Goodnight Tweetheart

  Abby_Donovan: Mark?

  Abby_Donovan: Um … Mark? Where did you go?

  MarkBaynard: I’m back! Here, would you hold this basket for me while I brush the ashes out of my hair. Just ignore any plaintive mewing you might hear.

  Abby_Donovan: Um … Mark … these aren’t kittens. I think they might be ferrets. Angry ferrets. Angry rabid ferrets.

  MarkBaynard: Hang on … I’ll give them to the guy over there by the tree wearing the PETARF T-shirt.

  Abby_Donovan: PETARF?

  MarkBaynard: People for the Ethical Treatment of Angry Rabid Ferrets. There … now what were we talking about? Ow! Poor bastard! That’s gonna leave a mark.

  Abby_Donovan: I believe I was about to ask you (with equal subtlety) what you were looking for in a woman.

  MarkBaynard: Someone to laugh with me. Or at me. Really … I’m not picky.

  Abby_Donovan: So you’re not looking for some sort of mythical soul mate?

  MarkBaynard: I survived a rather acrimonious divorce. I’d settle for someone with a soul.

  Abby_Donovan: Don’t U want someone to complete you the way Mini-Me completed Dr. Evil? Someone who shares the same tastes in music & food who will finish

  MarkBaynard: … my sentences? The last thing I need is someone stealing the punch lines to all my jokes.

  Abby_Donovan: Did you believe your wife was your soul mate when you married her?

  MarkBaynard: I was 22. I believed in rainbows, fairies, and My Little Pony. Hell, I believed Ricky Martin was straight.

  Abby_Donovan: So what really happened between the two of you? Ten years is a long time to be married. Did you fall out of love?

  MarkBaynard: No, we fell out of like. Which in the long run is a lot more damaging.

  Abby_Donovan: I know couples that have been married 40 years who can barely stand to be in the same room together.

  MarkBaynard: That’s exactly why they’re still married. Loathing is a form of passion. It’s apathy that kills a relationship.

  Abby_Donovan: Do you think you’ll ever remarry?

  MarkBaynard: No.

  Abby_Donovan: Wow … it really hurt when you found out My Little Pony wasn’t real, didn’t it?

  MarkBaynard: It was the Ricky Martin thing that pushed me over the edge. Favorite divorce movie?

  Abby_Donovan: STARTING OVER with Burt Reynolds and Jill Clayburgh.

  MarkBaynard: THE WAR OF THE ROSES with Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner. And yes, I know exactly what that says about me and it’s not pretty.

  Abby_Donovan: I love those old movies where women discover they can be happy without a man: IT’S MY TURN, MY BRILLIANT CAREER, AN UNMARRIED WOMAN.

  MarkBaynard: You do know that nothing will make some poor sucker propose faster than telling him you believe you can be happy without a man?

  Abby_Donovan: Men do love the thrill of the hunt, don’t they?

  MarkBaynard: Anything to throw another Barbie on the shrimp. Wait … maybe “shrimp” was a bad choice of words.

  Abby_Donovan: What did you like the most about being married?

  MarkBaynard: Having someone to hold when I woke up in the middle of the night.

  Abby_Donovan: Just last night I woke to the delicious sensation of someone licking my ear.

  MarkBaynard: Oh really? Do tell. I think I’m getting jealous.

  Abby_Donovan: I giggled and felt all romantic … until I realized it was Willow Tum-Tum.

  MarkBaynard: Went straight for the ear canal, eh? She was probably preparing to suck out your brain.

  Abby_Donovan: Yes, I could hear Buffy the Mouse Slayer in the corner chanting, “Brains … BRAINS!!!”

  MarkBaynard: I’m guessing any man wanting to lick your ear in the middle of the night would have to be a cat person.

  Abby_Donovan: I like dogs, but I do love cats. It’s probably unfair, but I always assume people who have cats are good people.

  MarkBaynard: Unless they’re having them for dinner.

  Abby_Donovan: Ew!

  MarkBaynard: Sorry. I spent a summer in Malaysia once.

  Abby_Donovan: Sex slave?

  MarkBaynard: They wouldn’t have me so I had to settle for teaching English on a volunteer basis.

  Abby_Donovan: I thought you didn’t believe in giving it away for free?

