Something To Dream On

by Rinella, Diane

  “You still using that shit?” She shakes her head, and my glare shows I don’t believe her.

  “I’m chipping back.”

  “That’s useless, and you know it. When was the last time?”

  “Last weekend. I used to ride Saturday and Sunday. Now I’m down to Saturday.”

  “Stop lying. That shit don’t fly with me. We both know you take it whenever you can get it. Let’s change that. What I heard you say was, ‘I just quit.’ To which I replied, ‘Good, then I’ll help you.’ Don't move.”

  From inside the fridge I grab a pitcher of strawberry protein shakes I made five minutes before she got here. I pour a couple of glasses and set one in front of her. “Drink.”

  “The hell? What is this crap? Pepto-Bismol?”

  “You and I have spent way too much time getting the other to drink, and in some ways that's not such a bad thing. We were just drinking the wrong stuff. A few days ago you said you wanted me to show you how to get better. If you really meant that, down that protein shake and then drink another one. Come back tomorrow, and we'll do it again. We are back to being drinking buddies, and when I know I can actually trust you, we will start talking. Like, actual talking. But not today. One step at a time.”

  “Is this a challenge?”

  My glare speaks that if anyone here is doing any challenging, it is Laura with my patience. But yeah, it’s a challenge for her to shape up, just like it is a reminder for me to stay clean.

  Laura raises her glass. “Cheers.”

  She chugs while I sip. My stomach tries to squeeze the shake back up.

  Once she downs her second shake, she gets the boot. “See you tomorrow. Swing by at six o’clock every morning for breakfast. If you have to do that, you won’t be up partying all night. Meanwhile, eat something! Eat a lot of something and drink a lot of water or juice with nothing in it, okay? Don't screw up!”

  When I shut the door, Etta glares at me to say, “That goes double for you.” I start to thank her, then make for the bathroom to say hello again to the protein shake.

  Yes!

  Yes! Yes! Yes! My insides want to burst!

  It takes everything I’ve got to hold back my scream until I drive away. “Score!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Thursday, July 27

  Paul and Jimmy stare at each other. Mom paces while repeatedly slapping her hands on her legs, like she is trying to beat herself up. At Paul’s touch, she puts out her hands in a signal for him to stop. “I'm fine, but I need more answers than that so-called doctor, who just strutted out, can give me. How can it be that my daughter has survived like this for so long, yet they are giving me this line of bull? It doesn't make any sense. The fact that my baby is obviously fighting must mean something!”

  “June Bug, have a seat and calm down for a moment.”

  Her hands sharply cross in front of her. “No. I'm fine. I’m going for a walk. There's a man upstairs who owes me answers. Clearly no one here has them. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Paul and Jimmy resume staring at each other. “Which of us is going to tell Jensen?” Jimmy asks.

  Paul’s shoulders drop in acceptance of the weight. “I’ll handle it as soon as he gets off work.”

  “Maybe we should call Arlene and ask her to do it.”

  “Nah, she’ll want to come down, and if he’s not up to company, it will add stress. Jensen likes to handle things his own way. She and I had a good talk. The best way to be there for Jensen is to let him call the shots, but when you have to tell your kid bad news, you want to be there to smother him. Besides, this isn't the first time I’ve had to give news regarding someone in a coma. That time sure was different though.”

  Paul strokes my cheek with his thumb. The reduction in my number of bandages has taken me from mummy-like to resembling a crash victim in a cheesy, made-for-TV movie. The good news is, the people in those movies always recover.

  “Let's just say the accident that guy had was self-inflicted, which is all the more reason why it should be me who talks to Jensen.”

  Thing is, no one else seems to know I’m going to make it back.

  For the last week I have spent a good chunk of my life in this chair while staring at a woman in distress. First the coma, then seizures, then holes in her head. Now, because of the results of her latest MRI and EEG test, the neurologist has changed her diagnosis to Persistent Vegetative State. The doctor tried to explain what that really means, but all I heard him say was Lizetta’s chances of recovery are slimmer than ever.

