Home Again

  Angel froze. He heard his heartbeat thudding in his ears, and the sound made him panic. Then came Francis’s words, Be her friend.

  He wanted to. Christ, he wanted to, but he was afraid. He was such a screw-up, and this was important. Not the sort of thing you could go into half-cocked and ready to run at the first sign of trouble. “I can’t do it, Mad. I don’t have it in me to be her father.”

  She started to say something, then, instead, she did the strangest thing. She reached out and placed her hand on his chest. He felt the warmth of her touch through the flimsy cotton of his hospital gown, through the layers of gauze that covered his scar. “Oh, Angel,” she said, leaning close, so close he could see the silvery streaks in her green eyes, so close he could smell the subtle fragrance of her hair spray. “You have it in you, believe me.”

  He was mesmerized by her eyes. He thought, crazily, that he’d seen her look at him like this before, but that would have been years ago. He couldn’t possibly remember…

  “I’ll screw up,” he said, forcibly breaking the spell.

  “Then I’ll beat the shit out of you.”

  He knew she was serious this time, and he understood suddenly the risk she was taking here. She loved Lina, and she was scared that Angel would screw up and hurt their daughter. He knew, too, that if he did, there would never be a redemption for him. Never be a second chance.

  “I don’t want her to know about the transplant—she’ll treat me like a freak.”

  “No, she won’t. But it’s your decision when—and if—to tell her about the surgery.”

  “How do I act? What do I do?”

  “She loved Francis like a father, and she’s grieving over his death. She needs someone to listen to her, to care about what she thinks and feels. That’s a place to start. Be her friend.”

  He gave her a nervous smile. “That’s what Franco … would have said.”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She gazed down at him expectantly, her eyes bright.

  Be her friend.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Lina paced back and forth down the quiet corridor of the ICU. Every now and then a nurse or doc would say hello and she’d be forced to look up and mumble something in response, but other than that, she just kept moving.

  Hilda scurried up the corridor and tapped her on the shoulder. “You’re pacing like a caged cat, sweetie. What’s wrong?”

  Lina barely looked at her. It took all her self-control to stand still. Her foot tapped wildly. She’d known and loved Hilda for most of her life, but right now she was too nervous to make small talk. She remembered belatedly that Hilda had asked her a question, but she couldn’t remember what it was.

  Hilda peered up at Lina, giving her the same once-over she always did, then she clucked disapprovingly. “My daughter’s a beautician, you know. She could do fabulous things with that hair of yours.”

  The transplant nurse had been dishing out beauty advice for years. Every time she saw Lina, she came up, pinched her cheek, and shook her head, muttering something about how pretty Lina could be with a little less makeup. Ordinarily Lina laughed at Hilda’s half-joking advice.

  Not today.

  Her father was going to see her in a few minutes. What if he thought she was ugly?

  With a gasp, she shoved her hands in her pockets and spun around, leaving Hilda gape-mouthed behind her. She ran to her mom’s office and sneaked inside, shutting the door. She hurried to the antique Victorian mirror beside the bookcase and peered into the glass.

  The girl who stared back at her was pale and puffy-eyed from lack of sleep. Her hair stood out in a thousand uneven spikes. The black eye pencil she’d applied beneath her lower lashes made her look like she’d been punched in the face.

  How come she’d never seen that before?

  Oh, God, she thought in a sudden panic. Her daddy was going to think she was butt-ugly.

  She rummaged through her mom’s desk drawer and pulled out a comb, trying to rearrange her haircut, but it was no use.

  When she went back to the mirror, she felt a sinking sense of fear. She still looked like one of those runaways you sometimes saw haunting the downtown streets after dark.

  The door clicked open and Lina spun around again. She was so nervous, she dropped the comb. It hit the linoleum floor with a clatter.

  Mom walked into the room, and Lina felt almost sick to her stomach. As always, her mother looked like she just stepped off the pages of a makeup advertisement—golden-brown hair swept off her face in carefully controlled curls, beautiful hazel eyes highlighted by just a little brown mascara. Wearing a cream-colored cashmere sweater and black pants, she was the picture of cool sophistication and class.

