Heart's Desire

by Laura Pedersen

  Chapter Thirty-six

  DESPITE OUR RECENT BULB EXCAVATION, BERNARD APPARENTLY has a clear conscience, and immediately goes to meet our friend at the door. Although the stocky Officer Rich has only run around the front of his car and a few feet across the sidewalk, he’s winded when he reaches the threshold.

  “Olivia!” wheezes Officer Rich. “Just heard over the radio— woman down. Your address.”

  “Down? Down where?” Bernard is clearly puzzled. It’s obvious that he doesn’t watch crime shows.

  “Unconscious!” I translate the radio slang for him.

  “Ambulance to the hospital,” continues Officer Rich.

  “Oh my God!” Bernard digs into his pockets. “Where are my keys?”

  “Hop in my car,” says Officer Rich as he heads back around to the driver’s side in the determined jog trot that acts as a substitute for running among tub-shaped men.

  Bernard flies toward the car while I lock the door of the shop and then jump into the back of the squad car. Officer Rich throws the switch on his gumball and hits the gas so hard that the car jerks forward and within seconds we’re going seventy.

  “What happened?” asks Bernard, his voice edged with panic. “Is she . . . did she have a heart attack?”

  Officer Rich turns up the volume on his police scanner. “Don’t know. I was a few blocks from the shop when I heard the call.” He’s still catching his breath and gulping air. “Thought I’d see if you were there.”

  The squad car squeals to a stop in front of the admission area of the new hospital and we rush into the building. Standing at the desk arguing with a stern-faced woman in a crisp light blue uniform is Ottavio. His face is beyond deep red and quickly approaching purple. Not only that, he’s gone into full-blown Italian. Ottavio’s hands are flailing around to accentuate his words and a fist suddenly slams onto her desk to serve as what must be intended as a punctuation mark.

  “What happened?” Bernard shouts at Ottavio as we hurry toward him.

  But Ottavio continues to rail in Italian and we can only make out the frequently occurring words Olivia and marito.

  However, the woman at the desk keeps repeating what must be her standard instruction, “Please take a seat in the lounge area and we’ll inform you of any news.” She calmly slides a ballpoint pen behind her ear.

  “Olivia Stockton!” Bernard says to the woman. “She just came in!”

  The woman appears to be very familiar with the situation. “She’s just asked for a priest.”

  “A priest!” Bernard’s eyes grow so wide you’d think the woman had announced that Olivia is dead. “Where is she?” It’s obvious from the way Bernard is poised to run that he doesn’t think there’s much time left.

  And quite frankly, neither do I. Over Christmas vacation, when Gil was still home, we’d all watched the Brideshead Revisited episode that included Lord Marchmain’s deathbed conversion. I’d always heard that the greatest sinners made the greatest converts. Just like reformed smokers.

  “Are you a relative?” the woman demands to know.

  The word relative throws Ottavio into another round of wild gesticulation and shouting in Italian.

  “Of course I’m a relative,” says Bernard. “I’m her son!”

  “Intensive Care is down the hall, make a left, and go through the double doors.” She removes the pen from behind her ear and begins to prepare a visitor’s pass, but Bernard isn’t about to waste the last moments of his mother’s life waiting for a name tag.

  He grabs my arm. “C’mon.”

  “Is she a relation?” the woman shouts after us.

  “Granddaughter!” He yells this lie over his shoulder. We’re already too far down the corridor for her to catch us. And it’s now apparent that Ottavio is being denied admittance because he’s not a family member. However there’s no easy way to lie about him. With his darker complexion, thinning hair, and lack of height, Ottavio doesn’t exactly bear a family resemblance. And this isn’t even taking into account that he seems to have lost any and all command of the English language.

  Before we’re allowed to enter the Intensive Care Unit, a nurse hands us green paper masks to wear along with slippers in exchange for our shoes.

  “Olivia Stockton.” Bernard pleads for information as his nervous fingers fumble with the elastic on the paper slippers.

