All the Good Parts

by Loretta Nyhan

  CHAPTER 28

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  Darryl sat across from me in a booth at the Renegade Tavern, a joint that qualified as a hole-in-the-wall but wasn’t a dump, just old. A pool table covered the rear of the small bar, where a group of youngish guys lazily hit balls, not bothering to play by any rules, more concentrated on flagging down the waitress for another round of beers. A stuffed deer head hung above the shelves of liquor, along with photos of the softball teams going back to the ’70s, when some of the guys held a mitt in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

  “Sorry I was late for the meeting, but I’m sure you got what we needed,” Darryl said, avoiding my question. She raised a hand at the bartender, two fingers up. “Do you want a beer? I want one.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” I didn’t know what else to say. I’d been baring my soul to this woman for weeks, but she was a stranger.

  “I’m sixty-four,” she said, her eyes flicking up to meet mine. “In case you were wondering.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “Can you answer my other question? Why didn’t you tell me about being sick?” I ran a hand over my face, my skin tight from dried tears. “My father had cancer. I know how tough a fight it is. Maybe I could have helped in some way.”

  She toyed with the bandanna knot at the base of her neck. Odd that the breast cancer movement chose pink as its representative color, the shade of little girls’ bedrooms and cotton candy daydreams. I would have chosen steel gray or a tranquil blue, something exuding quiet strength and serenity. On Darryl, the girly color was completely incongruous with the ferocity in her eyes, the sharp lines bracketing her mouth and nose. I wanted to reach over and smooth them away, but I did nothing. We hadn’t even hugged yet. “Why didn’t you trust me?” I asked instead.

  “If you knew I was an old lady with breast cancer,” she finally said, “would you have opened up to me like that? Don’t lie.”

  “No,” I admitted. “Probably not, but my problems suddenly seem pretty trivial now. I can’t believe I bothered you with them.”

  “Everyone’s problems are trivial,” she responded as the bartender approached our table. “That’s beside the point. And you were never bothering me.”

  The bartender, a weathered, rangy cowboy type, wore a faded T-shirt declaring he had been, at some point in his life, the world’s greatest lover. After wiping the table, he set down a Lite for me and a nonalcoholic brand for Darryl. “This is pisswater, D,” he scoffed, though he gently placed his hand on her shoulder. “When can you have the real stuff again?”

  She shrugged. “Going for a scan on Tuesday, Willie. If you see me in here next weekend, I’ll let you buy me a shot.”

  “I’ll make you a wheatgrass chaser,” he said, and then addressed me. “This lady is one of my favorites. You’re gonna be nice to her, right?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  They both laughed, sharing a smile that spoke of history and fondness. “Just remember she’s got a good heart,” Willie said before leaving us.

  “Why would I need the reminder?”

  Darryl took a sip of her beer and made a face. “I can be a little abrasive.”

  “Among other things.”

  “I never lied.”

  “No, I guess you didn’t. But you didn’t share many truths either.”

  She smiled faintly. “I thought I offered some. I was trying to help you, Leona.”

  “Do I seem like the kind of person who needs help?”

  “You seem like exactly the kind of person who needs help.”

  “And what kind of person are you?” I said, bristling.

  “Lonely,” she answered without hesitation. “Sick. Smart. Curious. I like to try my hand at fixing things.”

  “Fixing people.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Is that why you want to be a nurse?”

  “I don’t want to be one,” she said. “I’m just taking this class. I take a lot of classes.”

  I let that settle for a moment, trying to make sense of her. Asking someone with cancer what her end goal was seemed cruel. But not asking seemed bigoted. “Why?” was all I said.

  “The reason isn’t all that interesting,” she responded. “I’ll give you the abridged version. I was in the advertising department of a regional newspaper since I graduated from high school, and it got downsized right before my fifty-eighth birthday. I married and divorced young, saved my money, and was better off than most when I got the heave-ho. Still, I tried to get another job, tried for a year. No one wanted to hire me, so I decided to go back to school as a student-at-large. That way, I could take as many classes as I wanted, in all kinds of disciplines, without worrying about degree requirements. What would I do with a degree? At my age, the slip of paper is merely something to hang on the wall.

  “I took courses on campus for a few years before moving online because the students and teachers avoided me, especially after chemo turned me into Kojak. Online, no one thought twice about some caustic dude named Darryl speaking his mind. I could say what I really thought, and I wasn’t ignored.”

  “You like to provoke people.”

  “Someone has to! It’s one of those vanishing careers, like travel agents or journalists.”

  “Is that what you were doing with me? Toying with me because you’re bored and lonely?”

  She blanched. “That comment is beneath you, Leona.”

  “You don’t really know me,” I said, a blip of anger pulsing up. “Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s actually above me, something I aspire to.”

  Her gaze turned sharp, assessing. “Are you upset because you flirted with me? Because you were hoping Darryl was single and looking to mingle?”

  “You had to know the thought crossed my mind,” I said, feeling my face grow hot. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re a woman and save me the embarrassment?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, but she was grinning. “I liked that you were completely honest with me. It was fun. That one night when you went out, did you really get that drunk?”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, but didn’t offer more. I felt oddly protective of my personal life with this Darryl.

