I Almost Forgot About You (12 page)

As soon as I get home from work, I hear Frankie yelling upstairs on her phone.

“You're sorry?”

A moment of silence.

“You expect me to believe that?”

Niles?

“So what? You're still a cheater, and I don't want to love someone I can't trust!”

Not Niles.

“You better not come out here!”

I have to stop myself from yelling,
Please come!

Pause.

“Hunter?”

Pause.

“Fuck.”

When I hear her door swing open, I beeline it to the kitchen and pretend I'm looking for something in the pantry.

“Mom, I've got good news and bad news.”

I walk out and look at her eyes. They're glassy, but I can't tell if anything has fallen from them. I cross my arms and lean against the refrigerator. “I'm listening.”

“Hunter's probably on his way out here to fetch me.”

“Fetch?”

“He said the girl tricked him.”

I can't tell if this is supposed to be the good or the bad news.

“Really?”

“He got drunk at his buddy's dorm and slept with this chick and had a blackout, and she told him she was pregnant, but turns out she made it up. So he still loves me and wants me back.”

“Wants you back or wants you to come back?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Where's he plan on staying?”

“I don't know. But would it be possible for him to stay here for a few days? Because by then we will have figured out what we're going to do.”

“You must think everybody's in college, Frankie.”

“Hunter's not.”

“What?”

“He got his bachelor's in digital engineering. He's a geek freak.”

“Well, that's good to hear. It means he's employable.”

“True, but he just got into the master's program, and it's all about app development and software design and blah, blah, who cares?”

“And now you want me to turn your room into a honeymoon suite so you can rekindle what you swore to me was lost?”

“I said I was mad at him. I didn't say I didn't love him anymore.”

“What on earth do you think you know about love, Frankie?”

“The same thing you did when you were my age, Mom.”

“Which was nothing.”

I shake my head and walk past her. I would like to hug her and slap her at the same time. I understand the spell she's under, but now I'm anxious because so much is happening and I don't know if I'm handling it the right way or not. I don't know how you're supposed to know. Nevertheless, I walk out to the garage and look at the stool I haven't touched. I'm not thinking about Percy or staging when I get a clean rag out of the drawer and dust it. Of course here she comes again.

“What now, Frankie?”

“Can I ask you a personal question, Mom?”

“How personal?”

“How many times have you been in love?”

“Five. And two to grow on.”

We both laugh. I'm glad we can.

“Is that considered a lot?”

“I have no idea. I haven't done any surveys.”

We laugh again.

“Just so you know, Hunter's pretty handy and can help you do anything you need help with.”

“That's nice to know. So is this what you came out here to tell me?”

“No. A lot of things are going through my head, which is why I was wondering if it would be possible to borrow your car?”

“To go where, if you don't mind my asking?”

“The reservoir. I could use a run.”

“Of course. But can I have your father's phone number?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Why do you want his number?”

“Because I would like to talk to him.”

“I told you, I can't go live there now with—”

“It's not about you. It's about me, sweetie.”

“I don't get it.”

“Can you just write the number down and leave it on the kitchen counter for me, please?”

“Promise you won't tell him about the whole Hunter situation.”

“Go run,” I say, and start looking for some tarp.

I unfold the garment box I bought from one of those storage places, use the Shop-Vac to blow accumulated dust off the stool, and put it inside the small opening that allows me to slip inside. I put on a mask and goggles and stand there like a prisoner looking at the stool. I can't paint. It feels so unimportant right now. Ludicrous. It also feels like a waste of time, because what am I going to do with this stupid stool if and when I ever finish painting it? I cover it with a beige drop cloth and back out of the cardboard entrance.

As I head back inside, the garage wall phone rings, so I reach over to answer it.

“Hello, Georgia,” a gravelly voice that sounds like Percy's says, immediately followed by an avalanche of coughs.

When he manages to stop, I say, “Percy, you sound horrible. Why're you calling me if you're sick?”

“I apologize for coughing your ear off and for not being in touch sooner, but I've had bronchitis the last couple of weeks. It's just this stupid cough that takes forever to clear up, but I'm talking to a doctor. So anyway, how are you, Georgia?”

“I'm fine, Percy. And I'm sorry you're sick. Bronchitis is nothing to fool with, so you can take me off your worry list if that's what this call's about.”

“It is and it isn't. We've run into a little problem. Not major. But minor. Would it be possible to meet next week so I can both explain and show you why we may have to delay our start date?”

“How much of a delay?”

“Up to a month.”

“A whole month?”

“I'm so sorry, Georgia, but it's been one thing after another, and I assure you this is not my style.”

“Are you okay?”

“I will be.”

I leave Frankie the car. Take BART to the office. Work is the same. New patients, old patients, but I'm nervous all day about what to expect when I get home. Lily's fallen in love with another stranger online. Marina just shakes her head. It's a good thing she still lives with her parents, or we'd worry about her safety. I feel sorry for her because she's a dingbat when it comes to men, but she's smart as hell when it comes to business. At forty-four she's never been married and doesn't understand why.