  “She took a fall,” the nurse calmly replies. This particular hospital employee appears to be much more compassionate than the woman at the reception desk. “She was unconscious for a few minutes, so we want to make sure there’s no concussion. And also that the fall wasn’t precipitated by a mild stroke or heart palpitation.”

  All I really manage to infer from these words is that Olivia is alive and will not be a vegetable for the rest of her life.

  “First bed on the left,” says the nurse.

  We hurry through the double doors. It’s easy to find Olivia for several reasons. There’s only one other patient, and he’s in an oxygen tent at the opposite end of the room. Then there’s an honest-to-God priest sitting in a straight-back wooden chair next to Olivia’s bed. And she’s arguing with him.

  The priest can be heard saying, “But the Bible clearly states that—”

  Olivia cuts him off. “And the Bible also says to kill trespassers. So let’s just put literal interpretations aside for a moment.” She waves to us as if we’ve just arrived at our designated meeting place near the mall fountain. “Now, how is a woman supposed to educate herself if she’s having babies all the time? I’m not suggesting we use abortion as a form of birth control, but—”

  “Mother!” shouts Bernard. “I thought you were dying!” Tears flash in his eyes and he collapses onto the empty bed next to her. The nurse runs over, believing that he’s fainted. The priest also rises, probably thinking the entire family is experiencing fits.

  “I’m perfectly fine,” says Olivia. “I was daydreaming and tripped over that little step on the way into the living room. You’ve arrived just in time to take me home.” She pulls back the covers and begins to climb out of bed.

  “Not so fast, Mrs. Stockton.” The nurse places her hands on Olivia’s shoulders and urges her to lie back down. “We need to keep you overnight for observation.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” says Olivia.

  The priest takes me aside and whispers, “She’s really quite addled. You should make sure they run some tests.” He points to his head, the way we did in third grade to indicate that someone is crazy.

  But Olivia is already up and searching for her shoes.

  “Honestly, Mother, I thought you were a goner,” Bernard says plaintively. “And that I was an orphan—all alone in the world.”

  The doors burst open and it’s Ottavio—no mask, no slippers, and with the reception storm trooper in full pursuit. Like a good Catholic, he runs to the priest for sanctuary, grabs on to the man’s shirtsleeve, and starts explaining himself. Only he’s still yammering away in the mother tongue. Ottavio must automatically assume that all priests know Italian.

  “What does marito mean?” I throw the question out to anyone, since it’s the word most often heard.

  “Husband,” Olivia states matter-of-factly. “Ottavio is saying that if he were my husband he wouldn’t be kept out like the milk-man.” She’s located her shoes and purse and begins neatly pulling up the blanket on the bed.

  That explains the repetition of the word latte, too. I kept wondering if he was trying to order a coffee.

  “Mother, I really think we should cooperate with these people,” says Bernard. “What if you have a spell during the night? Then what will I do?”

  Ottavio momentarily reverts back to English. “How can she treat me like zis? Attsa no good!” He angrily raises and drops his arms with palms facing up, as if summoning the heavens. “Non famiglia! Hmph!”

  “Excuse me,” Olivia says tersely, “but I’m the one who had the accident.” She waves the plastic hospital bracelet in their faces. “Now, w
ould someone like to give me a ride home, or shall I call for a taxi?”

  The nurse turns to me with her clipboard and says, “We couldn’t quite get your grandmother’s age.”

  “She’s approaching sixty-five,” Bernard interjects. “We’re just not sure from which direction.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  OTTAVIO DROPS BERNARD AND ME BACK AT THE SHOP, AND BY THE time we finish up and drive home, it’s almost six o’clock. Auggie is running around the front yard playing Frisbee with a large schnauzer.

  “Oh darn,” I say as we pull into the driveway. “I totally lost track of the time.”

  “You didn’t tell me you have another date with him tonight!” exclaims Bernard.

  “It just so happens that I do. And why do you sound so surprised?”

  “No reason,” says Bernard, though he becomes fidgety and I can tell he’s up to something. Had he finally been in touch with Craig? Did Ray call? Is there something he knows that I don’t?

