Look How You Turned Out

by Diane Munier

  "I know Teresa," I say, then I change the subject. "So Dad, the anesthesia is going to wear off real soon, and they'll give you the good stuff to control your pain. So don't worry about a thing. Marcus is taking over at the station."

  "Oh…he knows the ropes. Not a better man."

  "I know," I say, and right in front of me, he winks at Juney.

  Teresa does come then, and I borrow her car and drive Juney home to meet Elaine. Much as he doesn't want to leave Artie, he consents to go home with his grandmother. After Elaine picks him up, I rush around making sure everything is secure enough to be able to leave. I run up to my room and freshen up and gather some toiletries for the hospital as I'll be spending the night in Artie's room.

  By the time I make it back to the hospital, Artie is writhing in pain and Teresa has a chair pulled up to his bed. "Oh God," I say upon seeing him, and worse hearing him moan in agony. "Have they given him something for pain?" I ask Teresa as I approach his bed. But just as soon a nurse and a CAN enter to help move Artie because he's carrying on about being in the wrong position. Teresa is unseated, and the best thing we can do is get out of the way. Artie yells out when they attempt to move him and pack that leg with more ice and pillows.

  Teresa seems as upset as me. Artie is no baby. To hear him yell like that is unnerving.

  "Bedilia, come here," he says as soon as we get a few minutes alone. "Look up there at that light."

  I look up at the fluorescent.

  "Is that a fish swimming in there?"

  I look at him sharply, and he is sincere. "No Dad. No fish."

  "I know what I see," he says.

  A nurse comes in then. I tell her about the fish, and she fiddles with the valve to lessen the pain meds. "Are you seeing fish, Sheriff?"

  "I know what I see," Artie insists.

  "There's no fish Dad," I repeat.

  Teresa comes back from the restroom then. "He loves to fish don't he?" she says.

  I explain he sees fish.

  "Oh," she says. "He be trippin'. He be trippin'," she says all jivey.

  It's a little cute the first couple times she says it, but she keeps saying it and Artie keeps saying he sees fish, and he knows what he sees with his own eyes, dammit.

  I suddenly feel very tired and like I need to cry.

  It gets worse for a while. Dad is no crybaby, but he's in so much pain he can barely stand to be moved. When they ask him to number his pain from one to ten, ten being the worst, he yells out, "Eleven dammit."

  I end up spending the night. There's no way I can leave him alone as miserable as he is. Teresa also wants to stay, but she has to fill in for me with the Thanksgiving meal so she has no choice but to leave. His caregivers are keeping a close eye on him, and they are in here round the clock. It's around two in the morning, and I am lying on the most miserable couch ever designed by humans for humans and staring at Artie. It seems he's fallen asleep, finally. I am exhausted, but so revved I can't close my eyes. All of a sudden Artie lifts his head, and he's wide awake again.

  "Bedilia! Bedilia!" he yells looking straight at me.

  I sit right up. "I'm right here, Dad."

  "Are we in Chicago?"

  "No Dad. We're at Lowland General. We're safe. We're fine."

  He is glaring at me like I'm telling a lie.

  "We're fine Dad. You can lie down."

  "That Myron White making trouble?"

  "No Dad. Myron White is not a trouble maker."

  "What did he do to Marcus?"

  "Nothing, Dad. Myron doesn't know Marcus. We're in Lowland. We're fine."

  Artie lies down, but every couple of minutes he looks over at me like he's worried.

  "What's the matter, Artie?"

  "Ranita?"

  "It's me, Dad. Bedilia."

  "Oh. I thought you were Ranita," he says more subdued.

  "It's Bedilia. You and I are in Lowland General. They operated on your hip, and I'm staying with you."

  It goes that way. Basically, Dad is high as a kite. They're working to regulate the pain meds, but it's a while before they get it right. During their struggle, I learn that Dad thinks I should marry Marcus. I thank him and tell him Marcus hasn't asked. We're just friends, I say. When Dad persists, I concede and say I'll get right on it.

  I learn how sorry he is over Ranita leaving me. I didn't do a thing to deserve it, according to him. I tell him it's alright I never blamed myself.

  Then I also hear how he's dating Teresa, and he meant to tell me before now, but I was busy in Chicago. He ends his diatribe by saying Marcus has no business dating a girl like Jessica. I have no idea what that means.

