“Oh Anita,” she said empathetically as she saw the hunched, rocking form of my mother. “I have something that will help. I’m sorry it took so long.” Sally inserted the tip of the syringe into a port in the IV tube. “I had to get approval from the oncologist and then the pharmacy took forever to fill the order. It won’t be long before you feel some relief now.” She finished injecting the medication and then squatted down by my mother’s chair to stroke her hair and comfort her.
I backed away, relieved that Sally was there and knew what to do and what to say. Comforting words flowed over her lips in reassuring tones, and her fingers and hands found the places where the pain was the worst. She soothed my mother’s agony with a confident touch.
As Sally continued to give comfort and my mother’s wishes for death finally faded away, there was a part of me that was utterly destroyed beyond repair. I knew this was only the beginning of the journey my mother and I would be making. I dreaded our destination because I knew what we’d have to go through on our way there would be far worse than today had been.
***
Most people hated Mondays, but I was looking forward to it. Monday morning brought the promise of change, something different from life at my mom’s quiet, empty, mansion in Beverly Hills.
My mother spent the entire weekend on the couch in her great room, napping, while DVD after DVD played on her television. After I ran out of projects to work on, I managed to start and finish all the seasons of Game of Thrones—while she watched the inside of her eyelids. She ordered the shows, and I ended up watching them. I also finished a 2,000 piece puzzle of Las Vegas and spent more time than was healthy watching my mother sleep. I couldn’t help myself. When she was asleep, I could almost imagine that the cancer was just a bad dream.
I hated being trapped inside my mother’s house, though. My skin begged for the warm breath of the Venice Beach breeze, my mouth wanted verbal banter with Jay, my hands ached to take a spray paint can to the graffiti walls, and my fingers and toes tingled with the desire to jump and climb and skate at the playground or skate park. There was even a part of me that craved the touch of a certain pretty boy, but I told that part to shut the hell up.
I missed my life. Every minute of every day had become moments of waiting. Waiting for my mom to wake up. Waiting to give her the next dose of pills. Waiting to change the Netflix show. Waiting for her to get better. Deep down I knew she wasn’t going to get better. The doctor said she wouldn’t. But that didn’t stop me from waiting for it to happen.
Once I was in my office, I went through the motions to check my email and get started on my work day. After I sent off the new designs for the Legend Records projects, I realized I didn’t have any work pending because I’d done it all this weekend. I briefly wondered if I should have taken a personal day to spend time with my mom, but then I realized if yesterday was any indication of what today was going to be like, my mom wouldn’t really notice if I was there or not. No, it was better to be at work. I needed the emotional numbness that work provided.
While it was early and the office was still pretty empty, I went to get my first dose of caffeinated goodness. I noticed Will was in his office and his door was wide open, but I took care to not look in as I passed. After locking myself behind the safety of my door with a steaming cup of coffee, I spent the rest of the morning sketching ideas for the Hoffman Technology Conference Opening Gala program. I hadn’t been given any content for the program, but I had nothing else to do. Although I preferred the gritty freedom of the designs I did for Legend Records, it was refreshing to delve into classy, clean, sophisticated designs for the conference. That was one of the things I loved about my job, different customers meant a variety in my work.
Right about the time that I noticed my coffee cup was empty again, my phone rang and I picked it up without looking at the caller id.
“William Stone Media, this is Cate Maverick speaking, how can I help you?” My greeting was robotic and I was only partly invested in listening to the response as I watched my hand swing a graceful curve along my sketch.
“I’m ordering lunch from the cafe around the corner. Do you want a salad or a sandwich?”
Crap. Lunch with Shitstick. I’d totally forgotten about his new Monday lunch rule.
“You don’t have to get me anything, I’m not hungry,” I said tersely. Maybe if I skipped the lunch part of the meeting, I could get in and out quickly.
“If you don’t tell me what you want, I’ll get you a Reuben.”
“Do whatever you want, but I’m not going to eat it.”
“Then tell me what you want, Cat.” His frustration was evident. That statement was loaded and we both knew he meant more than just what I wanted for lunch.
“Cate Maverick,” I stressed my professional name, “does not like corned beef.”
“Did you just refer to yourself in the third person?”
“Reubens have that effect on me. I like to remove myself as far as possible from corned beef and sauerkraut.”
“I see. And what food has the effect of scaling back the bitch factor?”
“Did you seriously just insinuate I was a bitch?”
“Never. I was insinuating Cate Maverick was a bitch, not you, Cat. Since I’m probably having lunch with Cate Maverick, what do you think she’d like?”
Oh, he was a clever little asshole using my snark against me. If only I didn’t like witty banter so much.
“You want her order? A hamburger, everything on it. And orange juice, but only if it’s freshly squeezed.” I was a die-hard fan of 80s movies and I was pretty sure he’d never get that reference.
He laughed. “General Zod does not take orders, he gives them,” he quoted back at me.
“You’ve seen Superman II?” I thawed a little. First he quoted Alice in Wonderland before the Legend Records party and now he was quoting one of my favorite movies of the 80s? He was too perfect. Well, except for the whole jackass boss part.
