by Arell Rivers
“Merci.”
“For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing by speaking up. I’d want my own daughter to be so brave.”
Hopefully, by doing what I am about to do, I will help make the world a place her daughter won’t have to fight these battles.
At peace with my decision to speak with my attorneys since talking with Stacy and after a delicious dinner, Maman and I sit outside in the garden sipping our café. “Now, Emsy, work was just part of what we needed to talk about before.” She tilts her head toward the salon.
I take another sip of my café, which, no matter how hard I try, I cannot recreate in LA. “Oui.” I drink another delicious sip.
“Man problems? Is it Wills?”
My eyes meet hers. “How did you know? I did not even mention his name.”
A small smile tugs at her lips. “A mother always knows.”
My eyes drift shut for a moment. “I love him.”
She smiles, her eyes dancing as she places her empty mug on the wicker ottoman serving as a table. When she meets my gaze, her smile fades. “Talk to me.”
I tell her all about what happened during the party following the movie shoot, and the morning after. “He said some very hurtful things. He told me he was done with me.”
One of her eyebrows goes up. “And how did you respond?”
I slouch into the garden chair and mumble, “I told him he needs therapy.”
“Well, then you both said some cutting things to each other. Why do you think he said those things to you?” She eyes me. “Sit up straight.”
Regaining my proper posture, I consider her question. “Well, he has always felt that he is a failure. According to him, he failed his twin sister by not going into the Marines, and then she was killed. He failed his partners when they were killed protecting Cole and Rose.” I take a final sip and place my cup next to hers. “So, he must have felt he failed me when Wade attacked me on his watch.”
“Sounds logical to me.”
I look at her, tears in my eyes. Before Wills, I hardly ever cried. Now I cannot seem to stop. “But I told him—”
“To see a therapist,” Maman finishes for me. “That sounds like sage advice. You said he has nightmares, panic attacks and is guilt-ridden. Seems to me he needs professional help to overcome these problems. Your relationship can’t blossom until he gets a handle on them.”
I nod. “I went out with Rinaldo the other night. I tried to take you up on your advice to rekindle our relationship. But the spark is gone now. I do not feel like that with him any longer. Everything he said, everything he did, I compared it to Wills. And found him lacking.”
“Oh, Emsy. I suggested you two get back together because you seemed so happy when you were with him before. And, of course, you know how much I love football.” She winks, breaking some of the tension inside me. “But, I don’t want you to compromise yourself. You need to be with the person who makes your heart beat faster. And if that’s Wills, then you have some decisions to make.”
“Oui. You are right.” I sit straighter. “No one has ever challenged me to look deeper and consider the questions he asked. He was the first person to pick up on my ennui with modeling. I like the profession, do not get me wrong, but he saw the spark was missing. He saw it, Maman. He saw me.”
She smiles, her whole face transforming with her beauty. I gain strength from her. “Then you know what you must do.”
I nod. I need to talk with him and make us work. Because he really is the only man for me.
29
Wills
I sit on a bench outside the ICU. Mom grabbed ahold of my hand and hasn’t let it go since he was wheeled back in from surgery. That was when? Hours ago.
“One minute he was in the family room, and the next he was on the floor, gasping for breath. I didn’t know what to do. The paramedics came quickly and said I probably saved his life.” Mom repeats her story. I could recite her words by now, but I know she needs reassurance that she did the right thing.
Heart attack. The invincible FPU was laid low by a heart attack. Guess it proves he has one.
I squeeze her hand and rest the back of my head against the wall. The antiseptic smell of the hospital invades my senses, reminding me of my last stay here. I need to keep myself rooted in the present instead of reliving the aftermath of the bullet to my shoulder. And my next visits to a hospital—morgue—after Cole’s crazy stalker rampage.
Doctors rush by wheeling someone on a gurney. Beeps from various machines filter through. We haven’t been able to see my father since he was wheeled in the room after surgery, even though he’s just on the other side of the wall where my head currently leans.
A doctor exits his room and approaches us. “Mrs. Sumner?”
Mom drops my hand and jumps up. “Yes.” She runs her hands down her pants. Even under these circumstances, she’s maintaining appearances. Like he instilled in her every day for decades. She touches my shoulder. “And this is my son, William.”
I stand next to the doctor and we shake. “Mr. Sumner was very lucky. The double bypass was successful. Even though his heart attack was a major event, it could’ve been deadly.”
My stomach clenches. I was right before. FPU’s heart is too ornery to give up so easily.
“Thank you,” Mom replies. “Can I go see him?”
“Yes.” He looks between us. “One at a time, though. I’ll be back when we get his tests back to discuss next steps. Medications, PT, adjustments to his diet and exercise, that sort of thing.”
Mom’s chest rises and falls and she turns away from me to walk into his room. Letting Mom visit with him, I wander into the waiting room. I need a change of scenery. When she’s done, I’ll drive her home.
Ignoring the vending machine with its crappy coffee, I take a seat. The television is on, but not even “Ninja Heroes” can hold my interest, so I click it off. A stack of magazines waits on a side table and I flip through them. Parenting, Health, Sports Illustrated—a “real” issue and not the swimsuit one, thank God—but I’ve read everything in here at least a dozen times since FPU’s heart attack on Sunday. Two days ago.
