The Instant When Everything is Perfect (10 page)

He smiles, watches her. She imagines he is following the progress of her blush, his gaze slowly sliding over her face.

“No, Sally just told me about your writing. I bought it myself.”

He blinks, and Mia realizes her mouth is open.

“Wow. Thanks.”

“One more night, and I’ll know if Susan leaves Rafael.”

Mia turns to look out the large bank of windows. Outside, a new storm has pushed over the hills, a dark wall of cloudy water covering Walnut Creek. She wants to tell him that she doesn’t even know if Susan ever left Rafael. While writing the last page, she wanted to fling herself into the imaginary future of the story and ask Susan that very question. “Will you leave? Did you leave?” But Susan never answered, and now, two novels later, she no longer speaks to Mia, not even at night.

She turns back to Robert. “Maybe so, maybe not. I’m not giving away anything. You’ll have to read all the way to the end.”

“In college, I used to have the bad habit of reading the last page before even starting a book. That way, I’d know how it would turn out before I got there.”

Again she finds her mouth open. “That’s cheating. A betrayal. Horrible. Don’t you dare do that with my book.”

He raises a hand, smooth, over washed palm toward her. “I promise. No back page reading.”

For a moment, they both watch each other, and Mia feels some kind of communication going on between them. It’s as if they aren’t civilized, a doctor and a writer but are instead cave people, talking through scent and smell and taste. Her skin is singing to his, even though he’s covered in the green and white cotton scrubs that are everywhere in this cafeteria. His energy comes through his clothes, over the table, bumping at her, lapping at her in waves. His eyes seem to change color, going pale blue to navy as the clouds outside shift from gray to black. She can smell the soap he uses and uses and uses all day long, can feel what his soft hands would feel like on her face, can taste the tips of his fingers.

Plates clatter. Someone drops a glass. A couple sitting next to them laughs at a joke she doesn’t hear. People walk by; the smell of overcooked Mexican food slides through the air. Rain begins to pound against the windows. Mia wonders if she can move from this moment, knowing that it’s important, crucial, and confusing.

Finally, she looks at the bag of food on the chair next to her. “I better get back. My mom should be out of recovery soon.”

He nods, pushes his chair back, stands. Mia grabs the bag and begins to move her chair, but then he’s helping her, pulling the chair, taking her elbow.

“What does it mean?” he asks.

Mia thinks to ask him what he’s talking about, but she knows. And if she could, she’d say that she has no idea what anything means. She breathes in, ready to say something, but Robert fills in the silence.

“I picked up your other books, too. But that second one. It’s the strangest title.
The Daisy Plate Incident
.”

They start walking toward the exit. She shakes her head. “Says you and my editor and the rest of the world. Trust me. It will all make sense eventually.”

“I hope so,” Robert says, and they walk out of the cafeteria into the dark hospital hallway.

Robert says goodbye to her at the bank of elevators, his hand on his top coat pocket where he’s put her card. And when she’s back in the waiting room, Katherine and Dahlia peeling oranges, the room a swirl of citrus, she realizes she didn’t ask him one single thing about himself.

Sally is groggy; her eyes stay shut even as she talks to them. Mia expected Sally’s chest to be swathed with a thick bundle of bandages, but Sally’s chest is covered only by a thin bandage and her gown, though tubes and monitors dangle from her body. Underneath the bandage, though, Mia knows there are two scars, the wicked, bloody gashes made by the knife.

Mia is scared to get too close, but Katherine pushes in next to the bed, pulls up the blanket gently, examines the drains by Sally’s underarms.

“Mom,” Katherine says. “Mom? How do you feel? Can you tell me?”

A nurse adjusting Sally’s IV rolls her eyes at Katherine’s bedside manner, and Mia wants to laugh. But she doesn’t, trying to be nice now because even though Robert is only going to email her—all they are going to do is talk—she needs the good karma.

“Fine,” Sally whispers.