  MarkBaynard: The ability to conjugate verbs isn’t quite as much in demand as the ability to mix them with nouns and adjectives to create a narrative.

  Abby_Donovan: Spoken like a true English lit professor.

  MarkBaynard: As opposed to a pompous windbag with as yet unrealized literary aspirations?

  Abby_Donovan: You never have told me what you’d like to write about.

  MarkBaynard: As soon as I figure it out, I promise you’ll be the first to know.

  Abby_Donovan: Will I? You might be tweeting up some other semi-agoraphobic washed-up writer by then.

  MarkBaynard: Or you might have decided you deserve more than a quickie in the back of a cab where we exchange fake cell numbers afterward.

  Abby_Donovan: I could always give you my real cell number.

  Abby_Donovan: Mark?

  Abby_Donovan: Mark? Was it something I said?

  Abby_Donovan: Geez, I just offered you my cell phone number, not the number of a wedding planner.

  MarkBaynard: Have you forgotten that I might be a serial killer?

  Abby_Donovan: Or Ashton Kutcher. I’m much younger than Demi, you know, if not quite as well preserved.

  MarkBaynard: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.

  Abby_Donovan: You could have at least taken the number & pretended you were going to call. That’s what any self-respecting jerk would have done.

  MarkBaynard: What if I don’t respect myself?

  Abby_Donovan: Unless you really are in Witness Protection, you might be carrying this International Man of Mystery schtick a little too far.

  MarkBaynard: I promise you there’s nothing I’d like more in this entire world than to hear your voice …

  MarkBaynard: I just don’t want to do it through a cell phone. I’d rather wait until we can meet face-to-face.

  Abby_Donovan: What are you suggesting? That we make a pact to meet a year from now at the top of the Empire State Building?

  MarkBaynard: I’m afraid of heights. How about the basement of Macy’s?

  Abby_Donovan: Oh goody, they might be having a sale!

  MarkBaynard: I thought you didn’t like shopping. Or clothes.

  Abby_Donovan: But I do like sales.

  MarkBaynard: It’s a date then. (I gently cup your face in my hands and kiss you like the first time Sawyer kissed Kate on LOST.)

  MarkBaynard: Abby … are you still there?

  Abby_Donovan: I do believe you’ve left me tweetless.

  MarkBaynard: Who knew that was even possible? Goodnight Mrs. Huxtable

  Abby_Donovan: Goodnight Theo

  MarkBaynard: Goodnight Rudy

  Abby_Donovan: Goodnight Dr. Huxtable

  MarkBaynard: Goodnight Vanessa

  Abby_Donovan: Goodnight Elvin

  MarkBaynard: Goodnight Tweetheart …

  Chapter Eleven

  No matter how old a girl got, there would always be days when she needed her mom. And Abby was wise enough to know the Sunday after her second “date” with Mark was one of those days. Since they couldn’t dish over frozen hot chocolates at Serendipity’s or go on a shopping binge at Bergdorf’s, Abby did the next best thing. She took the subway to the Bronx and trudged the mile and a half in the sweltering summer heat to the nursing care facility where her mom lived.

  Any fantasy Abby and her dad had entertained about caring for her mom at home had died the morning her dad had walked into the sunny kitchen of their house to find her mom about to mix up a blender full of Drāno daiquiris. After his death, Abby had transferred her mom from the nursing home in North Carolina to Sunshine Manor—a five star–rated facility that specialized in the treatment of patients with
Alzheimer’s and other forms of early-onset dementia.

  She punched a four-digit code into the keypad next to the triple-paned glass door of the nondescript brick building. The door swung open, buffeting Abby with a rush of stale air conditioning. The hallway in front of her seemed to stretch off into infinity, forcing her to run a gauntlet of parked wheelchairs and roaming residents before she reached her mother’s room. Most of the residents had stopped having visitors a long time ago, so each new arrival was greeted with a heartbreaking mixture of hope and resignation.

  “Are you my daughter?” one woman asked plaintively, her white head bobbing up and down like a child’s toy lost at sea.

  Abby paused long enough to give the woman’s outstretched hand a squeeze. “No, Elsie. Don’t you remember? I’m Brenda’s daughter.”

