“Shew.” He rubbed his head.
“Surprised?” she asked.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me about this before?” he wanted to know.
“Who knew you didn’t know? Who knew you wanted to know? What difference could it make to you? We still have Grandma and Grandpa Dugan up north. It’s not like I was traumatized…or even deprived. Three grandparents is actually pretty good.”
He just nodded, then he reached across the little table and held her hands. “Growing up with Peaches was a good life for you, wasn’t it, honey?” He saw her eyes mist over again. “I suspect you went into education because of your grandma, didn’t you, punkin?”
“Sort of. Literature was probably because of her. And education was a way to get paid for studying great books. Mom and I both grew up at the library.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet.” He drained his paper coffee cup. “Don’t worry about Peaches, honey. Everyone will pitch in, make sure she’s okay. I don’t think you have to start counting her last days just yet.”
“I guess.”
“And honey? Maybe you shouldn’t mention to His Denniship that your mom was slightly out of touch at my place. Hmm?”
She got a sly smile. “Oh?”
“I know they’re all way liberated, but if it was me I’d be bothered. So, if she wants him to know, she’ll tell him.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“You like him, right?”
“Sure. He’s a great guy. I think he’s what you would call steady.” She shrugged. “Whatever makes her happy, y’know?”
“I know,” he said. “Want me to follow you home? Make sure you get in all right?”
“Dad!” She laughed. “When I first moved out on my own I could get home at 2:00 a.m. without anyone sitting up, tapping a foot, waiting. So, lighten up.”
“Lighten up, lighten up,” he mimicked. “Would you like company to your car in the hospital parking lot?”
“Now, that I’ll take!”
However, when she got home, she deeply regretted her cavalier attitude. On the welcome mat in front of her apartment door was a bud vase and single red rose. There was a note attached, but it was unsigned:
Should a nice girl like you be out so late?
The hair on the back of her neck prickled and a chill ran through her. She knew it had to be him. He’d grown tired of just calling and calling and had come to her door.
She had not yet mentioned any of this to Grant, or to anyone else. It was her misjudgment and she was embarrassed. She wanted it to go away before she owned up to doing the very thing she criticized other, stupid young women of doing.
She let herself into her apartment warily. She bolted the door behind her, checked every nook and cranny and made sure the windows were locked. Sometimes you just know what you know, and she knew he was out there, nearby.
She heard the key in the lock and her heart hammered. She pushed her hand against her chest as if to slow it. When Grant walked into the apartment, she let out a huge sigh.
“Oh, Grant! I’m so glad you’re home! I’ve done the dumbest thing. I should’ve told you before, but I felt too stupid.”
“What?” he asked, tossing his keys on the counter.
“The rose? Did you leave it outside?”
“What rose?”
She went to the door, opened it and looked out. It was gone.
“What rose?” he asked again.
“This is all your fault!” she accused Grant. And then she started to cry.
By the time Charlene was done remembering her childhood it was nearly dawn. She probably should have come to some huge conclusions about where she was coming from, where she was going. Instead, she stumbled upon a partial answer and finally admitted to herself how much losing her father had hurt.
The sound of a metal chart being flipped open brought her out of her hypnotic state and she turned to see a young doctor enter the room. She stood and faced him.
“I’m Dr. Moore,” he said, extending his hand.
“Charlene Dugan, Mrs. Pomeroy’s daughter.”
“Good to meet you. Well, we’re going to take out the tube, turn off the respirator. I’m going to schedule a brain scan and MRI, some routine blood work. It could be anything from a series of what we call silent strokes that, over time, cause memory problems and confusion, or late-onset dementia, maybe even Alzheimer’s, that contributed to her mishap last night.”
“Could a stroke have made her lose consciousness?”
“We know what made her lose consciousness, Mrs. Dugan. She fell asleep. She had a blood-alcohol level of .06 percent.”
“What? She doesn’t drink much. A little wine, a little toddy…”
“She most probably forgot she’d had a drink and had another, and maybe one more,” he said, scribbling in the chart all the while. “It happens. Sometimes with medication, patients forget they’ve taken their pills, and take more. Same with meals,” he added, looking up. “I had a patient whose spouse was wasting away because his wife kept insisting they’d eaten already…when they hadn’t.”
“I’m sorry,” Charlene said, getting back to the original point. “Are you really saying that my mother was drunk?”
“Well, not drunk as a sailor, but certainly relaxed enough to fall asleep.” He flipped the chart closed. “I’m going to complete her tests by noon, discharge her into your care and have you schedule out-patient visits to do some testing for Alzheimer’s. I know this is going to take some enormous adjustments on your part, but given the circumstances of last night, you’re going to want to check into some companion care. We have some informational brochures for you….”
“Dear God,” she said in a breath.
She heard him before she saw him. Someone was running down the hall and suddenly there he was, skidding to a stop by grabbing the door frame, his silver hair mussed, unshaven, but wearing the scrubs he would be working in. “Char!” he said.
“Oh, Dennis,” she returned with relief.