Dahlia pulls the blanket tight over Sally’s feet. “The doctor said everything went so well, Mom.” She blinks, rubs her nose, which is already red.

“Hmm,” Sally mutters.

“Maybe she should sleep,” Mia says. “She’s been through a lot.”

Katherine turns to Mia, her dark eyes a flare of heat. “Of course she’s been through a lot. She’s had major surgery. But I’m—Oh, never mind.”

Katherine sits down and takes Sally’s non-IV’d hand. The nurse leaves the room, and Dahlia sits down, too, so that they surround their mother. For a second, all is calm, until Mia turns her head and notices a large bouquet of flowers on the small plain bureau.

“Who are those from?” she asks Dahlia, but Dahlia shrugs.

“I thought someone left them behind.”

Mia stands and walks to the bouquet, a tight, bright cluster of roses, mums, and irises. She looks at the card, and then without turning back to her sisters, opens it.
To Sally. Best Wishes for a Speedy Recovery. Dick Brantley and Mitzie.

“Dick Brantley,” she says.

“Who’s he?” Dahlia asks.

“In what smart decade did people finally stop calling their boys ‘Dick’?” Katherine asks, walking over to the bouquet. She plucks a tiny petal off a miniature yellow mum. “Mom’s got a gentleman caller.”

“I’ve never head of him. No, wait a minute. He might be that fellow who walks with her sometimes. She said something about having coffee now and then with a man. Maybe she said his name was Dick. I’m not sure.” Mia tucks the card back in the envelope. “He’s not one of her bridge friends.”

“It’s quite possible you don’t know everything about Mom. Maybe she’s been keeping secrets. Maybe she has a secret life we know nothing about,” Katherine says. All of them turn to look at Sally, who even in her drugged state seems to be smiling.

“Mom?” Harper walks in the room, his two cousins Mike and Matt trailing behind him. He’s picked them up at Sally’s condo and brought them here for a fifteen minute visit before taking them to Kentucky Fried Chicken and a movie at the Cineplex.

“Hi, sweetie. Hi, guys.”

So lanky and tall in the room, Harper almost seems to slouch, not wanting to take up too much space. Dahlia stands to hug him, patting his face, squeezing his shoulders. Mia hugs Mike and Matt, who both seem like little boys compared to Harper. Katherine, stands, shifts a little uncomfortably, and sort of waves to them all and then sits back down, picking up Sally’s hand again.

“How’s Grandma, Mom?” Harper walks to the edge of the hospital bed and grabs the rail. “She looks—“

“She looks asleep,” Katherine says. “That’s all. The surgery went very well.”

Mia puts her arm around Harper’s shoulder, realizing how high she has to lift her arm to do so. “Was school good?” she asks quietly. He nods.

“Fine. Is she going to be okay?” Her son turns to her, his eyes lightening briefly, almost amber like her own, full of the same worry she’s felt all day except for the brief few minutes with Robert in the cafeteria. For a quick second, she suddenly thinks that his worry isn’t about Sally at all, something else, something in his life is terribly wrong, but then a nurse comes in with a plastic pitcher of water and the flare in Harper’s eyes dies down, his face suddenly and only sixteen.

“I think so. Yes. She’s going to be just fine,” Mia says.

Katherine shoots her a look, catching her in the slight lie about Sally’s state.

“Well, we are waiting for lab reports,” Mia says. “But the surgeon says things look good.”

Harper sighs. “Where’s Dad?”

“He had to go back to work. He’ll be here later.”

Now something in Harper’ body definitely changes, a shift, a tenseness, a flare of feeling. He pulls away from her arm and goes to sit down next to Mike, who is reading a comic book. For a second, she feels that she’s falling through something she thought was sturdy: a kitchen floor, a concrete patio, a bank vault.

“So where are you guys headed to?” Dahlia asks, patting Matt’s hair.

“Harper is taking us to
Gory Kill Fest II
,” Matt says.

Katherine snorts. “How edifying.”

“Why don’t you take them to a museum, then?” Mia snaps.

