Love Nouveau (25 page)

Might as well come clean here. I have absolutely nothing to lose at this point anyway.

“It’s a guy I was sort of seeing.”
Was
being the operative word. “But that’s nothing, really. I’ve recently realized it just is not going to work out between us. I thought I could do the long-distance thing, but I’m just not into him enough to put that kind of effort in.”

The lies have become easier and easier to dispel. The image of Phoenix and the blonde-haired beauty from last night flash into my mind again, and my heart clenches and emptiness ensues once more.

Genevieve doesn’t say a word, but I can tell she doesn’t believe me. A digital chirp breaks our stare down and she pulls her phone from her purse to read her latest text.

“That’s Mom. She and Dad are on their way.”

Great. That’s just fucking great.

I have no idea when she even told them we were at their hospital, but their presence is exactly what I don’t need—loathing parents to look down their noses and silently scold me for something I didn’t do.

Just kill me now.

WHEN I WAS LITTLE, I could fall asleep anywhere. Oh, how I wish that were still true. Now it feels like each time I blink my eyes the demons of the unknown begin to creep into the forefront of my mind. The thought of falling asleep petrifies me, but at the same time that is the only thing I want to do, need to do—shut my eyes and dream this nightmare away. Lying in this hospital bed, I pretend that I’m on an airplane, eyes closed, so no one will talk to me.

When my parents arrive, I stay eerily still, faking sleep. I’m not in the frame of mind to explain myself to them, to anyone actually. It wouldn’t even matter; they’d only hear what they wanted to believe.

I listen intently to Genevieve recounting the morning to our parents. The blood, the panic, and the trip to the emergency room and everything that Dr. Porter said. I’m secretly thankful that she is the one doing the talking. I’m not sure I could speak if I even tried. At least she has the decency to call it a miscarriage and not a spontaneous abortion. Medical terminology or not, that is such a vile thing to call it.

My dad gasps faintly, and I feel his rough palm take my hand and squeeze. The sudden jolt of emotion slowly starts to melt away the ice inside.

“Well, I can’t say this is a huge surprise,” my mom exalts. After all of these years, she still sees me as a pariah. “I raised my daughters to be better than that. I’m glad you have at least grown into a dignified young woman, Genevieve.”

I’m not sure whose reaction is more heartbreaking. I’m tempted to stop faking sleep and expose their perfect little princess for the cokehead she really is, but my dad interjects before I have the chance.

“Hey!” my dad snaps at her. “Enough of that. Like it or not, Ivy needs us.” He’s gripping my hand so tightly I fear he may break a finger. Softly, he adds, “She’s our baby girl.”

I hear my mother scoff, dismissing my father for taking my side.

A quick knock on the door interrupts their conversation.

“Hello, everyone. My name is Karen and we’re here to take Ms. Cotter up to her recovery room on the sixth floor. If you will all just clear the way, we can get her upstairs quickly and settled in for visitors. You’ll all be much more comfortable up there.”

Several pairs of feet shuffle across the floor, and I hear the orderlies fidgeting with my equipment.

“Come on, honey. Let’s get going. We should still be able to get in with the seamstress if we leave now,” my mom says to Genevieve.

“You can’t be serious, Margaret,” my dad says.

“I don’t know what you expect me to say, Stephen. The wedding is this weekend and there is so much left to do. We can’t waste a full day doting on Ivy.” Her haste washes over me in waves.

“Am I allowed to go with her?” my dad asks, concern tracing his voice.

“Of course, sir,” an unrecognizable voice confirms.

“Give us a call later,” my mom says. “I can send Harold back here to pick you up if you’d like. But I hope you don’t stay here and waste the entire day, Stephen.”

I listen to the clicking of my mom’s high heels as she exits the room, presumably with Genevieve right behind.

There is no request to call with updates. No comforting words as they part. I’d venture to say they never even touched as she left the hospital room. My mother and sister, cut from the same cloth, too cold and self-absorbed to comprehend the pain of anyone else. My dad mutters something indecipherable under his breath.

Moments later, I’m traveling down long hallways and elevators, but my dad keeps his hand in mine the entire time.

My bed stops moving and the metal side rail drops. Feeling a sense of safety in the absence of Genevieve and my mom, I slowly open my eyes. My dad looks down at me with so much love that I’m overwhelmed to the point of tears. I open my mouth to speak, to tell him my side of the story, that this can’t possibly be true and that it has to be a mistake, but I can tell he already believes me without ever hearing a word.

“Shh, you don’t have to say anything, my sweet Ivy.” He leans over and kisses me softly on my forehead. This is the most physical affection he has shown me since I was a little girl, and the gesture is quite welcome. When it’s just my dad and he’s free of my mother’s influence, he is an entirely different person. A person I actually like.

He pulls me so I’m sitting upright and a nurse helps move me from the gurney to a more comfortable bed in a private room, careful not to pull the IV out from my arm. Once everything is settled, the nurse hooks up an antibiotic drip along with a fresh saline bag and my dad sits in the recliner next to me in a comfortable quiet. My mind races, asking questions that could never possibly get answered. I reach to the side of the bed and grab the TV remote, desperate for some kind of distraction. I flick the television on and hand Dad the remote. I frankly don’t care what’s on. I just want a noise other than the humming and beeping of machines, and
anything
other than the dialogue in my head.

He begins blindly flipping through the channels, instinctively stopping on WGN where the Chicago Cubs are playing the St. Louis Cardinals. Of course this is the match up. I can’t help but wonder if Phoenix is watching the game, hand in hand with that girl. She’s probably a Cardinals fan, too.
The bitch.

It’s a beautiful Wednesday afternoon game at Wrigley Field. We can see the clouds rolling by in the outfield against a powder blue sky. It’s the top of the fifth and the Cubs are up two to one.