  Looking out the passenger window I see Auggie climbing the elm tree in order to get the Frisbee unstuck from between some branches. “What?” I ask Bernard. “You don’t like it that he’s, well, sort of earthy?” Gil was more L.L. Bean and Brooks Brothers, while for his own wardrobe Bernard favors Italian silk jackets, suede vests, and pleated pants with cuffs. And from the photo albums I’ve seen, neither Gil nor Bernard had ever been the long hair, goatee, and tie-dyed T-shirt type.

  Bernard opens his mouth as if to say something, and then closes it again before any words have had a chance to escape. Then he starts again. “It’s just that I think he’s, well . . .”

  “Well what?” I’m already late enough as it is.

  “Well . . . gay.”

  “He is not! Why would Auggie ask me out if he’s gay?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t know it yet,” suggests Bernard. “It takes some people longer than others to discover their true selves.”

  “It just so happens that Auggie loves to read and write and think about things, and so I’m sure he would have found out by now!” I say defensively.

  “How did it feel when he kissed you?” asks Bernard.

  “He hasn’t kissed me,” I say, and stare down at the floor mats that are miniature antique carpets.

  Bernard gives me an I-told-you-so harrumph and opens his door.

  “But it’s only because this is the real thing,” I call after him. “And you’d better get your gaydar checked ASAP because it’s seriously on the fritz!”

  Having retrieved his Frisbee from the tree, Auggie comes jogging over to the car and introduces his adorable dog, Ivan, who is maniacally friendly. How could I not love a guy who has such a sweet dog? Auggie and Bernard shake hands pleasantly enough, though I know Bernard is on the lookout for “signs.”

  “Sorry I didn’t call you,” I say. “We had to go to the hospital and I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  Bernard’s head pops up like a prairie dog’s at the word straight.

  “I mean, I lost track of time,” I say to Auggie, and then flash Bernard my best glare.

  “Don’t worry,” says Auggie. “Your friends told me all about it.” He nods toward the house, indicating that he’d spoken with Olivia and Ottavio. “Glad everyone is okay. Do you still want to go on the picnic?”

  “A picnic!” Bernard can’t help himself. “How divine. And creative.” He gives me a meaningful stare. “You two get a move on and I’ll hold down the fort.”

  However, Ivan catches sight of Lulu, the Great Dane next door, and goes bounding toward the fence to greet her. Their meeting doesn’t last long before Rocky comes racing out of the front door and angrily breaks up the sniffathon. With Rocky hooting and spitting at him, poor Ivan runs back to us for protection, his tail down and his exuberance temporarily demolished.

  “He’s protective of Lulu,” I say, making excuses for Rocky.

  “I think Ivan is the one who needs protection.” Auggie kneels down and comforts the whimpering dog.

  Bernard waves good-bye from the front porch while Ivan beats a retreat onto a blanket in the back of the car, safe from marauding primates. Auggie drives us over to the park at the edge of town. Most of the grassy area is used for Little League games, but a narrow creek runs along the back, bordering a stand of ash and maple trees. Beyond those are the old railroad tracks from when Cleveland was an industrial hub and shipped grain and steel all across the country. Nowadays, since the commuters have a separate train line to go from the city to the suburbs, the tracks are overgrown with grass, weeds, and wildflowers.

  “Ivan is an interesting name for a dog,” I say.

  Thinking that he’s being summoned, Ivan excitedly pokes his head up front and gives me a big lick on the cheek.

  “After high school I spent a year in Russia,” says Auggie. “It’s been sort of hard to adjust to being home and so I thought a dog would be good company.”

  “Russia sounds like fun. What were you doing over there?” At the risk of being completely boring, I’m trying hard not to say anything stupid.

  “I was in Moscow mostly, practicing my Russian and studying some of the great writers, like Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky.”

  “I’d love to see that famous museum—the Hermitage.” Bernard has a book about it down at his shop.

  “I went there!” enthuses Auggie. “It’s in St. Petersburg. The museum is in a reconstructed palace, which is stunning, but it isn’t air-conditioned, and so in the summertime they just open the windows and the breeze and the bugs blow past these million-dollar paintings.” He laughs wholeheartedly at the memory.

