Simmer Down

by Sarah Smith

  Callum turns back to his phone. “I’ve relayed our acceptance to Ted.”

  He glances up, his eyes snagging on my bare chest. A second later, his stare glazes over. I give myself an imaginary pat on the back for how well I’ve captured his attention.

  When I’m all the way in, I tilt my head at him, giving my best taunting stare. “You’re not just going to stand there and gawk, are you?”

  Seconds later, his jeans, T-shirt, and boxer briefs are in a heap on the deck and he’s slowly lowering himself into the hot tub. I relish the slow movement the water forces him to take, because it allows me to gaze at his naked body longer. He lets out a groan as he settles across from me.

  Bracing my hands along the edge, I lean my head back and sigh. “Your friend Ted is my new favorite human being.”

  A splash hits my ears, then his hands land on my body. I glance up just as Callum settles me onto his lap. I bite my lip, positively giddy at the opportunity to straddle him naked. I moan at the feel of our hot bodies against each other, our slick skin making the movement impossibly smooth. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I press my forehead against his.

  I close my eyes. “If someone told me the day we met that we’d eventually share a hot tub together, I would have laughed in their face.” Opening my eyes, I lean back to get a proper look at Callum. “I thought you hated me.”

  He flinches. “Nikki, you know I—”

  I rub the back of his neck with my hand. He closes his eyes and moans.

  “It’s okay. We’re good now.”

  He presses his mouth where my neck and shoulder meet. The light kisses and suckles he blesses upon that spot turn me into a whimpering fool. Seconds pass before I lean away to look at him. He stares back with that intensity that seems to come and go so easily. But this time there’s purpose in his eyes. It’s obvious in the slight furrow of his brow, in the clench of his jaw.

  “Are we good, Nikki?”

  “Absolutely.”

  His hands fall to my waist. I shiver despite the temperature. His feathery-soft touches always do that to me. With both of us wet, my sense of touch is heightened. Every tap of his finger, every swipe of his hand on my body feels a million times more sensitive than usual.

  He shakes his head. “This isn’t my idea of good.”

  “Then tell me your idea of good.” I swallow his breath when I speak, we’re that close. “Please.”

  He leans his face to my face, and we’re somehow even closer than we were a second ago. I’m certain he’s going to kiss me. But instead of sliding his perfect tongue into my mouth, he speaks.

  “Good would be doing this with you every day. Good would be getting you to admit when you’re jealous and want only me. Good would be calling you mine.”

  Digging my fingers into his shoulders, I’m practically shaking. Just when I thought we were firmly back in friends-with-benefits territory, he throws me for a loop with a statement like that.

  If we’re both on the same page—if we’re both game for more—could we really make it work? Could he really give up whoever else he’s seeing casually for me? What about the festival? What about his plan to move back to Chicago?

  Softly, he bumps the tip of his nose against the tip of mine, then presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth. Every thought, every question, everything that’s not this kiss fades away.

  I pull away. “Are you saying . . . What are you saying, Callum?”

  He lunges for my mouth, and we’re kissing so hard, I’m robbed of all oxygen. I lose track of time, location, what day it is, my senses.

  Pressing a hand against his chest, I steady myself. “Say it again,” I say between broken breaths.

  Say I’m yours. Say you want to be mine. Say nothing else matters.

  He leans his head back, his chest heaving as if he’s run a marathon. “Nikki, I . . .”

  Say you want me all day, every day. Only me.

  In the background my phone rings, but I don’t care. His clouded stare and the slow smile that crawls across his face read pleasure-high. With both hands on my cheeks, he pulls me in for yet another breathless kiss. Then he slides one hand between my legs, and I’m crying out in an instant. But then he stops.

  “Is that your phone that keeps ringing?” he pants.

  I say a quick apology, then swipe my jeans from the nearby pile of clothes. I dig the phone out of the pocket. “I’ll turn it to silent. Sorry.”

  But then I see a slew of missed calls and texts from Mrs. Tokushige.

