by Olivia Dade
Viv would nod, but she wouldn’t look convinced. At dinner, she’d go through an entire bottle of wine or half a dozen margaritas and try to drum up arguments with either him or an ever-calm Elizabeth. And once they got out to the car, the slurred accusations and screamed invectives would begin.
Finally, he’d stopped suggesting dinner with their old friend and former roommate during visits to Marysburg. Just another way he’d contorted his life, his relationships, everything he did and was, around his ex-wife’s alcoholism. But after the divorce, once he’d returned to his hometown for good, he’d called Elizabeth and apologized. Asked for forgiveness and company at their favorite diner that night.
She’d accepted him back into her life without questions or recriminations. She provided pleasant, undemanding companionship when they both had time. She baked him cookies for every conceivable holiday. She was the antithesis of drama, and around her, he could just be.
His history, his choices, his regrets: She knew them all in a way no one else did, not even his parents or his sons. Over the years, he’d hidden so much from his family. From everyone.
He’d wanted to shield his kids from pain. Wanted to protect the privacy and sanctity of his marriage. But because of Elizabeth’s unique position in his life, she’d witnessed some of the hardest, most horrible moments of that life.
She hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t done anything but offer understanding and warmth.
So she deserved him clean and kempt, and she deserved him prompt.
Especially since he’d never, not once in almost thirty years of friendship, heard her make such an impassioned plea for company. For support. As soon as he’d read the Facebook DM, he’d told her she could count on him. He’d be happy to attend a damn town hall or a wake or a wedding or whatever. Anything for her. And it wasn’t as if he’d miss another long, solitary evening spent reading or watching HATV before trudging upstairs and tumbling into a big, chilly bed.
There. There was the road leading to the high school.
James arrived in the parking lot two minutes before Congressman Herb Brindle’s town hall was due to start, wedged his truck into the first available space, and sprinted for the entrance closest to the auditorium. His back ached with each jarring step, just as it did when he made his sad attempts at jogging four times a week, but he gritted his teeth and kept moving.
The foyer contained two or three clusters of people still chatting and four SWAT officers in polo shirts. They eyed him carefully, but he turned away, still looking for Elizabeth’s trademark pale blond hair and solid frame.
She was nowhere to be found, probably because the event was due to start any moment and she’d already taken a seat. Hopefully she’d saved him one too.
To his vague surprise, there was no security check at the door to the auditorium, just a taped-up paper that read “No posters or signs.” Ironic, that. And as soon as he poked his head inside, he saw that glorious hair, glowing beneath the overhead lights like a beacon.
He hustled down the aisle, his boots landing in noisy thuds on the floor. But other than a few more security people around the margins, no one paid him any attention. They were still chatting as they waited for the congressman, who appeared to be filming an interview with a local news reporter at the side of the auditorium.
Elizabeth wasn’t chatting with anyone, though. She wasn’t even watching the congressman. She was staring at the empty stage, at a spot containing nothing of real interest.
Even when he lowered himself into the seat beside her, she didn’t move. Didn’t acknowledge him. Was she angry he’d cut the timing so close?
“I’m sorry, Eliz—” he started to say, but then she jerked at the sound of his voice and turned her head in his direction.
Her deep-set blue eyes, usually so clear, were bloodshot, the lids swollen. Her skin had transformed from rosy to blotchy, its paleness mottled by angry patches of pink. Her strong features appeared to have sunken in on themselves somehow, turned creased and saggy when he’d always considered her an ageless wonder.
Only that trademark low blond ponytail was normal, its brightness incongruous. Almost obscene, given the fear and worry etched across her face.
She’d never looked like this. Ever. Not even at her mother’s funeral a couple months ago. Jesus fucking Christ, what was going on?
He wrapped a hand around her upper arm, and the chill of her flesh seeped through her sweater. “Are you okay? What happened?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Brindle moving toward the stage. They only had a minute to talk. Maybe seconds.
Her throat shifted as she swallowed. “I’m fine.”
A lie refuted by its telling. He could barely hear her, even though the audience had quieted in anticipation of the congressman’s words, and her voice was rough in a way he didn’t recognize.
Enough. She didn’t belong in a damn high school auditorium, not in her condition.
“Let’s go somewhere we can talk. Somewhere warm.” He got to his feet and held out his hand to her. “My house is closest.”
He’d turn on the gas fireplace and crank up the heat until those tiny shivers wracking her frame stopped. He’d swaddle her in a blanket, get her some of that fancy hot chocolate she liked, and make her tell him everything. Then he’d figure out how to fix it, whatever it was.
She took his hand, but only to tug him back down to his seat. “No.”
“But you’re—”
Her mouth set, she shook her head. “I need to do this.”
“You need to do what?”
But it was too late. A woman in a navy dress had stepped up to the mic stand and started yammering about Brindle’s accomplishments, his love for his constituents, and a bunch of other shit James neither believed nor cared about.
He leaned over to whisper in Elizabeth’s ear. “Are you sure you want to stay?”