  So far, so good, I think. We’re talking, he’s smiling, I’m having fun. Bernard is so off base on this one. Auggie’s not gay.

  In the park we find a spot far enough away from the kids playing ball that we won’t get hit, and close enough to the creek that we can enjoy the water but not have to share grass space with the hundred or so ducks. Auggie spreads a blanket on the ground and takes out some sandwiches and soda and opens a collapsible water bowl for Ivan.

  As much as I’m sure that Bernard is wrong, what he said keeps popping back into my head. And though I know it’s terrible, I try to come up with a few “gay tests” while we eat.

  “Bernard and I were watching The Music Man on television last week, the old one with Robert Preston and Shirley Jones. Have you ever seen it?”

  “Nope. Musicals are okay, but I prefer dramas—Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey Into Night and Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman.”

  I’m not sure how to score that one, so I try again. “These sandwiches are delicious! Did you make them?”

  “I bought them at that new organic food store on Orchard Street. I had one for lunch last week and it was really good. The barbecued vegetable protein tastes just like real bacon, don’t you think?”

  So there! He doesn’t like musicals and he didn’t make the sandwiches. Bernard is wrong, wrong, wrong.

  “But I made us some peanut butter fudge for dessert.” Auggie digs into his backpack and pulls out a tinfoil pack that immediately attracts Ivan, who runs over for a closer sniff. “It’s really good.”

  Uh-oh, that’s bad. “Great! I love fudge.”

  “My aunt and uncle have a candy store in Cape Cod and I’ve always spent my summers working up there. At least until this year.”

  That’s fine, then. It’s okay to know how to bake if you work in a business. It also explains why Auggie never visited Cappy when school was out. I mean, it’s not as if he was off trying out for summer stock theater.

  After we finish eating, Auggie says, “C’mon, let’s take Ivan for a walk.” We wander along the trail on the other side of the creek, where the trees haven’t been thinned out. Ivan dashes ahead to chase squirrels and barks excitedly every time something moves through the undergrowth.

  As we’re walking, Auggie eventually takes my hand. Upon reaching the rusty old railroad tracks we stand and stare at the thousands of shiny buttercups t
hat make it look as if a bright yellow ribbon runs straight across the countryside and then drops off the edge of the earth. Off to our right the sun is sinking behind the trees and filling the sky with bands of pink and violet light.

  Finally Auggie turns and faces me and we look at each other for what feels like a long time. Leaning in close he whispers, “So is it okay if I kiss you?”

  He’s waited so long that I actually feel a thrumming sensation in my chest over the prospect of a simple kiss. And I can’t remember the last time a guy asked if he could kiss me.

  “Kiss away,” I say.

  Our lips meet for a second and then part just as quickly. I haven’t kissed that fast since playing Spin the Bottle in seventh grade.

  Auggie takes my hand and we begin walking again. “I’m sorry, Hallie, but there’s someone in Russia who I’m trying to forget. And . . . it’s not going all that well.”

  “Sure,” I say. “I understand.” But my heart plummets like a kite in a storm.

  “I keep telling myself that I’m not in love, that we can’t be together,” he says, now sounding completely agonized. “I mean, what am I going to do? Move there permanently? It’s crazy. And yet I can’t focus on my life back here for two seconds. Actually, it’s worse than that. I just don’t seem to be able to care about anything else!”

  “Wow,” I say. “Sounds as if you are in love.” I must sound dejected, because Auggie puts his arm around my waist.

  “I’m sorry I asked you out,” he says. “I just thought . . . well, I do like you.”

  “No. I’m glad you did. I like you too.” I suddenly start to laugh thinking how completely wrong Bernard had been.

  “What’s so funny?” asks Auggie.

  “Nothing.”

  But he looks injured, as if I’m laughing about him being in love or having tried to date me.

  “Bernard thought you were gay is all,” I blurt out and then laugh even more. “He can be such an idiot sometimes. According to him, if a guy so much as bakes his own bread then he’s gay.”