Seven Days of Friday (Women of Greece Book 1)

by Alex A King

  Truth is, she doesn’t want Melissa out of her sight – just in case. But holding on too tight is only going to make things worse. So, she lets her baby go, while she shows this bathroom how they do things in the New World.

  Scrape, scrape, and the old wax is history. She drills holes in the floor, fastens the anchoring brackets; rocking is for chairs, not the bathroom throne. Then comes the part where she staggers across the room, arms struggling with the new toilet.

  Nothing easy about it. A toilet is shaped like, well, a toilet. Curves in all the wrong places. But she wins. That toilet goes on exactly like it’s supposed to, hugs the wax ring tight, empties and refills right on target.

  Hooray.

  She takes a step back, then another to admire her handiwork, because from here it looks a-m-a-z-i-n-g.

  Next thing she knows, her whole life is zooming by, tangled in that Friday underwear. And she’s falling, falling, and the pipe wrench is sailing across the short distance between her foot and the new toilet.

  The tile floor catches her. Lucky. She’s probably only paraplegic, now. But the wrench falls hard, and that new toilet is no trampoline.

  (FYI: In a rock/paper/scissors competition, metal cracks porcelain.)

  She sprays the walls with curse words. All the “fuck” and “shit” in the world isn’t going to help her situation, but it feels good to let loose.

  She hobbles out to find Melissa, jeans wet from the cistern. Looks like she peed her pants. Her daughter’s playing fetch with Biff. Sometimes Biff fetches the ball, sometimes he lets Melissa get it herself.

  “Change of plans, Kiddo,” Vivi says. “If you want to pee you're going to have to find a bush. I highly recommend the back yard. Ask Biff. He knows all the good spots.”

  “Yia sou, Vivi, Melissa!”

  (That’s Greek for hello, but – )

  Fuck. Seriously, fuuuuck.

  Max is closing in on the gate, fresh off the cover of That Guy You Want to Bang magazine.

  “Hi,” she calls out. “What are you doing here?”

  He’s in denim and crisp cotton, and she’s in sewage. And now he knows they need to pee in the garden.

  Where’s a sinkhole when you need one?

  “Mom! He came to see me, didn’t you, Dr Andreou?”

  He gives Melissa a hundred watts. “Of course. I came to look at those stitches.”

  “Since when do doctor's make house calls?” Vivi asks.

  “Since I brought a gift for your new home. How about I take you both out for souvlaki? If you’re not busy.”

  “We’re not busy,” Melissa yelps. “Don't go without me.” She bolts into the house, Biff at her heels.

  Vivi says, “Sorry, I don't mean to be rude. Today hasn't gone as smoothly as I planned.”

  “She seems much better.”

  God, what is it about these Greek guys? Why do they have to swagger that way? It’s . . .

  Distracting.

  Max is waiting for her to speak. It’s weird seeing him on her turf, looking like a man, not a doctor – and her with a blob of wax on her nose. If she crosses her eyes, she can see the damn thing.

  “So far. But I'm keeping a close eye on her. Having Biff around seems to be helping.”

  “Biff?”

  “It's a perfectly respectable name.”

  “You called the dog Biff?”

  “My dog, my choice. Hey, you had your chance to keep him.”

  “Whatever. I don't like dogs anyway,” he says.

  She laughs at the lie. “Come in, please.

  “Looks like you’re all moved in.”

  “Mostly,” she says. “The biggest battle is redecorating. I smashed the toilet this afternoon. Come by tomorrow and I’ll break some windows.”

  “Why don't you hire a contractor?”

  “Ha-ha. No!”

  Greek contractors run on Greek time, which means they’ll show up when they can be bothered, and leave on that same schedule. Thanks, but no thanks.

  “Let's just say I have more faith in my own abilities.”

  He looks at her and she looks at him and then she looks at the ground, while he keeps on doing what he’s doing, the way he’s doing it.

  “So, souvlaki, what do you say?”

  “Is your fiancée okay with this?”

