All the Good Parts (18 page)

I felt the tequila trucking through my system, mowing down the lines of propriety. I reached out and placed a comforting hand on his forearm. “You are more than ready,” I breathed. “You are going to do spectacularly well.”

“Will you help me prepare?” Garrett asked, fearful again.

“Of course I’ll help you.” I pressed my thighs against the siding and pushed up with my palms. My face was just under his. I could see the dark stubble under his chin, the fine length of his jaw, the curve of his ear.

Garrett tilted his head down and looked at me straight on. “Miss Leona.”

I pushed up farther, and he moved down, and our lips were inches from each other, breath against breath. He smelled like coffee and man, and I strained to meet him, pushing up on tiptoe. Garrett lowered himself at the same time, so when our lips met, they crashed together, open and willing, tongues tangling, teeth grazing. His hands clutched my shoulder, and I entertained fantasies about him pulling me up and in, onto his twin bed, ravishing my body and . . .

My foot slipped.

“Nooo!” Dr. Bridge shouted.

I righted myself with Garrett’s help. We froze, both in shock at my near miss with disaster. I was terrified to move; even the alcohol pushing through my bloodstream stilled in fear.

“I’m sorry,” I said, still breathing heavily. “Before I almost fell to my death . . . was that okay?”

Garrett smiled shyly. “It was fine. I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Men’s voices grew louder, and Garrett glanced inside. “I apologize, but I have to go.”

“I want to help you with the interview,” I said quickly. “I’ll even drive you and wait outside.”

“I’d like that. Thank you, Miss Leona.” He reached out and gently traced the outline of my lips. “Thank you. I wish I was, I mean, I wish I could—”

“No wishing. You’re fine as you are. Let’s meet tomorrow? Library at two?”

“I’d like that.” He grinned then, and watched as I made my descent into Dr. Bridge’s waiting arms.

“That was terrifying and awesome,” she said. “But we need to find a bar. Pronto.”

Nursing 320 (Online): Community Health

Private Message—Leona A to Darryl K

Leona A:
Are you thhherre??????? Late. I drank a lot. Of stuff. I feel puffy maybe margarita salt??? Drinking wine now. Found in the kitchen. Sherry? Cherry?

Leona A:
Queshion—do you think kids still get made fun of for their names? Like, with people calling their kids Kale and Idle and freaking freaking Karma that anyone even thinks of teasing? Or do the kids named Mary and John get ze shit end of the stick these days?

Leona A:
How bout kissing. It means something, right??? Does it always have to feel like a promise or no???

Leona A:
Where are you? I’m sitting right here. Sick of waiting. Are you alive? Darryl???

Leona A:
Did I make you mad? Yourmad. Aren’t you???? Talk to me . . . I need to talk to you about some

Leona A:
ldskfjalksdghkdlajd.,mfkhkljh

CHAPTER 21

Someone stuck a tube in my mouth in the night, siphoning every bit of liquid from my body. That was the only explanation for how I felt when I woke up, wearing a baby food–encrusted sweater and ripped tights, my tongue stuck in place inside the vast desert known as the inside of my mouth, eyes crusted shut, lips gritty, extremities swollen.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

The messages to Darryl, Donal’s secret exposed, wobbling home on my bike . . . kissing Garrett! Everything came back to me in a Technicolor rush, and I buried myself under the comforter.

I’d deal with it all later. After someone figured out how to get a McDonald’s breakfast into an IV drip.

Only Carly had other ideas. Just as I was able to slow my thumping heart, hoping sleep would eventually suffocate my hangover, she pinched my shoulder with her small, powerful claws. “Bitch,” she said. “Megabitch, Überbitch, Bitch on Wheels. Bitch on Crack.”

I moaned. “Not really. Only circumstantially. I can explain.”

“No, you can’t. You lied. I don’t care if my shit-for-brains husband asked you to.”

“He didn’t want to worry you.”

“When were you two going to tell me? As we were boarding a plane for Dublin? This is bad, Lee.”

The basement didn’t get much light, but it got enough for me to see the dark smudges under Carly’s eyes, the weight of her circumstance pulling the skin down. I wanted to smooth them away with my thumb, but instead, I scooched over to make room. She didn’t sit down. “Can you just pop me in the nose and we can be done with this?”

“I’m a girl, remember? I don’t want your blood, I want to torture you until you break.”

“I am really sorry,” I said, my voice breaking. “You know that, right?”

Her silence was indeed torture, but what she said was even worse. “I can’t trust your judgment now. You know
that
, right?”

I did know it. “Can I do something without expecting forgiveness?”

She hesitated before saying, “Yes.”

“I want to listen to you. To what you’re feeling.”

“Okay, Dr. Phil, how’s this for starters? I don’t want to leave,” she said, the tears in her voice crushing my heart. “I like my life here.”

“But you will, if you have to?”

