“Me bullshit?” he asks. “You’re the one always saying that my daughter resented me,” he seethes, “that she didn’t want to be around me.”
“What are you talking about?” I burst. “I never said anything like that.”
“Yes you did, you lying sack of shit,” Ed says, “yes you did.” For a second, I’m actually a little worried that he’s going to climb out of that bed and we’re going to have to throw down.
“I said basically the same thing that your wife just said,” I tell him. “I told you that Jamie didn’t like that we’ve never gotten along. Ed, would it be the end of the world if we were to have one conversation where neither one of us tries to push the other one off of a cliff?”
“Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you,” Ed says. “You’d love to come in here and say you fixed everything right before the old man keeled over. That way, you’d be the hero and I’d be the old fart that was wrong about everything all along, well I’m not buying it and you shouldn’t be selling it.”
“Penelope, I’m sorry, but I really don’t think this is going to work,” I tell the only friendly face in the room.
“Give it a chance, you two!” Penelope shouts. “Listen, if the two of you can’t speak with each other with some kind of respect, then why don’t you both shut your mouths and just listen.”
I’m perfectly fine with that arrangement.
My phone starts to ring, but I press the mute button through my pocket. Ever since that first heavy breathing call—which I was very surprised to find out is a real thing, by the way—Rita, if that’s really her name, has been calling me on the hour, every hour, and as I glance at the clock I’m kind of wishing will fall from its place and just put Ed out of my misery, I’m reasonably certain it’s her.
If not, I’m sure whoever’s calling will leave a voicemail.
“Now, do the two of you remember that one Christmas dinner where I’d forgotten to go out and get the sweet potatoes?” Penelope asks.
“I’ll keep my mouth shut,” Ed says, “but I’m not going to bear listening to the sweet potato story one more God damned time.”
The way he says it is kind of mean, but I actually agree with the sentiment.
The story of the sweet potatoes is that Penelope thought she’d forgotten to get sweet potatoes for Christmas dinner, but after enlisting Jamie’s help and my help and Ed’s help, we discovered that she actually had a bag in the pantry all along.
The end.
I know she likes to tell that story because it’s one of the few times that all four of us were together and nobody was arguing.
Actually, as I think about it, Ed and Penelope were arguing about whether or not sweet potatoes were actually traditional Christmas fare or not, but it wasn’t the hate-fest that Ed and I have so long enjoyed.
“Fine,” Penelope says. “Just think about how much the two of you have in common, though. You both love movies. That’s something, right? Damian, what’s a good movie you think Ed might like?”
“I have no idea,” I answer quickly.
I think we’re getting a bit off topic, but Penelope is trying anything to get us to find some common ground.
“We both loved Jamie,” I tell her.
“That’s true,” Penelope says, “and that’s the most important thing of all.”
“You couldn’t have supported that child even if everything had gone off without complication,” Ed says.
“Ed,” I scoff, “even when I was trying to do the normal life thing, I still had a couple hundred thou in the bank at any given time. I don’t know exactly how much you think a baby costs, but—”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” he says. “Supporting a child isn’t just about money. It’s about your whole life. Every moment of your life from the moment that child is born is about that child and for that child. That was never you. You were always more content to just go on acting like responsibility was a four-letter word.”
“I don’t know where you’re getting that from,” I tell him, “but I always took my responsibilities seriously when it came to your daughter and the baby.”
Ed laughs. “We’re never going to make any progress here because we don’t know the same language. Sure, what you’re speaking sounds like what I’m speaking, but apparently, you do not understand a damn word that I’m saying. Now, I’m old, I’m sick and I’m tired. If I ask nicely, do you think you could find it in your heart to get the hell out of my room?”
Sure, Ed. I can do that.
I turn and walk out the door.
Yeah, I’d hoped for things to go differently, but I didn’t expect it. I have a pretty solid memory and in every single memory I have where Ed and I were the same room, if we were talking to each other, we were talking down to each other.
“Damian, wait,” Penelope calls behind me.
I’m almost to the elevator, but I turn and wait for her to catch up to me.
“I can’t talk to him, Penelope,” I tell her. “I’ve tried. Look, I’m sorry he’s sick, I really am, but I don’t think that’s going to change a decade of him hating me.”
“I know things didn’t go so well,” she says, “but you’ve got to promise me that you’ll try again.”
“I already have tried again. I’ve tried dozens of times over the years to find some sort of inroad with him, but to Ed, I’m always going to be the guy that not only tried to take his daughter away from him, but the guy who actually succeeded in every possible sense,” I tell her.
She bites her lip and I’m feeling a little guilty.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I said that in the heat of the moment, but you know that’s what he thinks of me. We’re not going to work through that in a couple of hospital visits.”
