sure …”
Her fingers fly to her temples while she squints. “The three of hearts.”
Griffin tilts his head and eyes the card. “That translates to what in Tarot? Cups?”
She yanks the card back from Griffin. “I don't freaking know, because I'm not some crackpot psychic!”
Griffin wags a finger at her. “Oh no! Let me tell you, that woman is no fake! Sister nailed it big time.” The sag of Griffin’s eyes show the fun and games are over. “Is she really not coming back for a week?”
The woman’s gaze drops in empathy. “Well, she’ll be back late Friday night,” she says, sounding like she is hopeful that it will help.
Griffin talks to the steps as he heads down the porch. “Geez, I hope Lizzie holds on that long. Thanks anyway.”
“Hey, you okay?”
“Not really, but thanks for asking.” Griffin heads off with his head down. Again I’m faced with watching the people I love hurt over my misfortune.
Suddenly my tension releases. Coolness blows at me from behind, not like air conditioning, but more like a sense of peace. My silver cord is fading. Harold’s previous words ring in my brain, “That silver tail coming off of your rump means you are tethered to that body. When it goes, so do you.”
I’ve got to find my way back to Jensen.
Bertha’s V8 roar is like a brain massage. “Don’t worry about this part of life,” she says. “You are safe with me.”
Though her ticker may have its trials, her armor surrounds me in the comfort that even if I careen into a ditch, she’s got me covered. Had I been in her instead of at work when Paul’s call came, that may have happened. That call was a kick to my head, but his words jumpstarted my heart.
“Too much fluid.”
My foot presses harder on the gas. I not only need to hurry, I have to drown out Paul’s haunting words.
“Emergency surgery.”
He tried to give me the news like it was a baseball score I didn’t give a crap about, but some of the words spoke far louder than the tone used to convey them.
“They have to drill into her skull—”
Then he started to lose it.
“to remove the pressure—in more than one spot.”
Which means multiple holes—like three of them.
They want to turn my angel’s head into a bowli
ng ball.
Nightmarish visions clog my brain like a cheesy horror film filled with screams of agony and a whirling drill. My bowling ball analogy doesn’t help. My head needs to clear. I can’t let devastation rule me, or I won’t be able to do what I know Lizetta would want. We need to stop feeling helpless and take matters into our own hands. Tonight, I’ll be the one to do it.
My work boots thunder down the hospital corridor. Although everyone is going about their business, all eyes seem to be on the bag I carry. Is this how terrorists feel while on a suicide mission?
Inside Lizetta’s room her family paces, twiddles their thumbs, and is generally freaked out over the impending surgery. I don’t bother with hellos for fear of causing my resolve to falter. I bring Lizetta’s bed into a seated position. Paul and Jimmy come in to assist. Either they can read my mind or they just trust me that much. No one raises a question as I grab a rubber band out of my pocket and tie her hair back. If anyone flinches when I pull out the scissors, I don’t notice.
I can barely get the words out. “If we are going to lose even the smallest part of her, it is going to happen with dignity." I dive in with the intention of cutting as close to the root as possible, and then retract. I can’t do this.
No. Don’t think; just do. Lizetta’s suffering does not need to be in vain.
I suck it up and make the first cut. I once told Lizetta I wanted to create a little blonde haired girl with her; now we will. With each snip of the scissors, I banish the pain of our loss. The first cut represents Lizetta’s love of life. The second her compassion. The third is for the peace she brings into my world. Each snip is another reminder of how special this woman is.
The hair goes into the bag and my emotions lose all peace. I pull her head into my chest. Hot tears pour as my eyes squeeze out the guilt from having been the one to rob my girl of the locks she loves so much. The doctors may try, but I truly will find a way to keep Lizetta alive, even if it is in the form of a wig on a cancer patient’s head.
My sobs grow loud. I don't give a shit who hears or what they think of a man who is falling to pieces. Dammit, God! This is so fucking unfair!
“Thank you. Lizetta would want this.” Jimmy reaches for the bag. He gets it. He gets me, and he’s sobbing just as damn hard and just as without shame. “Here, I’ll take in the donation. Let me share this burden with you, brother."
How the hell did you allow this to happen? I’m serious, God. What the fuck were you thinking? And what makes us all so unworthy that you won’t answer our prayers?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Tuesday, July 25
The news from the doctors is always conflicting. One says Lizetta has only a few days, no matter what we do, while another says that if we continue to take action it could be weeks. One says she’s aware of what's going on around her, while another claims she hasn’t a clue. The only thing they all agree on is that the surgery was a success—for now.
Mom says there is an old belief that people in comas are straddling the line between here and the afterlife. I choose to believe that Mom is right and that Lizetta can understand everything I say, so I'm going to make damn sure she knows it’s time to stop straddling and come back.
How is it Lizetta is in front of me, yet I feel like she is next to me? Right now I swear my cheek is buzzing with her touch. Pretty much the only time I ever feel like she isn’t by my side is when I’m in the bathroom. I press her hand to my heart. “I miss you, baby. I stopped by the florist after work. Some of those bright daisies you want for the wedding are next to your bed. I also put down the deposit for the wedding.” It took everything I had to keep from losing it when I handed the woman my credit card. I got this far in my new life on faith, and I’m not going to stop believing now.
The bandages on her head feel like they are clogging my throat. It’s hard not to stare at them. I’d much rather stare at her eyes, and I would give my legs if it meant she would open them. She’s gonna be pissed when she sees the scratch near her left one. First thing she’ll probably do when she wakes is go for her makeup bag. Any minute, she is going to freak out and look for that thing.
