“I haven’t eaten anything to digest.”
He looked momentarily flummoxed. “Oh, well, would you like something to eat? I made some fresh hummus. Chickpeas are more beneficial for women because they help keep hormones in balance—” He ran a hand over his flushed cheek. Paul was nervous, or possibly suffering from the strain of being polite to me.
“That would be nice,” I said dryly, his nerves fueling my sarcasm. “My hormones will appreciate the treat.”
Paul busied himself preparing a plate. I watched the muscles of his back and arms, the thick cords of his neck, the slow movements of his thick fingers, the pains with which he took to adjust his movements to the delicate task at hand. After carefully arranging some carrot sticks and cucumber slices around the bowl of hummus, he poured the tea and joined me at the table. “My father is with his new caregiver, Mrs. Lim. He’s being fitted for a prosthesis today.”
My heart took a dive. That was something I’d promised to do but never came through. “That’s . . . good.”
“He didn’t want to go. I had to promise a martini and a carton of Rocky Road would be waiting for him when he got back.”
I wanted to laugh, but the sound that came out held too much grief. Paul blanched at the show of emotion, but we were seated across the very small table, making it impossible for him to look away.
“Why do you think he resisted it so much?” I finally asked. “Resisted me so much. What did I do wrong? I really want to know.”
“It’s his depression,” Paul said quickly, evidently having given the topic a lot of thought. He dunked a carrot into the thick hummus and ate it in one bite. “He’s stubborn and reactive. I think he read a story about a man getting a life-threatening infection from chafing against the rubber. But maybe that’s an excuse. I honestly don’t know sometimes.” He paused. “He felt safe with you. I don’t think he ever wanted to leave the house when you were here.”
It shouldn’t have, but something about what he was saying warmed me from the inside. Jerry enjoyed the time we spent together. That meant something. “I miss him,” I admitted.
“You do?” Paul’s surprise wasn’t meant to be insulting. At least I didn’t think so. He honestly seemed surprised.
“Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“I’m not sure what to think about you.” Paul made a huge project of spooning some hummus on a flimsy slice of cucumber. “Now that I’ve paid you and our business relationship is terminated, I think I have a right to ask what you were speaking to my father about on that last day.”
I wanted to tell him, and I didn’t. To buy some time I said, “What does paying me have to do with it? Not everything in life is a transaction.” I tilted my head, studying him for a moment. He was tough to figure out—a methodical, rational, and seemingly insensitive man who’d rearranged his entire life to spend more time with his father, though the two apparently tolerated each other, at best. “So what do you do for a living? Jerry never mentioned.”
“Patent lawyer,” Paul said flatly. “Not very exciting or lucrative.”
“Then why did you choose it?”
He popped the cucumber in his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed with purpose. “I’ve always admired inventors. People who make something out of nothing. I knew I didn’t have the flexible brain required for that kind of work, but I wanted to be part of it somehow. I have a small firm, me and a few assistants, basically. I make my own hours, which I’m appreciating more and more as I get older.”
“Because of your father?”
“Mostly.” Paul shifted in his chair. “How I spend my time is not very exciting. You were going to tell me something of more interest.”
“I don’t want to be judged. You seem like a judger.”
He smiled, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. For the first time, he reminded me of Jerry. “That bad, huh?”
“That bad.”
“Why do you have such a hard time with someone like me?” he asked.
“Which is?”
“Someone who knows what they believe in. I believe in judgment. Judgment is good. Without it we’d still be hanging out in caves and rubbing two sticks together when we wanted to get warm.”
“So you are going to judge.”
“Probably. If you were a stronger person, that wouldn’t bother you.”
I thought about what Carly said about living a passive life. I would be the opposite. A fighter. A fearless fighter. “If I tell you, will you let me see Jerry again?”
“That seems counterintuitive.”
“I’ll let you judge me all you want. I need five minutes to say goodbye. I think that’s fair.”