  “Hang on,” I mutter, swiping my finger across the screen. “This is so weird. It’s my mom’s friend.”

  I pull up the text messages and almost drop my phone in the hot tub when I read Mrs. Tokushige’s text.

  Your mom was rushed to the hospital. Please call me as soon as you can.

  A shriek lodges in my throat. Callum clasps my hand. When I look at him, the inky, enlarged pupils of his eyes read sheer panic. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

  But I can’t talk. I can only cry and scramble clumsily out of the tub, grabbing at my clothes. I drop the phone in his hand and watch all the color drain from him when he reads the text. And then I feel his steady touch on my arm. He speaks. But all I can do is cry and hope to God he’s telling the truth, that it’s not just empty words to make me feel better, like I suspect.

  “It’s going to be okay.”

  Chapter 16

  Callum leads me through a long white corridor with his massive hand pressed on my back. I’ve lost count already of how many of these sterile tunnels we’ve walked through since arriving at Maui Memorial Medical Center minutes ago. The same ball of despair and nerves that hit when I would visit my dad as a patient here takes hold. We pass the corner where he lost consciousness while being wheeled to a nearby exam room for an MRI. That was a month before he passed, when he was so weak that walking was almost too much for him most days.

  My heart thuds, my head spins, my palms sweat. Just the thought of Mom being here makes me want to puke. This cannot be happening.

  We make it to a random waiting room with green chairs, and I spot Mrs. Tokushige sitting in the corner. She stands as soon as she sees me.

  “Oh, my dear,” she croons while pulling me into a hug.

  I fought the lump in my throat the entire drive here, and I don’t have the strength anymore. When I speak, my voice finally breaks. “What happened?”

  She wipes a tear from my face with the folded-up tissue in her hand. “I’m not sure, dear. We were all cleaning up in the kitchen, and all of a sudden your mom fainted. We couldn’t wake her up, so we called 911. She thankfully came to before the paramedics arrived, but then she had trouble breathing.”

  “Is she all right? Can I see her?” My head spins with a million more questions, but I swallow the rest of them back.

  Mrs. Tokushige nods, her topknot shaking with the movement of her head. “She’s in room 547 at the end of the hall.”

  Her gaze floats to Callum, who stands behind my shoulder, but she says nothing.

  Callum turns to me. “You go ahead,” he says. “I’ll wait here for you.”

  He moves to stand next to Mrs. Tokushige, who nods at me. “The doctor should be in there with her still,” she says.

  When I walk in the room, I have to cling onto the doorframe to keep from collapsing. She rests on the bed, eyes closed, her chest rising and falling with each labored breath. Under the harsh fluorescent lights her tawny skin appears sallow. I swallow back a sob and walk over to her bed. Other than a few minor ailments detected at her annual doctor checkups, she’s never once had a health scare. The last time she checked into a hospital was nearly thirty years ago when she gave birth to me. By all accounts she’s an active and healthy sixty-something woman.

  Through blurry eyes, I try to focus, but tears rush my waterlines. What she was before today doesn�
��t matter. Because right now she’s barely conscious, lying in a hospital bed, looking like the most helpless creature I’ve ever seen. And I need to accept it.

  A young woman in green scrubs and a white coat stands next to her, reading over a chart before looking at her IV. She glances up. “You must be Mrs. DiMarco’s daughter.”

  I wipe my face with my hand, nod, then walk over to her bedside. I scoop her hand in mine.

  “I’m Dr. Alma, the physician on call.”

  I shake her hand with my free hand and introduce myself.

  “Your mom is a little woozy from her fall, so she’s resting right now. Do you want to step outside and we can talk while she gets some rest?”

  I follow behind the doctor, who is barely five feet tall and looks younger than me. She closes the door behind her. I glance down the hall and spot Callum standing next to Mrs. Tokushige, who’s sitting down in one of the chairs. Despite the free fall my nerves are doing, one look at Callum is a moment of calm. That unrelenting pressure in my chest that’s persisted ever since reading Mrs. Tokushige’s text eases a smidgen.

