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Undeterred, Chloe continues, “No doubt Vivienne will ask our mother if you can stay here, but I’m not at all sure what she’ll say. Momma’s old-fashioned, you see. Even after Anthony and I got engaged, he still had to sleep in the guest room, or on the sofa when Grandma visited. Didn’t you, hon?”
I remember Anthony on the sofa, and I flinch. Jonah catches the movement, perhaps from the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t react. Instead he calmly answers, “I made a reservation at a nearby bed-and-breakfast. Only four or five blocks away. ”
Normally I get a little weary of the touristy trappings of the Garden District, like the endless walking tours of sloppily dressed gawkers who shamble along the sidewalks. At this moment, however, I’m profoundly grateful. I know the place he means; it’s so close, I could stay there with him and not even Momma could take it as an insult.
That means I won’t have to spend the night under the same roof as Anthony.
When we finally head to the hospital to see Dad, Jonah goes to check in at the B&B. “I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he says, which is gracious and polite and makes even Chloe smile in approval. Even now, I’d rather have him with me—but this much, I can manage.
The hospital is both better and worse than I thought it would be.
Better, in that Dad seems more or less like himself, just tired. I’d braced myself for the sight of my father semiconscious, delirious, frail, and waxen. He does look a little pale, but otherwise, switch out the hospital gown for a polo shirt and khakis and he could as easily be lying back in his recliner at home. “They won’t let me eat anything yet,” he grumbles. “Not a bite!”
“You know they have to watch that stuff right after anesthesia, Dad. ” I pat his arm. “But I bet they’re going to bring you something soon. ”
“Applesauce and Jell-O, probably. ” Dad scowls, deliberately over-the-top to make me laugh. “How about you run by Bud’s Broilers and sneak me out a number four?”
“Maybe that should be your welcome-home meal,” I say. “Give your arteries at least one day off, okay?”
Probably I should encourage my father to take up lean chicken and fish, lots of greens, and no more alcohol. The thing is, that will never happen. Dad without burgers and barbecue shrimp and po’boys is . . . not Dad. He’s never going to order sparkling water instead of a Sazerac. He truly would rather live large and die at sixty-five than count calories all the way to ninety. That’s not what I want for him, but he wouldn’t listen to me.
Mom brushes my father’s graying hair away from his face. “You look a sight. I should’ve brought you a comb. ”
“Nobody cares what I look like in the hospital, Renee. ” But he pats her hand fondly. Whatever deficiencies Mom has as a parent, she makes up for as a wife; my dad has always been devoted to her, to the point that he’s blinded to her faults—still, after thirty-two years of marriage.
Mom and Chloe decided that Libby could manage a visit, which makes me happy. Libby piles up in the hospital bed with Dad and shows him her new sticker book, which makes him laugh. Just the sight of her in his arms helps me relax. For once, it seems like things are going to turn out okay.
That night, everyone else in my family wants to rest, which means I have a good excuse to leave and spend some time only with Jonah. Thankfully some of my clothes still linger in the back of my closet, so I’m able to change into a fresh outfit, a sheath dress and cardigan that can go anywhere.
Forget finding a table at a fine-dining restaurant at the last minute on a Saturday night, but New Orleans is even richer in cuisine options than Austin. I take him to one of my favorite neighborhood haunts, a little place with tile floors and cane-backed chairs that serves the kind of dishes you can’t find anywhere outside Louisiana—crawfish etouffee, shrimp creole. The clatter of silverware and chatter of other patrons echoes slightly off the tile, but I don’t mind the noise. It gives us a paradoxical privacy.
“You’re sure you wouldn’t rather be at home,” Jonah says. It’s not a question. I shake my head, and he adds, “You don’t get along with your sister and her husband. ”
Despite everything, I laugh. “Small talk isn’t your wheelhouse. ”
“Never saw the point. ” Some of the steel has returned to his voice. “We might as well tell the truth. How else do we get started?”
We’re supposed to open up to each other. Jonah’s method is about as subtle as dynamiting a locked safe—but he’s right. For two people as skilled in silence as we are, only the direct approach will do. “No,” I say. “I don’t get along with them. ”