Bread Alone (38 page)

“What’s the prognosis?”

She pushes her bangs back with her forearm. “It’s too early to know for sure. The hemorrhage was on the left side of the brain, so that means it affects the right side of the body. She hasn’t got much mobility on that side right now. She’s either in bed or in a wheelchair most of the time.” She sighs, a sound of utter exhaustion. “She’s in physical therapy. They started that right away. And occupational therapy—”

“Occupational therapy?”

“Yeah, I thought the same thing. What it means is, she has to learn how to feed herself and take herself to the bathroom and stuff. It’s hard because she has to do it all left-handed now. And of course she can’t talk very well.”

She blinks and tears glint in her eyes. “Hell, what am I saying? She can’t talk at all. She makes weird noises and everyone’s supposed to know what she wants.”

“I’m so sorry.” I feel the total inadequacy of the words.

“Well …” Tyler clears her throat. “It’s my turn to cook dinner, so I’m outta here. Later, you guys.” She disappears and I lock the front door after her, pull down the shades.

“Should I make us a mocha?”

Diane manages a laugh. “And blow us all to Hawaii?”

“Hey, Jen’s been giving me private instruction. I can
barista
with the best of them. Well, maybe the vast mediocre majority of them.” I turn on the machine.

“Okay, then. I could use a jolt to keep me going.”

“You need some help tonight?”

She shakes her head. Her hair is dirty and more the color of dishwater than her usual sunny blonde. “Tyler made all the buttercream, thank God. All I have to do is slap it on.” She pulls more flowers out of a white plastic bucket. “How’s Linda?”

I laugh. “Some things never change.”

When the espresso light comes on, I turn the frother dial to bleed off a little pressure, and tamp ground espresso into two brew baskets. In the time it takes me to finish our drinks, she’s crumb-coated the bottom layer of another wedding cake. I hand her a mocha and she takes a sip.

“Good job.”

She takes another sip, sets the cup down, and I watch helplessly as her face crumples and she begins to cry. It’s not weeping, which I usually think of as a silent function. This is sobbing, an anguished moaning that shoots like a geyser out of some great subterranean pool of grief.

All I can do is put my arms around her and wait.

I lose track of the time till she steps back from me, hiding her red, puffy face in her hands. “I’m sorry.”

“I won’t even dignify that with a response. Come here and sit.”

She collapses into a chair and lays her head on the table. “I am so fucking tired.”

I get a clean towel, wring it out in cold water, and hand it to her.

“I’ve been up and down all night, every night since I left. God, Wyn, she’s just impossible. And I would be, too.” She holds the towel to her face, muffling her words. “I mean, suddenly your world is gone. You can’t do anything for yourself. You can’t even talk and make people understand what you say. This is a woman who ran the most successful
real estate office in Baltimore. She had three secretaries. She said jump and everyone asked how high on the way up. Now she can’t wipe her own ass.”

Diane sits up, drapes the wet towel over her head like a scarf. “And she’s determined to make everyone in the family as abso-fucking-lutely miserable as she is.”

Sixteen

A
pril, everyone agrees, is too late for snow. But the weather gods aren’t paying attention to the calendar. Or maybe it’s just their idea of an April Fool’s joke.

In L.A., winter weather means long, dark days, sluicing rain the color of iron, flooded streets and SigAlerts. Snow isn’t even vaguely related to all that. Snow is a minor miracle. One year, Encino got a few flurries and CM and I were outside running around, tongues outstretched like pink landing strips, hoping to catch a stray flake.

As a child, I believed that snow existed only at Tahoe because that was the only place I ever saw it. I’ve never been in a city where it snowed. I suppose in New York and Chicago and places where it happens every winter, it’s just an inconvenience. Traffic snarls, people have to shovel their driveways, salt their porches, drag out the snow tires. The majority of Seattleites aren’t that jaded.

I love how it slows everything down. Everyone turns, as if they were startled by a sudden noise, except it’s the sudden hush that’s startling. On Queen Anne Avenue, people clump together on the corners, sipping lattes and hot chocolates and scrunching their boots just for the sound of it. Snow smooths all the rough edges, the cracks, potholes, and splinters, like a glorious white fondant over a none too attractive cake.

Of course, the functioning world breaks down completely. You
can’t drive without chains, buses don’t run, the airport closes. Gary calls to say his flight’s been canceled and he has commitments for next week, so he won’t be able to come up till the end of the month. “I miss you,” he says. “I can’t wait to see you.”

“Me, too.” But what I’m actually feeling is something akin to relief.

Saturday night at Bailey’s it’s like a party. Kenny’s made hot buttered rum in a Crock-Pot. There’s microwave popcorn, and somebody brings in a huge tray of chocolate chip cookies that disappear in about five minutes. Mac’s playing sixties tapes and people are doing the twist and the jerk. One obvious case of arrested development can’t resist running outside and making little snow balls to slip down his date’s collar.

I’m caught up in the festivity in spite of the little pincerlike pain that started last night at work and has now turned into a pretty decent stomachache. I feel vaguely nauseous. Could I have food poisoning? I wonder if the Alka-Seltzer this morning was such a great idea. If it’s a viral thing, aren’t you supposed to let it run its course and get out of your system? Maybe it’s just cramps. Except I don’t think I’m due for at least another week.

I should probably go home and go to bed, but I really don’t want to leave, and the thought of walking home alone in the cold is somehow daunting. If I just sit here a little longer, nursing the now warm beer that I ordered because wine didn’t sound good, maybe I’ll feel better.

When Inez and Charlie Foxx start singing “Mockingbird,” Mac comes out from behind the bar and grabs my hand. “There’s your song.” He pulls me off the stool and we manage a few steps before he tries to twirl me under his arm and I double over. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

I straighten up. “Nothing. I’ve just got a stomachache. Maybe I’m getting that flu that’s going around.”