“God, I’m so sorry!” He walked into the room and took her immediately into his embrace. “I turned my phone off because I had an early start. Jesus, I’ll never do that again.”
“It’s all right, Dennis. My phone wasn’t working last night and they had to call Stephanie to the hospital. Everything that could have gone wrong…”
He turned directly to Dr. Moore. “Pete? Everything under control?”
He extended his hand, and the sight of them shaking, knowing each other, made Charlene feel safe and secure for the first time. This was how she had felt when she met Dennis, that he could keep her safe. With him, she would be taken care of. He wouldn’t let her down, disappear, drift away or forget he’d made promises. This business of his phone being turned off was more than rare—it was almost nonexistent.
“I think we’ve got everything covered,” the doctor told Dennis. “Not too serious this time. I’ll let Mrs…. um, Charlene can fill you in, and if you want to call me later, I’d be glad to talk to you about nursing care, support groups, extended-care homes.”
“We’ll take care of her for now,” Dennis said. “Can I go ahead and turn off that respirator?”
“Sure, that would be great. Be sure and stop at the station and make a chart notation. Let the IV run out. We sedated her on top of the alcohol, so she’s sleeping very soundly, but pretty soon—”
“She’ll be up and growling. Let’s get that tube out before her eyes even open.”
“Good idea.”
Yes, Charlene thought. This is what I need most. Someone stable, mature, calm. Willing. I don’t need to be chasing some hothead off to a perp’s house and holding him off a bad guy. I’ve got bigger things on my plate. I need someone stable and consistent and predictable.
God, she thought, did I almost lose my mind?
Never again.
Nine
Charlene took a cab to Jake’s house to fetch her car. She did this on the sly, without Dennis knowing, although she expected the whole sce
nario might eventually come up for discussion. Maybe Stephanie would make some innocent remark about where Charlene was found, or perhaps Charlene herself would bring up the subject, just to make it appear less forbidden. For the moment, she was opting for discretion, though the word that should probably have come to her lawyer’s mind was indiscretion.
The cabdriver was singing along with Smokey Robinson. “I did you wrong, my heart went out to play….”
“Would you mind turning that off, please?” she asked.
“Whatsa matter, lady? You don’t like Smokey?”
“It’s getting on my nerves.”
“Hey, you’re the fare,” he obliged, clicking off the music.
Heart went out to play, indeed.
It wasn’t Dennis she was worried about. He was as solid as a rock, without a jealous bone in his body. She did this for herself, knowing she could only confront one issue at a time. So, when Dennis went to work in the E.R., she walked out the hospital door, through the parking lot and down to the convenience store on the corner. From there, she phoned for a cab…and waited forty minutes.
It was almost 8:00 a.m. by the time she got to Jake’s, and it was immediately obvious he wasn’t letting her get away with anything. He had his garage door open and he was sitting on a lawn chair on the driveway. He wore his sweats—old ones—and held a steaming cup of coffee. Beside him was an empty lawn chair, he was that sure she’d come alone.
She approached him with caution. He watched her walk toward him and didn’t move. Nothing moved. His eyebrows didn’t lift, his lashes didn’t flutter, his lips didn’t twitch. She stood before him, contrite. “Sometimes I don’t think,” she said.
Silence hung between them. He watched her face, but couldn’t look into her eyes because they were downcast. He let the silence stretch out; he had a lot of experience with this sort of thing from interrogations. It was especially tantalizing when you knew more about the situation than the suspect, but the suspect didn’t know how much you knew. His favorite opener had always been, Why not go ahead and try the truth first, because you don’t know how much I know. “Coffee?” he finally asked the suspect.
She raised her eyes. “Jake, I came to say I was sorry.”
“You came to get your car,” he said, standing up. “And you promised you’d talk to me about our…what should we call it, Charlie? Our relationship?” He walked into the garage, toward the door. She didn’t want to notice the way his sweats fit so keenly over his muscled butt. He stayed in shape, that was for sure. He had chopped off the sleeves of his sweatshirt and she hated noticing his biceps.
“That was before Peaches got hurt,” she said to his back.
He made a half turn. “Cream and sugar?”
She sighed. “Black,” she said. She had no intention of drinking another cup of coffee.
She tapped her foot nervously while she waited for him. She wanted to get home, shower, clean up, make a few calls, go over to Peaches’s house to see how bad it was. There were clients who were not going to be pleased to have their cases delayed or pushed off on an associate, but there wasn’t much she could do about that right now. She had a million things on her mind, making it difficult to sort out priorities. But that was what she was best at—prioritizing. Right now her number-one priority was getting the hell out of here. Where was he? How long was he going to drag this out?
He finally reappeared, carrying two mugs. “Here,” he said. “You can’t drink it black.”
She looked into the mug; it was milky. Cream and sugar.
“Sit down, Charlie. Tell me about Peaches.”
For that she could sit. She told him what the doctor had said, that Peaches would be discharged by noon, that she was awake, alert and stable before Charlene left her, and that the days, months and perhaps years ahead were probably going to be very challenging. “Do you want to hear something astonishing? The doctor said that people who read a lot are less likely to get Alzheimer’s. And he hopes that means that if Peaches does indeed have Alzheimer’s, it will be less severe. And also, that the later the onset, the slower the progression. Surprising. So, there will be several doctor’s appointments in the coming days and weeks, I suppose. More tests, et cetera.”