Paul studied me for a long moment, and I tried not to flinch. “I can agree to those terms,” he said, pushing himself back from the table. He dropped an uneaten cucumber onto his plate and crossed his massive arms over his chest, straining the seams of his shirt. “Why were you in my father’s room, sobbing on his shoulder?”
“He’d done something beautiful.”
Paul barked a laugh. “We’re talking about Jerry Pietrowski, right?”
“You underestimate him.”
“What beautiful thing did he do?”
I swallowed. “I want a baby, and your father offered to help me have one.”
Paul blinked, shock pulling his features slack. “What?”
“I’m thirty-nine, and I want a baby. I think I’ve always wanted one, though I’ve only just admitted to myself how much.”
“So you decided my father was the best candidate for sperm donor? Unless . . . were you after something more?” A small vein popped on the side of his neck, swift as a garden snake. I watched it pulse, unable to look him in the eye any longer. “Jesus Christ,” he continued, “were you planning on sleeping with him?”
I took a deep breath. It was almost painful to make eye contact, but I forced myself to, so he’d know I was telling the truth. “Of course not. He offered to donate what I needed.”
Paul’s face grew mottled. “I don’t know if that’s worse or not.”
“I’m aware it’s not the conventional method, but it’s the one I’m pursuing,” I said primly, trying to collect my scattered dignity. “I would never have agreed to what your father was willing to do. I was crying because he offered.”
“That made you cry?” Paul seemed honestly stumped. “Why?”
“Because your father is still in love with your mother, that’s why.”
“My mother’s been dead for two years. I don’t see the connection.”
Paul’s thought process was so literal, his line of reasoning so taut, unwilling to dip into areas he deemed uncomfortable. I understood why Jerry got so frustrated with him, and I tried to keep myself calm when I said, “You know that photo of your mother next to his bed? He gazes at it like a lovesick teenager. He kisses his index finger and touches her mouth before he takes a nap. Ever notice half of the medicine cabinet is empty? It’s like he’s waiting for her to come back. Did it ever occur to you that he misses her more than he misses his arm?”
I don’t know what I expected from Paul, but it wasn’t anything like what he did. He left the room. My internal debate began—should I follow him? Leave him alone?—but before I could come up with a course of action, he was back, carrying a photo album.
“Take a look at these,” he said gruffly, dropping the heavy book in front of me. It was sloppily put together, photos falling out of sleeves and peeking out of the pages. I lifted the cover carefully and was met by Jerry and Anna’s wedding photo. Jerry’s smile outshined the pomp and circumstance of his dress blues, while Anna wore a white tiered minidress and go-go boots, the model of ’60s carefree living. Her golden hair hung long and straight, and I knew if I could travel back in time and run my hand through it, it would feel like silk.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?”
I could only nod my head. There was a fierceness to Paul’s tone, almost like he longed for me to disagree. Was he spoilin
g for a fight? I wouldn’t give him one. If he wanted to grapple with me, it would be over my goodbye visit with his father.
I flipped through the years of Jerry and Anna’s marriage. They were a social couple, lots of backyard barbecues and basement disco parties. Later, in the ’80s and ’90s, they hosted card nights and dinner parties. Anna liked to laugh. And drink. I could sense that she was the center of those parties, the one who made everything tick.
“People liked her,” I finally said, twisting my neck so I could look up at Paul. He stared at a photo of his mother balancing a martini glass on her head.
“Everyone liked her,” he said softly, “and she liked everyone. A classic extrovert. My mom felt most alive during a party.”
“Was she an alcoholic?” The words tumbled from my lips before I could stop them. “I’m sorry. That’s not my business.”
Paul settled across from me again. “No, it wasn’t like that.” He ran one large finger over the photo of his mother. “My dad once said most people are built for work, but there are some who are built for pleasure. That was my mom. She thought life should be fun and easy.”
“But life isn’t always fun and easy.”
