Beauty and the Mustache (3 page)

“
Whatever, screamed,
hollered, who cares. I should have locked the door.” Beauford’s
easy-going tone made me feel a bit better. I didn’t remember him
being so nice. Then he said, “Oh, hey, Drew. Didn’t see you
there.”

“
Hey, Beau.”

“
What happened to your
chest?” Beau asked.

I wished for the ability
to disappear, especially when Drew responded, “Some woman couldn’t
keep her hands off me. What’s going on in here?”

Beau didn’t answer. The
room was blanketed in a brief silence as, I was sure, understanding
began to dawn.

Jethro was the one to
break the awkward soundless comprehension. “Uh,” He cleared his
throat. “Tuesday mornings are Beau’s time slot.”

“
I know that now,” I
peeked at them from between my fingers. “I’ll just knock from now
on.”

“
Do you want the schedule?
We have a schedule.” Billy’s offer was paired with his thumb thrown
over his shoulder, presumably pointing in the direction of where
the schedule was kept.

“
Nope, I’m good. I’ll just
knock.”

The sound of barely
suppressed laughter pulled my eyes to where entitled Drew stood in
the hallway. His lips were compressed, rolled between his teeth,
his big shoulders were shaking, and he stared at the floor like his
life hung in the balance.

My mortification abruptly turned to
irritation, then to fury.

Drew Runous and my
brothers probably looked at me and saw the gullible little sister I
used to be, not to mention the starry-eyed beauty queen I was in
high school.

But I was now more than
the accident of my genetics, more than the face and body I’d
inherited from my parents, more than my backwoods Tennessee
accent.

I wasn’t that person
anymore. I’d worked eight years to change and improve myself. I’d
become someone new, someone stronger, armed with knowledge, fierce.
I was someone who could hold her own in any situation, be it a
discussion on post-modernism or Japanese art as an influence on Van
Gogh; debating with an MD Harvard graduate when I disagreed on a
course of treatment for one of my patients; or standing up to four
bearded masturbators (obsessed with schedules, no less) in the
upstairs bathroom of my momma’s house.

In fact, I was
completely
different. I
was a new person entirely.

“
On second thought,” I
said, my hands dropping from my face, my spine straightening, “I
will take that schedule.”

Billy glanced over my
shoulder to Beau then shot a look at Jethro. “Oh, okay. I’ll get it
for you.”

“
In fact,” I crossed my
arms over my chest and scowled at Drew the Amused Viking’s
persistent smile, “what days are free?”

Another stunned silence
descended, and I noted with satisfaction that the marauder’s grin
fell as his eyes lifted to mine. They searched and burned. I knew,
beyond a doubt, that he was imagining me in the bathroom naked, by
myself, getting my rub on, as Beau put it. It was written all over
his ruggedly handsome face.

Strangely enough, given
our earlier encounter, he didn’t look repulsed by the thought.
Maybe he was just an equal-opportunity perv.

I refused to blush. I refused to appear even
an ounce embarrassed.

Because he was staring at
me—his gaze moving to my chest, then hips, then thighs—as though
compelled to take mental notes. His eyes were hot and a little
unfocused and, irritatingly enough, were making me feel hot and a
little unfocused.

I couldn’t conquer the
thundering of my heart or the sudden twisting in my abdomen or the
tingling awareness on the back of my neck. It was everything I
could do to hide all the outward effects that his evocative,
penetrating gaze elicited.

Instead, as Drew looked
directly at me again, I slid my eyes over to Billy, who was staring
at me like I was a three–headed possum.

“
Uh, what?” Billy
asked.

“
Which days are free, on
the schedule?”

Billy blinked at me and
his voice cracked a little when he responded, “I think Sundays and
Wednesdays, since Roscoe moved out. But you probably don’t want
Wednesdays.”

“
Why not?”

“
Because that’s usually
when the new magazines show up in the mail.”

I fought the urge to
grimace. Instead, I nodded once and gave him a tightlipped smile.
“Good. Put me down for Sundays. There’s no postal service on
Sundays.”

Beau groaned, which he
turned into an overly dramatic gagging sound. “Things I never
needed to know about my sister.”

With that, I strolled down
the hallway to my room, pointedly
not
looking at the physical
manifestation of every bodice-ripper hero I’d ever read. Like
before, I felt the weight and heat of his gaze on my
backside.

Once inside, door shut
(and locked), I crossed to my bed and flopped down on my stomach. I
willed the tingling and twisting heat that had taken up residence
there to stop post haste.

I made three mental notes:

One: Always knock on every
door, every room, every time. Drag my feet and bang pots and pans
down the halls. This is not a house to be a ninja in.

Two: Never be alone with
Drew Runous.

Three: Do everything in my
power to leave before Sunday.

“
The only true wisdom is
in knowing you know nothing.”

—
Socrates

The drive from
my momma’s house to Knoxville took just under an
hour. Lucidity was made possible by the triple-shot grande
Americano I procured from Starbucks on my way out of
town.

It’s really true what
people say about Starbucks. My hometown still didn’t have a
sit-down movie theater, an Italian restaurant, an OBGYN, or a
Target, but they had a Starbucks. I guessed this was because Green
Valley was located right next to the Great Smoky Mountains National
Park. Our two main industries were lumber and tourism, and big-city
tourists need their coffee.

When I made it to
Knoxville, I stopped at a grocery store and picked up flowers and
two get-well balloons with kittens on them. I knew based on several
years of practical experience as a pediatric intensive care nurse
in Chicago that unless my momma wanted to talk to me, getting near
her or her doctors was going to be difficult. The flowers and
balloons would give me credibility, but the kittens would get me in
the door. Everyone loves kittens.

