by Terri DuLong
She smiled at me from across the table. “Ah, but we’re not finished. After we clear this away, we will have some Moroccan tea, and Jean-Paul wants to share one of his customs with all of you.”
I joined the other three women in helping to clear the table, and again I could see that Simon appeared to be in pain. I leaned over his shoulder and whispered, “We can leave, you know. If you’re in pain, we don’t have to stay.”
He reached up and gave my hand a squeeze. “No, I’m okay. We’ll have tea and dessert.”
Amelle came onto the patio carrying a beautifully ornate tea pot with a long, thin spout and proceeded to fill our cups. “Mint tea,” she informed us.
“And this,” Jean-Paul said, following her out, “is La Galette des Rois, the French cake for New Year’s.” He placed a round cake with flaky puff pastry in the center of the table. Sitting atop the cake was a gold paper crown. “Normally, we have this on January 6, the feast of the Epiphany, to celebrate the arrival of the Three Kings or Magi. But we will have it this evening with our friends.”
“Oh, is this the cake with the prize in it?” Jim asked.
Jean-Paul smiled. “Oui. One slice will have a porcelain trinket inside, and that person will be the king, wear the crown, and have a good year ahead.”
I had read about this French tradition and smiled as Jean-Paul sliced the cake into eight pieces, passing plates around the table.
I took a bite, and it was delicious. I detected the taste of frangipane, and on my second bite my tooth hit something hard. Careful not to swallow it, I laughed and then held up a beautiful, tiny baby Jesus. “I have it,” I said, holding the prize up in the air.
A round of applause went around the table as Jean-Paul jumped up, placed the crown on my head, and proclaimed, “Bravo! You shall have a wonderful year ahead.”
“Congratulations,” Simon said, leaning over to kiss my cheek.
I glanced down at the porcelain trinket, thinking that since my daughter was born so close to the date of the Epiphany, it was both special and appropriate.
Following dessert, Jean-Paul built a fire in the stone pit at the end of the patio, and everyone drifted to chairs surrounding it.
I was quite surprised to glance at my watch and see that it was going on ten. It had been a wonderful evening, but I could tell that Simon’s discomfort hadn’t lessened.
I reached for his arm as we went to follow the others. “We can leave, Simon. Really. I can tell you’re uncomfortable.”
He let out a deep sigh. “I don’t want to ruin your evening. I can stay.”
“No, no,” I insisted. “I think we should go. It’s already ten, and it’s an hour drive back to the island.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely,” I assured him.
We made our round of good-byes, and then I thanked Jean-Paul and Amelle for such a memorable evening.
“Thank you so much for inviting me and sharing your culture and traditions with me,” I told them.
“It was our pleasure,” Amelle said, and I noticed that Jean-Paul was whispering something in Simon’s ear as he clasped his arm around his shoulder.
Simon nodded and caught me looking at them. “Okay, and yes, thank you both for a wonderful evening.”
“I can drive back,” I said as we headed to the car. “I had very little wine. You might be more comfortable in the passenger seat.”
“No, I’m fine. Really.”
As we headed along SR 24, Simon was quiet. He’d tuned the radio to a soft jazz station.
“That was nice,” I said. “I enjoyed it so much. Thank you for inviting me.”
He nodded but remained silent.
When we were entering Bronson, he said, “Josie, there’s something that I need to tell you. Something that you need to know, especially if we’re going to be working together.”
Red flags flew up as I shifted in my seat to look at him. “What is it?”
“You’ve probably wondered why I don’t take any pain meds for my back discomfort.” He paused for a moment before saying, “It’s because I can’t. I’m a recovering drug addict.”
I knew that the medical profession had its share of addicts. A nurse I’d trained with had a problem with alcohol, so his confession wasn’t a total shock to me. Alcohol and substance abuse affected people from all walks of life—from corporate leaders to street people.
“Okay,” I said, waiting for him to go on.