“Are you scared?” he asked her.
“Scared? No. I’m concerned.”
“Ah. And sorry.”
“Of course I’m sorry! I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, least of all my own—” She stopped. That wasn’t what he meant.
Jake watched her face, her eyes, her grip on the mug. By now he had pieced together her childhood from a combination of his own remembering and what Stephanie had told him last night…or rather, early this morning. How had he gone twenty-five years without knowing the accurate details of Charlie’s childhood? And why had she kept these details from him? Was she ashamed of her father? Her childhood?
Charlene had been raised in a household of confusion, with a father who was in and out like their house was a train station. And not even the fact that her mother was always there, a constant source of love and support, was enough to eliminate Charlie’s abandonment and control issues.
In the few short hours since Stephanie had filled him in, he’d realized a few critical things. One, when he married Charlie twenty-six years ago, though he loved her madly, he’d been twenty-four and stupid and hadn’t paid attention to what was going on around him. Some of that couldn’t have been helped; twenty-four-year-old men tend to think with their peckers and have the maturity of rock stars. He hadn’t realized that, when he acted like an undependable jerk, Charlene was naturally afraid that she’d married a man like her father. Second, when her father actually died, and she conveniently never told him the truth about the man or his death, she went into a serious tailspin…and incredible denial. She wasn’t going to have the kind of life her mother had; she wasn’t going to put up with that irresponsible crap from anybody, especially not a man.
Third, she hadn’t fallen out of love with Jake when she divorced him twenty-five years ago. She’d merely run out of courage. And faith. She wasn’t brave enough to chance that theirs could be a marriage more successful than her parents’, and she had utterly no faith in Jake. Or herself.
Jake had thought through the whole thing—including the many times he and Charlene ended up in bed together over the years, and then she tried to pretend it hadn’t happened when he tried to discuss it. Probably the most important conclusion was this: Charlene was headed for a meltdown. Mega.
“So. Tell me what you think we should do now, Charlie.”
“Nothing. We do nothing at all. I’m sorry, I know better. I knew better. I think it was stress.”
Stress? his lips silently questioned. He didn’t laugh, but his mouth might have quivered with the desire.
“Don’t laugh at me, you bonehead.”
He leaned his elbows on his knees and held the coffee cup with both hands. He allowed himself a chuckle. “Look, there’s a lot more going on here than we can untangle right now, or even over breakfast. But there’s one thing you should look at, Charlie. This is a bad time to be getting married. Give yourself a break.”
“How would you know?” she asked angrily.
“Oh, man, I am an expert on that, okay?”
“If I don’t know after five years that I love Dennis, when am I going to know? Huh?”
“Maybe when you stop crawling into your ex-husband’s bed.”
She shot to her feet, indignant. Her coffee slopped onto her suit. “You jerk. Now look what you did!” She brushed impatiently at the stain.
Jake didn’t stand. In fact, he leaned back and stretched his legs out lazily. “Somehow I knew that was going to be my fault.”
“It was an accident! And I’m not talking about the coffee. It was an emotional night. I was tired, stressed out, very grateful to you for the way you…you…. I don’t know. I admire your compassion…I told you that. We’re not meant to be together, we’ve proven that. But not everything about our relations
hip was terrible. It’s a curse that we always had it good in bed! A goddamn curse!”
“That kinda depends on your perspective,” he said.
“I made a mistake, and I’m embarrassed. Leave me alone about it.”
“You’ve made that mistake a lot over the years. Have you been embarrassed every time?” he asked, knowing the answer already.
“This was the first time I was planning a wedding.”
“That’s what I’m saying, Charlie. Red flag.”
“But he’s good for me,” she said, and her voice had grown whiny. Wheedling. “He’s very stable—”
“Steady.”
“Yes. Steady. Like a rock. He doesn’t have a whole trunkful of character flaws, he delivers on all his promises and he doesn’t mind that having things tidy and well organized is important to me. We don’t fight. We don’t even argue. I don’t ever have to wonder where he is, when he’ll return, whether he’s faithful.”
“No,” Jake said, slowly coming to his feet. “You have to wonder those things about you.”
“Jake, I’m warning you. You’re really making me mad.”
Making you, period, he thought. Got you figured. Know your number. Have you in my sights. But he said nothing.
She, on the other hand, put her almost empty mug on the driveway and started digging in her purse for her keys.
“You have a song?” he asked her.
“What?” she asked, totally confused.
“You and His Denniship, you have a special song?”
“For God’s—”
“We had a song.”
“We were children!”
“I still hum it. ‘I may not always love you. As long as there are stars above you.”’
“Listen, drop it. I should have my head examined for even letting you bait me for this long.” She resumed digging. Keys were even harder to find when you were pissed off. “Now that I think about it, every time we’ve had this little…indiscretion…you won’t let it go. You always want to talk about it—”