Paul nodded. “Especially when there’s a child in it. Everyday tasks, mundane-type things, bored her.” His eyes met mine. “I bored her. She couldn’t handle the day-to-day. My dad helped me with my homework and came to my chess matches and knew my teachers’ names. He taught me to ride a bike and ironed my dress shirts when I joined the Math Olympiad.
“I always suspected she liked the idea of having a child but disliked the actual raising of one. It took too much time. Too much busywork.”
The second half of the album featured Paul. He’d been a stout, big-boned child, and by his teenage years he’d surpassed his father in height, looming over his parents, serious and grim. Photo after photo detailed the life of a boy who consistently looked like he’d rather be elsewhere.
But one photo series showed the three of them forming a pyramid on the beach. Paul’s mother balanced atop her husband and son, grinning at the camera. In the next photo they tumbled to the sand, laughing. “You had some good times,” I said.
Paul closed the album. “I didn’t say she didn’t love me. She did, in her way. She made it her mission to get me to enjoy life. I had great birthday parties, but they embarrassed me because I had so few friends. She pressed me to make more, while I simply wished she’d ask me what I wanted. I would have been happy going to see Star Wars with my math-geek buddies. Hell, I would have been happy seeing Star Wars with her.”
Had Paul’s unhappiness always lay so close to the surface? “Jerry seems pretty intuitive,” I said. “How could he have not noticed?”
“There wasn’t much to notice. I internalized everything, making it easy to pretend everything was fine. They were a happy couple, always holding hands and planning activities. I was different from them, and I did seem like a stick in the mud most of the time.” He paused, swiping a hand over his face. “My father did his best, I understand that. He was just so in love with her, he couldn’t see why she didn’t make me happy. He couldn’t see ways that he could be happier. She hurt him because she put herself first, but he refused to interpret it like that.”
“Isn’t that love? When you forgive someone for their deficiencies?”
Paul stiffened. “I think it shows a decided lack of judgment.”
“Is that why you’re so overprotective of him? You think he has bad judgment?”
“I wouldn’t call it that. I’m being a responsible son. It’s important to me.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I want you to understand why I won’t let you come back again after you say goodbye.”
“Because I have bad judgment?”
“Because you remind me of her.”
I passed the photo album across the table. “You don’t know me at all,” I said coldly.
“I know what I see,” he replied, studying my face. “I don’t think you want a child, I think you want a different life, something more exciting. Having a kid is not going to change who you are, Leona.”
I wanted his words to bounce off me, but instead, they burrowed in, searching for my heart. Trembling, I pushed my chair back with a loud, satisfying scrape and stood tall. I needed to feel bigger than him for a moment, needed to shift the power, even in such a superficial way. “I’m coming on Saturday morning,” I announced. “I’ll spend ten uninterrupted minutes with your father and then I’ll leave. You don’t need to worry. Your father is safe with me, no matter how unreliable you think I am, and I would never take advantage of him, or hurt him in any way.”
“Not on purpose, anyway.”
“That’s unfair.”
“I know,” Paul said, “but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
“Haven’t you ever made a mistake?” I asked, anger taking hold. “Have you said something you shouldn’t have? Worn your heart on your sleeve?”
Paul shoved some hummus into his mouth, making speech impossible. If he did it in a lawyerly move to force me to talk, it worked.
“I don’t feel guilty about talking to him about my problems. He’s starved for conversation, for life! I brought life inside the door and dropped it on his lap.”
“Mrs. Lim brought him outside. Right now he’s farther away from the house than he’s been in months. He’s no longer living vicariously.”
I frowned. “Now you’re just being mean.”
“If that’s how you want to explain it to yourself.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Maybe I am,” Paul admitted, though it didn’t seem to bother him much. He began clearing the table, shaking his head once when I tried to help him.
“I would never hurt Jerry,” I insisted. “Do you really think I would?”
Paul shrugged. “If I’m such an asshole, why do you care what I think?”