  That was what her father thought was pretty.

  Lina glanced at herself in the mirror again and winced. “I can’t do it, Mom. I have to come back tomorrow. I think I got food poisoning from the cereal this morning.”

  “He’s waiting for you,” she answered quietly, closing the door behind her.

  Lina felt her heartbeat speed up. “H-He said he’d see me?”

  Mom frowned and moved toward her. “Are you okay?”

  Lina nodded, then shook her head, then tried to nod again, but the tears came, flooding her eyes. “No,” she whispered.

  Mom stroked her cheek. “It’s okay to be nervous.”

  “I’m ugly.”

  “You’re gorgeous.”

  “I never should have let Jett cut my hair.” She looked’ up at her mother quickly, waiting for the I told you so, but thankfully, it never came. Finally she said, “Do you think … maybe you could make me look like you?”

  Mom studied her, a smile lurking at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, no… you’re much prettier than I am.”

  “Yeah, right,” she whined. “And Bosnia is a great vacation spot.”

  Mom took her hand and led her to the chair behind the desk.

  Lina sat down.

  “Tilt your face up,” Mom said. When Lina complied, her mother used some cream and a tissue to take off all Lina’s makeup, then she reapplied just a little. Mascara, blush, and some pale pink lipstick. Then she combed Lina’s hair back from her face and sprayed it with something.

  Lina started to get up.

  “Sit there,” Mom commanded as she walked over to the antique armoire in the corner of her office. Easing the ornate doors open, she rummaged through the clothing and pulled out an ice-blue angora sweater. Turning back to the desk, she smiled. “This was supposed to be a Christmas present.”

  Lina stared at the soft sweater and felt ashamed. She knew that come Christmas, she would have glanced at something this feminine and tossed it away, thinking that her mom was a hopeless nerd. She turned her gaze to her mother. “It’s way cool, Mom. Thanks.”

  Mom laughed. “Just what you would have said on Christmas morning.”

  Smiling, Lina pulled the Coors beer T-shirt over her head and threw it in the corner, then slid into the incredibly soft sweater. When her mother led her back to the mirror, Lina couldn’t believe the change.

  This time a beautiful young woman stared back at her. The sweater made her eyes look impossibly blue. For once, instead of looking ghostly white, she looked pale and sort of fragile, like those girls in the Calvin Klein ads. Impulsively she twirled around and threw her arms around her mom, holding her close.

  Then she realized what she’d done and she drew back, embarrassed.

  Mom smiled. “You need to know that he’s very sick, your father. He’s just had heart surgery and he’s got to take it easy. He’ll be discharged in about an hour, but he’s still going to be moving slowly. I’ve made arrangements—if things go well—to help him find a house today. All three of us.”

  “Sorta like a family,” Lina said, surprised by the wistfulness in her voice.

  Mom looked startled, then a little sad. “More like new friends.”

  Lina nodded. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her should
ers and tilted her chin up. “I’m ready, Mom.”

  “Good. He’s in room 264-W.”

  “You’re not coming with me?”

  Mom shook her head. “I think you guys need some time alone.”

  Lina tamped down the flash of fear that came at her then. She thought about how pretty she looked, how the pale blue sweater made her eyes look as blue as Francis’s, how her black hair looked sophisticated instead of ragged.

  I’ll make him love me. The vow came back to her and she grabbed hold of it, held it to her chest, and prayed she could make it come true. She looked up at her mom, and wanted to say something, but nothing seemed good enough. She could see the fear in her mother’s eyes, and she knew that the fear was for both of them.

  She gave her mom a quick smile and headed off. She hurried down the long hallway, past the nurses’ station, past the family waiting room.

  By the time she reached his room, her heart was beating wildly and there was a fine sheen of sweat on her palms.