He helps me up on the stool and I lick my lips, only then realize that I’m sweating. He frowns. “You don’t look so good.”

“People usually don’t when they’re getting the flu,” I snap at him.

“You want me to take you home?”

I shake my head. “I’ll just sit here awhile and then I’ll go home. Don’t worry, I won’t breathe on anyone.”

“Let me know if you start to feel worse. The truck’s out back.” “I don’t need to ride in the smogmobile. I’m not that sick.” He laughs and goes back behind the bar.

By one-fifteen, most of the crowd has departed for the comfort of their warm beds. I must have the flu. I squirm on the stool. My eyes are hot and my stomach is churning. I keep blotting my forehead with my napkin. A ride in the smogmobile’s sounding not half bad.

“Hey, Mac.”

His grin fades as he focuses on me. “Jesus, Wyn. Are you okay?” Without waiting for an answer he says, “Come on, we’re going to the walk-in clinic.”

“No, we are not. Just take me home. Please.”

“You look like hell. You need to see a doctor.” He shrugs into his jacket and helps me with my parka, wrapping my scarf around my head. I yank it off “Will you stop?”

“Back in a minute,” he hollers at Kenny. The cold air in the alley feels good, but even the snow can’t cover the smell of rotting garbage and that’s all it takes. I’m on my knees puking my guts out, and since there’s not much in there, I start dry heaving.

Mac lifts me from behind and pain rips through my lower abdomen. Pinpoints of light explode in front of me and fade like tiny fireworks. “Try to breathe shallow. Nice and slow. That’s it. Keep swallowing.”

I must have yelled, because the back door opens and Kenny’s head sticks out. “What’s wrong?”

Mac says, “Call 911.”

I shake my head as vigorously as I can manage. “No!”

Kenny ignores me.

“Come on back inside.” Mac grips my arms.

“Too hot in there,” I mumble.

“You want to sit?”

I shake my head.

“Where does it hurt?”

I rest my hand on the tight, warm place under my jacket. Mac looks at his watch.

Finally, Kenny opens the door. “I got through, but they said it’ll be at least fifteen to twenty minutes. They’re swamped tonight. The snow—”

“By that time …” Mac’s voice trails off, which is fine with me. I don’t think I want to hear this. “Help me get her in the truck.” He opens the door and the two of them fumble me into the truck, sliding in the vomit.

“You think you can make it?” Kenny looks dubious, but Mac grins and pats the blue tarp stretched over the bed of the Elky.

“A half cord of oak should give us pretty good traction.”

He slides behind the wheel and turns the key. The truck makes a kind of groaning noise, and he strokes the dashboard as if it’s a big old dog. Next we get a groan with a grind. I’d laugh, but it would hurt. He ignores me and turns the key again. This time a hiccup follows the groan and grind; the truck starts to chug, slowly.

Snow is falling again in big, starry flakes, and the streetlights are all wearing sun dogs. It would be enchanting, except that I feel like I’ve swallowed a live ferret. The headlights carve out a tunnel of light in the alley and he turns left, then right on Queen Anne Avenue.

“Where the hell are you going?” He doesn’t answer. “Goddamnit, Mac, I need to go home.”

He stops at a light. “We’re going to Virginia Mason.”

His face blurs. My breath pumps out in short, white smoke signals of panic. “Just take me to urgent care, then. I don’t need to go to the hospital. Really. I’ll be fine. I just need to sleep. They’ll give me some pain pills. Antibiotics or something.” I brush at my sweaty face and smell vomit on my sleeve. My stomach roils again.

“Breathe and swallow.” His voice is calm, but he’s gripping the wheel so hard that his knuckles look like a white dotted line. “I need to figure out how to get there with the least number of hills.”

The cold glass of the window feels good against my face. Instinctively, I draw up my legs, shivering.

“Fasten your seat belt,” Mac says. He flicks the defroster on High and the truck noses into the intersection.

“I can’t. It hurts.” Every nerve ending in my body is on full battle alert. I can feel every pebble, every change in pavement, every pothole under the truck wheels. I’m never sick. Never sick. I’m not sick. I never get sick.

“How’s your boyfriend?” Mac’s voice interrupts my litany.

I peer at him through slitted eyes. “My what?”

“Should I call him your brother?” I don’t say anything. “You Californians sure do lead interesting lives.”

“We had dinner twice. That doesn’t make him my boyfriend.”

“Did you make him split the check?”

“Are you trying to distract me or piss me off?”

“Your choice.” He smiles infuriatingly.

I wince as we take a bump. “What is it? What’s wrong with me?”

“Appendix, I think.”

“No. Shit, no. It can’t be. I can’t have surgery. I can’t be laid up for a month.”

“I don’t think you get to decide. Anyway, you’ll like it. You get lots of sympathy. Cards and flowers and TLC.” He frowns. “The only problem is …”

I cut my eyes toward him although even that slight motion hurts. “What?”

“String bikinis are probably out for a while.”

My head falls back against the seat. “Fuck you, McLeod.”

“Remember, you have to eat with that mouth.”

“Will you quit laughing at me? I’m scared.”

“It’ll be okay. Trust me. I’ve been there.”

“Show me your scar.” He laughs, and I feel the tires spin. “Oh, God.”

“Just a little slick patch,” he says. But I can tell by the way the stuff is splatting against the windshield that it’s turning to sleet. The truck
crunches forward, gaining traction with its sheer weight. “Recite a poem for me.”

“I can’t remember—ahh.” I pant, grip the armrest, rock back and forth.

“Okay, I’ll do one. ‘I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as your knee—’ “