He laughed again. “Does Cate really want a hamburger and orange juice?”
“I thought everyone knew that a greasy hamburger and an orange juice were the antidotes to bitchiness.”
“Are they now?”
“It worked for Lois Lane. But only if the OJ is freshly squeezed.”
“Okay, Lois. Meet me in my office in thirty minutes. Bring your project updates and your appetite.”
“Later, Clark,” I said, hanging up the phone.
Ah, crap. Was I flirting with Huck? I mean Will? I mean Shitstick? I was in so much trouble.
Thirty minutes later, I forced myself to walk down the hall to Huck’s office and knock on his door. He was on the phone, but he motioned for me to come in and sit in the chair across from him. The food was still in bags in the middle of the desk. After closing the door behind me, I started unloading the food.
“December 20th. Got it. Yes. I’ll be sure to tell her,” he said, looking up at me. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” he promised. “Okay. I’ll speak with you tomorrow.” He hung up the phone. “Hey, Maverick. Hope you’re hungry.”
“Hey, Stone. Hope that OJ is freshly squeezed,” I said, nodding toward the drink in question.
“Hey sweet thing, set them buns down here,” he said, once again quoting Superman II, the scene where General Zod and Ursa (the convicts from Krypton) enter a redneck bar. Huck was smiling and there was a wicked gleam in his eyes as he patted his lap.
I had to fight the urge to do just what he asked, even though he was just continuing our movie quoting game from before. Instead, I sat my buns in my own chair and put my elbow on his desk. “Let’s just hold hands,” I countered, proving my superiority in movie quoting by giving him the next line.
He leaned forward and grabbed my hand as if we were going to arm wrestle. “Let me know if this tickles,” he growled, delivering the next line perfectly.
“All right, all right,” I said, pulling my hand out of his and dusting it off as if he’d given me cooties. �
�Mercy. You win. No more quoting Superman II.”
“Good,” he said, smiling. “I was hoping you weren’t going to have to break my arm.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I warned him, shaking my hamburger in his direction.
“I don’t get you, Cat,” he said, dropping all attempts at humor. “One minute you hate me, the next minute you like me, and then you hate me again.”
“I don’t hate you,” I admitted. I took another bite of the hamburger to keep from telling him the truth. Of course I didn’t hate him. In fact, I liked him so much it scared me.
“Then why did you—” he started.
“I started sketches for the Hoffman Conference Opening Gala this morning. I should have several designs by the end of the week.”
He frowned at my attempt to change the subject, but he allowed me to spend the next forty-five minutes briefing him on all of my projects. Most of the information he knew already since I’d kept him up-to-date with my progress, but I told him again anyway because it prevented him from asking me personal questions. With fifteen minutes of our lunch hour left, I started to run out of things to talk about. I was terrified he’d ask me why I’d done what I had after the Legends Record party. It was a moment of weakness that I both loved and hated myself for. I had to stay strong and not let him know how much I wished things could be like that all the time. Because they couldn’t. Because he was my boss. Because he was Shitstick and I was the Wicked Bitch of the West Coast. Even if it seemed like we were good together, we never could be.
We just couldn’t.
After I finished my project updates, he stared at me as I began cleaning up the remnants of my lunch.
“Anything else you want to talk about?” he asked. His eyes were begging me to explain our time on the beach after the party, but I couldn’t. I knew if I gave him an explanation, he’d try to give me solutions and I’d want to believe them. The only solution to this, to us, was avoidance.
I shook my head “no” and he nodded almost in defeat.
“Okay. I’ll see you next Monday then.” I thought I heard him sigh at the end, but I forced myself to ignore it.
***
Two days later, the first Wednesday of November brought the last session in my mom’s clinical trial. One last round of chemo and radiation and then we would have to wait and see what the test results would bring. We’d finally learn if the last nine weeks had been worth it—if she’d earned a few extra months of life. Sally entered our curtained area in the chemo ward.
“How are you feeling, Anita?” she asked my mom.
“Fine.” My mom always said she was fine. Well, except for last week.
As Sally hooked up the chemo, my mom leaned her head back and promptly went to sleep. I watched as the nurse efficiently finished setting everything up. Sally was comfort personified. She always had kind words and a matching smile for us and in a way, those were just as important as the numerous medicines my mom took each day. There was an entire army of medication my mother took that probably would have overwhelmed me if Nadine didn’t come every day to help organize them and make sure they were taken on time.
Nadine had been a godsend. Once my mom forgot her pain medication last week, we decided to hire Nadine to come stay the day with her and make sure all of her needs were taken care of. I wanted to hire a professional nurse, but my mom refused to have a stranger stay with her all day. “Just because I’m sick doesn’t mean I have to be a patient,” she’d argued. Thankfully, she’d allowed Nadine to assume the role of caretaker while I was at work. I didn’t think I was ready for that kind of responsibility. I’d quit my job in a heartbeat if that’s what my mom needed and wanted, but I think we both knew that it would do more harm than good if I was there every day, all day. The evenings and weekends were difficult enough. I felt guilty thinking that. I should be eager to spend every moment with her, shouldn’t I?