She paused a moment, and I wondered what she was weighing. Leaving Donal? Finding the money for a protracted court battle? Starting over in Ireland? She finally said, “I wouldn’t desert him, because he didn’t desert me. He could have, you know. When we found out about Maura.”

“Donal would have never done that.”

“We know that now, but I didn’t then. He proved himself to me.”

What wasn’t she saying? Did she feel she hadn’t done the same? The thought was ridiculous—she’d created a life both with him and for him. “I think you’ve more than proven your loyalty.”

“Have I?” She went quiet for a moment. “I thought about it last night after we spent an hour on the phone with Kara. Letting him go. Staying here with you to help me raise the kids until he got back. Kara said it would only be a few years, like he’d gone to war or something. Plenty of women do that.”

I reached for her hand. She let me hold it. “What changed your mind?”

“Last night, after we had it out, he finally fell asleep, snoring like a racehorse. For a moment I fantasized about what it would be like to have the bed to myself every night, to stretch into crisp white silence, to throw my leg over and not hear a groan, to bury my head in our pillows and not smell WD-40. I would feel like a princess.

“But Donal made that bed. Our initials are carved on the underside. We’ve gouged permanent marks in the wall with the headboard. And he always picks white sheets because he likes the way my hair looks against them. Those facts would turn into memories with him gone, and I’m not ready to live like a widow.”

She gripped my hand tighter, cutting into my skin with her nails. It felt good, though, like dramatic punctuation for that kind of pronouncement. “You love him.”

“I adore him.” She sighed. “And I want to punch him in the face until he bleeds.” Carly slipped under the covers, stretched, catlike, and then curled around me. “Lee,” she said, her voice silky smooth, “I’ve already thought of a way you could get back in my good sister graces. Come with us. To Ireland. I want you there, and I think it’d be good for you. A change of scenery is exactly what you need. I was a mad Googler yesterday after Donal went to bed. You can finish up your online classes from anywhere, and there’s a teaching hospital in Waterford, which isn’t far from the farm. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if you complete your observation hours there.”

“You did that for me?”

“I’m looking out for you,” she replied. “If you adjust your thinking a bit, you’ll see this could be an opportunity. Be honest. Doesn’t part of you want to start over? New town, new friends, new house. You’re single with nothing to tie you down. Don’t you want to get out of this basement?”

My thought process was still inebriated—any response skittered about as if on roller skates in my cerebellum. “Wait . . . who would stay here while you were gone? Who would take care of this house?”

“We’ll rent it.”

I thought about strangers in our beds, eating cereal in our kitchen, playing basketball on our driveway.

But then it wasn’t mine. It belonged to Carly and Donal. I already was a renter.

She gently tugged on my hair. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you? You know it makes sense. If we have to leave, we leave together.”

“But what about . . . ?”

“What about what?”

“The baby,” I said, feeling foolish. “What if I still want a child?”

“You’re not honestly still thinking about that, are you?”

“Why would that surprise you?”

“Well, have you asked anyone yet?”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Maybe you’re making it difficult on purpose.”

“I’m definitely making it more awkward.”

Carly flipped over, facing the ceiling. “So, are you going to tell me what happened after you ran off with Dr. Bridge? You smell horrific. Like dirty river water.”

“I kind of don’t mind it. It’s covering me like a hair shirt. I’m atoning for my debauchery.”

“You were debauched? Spill. Now. You owe me full disclosure.”

“I sort of kissed Garrett,” I said, wincing.

Carly’s eyes widened, and she snorted a laugh. “What does that mean? A real kiss? Tongue and all?”

I felt like we’d suddenly tumbled through the rabbit hole and were back in our shared room, fourteen and sixteen years old, me swapping tales of mortification for hers of adventure. Kissing Garrett seemed exciting when our lips were touching, but now, after telling her, it bordered on juvenile, something Maura would do. “Yeah. A real one.”

“Let me guess—he tasted like coffee and desperation.”

She was joking, but that hurt. Painful as it was to move, I sat up, threw the covers off, and staggered to the bathroom, where I turned on the shower. I stripped and stood completely still under the hot water as it pummeled my sore muscles. Donal knew how to get the best water pressure. He’d made sure I had the best, even though I lived in the basement. I couldn’t be angry with him. If Carly punched him in the face, he’d stand there and take it. I wouldn’t stand between them, but I’d yank her hair, pulling her off him.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Carly said through the shower curtain.

“I need to be alone. Let me drown in my watery cocoon.”

It was tempting to stay until the water ran cold, but I shared a house with six other people, and that was selfish. Paul’s words came back to me.
You need to be better.
Could you become a better person by making small, seemingly insignificant changes, or were the big, sweeping ones necessary for any real change? It seemed I was only equipped to do the small things, spending my whole life wondering if they would be enough. I toweled my hair and tried to ignore the headache that erupted over my entire head, hair follicles included.

