My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts)

  She paused. Then said, “Yeah, Leah. That would be great. I don’t know if I can handle talking to him right now.” She told me Dillan’s home and cell numbers, and I jotted them down using a pen and a piece of paper from the end table. “Thanks, Leah. Explain what’s happened, and tell him I’ll call him later.”

  “Sure,” I said, feeling heavy with guilt. “No problem.”

  Her voice was higher when she asked, “Is he really going to be okay?”

  “Kate, you need to go see him. It’ll make you feel better. He looks a little pale, but he’s just been through major surgery. He even woke up sooner than the doctors had expected. You know Dad; he’s a fighter.”

  “Yeah,” she said, managing a chuckle. “That he is.”

  “Go on. He’s in room 5772. I’ll call Dillan for you. And I’ll probably see you up at the hospital later. I’ve got to get some sleep.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Leah.” She hung up the phone.

  I stared at the number I’d written down. I decided to go back for another cup of coffee before calling Dillan. Maybe more caffeine would make him more likable. Maybe it would make me more likable. Why I didn’t care for Dillan was still a mystery to me. I didn’t want to accept Edward’s theory that we were twins separated at birth. Besides the obvious ick factor that came with the idea of Kate dating someone who could be her brother, I figured the more likely reason was that my sisterly instincts kicked in. There was something about Dillan that I just couldn’t put my finger on. I intended to find out what it was, though.

  I looked at the clock and realized this was the perfect opportunity to call. People were more likely to be their real selves when woken out of a dead sleep.

  I made the call from the kitchen while sipping on my second cup. Dillan’s phone rang twice, and then I heard, “Hello?” His voice was more chipper than I’d expected.

  “Hi, Dillan, this is Leah, Kate’s sister. Did I wake you?”

  “That’s okay,” he said, his voice smiling through the phone. “I was about to get up anyway. Is everything okay?”

  “Kate wanted me to call you. Our father had a heart attack last night.”

  “Oh, no! Is he okay?”

  “He was in surgery all night, but it looks like he’s going to be okay. He’s recovering now, and Kate just left to see him.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  I crossed my arms and cradled the phone with my chin. The guy had this down to a science. “Nothing, really. Just wanted you to know.”

  “Okay.”

  “Kate will probably call you later.”

  “Leah, please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, okay?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “All right. I’ll be praying for you and your family.” He hung up, and I dropped the phone into the receiver. Praying for us. How nice. But with slumped shoulders, I realized I hadn’t even prayed about this. Shouldn’t that have been my first instinct?

  I went to sit down on the couch, where I buried my face in my hands. I wanted to cry, but I wasn’t sure I had the strength. I fell sideways into the pillows, closed my eyes, and began to pray.

  My prayer stopped. God had to answer another call. Why wasn’t he answering the phone? I was witnessing what most people had suspected for thousands of years . . . God didn’t answer every prayer.

  “Aren’t you going to answer it?” I asked. There was no reply. Just more ringing.

  Suddenly I sat up, my face hot and sweaty from where it had lain for . . . how many hours? I looked at my desk and my phone was lighting up . . . ringing. I blinked away the odd dream and bright sun that flooded my apartment, jumped to my feet, and snatched up the phone.

  “Hello?” I half expected God to be on the other end. I’d fallen asleep while praying this morning. Now, I prayed it wasn’t late afternoon.

  “Good morning, Leah. It’s J. R.” I breathed a sigh of relief. I hadn’t slept the day away. I glanced around to see if I could make out the microwave clock. Looked like eight something.

  “J. R. Hi. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. You sound a little . . . tired.”

  “No. Just a head cold. I’m fine.”

  “Okay, well, the reason I’m calling—”

  A knock at the door interrupted my concentration. Who was knocking this early? Was it even early?

  “Um, J. R.,” I interrupted.

  “Yes?” She sounded irritated.

  “Hold on for a second. Someone’s at my door.”

  She sighed.

  I walked over, peeked out, and opened the door. Edward stood there, perfectly groomed, holding a present. “Hi.” He grinned.

  My eyes bulged as I combed my hair with my fingers. “Hi.” I pointed to the phone and mouthed “J. R.” to him. He nodded that he understood and followed me quietly back to the living room.

  “Okay, I’m back. Sorry about that. What were you saying?”

  She sighed again. This time heavier. “Look, Leah, I don’t know how else to say this. I’ve read through the pages you’ve sent me so far. In fact, I’ve read them three times. And Leah, it’s just . . . well, I hate it.”