  She peered through the observation window and saw a man standing at the window on the opposite wall, his back to her. He was wearing a denim shirt and Levi’s, and his hair was long and dark brown. A good sign, she thought—long hair.

  She took a deep breath and knocked on the door. At his muffled “Come in,” she pushed the door open and went inside.

  “Hello, Lina,” he said in a smooth, even voice that sent a shiver of recognition down her spine. It was a voice she knew but couldn’t place.

  She waited nervously for him to turn around.

  Slowly he turned. Her breath caught as she recognized him. Her knees went weak. She would have reached out for something to hold onto, but there was nothing nearby.

  It was Angel DeMarco.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered, feeling disconnected and confused.

  He flashed her the megawatt grin she’d seen a million times on-screen. “I see your mom didn’t tell you who I was.”

  She tried to say no. The word came out as a high-pitched squeak.

  “Come on over here.”

  She moved like an automaton, her mind whirling with thoughts. Her father was Angel DeMarco. Her father was Angel DeMarco. Her father was Angel DeMarco. The kids weren’t going to believe this. Brittany Levin was going to shit.

  Then it hit her, so hard it wiped everything else from her mind. “DeMarco,” she said.

  He nodded, giving her a softer smile, more intimate than anything she’d seen on film. “I’m Francis’s brother.”

  For a second she couldn’t breathe right. “They never told me.”

  Something passed through his eyes at that, a darkness that made her think she’d hurt him.

  “I never read that you were from Seattle, or that you had a brother. I … I thought I read somewhere that you were from the Midwest.”

  A smile crooked one corner of his mouth. “Tactical maneuvers to muddy the trail. I didn’t want anyone to know where I’d grown up. Sorry.” He came toward her, moving in the shuffling gait of all post-op patients. Instinctively she reached out for him, and he took both of her hands in his.

  Lina looked up into his legendary green eyes, and for a heartbeat, she couldn’t catch her breath. He had Francis’s eyes—even though they were green instead of blue, they were Francis’s beautiful eyes. And he had Francis’s way of looking at you, really looking the way so few people did.

  “You’re more beautiful than I imagined,” he said in a husky voice, his eyes filled with the same wonder she felt.

  Tears stung her eyes and she didn’t care. “Thank you.”

  “I … I don’t know anything about being a father, you know.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “Maybe we could start slow, just start out being friends.”

  Friends. The words caused a dizzying rush of excitement. It was what she’d always wanted—a father who was her best friend. She bit down on her lip to keep from laughing out loud again. He was going to be everything she ever wanted in a dad; she could tell. He was going to take all the pain and grief and fear in her life and make it go away. From now on, she’d always have a safe place to be.

  He let go of her hand and touched her face, gazing deeply into her eyes. “Don’t look at me that way, Angelina.”

  She drew in a sudden, surprised breath. For a disorienting second, she’d thought he was going to call her Angelina-ballerina. But he hadn’t, of course he hadn’t.

  “What is it?” he said, eyeing her.

  “Nothing … just that Francis used to call me Angelina…. No one else does.”

  “It’s your name,” he said, then his voice fell to a whisper. “I mean it, Lina. Don’t think I’m a god or something. I’ll only let you down….”

  It was such a ridiculous thing to say, she ignored it. Instead she just kept staring up at him, memorizing everything about his face, about this moment, about how it felt when he held her hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll love—”

  He pressed a finger to her lips suddenly, silencing her.

  She blinked up at him in confusion. When he withdrew his hand, she said, “But—”

  “Make me earn it,” he said harshly, staring into her eyes with a seriousness that frightened her. Suddenly they weren’t Francis’s eyes at all. “It’s the only chance we have.”

  Angel looked down at the piece of paper on the clipboard. All it required was his signature and he was as free as a bird.

  He was strangely reluctant to sign it.

  He glanced around at the cheesy little hospital room he’d inhabited for the last few weeks, and suddenly it felt like home. He recognized the birds that huddled along his windowsill, and the way the sun crept through his yellowed curtain at sunset. He’d started to like the smell of disinfectant and mashed potatoes and gravy. Even Sarah the Hun had become a friend.

