Bobby's Diner (18 page)

CHAPTER 28

It was always a little strange
for me to be at Vanessa’s house.
 
But,
lately she’d been asking me to do little favors for her while she was at the
hospital. I didn’t mind and actually enjoyed helping someone out. She would ask
me to do little things like take mail to the post office, or run a deposit to
the bank, or pick up a few groceries. Her key was under a rock in a potted
plant on the back porch and I’d let myself in back there. The back door led
straight into her kitchen. On the terracotta kitchen counter by the phone, she
kept a stack of mail neatly against the wall, a note pad, and a cup of pens and
pencils.

It was the day Roberta was being
discharged from the hospital. I was bringing by cookies and a few gifts.

Plus, I was delivering some milk,
eggs, and a few other staples
 
she’d
asked me to pick up for her and I accidentally knocked the letters and bills
and the cup with the pencils in it off the counter. I stepped over everything
that had fallen and put the bags of groceries down by the refrigerator then
went back to clean up my mess. Pens
 
and
 
pencils rolled everywhere and
papers scattered across the floor. I didn’t mean to but I noticed a bill from
the university labs. That one was in an envelope. But, she had a couple of the
actual bills without envelopes underneath it. The bills had the oncology
department printed on its header and listed the patient name: Vanessa Carlisle,
and described the treatment received: mammogram (on one); biopsy (on one); and
result consultation (on another). My breath caught and somehow got tangled
between my lungs and my heart. The fourth letter was still in an opened
envelope and although I was incredibly curious I wasn’t about to pull out its
contents and read it. I felt guilty enough for rustling through the open ones
and seeing the confidential evidence Vanessa had kept to herself. Did Roberta
know?

The day she got her consultation
was the day of the break-in, the day of the shooting. That’s what everyone referred
to it anymore. No one wanted to say “the day José was killed and the day
Roberta almost died!” The day was dubbed the day of the shooting by nearly
everyone in town. That’s why we couldn’t find Vanessa, she was learning about
her own breast cancer.

I heard a car pull into the
driveway and hurriedly stacked the bills together and put them back on the edge
of the
 
counter. When I walked out she
was already helping Roberta from the passenger side.

“Do you need help?”

“She’s doing so well, Georgie,
really well!” She sounded like a new mother watching her toddler learn how to
walk.

“Why, yes, she is.”

“Will you two stop? I’m fine.
Please, mother, stop coddling me.”

Roberta sounded like her old self
again and was slapping at her mother’s hands which were trying to help. It
appeared at no time was Vanessa doing the right thing for her daughter. Then, I
had the brief notion that the discharge of this patient came more out of
concern for the nurses than Roberta’s recovery, but like I said, it was a brief
thought. Vanessa had successfully helped her out all the way by then and
Roberta was standing, no wait, leaning against the car. She was holding her
side and wincing.

“She sure sounds spunky.”

“I’m he-ere. I can hear you both
talking.” The old Roberta was back with a few bumps and bruises but she was
back.

“You’ll need help for a while.
You let your mother help you. I have some more things in my car. I’ll see you
both inside.”

***

Roberta was sitting at the
kitchen table when I came back in and Vanessa was putting on a strong front for
her daughter. She had hot water simmering on the stove for tea and had washed a
couple of dusty teacups that appeared to have been in the cupboard for a while.

“Want some?” Vanessa looked at me
and held up a teacup.

“Oh, no, Van. Thanks though. I
have to get back home.

Tomorrow will be the first day
back at the diner and I have a few things I need to do before we get real busy
again.” I inadvertently looked at her chest to see if I could see anything. I
don’t know what I was thinking and when Vanessa saw me she quickly turned back
toward
 
the
 
kitchen sink. Covering for what had just
happened I said, “Roberta, there are cookies in this bag and, in this one, a
few books and things. And, Van, I put a casserole in your refrigerator so you
won’t have to cook tonight.” I looked back to Roberta. “You can go through this
stuff when you get comfortable… or hungry!” I laughed and she laughed with me.
The teapot began to whistle it was boiling and Van got a couple of bags of
chamomile tea and placed one in each cup.

“Well, I’d better get. Take care,
y’all.”

“Wait, Georgie,” Roberta moved as
if she was going to get up.

“Don’t get up. What is it,
honey?” I walked over to where she was sitting and she held out her hand to
shake mine.

“Are we business partners all of
the sudden or did I miss something?” I knew she was trying to reach out— trying
to say ‘thank you’—so I grabbed her one hand in both of mine and leaned into
her and kissed the side of her face and I whispered in her ear, “I’m so very
happy you’re all right.” When I pulled back from being there longer than what a
person would think is normal, she had tears in her eyes. “Don’t you start that,
you hear? If you do, I will and I don’t want to! So, stop it!” But, it was too
late. Roberta was full-on crying by that time and laughing at the same time.
So, I did stupid things in front of her—I clog-danced and all of me wiggled and
jiggled
 
and stomped—to make her laugh
more which made her gut ache which made her laugh more, then act mad at me, and
then stop crying. Vanessa was watching the whole thing as she
 
leaned against the counter behind her.

“If she busts a suture it’ll be
your fault, Georgette.”

“Yeah, yeah, if…” I turned to
Vanessa and winked at her and said my good-byes, again, and began to walk out.

