The very sensible thing to do would be to leave. My presence causes her pain. Everyone, especially her, has made that clear.
Yet . . . I can’t do it. I can’t leave her alone like this.
She doesn’t move when I approach her. She doesn’t even acknowledge my existence, until I call her name twice.
That blank gaze turns from plant containers to me, and I inhale. Blake was right. She’s in bad shape. It takes everything I have not to hug her right then. Instead, I say her name a third time.
Finally she focuses on me. I can tell the instant it happens because she goes from blank to black in two seconds flat.
“Quinn,” she says, and she sounds exhausted, like she can’t even summon the energy to hate me today.
“Mrs. Breen, are you okay?”
She doesn’t respond.
“Mrs. Breen, is Mr. Breen here? Or Blake?” I hope someone’s there to help her.
“Why, Quinn?” Her brown eyes, so much like Carey’s, pierce me. “Are you looking to break his heart too?”
For a moment, I wonder if she knows about Blake and me. If she somehow figured out we were together. That thought flicks into the wind, though, when she adds, “He’s at the shop pulling an extra shift.”
This is the most she’s said to me in months. I take a step closer. “Have you heard anything?”
Smart, Quinn. Really smart to bring that up.
She heaves this sigh that comes from her gut. “No. No, we haven’t.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
If things were different, I would go to her and hold her. I could help her. I could be there for her.
She rolls her shoulders and laughs. “Well that just makes everything okay, doesn’t it?”
The anger returns in her raised, acidic voice. She looks around the empty aisle. “Did you hear that, everyone? Quinn is sorry she cheated on my boy. Thank you so much. I didn’t know how I was going to get through another day without your apology!”
She takes a step toward me, her entire body rippling with aggression. “Do you want to know what I think of your apologies? They’re useless!”
I stand there, biting my tongue so hard I taste blood. Warm hands come to rest on my shoulders, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
“That’s enough, Denise,” my father says.
Carey’s mom starts, and she takes a couple steps back at my father’s sudden appearance.
“You have no idea what I’m going through, Cole,” she answers. “Don’t tell me what’s enough.”
Calm and sure, he does not waver. “Yelling at Quinn isn’t going to make him come home.”
She begins to cry, and I wish I’d never approached her. She looks like she believes he’s dead. That he’s never coming home.
My father tugs on me gently to steer me away. I begin to follow him, but I remember the letter. I pull away from my father to go to her.
“The week before he went missing, he wrote to me.”
This gets her attention, and I continue. “He talked about sitting on my front porch and teasing me about always having to be right.”
I think she’s not going to answer, but she whispers, “What else did he say?”
“That he misses your cooking something fierce. MREs just aren’t the same as your cooking.”
She gives a tiny, husky laugh. “That sounds like Carey.”
“Yeah. He asked me to tell you how much he misses you and that he loves you.”
Her eyes look a little less empty than before. Again I wish I could hug her or touch her hand. But I don’t dare. My father waits for me at the end of the aisle with surprise and something like sympathy on his face. I pace toward him.
If I thought Mrs. Breen would thank me, I was wrong.
But she does call my name. “Quinn.”
Tears track down her stony face like rivulets of rain on a statue. “He’s a hero. That’s what his squadron leader says. The last they heard he was going after a rebel using a child as a shield. They didn’t find him, but he helped that child get away.”
I inhale a breath that turns into a smothered sob. “That sounds like Carey.”
“Yeah,” she whispers. Her shoulders pull back and she stands straight. “Good-bye, Quinn.”
The conversation’s over. I can see she’s finished with me. Permanently.
My father follows me when I rush past him, holding my stomach to keep the kerosene in. One good light and I’ll take down everyone around me in an explosion of truth.
* * *
At the hospital, I wait for George to wake.
He dropped off to sleep almost midsentence, something he’s doing more and more frequently. I pretend it’s the medication, but there’s a reason he’s in the long-term care ward. A reason I don’t want to face.
Sitting in the chair by the window, I listen to George snore and watch the window do a pas de deux with the rain skipping over its surface. I finger the piece of paper with my mother’s phone number and obsess over last week’s confrontation with Carey’s mom. Both women said they loved me once-upon-a-perfect-time. But they have both washed their hands of me.
At least with Carey’s mom, I get it. Her anger comes from her love for her son. I’m desperately afraid for him too. I miss him so much, like half of my heart’s been cut away. And suddenly, I feel a horrible sadness for Carey. He hid so much from all of us, and maybe if I’d been a better friend, he would have come out sooner. Maybe I would have had the chance to know the side of him that he kept tucked away. How can I blame him for longing to be himself? Isn’t that what we all want?
“What’s the matter, kid?” I look up to find George studying me from his bed. His eyes droop, but they are as sharp as ever. He adds, “You look so sad, Sophie.”
I pull my legs into my chest, propping my chin on my knee. “I’m not sure how much more of this I can take,” I admit.
I’ve told George what happened with my mother and Mrs. Breen. I could see on his face that he wished he had the solution to make all my problems go away. He doesn’t know that only Carey has that ability.
“You’d be surprised what you can take. To everything there is a season. . . .”