  Did she just say hate it? I glanced at Edward, who was watching me, still grinning. Why was he grinning? He was not a grinner. My fingers continued to push through the tangles in my hair. I smiled back at him and tried to focus on J. R. “You . . . you did?”

  “Hate is really too nice of a word. When I was reading through it, it made me angry.”

  My knees grew weak. I smiled at Edward again, who looked like he was about to burst with eagerness. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Sorry? Leah, are you listening to me? This play is wretched. Wretched. It has one thing going for it. A strong character. Her monologues are great, but you can’t carry a three-act play on monologues. Last night I reread the scene where Jodie meets Timothy, and if there was ever a polar opposite of sexual tension, that was it. The dialogue fell flat. I mean, here are two people, completely different from each other, agreeing on everything from politics to religion.”

  “I . . . I know. I was trying to write the unexpected—”

  “I’ll say. Leah, surely by now you’re an experienced enough writer to know that the audience is going to want to see certain things. They’re not coming to see a play where everyone gets along. There’s got to be some fire, you know? At least a spark. Something! I felt like I was floating through a literary utopia! It put me to sleep!”

  A large ball swelled in my throat, but I managed to wink at Edward and mouth one more minute to him. He could not suspect my world was crumbling by way of phone call.

  “I understand.”

  “Is that all you can say? You understand? Leah, I just called your play wretched. I’m questioning your abilities as a playwright. Your entire future hinges on whether or not you’re going to be able to do this. How can you sit back, as docile as a petting zoo animal, and take this?”

  “I’m—I’m not. I . . . I . . .”

  “Leah, if you’re going to make it in this business, you’re going to have to get tough. That’s all there is to it. Meek and mild ain’t gonna cut it. I’m normally not one for a scene, but something makes me want to beg you to stand up and fight.”

  Edward was growing a little bored. His grin had fallen into a placating smile. I didn’t want to lose this moment with him. A grin was like a gold nugget with this guy.

  I shifted my attention back to J. R. “I understand what you’re saying.”

  She laughed, ridicule in her voice. “You understand. Right. Okay, well, I guess the next move is yours. I don’t know what I’m going to tell Peter. He’s anxious for this script. It may be time to let him know he should look elsewhere.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” I said quickly.

  “Won’t be necessary. Leah, I wish you could hear yourself. You sound as polite as a Mormon boy knocking on my door. We’ll speak about this later. Maybe you need some time to think.” The phone went dead.

&
nbsp; I swallowed, trying to keep my cool. “Okay . . . all right . . . yes, you too, J. R. And thanks for calling with the good news. Okay, bye.”

  I hung up the phone, and Edward perked back to life. “Good news?”

  “Nothing big. J. R. was just calling to . . . tell me how much she liked my latest play.”

  “Well,” Edward said, with unnatural gusto that made me take a step back, “that’s the reason I’m here.”

  “My play?”

  “Sort of.” He handed me the box that he’d brought in. It was wrapped in red and white striped paper and tied with a big red silk bow.

  “What’s this?” It was very heavy, so I set it on the coffee table and sat down.

  “Unwrap it!” I looked up at him. He appeared ready to jump up and down and slap his hands together. He didn’t seem to notice that I’d barely had two hours of sleep. And by the hour that he’d arrived at my apartment, I guessed he thought I was always up at this time. My hands were shaking. Was it the coffee? The conversation? The fact that my dad had almost died? I realized I needed to tell Edward about Dad, but this didn’t seem the time. He was staring at the package like it might explode.

  I pulled the ribbon and it fell off. I unstuck the tape and tore the paper away. “Do you like it?” Edward asked.

  It was a white box, about three inches tall and three feet wide. “What is it?”

  He rushed to sit beside me and slid his fingernail under the single piece of tape that closed the box. He opened it up and there, lying between foam cushioning, was a laptop computer. He pulled it out. “It’s very light weight. Everything you could ever need is on here. It’s wireless, so you can check your e-mail or connect to the Internet wherever you want. I also had them add all your favorite programs on there. And look, it comes with its own carrying case!”

  I could not close my mouth. Edward had bought me a laptop computer? I’d never owned one. My mentor, Charles Teallu, had always insisted that real writers stay at home and write in the shadows. He said he’d never once written outside the home, because he already felt exposed enough when he wrote.

  “I think this will help,” Edward was saying as I blinked back into reality. “I mean, how great will it be when you can go to Starbucks or wherever, even the park, and write? You can get out of this gloomy apartment, Leah. I think that’s half your problem. You just need a little more contact with the outside world.”