  “She’s out with friends, and I have to eat.”

  He looks good – so good. Suddenly, she’s starving.

  “Wait right there.”

  50

  MAX

  MAX DOESN’T WAIT.

  He goes back to the Jeep, grabs the two cacti he brought as a gift, sets one at the front door, one at the back. It’s a good luck thing.

  Superstitions are like salt in Greece: everyone sprinkles it on everything. Two people speak at the same time, they both race to touch something red. Death follows the call of the crow. A cactus wards away evil.

  Max figures Vivi and Melissa need all the help they can get, so he brought one for each door.

  To be honest, this place isn’t what he expected.

  But then he doesn’t really know Vivi, does he? He just wants to. And after seeing this place, he really, really wants to.

  He figured she’d be all about an apartment or a house closer to Volos, or closer to her family at least – not that it’s far; everything (and everyone) is still in walking distance.

  But this house is a lot like paradise.

  And there’s a big click in his head, because, man, the Tylers really fit in this house with its fruit trees and its overwhelming sense of home.

  Why is he here?

  House calls aren’t part of the job, though he’s been known to follow up if he’s concerned.

  Yet here he is on a house call, with a gift. Being the good doctor.

  Bullshit, Max. Bull. Shit.

  He sits on the couch. The house smells of fresh paint and lemons. Is this what it’s like, having a home? He can’t imagine Anastasia painting or squeezing lemons.

  Don’t compare them, you asshole.

  It’s too comfortable, so he gets up. Winds up staring out the back doors to stop himself browsing the family photos set out on the bookshelves.

  A moment later, Melissa bounds out of her room with her shadow. The dog is filling out. Won’t be long before everyone forgets he used to be unloved.

  Now that she’s in her own clothes and not in a hospital bed, it’s clear Melissa is destined to be a beauty. Vivi eyes, Vivi’s cheekbones, but then her father is a looker, too.

  Max says, “Is it okay if I check your wrist?”

  She hesitates before offering her arm. All that’s left of that night is a thin pink line and a row of black knots.

  “If your mother has some nail scissors, I can take them out right now.” He watches her scratch around the scar. “It itches, huh?”

  “Like fire.”

  “Sure you don't have Biff's fleas?”

  She giggles. “Biff doesn't have fleas.”

  “That’s because you've got them now!”

  “Mom bathed him with some stinky shampoo. Biff was totally horrified.”

  Max laughs at the dog. “If I take the stitches out, it won't be so itchy.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. It won’t hurt.”

  It’s over in a minute. Melissa looks impressed.

  “Is it weird doing stitches?”

  “At first. I had to practice a lot on cadavers.”

  “You stitched real dead people?”

  He nods. “First time I saw a dead body I vomited.”

  “Really?”

  “Honest. I prefer the living. You're lucky you're still with us.”

  She looks past him, temporary cloud darkening those blue eyes. Then it’s gone as quickly as it came. “Hey, Mom,” she hollers. “Dr Andreou took my stitches out.”

  And then Vivi’s there in a sundress, hair tucked behind her ears, smear of color on her full lips. She looks uncomplicated.

  “How does it look?”r />
  “Perfect,” he says. “You won’t have to take her out back and shoot her.”

  Vivi smiles. “Good to know. Are we walking?”

  “Does it make a difference?”

  “Shoes,” she says. “It makes a difference.”

  “Let’s walk.”

  “Mom, why can't we go in the car?”

  “Because if we walk five minutes that way . . .” – she points out the door – “. . . we'll hit the beach. And gas is about eighty percent tax.”

  “But I like the car.”

  “So do I, but I like fresh air and money more.”

  “Can Biff come too? He looks hungry.”

  The dog in question is sitting in front of the refrigerator, tail drumming the floor. Yeah, he looks hungry, but dogs always do.

  “Not a chance,” she says.

  “But, Mom . . .”

  Vivi wins this round.

  Perfect night. There’s a round Camembert moon and a million stars putting on their regular show.