  “You all right?” he mouths.

  I nod and turn back to the doctor.

  “It looks like your mom has an ulcer in her stomach and is severely iron deficient. Has she mentioned anything about feeling tired lately? Any mention of bloody stools or vomiting blood?”

  I shake my head. “What? No. I mean, I don’t think so. She hasn’t said anything about that. And she hasn’t been acting differently either. She’s been keeping herself busy and active like normal.”

  Dr. Alma offers a head nod that reads sympathetic. “She doesn’t seem like the type who cares to slow down.”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Unfortunately, she’s lost a lot of blood due to her ulcer, so we’re going to give her a blood transfusion to replenish what she’s lost.”

  The thoughts spinning through my brain halt like a needle on a record. “Blood transfusion? But . . .”

  Dr. Alma purses her lips. “I know that sounds serious, but it’s pretty routine in a situation like this. Her ulcer is causing considerable blood loss. But once the transfusion is complete, she’ll feel a lot better. It’s also likely that she’s anemic, so we’ll put her on an iron supplement as well. But don’t worry, it won’t interfere with her diabetes medication at all.”

  The needle flies off the record completely, shattering against the inside of my skull. “Diabetes . . . What? My mom doesn’t have diabetes.”

  Dr. Alma frowns. “Ms. DiMarco, your mother is a type 2 diabetic. Didn’t you know that?”

  I shake my head and hold the nearby wall to steady myself.

  She blinks before reining in her expression. “I think you two have a lot to catch up on.”

  She says she’ll be back to check on her later in the evening. I walk back into the room, confusion hanging over me like a damp fog as I focus my eyes back on Mom.

  The door squeaks shut behind me, jolting her awake. She squints at me, then pushes herself up onto the pillows. “Anak. Hi.”

  I stand at the head of her bed, balling my hands into loose fists. Sadness has flipped to frustration. How could my own mother keep her health problems a secret from me?

  Her brow furrows when she focuses on my face. “What’s wrong?”

  I shove a fist through my hair and tug. The split second of pain does nothing to dispel the frustration mowing over my insides. I wring both hands at my sides before folding them across my chest. I can’t get angry, though, not when my mom is lying in a hospital bed.

  “Were you ever planning to tell me about your diabetes diagnosis?” It’s a struggle to keep my tone calm, but I manage.

  “Eventually.” She shrugs, like it’s no big deal she’s been hiding a major medical issue from her own daughter.

  I swallow, willing myself to remain measured and steady. “Don’t you think it’s important that I know?”

  Glancing down, she smooths the bedsheet with her hand. “My health is none of your business.”

  The scoff I let out is almost as loud as my voice. “Seriously? You are so out of line with this.” My hard tone ricochets against the hospital room walls. I deserve to know why the hell I was kept in the dark. “How long have you had diabetes? Why have I never seen you take your meds or check your blood sugar? And why the hell did you never tell me?”

  I take a breath, but it does nothing to calm me. “And like hell it’s none of my business. I’m your daughter. It’s my job to take care of you. How am I supposed to do that if you keep your health a secret from me?”

  She pushes the blanket off her chest and crosses her arms. The movement reminds me of a child who doesn’t want to go to bed yet. It’s fitting though. This moment is a role reversal for the record books. Here I am standing over my mom, scolding her for doing something unbelievably careless that could have cost her her life. She’s handling it about as well as I did as a kid when she or Dad lectured me.

  “Okay, maybe I should have told you, but I didn’t want to worry you. I saw how upset you were after we lost your dad. I saw how you turned your life upside down for him, for me. I didn’t want to put you through that again.”

  I toss my hands in front of me. “Mom. You can’t hide your health problems from me because of Dad. He would have freaked if he found out you were hiding this.”

  She sighs, an ounce of defiance melting from her face. “You’re right about that. But I just didn’t want to worry you. You already do so much for me.”