I kiss her engagement ring before pulling her makeup bag out of the nightstand. I should bring her a mirror, because if she has to deal with the tiny one in that compact, it’ll make her crazy. I resume my position of holding her hand next to my heart, then smile at the thought of Lizetta waking in a panic over how she looks.
Heels click down the hall. They slow, stop, and start up again before black boots cross the threshold. The vibe goes from depressing to chaotic. Laura puts her hands out to stop me even though I haven't moved. "Don't get upset.”
Is she serious? My pseudo-ex-girlfriend has suddenly popped in on my comatose fiancée. Of course I'm upset.
"Since you’ve been avoiding me, I had to catch you here. I found something you will want." Before I can tell her there isn't anything that she could possibly have that I would ever want, she scuttles over to hand me a stack of photos. Great. I didn't realize she had blackmail material. I guess it's not surprising.
I'm afraid to look for fear of what compromising position these show me in. Maybe it's shots of the condiment incident, in which case I want to know but … Dear God, I really don't want to know.
My eyes hit the photos, and that feeling you get when you see something surprising, painful, and pleasant, all at the same time, creeps up my insides. These are pictures of girls playing on monkey bars. One of them is a blond who looks to be giving it her all. "Is that—Is that Lizetta?"
Laura pulls up a chair next to me. “Yeah. Recognize that sandy blonde?”
“You know Lizetta?”
“We grew up together.”
“Why didn't you say something sooner?”
“I didn't realize she was your girlfriend, until I saw that engagement photo. It kind of threw me. Also, you were so against my being around that it just felt like more drama for you. Then I found these and thought you might want them.”
Liar! If I were in my body and had blood, it would be boiling. Laura has always been full of hooey, but this really takes the Snickerdoodles !
I catch a glimpse of the pictures. Is she kidding? That's not me! That girl is too thin. What kind of trick is she playing?
I take a closer look. That’s me all right, but I thought I was at least twice that size. Even then, was I really not as big as I thought?
Son of a monkey! I never thought I was huge until Laura came around. Why did I let her distort my view? I know exactly when that photo was taken. It was the day I lost my self-esteem, and I've never fully recovered.
Laura could swing and flip like a ballerina on the monkey bars. Her eyes were so determined, yet her smile was bold. I loved how her hair danced in the sunlight. I imagined mine doing that, but the best I could do was jump and grab the bar. I hoped that if I could do just one pull-up, Laura would show me more.
Every morning I’d get to school early and fight to bring my chin up. Some days I saw big gains, while others I struggled. Finally, my chin went over the bar and I was elated in the hope of becoming athletic!
That afternoon, I scarcely had a bite of lunch, not wanting to weigh myself down. It took forever for Laura to nibble down half of her sandwich before heading off. Sure enough, she went straight for the monkey bars. I walked behind, but my heart raced like I was sprinting. She jumped and grabbed the bar, flicked her legs up, and hung. “Hey, Laura, would you please show me how to do some of that stuff you do?”
“What? Like this?” She pulled herself into a double spin.
“Yeah!” Anticipation filled me!
“Umm … Can you even do a chin-up?”
“Yes! I did one this morning.” I jumped up and grabbed the bar, ready to show her.
“One? I can do twenty. Do you really think that because you can do one chin-up you have the strength to flip yourself around?” The verbal slap would have been fine, if it was politely stated, but her arrogance came through loud and cl
ear. Even if it hadn’t, her glaring eyes that scanned my body and landed on my stomach spoke volumes. “Besides, you’d never be able to bend back enough to get your legs past your gut and over the bar. Talk to me when you lose thirty pounds.”
What? The doctor said I only need to lose five! I looked down to the roll of gut that was exposed from my shirt being drawn up while I hung. I felt sick and immediately released my grip. The moment I landed, I covered my flesh. How dare the doctor lie and say I only needed to lose five pounds! The burn of shame welled in my eyes. I grabbed my lunchbox and headed for the bathroom to hide in a stall. Food was shameful. If I didn’t think I would get in trouble with Mom, I would have tossed the box in the trash.
Still, the depression didn’t stop my stomach from grumbling. Sitting in class while the whole room mocked my noisy gut would lead to more embarrassment. I nibbled at my sandwich, intending to eat only half like Laura did. Meanwhile, the Ho-Ho in my lunch box glared at me. Laura’s judging eyes were glued in my mind, filling me with self-loathing. I had to lose weight, and I would never do it by eating Ho-Hos.
Did Laura eat Ho-Hos, or was she some health food nut? The thought of her nibbling on a salad and dreaming of sinning with chocolate thrilled me. It turned my image of her hazel eyes sad. Bet she would be jealous!
I smiled as I devoured the first bite, but during the second my heart ached of loneliness. By the third, tears came. Even as a little girl, I realized I was a junkie who couldn’t say no. How different would life have been if I had given that Ho-Ho away and told mom to never give me another one?
Laura puts her hand on Jensen’s arm. Why doesn’t he jerk away? “You okay?” she asks.
His eyes stay on the photo. “No. Not at all. She was so adorable. I can’t believe we may never have the children we dreamt of.”
No. Don’t think that way. It will happen.
Laura’s hand goes to his leg in an offer of sympathy, but this time he tenses to her touch. He looks into her eyes while shaking his head in disbelief. “Lizetta being friends with someone who was going through all that pain, while wanting to hide from her own suffering, reminds me of how selfless she is. I need some air.”
Something To Dream On Page 17