When I got outside, Donal had finished painting the railings. He sat on the front stoop smoking a cigarette, though he’d promised to give them up more times than I could count. I dismissed his guilty expression with a wave of my hand. “Let’s go. I don’t care if you smoke in the car.”
“Naw.” He stubbed out the cigarette with the toe of his work boot, picked it up, and cupped it in his palm. “So, did you rough him up, girly?”
“Not yet, but he’s got it coming.”
Donal winked at me. “Then he should be afraid. Very, very afraid.”
Maybe it’s me who should be afraid, I thought as we climbed into the van. But my fears had turned nameless and slippery, and for once I couldn’t gather them to me, not even for comfort.
CHAPTER 17
Nursing 320 (Online): Community Health
Private Message—Leona A to Darryl K
Leona A: You up?
Darryl K: Why wouldn’t I be up? At dawn. On a Saturday. Yeah . . . can’t sleep lately. So, what’s going on with you, Miss Leona?
Leona A: Project update—I won’t have the section about vaccinations done until late tonight. Probably the wee hours. Is that okay?
Darryl K: Don’t worry about it—it’s Saturday (It is Saturday, right? The gods didn’t mercifully hand out another Friday, did they?). Go out and have some fun later. I’m going to see what kind of trouble I can get into myself, but Rockford isn’t exactly a den of iniquity. There must be secret places I don’t know about. Do you ever feel that way? That there are all kinds of things going on that you would love to participate in, if someone would only point them out?
Leona A: You’ve just summed up my entire existence.
Darryl K: Let’s find one of them tonight. Both of us. Report back your findings, like a nightclub anthropologist.
Leona A: I actually do have plans today.
Darryl K: A date?
Leona A: With my sister. We’re going to a couples baby shower for some rich woman Carly knows from church. My brother-in-law, Donal, isn’t feeling well, so she’s draggi
ng me along.
Darryl K: A couples baby shower? What fresh hell is this?
Leona A: It’s the way The Real Housewives of Willow Falls, Illinois, get back at men for decades of not having to sit through three hours of watching someone squeal while unwrapping a never-ending pile of presents.
Darryl K: Well, as far as revenge goes, that actually sounds reasonable.
Leona A: Carly, my sister, says they “do things” to men at these parties.
Darryl K: Ominous . . .
Leona A: Uh-huh. But now I’m curious enough to not question her motives for taking me.
Darryl K: Motives? Oh, wait, I get it. Single woman of a certain age. Is she pressuring you to get married? Trying to show you what you’re missing? That doesn’t sound like the kind of place to meet men. Unless she’s got someone lying in wait.
Leona A: I think she’s leaving that to me. At least I hope she is. My (albeit unreliable) instincts don’t sense ambush. This is probably more of a reminder. Let’s hope it’s a gentle one, though “gentle” is not a word usually associated with my sister.
Darryl K: If it isn’t, I’ll be home later if you need me. I bet the nightclubs in Rockford close in time for curfew. Actually, they probably close in time for the dinner rush at Denny’s. The curtains come down early in this town. The average age here is three-quarters of the way to oblivion.
Leona A: Oh, come on. Old doesn’t have to equal boring.
Darryl K: Maybe not, but at a certain age, people become closely acquainted with the things that will eventually kill them—the spikes in blood sugar, the roller-coastering blood pressure, the thing they think might be a lump that turns out to actually be a lump—and to combat the anxiety, they make all kinds of choices that make their lives a little less, and then a little less, and then they’re simply moving about and breathing, not really living at all.
Leona A: Depressing, but, yes, I have seen that firsthand. It’s only lately that I’ve convinced myself I’m still young enough to make decisions that will hopefully make my life a little bit more. I figure if I keep making it more, by the time I have to make it less it’ll be so full and rich and overabundant I won’t notice anything is missing until I’m 90.
All the Good Parts Page 14