  You allowed this mess, God. You probably think I should be grateful that she is still alive. I could justify you taking her because you were jealous and wanted to spend time with her, but to cause her this suffering is senseless.

  My stomach lets out a roar. I promised I wouldn't allow that to happen again. I promised Lizetta I’d marry her. I promised to never touch drugs or get wasted again.

  I am really sick of promises.

  The can of strawberry Ensure I grab out of my backpack seems appropriate. This is the crap they give people in hospitals and convalescent homes—the food of the geriatric—the food for those too sick to eat. I raise the bottle and toast its followers. I swig down the goo. It almost comes back up when I put it all together. This is the thing we are considering depriving Lizetta of so she can pass on and be at peace. How ironic is it that my decline puts me on the same treatment path as someone who can’t care for herself?

  The bottle gets stashed under my chair so I can’t smell it. There is no way I can drink that stuff now that I see it for what it really is—the same stuff that is in that disgusting feeding tube.

  When it comes down to it, I need that bottle to help me hold it together, just like alcohol once did. How much healthier am I now? How much have we all suffered since Lizetta’s accident? Hell, her family and I all look like walking zombies. What good is a bottle that keeps you alive when you’re dead inside?

  The doctors’ constant hints that we are prolonging the inevitable are their way of saying that we have only succeeded in adding to her misery. Then again, some of them say she is not even aware of what is happening. If we are the ones hurting, and Lizetta’s condition is hopeless, why are we doing this to ourselves?

  Am I really thinking what I think I'm thinking?

  Maybe it would be best for everyone’s sake.

  But I can’t imagine life without her. I need her here.

  There I go being selfish again.

  I didn’t just promise to marry her; I promised to make her happy. She can’t possibly be happy now.

  I give Lizetta's hand a kiss, right where the reminder of a promise sits, and I get defensive over my desire to run. “I need some sleep, honey. I’ll be back in a few hours. I love you, always, no matter what.”

  I bolt out the door, leaving Lizetta and the Ensure behind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Friday, July 28

  Lizetta stands inside a field of green.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  I run to her.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Her hand reaches for mine and—

  Pound! Pound! Pound!

  I rip the covers off and sprint for the door. Etta dashes along while barking. With a snap of my wrist and a yank, the door flies open. “Looks like you couldn't sleep either,” Laura has the balls to say.

  Before I can ask her why the hell she is here, she's plopped onto my sofa. She’s in pink fuzzy slippers and black PJs with little pink kittens on them. Laura owns pajamas? If she were a normal person, I’d think going out like that was ridiculous. However, this is Laura. Only one thing seems to explain her. Ten bucks says the outfit gives her the excuse to fall asleep on my sofa. Being the gentleman that I am, of course I would offer her my bed, and—oh, no possible way!

  “I couldn't stop thinking about Lizetta, so I pulled out some photos from prom. I thought you might like to see them.”

  Yeah, I'd love to see pictures of Lizetta, but not
at two in the morning. Especially not when I was finally getting a little sleep.

  Laura makes herself all kinds of comfortable by snuggling into the sofa. She has the audacity to put her furry feet up on the coffee table. When they nearly bump into Lizetta’s tiara, my death glare tells her to remove them. “You are not supposed to be here for another four hours. Can we please do this at another time? Despite the facts that my fiancée is in a coma and I've left school, I do still need to go to work.”

  “You quit school?”

  “Yeah, you what?” How can I take time to find a solution when I need to keep watch on Jensen every second? Then again, how could I have stopped him?

  Also, prom pictures? Is she freaking kidding? Boy is she going to be sorry when all this gets fixed and Jensen hears the truth. Jensen is in for a rude awakening as well. Obviously they are friends, even though he is in denial of that fact. I’ve been pretty forgiving so far. Either I am going to come back to the land of the living and let him have it, or I am going to learn how to move stuff around so I can be one of those ghosts who complicates people’s lives. I may be an understanding person, but there are limits!