A worker walks into the room and drops a new pile of magazines on another table. When he’s gone, I check out the top one. It’s People, with the British prince and his wife on the cover. As I pick it up, my eye goes to the top-left corner. Emilie and Rinaldo are riding together in a Ferrari.
If my heart was hooked up to a monitor right now, the nurses would be calling a “code blue.”
I collapse into a nearby chair, People on my lap. Of course, I can’t keep my eyes from eating up every square inch of the photo. The way her blonde hair is blowing in the wind. The sleek black sportscar, with Rinaldo at the wheel. Idly, I wonder if she ever completed a course to get her driver’s license.
Sucking in oxygen, I break my own vow and open the magazine. Well, since this isn’t actually a tabloid, I’m not exactly breaking my self-inflicted promise. In the “Seen Around Town” section, there’s another photo of the two of them, this time on a red carpet in Barcelona for the premiere of the movie they shot. That’s where he lives, and obviously where she’s spending her time. The short article indicates the photo was taken last Friday.
In this photo, they’re standing on a street, holding hands. I focus on her smile. Does it look real? Is it her fake one for the cameras? It’s been over a month since I’ve seen her and I can’t tell. I can’t tell the difference in her smiles anymore.
Heat rushes from my chest to my neck.
Closing my eyes, I utter, “She’s better off without the likes of me.” When I reopen my eyes, I toss the magazine to the side. She’ll be happy with Rinaldo. Hell, they even look like the perfect match—her blonde hair and hazel eyes compliment his dark Latin looks. Like a real fucking life Ken and Barbie.
I rub my palm over my jaw, which rasps against my stubble. How much longer do I have to be here? I don’t want to rush Mom, but every second I’m in
this hospital pushes me that much closer to losing my shit. Maybe I should call my therapist for an emergency session? Like that would do much good.
Thankfully, Mom opens the door. Seeing I’m alone, she doesn’t join me but says, “Your father wants to talk with you.”
As if this day couldn’t get any worse. I shake my head. “Mom, I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to go in there. In his condition, he doesn’t need to get worked up.” I went in once on Sunday when I first got here, which only served to agitate him. And me.
Mom crosses the threshold and takes a seat next to me. “Wills, he’s your father. And he wants to speak with you. Go, talk with him.”
The hard look on her face tells me I better go and get it over with. “Fine,” I grumble. “But don’t blame me if he needs a quadruple bypass afterwards.”
Mom leans over and kisses my forehead. She hasn’t done that in years. I guess almost losing her husband—though I’ll never understand their dysfunctional relationship—will do that to a person. I pull away and leave her sitting there. At the door, I look back as she picks up the People magazine. Great.
Outside FPU’s door, I stop. What do I have to say to this man? I run my hand through my short crew cut. Perhaps my newly-shorn military cut will make him happy. Or, as happy as he ever is.
Knocking, I enter the private room. I walk around the curtain and come to the foot of his bed. The normally larger-than-life man looks small. He’s hooked up to a variety of machines. His ruddy complexion is replaced with a pallor I’ve never seen before.
FPU is human after all.
His eyes are closed. I watch his chest rise and fall as he rests, the monitors providing a soundtrack. I’ve been in too many hospitals in my life. I turn around to go get Mom when a feeble voice calls out, “Stay.”
I freeze.
Here’s the FPU I know. Commanding, even in weakness. Not asking for company but demanding it. And I’m still ten, wanting his approval. I turn. “Hi.”
The man on the bed swallows and motions for me to come closer. No matter how old I am, or how independent I claim to be, I can’t walk away. Shuffling to his side near his thighs, I mumble, “I’m here.”
He lifts his right hand up from the side of the bed, I.V. sticking from the top of his hand, and flicks his wrist twice. Expelling a breath, I take the few remaining steps to stand by his head.
“Take a seat, son.”
Son? I’m caught so off guard by his recognition of me as a part of him, that my ass plants onto the stool before my head can form a coherent thought.
Silence reigns between us, except for the monitors. I’m the first to breach the gap. “How are you feeling?”
“Like someone ripped open my chest.”
Can’t argue with him there. That’s exactly what the doctors did. I look around the room, my eyes landing on the water pitcher. “Do you want any water?”
He shakes his head. In a raspy voice, he says, “Listen, I’ve had time to think about my life. What I’ve required of you.”
And here comes the lecture about how much of a disappointment I am. Nothing ever changes. Before he can lay into me—which can’t be good for his recovery—my thighs tense to bring me upright.
“I’ve been too hard on you, son.”
My muscles turn to jelly. I remain rooted to the stool, unable to comprehend what he’s saying. Must be the morphine. I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.
FPU wades back in, this time in even deeper waters. “You look surprised. I guess it took a heart attack to give me some perspective. I know I’ve pushed you. I just saw so much potential for you in the Marines.” He looks away from me. “You would’ve been an amazing Marine.”
“I didn’t want to follow in your footsteps.”