Her soft hair caught on his beard, several strands pulling loose from her ponytail. The scent of baking surrounded her in a nimbus, imbued in that hair and the fabric of her clothing. Vanilla and almond and fresh bread. Sweetness and comfort.
She smelled edible. Always had.
At his words, she shivered again, harder. Then she nodded.
After a round of halfhearted applause from the audience, the woman retreated from the stage, replaced by the suit-clad congressman.
Brindle cleared his throat and gazed out over the auditorium. “It’s my honor to speak to you tonight at Marysburg High. As you know, my constituents are the reason I’m here, in every possible sense. And tonight, I’d like to share with you some crucial information about our national debt and the dangers of our ballooning deficit before I open the floor to questions.”
Beside James, Elizabeth took a shaky breath, her long, blunt fingers curling into fists on the armrests. Without thinking much about it, he covered the hand closest to him.
Her fingers were stiff under his. Cold. But as Brindle ran through his PowerPoint presentation, complete with endless bar graphs and alarming spikes in various charts, they gradually loosened and warmed, flattening against the plastic armrest.
Abruptly, as the congressman seemed to be reaching the end of his speech, she turned her palm upward, and their fingers intertwined.
Holding hands. They were holding hands for the first time in almost thirty years.
The fit felt natural. Easy, in a way he hadn’t anticipated. And her shivers had waned at some point over the last several minutes, which allowed him to take his first full breath in half an hour.
Her distress disturbed him. Immensely. He’d had no clue. Not given her usual self-possession, her seeming imperviousness to damage, the way she’d remained stalwart and cheerful even during the sale of her bakery and her mother’s slow, painful decline and death.
Had she been stalwart and cheerful? Or had that been a performance enacted for the comfort of her oblivious audience?
Earlier, she’d told him she was fine when she clearly wasn’t. He didn
’t like to think of her lying to him, and he didn’t like to think of how many times she might have done so in the past without him noticing.
Brindle finished discussing his last slide and clicked off the projector. A few audience members, quiet to that point, gave another perfunctory round of applause.
One of the few remaining so-called moderate Republicans, Brindle didn’t tend toward fiery speeches or prophecies of doom. His soundbites were reasonable, conciliatory. But he voted with his uber-conservative colleagues every time, no matter how egregious their positions became or how many people—especially women, people of color, and members of the LGBTQ community—their policies hurt.
As far as James was concerned, the man was a fucking coward. Maybe he talked a good game about welcoming immigrants, but he didn’t denounce their harassment by ICE or the splitting of families by deportation or the horrific detention camps at the border. Maybe he acknowledged the importance of affordable healthcare for all, but he stood by while the Republicans drafted bill after failed bill that would strip that healthcare from millions.
Brindle was either devoid of principles or lacked the courage to fight for them. Either way: The man was a blight on Virginia and their nation. He needed to be voted out, and soon.
James sincerely hoped someone in the auditorium would ask the congressman where he’d stored his spine, and whether a good ass-kicking would help him find the key.
When Brindle opened the floor to questions, a few audience members raised their hands. Including, to his shock, Elizabeth, the woman who’d bemoaned and feared every oral presentation she’d been assigned in college and never raised her hand in their shared American lit seminars.
This. This was why she’d come, fear of public speaking be damned.
She was shaking again, her fingers squeezing so tight he heard one of his knuckles crack. But she kept her other trembling hand high in the air, gaze pinned to Brindle’s nearest roaming flunky with a microphone.
The tie-clad young man—a Young Republican from Marysburg University?—caught her eye, gave a little nod, and headed their way.
Her breath hitched, and her fingers spasmed around his.
When the kid leaned over, his outstretched hand holding the microphone, Elizabeth slowly, clumsily rose to her feet. James expected her to disentangle their hands at that point, but she didn’t. And he wasn’t letting go until he knew she was okay, whether that happened in a minute or an hour.
So he scooted forward in his chair so she didn’t have to lean to the side and held her hand as she spoke into the microphone, her voice quavering.
“My name is Elizabeth Stone, and I’m a lifelong resident of Marysburg. My question concerns your stance on healthcare.” She licked her chapped lips. “I’m very concerned about—”
“Let me stop you for a moment, Ms. Stone.” The congressman held up a hand. “I want to be clear that I understand the importance of healthcare to Virginians and all Americans. Every time I hear the story of an innocent child’s illness driving a family into bankruptcy, I grieve more than I can say.” Lips pursed, he shook his head. “Health insurance needs to be affordable and readily available. But as my presentation just demonstrated, we also have to find a solution that won’t bankrupt our government in the long term. That’s a tough challenge, but it’s one my Republican colleagues and I are more than willing to take on. We’ll keep working on it until we find the right answer. For you, and for everyone.”
He paused, clearly waiting for applause. When it didn’t come, he turned back to Elizabeth. “What’s your question, ma’am?”
She was breathing fast, but she didn’t avert her gaze from the congressman. After one more squeeze of James’s hand, she began talking again.
