Good for You (17 page)

Chapter 34

REID

Funny thing about not waking up hungover on days off—

there’s more day off to the day. I can’t believe I actual y dreaded this. I was certain I’d be bored as hel inside 48

hours—evenings without the usual entertainment fol owed by entire days to fil . But what’s to miss about headaches, nausea and acute sensitivity to light and sound? My enthusiasm may have as much to do with Vancouver itself as it does the lack of hangovers. I wouldn’t know; before this project, I’ve had little experience with either.

It’s our first Sunday off, and Chelsea and her husband, Chad, invited me along to explore Gastown, an area of the city with cobblestone streets and smal shops, gal eries and restaurants. A bodyguard trails us, but hasn’t been necessary. Vancouver is known as Hol ywood North, and the locals are semi-inured to celebrity sightings. No one’s bothered us, though cel phones are frequently aimed in our direction and I’ve heard my name and Chelsea’s hissed emphatical y a dozen times.

I lace my fingers behind my neck and stretch my sore shoulder careful y. The screenwriter is working the bruise into the storyline for the shirtless scenes because hiding it is impractical. It’s huge and ugly, and I wonder at my sanity over the fact that I’m more amused than annoyed by it. I frequently left the Diego house lightly bruised and battered, as did Dori. Once, I pointed out a purple welt on the back of her thigh, and she twisted to look at it. “Hmm,” she said, shrugging. “I’ve had worse.” I wanted to slap myself for how
hot
that was.

“This city is
marvelous
,” Chelsea says now, opening a menu. Chelsea is fond of words like marvelous and fabulous and splendid, lengthening the first syl able as though she’s trying to remember the rest of the word. She smiles at her husband. “I think we should move here.” We’ve found a corner bistro across the way from an idyl ic green space that’s commonplace in Vancouver, mixed in with the modernized buildings and concrete. This one boasts a fountain. As kids are tossing coins and making wishes, one smal boy pockets a handful of change and throws his baby sister’s shoe into the water instead.

Out of nowhere, I’m fighting the urge to cal Dori and tel her about it. I want her to tel me I’m mean and try not to laugh as I mimic my costar’s unnatural love for multi-syl abic adjectives. I wonder if she’d be more sympathetic or amused that I got slammed with a chair during a simulated bar fight.

“I hope you’re suggesting that I become a kept man,” Chad says, “because I don’t think my license from the California bar extends this far north.”

“Oh, no, no.
You’re
the sugar daddy and
I’m
the bril iant artistic type in this marriage.” Chelsea purses her lips endearingly, while I battle a desire to punch one or both of them in the face.

My cel buzzes with a text from Tadd, and I’m elated at the distraction from both the Chelsea and Chad lovefest, and futile thoughts of Dori.

Tadd: Hey dude, are you in vancouver now? Rob and i are flying up later this week. Would like to meet for dinner if you can. Let me know.

Me: I think i can squeeze you in, haha. Text me when you get here.

*** *** ***

Dori

By the time Dad and I reached the hospital, it was close to midnight. “Oh, Dori,” Mom said, throwing her arms around me as though I was a life preserver and she would sink and drown without me. She was a wreck—her face blotchy, eyes red, a smudge of mascara dissolved under each eye, giving her delicate skin a gray cast under the greenish fluorescent lighting of the critical care waiting area. We held each other as Dad looked on helplessly.

Deb’s medical team gives us periodic updates, much of it too complex to understand. I’ve tried to take notes, but mostly end up with scraps of paper covered in scribbles l i k e
increased intracranial pressure
and
epidural

hematoma
and
Glasgow coma scale
—5. I don’t know what
hematoma
and
Glasgow coma scale
—5. I don’t know what any of it means, but the words are menacing and my mother is shaken by them, so I know the prognosis isn’t favorable. Deb had a seizure shortly after the accident, one of the many reasons for her sedation.

“The increased pressure inside her skul from the brain swel ing is common in this sort of injury,” one of the doctors intoned, but it was clear this wasn’t meant as reassurance.

If the swel ing doesn’t stop, my sister could die.

These aren’t the circumstances under which any of us wanted to meet Bradford. Deb told me once that he’s seldom overcome with emotion because he deals in the realities of death and dying every day. Sitting next to me in the hospital cafeteria, though, he’s visibly anguished, hands clasped and rigid on the tabletop, next to his tepid coffee.