Harper looks at the flowers. “Who sent those?”

But before they can again explore the mystery of Dick and Mitzie, another nurse walks in, carrying another plastic bag of fluid to hook onto the IV. Katherine stands up and moves away from Sally, who still seems to be smiling.

Mia pulls some money out of her purse and hands it to Harper. “Thanks for doing this, sweetie. Aunt Dahlia will be back at the condo when you guys get back.”

“Will Dad be home later?” Harper asks as he shoves the money in his wallet.

Mia almost flinches. “Of course.”

“Okay.”

She kisses him quickly on the cheek and he doesn’t pull away. “I’ll be home later—or I might stay with Grandma. But Dad will be there.”

Harper leans against her lips for a second, and Mia remembers him running across the preschool yard, his coat behind him like a cape, his long curls whirling in the breeze. Then he would fling himself into her arms, pressing his cheek against hers, his little boy smell in her nose: fruit snacks, paint, tan bark, dirt.

Sally moans a little, and Harper jerks away, staring at his grandmother. Matt and Mike move to his side, all of them staring at the bed.

“You guys go,” Dahlia says. “Have fun.”

“Drive carefully,” Mia says, and the boys wave and smile and leave, the younger boys’ excited whispers echoing as they walk down the hall.

“He’s so grown up,” Dahlia says, as they watch the nurse check the monitors and machines. “It just seems like yesterday that he was Matt’s age, bugging you about buying those comic books. What were they? Anyway, he’s a man now. You’re almost home free.”

Katherine pretends to not pay attention to the conversation, but Mia can see a wash of color on her cheeks. Katherine was the one who babysat the most during high school, two or three jobs at least on the weekends, a string of little kids over at the house splashing in the pool or making chocolate chip cookies at the big round kitchen table, or playing hide-and-seek in the backyard. For a brief spell in med school, Katherine had debated whether or not to go into pediatrics, deciding against it, finally, because it was so typically female, like women majoring in English. Wanting to buck the trend was more important at the time, so she decided on pathology, a horrifying specialty Mia thinks no gender would want to dominate.

And in the years since, no woman or man has managed to convince Katherine to settle down, to marry or cohabitate, and Katherine never mentions having children. But she’s forty now, Mia realizes, not much time left for a family if she wants it.

The nurse fiddles with a line connected to a gadget on Sally’s finger and then looks at the sisters lined up at the foot of the bed.

“She’s really going to sleep for a while. This might be a good time to go home or eat or whatever. We have your phone numbers.”

The nurse turns and leaves the room. Mia feels her sisters’ bodies, the warmth of their arms, breathes in their known smells, skin as familiar to her as her children’s or her husband’s or her mother’s.

“Ford’s going to come back,” Mia says. “I’ll stay. You two take the car and go get something to eat.”

For a second, it looks to Mia that Katherine will insist that she’s the one who should stay, take charge, read the chart after every nurse or doctor interaction, but then her shoulders fall.

“Okay. Dahls?” Katherine says.

Dahlia nods. “Just for a little while, though. The boys and I leave the day after tomorrow, so I really want to be here for Mom.”

Then move home
, Mia thinks but doesn’t say.

Her sisters grab their purses and sweaters. Dahlia puts a hand on Mia’s arm and then they leave. Mia slowly walks to the chair at the head of the bed and sits, watching the slight up and down movement of her mother’s swaddled chest. The machines click and beep and whine. Underneath the bed, bags collect fluid. Underneath the bandages, Sally’s wounds try to heal.

“Mom,” Mia whispers. “Tell me what to do. Tell me what’s going on.”

Sally lies still, no words for any of Mia’s commands. Mia brings her hand to her blouse and puts it over her own left breast, and feels her skin, squeezes her flesh, the living memory of a part of her that grew her children, nourished them.

Out in the hall, the fluorescent lights glint like a migraine aura. Carts clack by. An announcement calls for Dr. Browne. Sally sleeps.