“It all goes back to the car accident with Lily almost ten years ago. I wasn’t the cause of the accident, but I carried a lot of the blame. Stephanie was the one who was supposed to originally drive Lily to that ballet class, but at the last minute it interfered with one of her social events, so I drove. For months after the accident it bothered me that if Stephanie had driven her, if anything had been different, the accident wouldn’t have happened. In addition to the guilt, I was having extreme back pain from the injuries I’d sustained. Of course my doctor prescribed pain meds.”
He paused for a moment, gauging my reaction. “And you got hooked,” I said softly.
I saw him nod. “Yup, as simple as that, except it was far from simple. Within a few months I discovered that it was becoming increasingly difficult to get through my workday without oxycodone. Instead of cutting back on it as the doctor suggested, I was increasing my dosage. Long story short, I basically overdosed, went into respiratory depression, and passed out. Stephanie found me on the living room floor. She called 911, and I was rushed to the ER.”
My hand flew to my mouth. “Oh, my God.”
He nodded. “Yeah, it was pretty damn scary, I won’t lie. I woke in ICU, and I knew that was the beginning of the end. I was fortunate that I didn’t lose my license to practice or my job. But with the help of a counselor at the hospital, I began attending a twelve-step program at the hospital. I was also fortunate that my partner took over my patients at the office, and when I was discharged, I went from the hospital directly to a rehab facility in Jacksonville, where I spent three months in recovery.”
“My God, I had no idea. So it was pretty bad, but you wanted to get better. You’re the one who did the footwork.”
“Exactly. I’d seen enough in my own practice of medicine to know the addict must want to get better, and I did. But I admit it’s not easy, because unfortunately the back pain is chronic. Something I’ve learned to live with. When it gets really bad, I go for acupuncture, and that does help.”
“So it’s still a day at a time, huh? And I know you drink wine. That doesn’t bother you?”
“No, I’ve never had a problem with a few glasses of wine. Never had a desire to keep drinking. It’s the pills that are my problem, and, yes, it’s still one day at a time. But I’m doing okay. I still attend meetings in Gainesville, but I wanted you to know what was going on. As a nurse, I knew you’d think it silly that I don’t even take an acetaminophen. My closest colleagues, like Jean-Paul, know my history, but I don’t advertise it.”
I reached over and patted his hand. “I understand and, Simon, thank you for telling me. For being so honest.”
He squeezed my hand in return and said, “Thank you for understanding, Josie. I had a feeling that you would.”
35
I awoke the following morning about eight and was sitting at the kitchen counter enjoying my first cup of coffee when the phone rang.
“Happy New Year,” I heard Grant say.
His voice brought a smile to my face as I felt a twinge of loneliness. “And Happy New Year to you. You’re up early. Weren’t you out painting the town red last night?”
His laughter came across the line. “I could say the same of you, and no, I’m afraid I had a pretty boring evening. I took my mother out for an early dinner, came back here, and fell asleep by ten. Didn’t even see that ball drop. How about you?”
“Actually, I did end up going out.” I paused for a second, feeling a bit awkward. “Simon invited me to a friend’s home in Gainesville. There were t
wo other couples, and I had a Moroccan dish called tajine for the first time. Simon wasn’t feeling well, so we were back here by 11 and I was fast asleep by midnight too.”
“Oh, I see,” he said, and I wondered if that was relief I heard in his tone. “Ah, tajine. It’s a great dish, isn’t it? I had it years ago when I visited some Moroccan friends in France.”
“It was delicious, and I’m glad I had a chance to try it.”
“Any word from your mother?”
I let out a sigh. “None. I don’t want to badger her, but I still don’t know what she’s decided. If she’s decided anything.”
“Hang in there, Josie. I have a feeling that Shelby will end up doing the right thing. Is Orli around?”
“No. She had a sleepover last night at Laura’s house. She’s due home about noon.”
“Okay, well, give her my love. I just wanted to call and wish you a Happy New Year.”
“Thanks, Grant. I’ll be in touch soon.”