“Hardly anyone at the hospital knows about our relationship.” His voice is hoarse, his handsome face pal id and drawn. “As far as most people know, we were distant acquaintances. I’m not expected to be… not expected to feel…” I put my hand on his arm as he struggles to stay composed.

When my parents are given Deb’s belongings—the clothes and jewelry she was wearing when the accident occurred, a beautiful, unfamiliar solitaire threaded onto a long gold chain is included with her things. Bradford’s swift intake of breath and compressed jaw is al the answer we need to confirm that this is Deb’s engagement ring—

hidden from her coworkers, worn next to her heart.

***

Dad and I travel back and forth between LA and Dad and I travel back and forth between LA and Indianapolis while Mom remains steadfastly by Deb’s side.

When she can be coaxed to leave the hospital for a few hours, she spends them at Deb’s apartment, where she tends my sister’s balcony ful of plants but doesn’t get enough sleep to remove the circles from under her eyes.

My mother and sister have both always been slim. Now, they’re both more emaciated every time I return from LA.

Once I apprise him of the fact, Dad and I begin to press food on Mom—jars of cashews, buttered blueberry muffins, turkey sandwiches topped with avocado.

I postpone my admission to Berkeley for a semester. I don’t tel my parents that at the moment, I can’t imagine myself there at al . Thanks to donated air miles, Dad and I get into a rhythm of swapping off—hospital, home, hospital, home—so we don’t impose further on anyone to watch the house or feed and walk Esther. I hardly see my father, our flights passing each other like that saying about ships in the night. My strongest feelings are reserved for anything relating to a change in Deb’s condition.

Her doctors used innovative, controversial approaches to lessen the swel ing in her brain, and the terror that we could lose her diminished, too. There’s been little change since she was successful y removed from life support. The monitors prove a low level of brain activity, and when she’s awake, her eyes are open. But if I move directly into her line of vision, it’s like I’m made of glass. She just stares right through. She doesn’t speak or react to voices unless they’re very loud—and then her only responses appear to be irritation or pain.

be irritation or pain.

The doctors yel at her in attempts to provoke a response, and Mom sits stoical y, while I can barely stand to watch my sister flinch over and over. They ask me to try, hoping she might respond to my voice.

“Deb, can you hear me?” I say, and they insist
louder,
louder
. “Deb, can you hear me? Can you hear me, Deb?” I’m screaming, but the volume only makes her recoil, and I run from the room, weak and ineffective, gasping for breath and slumping against the hal way wal , sinking lower and swal owing tears. I bury my face against my knees, wishing this was al a nightmare, and I could just wake up.

My mother joins me as I huddle on the floor, opening her arms. “It’s okay, Dori. They won’t ask you to do it again.” I let myself cry, because I don’t want her to let go. This embrace is for me, and I want it desperately even while I berate myself for leaning on Mom for comfort. She doesn’t need me to break down and add to her burden.

Bradford remains close by, but I wonder how long that wil last. He and Deb weren’t married; their relationship wasn’t even public knowledge. Excluded from decisions concerning her care except where his opinion is quietly sought by my parents, he has no official place in her life—

this woman he wanted to marry, the person with whom he intended to link his future. As Mom and the chaplain prayed over her stil form yesterday, requesting miracles on her behalf, my eyes met Bradford’s. I saw my grief mirrored there, as wel as my recognition of her prognosis. The girl we love is not coming back.

There’s no discussing reality with Mom when she constantly addresses Deb as though she’s capable of making a coherent reply at any moment. “How are you feeling today, sweetie? Looks like your hair is growing back in—time for a trim, don’t you think?” Her fingers run lovingly over the sparse spots on Deb’s head as my sister stares straight ahead at nothing. Mom chatters on about the weather and I fade from the room, because it’s almost as unbearable as watching people yel at my sister to get a response.

When I’m home in LA, I see my friends, fel ow church members, or Nick—who brings me food and stays to sit and talk when he’s home from col ege, though we skirt sensitive subjects like my newly aimless life or Deb’s increasingly unlikely recovery. Two months ago, I confided in my sister and counted on my parents. They each encouraged my independence, but they were always
there
.

Now there is no hand to steady me and no net beneath me, and I’m more isolated than I thought it was possible to be.

“Dori is such a little rock for Doug and Jocelyn,” I overhear Mrs. Perez tel Mrs. K one Sunday. “They don’t have to worry about her fal ing apart.”

Too late, I realize what my show of strength costs me.