“Then keep trying until he’s dead,” Penelope says. “The way things are looking, that shouldn’t be too far off, anyway, so if you’d just put forth that small investment, you’d make an old woman very happy. I can’t defend the way he talks to you. It’s not fair what happened to Jamie and it’s not fair that he’s been making it harder on you all these years, but I know both of you so well and I love you both so much—I’m sure that if the two of you could just get past your differences for even a few minutes, you’d find that you’re a lot more alike than either of you would ever admit.”
“Penelope,” I tell her, “you know I’d do anything for you, but I don’t see the point in this. He’s always going to hate me. I don’t know what else there is to say on the topic. That’s just how it is and how it always has been.”
“Please,” she says. “I don’t have that many people left in my life, and I’d hate for two of them to lose their last chance to make peace.”
“Penelope, if you really need me to do this, I’ll do what I can, but I can’t promise next time’s going to be any better than this time,” I tell her.
“I really need you to do this,” she says. “Jamie never got to see the two of you make up or even have a pleasant conversation. I think it’s something he’d be excited to tell her about, though, when he…”
As far as low blows go, that one was pretty far below the beltline, but I am a man of my word. I’m willing to put myself through a little hell for a few days or maybe a few weeks to take some of the stress off of Penelope, but I’m not drinking the Kool-Aid.
For what he’s said to me since Jamie’s death, Ed Morgan is the worst person I have ever met in my life. I get that he was pissed off and scared and gutted, but that didn’t give him the right to tell me that I’m the reason she’s dead.
The asshole future-father-in-law thing was irritating, but it was endurable. Attacking me after I’d just suffered the greatest injury I’m likely to suffer, though, and never letting up, never apologizing or even acknowledging that maybe he’d gone too far, even one time—that’s what’s unforgivable.
“I told you,” I say, “if it’s that important to you, I’ll come back, but I can’t promise anything.”
“I under
stand,” she says. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I tell her and pull her into my arms. “You’re nothing but trouble for me, you know that?” I ask.
“I know,” she says. “It’s what moms do.”
“All right,” I tell her. “I’ve got to get to work, but give me a call if you need anything, okay?”
“I will,” she says, and we part ways.
It astounds me that a woman like Penelope, so sweet and nurturing, one of those people that just treats you like you’re someone special, even if you’re only meeting for the first time, could be married to a hateful, resentful man like Ed. That’s the way it usually goes, though.
Still, I had hoped that maybe things would be different this time, but that’s what addicts call not playing the tape through to the end.
I get off the elevator and am walking back to my car when my phone rings again.
It’s too soon for another moaning call from Rita.
I pull the phone out of my pocket and look at the caller ID.
I answer the phone, “Hey, Danna. What’s up?”
“Hey bro,” she says, “I kind of need your help here a little bit.”
My blood turns cold.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
The last time she told me she needed help, she was in the hospital for a week. The time before that was just before she was diagnosed.
“I kind of lost my balance and I’m finding it a little difficult to move, well, at all,” she says, trying to mask the fear in her voice. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to dial a number when your hands aren’t working?”
“I’ll be right there,” I tell her, “or do you need me to call an ambulance?”
“Uh, the way my foot is starting to turn colors, I think you should probably just call an ambulance and meet me at the hospital,” she says.
“Hang in there,” I tell her. “You’re going to be just fine, all right? We’re going to figure this thing out in no time.”
“You know,” she says, “for such a famous actor, you’re not very good.”
“Oh shut the fuck up and let me call an ambulance,” I tell her.
“That sounds more like you,” she says. “You’re probably going to have to do the hanging up on this one. I had to press the call button with my nose and you have no idea how many times I had to go back and delete or re-enter numbers—it’s a pain in the ass.”
“Love ya, sis,” I tell her. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
I hang up and call 9-1-1.
After quickly explaining the situation, I tell the dispatcher that my sister will be waiting inside the house, but unable to answer the door and that, because I’m not close enough to home to make a difference, if they need to break down the door, they have my permission.
I really liked that door, too.
The dispatcher is kind enough to keep me on the phone until paramedics arrive at the house and get Danna on a stretcher. Before the dispatcher hangs up, I ask which hospital they’re taking Danna to, hoping that I’ll luck out and not have to chase her down, but the nearest hospital isn’t this one.
I get in my car and fumble with the keys for a minute before I manage to work the right one into the ignition.
This isn’t the first time Danna’s had an episode. It’s not even the first time she’s had an episode since she’s been staying with me.
They’re not fatal in most circumstances—the exceptions generally being someone falling and hitting their head on something—but they’re terrifying, not only for Danna, but for me.
This sounds like the worst one yet. She’s been unable to get up before, but she’s never lost the ability to move all four of her limbs at the same time.
I get to the hospital and find Danna as she’s being wheeled through the emergency room. The doctor talks to me a little as he and some nurses push her into a small room and transfer her from one gurney to another.
“It looks like she’s got a broken leg,” he says. “When she collapsed, she must have fallen onto something or over something, because there is a definite fracture on the lower portion of her tibia. She’s breathing all right, though she’s very fatigued. We need to run some tests, but we’ll keep you posted. If you’ll just wait outside in the waiting room…”
With that, one of the nurses grabs both of my arms and physically turns me toward the door.