  “You okay?” Madelaine asked.

  He didn’t know what to say. He felt like an idiot, and yet he was suddenly afraid that he couldn’t make it on the outside, that the heart that felt so strong and new in his chest would weaken out there, give out on him. Or that he’d fall into his old boozing, irresponsible lifestyle and be lost again.

  “I don’t know. I thought I was ready, but…”

  “Lina and I will be here for you, Angel. You’re not going to be alone out there.”

  “Thanks, Mad.” He touched her face, a fleeting, tender caress that reassured him. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you during all this.”

  She smiled. “You would have done fine.”

  He shrugged and looked around again. “I keep thinking I should have luggage … something to show for all the time I’ve been here.”

  She placed her hand on his chest, right over his heart. “You do.”

  Behind them, the door opened, and they both turned, expecting to see Sarandon and Allenford for the momentous good-bye.

  A middle-aged woman stood in the room, wearing a ragged wool coat and mud-splattered rubber boots. “I’m looking for—” She saw Angel and her mouth dropped open. “Oh, my Lord, it’s you….” She looked at Madelaine. “It’s Angel DeMarco.”

  Madelaine stood there for a second, then surged forward, gripping the woman’s arm and guiding her outside, slamming the door shut behind her.

  A minute later, Madelaine was back, looking grim and angry. “They let her walk past security. Her father’s in 246-E.”

  “Shit,” Angel cursed. “We’ve got to get out of here. As soon as that woman gets to a phone, she’s gonna think she’s won the lottery. They’ll pay her and give her her fifteen minutes of fame.”

  Madelaine looked at him. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry—it had to happen.” He grabbed a mask from the bedside table and tied it behind his neck. Before he lifted it to cover his face, he said, “Here’s the story: I was here for an undisclosed amount of time and underwent successful cardiac surgery. I have been discharged and no one knows where I am. Anything beyond that is no comment. Have Allenford call
a press conference as soon as possible. And let’s get me out of here. Now.”

  Madelaine nodded. “Let’s go.”

  Long before the first reporters showed up, Madelaine had Angel in her car, and they were speeding away from the hospital.

  Lina and Angel had taken to each other like ducks to water. She glanced in the rearview mirror and watched them. They were sitting side by side, their heads cocked together, talking animatedly. Lina was saying it was way cool the way they’d hustled Angel out of the hospital. Angel was telling her about some time he’d hidden out in the back of a pickup while his fans stormed a soundstage.

  Madelaine maneuvered the car down Magnolia Street and pulled up in front of the first house she’d chosen for him to view.

  “What do you think of this one?” she asked, putting the car in park.

  Lina and Angel looked out the window, then looked at each other and simultaneously shook their heads.

  With a sigh, she shifted back into drive and headed off. It irritated Madelaine that they wouldn’t even look at it, but more than that, it made her feel excluded. It wasn’t as if she’d chosen the houses at random. She’d taken an inordinate amount of time. She’d spoken with several realtors about the best array of houses for rent within ten minutes of the hospital. Then she’d done a quick drive-by of the seven best, and made appointments to see them all today.

  They were already on house number four, and Angel had yet to get out of the car. He’d hated the first three on sight.

  Finally she pulled up in front of her favorite of the houses she’d chosen.

  She killed the engine and cast a quick look at the house. She knew that Angel wouldn’t like it, not Angel of the Las Vegas high-rise condo and the limousines, but she couldn’t resist showing it to him. It was the kind of place that Francis would have loved.

  It was a small log cabin with mullioned windows and a big wraparound porch. Built at the turn of the century, it had been a summer house for one of the city’s founding fathers, and the subsequent generations had built other, more modern homes. So it sat on a sweeping Lake Washington waterfront lot, untended and vacant. Most people wouldn’t pay the exorbitant rent the family wanted—for that money they could get first-class construction in Broadmoor.