I haven't mentioned anything to Lily about wanting to sell my part of the practice, because not only is there no rush, but I don't have any idea how I'm going to make a living. Lily, who's Filipino, comes from a family of doctors, and thanks to her parents, she's a 60 percent partner to my 40. After my father passed away and left me a sizable inheritance, more than I ever expected, she and I quit the hospital where we were on staff and joined forces.

During lunch I walk to Union Square and meet with a travel agent for real. I tell her why I want to take a train trip and that I'm not sure about the length of time—two, maybe three weeks tops—and that I would love to stop at a few points along the way, sightsee, and possibly stay overnight in a luxe hotel. I tell her I'm not exactly sure about the when either, and she tells me the rail schedules are fixed and not to worry. I tell her I'm interested in seeing as much beauty as possible, starting with the California coastline. I tell her Vancouver is on the top of my list, and even though I don't exactly dream about Canada, it's a breathtaking country and I would certainly dig ending up in Toronto and then hopping onto a plane to fly home. When she asks if I'll be traveling alone and I tell her yes, instead of asking why, she gives me a high five.

I float back to the office and am breezing through my afternoon appointments when Marina taps on my door and pokes her head in.

“Some guy's here to see you. Says he's an old patient of yours and wanted to stop by and say hello.”

“Did he tell you his name?”

She shakes her head.

“Put on some lipstick, Doc. He's not too hard on the eyes for an older guy,” and she winks. “I'll tell him you'll be out in a few minutes.”

Before I get a chance to tell her to ask who it is, I put on a fresh coat of Raging Red, take my lab coat off, and hang it behind the door.

I'm disappointed as hell when I see an older but still-handsome version of Niles looking at eyewear. He has on the black suit I remember buying him one Christmas. At least one of us can still fit into our old clothes. Marina, who always closes up the office, looks like she's not going anywhere anytime soon.

“It's okay if you leave on time,” I say, showing off a fake smile that basically tells her I'm really hoping she stays. But she misses it and grabs her black purse and her black umbrella, since it's now raining, and nods to Niles, says she'll see me tomorrow, and leaves with an it's-about-time smirk on her face.

I turn and look down at him. “So what in the world are you doing here, Niles?”

“Well, what a wonderful hello, and good to see you, too, after all these years, Georgia.”

“You didn't answer my question. And didn't you know that while you were in prison, God invented cell phones?”

He sits in the yellow chair. Holds up a black iPhone.

“I figured if I called, you wouldn't see me, and I wanted to know how you were holding up since our daughter's come home so distraught.”

“She's not distraught. She's in love.”

“Same difference.”

And then we just look at each other, unsure of what to say. I want him to leave and come back after I've had time to figure out just what to say to him.

“She'll be okay.”

“That's easy for you to say, Georgia. Don't you remember how hard it felt being brokenhearted?”

I do, even though he didn't really break my heart—he just disappointed me. But I say, “Of course I do.” And then I sit down in a gray chair, three seats away.

“And this is where we met,” he says. “Updated quite a bit. Nice touches.”

“So how was prison?” I ask, wishing it hadn't slipped out like that. I couldn't think of anything else to say, and I know it was cruel. “I'm sorry, Niles. I didn't mean to say that.”

“To be honest, it was probably the best thing that's ever happened to me, besides you and Frankie. It was an enlightening and humbling experience. I learned a lot.”

“Like what?”

“That I was an unbearable asshole.”

I nod. Loving this already.

“That I don't always have to be in control.”

I try to wipe the smirk off my face.

“That I'm not always right.”

Silence.

And more silence.

“That's it?”

“Well, I think everything else falls under the same general umbrella. Don't you?”

“I'm not one to judge.”

“Oh, but that's one thing you were always pretty good at, Georgia.”

I turn my head like Linda Blair in
The Exorcist.
“If you came here to indict me like you were indicted, you can leave now, Niles. I've got enough problems dealing with our daughter without being ridiculed by the ex-husband I haven't seen in years. This is quite a hello.”

“I'm sorry,” he says, with the utmost sincerity. “But I came because I want to know what I can do to get off your most-hated list.”

“I never hated you, Niles.”

“You sure had me convinced.”

“I stopped liking you.”

“What's the difference?”

“You went to college. You know there's a difference.”

“They both mean that a person holds a great deal of disdain, which can become toxic. And it's what I sensed you felt about me.”

“True. But not in the beginning. I just felt like you conned me.”

“Conned?”

“You misrepresented yourself to make me believe you were this kind and gentle and caring person, when in fact you wanted a woman you could control, but by the time I figured this out, I was already the mother of your child, which I also didn't want to do—have another baby—at least not as soon as when you talked me into it—but as the clock ticked, I started realizing how much I was doing to please you, how you set the rules for how I was supposed to show you I loved you, but you never quite got around to caring how I might want to be loved.”