  In a different life, he’d reach for Vivi’s hand.

  But it’s this life, so it’s just two fledgling friends walking to the promenade, with Melissa charging ahead because it’s not cool to be seen with adults.

  Greeks are sociable people. Evening comes, and if they’re not going out, they’re sitting in their front yards, watching their piece of the world stroll by.

  They say a lot of “Good evenings,” and word moves up the food chain that Vivi Tyler is polite – for a foreigner.

  The promenade is blooming, clusters of family and friends everywhere. It’s smaller than Volos’s promenade, but brighter. More colored lights per square meter. The tavernas buttress one another, and along the water’s edge it’s difficult to discern which tables belong to which establishment.

  Melissa is humming with excitement.

  “Mom, a pizza place! Can we have pizza?”

  “A million miles from the United States and my kid wants pizza.”

  Vivi laughs, and Max thinks: I want to make her laugh like that.

  “Come on,” he says. “I know the best souvlaki place. You’ll never want pizza again.”

  Melissa looks dubious. “I’ll always want pizza.”

  Max turns up one of the side streets. “If I’m wrong, I’ll buy you a pizza.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “Is this one of those real promises, or a fake one like Mom and Dad’s wedding vows?”

  “Melissa!”

  A quick glance at Vivi then away again. Long enough to see she’s dying for the sidewalk to swallow her whole.

  “I really promise,” he says.

  It’s not the fanciest eatery in town. The paint is stained from decades of smoke and spitting oil, and it’s standing room only. Most nights the bodies are five, six deep. Tonight it’s only three, but it’s still early. The grill is working hard, sizzling impaled chunks of lamb. One by one, the owner slides the meat into pita bread, and then dumps onions, tomatoes, and tzatziki on top. He wraps the whole thing in paper, and that’s your cue to get out.

  Max pays for three. Two minutes later, they’re standing outside, shoveling hot souvlaki into their mouths.

  Melissa, the hard sell, is groaning. “This is so good,” she says. “But I still love pizza.”

  Vivi taps her on the shoulder. “Don't talk with your mouth full.” She looks at Max. “But she's right, it's one of the best things I've ever put in my mouth.”

  He doesn’t want to do it (yes, he does), but he looks at her mouth. She’s not trying to be provocative, but it happens anyway when her tongue flicks out to catch a drop of the yogurt sauce.

  Brakes screech in his head. He looks away.

  “You okay?” Vivi asks.

  “Long day. I haven’t eaten since last night.”

  “You’d think a doctor would know better.”

  He laughs. “We don’t have time to be healthy. My mother is always pushing me to eat more, but time . . .”

  “Not nearly enough of that in a day. I haven't stopped since we got here, and now we have the house. I need to find a job.”

  “What did you do before this?”

  “Housewife, mother, slave. I have an MBA, but Melissa’s father wanted me at home.”

  “Mom, don’t say that. Say you’re a domestic engineer.”

  Max hides his smile behind the souvlaki. The kid is something else. Fire in her belly.

  “If you could choose anything, what would you do?”

  “Maybe I’ll grow fruit and pick olives. I have more trees than I know what to do with.”

  Melissa scrunches the empty paper, tosses it into the trash. “Could you two be any more boring? Don’t answer that – you might bore me to death. Mom, can I go check out the playground? The one next to the church?”

  “Aren't you too old for swings?”

  “You're never too old for swings,” Max says.

  Vivi looks at him. “Is it safe, do you think?”

  “You won't find many places safer.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Go, but be back in thirty minutes.”

  Melissa grins. “Why don't you guys come and find me when you're finished discussing career choices?”

  Awkward age. Child one minute, woman the next.

  “We can walk down and meet her,” he says.

  He watches her weigh the situation. She’s beautiful when she laughs, beautiful when she’s concentrating.

  “Thirty minutes. We’ll be there. No monkey business, and stay away from boys.”

  Melissa sighs like it’s killing her.

  “God help me,” Vivi says, when Melissa is out of earshot.