I’ve become disconnected, and the people in my life have become mirages. When I reach for them, my fingers go right through.

There is only one exception—Reid.

I can’t explain it, but whenever I catch sight of him on television or a magazine cover, I’m connected to my former life, my former self, even if it’s just for a moment. I’ve memorized times and channels for entertainment news programs that I’ve never watched, flipping rapidly between channels in the first two minutes. My pulse quickens when he appears in the teasers, like a monkey who’s learned to press a lever and get a treat. He’s a drug, and I need him. I tel myself that this is a safe obsession, because he has no knowledge of it.

Sometimes I wake from dreams of him, shuddering with longing. In these waking moments I come back to reality unwil ingly, grounded by Esther, who sleeps pressed to my chest like an extension of me. She is proof that I’m alive—

my ear snuggled against her chest, attuned to the faint gurgles of her soft stomach and the steady drum of her heart, my nose breathing in her familiar doggy scent, my face and fingers buried in her fur, stroking her beloved warm body.

“Stay, stay, stay,” I whisper.

She does, and I do.

Chapter 35

REID

“It’s not true, is it?” Chelsea says, plopping down next to me at lunch as I go over the sides for afternoon shooting.

“Of course not.” I have no idea what she’s talking about.

She crunches through a salad of mostly raw veggies while I eat as many rol ed up slices of meat as I can stomach. The filming has become more cardiovascular, and my body is burning off muscle as fast as Olaf and I can put it back on. Chelsea doesn’t enlighten me about the true or untrue topic of her question, but she’s aware I’m curious as hel . She shoves another bite in her mouth and chomps away, grinning like mischief incarnate.

“Okay, fine, is
what
true?”

She finishes the bite and cocks an eyebrow at me.

“Haven’t checked the Internet lately, huh?” I steal a couple of carrots from her bowl. “I
never
check it, where I’m concerned. I’d have been convinced I was the devil by now if I did.”

She shrugs. “Or gay.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s the newest rumor in Reid Alexanderland. Ostensibly, since arriving in Vancouver, you’ve been seen with no one interesting outside of Chad and me—unreservedly in love and married to each other, your friend Tadd, who’s gay, and his hot, unknown, probably gay friend. Also one of our bodyguards—who’s male and therefore fodder for the gay buzz.”

I almost choke on the swiped carrot and she slams my back with her palm while I fight to breathe. Final y, I manage, “Wel , that’s a first.”

“So, true or not true? For the record, I don’t care either way. Although I do have a brother who would drop everything and bounce up here on a pogo stick to be your love slave—”

“Hold it right there, Cupid.
Not
true.” My phone rings and of course, it’s Tadd. I would bet a new Porsche
he
has seen the Internet and is laughing his ass off. “Awesome,” I grumble, heaving a sigh and pressing
talk
. “Thaddeus.”

“Hel o,
lover
,” he says.

“You wish.”

“That’s for me to know, and you to never quite be sure of.”

I laugh, covering my face with one hand. “What does Rob think?”

“Oh he’s for it.”

“
For
what, exactly? Never mind. Don’t answer that.” I know better than to word-spar with Tadd.

“Aw, come on,” he says. “What good is the press if not for dishing up a serving of innuendo sprinkled with a few unsubstantiated lies?”

I sigh. “Wel , as long as Rob isn’t upset about getting roped into the Hol ywood rumor mil .”

“Nah, this was something we discussed before taking our relationship public. I’m just not as wel -known as you, plus I’m brazenly out of the closet, so it doesn’t stir up much interest.
You
on the other hand—if the rumor was true, there’d be suicide watches and black arm bands in one camp, and rejoicing in the street in the other.”

“Stooooop,” I say.

“So. Have you been practicing?” he asks, switching subjects. Tadd plays the guitar, and when I brought up the crazy notion of trying to learn, he insisted I buy the instrument while he was here.

“Yes, Dad.”

Learning to play the guitar is just one of the new things I’m trying out while I search for ways to fil my free time with activities that don’t include my usual pursuits. At first, this was both more and less daunting than I’d assumed. I could dream up plenty of things to try, as it turns out. Motivating myself to actual y
do
them was another matter. There are hours ful of nothing but video games and eating crap Olaf would kil me for eating.

When Tadd and Rob were in town, we spent one night checking out local clubs. I didn’t want to impose my no-drinking constraint on anyone else. Having never exactly practiced resisting peer pressure (hel , I’m usual y conducting the peer pressure), I joined the two of them in a few too many shots of Canadian whiskey and a round of karaoke (Tadd and I
killed
doing a medley of Ke$ha and the Stones).