  He's also decided I shouldn't be in Chicago. He doesn't want me sorry I stayed in Lowland like Ranita was. He's worried

  I'm meant for more, meant to travel and see the world. But he's also seen sadness in me since I left. Well, he heard it when I called.

  "I wasn't sad," I say. Was I?

  The last thing he says is, "That boy was good for nothing when you left…moping around."

  "Juney?"

  "Marcus dammit."

  But I don't trust a thing Dad says, especially when he be trippin'.

  Somewhere after that, I must doze off. I awaken with a start to see a man standing over me. My startle reflex is on hyperdrive, and it scares me half to death. I sit up even though some part of my brain recognizes Marcus. He's in uniform, and he'd been touching my cheek I think, and he's pulling his hand back and says he's sorry he didn't mean to scare me.

  He sits next to me. It's as overwhelming as Artie's been, having Marcus so suddenly near.

  Marcus asks how Artie is doing, and I update him. We're speaking in whispers cause Dad is snoring loudly. Marcus shares a couple of things that happened during his shift. "You must be beat," he says.

  "You too," I say, establishing how in sympathy we are with one another. Juney is settled with Elaine so Marcus is free to work, and I am free to be with Dad.

  Marcus sits hunched forward, elbows on knees. He is looking at me all the time and naturally I know I look a mess so I move the rubber band off my wrist and quickly tie up my hair. It's me being interesting again.

  "Guess I'll go home and get some sleep," he says. We stare at Artie, open mouth, sounding like a bear.

  "You could come with me," he says. Then he breaks right through my indecision. "Some real sleep. It's a marathon," he says quick nod toward Dad.

  I look at him, and a nurse is already pushing her station into the room. The sun will be up soon, and they'll be all over Artie. If I look at this through the eyes of Jesus, I imagine Marcus's trying to take care of me. It's nice.

  "When's the last time you ate? C'mon," nod of his head toward the door. "They got him for now."

  "I guess…maybe for a couple hours," I mumble.

  The nurse wakes Dad, and he seems more oriented, but miserable. There are three of them moving him, questioning him, fussing over him when we leave. I am walking down the hall, Marcus beside me. I follow him out to the truck. He's left the cruiser at the station. Artie's has been towed to the yard. I haven't seen it yet, don't think I'm ready to.

  He opens my door, and I get in. Pretty soon we're pulling out of here, and my head is back, my eyes closed. He pulls on my arm, and I let it flop open, and he takes my hand. He puts a Twinkie in it. It's still in the wrapper.

  I laugh, but I set it on the dashboard. We both love those things, and it's been a running joke for years. He tries to eat all of them at the house, and I hide them in ridiculous places around the kitchen. Sometimes he pulls a box out of his jacket before he leaves. Once I found a box of them in the washing machine.

  I resume my napping position. It's only three miles to my house, but I think it's like this—we're clinging to one another. I keep my eyes closed.

  When we get home Marcus pulls into Artie's, and I practically fall out, and we go in the front door. It's left unlocked so Teresa could get in there and pull the food. I don't look right or left but go
straight up the stairs. "Come on," I say to Marcus, not even turning to look.

  "I'm going home, Bedilia," he says.

  I wave without turning around.

  Upstairs I kick off my shoes and fall face first on Artie's old bed. But there's no sleep. I have so much to process, Artie's pain and Artie's vulnerability. My Dad, my strong dad.

  Should I even be here? Shouldn't I be there? I don't know. It's a marathon, Marcus said, but how can I think about myself at all?

  I hear the first sound of Marcus's return and realize I've been straining to hear it. I quickly get under the covers, wish I'd kicked off my jeans at least, but I can't. I can't.

  I turn away from the door, roll onto my side. I can't watch his approach. I can't do it.

  Pretty soon he is walking across the floor. It's Marcus, I try to imagine. Pretty soon the bed dips and rustles and I am wrapped in his arms, and I smell the clean and feel the soft, because he's taken off the uniform, the uniform that makes my mouth water, as in drool. I feel that safety again, that new environment he pulls me into, him, solid and definite and directive about where he wants to be and where he wants me to be. No one but Dad has ever made me feel safe.