“Let me tell you a little about my family medical history, Congressman. My Grandma Stone died of breast cancer before I was even born. My father didn’t talk about it much, but from what I hear, she had a lump under her arm the size of a grapefruit before she went to a doctor, and by then it was too late. She was dead before my dad even graduated from college.” Her fingers had turned cold against his once more. He covered them with his free hand, surrounding her as best he could as she spoke. “Grandma Barker had a mastectomy in her late forties. She survived for a couple more decades before she got lung cancer.”
Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Both of them were smokers, unlike my mom. And my mother never got breast cancer, although she had a few questionable mammograms over the years. My sisters haven’t had any issues either. But you can understand why I’ve always been concerned about breast cancer. Terrified of it, actually.”
He’d had no idea. None.
“Last month, I—” She paused. “I found a lump in my right breast while I was showering. But I don’t have health insurance, and I wasn’t comfortable going into debt to pay for a mammogram.”
James must have made some sort of sound, because she stopped speaking for a moment and glanced down at him. With a nod, he encouraged her to keep going, but he barely heard her next few words.
When the fuck had Elizabeth lost her insurance? And why hadn’t she said something to him? He could have paid her premium. He could have paid for a fucking mammogram. Shit, he’d have begged her to take his money and go to the damn doctor.
They’d been friends for decades. Unlike most of their circle, she hadn’t blinked when he’d decided to shift from teaching English to painting houses. She’d tolerated Viv’s abuse and tried to stay close to them both, even in the midst of all the alcohol-soaked drama. She brought him homemade soup when he came down with a cold or fever. She baked him cookies for every conceivable holiday—including Arbor Day, for Christ’s sake—and fed him basically every time she saw him. He figured he could blame ninety percent of his belly on her, and the other ten percent on the Rita’s frozen custard place near his house.
She’d been a steady, supportive, undemanding presence in his life almost as long as he could remember.
And she’d been without insurance and terrified, and she hadn’t fucking told him?
No. This was unacceptable. And as soon as this damn town hall ended, he was going to tell her so. Right after he held her until she stopped shaking.
“—and the radiologist said I needed a biopsy as soon as possible, but if I couldn’t afford a mammogram, how can I afford a biopsy?” Elizabeth’s voice was so shredded now, he could barely make out her words. “And if it’s cancer, how can I afford treatment without spending the rest of my life in debt? What if my lack of coverage means I don’t get the care I need?”
Even as her tears spilled over, she jabbed a finger in the congressman’s direction. “But let’s say the lump is nothing, I survive this year, and I try to get coverage next year. If the latest Republican healthcare bill passes, I won’t be able to pay for health insurance anyway, because of all my preexisting conditions.” She jerked the hand twined with James’s against the softness of her stomach. “I’m fat. I smoked for a while in my twenties and have occasional asthma. And since the abnormal mammogram is in my records now, that’ll probably disqualify me for an affordable plan too.”
For the first time since James had known her, she’d raised her voice. She was yelling now, those blotches on her face standing out in relief against the bone-white paleness of her skin.
“So, yes, I hear you saying that innocent babies born with health conditions shouldn’t die, and their families shouldn’t go bankrupt. How generous of you.” Her trembling lip curled. “But what about people like me? I’m not innocent. I’m a flawed human being, and I’ve made some bad decisions. Does that mean I no longer have value to you or to our society? Does being fat and a former smoker mean I deserve to d—”
Her chest hitched, and he brought their twined hands to his cheek, desperate to provide some sort of silent comfort.
After a moment, she continued. “Does that mean I deserve to die? Does that mean I deserve to spend weeks or months awake in bed, wondering whether I have a tumor growing from somet
hing treatable to something that will cause me a slow, agonizing d-death?” She was sobbing between every word now. “You need to think hard, Congressman Brindle. About people like me. About what you believe. About whether your conscience will allow you to bankrupt and kill an untold number of Americans in the name of the free market and deficit reduction, even as you increase military spending and cut taxes for the wealthy.”
The congressman, his brow furrowed, had extended a hand to her. “Ms. Stone, I’m so sorry that your—”
“No.” She cut him off without hesitation. “You’ve gone on record as supporting every one of your party’s failed healthcare bills. So I don’t want your sympathy. I want your vote. A no on every cruel healthcare plan your Republican colleagues propose. A yes on universal healthcare. If you can’t give me both, save your prayers and platitudes for someone who can afford them. And that’s all I have to say.”
The crowd erupted into whistles and applause, drowning out Brindle’s attempted reply.
Elizabeth wasn’t even paying attention to the congressman anymore. Instead, she lowered her chin to look at James. “Can we go now?”
Her nose was red and running, her eyes swollen. But her shoulders were straight, no hint of apology evident on her face. The local news stations’ cameras were trained on her, but she wasn’t flinching away from them or hiding herself.
She wasn’t just kind and pleasant and smart. She was fucking phenomenal. A powerhouse of a woman, even in the midst of such pain and fear.
Why hadn’t he seen it before?
He stood. “I’ll drive us home. We can get your car later.”
Without another word, she slung her purse over her shoulder and headed for the exit, James in tow. At her sudden movement, the SWAT guys headed in her direction, but they stood down when they saw she was leaving.
And as James and Elizabeth walked hand-in-hand to his truck, he started formulating a plan.