  “Get over here and help me with my wheelchair, young lady,” demanded a striking black woman with a grizzled short-cropped Afro and one leg. “It’s stuck.”

  Abby squatted to adjust the wheelchair brake before moving on.

  A shrunken little old man tottered up to her. “Could you take me to the bathroom, please?” A covert glance at the front of his pants showed that his request had come a few seconds too late.

  “I’m not allowed to do that, Mr. Dugan, but I’ll tell one of the nurses to come help you when I go by the desk.”

  In the two years she’d been visiting the nursing facility, Abby had discovered it took very little to make the residents happy—a smile, a hug, an encouraging word. Some acknowledgment of their existence that went beyond helping them into their pajamas or doling out medications. The nursing staff was incredibly caring, yet desperately harried as they dealt with cutbacks and shortages and the inevitable burnout that went hand in hand with caring for those who could no longer care for themselves.

  After sending a patient aide to rescue poor Mr. Dugan, Abby slipped into the room directly across from the nursing station. Her mother was sound asleep in her lift recliner, her chin resting on her chest. On the flat screen of the television mounted on the opposite wall, a muted Lucy Ricardo was dragging a handcuffed Ricky through a nightclub decorated with fake palm trees.

  Her mom’s spacious private room was as homey as Abby could make it. She had brightened the generic blandness of the wheat-colored walls and sturdy oak furniture by adding whimsical touches, such as the large Shrek pillow doll perched on the hospital bed and the framed poster of a leering Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow hanging over the dresser. The bookshelves were lined with DVDs of animated Disney movies and every romantic comedy ever made featuring Julia Roberts or Sandra Bullock.

  Her mom had always been prone to losing her mind, but with the help of Abby’s dad she had usually been able to find it again. It wasn’t irretrievably lost until a severe reaction to her medications had resulted in early-onset dementia, making it impossible to treat her bipolar disorder with the usual cocktail of lithium and whatever psychotropic drug was currently in fashion. Since her first major manic episode had occurred right after Abby was born when her postpartum hormones were in hyperdrive, Abby had the genuine—if dubious—distinction of knowing her first act in life had been to drive another human being stark raving mad.

  Abby leaned down to press a kiss to the softness of her mother’s cheek. No matter how diligent the nursing staff, it was still a shock to Abby’s senses when her mom smelled faintly of pee instead of the Chanel No. 5 talcum powder Abby’s dad had given her every Christmas. “Hey, sweetie,” Abby said softly, trying not to startle her. “How’s my best girl today?”

  In the past few years their roles seemed to have reversed, leaving Abby feeling less like a daughter and more like the mother of a frequently charming but occasionally unmanageable toddler.

  Her mom lifted her head and blinked at Abby. “Hey, baby,” she said, offering Abby a sleepy little smile.

  Abby straightened, breathing a silent sigh of relief. Her mom’s dark green eyes were a little glazed, but there was no trace of suspicion or hostility in them. She was apparently having one of her “quiet” days.

  Abby pulled a Ziploc bag of makeup out of her purse with a bold flourish. “Are you ready for your close-up?”

  Although Abby’s own makeup usually consisted of a hastily applied splotch of blush to each cheek and a dab of clear lip gloss, her mom had always been one of those women who refused to leave the house without a full complement of liquid eyeliner. At this point there wasn’t much Abby could do to help her, but she could at least make sure she recognized the woman staring back at her from the bathroom mirror.

  Her mother sat like a china doll while Abby smoothed moisturizer on her cheeks, then followed up with a layer of foundation.

  At fifty-four her mom was one of the youngest residents in the facility. Spending the last four years out of the sun had left her face eerily unlined. Her mink brown hair was only lightly streaked with gray and pulled back in a bouncy ponytail that made her look like a slightly overweight, middle-aged Gidget. Abby’s dad used to joke that her mom was like Dorian Gray. Instead of having a rapidly aging portrait tucked away in some attic, she had him.

  Now that he was gone, Abby supposed she would have to be her mother’s portrait. She would have to measure the passing moments of her mother’s life by the wrinkles and worry lines etched on her own skin.

  Almost as if reading Abby’s thoughts, her mom suddenly said, “I’m so glad you’re here. Your daddy is coming this afternoon. He should be here anytime.”