“Do you remember when I took you to your very first Cubs game? It was against the Kansas City Royals.” Dad's eyes actually sparkle at the memory. “You had to have been about three years old.”

I shake my head. I only remember being at a handful of games, most of which were during my high school years, and those were purely social affairs. I didn’t really start paying attention to the games until I started watching them on satellite TV from Italy, a welcomed taste of home.

“Well, we had really these great tickets in a private suite. Expensive, too, not that it mattered. You insisted on bringing my old baseball glove, even though there was no way we were going to be catching any foul balls tucked up in the rafters with the boxes. By the end of the first inning, you’d had a meltdown about wanting to be in the plants. It took me another two innings to realize you meant the bleachers,” he recalls with a chuckle under his breath. I don’t try to fight my growing smile.

“We left the front entrance, walked right up to the box office, and I bought us a pair of bleacher tickets. You were so excited you practically sprinted around to the back side of the field.”

That sounds like something I would do. The bleachers are certainly where the fun is at in that stadium. You’re close to the action, the people watching is nothing short of phenomenal, and, of course, the odds are that much better for catching a fly ball.

“You loved it back there. We ate cotton candy until our tummies ached, and you antagonized some drunk fans from Kansas City. Even as a child you knew how to ruffle feathers.” He laughs. “Well, by the time the seventh inning stretch hit, the skies opened up and it poured down rain. Mother Nature really let us have it. Everyone ran for cover, but not you. You refused to leave. You told me that you wouldn’t melt in a little rain.”

I smile at his recollection of his memory. Even though I don’t remember it, it doesn’t make those moments any less special. It’s nice to know that my dad and I weren’t always so strained.

“Do you know why I wanted to name you Ivy?” he asks with an arch in his brow.

“Because Wrigley Field is your second home, right? You are the eternally optimistic Cubs fan.”

“No.” He looks at me with a serious face. “I wanted to name you Ivy because I knew from the moment I laid eyes on you that you needed a name resembling strength. A constant reminder of just how tough you are. Ivy is a plant that flourishes in abundance, it’s a tenacious little thing. Every time you cut it down, it manages to come back faster and stronger than before.”

Oh.

We sit in thoughtful silence, looking at the television for an immeasurable amount of time. I finally glance over at him, only to find him staring at me.

“Thank you, Daddy,” I croak in a hoarse whisper. I thank him for the stories, his company, my name. But most importantly, I thank him for seeing value in me, even when I feel I don’t deserve it.

He simply pats his hand on mine a few times.

“It’s time to rest now, Ivy. That’s the only way you’re going to come back stronger from all of this. You’ve never been one to let a little rainstorm ruin your life.”

I heed his request and close my eyes, cautiously unafraid.

Eventually, I succumb to the welcoming numb arms of sleep. This horrible, confusing, and frustrating world as I know it, fades away.

And I disappear completely.

I STARTLE AT THE SOUND of a metal cart crashing into my sorry excuse of a bed. Beside me, a nurse has dropped some supplies on the top of the cart. I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep, but I so desperately want to crawl back into hibernation.

“Oh good! You’re awake,” she chirps. “My name is Julie and I’m your night nurse. You’ve been out for quite a while, but I need to draw some blood so the lab can run a few more tests and check your progress.”

Julie busies herself with raising my bed, making a few notes in the computer and pulling the needle from its packaging. Grabbing my arm, she ties an elastic tourniquet above my elbow and waits for the blue rivers to pucker. Why she can’t pull from the IV is beyond me.

“Let’s see what we have here,” she mutters under her breath, examining the bend in my arm.

I squirm at the sight of the needle. I’ve hated needles ever since junior high when I had to have a premature tetanus shot after John Sheridan accidentally hammered a nail through the palm of my hand while I held his project together in woodshop. I walked around for months proclaiming I was literally Jesus Christ, stigmata in hand. You’d think that after feeling a nail go through your body a teeny tiny needle would be easy to handle. But, nope.

“Your father left just as my shift started at eight. He seems really nice. Very concerned about you. It’s nice to have people who care in your life.” She offers a weak smile.

I refrain from telling her she’s got it all wrong; that I come from a lineage of truly horrible people and somehow, save for my best friend Rachel, most everyone around me is horrible too. Being in their presence awakens all of the horrible parts of myself, which is why I’m so desperate to leave them all far behind. Although my dad hasn’t been so bad these past few weeks. Then again maybe he hasn’t been so bad all along and I’ve just been too jaded to notice?

I wince as I watch the needle pierce the pale flesh of my forearm, expecting a burning sensation. I should feel something, anything, but I don’t. There is no physical pain. Or maybe there is and it is simply overshadowed by the internal emotional pain coursing my veins.

Another syringe of antibiotics push through the IV bag and my arm instantly feels cold as the drugs infect my system.

“I’ll get these down to the lab quickly and have the doctor stop by in the morning with the results.” Her face is illuminated by the soft glow of the computer screen. She continues to make a racket with mindless busywork in my room. I just want to fall back asleep.

“Your brother will be happy to know you’re awake. He left a few minutes ago to find some coffee. Your friend Mimi stopped by for a little bit, too, but your brother took her number and promised to keep her updated on your progress. I imagine he’ll be back shortly.”

My brother? I furrow my eyebrows and feel the air from my lungs rush past my lips. I have no idea who she’s talking about and I’m not about to ask. She smiles weakly at me, the corners of her mouth turning down ever so slightly, as if she were offering silent condolences for the loss of a child I never knew. Or wanted. Fuck, this is so confusing. I know she’s judging me. The internal dialog is evident in her facial expressions. She thinks I’m a slut.