  Myron…no. Any safety I felt with him soon became a box with a heavy lid. I couldn't breathe.

  It wasn't his fault, and I don't want to think about him now.

  Marcus is home. I know he can handle what comes. He can handle me. He doesn't require I become less under the guise of becoming more. He seems to appreciate what I already am, as if it's enough, more than.

  "My turtle shell," I mumble, and I'm smiling.

  "What?" he laughs, and I hear the sleep already weighing his voice.

  I can't repeat it. "Dad…."

  "He'll be okay," he says softly. He squeezes me a little.

  "Oh, Happy Turkey Day," I remember. My forearm is aligned with his, my fingers around his wrist.

  "Thanks," he says.

  He tells me to go to sleep, but even so tired there's a smile in his voice. Finally, he's here. Finally, for a moment…with me. Two stars in the universe have collided…and it's us.

  I love you is what I think but cannot say. Well, I do.

  It's then we hear the car pull up. It's then we hear the knocking.

  "It's just Teresa," I slur, but he is up quickly and at the window. He's tall and strong and freaking straining his neck.

  "No, it's not," he says. And then he curses. He goes quickly to the stairs, and I hear the rapid steps he takes. I am up too, and I'm following. It must be some guy in a black ski mask. Marcus knows we have guns, their location and the metal box of ammo. It's like he's that stealth-lightly and rapidly descending the stairs.

  Masculine voices at the door, but both familiar. Marcus blocks the doorway by holding onto the door's frame. "Turn around and head back to where you came from," he's saying.

  "Bedilia," the visitor calls out, and Marcus pulls the door tighter, filling the gap with his body.

  "Marcus," I say. "I'll see him. It's okay."

  Marcus seems to think about it, "Conflict of interests," he says to Myron. "I don't like the way you treated Bedilia. The only reason you're not slapped with a lawsuit for harassment already is because Bedilia is too kind. But I'm not. And I think she should go for it. You took advantage of the situation. You should pay for it."

  "Are you Artie?" he says. He knows Marcus is too young to be my father. And he's seen Artie's picture. But Myron's a winner, and that means…he uses everything. "Bedilia I came all this way to see you," he calls out.

  "It's alright, Marcus. I'll see him."

  "You're lucky she's a better person than you," Marcus says as he slowly stands back, "but you're on her turf now, and she's not alone so you can't bully here. Or you could. Try."

  Myron White pushes through but only because Marcus allows him to. I'm freaked out over what Marcus has said, the intensity in his voice, and I am like the owner of the pit bull telling the mailman he won't bite when I have no idea if he will or not. No idea.

  I don't need to be protected from Myron. I never have. But Marcus's unphased by Myron's usual effect. He meant it when he pounded the table and declared he'd better not meet Myron outside of a courtroom.

  Myron looks handsome, expensive, thick and fit like usual, dark against the white contrast of his shirt open at his throat, the Native American blood he's so proud of. He wears a black suit that matches his inky hair. There are the bright white teeth Marcus made fun of, but he's not sure, he's eying Marcus.

  "I can't believe this," I say, not unfriendly, not friendly, really amazed. He's come all the way to my house?

  "Hello Bedilia," he says, he's looking at me, seeing, I'm sure, the damage from exhaustion, suspicious of Marcus, of us here together, of the state of our casual clothes, of our girl-boy-ness, a matched set, the fact we're alone. He sees it, and he'd have to be brain-dead not to feel it.

  Marcus is looking at me, restrained, subdued, but on high-alert, watching Myron, watching what I'll do.

  I'm about three steps from the bottom stair, and I've stopped there in my sweatshirt and jeans, my socks, my shock.

  "Your family…Thanksgiving."

  Well, those words are stupid. Myron does what he wants. The White family owns the world and all the people in it. Or at least, they own Chicago. For a few months, they darn near owned me. They definitely have a private plane.

  "I had to see you." He looks from me to Marcus. "I know it's rude to just drop in. If we could talk…just for a moment?"

  Marcus closes the door and folds his arms like he's not going anywhere.

  "Um…right here is fine," I say.

  Myron sees how it is, this man I was so intimate with. This man who's sweat dropped onto me as he tried to be patient with my spastic vagina. This man who dressed calmly as he let me go. And I ran.