  Although the words made her heart flinch, Abby kept her smile carefully plastered in place. When Abby had been forced to tell her mother a sudden stroke had felled the man who had been a larger-than-life hero to them both, she had thought it was the worst day of her life. But the worst day had turned out to be the one after that when Abby had arrived at the nursing home, her eyes still so swollen from crying she could barely see, only to discover her mother had forgotten their entire conversation.

  She had turned her hopeful face to Abby and said, “Is your daddy with you? He always comes on Thursdays.”

  Once again Abby had been forced to break her mother’s heart. Once again her mother had collapsed in her arms and sobbed like a child who had lost both father and mother. The pattern had continued for nearly a week until an exhausted and emotionally battered Abby had finally decided that neither one of them was going to survive another day of reliving such grief.

  Now her mother seemed perfectly content to tell everyone who would listen that Abby’s daddy was coming. It didn’t seem to bother her that he never arrived. Maybe it was less painful for her to spend the rest of her life waiting for him than to admit he was never coming back.

  Abby used her pinkie to apply a lavender tint to her mother’s delicate eyelids. “I’ve met somebody of my own, Mama.”

  “Elvis? Did you meet Elvis?”

  “Nope. Elvis is still at Graceland with Priscilla and Lisa Marie. My guy’s name is Mark. And I think he might like me.”

  “Is he going to ask you to the homecoming dance?”

  Abby felt a small, secret smile play around her mouth. “Maybe. Do you think I should go if he does?”

  Her mother frowned as if seriously considering the idea. “Is this boy trustworthy? I don’t want you dating anybody you can’t trust. I never did like you chasing after those bad boys.”

  Abby’s smile vanished as she remembered how abruptly Mark had backed off when she had offered him her phone number. But then he had sworn there was nothing in the entire world he’d rather do than hear her voice. He had claimed that he wanted to meet her face-to-face for the first time, not through the impersonal circuits of a cell phone. And he had kissed her the way Sawyer kissed Kate for the first time on Lost.

  Laying aside the bag of makeup, she sank down on her mother’s bed, checking out of habit to make sure it was dry first. “I don’t know if I can trust him yet. All I know is that he makes me happy. I’m getting out more. I’m writing again. I decided to take his advice and wr
ite what I don’t know. He was right all along. I may have only been given one life to live, but that doesn’t mean I’ve only been given one story to tell.”

  Her mother’s eyes were already beginning to drift shut. Her chin bobbed toward her chest.

  Abby’s voice faded as she realized she was talking to herself once again. Maybe she’d always been talking to herself. “Even if he was trustworthy, I’m not sure I could trust him.” She tilted her head to study her mother’s sleeping face, her heart awash with helpless love and guilt. She had no desire to prolong her mother’s suffering, but she was already selfishly dreading the day when she could no longer walk into this room and rest her head against the softness of her mother’s shoulder like a little girl seeking comfort after a bad dream. “I’m not sure I can ever trust anybody, Mama,” Abby whispered. “First you left me. Then Daddy left me.”

  Her mother lifted her head and looked directly at Abby, her eyes shining with a childlike faith that reminded Abby of summer picnics and Christmas mornings. “Your daddy didn’t leave you, baby. He’ll be here in just a little while.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Monday, June 13—7:59 P.M.

  MarkBaynard: Abby? We need to talk.

  Abby_Donovan: Aren’t those the four most dreaded words a man can hear from a woman?

  MarkBaynard: Maybe that’s why I’m saying them first.

  Abby_Donovan: You’re breaking up with me, aren’t you? You’ve found some other woman on Twitter with a hotter, wetter tongue.

  MarkBaynard: Look … I know I’m incapable of sounding serious, but I’m being serious this time. Dead serious.

  Abby_Donovan: Good. Because I need to talk to you too. Seriously.

  MarkBaynard: Please let me say what I have to say first.

  Abby_Donovan: I thought it was always ladies first? Or is that only on the Titanic?

  MarkBaynard: An apt metaphor, I’m afraid. I’ve been thinking about this—and you—every minute of the day ever since you offered me your cell phone number.

  Abby_Donovan: Okay, now you’re really starting to scare me. Don’t you want to know what I’m wearing? Or not wearing?