Carly was still sitting on my bed when I opened the door. “You didn’t think we were done talking, did you?”

Shivering, I ignored her while I pulled on underwear, jeans, and an Irish sweater.

“You look like a fisherman’s wife,” Carly said.

“Not all of us can pull off your artfully disheveled look,” I said irritably.

“I didn’t say that was a bad thing. Stop interpreting my words the way you want to and understand that they are coming from me, and interpret accordingly.”

“I can’t follow your logic. Or illogic.”

“Stop moving for a minute!”

“Gladly.” An angry pulse stabbed at my temple, and every joint in my body screamed in protest as I dropped onto the bed.

“I’m scared,” Carly said softly. “I want Dad.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you think he’d do in this situation?”

“Threaten to kick Donal’s ass.”

“But he wouldn’t do it.”

“No.”

We were quiet for a while, both of us bouncing our legs lightly against the bed frame. “I’m still going to have Donal’s party,” Carly said. “Only now it’s got a patriotic theme. We’ll take photos and bring them to the hearing.”

“That sounds like a good idea, but honestly, I don’t think that’s the kind of thing to sway a judge.”

“I don’t know what else to do,” she admitted. “I’ll tell Donal about it. I don’t want any more secrets in this house.”

I put my arm around her shoulder and drew her close. “Well, then a party it is. When has a party ever made anything worse?”

“Exactly.”

“Can I invite Garrett?”

Carly hesitated. “Fine.”

“You know, he’s got a job interview scheduled.”

“Well, that makes more things to celebrate,” she said, a bit woodenly.

I reached down and knocked the bed’s frame. “We can only hope.”

“There’s got to be other things we can do,” Carly added, but she knocked, too. “Because if all we have is hope, we’re completely screwed.”

Before meeting up with Garrett, I had to make a stop at Estelle’s. Her gossipy daughter-in-law called to see if I’d like to put in a few extra hours, and I jumped all over the offer.

“I know we’re supposed to visit on Sundays and my husband loves his mother, but she’s impossible to deal with, don’t you think?” she half whispered into the phone, and I worried Estelle was in earshot. “Freddie, her late husband, was the warm one. Him you could talk to. With Estelle, it’s just bitch, bitch, bitch. Did you know she used to volunteer at the hospital and they asked her not to come back? One of my girlfriends is a nurse in the ICU and she said—”

“What time do you want me to be there?” I interrupted.

“The earlier the better. Stay as long as you want.” She sighed dramatically. “Our wallets are open when it comes to Estelle.”

It was early enough when I pulled into Estelle’s driveway. The relentless morning sun made me want to curl up like a pill bug, and I shoved some sunglasses over my nose. The iced tea I’d downed on the way over hadn’t appeased my hangover—millions of dried-out cells soaked it up and begged for more. While not ideal, Estelle’s instant coffee would do the trick, and I hoped she’d let me in the kitchen for long enough to make it.

Tiny Estelle sat on her tiny porch like Little Miss Muffet, eyes narrowed as she waited for my approach, a loose-limbed, dehydrated, weak-stomached spider.

“Mind if I sit with you?”

“Yes, I do,” she responded. “You aren’t being paid to sit.”

I took a deep breath, too deep, and almost dry heaved.

“See all these mums?” she said irritably, and gestured toward rows of crimson flowers planted neatly along the front of her home. “I want them gone. Pull them up and be sure to get the roots.”

“They’ve still got time,” I said, trying to soothe her. “At least a few weeks. Don’t you want to enjoy them for a little while longer?”

“Only trash like mums. They’re barely one step ahead of carnations. My son put them in a few weeks ago, and
he didn’t even ask permission
. His wife’s doing, if you ask me.”

“Won’t they be disappointed if you take them up?”

“Why should I care? If they’d had the decency to ask, I would have said no, saved them time and money.” She sneezed. “I’m probably allergic to them. They need to go, Leona, and you need to pull them out. I’ve hurt my hand. I’m sure that’s why Jason and Mindy called you over on a Sunday.”

“I’m sure that’s why,” I said, pushing my sunglasses to the top of my head. “Let me take a look.”

The only thing wrong with Estelle’s hand was a chip in her manicure.

“Are you in pain?”

“Off and on. It’s . . . diffuse. Difficult to pinpoint.”

I placed her hand back on her lap. “You rest. Tell me where the garden tools are and I’ll get to work.”

Mums aren’t difficult to remove, but I still worked up a Jose Cuervo–scented sweat. The only thing stopping me from getting sick on her lawn was the thought of Estelle watching me do it. She’d convince herself I had Ebola.

After finishing the mums, I raked her leaves and then bagged all the plants, set them at the street for pickup, and put away the garden tools. “All done,” I said to Estelle, who hadn’t moved from her post.

“I suppose you’ll be going now.”