F*ck Love (25 page)

“Yes, but what type of red? Think a box of crayons.”

He folds his lips in as he thinks.

“Chili pepper red.”

“Yes,” I say. “Exactly.” I’m thinking of the crayon he handed me in my dream. The one that was blue.

When we leave I can’t think of a profound moment in our day. There were goats, and laughter, and chili pepper red rocking chairs. There was a diaper blow out, an orange juice stain on my shirt, and a small disagreement on how to strap Annie into her chair. There was an illusion of a family. A lie. A temporary thing that would later break my heart. But, for now, my heart is in Kit’s truck, beating wildly in my chest, aching-with all of the love I have for these two.

Della wakes up the next day.

She is mostly confused. She asks if she can stay at my apartment for a while after she leaves the hospital so that I can take care of her.

“I don’t live here anymore, Dells,” I say gently. “Remember? I live in Washington now. But I can stay at your house with you.”

“Kit is from Washington,” she says. “Have you met him?”

“Yes. Do you need more water?”

I stroke her hands, and brush the tangles from her hair. She moans and closes her eyes like it’s the best thing she’s ever felt. She mostly wants me in the room with her, insisting that Kit be the one to leave when she needs something. Kit and her mom take a step back, placing my seat next to her bed, urging me to be the one to answer her questions.

“Do I tell her about Annie?” I ask.

“Let’s give her some time to catch up,” her doctor tells me. “Her brain is adjusting. We don’t want to overload her.”

So, I tell her about Washington. The deepness of the Sound, the rolling hills in Seattle that burn the hell out of your glutes when you walk up them. I describe the champagne bar that serves you strawberries coated in rhinestone sugar. I tell her about the homeless guy who gave me a cigarette and complimented my imaginary socks. And what it feels like to stand on the top deck of the ferry with the silvery air licking your face and neck until you close your eyes at the intimacy of it. When I am done telling her, there are tears in her eyes, and she reaches up to touch my cheek with her pale hand.

“I’m so glad you’re so brave,” she says. “I wish we all could be that brave.” I look away, tears in my own eyes. Brave, I am not. And then she says something that makes me lose it.

“You remind me so much of Kit, Helena.”

I stand up, excusing myself to the restroom. When I turn around, Kit is in the doorway watching me. I never heard him come in. I wonder how much he heard, and then I don’t have to wonder because as I walk past him he grabs my hand and squeezes.

It’s soon after that when she remembers we aren’t on the best terms. It comes when Kit and her doctor tell her about Annie, and the emergency hysterectomy. I stand against a wall in the back of the room, my head down and my hands clasped at my waist. I’ve never felt so exposed, or hated myself as much. I feel her eyes move past the doctor and Kit and focus on me. I’ve been holding her baby, feeding her baby, loving on her baby while she wastes away in this hospital room. All that’s left to come is her resentment. But I’m ready for it, and I don’t blame her.

“Where is my baby?” she asks, tears in her voice.

“They’re bringing her now,” Kit says gently. She starts to sob, and I mean
really
sob. I can’t take it. I leave the room and run downstairs. In the lobby, I all but collide with Della’s mom, who is carrying Annie toward the elevator. Annie smiles instantly when she sees me and starts kicking her legs. I can’t deal with this right now. I give her mom a weak smile and head in the opposite direction. It hurts. I want to hold her. She’s my Annie. She’s not my Annie.

Kit comes home around
ten o’clock. He doesn’t have the baby with him.

“Her grandmother took her for the night,” he tells me. “I wanted to have the chance to talk to you.”

I sink into the couch, tucking my legs underneath me. I am prepared. My heart armored. He leans against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. He won’t look at me, which is never a good sign.

“You don’t have to give me some speech. I get it. I was looking at flights right before you walked in the door.” All of my fear turned to anger. Why had I done this? Why had he let me? I should have just come to see Della, stayed a few days, and left. Now, I know every curve of that little girl’s face, and I won’t ever be able to forget.

“What are you talking about?” he says.

“Me leaving,” I shoot back. “Now that Della is awake.”

Kit looks at his feet and shakes his head. “Helena, that’s not what I was going to say at all. I’m asking you to stay. For a little bit longer at least. Until Della is well enough herself. I know that’s unfair, but I’m asking you anyway.”

I open and close my mouth in shock. Before Kit walked in the door, I was on my second vodka. Just vodka, not vodka with something. Now, I am paying the price, steeped in thoughts that are doggy paddling around my brain uselessly.

“You want me to what now?”

“Stay. I know it’s a lot to ask.”

I turn my face away; my eyes hunt for my glass of vodka. Had there been anything left? Just ice cubes maybe, swirling around in their own sweat.

“She doesn’t want me here, Kit. I saw her face.”

“Ahhh, Helena. Come on now. She just woke up from a coma and remembered she had a baby. We had to tell her that she couldn’t have any more.”

I cover my face with my hands. I’m glad I wasn’t there for that part.

“You know,” I say. “I’m surprised by you sometimes. I really am.”

His lips pull tight as he gazes at me through his heavy lashes.

“You seem to see everything and nothing at all.”

I stand up, taking my time. Making sure he sees how casually angry I am. I’m wearing leather leggings I found in Della’s box of Goodwill donations. They swish as I cross the room toward him. Kit tenses up, and I enjoy it, being unpredictable.

“I’ll stay for Annie,” I say, as I walk past him and into my room.