“Georgette.” Vanessa walked to
the edge of the counter where I stood and put her hand onto the stack of bills,
looked at me and slid the bills against the wall. My eyes
 
dropped to her hand and followed her
movement. Our eyes met. Hers told me she knew I’d seen something she didn’t
want anyone to know. She gave her head a tilt toward her daughter and widened
her eyes with fear. “Thanks, honey, for everything.” My head shook up and down
in agreement, not
 
for the thanks but to
let her know her secret was safe.

I was about to my car and nearly
ready to cry when Vanessa ran out to stop me.

“Georgie, wait up.” When she got
to me she was very upset. She’d been hiding it well inside the house. “She
still can’t remember what happened.”

“Anything?”

“Nope. The doctors said it could
last a week or a year.”

“Well, let’s hope it’s sooner
than later. Is she going to see anyone?”

“I think so but she’s not sure.”

***

I was amazed at the amount of
e-mail messages I’d gotten
 
without
having many friends and having absolutely no living family. Yet, daily I’d get
notification of millions of dollars being held in some fictionalized account
for me… or a Viagra promotional… or another on-line catalog advertisement.
And,
 
daily I’d delete them all after
reading them in their entirety. Loneliness was my best friend lately. I blamed
my ennui on not working for the past week and, of course, I still missed Bobby
terribly. I got up to go to the bathroom and as soon as I sat
 
down I heard that telltale ding of mail
arriving in my inbox. After washing my hands and face and brushing my teeth I
decided to see what it was.

It was a letter from
[email protected]. I double-clicked it.

Dear
Georgette,

Thanks
for everything. I know you’ve been carrying the load for mother these past few
days. We both appreciate how much you’ve helped out. Thanks for the food too!
The casserole was very tasty. But, I preferred the cookies. I should get shot
more often… just kidding.

It’s
chicken-shit that I’m telling you this in an e-mail, I should call and talk to
you personally, but I’m sorry, I just can’t. Thank you also for the wonderful
gifts. I love the dream journal and writing materials. I’ve already started
jotting down some of my thoughts about things, life, you know?

But
especially, Georgette, thank you for giving me Dad’s “favorite” pen and the

lovely
note you wrote me. I’m deeply touched by this, you don’t know how much, honestly.
You’ve been more than a friend, Georgie, much, much more.

Profoundly,
Roberta.

I wrote back,

Thank
you one million times, Roberta. Love, G.

CHAPTER 29

She looked in the closet on what
used to be Harold’s side.
 
Only a few
slacks hanging and shirts neatly pressed and buttoned at the top like he asked
her to do. All of the hangers pointing in the same direction toward the wall
and all of the shirts facing out toward the door of the closet—five dress
shirts
 
in total, five pairs of slacks.
His seersucker suit had been sent back from the hospital, and his luggage sent
back from the highway patrol. They deemed the collision an accident and didn’t
need to investigate further or hold in evidence any of Harold’s
 
belongings that were found in his crumpled
vehicle. The bag
 
was unopened and had
remained that way until this morning, the morning she decided to build up her
courage and go
 
through Harold’s things.
It’s what wives do when husbands die. She felt she should cry but had not.
Guilt outweighed her sadness. She wondered how Georgette had handled this
process.
 
But, she knew Bob and Georgette
had experienced what only
 
a few lucky
married couples experience together—a caring,
 
loving life—much different than hers and Harold’s. Oh, sure,
 
Bob and Georgette had troubles now and again,
she knew for a fact, but nothing they wouldn’t survive.

She pulled out his ten pieces of
clothing and laid them on top of the neatly made
 
bedspread. One-by-one she unbuttoned the
collars of the shirts and one-by-one she folded
 
them each and laid them properly in a box marked ‘Thrift Store’. After
which she pulled Harold’s piece of black and grey
 
paisley luggage up onto the bed and opened
the lock. It smelled like Harold. She held her breath before opening it. After
talking herself into it she lifted the lid and let it fall back onto the bed.
The turquoise suit was squashed inside it to fit along with a pair of cowboy
boots, his briefs, a zippered bag with his grooming items inside, and a leather
folder he carried with him when he went to and from his office at the
courthouse. She set it aside and began pulling out and folding the clothing and
placing them all in the box intended for the thrift store as well.

Helen unzipped his carryall and
pulled out his shaver, shaving gel, toothpaste and toothbrush. She let her
thumb run up and down the bristles a couple of times and she gazed up and out
the small window. She realized then she was on her own. No more Harold.

The thought of changing her name
back to her maiden name crossed her mind but it was fleeting. Her timing needed
to be just right. Doing that too soon would make eyebrows raise and people
whisper. She needed to give herself some room to make that change, room. She
was unsure the proper amount of time to do something of this nature and, so,
she decided she’d have to refer to an etiquette manual—but wondered, “do they
address such things?”

She looked back down to the bag,
a hairbrush, cologne, Preparation H. She huffed in amusement when she pulled it
out. Helen walked into the bathroom for the waste bucket and
 
returned and loaded it with

Harold’s toilette items. She then
walked back and put the bucket back in its place by the toilet. She looked at
herself in the mirror and checked her teeth, opened the medicine cabinet,
 
pulled
 
out her toothbrush, filled it with a striped paste and
 
began brushing. She stared blankly into the
mirror, spat, and rinsed, then pulled her hair back in a clip and washed her
face. She wiped off the mirror which had retained speckles of toothpaste from
her rigorous brushing, wiped down the sink, and noticed
 
how perfectly fresh the house smelled sans
Harold. Even though Harold was a prig he still passed gas like a lumberjack.
Something Helen had grown to despise over the years. The lavender cleaner she
used for the bathroom scented the air and she breathed it in deeply.