  “Ah,” she said knowingly. “Things have already changed between us. You don’t want to tell me the dirty details. I wouldn’t trust me either.” She placed her hand over mine. It felt lighter than it should. “I am sorry I led you on, and I hope you believe me when I say I meant every bit of advice I gave you.”

  I nodded, accepting the apology. Darryl might have deceived me, but she’d given me some good advice as well. I had to admit that. “Okay, I was a mess that night. Actually, I’ve been kind of a mess lately, and it’s been spilling over onto other people, making their messes messier.” I hesitated, wondering how much to share.

  “You know”—Darryl took another sip of her beer—“we can do this. We can talk about all kinds of things, and I promise I’ll try to help.”

  A thought struck, quick and painful, like the jab of a needle. “You want to fix me because you think I’m broken.”

  Darryl rolled her eyes. “Your generation thinks being broken is such a tragedy because you’re used to throwing things away. My people are more frugal. We fix things. Sometimes they end up not quite good as new, but sometimes they’re better.”

  I liked the idea of it. If something could be fixed, it meant the basic parts were still good.

  “I don’t have anywhere to go tonight,” she said softly. “And the last thing I want to do is think about what’s going on in my life. Pretend we’re online. Pretend you still have that freedom.”

  “One question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Is your name really Darryl?”

  She screwed up her face. “It is. I was named for my uncle. I’ve always hated it.”

  For some reason, that small bit of honesty melted my reservations, and I turned on my verbal faucet and let it flow. I told her ab
out Carly and Donal, Garrett, Maura, Jerry and Paul—everything. When I finished, Darryl sat back, stunned, and glanced around the bar, which had cleared out during the course of my unending monologue. She brought her hands to the side of her head, then froze. “Is it going to bother you if I . . . ?” she said, gesturing toward the bandanna.

  “Go right ahead.”

  Sighing, she plucked it off her head, and began rubbing the skin. “It gets so itchy.”

  “Try coconut oil.”

  “Yeah?” She tossed the bandanna on the table. “Too bad I’m not a guy, huh? I’m a sexy bald beast.”

  I laughed. “You are.”

  “But you’re ballsy, too. Did you really plan on asking me to father your child?” The wispy hairs at the crown of her head and shocked expression on her small face made her look like a newborn chick.

  “I was feeling things out. It didn’t work out so well with Garrett, so I don’t know if I would have.”

  She rubbed at her scalp, pondering my revelation, and smiled. “You had no problem asking a total stranger. I love it.”

  “There was some angst involved with gearing up to ask Garrett. With us, though, I didn’t feel like we were strangers.”

  “Do you feel like it now?” she asked solemnly.

  “No,” I said, and meant it. “I don’t at all.”

  “Good. Because I like you even more now that we’ve met in person. It took guts to show up tonight with that request in your side pocket.”

  “I don’t think I would have asked. The whole idea seems like this ridiculous thing I’ve talked myself into believing was a rational, well-thought-out decision. But that’s desperation, isn’t it? When you decide to let go of reality in the hope that it leaves room for some fantasy in your life.”

  “I see it differently,” Darryl said quietly. “Desperation is what happens when you’re fighting a battle and the obstacles are so overwhelming you stop thinking about anything except what’s in your heart.”

  As I thought about that, Darryl got up and sat beside me, scooting my butt over with her slim hip. She took my hand, gripping it with her cold, bony one.

  “Why do you want a baby, Leona?”

  My thoughts scattered like cockroaches under a bright light. “I’ve always wanted a child,” I said lamely.

  “And I’ve always wanted a Harley. Is that really your answer?”

  “Fine. I guess I don’t want to be lonely. We can choose to not be, can’t we? That’s what we’re looking for when we start any relationship. What’s wrong with that? Isn’t it how we’re all wired, to seek out ways to make our lives complete?”

  “Why would you want your life to be complete? You can do better than that.”

  “Why are people always saying that? Wanting me to be better than I am? Maybe this is as good as it’s going to get. Shouldn’t I be happy with myself?”

  “Do you feel like you’re good enough?”

  I pulled my hand away. “What kind of question is that?”

  “One you should be able to answer honestly. I don’t feel like I’m good enough yet. It’s what keeps me going in what’s becoming a fairly shitty life. Saying it doesn’t mean you lack self-esteem or anything, regardless of what the psychobabble brainwashers want you to think. Saying it means you’re alive. Completeness as a goal is self-defeating.”

  “The next thing you’re going to tell me is I don’t need a man or a baby to fulfill myself.”

  “You’re still thinking in clichés. Don’t politicize everything. If you want a man, you should find a man. If you want a baby, get yourself knocked up. But don’t rely on the value others will put on your choices. They are yours. Only yours. Trust that you are a decent enough person to make them with consideration. You’re giving them real meaning by taking action, and this is what will lead you toward bettering yourself.”