“We should have a big Thanksgiving at the house this year,” my mom said, her eyes still closed. I thought she was asleep, but apparently she was just deep in thought. “You could invite Jay and some of your friends from the beach. We can have Nadine and her family over, too.”
“Don’t you think that’d be too much for you? You get tired so easily. Besides, you don’t even eat anymore,” I reminded her.
My mom opened her eyes and the hopelessness I saw in them paralyzed me. I swear I felt my heart miss a few beats.
“It’s my last Thanksgiving,” she said. “I want to do it right.”
My mom was famous for her guilt trips, but this time, I don’t think she meant it that way. It was a rude awakening for both of us. From now on, most things would be her “last” ones. Thanksgiving was just the beginning.
— HUCK —
20. GIVE THANKS
“Do you think this will be enough?” I asked Jay, peeking out from behind a stack of boxes he was unpacking.
“Hey, you’re the one that wanted style. I don’t style lightly,” he responded as he opened the box on top and pulled out something that was wrapped in an over-abundance of bubble wrap. I watched as he finally extricated the object out of its puffy cocoon. It was another sculpture. Something silver and curvy and unidentifiable, just like the other three he’d already opened.
“What does that thing do?” I pointed at the sculpture that he was now buffing with his sleeve.
Jay took his time to turn and look at me. “It’s magical. It gives this shithole condo some personality.” He moved over to the new shelf he’d had delivered earlier and he placed the magical sculpture “just so,” moving it a few centimeters back and forth until he found the exact position he wanted.
As much as I enjoyed teasing Jay, I had to admit that he was really good at his job. He’d already had every single room in the condo painted, new furniture added here and there, and drapes and artwork added to the windows and walls. Now he was just adding the finishing touches. Those finishing touches just happened to be contained in a dozen gigantic boxes. I didn’t understand why my condo needed that much finishing, but I trusted him. So far he’d completely transformed my place into a swanky, yet classy, bachelor pad.
“Want me to order some food?” I asked, moving into the kitchen.
“Yeah. Get Chinese this time. We haven’t had that in a while.”
As I rooted through the drawer for the take-out menu, I reflected on the last few months. Ever since Cat had moved in with her mother, Jay and I had started spending a lot of time together. I think our mutual longing for Cat’s company, and its unfortunate unavailability, had forged a strange, yet comfortable, friendship between us. We didn’t have a lot in common, but what we did have in common was something big. Having Cat in my life, even for the brief time I had her, made everything seem so much more . . . just so much better. Now that she was gone, it was like there was a huge, gaping hole. As much as I tried to keep my life full, there was still something missing. I think Jay felt the same exact way. It was like we had unofficially agreed to keep each other from missing Cat.
I’d had exactly four lunch meetings with Cat in the last month, but that was the only time I’d had alone with her and she made sure to keep the conversations well into the zone of work and projects. The good news was that at least we were finally easing into an almost friendship. She glared a lot less, she joked and quoted movies, and she’d stopped calling me Shitstick. At least if she was still using that name, she wasn’t using it in front of me anymore.
I finished placing the order for our dinner and then brought two beers into the living room, handing one to Jay before I collapsed onto my sofa to watch him transform my condo.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked, not looking at me.
“Probably hitting the gym. Then I’ll hang out here and gaze at all my magical shithole-reducing knick knacks.”
“It’s Thanksgiving, don’t you have anywhere to go?”
“My family lives in Baltimore and I didn’t bother to get a ticket to go home since my parents decided to
spend the holiday on a cruise.”
“No siblings?”
“A brother and a sister. But my sister is spending the day with her in-laws.”
“And your brother?”
“Is an asshole.”
Jay’s eyebrows almost disappeared into his perfectly styled hair. “And you’re not going to elaborate on that?”
“No point.”
“Fine. Then you’ll just have to come with me for Thanksgiving.”
It was my turn to raise my eyebrows. “Will I be attending as your date?”
“Is that a problem?” he challenged.
“Are you going to expect a good night kiss?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Pretty Boy. Do you want to go or not?”
“Are you sure it won’t be a problem? I don’t want to intrude on your family gathering.”
“It’ll be great, trust me.”
I agreed to go, but I was a little uneasy. I usually did trust Jay . . . until he told me to.
***
“Wow. Nice house,” I said as we pulled in front of something that was less house and more mansion. The fact that we had to be buzzed in at a gate had completely caught me off guard. “What do your parents do?”
“My parents? Oh, the usual. My dad is a pastor and my mom is your typical preacher’s wife.”
A pastor? I wondered how Jay’s lifestyle fit in with religious parents. And I wondered how a pastor could afford to live in a mansion in Beverly Hills.
“TV evangelists?” I guessed.
“What?” He laughed. “Hell no. My parents don’t live here. They have a house out in Encino where their church is located. At least, they used to six years ago.”
“You don’t talk to your parents?”
“More like they don’t talk to me,” he clarified. His tone made it clear that he was finished with the subject matter.
“If we’re not having Thanksgiving with your family, who are we having it with?”
Jay’s lips curved into a smile so devious I knew I wasn’t going to like the answer. The fact that he didn’t answer unnerved me.
Hooked Page 17