  “She's all Greek. How is she?”

  “Truthfully? I don't know. It's a lame answer but it's the truth. Once minute she's sweet and the next she's a spitting cobra. Who knows what's going on inside her head?”

  “That’s teenagers for you: stable as the Ring of Fire.”

  Vivi takes his paper, drops it in the trash with hers.

  “At this rate I’m going to wind up modeling straitjackets in the psych ward.”

  “Has Dr Triantafillou been helpful?”

  Vivi takes off. He falls into step beside her.

  “Melissa doesn’t want to see her.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “She kept interrogating Mel, asking if I had a drinking problem. Mel said the doctor insinuated she’s in denial.”

  Not always a smart man, Max. Pushes when the warning light flashes orange, orange, orange.

  “In my experience, children try and protect their parents when they're in an abusive situation. They might have shitty parents, but they’re their shitty parents.”

  “Are you saying she’s right?”

  Red alert.

  Doesn’t stop him.

  “No, I’m saying we see it all the time, so we have to consider the possibility that the parents are a problem. When you brought Melissa into the hospital, the nurse smelled alcohol on your breath. So I made a note of it. Just in case – for Melissa’s own good.”

  It goes bad – it goes bad fast.

  “You're the reason this shrunk is harassing my kid about the drinking problem I don't have?”

  “I don't know what you want me to tell you. We do the same for everyone who comes in smelling like a taverna.”

  “Thank you for dinner, Doctor. Goodnight.”

  Now she’s walking away, dress swirling above her knees. He likes the way she moves when she’s angry, a summer storm in progress.

  He laughs, throws his head back and roars.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You,” he says. “You should see yourself.”

  “I don’t want to be rude, but go fuck yourself.”

  “Vivi, wait. I didn't know then that we'd be . . .”

  She turns around. “That we’d be what?”

  “Friends. As your friend, I’m sorry. But I won’t apologize for following hospital pro
tocol. Let me help you find someone else for Melissa. Someone outside the hospital.”

  “I can find someone myself.”

  “Vivi, come on. My intentions were honorable.”

  She thaws, but not much. “I don't know.”

  “Please, consider it,” he says softly, reaching for her fingers.

  Potential crackles in the night air.

  “Max! What are you doing here?”

  Shit. It’s Mama’s oldest, dearest friend, Maria. She’s wearing a smile but it’s much too bright to be real. He can almost hear her twisting the situation into something the grapevine will love.

  “Kalispera, Thea Maria.” He kisses both cheeks. She doesn’t stop gawking at Vivi.

  “Who is this?”

  “This is Vivi Tyler. Her daughter is my patient.”

  The wily old woman weighs, measures each word, calculates the value of each. “From the way you two were arguing, a person would think you were having a lovers' quarrel. Is your mother well, Max?”

  Like she doesn’t know; they see each other every day.

  He expects a phone call in ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .

  “Last time I spoke to her, both faces were fine,” he says. “Goodnight, Thea Maria. Vivi, let's go find your daughter.”

  He doesn’t touch her – doesn’t dare. The fallout is going to be nuclear. Greece’s eyes are as big as its mouth.

  51

  MELISSA

  YEAH, YEAH, SHE’S TOO old for the swings, but swinging feels good. She’s loose and happy and far, far away from here. Somewhere better, like Disney World. Or a desert island.

  “What's your name?”

  Her feet hit concrete. The swing jerks to a stop. There’s a girl about her age straddling the other swing. She’s snapping gum and her hair is plum. And – of course – she’s wearing shitloads more makeup than Melissa.

  It’s not fair.

  Mom would flip if she wore that much makeup.

  “Who wants to know?” Melissa asks.

  The girl pops a sticky bubble. “Olivia.”

  “Melissa Tyler. You don’t sound Greek.”

  “Canadian.”

  “Cool. American.”

  “Cool.” Olivia nods at her wrist. “What happened? Your wrist looks all weird, like the time I fell off the roof and broke my ulna. It hurt like a fucking bitch.”