  “No, I put it on hold. I’ll go back next semester when I can focus.” Laura mimics the look I give when I call her a liar. “No, really. I’m going back next semester, no matter what happens with Lizetta. She’d never forgive me if I didn’t.”

  Laura returns her eyes to the photo and she nods. “I get it. If I were you, I wouldn't want to disappoint her either.”

  There is no way she gets what I am up against. Those fuzzy slippers have yet to hit the ground and walk their way out, so I just keep staring while willing her to leave.

  Finally, she clues in. “Sorry, I had a bad night and needed a diversion. I thought you might, too.” She’s slow in standing while hoping I get it. This could be Laura being the manipulative tramp she is, or it could be Laura needing not to escape her reality and leave the drugs at home. We are supposed to help each other.

  “Sit. Let's see what you got.” I’m not sure I’m ready for this. I’d be fooling myself not to think that there are heavy decisions regarding Lizetta ahead. If we decide that all is said and done, I don't know if I’ll be able to allow myself to think of her again. After taking part in such a decision, I might pull my own plug.

  I sit a good foot away, and Laura leans in like we’re buddies. Etta starts whipping her tail while giving me the look of a woman scorned—much like Lizetta would if she were here.

  No worries, Etta. Laura is not my buddy, though in many ways she's the best friend I've got right now. Paul may get what I'm up against, but nobody gets my past like Laura.

  Also, no one makes me as edgy as she does. I hate how I sound to myself when she is around yet …

  Frankly, I want to wrap my arms around her, solely because I need someone to still love me despite my being a heartbeat away from blowing it. Fortunately, Etta jumps up between us. I owe her one.

  Of course, the top picture is of Laura, looking all kinds of hot in a black dress that reveals just enough skin to be alluring. The Laura I’ve always known has been pretty, but here she was gorgeous. It’s hard not to be invasive and ask for details on what the hell happened, even though I kind of know. “Dad finally made sure his little girl can’t be seen as innocent anymore. It’s okay. I’ve been waiting for it.” As much as I deny what that must mean, it still makes me shiver. If the bastard wasn’t in jail for his third DUI, I may have killed him by now.

  “Well, what do you think?” Her eager eyes remind me of a little girl who is seeking daddy’s approval. Considering all the ways I have shown her how I have approved in the past, and what her dad did, her turning to me as a father figure is creepy.

  I play into her want for praise and tell her the truth. “You looked fantastic.”

  Laura flips through a few pictures of her friends. All of them show staged goofiness. She giggles, and I fake amusement. I don't give a crap about these. I just want to see photos of the future mother of my children. Finally, she gets to one. Lizetta stands alone while looking out onto the dance floor. Her golden hair drapes over her shoulders and down to the top of her strapless dress. Her skin glimmers. God, how I miss everything about her. I'm speechless at her beauty, and because I want to be with her for a moment without interruptions.

  “Check out that dress!”

  Don’t you dare go there, little Miss Anorexia. You always have my compassion until you open your mouth.

  “I always thought that dress was a little … Umm …”

  “Perfect for her in every way.” It comes out like a sigh of longing. Man, the girl has me whipped.

  “I was going to say, teal.”

  Sure you were.

  The dress is the perfect color for Lizetta. Still, the brightness of the satin makes it a bit to take in.

  “I tried to talk her into a little black number, but for some crazy reason, she wanted that teal dress.”

  Of course she wanted teal. She wouldn’t be Lizetta if she didn’t. “Well, she is a hard-core hockey fan.”

  Laura's expression goes flat. Now that's interesting.

  The picture surprises me. I expect to see rolls of fat. Instead I find a pretty, young woman with curves that glide like those of a model—which was how I felt when the night started. When it ended, I was a crying wreck of blubber, all because I let myself be influenced by Laura.