I parked the rental car in
a visitor’s spot and walked into the main entrance, flowers and
balloons in hand. Once inside, I crossed to the information desk, I
hoped it was being run by volunteers, who tend to be easily
confused by pesky things like HIPAA (privacy laws).

“
Hello, Joan.” I said with
a warm smile at the elderly woman behind the desk; her nametag was
prominently placed, thank goodness. “I’m here to see my mother. I
just flew in last night, and I’m not sure where I’m
going.”

She returned my smile.
“What is her name, dear?”

“
Bethany Winston.
Admission date was two days ago, if that helps.” My throat felt
tight with anticipation.

Jethro, Billy, and the
twins (Beauford and Duane) had all tried and failed to see her over
the course of the last two days. They’d been told she didn’t want
to see any family and had restricted access to her records. This
had struck me as a little odd, yet not out of the realm of
possibility.

Tired though I was, I
started forming a plan B, just in case I was denied information on
my momma’s location.

Plan C involved going floor to floor, room
to room. Plan D involved dressing in scrubs and logging into the
hospital electronic medical record. Plan E involved pulling the
fire alarm.

Joan glanced up from her screen, her smile
still friendly though not as wide. “You’re her daughter?”

“
That’s right,” I managed
to say, nodding emphatically as I held my breath and hoped Plan A
would be sufficient.

“
Do you have
ID?”

I nodded again, set the
flowers on the counter along with the balloon weights, and dug
around in my purse for my ID. I handed it to her and waited,
searching her face for clues as to how successful I would
be.

She glanced at my ID, then
at the screen, then at my face, then at the screen, then at my ID,
then at my face.

She handed the ID back to
me. “Your mother’s record has been flagged. There’s a note that
she’s not to have any visitors other than you. I’m going to page
her treating physician, but he may be a while.”

I released the breath I’d
been holding. “Okay, thanks. That’s great. Can I go up?”

“
Yes. She’s on the fourth
floor. You’ll need to take those elevators.” She pointed around the
corner. “Check in at the nurses’ station. They’ll want to see your
ID too.”

I thanked her and placed
my driver’s license in my pocket with slightly trembling
hands.

As I made my way to the
elevator, I couldn’t help but feel like everything was very, very
wrong. I knew that it was a common practice to flag patients’
records, especially to keep out unwanted family members or the
media. My momma’s decision to restrict access to her records struck
an off chord.

My brothers lived with my
mother. She took care of them. Even Jethro, the oldest, now
thirty-two, still lived at home.

I briefly considered that she might be
embarrassed. Perhaps she wanted to keep her diagnosis a secret
because she didn’t want to admit weakness in front of the six
Winston boys. I didn’t blame her. Winston men were famous for
exploiting weakness.

I knew she loved them, but
they drove her crazy. When I lived at home, they—as a group—had a
tendency to freak out when faced with facts or reality, yet happily
buried their heads in the sand otherwise. Until facts were spelled
out, they were like unsuspecting hogs before Easter dinner—dirty
and well fed.

I checked in at the
nurses’ station on the fourth floor and received a similar
inspection. This time, however, when the nurse heard my last name,
her smile fell and I read sympathy in her expression.

“
She’s in room 404, hon,”
she said, handing back my ID and glancing at the kitten balloons.
Her voice was hesitant when she added, “Have you talked to the
doctor yet?”

I shook my head, my trembling hands now
shaking. “No. Not yet.”

The nurse gave me a
close-lipped smile. “Your momma’s asleep right now. If you want to
go sit with her ’til Dr. Gonzalez arrives, you can.” Her tone was
full of compassion.

“
Can you tell me
anything?” Without waiting for a reply, I added, “Why was she
admitted?”

The nurse studied me for a minute but said
nothing.

“
I’m a pediatric nurse
practitioner in Chicago,” I said. “You can shoot straight with
me.”

Her smile returned. “I know, baby. Your
mother told me all about you. But the doctor wants to speak with
you first.”

I stared at her for a
moment—the compassion, the sympathy, the secrecy—and I
knew.

This was textbook
modus operandi
for the
terminally ill. Nurses never informed patients’ families. It was
always the doctor, and it was always done in person.

My eyes stung and I felt my
chin wobble even as I bravely nodded. “Okay,” I managed to croak,
and I glanced at the ceiling, blinking. My head was overwhelmed and
my heart was breaking, and I was still holding two
Get Well Soon
kitten
balloons from the Piggly Wiggly.

“
Aww, baby….” The nurse
stood, walked around the counter, and wrapped her arms around me.
“Baby, baby, baby….” Her soft body was a big pillow of warmth as
she rubbed my back.

I sniffled, fighting the
tears.
Not yet,
I
thought,
not until I’m alone and can break
something that makes a very gratifying smashing
sound
,
like
plates.

“
Come with me, Sunshine.”
She shifted so that her arm was wrapped around my shoulders. “I’ll
take you to your momma. You sit with her until the doctor comes,
okay?”

I nodded numbly, allowing
the older nurse to steer me to my mother’s room. She opened the
door and walked me to a seat by the bed. Sunlight streamed in
through the open curtains, but it was still a hospital room. There
was nothing remarkable about it other than the occupant.

I looked at my momma. Her
eyes were closed. Her skin color was okay—not great, but not
ashen—and she looked very thin, almost fragile. My mother had never
been thin a day in her life. She’d been blessed with more boobs and
hips than wits, and she had a lot of wits.

At five feet nine inches,
I towered over her five-foot frame. Although I’d inherited her
boobs and hips, my longer legs and torso distributed the wealth,
whereas she’d always looked like a curvaceous, compact
hourglass.