“You all right, Danna?” I call over the doctor’s shoulder.
A weak voice amid all the movement and commotion replies, saying, “I’m just faking it to get out of work, boss.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” I call back to her and now, with that out of the way, I gladly walk out and find the waiting room.
* * *
Having an episode is a traumatic thing for Danna and, to a lesser degree (or at least a different one), for me as well.
As I sit here in Danna’s hospital room in the chair next to her bed, I think about the odd ways in which people deal with things. Some people get pissed off, some people get more determined, some people crawl into a bottle and some people just shut down completely. Danna and me, though? We’re dealing with this situation by going out of our way not to even bring it up.
In the half hour it’s been since the doctors let me in here to see her, we haven’t once talked about why we’re having our conversation in a hospital room. She probably doesn’t have long before the fatigue wipes her out for who-knows-how long. Why waste what time we have by only talking about why we’re in the room.
“By the way,” Danna says, “you got a new message from your secret admirer.”
“Did I?” I ask. “I like that you’re calling her my secret admirer now. It sounds a lot better than crazy-stalker-fuckhead.”
“I’m sure she’s just lonely,” Danna says dismissively. “Anyway, you remember the flowers in different stages of development that she set out on the sidewalk last time, right?”
“Of course,” I answer.
“Yeah, so this time, she wrote you a love note that stretches along the sidewalk all the way around our block,” Danna says. “She used big letters, so I managed to get it written down. It should be in my purse somewhere—did they grab my purse?” she asks. “Did you check?”
“It’s American healthcare,” I tell her. “Do you really think they’d let you in here without taking a thorough look through your pockets and purses for loose change?”
“You know,” she says, “if you’ve got my purse or you know where it is, you can really just tell me. If not, I’m sure if we flipped to the right news station, we’d get an aerial view of the whole scene.”
“I really don’t care that much about what the poem said,” I tell Danna and before I can continue, her head has jerked toward me and she’s giving me a glare as if sensing that I’m about to ask her about what happened today. “We’ve got to talk about it at some point,” I tell her.
“We really don’t,” she says. “I fell and broke my leg. I’m probably going to need to stay off my feet for a while and get a lot of rest, but I’m going to be fine. I’m not dying or anything,” she says. “How’d it go with Ed?”
I don’t want to talk about it and so I don’t even respond to the question.
“Danna,” I tell her, “this is happening more frequently now. I mean, is it just going to get worse from here? I think maybe it’s time that we hire Paolo.”
The origins of Paolo are largely lost to antiquity, but I do remember that the name first came up a few months after Danna had been diagnosed.
I don’t remember the exact conversation, but I remember that it culminated in me promising that, in the scenario that Danna gets worse and I, for some reason, am in charge of the hiring and firing of any temporary or permanent healthcare and/or rehabilitation staff, that I would make sure her healthcare worker was a handsome man with a sensual accent.
I do remember that knowing English wasn’t a job requirement so long as he was willing to give Danna sponge baths multiple ti
mes a day until she got bored of him, at which time, I’d hire someone new to replace him.
Where the name Paolo itself came from, I haven’t the slightest recollection.
So when I tell Danna that it might be time we hire a Paolo, I’m putting the words in a way that’s likely to be a little easier to hear, but it’s not going to change the weight of what those words really mean.
Danna’s still young and she’s still got a lot of time ahead of her. If she keeps doing what she’s doing, though, she’s going to run herself into the ground.
“We’ve got to do something,” I tell her. “I wanted you to move in so we could keep a better eye on each other. I didn’t do it so you’d overextend yourself day in and day out—”
“I’m sick,” she says, resigned. “It happens.”
“I think we both need a little help here to make sure that you’re not putting your health and wellbeing at risk,” I tell her.
“You can’t take away my freedom, Damian,” she says. “I won’t allow it and you’d never let it go on for any significant amount of time anyway, so why bother wasting the time, money and effort.”
“I’m not trying to take away your freedom,” I tell her. “I’m trying to look out for my sister, that’s all.”
Her eyes are growing heavy, but that doesn’t really seem like the reason Danna’s telling me she’d like to be alone, to have a chance to close her eyes and rest.
Even if it’s only temporary, we are going to have to figure out some kind of help for Danna after she gets out of the hospital, and I’m going to have to try to figure out a way to be there more.
I have to work, and even if I tried to take another break, Danna wouldn’t allow it. She’s the one that got me to take the role in Flashing Lights. I didn’t even want to do the movie.
No matter what I do here, Danna’s not going to like it. I’m sorry about that, but that’s out of my control. There just aren’t enough options.
On the set today, they’re doing scenes with some of the extended cast, so I’ve got the day off. I was hoping to get some kind of repose after everything with Ed, but I’m never going to be able to relax until Danna’s back home.
Costars (A Standalone Romance Novel) (New York City Bad Boy Romance) Page 12