  I am facing them…Chicago and Lowland. What almost was and what almost is. My regret and my redemption.

  "Did I…?" Myron points from me to Marcus and back to me. "Are you…?" he does it again.

  "This is Marcus," I say.

  "Not Artie?" Myron asks, but he already knows. He's rubbing it in.

  "I can't believe you came here." I'm repeating.

  Myron smiles. "A grand gesture. Is he your brother or your lawyer?" he says, pointing at Marcus this time as if Marcus can't answer for himself.

  "What do you want, Myron?"

  He spreads his hands, soft, well-manicured, "You left, you don't write…." He shrugs.

  "You fired me. The favor, remember?"

  "A favor to you. Was it?" he says.

  I try to refrain from biting my lip. "Yes."

  He points at Marcus again. "This is the one?"

  Marcus looks sharply at me.

  Yes, Marcus is Neo in the kitchen with the Oracle. He is the one. But I shall deny it, and Myron will see the lie.

  "Then you know I'm the one who sent her back here," he says to Marcus. "No bullying." He looks at me, a question, like what did I tell Marcus to rile him so?

  Marcus is content not to answer Myron right away. Naturally that puts Myron on-edge enough he takes to playing the small talk harmonica, "Not that she wouldn't have come back on her own…always a smart girl. We are still using some of her ideas. Talk about able to see the big picture…."

  "Chatty little dude," Marcus says.

  "Did I interrupt…," Myron does the sweeping point again from me to Marcus but I know when Myron's angry, and he is.

  I see this isn't as friendly as he is pretending.

  "I'll walk you to your car," I say coming the rest of the way down and having to hurry to the mudroom for shoes. Myron protests, saying it is too cold for that.

  When I get back, they are having words.

  "I drove six hundred miles out of my way…," Myron says.

  "You don't have a phone?" Marcus.

  "She doesn't take my calls. Doesn't answer my texts. Ignores my emails," he says this looking at me.

  "That's wha
t made you think she wanted to see you?" Marcus.

  "She forced me to show up. Do you know this woman at all? The queen of passive aggression," Myron says. He loves to taunt. He implies he knows me better. In one way, he does.

  "Bedilia," Marcus says, "do you want him out?"

  "Marcus please…it's alright," I say tiredly.

  "Really, Bedilia?" he says to us both.

  "Your family…your mother…," I say.

  "I'm only passing through," Myron says. " A cup of coffee at least?"

  I lead him back to the kitchen. I know it's foolhardy to take him deeper in. But he's come all this way and short of allowing him and Marcus to get into it when he tries to remove him, I figure it's better to end this now. We go in the kitchen.

  Marcus comes too. I go to the machine that makes one cup at a time and fill the reservoir and fire it up. Marcus has his hand on my back. "I'll be right outside if you need me."

  I nod as he drags his hand away. He's in the mudroom fumbling around for a coat. I'm leaning against the counter, arms folded, waiting for the coffee. Myron is seated at the table looking around the room, at the beams overhead and the modest but functional space. "Very quaint," he says, a grin.

  I hear Marcus go out.

  "Why are you doing this?" I say. "We had it out in Chicago, remember? I'm fired."

  He stands and comes closer. He doesn't round the table, but he will. "I miss you."

  I'm shaking my head. "Don't."

  "I'm here to see if you've come to your senses," he takes another step around.

  "Yes. Thank you." I hear the coffee maker heat the water, and I turn to get a cup off the hook, and he's behind me. I jump and put space between us. "Cut it out."

  He smiles. A thousand watts. "You don't miss me? We had some great times."

  "Yeah, it was peachy. I'm moving on."

  "That's not wise. Almost six figures and benefits? You're out of your mind."

  "You told me not to come back unless I chose you. So it's you, six figures and benefits. I'm not coming back." I push him out of my way and make the coffee.

  "You make it sound tawdry and you know it wasn't. I'm the only one telling you the truth here. You think I gave up on us? Guys like him, this is all they want, a cracker-box house, the football game and some fried chicken. Is that all you want for yourself? The only thing he'll be really good at is putting a kid in you once every couple of years. He won't be so pretty once he starts losing his hair and growing his belly. You're clinging to what you know. Didn't I show you some good times, show you there was more? I asked you to marry me, Bedilia."