The entire next day I was renewing my vows of sobriety, especial y when Olaf caught sight of my impaired gaze. I knew I was in for it when he narrowed his eyes and al of the sizeable muscles in his upper body seemed to expand with displeasure at once. “One hundred push-ups,” he barked, pointing to the floor. That was only the beginning.

When it comes to morning-after consequences, spending the evening with the guitar is exponential y less dangerous. I’ve also tried meditation—an unqualified fail because I can’t clear my mind worth shit, and reading—

slightly better, same reason. One of the bodyguards hikes, so we’ve been exploring trails through New Brighton Park.

The leaves are turning every possible shade of gold and red, and the weather is cooler but stil amazing.

No matter what I do, though, I can’t break the habit of talking to Dori in my head. I think about cal ing her, asking how her classes are going and coaxing satirical observations out of her—the type she’s reluctant to voice for fear of sounding il -mannered. I imagine sitting with her at one of the hole-in-the-wal cafés I’ve discovered here, tel ing her about al the on-set insanity.

I remember kissing her. The kiss in the closet that made her run. The kiss in front of her house that didn’t. I could have gone on kissing her for much longer that last time, because nothing in her response showed wariness. The trouble was
my
response. If our mouths had been joined for another minute, I’d have dragged her right back into that car.

Clearing Dorcas Cantrel from my mind is not proving to be a simple task.

***

“Reid, I’ve listened to your voicemail three times. Am I fol owing this correctly—you want to donate money to some
missionary
organization in South America?” I’m confusing the hel out of my father—an unexpected bonus. “Yeah, that’s correct.”

“Should I be worried about a cult, brainwashing, Hari Krishnas?”

“Yeah, Dad, there are tons of Hari Krishnas in Ecuador.” Before he retorts and we end up in a battle of wits (where the loser is pretty much always me), I add, “I heard about it from a girl at Habitat. If she’s involved, it’s legit. I thought it would be a good use of my charity budget.”

“Oh-kay.” He draws the word out, derisive as usual. I turn the receiver up and away from my mouth for a moment and force myself to breathe and not react. “I’m not used to you guiding your charitable contributions, not to mention those recently purchased cars—which, I remind you, are not tax-deductible since they went directly to the recipients and you insisted on anonymity.”

I’m silent for a moment. “We’ve already discussed my reasons for that decision, Dad, so I’m waiting for your point.”

“Hmph,” he says. “How much do you want to donate to this… mission organization?”

I tel him, and there’s no reply. “Dad?”

The sound of air hissing through his teeth is unmistakable. “I think I need to meet the girl who’s inspired al of this uncharacteristic—
giving
.” Jesus Christ. I wouldn’t introduce Dori to my father if he begged. “I haven’t seen her since she went to Quito, actual y. She should be at Berkeley now.”

“She’s a student at Berkeley?” He sounds impressed. I tamp down the jealousy. “What’s she studying?”

“Social work.”

“
What
? She’s wasting an education at Berkeley to study
social work
?”

I bristle, but recognize that it’s more than just my father and his typical disdain for any career path that doesn’t make a shit-ton of money. Not that
mine
seems to impress him. “Dori is exactly the sort of person who should do that kind of thing,” I say. I’m annoyed with myself for having had the same opinion of her chosen career path that
he
does.

Honestly, it stil shocks me that someone with a voice like she has could purposeful y pursue anything but using it.

“Oh?” he says, with an extra helping of disdain. “And why is that?”

“Because she wholeheartedly gives a shit, Dad.”

*** *** ***

Dori

Once the specialists were in agreement that there was nothing further they could do, I knew my parents would accept the truth. Equal y inspiring and disconcerting to witness, my parents had maintained their faith in my sister’s eventual recovery against al evidence to the contrary. I prepared myself to catch the emotional fal out from my mother, who for al of her medical competence and practicality had staunchly refused to concede defeat.

After our final consultation with Deb’s medical team, the three of us are silent on the way to her tiny apartment. The damage my sister suffered in her fal appears irrefutably permanent. Damaged areas of her brain aren’t expected to recover, though it’s possible that at some point she might begin reacting to a stimulus like a familiar voice. “By
react
,” one of the doctors clarified, “we mean minute physical responses like a change in breathing pattern, or some smal movement of say, eyelids or digits. We don’t foresee her ever regaining the ability to communicate through speech, however.”