  I pause for another deep breath. “From now on, you need to be truthful about everything.”

  “Fine.” She scratches her elbow. “I was diagnosed just after your dad died. I didn’t want to add to the bad news, so I kept it to myself. I take my meds in my bedroom so you don’t see. I check my blood sugar in the bathroom and my bedroom so it’s not in front of you. And I’m very careful with my diet. You see that I don’t eat junk food very often?”

  I nod my head, biting my tongue to avoid another outburst. But I’m struggling to grasp the fact that for more than a year and a half, she kept this a secret from me.

  “My doctor even said that if I continue doing well with my diet and exercise for a few more months, I might be able to go off my meds.”

  “Fine, Mom, yes. You’re a healthy eater and that’s great your doctor thinks that. But God, what if you had collapsed in front of me and the medical staff asked me if you were taking any medications? Or what if they asked me what illnesses you had? I wouldn’t have been able to give them the right answer to any of that. That’s so unbelievably dangerous. Don’t you get that?”

  “I admit, it wasn’t the best idea, but you try to control every part of our lives ever since your dad died. It gets tiring after a while.”

  I scoff, my jaw on the floor. “I’m not trying to control anything. I put limits on certain things you do because if I don’t you’ll drive yourself into the ground. And look: I was right. You keep me in the dark about your diabetes, you hide your health problems from me, and see what happens? You end up in the hospital.”

  “Nicole Elise DiMarco, I may have made a mistake, but I’m still your mother. You don’t take that tone with me, young lady.” She wags her finger up at me. “You don’t know better than me about everything.”

  “Maybe I do. Maybe just because I’m your daughter doesn’t automatically mean you always know best. Maybe you should listen to me. Maybe you should be open and honest with me about your health. Is that too much to ask?”

  “Open and honest, Nikki? Really?” Turning her head toward the window, she says nothing for nearly a minute. I don’t either. The silence is louder than when I was nearly shouting a minute ago.

  She finally turns back, her dark eyes on mine, her voice steady. “I know you mean well. But it’s just too much sometimes. It made me not want to tell you certain things. I was
afraid I would stress you out even more if I told you about my health problems. I know it was wrong of me to hide it from you, but I didn’t want you to worry about me even more. You moved here for me. You gave up your job, your friends, your life in Oregon, your dreams to help me. I feel like such a burden on you sometimes.” Her eyes glisten under the overhead lights. “I’ve brought so much worry to your life. I didn’t want to add more.”

  Bracing my hands on the railings of the bed, I lean down to her. For the past year and a half I thought I did such a good job making it seem like I was happy here, all the while hiding the constant strain of trying to make a life and a living.

  I open my mouth and contemplate saying that she’s mistaken, that every day is a joy, that I don’t worry nearly as much as she thinks I do, that she’s wrong to think otherwise. But when I focus on her stare, I can’t lie. Not anymore. She knew all along that I never wanted to be here in the first place.

  I opt for a sanitized version of the truth. “Mom. I’m here now. I don’t want to be anywhere else, because you are my priority.”

  I let out a slow exhale, relieved that my voice sounds as calm as I hoped it would. I pat her hand. “I’m going to get a coffee. I’ll be right back.”

  When she looks up at me, I spot a hint of understanding in her eyes. Maybe it was never my dream to run a food truck at nearly thirty with my mom. But this is my life. I chose it. I’m working hard to succeed in this new path. I’m making my own way now. I’m happy with the independence I’ve forged and the fact that I can spend more time with her. And I hope that when I tell her that, she’ll believe me.

  I slip out of the room and head for the cafeteria. Hurried footsteps trail behind me. I turn and see Callum.

  “Mrs. Tokushige had to leave to go be with her family, but she wanted me to tell you that she’ll visit tomorrow to check up on your mum.” He grabs my hand in his. “Is she okay?”

  I fill him in on her ulcers and her anemia diagnosis, as well as the fact that she’s been lying to me about being diabetic.