  How dare she claim we had been friends enough to go shopping together! God! I didn’t even want to go to the prom. Thing was, if I didn’t, I would be branded a loser who couldn’t get a date—and I was until salvation came from my best friend. “Hey, you know how you keep bitching about your prom? Since Prince Charming has yet to show up on his white horse, how about you settle for a crappy date and let me take you in a rusty Nova?”

  Seriously, how could a girl refuse such a charming offer? “Sure, but I’m not putting out, so don’t go getting any funny ideas.”

  “No way. Even if you strapped something on, boobs scare the crap out of me.”

  I tried not to think of all the bizarre connotations and see it as a man telling me I had awesome tits.

  A couple of weeks later, a tuxedo-clad Griffin and I were inside the San Francisco Galleria, surrounded by three levels of balconies. I swore the world was staring down. I wondered if the attention was out of amazement that I had a date, caused by my gloriously low-cut neckline, or because Griffin looked delicious enough to be on the cover of an erotica book.

  Griffin was the most amazing date. He even asked for a fabric swatch from my dress so he could match a corsage to it. He skillfully spun me during the fast dances, and then romanced me through the ballads. If I didn’t know he was gay beyond a doubt, which he proved by not being able to look me in the cleavage, I would have popped the question.

  My perfect night may have stayed that way, if I hadn’t stopped on my way out of the rest room for a quick glance in the mirror. No wonder why Griffin kept his eyes on mine. My boobs were lethal!

  A group of giggling girls staggered in with Laura at the helm. “Lizzie!” Laura smacked me on the back. “Nice dress! Your cousin’s kind of hot!”

  The other girls giggled.

  I didn’t expect kindness, but that cheap jab took her teasing to a whole new level of disrespect, and it pushed me too far. After years of sucking it up, I let her have it. “Aw. That’s cute of you to be jealous.” I smacked her on the back like she had done to me. “Don’t worry. Your date may not get the best date of the night award, but Brad’s good looking in his own special way.”

  Her entourage sang a chorus of “Oohs.”

  Laura’s eyes flared. I thought she was about to deck me. Instead, she did something far worse. She hit my gut with a glare. “Great come back, Liz. I always underestimate how witty your kind are in order to make up for their physical flaws.”

  My brain froze, just like her eyes had on my midsection. It was far worse than a threat made to my face. This one was made into my so
ul. She looked up with the unfortunate timing of seeing the first tear fall. Then I was out the door. One of the girls called, “I thought you were a cow, not a chicken!”

  I fled to the second balcony and grabbed a seat in a corner, literally biting my tongue so I could focus on the physical pain and fight the sobs that would ruin my makeup. When Griffin found me, he read the story in my eyes from across the room. Like a real life Prince Charming, he made a beeline for me. “Let me guess. You ran into Queen Bitch.”

  Griffin practically dragged me into the center of the dance floor. He tucked his head down into my shoulder and pressed his fingers against my back. The embrace that showed the world I was worth holding brought back my pride as we swayed in half time to the driving beat. Once we had drawn enough attention, he raised my chin and whispered, “You owe me for this—big time.” His kiss was impassioned, but the butterflies in my stomach were brought on by the shock that someone cared so much that he would do something that went against the core of who he was to help me save face.

  The crowd cheered, but his next kiss nearly brought the house to its knees. He tucked me in his arm and paraded me off of the dance floor. I caught a glimpse of Laura’s face as we strolled past. Her dropped jaw showed shock, but that didn’t stop her from getting in the last word. “Guess her cousin likes ‘em hefty.”

  I barely managed to make it out with my head up. Now this witch is claiming to be my friend in order to steal my fiancé while I am helpless. For years she has been stealing my soul, now she’s going for my heart.

  Laura flips to the next photo, and it's one of Lizetta dancing with Griffin. It figures that they would go together. If he were not so man-happy, I’d feel threatened by him.

  “You know,” Laura says, “for the life of me, I can't remember the name of her date. Nice guy. I wish I hadn’t lost track of her once high school ended. Apparently they had an epic break-up.”

  The hell? No friend of Lizetta would not know who Griffin is, let alone think they dated.