I hung up the phone and poured myself another cup of coffee. Taking my mug, I curled up on the sofa, deep in thought.
I thought about Simon and what he’d told me the night before. It certainly didn’t affect the way I felt about him. I knew he was a competent and well-regarded physician, and I gave him credit for the struggle he lived with every single day. But I knew something had changed between us. At least on my part. I enjoyed being with him, but it now hit me that my enjoyment was more that of a friend—not a lover. I had been attracted to him in the beginning, but I now wondered if that attraction had any depth to it. Much like with Ben. Before Simon left me at the door the previous evening, he had kissed me, and that was when I realized that it was me who had changed. Gone were the initial sparks, and I found my mind straying to Grant and recalling the evening we’d spent on his sofa.
When the phone rang again, I was more confused than ever.
“Josie, are you busy?” I heard my mother say.
“No, not at all. Still in my jammies having coffee. How are you?”
“I’m okay. Is Orli home?”
“No, she’s at Laura’s till around noon. Why? What’s going on?”
“I was wondering if I could come over to talk to you.”
“Of course you can. Now?”
“I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes,” she said, and then hung up.
By the time my mother arrived, I’d thrown on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. I was sitting on the sofa when she walked through the front door. My first impression was that she still looked good, dressed in tan slacks, a pale yellow blouse, and a matching cardigan that I knew she had knitted.
“You look good,” I said, getting up to give her a hug. “Coffee?”
“No, I’ve had my fill this morning.” She went to sit on the edge of the sofa.
“Did Mags get home okay?”
“Yes, she called me last night, and Jane went home yesterday.”
“I’m glad they came to visit, but you’re going to miss them,” I said, wondering what was so important that she needed to see me at nine in the morning.
As if reading my mind she said, “I didn’t come to talk about Mags and Jane. There’s something I wanted to discuss with you.”
I leaned forward on the chair. “About your diagnosis?”
She brushed some hair behind her ear. “Yes and no.”
I took a sip of coffee and waited for her to go on.
“I was twelve when my sister, Wendy, passed away, and she was only eight.” My mother fingered the strap on her handbag.
I saw no connection at all to my mother’s health issue, but I nodded. “Right. It must have been difficult for you to lose a sister so young,” I said, and then wondered if death was the subject my mother wanted to discuss.
She let out a sigh. “It was devastating, and I always felt it was my fault.”
“Your fault? You know that you couldn’t have prevented the pneumonia that took her life.”
A look of anguish crossed my mother’s face. “It wasn’t pneumonia, Josie. It wasn’t pneumonia that killed her.... She drowned.”
“What?” I got up to sit beside her. “What do you mean she drowned? This is the first that I’m hearing of this.”
She nodded, and I saw tears glistening in her eyes as she let out another deep sigh. “That’s because I never wanted you to know. The locals know the real story, but being my loyal friends, they never said a word when I refused to discuss the drowning and explained that her cause of death was pneumonia.”
I felt my own eyes filling with moisture. “But it wasn’t?” I asked, softly reaching for her hand.
My mother shook her head and reached in her bag for a tissue. “No, it wasn’t. She drowned at the beach we used to have on First Street. Something else that you’ve never known, Josie, is that my mother was a drinker.”
This news astonished me. “What? Grandma Helen? I never saw her take a drop of alcohol.”
“That’s because she never did again after Wendy died, but . . . by then, it was too late. The damage had been done.” She dabbed her eyes with the tissue. “Because my mother drank, much of Wendy’s care fell to me. I really didn’t mind. I adored my younger sister. Jane and I took her everywhere with us. But that afternoon Wendy begged me to take her to the beach, and I had already made plans with Jane. There was some type of event going on at the library for my age group. Wendy wasn’t able to follow us as usual. I told her I’d take her the following day, but I knew she wasn’t happy. So I left her with my mother and went with Jane. Somehow, Wendy snuck out of the house and went to the beach alone. She couldn’t swim, and that was why I was always so strict about her not going without me.”