His eyes return to mine. They’re a cloudy blue, the color having lost its sharpness. “You wanted to find your own way in the world. Make your own mark. And you’ve done so much. It filled me with pride when you became a bodyguard. I knew you had my blood running through your veins, you just wanted to express it in a different way.”
Pride? He was proud? “You never said—”
He waves his hand, the I.V. catching on the blanket. He tries to free it, but it only snags more.
“Here, let me fix it, Dad.” When the last word leaves my mouth, we both freeze. I can’t remember the last time I called him that. Dad. Neither of us comments on it, but once the line is untangled, he continues, his voice becoming weaker.
“When you were shot, I was so worried for you. But, you are strong. You got right back up and returned to the field, guarding the rock star.”
“Cole,” I supply.
“Right, Cole and his fiancée. You protected them in the moment it mattered. It takes a real soldier to do what you did.”
It’s as if I’m outside my body, looking down at a man I don’t recognize. “But my partners—” I can’t complete the sentence.
“Were killed. I know. Even under such dire circumstances, you stood up. That takes more courage than most people ever would hope to possess.”
“I didn’t save them.”
“No, you didn’t. But you can’t save everyone, and they were trained professionals. Would they have wanted you to simply lay down and let that madwoman kill you and their clients?”
“No, of course, not.”
“Like I said, you can’t save everyone, son. Hell, I couldn’t even save myself from this.” He looks around his hospital room, then closes his eyes.
I’ve never heard such words from my father in my entire life. It was always I was a “disappointment.” I try to assimilate what he’s just said with the man who made my childhood with my twin a nightmare, but I can’t. I roll the stool backward and his eyes pop open again.
“I was tough on you because you’re my boy. My son. Every Marine dreams of his son following in his footsteps. But you always did what you wanted. Must have gotten that from your mother.”
He chuckles, which turns into a wheeze. I scramble to pour him a cup of water, dunk a straw inside and hold it out. “Here you go, Dad,” I pause. “Take is slow.”
After he takes a few sips, he returns the plastic cup to my hand and I put it down on the tray.
“Instead of you, Addie went into the Marines. I was proud of her, of course. She represented.”
His words lack their usual vindictiveness. More of a statement of fact than a recrimination. I’m at a loss of how to handle this new, softer side of the man. My father. “And she paid the ultimate price.”
“Yes, she did.”
“If I had gone in, she would be here today.”
“You don’t know that. We can never know that. You could’ve been killed in battle too, and I would have lost both of my children.” He swallows and looks away but not before a sheen of wetness coats his eyes. “I barely survived losing my baby girl. If I’d lost you as well, I wouldn’t have outlived my grief.”
“Dad.”
On an exhale, he says, “You’re a good man, William.” Then his eyes close and he drifts off to sleep.
After dropping mom off at home, I drive aimlessly through the streets of LA and end up at Complete. I slip into the classroom style room and shut the door. I let the silence overtake my body. All the noise from the gym area disappears as I quiet my mind.
Dad’s words resound in my brain. “You’re a good man, William.” For once, my stomach doesn’t clench at his use of my full name. He said he was proud of me. Proud.
I’ve waited my whole life to hear him say that. It only took a heart attack to bring the words out.
“You can’t save everyone, son.”
Instead of Three or Roberto or Jared, visions of Emilie come to my mind. Her being manhandled by Wade Block.
I wasn’t there to prevent him from getting to her. She did use her self-defense training to stun him, though. And I did protect her in the end. I saved her.
My eyes land on the photo from the Caymans. That was a magical time.
She made me feel connected to her. Like I could make a positive impact on her life rather than ruin it. I haven’t laughed so much as I did when I was with her. And when her fingers touched my body, I felt ten feet tall and at her mercy, all at once.
All of a sudden, it hits me that I’ve been decorating this room for her. The blue on the walls reminds me of the importance of the ocean to us. When she drove us to the beach to get sand for McKenna. In Rio and the Caymans.
As my gaze travels around the room, more little touches I subconsciously included here surface. A starfish doorstop. An angel bookend.
My breathing becomes ragged. It’s been over a month since I saw her. More than thirty days since I held her. Forever since I slept with her in my arms.
I miss her.
I love her.
I just hope it’s not too late.
30
Wills
Is she here or on another continent? Given how she’s thrown herself back into modeling, there’s no telling where on earth she could be. Literally.
How can I get her back if I don’t know where to look? An inkling of a memory tickles my brain. Before, when we were together, she sent me an email with her schedule.
Feels like ages ago.
I pull out my phone, searching through my emails. My thumb stops, and I open up one with the subject line of “Travel.” Please, please, please, let the schedule go out this far.
I scroll through all of the September dates. Yes! My eyes zero in on today—Tuesday, October 5th. She’s flying to LA from Paris, and her plane arrives at 5:30 pm. That’s an hour from now.
I run out the back exit without saying anything to anyone. I need to hurry if I’m going to meet her plane, especially in rush hour traffic. Jumping into my Jeep, I screech out of the parking lot.
On the freeway, my forward momentum ceases. I bang on the steering wheel, weaving in and out of cars. After a couple of minutes, I can’t even weave. Traffic has come to a dead stop. Smog seems to be thick up ahead, echoing my darkening thoughts.