  I was having a hard time following her. Her voice had a hypnotic quality, the sound lulling me more than the words. She was right, but then she wasn’t. Was her view selfish or smart? Narcissistic or freeing? She nudged me, and I realized I’d been quiet for some time.

  “Now, tell me again,” she said. “Why do you want a baby?”

  “Because I just know in the marrow of my bones that I want to have one, and that I’d be a loving mother,” I said, emotion rising. “That’s the only answer I have.” Darryl handed me a napkin, and I held it under each eye, collecting tears and streaming mascara.

  “You’re crying because you’re relieved.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Isn’t it?” Darryl laughed. “You’re finally accepting that your answer is good enough. I’m genuinely sorry I can’t help you out, but if I was biologically capable, I would have done it in a heartbeat.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel bad. I almost still want to ask you. You gave me hope, I guess.”

  “Hope is not an end goal, it’s a means to an end.”

  “That sounds like something my sister would say.”

  “Then I’d probably like your sister,” she said, and put her arm around my shoulders. “Look, what you’ve done tonight is clarified things for yourself. So the question is, what’s next?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  “Think of the next practical step, Leona. It doesn’t have to be earth-shattering, but it should move you forward.”

  I thought a moment. “I’m going to go to the sperm bank. It’s an option, and I need some more of those.”

  Darryl pulled me into an awkward hug. “Right on,” she said, and I felt her dry lips ghost my cheek. “Right fucking on.”

  I got home late that night, but Carly was still up, sitting at the kitchen table, drinking wine. Exhaustion had scraped the glow from her face. She looked raw, like an open wound. “So how was the mysterious Darryl?” she asked when I slipped into the chair next to her. “You were gone awhile.”

  “It was . . . interesting.”

  “He was old and gross.”

  “Older, yes, but gross? Not at all. I think you’ll like Darryl.”

  “But?”

  “She’s not my type,” I said, smiling. “But we’re going to be friends, beyond this class. At least I hope so.”

  “Wow. Really? Didn’t see that one coming.” Carly wanted to say something biting, I could feel it rise in her. Instead, she took a sip of wine. “That’s nice, Lee,” she said. “Are you my friend, too? Want to chat with me for a while?”

  I wanted to put on sweats and crawl into bed. “Sure,” I said, and got myself up to pour a glass of water.

  “I need you to come to Ireland with us,” she said as soon as I’d settled. “I hate asking for things, and I know this is asking for a lot, but this shouldn’t even be a question. You’ve got to come. I don’t think I can do this without you, and I have to do it.”

  I didn’t question that. I knew she needed Donal, and I understood that his life would be over without them in it. But Darryl’s words still swirled around my brain, finding places to fit in, spots where I hadn’t yet figured out how to live my life. I hadn’t realized that though Carly had things that needed fixing, and Donal, and even the kids, they were made up of good, solid parts, too, and didn’t need my help as much as they—or I—thought.

  I didn’t take her hand, but laid mine on the table, palm up. “You know I love you, right?”

  “Oh, God,” she moaned. “You can’t be saying no.”

  “I’ve got to stay here, Carly.”

  “You’ll miss the kids.”

  “Of course I will. I’ll miss all of you.”

  “It could be a new life for you.”

  “I don’t want a new life. I want to work on this one.”

  “What is it you have to work with?” She shook her head when she caught my venomous expression. “I don’t mean it to sound so insulting, I’m just being honest. What you have is kind of a broken life. Why wouldn’t you take the opportunity to start fresh?”

  “Broken things can be fixed,” I said, but my nerve faltered at
her words. Was I fooling myself? Was Darryl wrong?

  “How do you intend to do that? You’ve lost one of your most important clients, you’re meeting up with strange people you met online, and let’s not forget the Garrett debacle. Not to mention your sudden desire to get pregnant when you are thirty-nine, underemployed, and desperate enough to place all your hopes and dreams on a glorified kitchen utensil to do what you should have done years ago with Andrew! I could strangle Dr. Bridget for planting that rotten seed in your head.”

  “Don’t blame her,” I said quietly. “She was trying to help.”

  “She’s a shit-stirrer. The last thing you need is a baby.”

  “What if I still want one?”

  “Then grow up. You don’t get a Christmas list anymore.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Don’t you get it? It doesn’t matter if I’m wrong or right. If you really think about it, what choice do you have?”

  CHAPTER 29

  I had a better understanding of my diminishing choices the following week, when an unending stream of random members of the population streaked slush through Brophy House as they inspected the interior. A good number of them poked their heads in the basement, curiously assessing the “mother-in-law” apartment, which apparently was being rented for $800 a month. If it didn’t mean I was out on my ass, I would have been happy for Carly and Donal, because it looked like they were going to get their asking price.

  “Does it get cold down here?” a youngish, highlighted, very tan girl asked as I sat in the middle of my bed, pounding out a message to Darryl.

  “Very. Sometimes I wake up convinced someone entombed me in a block of ice, like Superman’s father, what’s his name.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, turning around in a slow circle. “I can get rid of these depressing gray walls, right?”

  “Why would you?” I asked innocently. “If you kept them, then you would be the brightest thing in the room.”