Life is but a carousel of four seasons. Unpredictable for the most part. Happy. Unhappy. Content. Searching. Mess up the order, and they still rebound at one point or another. I’ve learned that revolution can be inward or outward. A move across the country to gain perspective. A change of heart and mind to gain sanity. But the point is to revolt when the season changes. If only to quench your thirst, revolt.

Della sits limp in her wheelchair, her hands curled into balls in her lap. She is most angry with her hands, she tells me, because they keep her from holding Annie. I’ve yet to hear her complain about the fact she’s stuck in a wheelchair all day, her thin legs even thinner. And she’s never mentioned the bruises that run from her stomach to below her knees in angry slaps of blue and purple. Her hands, though…

Twice, I’ve caught her sitting on them, trying to use her body weight to straighten out her fingers. She cried so hard when it didn’t work she started to choke. I thought I was going to have to call Kit home from work to calm her down. I hear her ask her home nurse about it later, looking embarrassed but altogether determined.

“A body isn’t like a piece of paper; you can’t put something heavy on it and expect it to straighten out. Give it time to heal,” the nurse tells her. I flinch at the callousness, and try to pretend that I’m not listening. At night, after Kit leaves for work, and I am in charge, I rub her hands with sesame oil. Her skin is dry and brittle like old wood. She closes her eyes and moans as I straighten out her fingers, massaging the joints and tugging on them gently, trying to will them back to normal. It’s not only her body that is different; her spirit is as well. Upbeat Della, a cheerleader, an optimist, a singing in the rain type of girl is gone. Now she is a barren girl. A bent girl. Sullen, silent, her eyes gone from a high gloss to a dull matte. Kit and I whisper about it at night and try to think of ways to bring her back. I arrange for her stylist to come to the house to wash and trim her hair. At first she seems excited, but then after a few hours she changes her mind. It takes Kit to convince her that it would be good for her. On the day that Joe is scheduled to come, Della is even quieter than usual. When I ask if she wants to hold Annie she shakes her head no. Joe rings the bell early and brings Della her usual coffee and a bouquet of bright pink peonies. I hug him and make a face when he asks how she is. “I’ll take care of her Boo Boo,” he says. Joe Bae is straight; we want him to be gay, but he’s very straight. He’s always had a thing for Della, which is why he’s willing to make house calls. Today I am very thankful that he’s straight. “Flirt extra,” I whisper. “See if you can get her to smile.” He winks at me and wanders off to find her. Everything is going well until twenty minutes later when she catches sight of herself in the mirror. She begins to cry and asks Joe to cover the mirror with a towel. She begs Joe to cut her hair short, and when I argue, she asks me to leave. Joe makes a frightened face as I’m closing the door. He doesn’t know what to do. When they emerge an hour later, Della has a pixie cut. I am genuinely afraid for my life. Kit is going to kill me. Joe makes a
shut the hell up
face at me, and I try to smile and be positive. “It’s so different and fun! Would you like some cottage cheese and pineapple?”

“I don’t care what you think,” Della snaps, when she sees the look on my face. “You didn’t smell it after…”

She’s right. I didn’t. Her mother washed her when she woke up from the coma. She told Kit and I that it took three shampoos to get the smell out of her hair. When Kit gets home from work, he doesn’t miss a beat, smiling and touching the chopped pieces on her head like they’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. Della beams, looking relieved. I hide in the kitchen, washing the same bottles over and over until he comes to find me. I wait for him to be mad, but he’s talking about dinner.

“You’re not angry with me?” I ask. “For letting her chop off all her hair?”

“No.” He lights the burners on the stove, a doughnut held between his lips. “She’s happy. If she’s happy, I’m happy.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay,” he says. “Breakfast for dinner?”

Twice a day I make her smoothies filled with promises. Websites sell me on information: super fruits will brighten your skin; kale will make your hair grow. Flaxseed and Omega-3 will take away your blues. Drinking my magical smoothies is the only thing she does with enthusiasm, sucking the very last drops from her straw, and then almost immediately reaching a hand up to feel her hair. She always looks crestfallen for a minute when she realizes she’s had it chopped off, then she gets that determined look on her face. Annie and I watch it all with optimism.

“She’ll get back to normal soon,” I tell Annie on our afternoon walk. “Then you’ll get to meet your real mom.” Annie gurgles and chews on her foot, her troll hair blowing gently in the wind. I feel guilty for telling Annie that the Della she knows isn’t her real mom. Maybe this is just who Della is now, and that is okay. She’ll love her mom the same no matter what. On our next walk, I lecture Annie about accepting people for who they are, and not trying to make them something you want them to be. Annie cries all the way home, and I tell her not to be selfish.

The only time Della doesn’t look sad is when Kit is home. If I were to be honest, it’s probably the only time I don’t feel sad. Square-shouldered, full of smiles, he comes in carrying flowers, or diapers, or takeout, and the relief is drawn across our faces. When he walks in the door, he kicks off his shoes and bellows, ‘
Lucy I’m home!’
in a truly horrible Cuban accent. When Annie hears his voice, her arms and legs start pumping frantically until he comes to pick her up, after which she’s not at all interested in the rest of us. It all makes me tearful—the emotion—the fact that I always feel like I’m intruding on their moments. Also, I’m jealous, because I will never own these moments. Not with Kit and Annie anyway. They’re not mine. I hate the dream that made me think they would be. I’m lost in all of these ugly thoughts until Kit puts on his records. When the music is loud, and his little family—plus one—is greeted, he goes into the kitchen to make dinner, holding Annie in one arm, and stirring with the other. Tonight, I try not to watch him sing to her as he sprinkles something green into a pot and replaces the lid. She’s so small in his arms, so peaceful. I lust for Della’s life.