My lips quirk into a weak smile. “You quoting scripture at me now, old man?”
He doesn’t laugh like I think he will. “This pain won’t last forever. You’ll see.”
An ache starts in my throat. “What makes you say that?”
“You’re amazing, kid. You have so much to give. You have the kind of heart that can’t be hidden forever. One day, people will see that about you, and you are going to knock them on their asses with how stunning you are.”
I sniff and hug my legs.
We sit in silence, and he begins to drop off to sleep again.
I wait until his eyes go heavy and his breathing evens out before I tiptoe to the side of his bed and drop a kiss on his creased cheek. I turn back to my chair.
That’s when George whispers, “Love you too, kid.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
George decides to make a big deal of my eighteenth birthday.
I’d thought the day would pass like any other, but he rejects that notion. He arranges for a small party in the atrium, and even convinces some of the staff and patients to help him decorate the garden with lights and balloons. When I push his chair into the indoor garden, everyone yells “Surprise!” even though I saw them all through the atrium’s glass. Nurse Espinoza places a silly plastic tiara on my head.
It’s pretty much the best birthday ever.
I hadn’t realized how many friends I’d made at the hospital in my time there. There’s Don and the other soldiers I’d interviewed with George. Of course, not all of them are there. Some have transferred out, gone home, or gone back to the war front. Some have died.
Then there are the nurses and doctors I’ve spent time with. George is a favorite patient, and I’m his favorite person. His friendships have rubbed off on me. Sitting in the midst of these people, I am so g
rateful to George and so glad my father made me come here to work. I wonder if he’ll ever know the favor he did me.
Then, I notice George glance behind me to the atrium door. He says, “Don’t be mad at me, okay?”
I laugh, still riding high on buttercream frosting. “How could I be?”
“Well . . . ,” he says, looking guilty.
“Hi, Sophie,” my mother says from behind me.
I shoot George a venomous glare, before turning to face her. “Hey.”
She looks out of place. These are my people. Maybe they’re not my age, like Ang or Nikki, but they are my friends. We are the Island of Misfit Toys, all broken or smashed in some way. She is too perfect to fit in among us, and she knows it, shifting her weight from one foot to the other in an uncomfortable dance. A bright purple and lime green box lies forgotten in her hand, until she pushes it toward me with a huge, nervous smile. “Happy birthday!”
When I’m silent too long, George gives my back a hearty shove. I awkwardly take the gift from her and grudgingly offer her a seat at the table with George and me. Don welcomes her and offers her a slice of cake. She takes it, steadying his shaking hands with one of hers, the warmth of her smile making him light up.
Don looks from her to me. “Are the two of you related? You must get this a lot, but you both look very alike.”
If only he knew.
I snort, and George cuffs the back of my head. Rubbing my scalp, I shoot him another glare. “Do that again, and I unlock your brake at the top of a very tall hill.”
He grins and shoots back, “Be nice or I’ll take back my camera, brat.”
I gasp. “You wouldn’t!”
“Try me.”
Leaving me to sulk, he tells Don, “This here is Sophie’s mother. I invited her. Sophie, this old geezer is Don Baruth.”
He introduces her around to my friends. If she wonders why I’m the only teenager present, she keeps it to herself. It occurs to me that my secret—this one, at least—is out. Now that folks know we are related, it’s only a matter of time before my father finds out she’s back. Shit.
My mother’s attention bounces back and forth between me and George. I can see she’s trying to figure us out. I can’t blame her for that—not many people my age are best friends with old men. I wouldn’t be, if not for special circumstances.
Despite her obvious discomfort at being the stranger in our midst, she greets everyone with warmth. A couple of the nurses recognize her from the third floor and ask after Uncle Eddy. She shoots me another look and changes the subject quickly, as if she thinks I’ll be upset at the mention of him.
I glance at George, and I can tell he’s disappointed in me. I feel the weight of it in my gut. I’m not sure how he expected me to react, inviting her here. My distress must show because he leans close and whispers, “You need someone, girl. I won’t be around forever.”
The happiness I’d felt before blinks out like a smashed light bulb. We don’t talk about death. Not his. I can’t breathe.
“Please don’t say things like that. I can’t—”
My lip trembles, and George’s stern gaze gentles. He pats my hand. “Give her a chance, Sophie. You should’ve heard how happy she was when I invited her. You just might be missing out on something if you turn her away without listening to what she has to say.”
I doubt it. I really do. But I can’t deal with the idea of him dying. So I pretend to accept my mother’s presence to make him happy.
“How is Eddy?” I ask, knowing George would approve. I don’t say “Uncle.” It’s one thing to hear it in my head, but the word tastes like bleach on my tongue.
My mother’s face lights up with affection. “Better every day. He’s moved up the kidney transplant list, so things are looking up.”
I can’t bring myself to ask what’s wrong with him. It may be harsh, but I don’t care. Instead, I say, “That’s good.” Bland, but the best I can do.
Silence falls, and I can’t think of anything else to say that won’t provoke a fight. She takes charge and suggests I open my gifts. I’ve already opened the ones from the staff and other patients. They’d given me a gorgeous leather case to keep George’s camera in. And then I open George’s gift.