“Oh, my God,” I said as I gripped my mother’s hand.
“The next thing I knew somebody was racing into the library looking for me. They said Wendy had been in an accident at the beach. Jane and I flew out of there, but when we got to the beach . . . there was my little sister laid out on the sand . . . with people hovering over her. We didn’t have a doctor on the island back then, but it probably wouldn’t have saved her anyway. She was already gone.”
I pulled my mother into my arms and felt the tears wetting both of our faces. “I’m so sorry, Mom,” I whispered. “I’m so terribly sorry for your loss.”
After a few moments my mother pushed away from me, wiped her eyes, and let out a deep breath as she emphatically nodded. “I wanted you to know the truth, Josie, because I’m hoping it will help to explain why I’ve been so controlling all my life. I’m not excusing my behavior . . . but I just need you to understand why.”
I instantly recalled what Estelle Fletcher had said to me: Every behavior has a reason and a deeper layer to it.
“And you felt responsible, didn’t you? You felt guilty because you weren’t with your sister. You lost control of the situation.”
My mother nodded. “I see that now, but it’s taken me until very recently to understand. I did feel responsible. I felt guilty for doing what twelve-year-olds do—simply being a kid. And so I think I lived all the years since then thinking that if I controlled every situation, if I stayed on top of things, if I made sure no harm came to you or your father . . . then nothing bad would ever happen.”
“And now?” I asked.
My mother reached for my hand. “And now . . . now I see that life doesn’t work that way, Josie. I got slammed with my diagnosis, and that was my wake-up call. You were correct at the doctor’s office when you said that I have no control over this situation. I don’t. I have no control over the outcome, but I realize now that I do have control over what I do about it.”
I let out a sigh of relief and felt my vision blurring. “And so, what are you planning to do?”
“I’m calling Dr. Girone on Monday. Your father and I have discussed it over the past few days. I’m going to have the surgery, and then . . . well, we’ll hope for the best.”
I scooped my mother into my arms. “I love you, Mom. You’re doing the righ
t thing, and I’ll be with you every step of the way.”
When my mother left, my immediate thought was to share the news with Grant.
“Oh, Josie, I’m so happy for you. I told you she’d do the right thing. What made her finally change her mind?”
I proceeded to share the story of my aunt, Wendy.
“Wow,” I heard Grant say. “I guess it’s true that everybody has a story, isn’t it? I know you’re relieved, and I’m sure Orli will be too. When is the surgery, do you know?”
“No, but we should find out next week. I know I’ll be a wreck, but at least she’s decided to try to get better.”
“Exactly. Call me next week and keep me posted.”
I disconnected with Grant for the second time that day and thought about both Simon and my mother—how each of them had encountered a life-changing experience and yet they both had the strength needed to go forward with their lives.
And that was when it hit me. Despite what I liked to think, my own life was in a state of limbo.
36
I walked into the office of Dr. Simon Mancini at nine-thirty the following Wednesday and was shocked to see the waiting room filled with people. Actually, overflowing with people, because every seat was taken and some were standing.
My gaze flew to Brandy, who smiled and shrugged. “Guess we have a huge run on sick people,” she said.
“We don’t even open till ten,” I told her.
She shrugged again. “What can I say? They were all out there on the sidewalk and porch when I got here a little while ago.”
This was crazy. I raised my hand in the air. “Okay, people. What’s going on? Are all of you sick and in need of a doctor?”
Raylene was the first to respond. “Well, yes. I have a bunion that I think he should look at, but”—I saw a smirk cross her lips—“I also want to meet our new doctor face-to-face.”
Ah, so that was what this was all about. “Okay,” I said again. “Those of you who are really sick, of course you’ll be seen. If you think it can wait a day or so”—I directed my stare toward Raylene—“then make an appointment with Brandy. As for the rest of you . . . well . . . you’ll just have to wait until Dr. Mancini has his open house.”