Once back at the apartment, my parents slide into adjacent chairs at the tiny kitchen table, shel -shocked. I reheat a pan of lasagna provided by one of the nurses who’d worked with Deb. Final y, Mom clears her throat. “I’l start cal ing people tomorrow to get recommendations for a suitable long-term care facility close to home.” I’m relieved to hear the return of her natural pragmatism. She glances around the cozy living room. “We’l need to rent a truck to move her things, and a storage facility in LA. Hopeful y, someday soon, she’l need her things again.” I pause in slicing the Italian loaf on the cutting board, turning my face away. I want to scream in frustration. Deb wil never live independently again. Nothing said by
any
of the doctors could have encouraged this belief, or even a hope of it. Years ago, I might have been wil ing to join the delusion, but I don’t believe in miracles—not for Deb, not for anyone. Maybe I haven’t in a long time, and I’m just now aware of it.

Deb’s apartment has to be sublet, utilities turned off, creditors notified. These details fal to Dad while I distribute her patio ful of plants to neighbors and hospital staff after convincing Mom that they would bring comfort to the people Deb cared for, that it would be impractical to take them with us. As I deliver containers of geraniums and fuchsias and hanging baskets of bougainvil ea, I’m greeted with hugs and tears. I meet with Bradford last, in his smal private office. I bring him an English ivy, the least demanding plant of Deb’s col ection, and a box of belongings he left in her apartment. I’d discovered his razor and toothbrush in her medicine cabinet, and a drawer containing a pair of his jeans along with socks, boxers and t-shirts.

“I packed up these things our first night at Deb’s,” I say, placing the box on his desk. He stares at it, unmoving. “I’d hoped that when we went back home to LA, I’d just be whispering to my sister where she could find your toothbrush and extra boxers.” My voice breaks, but I keep talking. “If there’s anything missing, let me know and I’l find it and send it to you. Mom plans to put her stuff in storage…”

“Thank you, Dori.” He lays his hands atop the box lid but makes no move to open it. “I always wanted a little sister, did she tel you that?” His eyes are ful of tears. “I don’t have any siblings, so I was jealous when she’d talk about you.” He takes a shuddering breath as tears stream down my face. “Your sister changed my life. She changed how I look at the world, how I practice medicine. She changed who I
am
. And I know I can’t… can’t begin to compare how I feel, losing her like this, with how you feel—”

I walk around the desk and put my arms around the man who would have been my brother. “Yes, you can. She loved you, and you loved her. That’s no different than how she felt about me, or how I felt about her.”

A tremor goes through his chest. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry we couldn’t bring her back to herself, heal her.” His grief and anger can’t be separated. “This happened in a
hospital
. We’re
doctors
. This is why I went into medicine—

to cure and rebuild people, to make them better. And I can’t even fix the woman I…” He stops, unable to speak, and I hold him tighter.

“I don’t blame you, and Deb wouldn’t blame you. If you knew her, then you
know
she wouldn’t. She’d want you to go be that bril iant doctor she knew you were, to help people and live your life and be happy—”

“
How?
”

I swal ow, glad he can’t see my face. “I don’t know.”

***

The tabloid shows and websites have been going insane trying to figure out who Reid’s latest hookup is. Whoever it is, he's being more undercover about it than he’s ever been. Which is probably the reason for one of the theories that was floating around—that he’s gay.

I may not know much, but I know enough to know
that’s
not true.

There’s also a day of speculation that he’s reuniting with the girl from his last movie, Emma Pierce, when a photo surfaces of the two of them at the Vancouver Film Festival.

The photo is dark, but clear enough that they’re both identifiable. She leans towards him with a smile as he speaks into her ear. Media speculation goes crazy, and dozens of photos from a year ago resurface—the two of them holding hands, kissing, stil s from the movie where the two of them look al kinds of beautiful together.

The next day, an opposing tabloid publishes the same film festival photo—except this one isn’t
cropped
. In the new photo, Graham Douglas, Emma’s boyfriend, is sitting on the opposite side of her, his left arm across the back of her chair, his right hand holding her right hand on his thigh.

He’s listening to whatever Reid is saying as wel , and
smiling
. So obviously, the Emma theory is out.

The guy who sold the cropped photo is blacklisted, the tabloid site that original y ran the cropped photo is discredited, and I just spent 24 hours hating Emma Pierce for no reason.