I bawl like a little baby. He’s given me his Nikon. Not as a loaner, but as my own. He’s included a note: Stun them all. Love, George.
He clears his throat, and I know my reaction has touched him. I hug the camera, and he says, “No one else would take care of it like you would.”
I set the camera down carefully and reach over to wrap my arms around his neck, tucking my wet face into his neck. No one has given me a gift that meant so much.
He pats my back. “Hey, now. What’s this? I thought you liked it.”
I laugh and sit back, wiping my face with a dessert napkin. “I love it. Honestly, George. It’s the best. I promise I’ll take care of it.”
“You better,” he threatens me with a mock glare.
I notice my mother watching us again, and I wonder what she’s thinking. Pain curls into her furrowed brow and the tense way she holds herself together. She reminds me of myself at school, the odd man out. That’s when I realize: It’s the love. George and I so obviously care about each other, and she doesn’t even know me. I know I’m right when George smacks a loud kiss on my cheek and she turns away.
I expected a moment like this to make me happy. See how well I got on without you? That’s what I thought would run through my mind. I didn’t expect to feel sad. It’s all a lie, after all. I didn’t really get on so well.
George says, “Why don’t you open the gift from your mother?”
I take the box and carefully pull off the wrapping paper. She twists her fingers together, wrapping them around her knee. It’s a laptop. My first thought is that she’s buying me off, but she sits forward and says in a rush, “It’s a MacBook. George mentioned how talented you are. It has Photoshop. The computer store said it has the best software for professional photographers.”
She waits nervously for my reaction. I could hurt her. That’s painfully obvious. This is up to me, to choose how I will go forward with her. I decide to test the waters.
“Thank you. I love it.”
I don’t hug her, but she appears pleased anyway. Her knuckles lose some of their whiteness as she relaxes her grip. The conversation picks up around us as a couple of the guys break out a deck of cards. Most of the doctors and nurses return to work, but a few of us stay behind to play poker. I’ve learned a lot about how to play from George. My mother is better. She shocks us by raking in half the pot, while I take the other half.
George grumbles. “No fair, Sophie. You’re a ringer.”
“Put up or shut up,” my mother and I say at the same time. Our eyes meet in surprise.
A smile breaks out across her face, and I can’t help but smile back. “You remember?” she asks.
“Of course,” I say. Running away to the beach was one of the best weekends of my life. We’d played cards by the pool, and when I’d gloated, she’d told me that adults could never beat a kid at Go Fish. “Go Fish is in my blood.”
That’s what I’d bragged six years ago. She laughs at the memory, and it hurts to see it. She’s beautiful. Much more so than I remembered. Age has changed her, but there’s a generosity to her features that I don’t recall. Then again, maybe I was too young to notice. The changes in her are like music missing the refrain. The song’s transformed, though what’s left remains familiar.
George squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back.
He’s right, in a way. I can’t run from her. The pain she caused won’t disappear if I stick my fingers in my ears and shut my eyes like a two-year-old throwing a tantrum.
George looks tired, and I think it’s time I got him back to his room. We wrap up the poker game, and I leap into the unknown, asking my mother, “Do you have time to grab a coffee?”
Before she can answer, her eyes round in a combination of shock and fea
r.
“What the hell are you doing here, Sophie?” my father asks.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Now I know why soldiers make a habit of always sitting with their back to the wall. That way you can’t be surprised by a bomb exploding behind you.
My father’s as furious as the day he returned home to find she’d left with his brother. His shoulders look broader, more muscled than ever. The fear in my mother’s expression makes sense, even though I know he would never hurt her. He’s too controlled for that.
I’m tempted to jump up between them, but George stays me with a hand on my arm and a swift shake of his head. I jut my chin forward. Did you invite him here? He shakes his head again. He had nothing to do with this.
I wonder how my father found out she was at the hospital. Then I notice the gift bag in his hand. Someone told him they were having a party for me today, and he came by to bring his gift.
My mother—never the coward—rises from her chair. “Cole.”
He ignores her greeting and asks again, “What are you doing here?”
“She’s my daughter. I have every right to be here.”
He snorts. “You gave that right up when you walked out and never looked back.”
“Do you really want to go there?” she challenges him.
Her dark tone makes him pause. A look flashes between them that I don’t understand.
She continues. “I’m done, Cole. I won’t stay away anymore. As long as Sophie wants me here, I’m not going anywhere.”
“Quinn,” he says, with a triumphant look. “She goes by Quinn now.”
His words hurt her. Worse, they hurt me. Everyone who’s stayed behind to play cards watches them argue, and I’m humiliated. My parents talk about me as if I’m not there. As if my opinion doesn’t matter.
George has had enough. He pushes his chair back from the table. “This is a celebration for your daughter’s birthday. Don’t you think you ought to talk about this privately?”
My father shifts his icy gaze to George. “Don’t tell me how to deal with my family. When I sent Quinn here, it was to keep her from getting into any more trouble. Bang-up job you’ve done with her, encouraging her to see her mother behind my back.”
If I Lie Page 15