  “My problem . . . ?”

  “Yeah. You’ve been talking about how you’re in this funk, right? This is the perfect solution! You can go get yourself a latte, sit at Starbucks, and get some fresh air. You never know what will inspire you when you’re out amongst the world.” He was grinning again.

  I stretched an amiable smile across my face. “Wow.”

  “I knew you’d be speechless. I don’t usually do things like this, I know. But it really did seem like the perfect solution.” He actually dusted his hands off, like he was ridding himself of the crumbs of my pity-evoking life.

  But all I could say was, “Thank you, Edward.” He looked at me, as if waiting for more, so I added, “What a kind thing for you to do.”

  He smiled, completely unaware of how stilted I sounded. He looked at his watch. “Okay, well, I have to get to the university. Glad you’re already up and dressed. I thought it might be a tad too early, but I wanted to get this to you today so you could start using it right away.” He hopped off the couch and bounded to the door. “Call me later this evening and let me know how you like it.”

  “Sure.” I walked to the door. I hadn’t even told him about Dad yet. “Edward?” I called after him as he made his way toward the elevator.

  He turned, but first made an obvious glance at his watch. “Yes?”

  “Never mind. I can talk to you later.”

  Chapter 16

  [She ducks into the shadows.]

  After cleaning myself up and grabbing my stuff, including my new laptop, I arrived back at the hospital at 11:00 a.m. Dad had been moved to a room with a nice view. Kate and Mother sat on opposite sides of the bed, staring at a man who lay perfectly motionless, breathing shallow but steady. Neither noticed when I walked in.

  “Hey.”

  They turned. I tried not to let my jaw fall open when I saw Mother. I’d seen her look this terrible only one other time in our whole lives. Kate had started her rebellious streak and had disappeared. Mother was certain she’d been kidnapped. Turned out she’d just skipped town for the weekend with friends, but that was the longest weekend of my mother’s life, and the only time I saw her stay in her pajamas all day without a stitch of makeup on.

  To this day, Mother still talks about it like it was a kidnapping. And when Elizabeth Smart was kidnapped, my mother’s only comment about it was how pulled together Lois Smart looked every day. “How can she get up and do her hair and face?” my mother remarked. “When Kate was missing, I could hardly get out of bed.”

  I went to Dad’s bedside. “How’s he doing?”

  “He’s mostly slept,” Mother said. “The doctors said that’s normal, and that they don’t expect him to be awake much until tomorrow, or possibly this evening.”

  Kate added, “He woke up one time, smiled at Mom and tried to give the thumbs-up, then went back to sleep.”

  I watched him for any movement. Then I looked at Mother. “Kate, why don’t you take Mother home to get changed and take a rest—”

  “No, no. I’m staying here,” Mother said firmly. “He needs me.”

  “Mother, I’ll stay here. Go home for an hour or two, change clothes, take a shower. Get a little bit of rest while he’s resting. You’re going to need your energy once he starts recovering. You know he’s not going to want to take it slow. You’re going to have to make him.”

  Mother glanced at Kate, who I noticed looked particularly sophisticated with her hair tied up in a messy French twist. She was even wearing close-toed shoes and a blouse that you couldn’t see through. I made myself stop staring. “I’m not sure,” Mother said to Kate. Why was she asking Kate?

  But Kate nodded authoritatively and reached across the bed for Mother’s hand. “It’s okay, Mom. Let Leah sit here for a while. You need to go home and get a bag packed for you both anyway. I’ll come and help you. Leah’s right.”

  I tried to smile, but it was hard hearing that line come out of Kate’s mouth. Leah’s right. Of course I was right. Why did that need to be stated by the daughter who had suddenly decided to act her age?

  Mother looked at Dad, then slumped in resignation. And my mother never slumped. She was a total mess. “All right. But Leah, you can’t leave. I want someone here with him the entire time.”

  “I understand. He’ll be in good hands.”

  “Mom, why don’t you tell the front desk you’re leaving, and I’ll gather your things and meet you out there.”

  Mother walked out the door, and Kate whispered, “He looks like he’s on his deathbed!”

  “Kate, he’s been through major surgery. Of course he’s going to look that way.”

  “I don’t know. I think the doctors aren’t telling us everything.” She looked at him like he was already dead. Tears formed in her eyes.

  “You’re going to have to pull yourself together. Mother doesn’t need either of us falling apart.”

  “I know,” she said, placing a finger under her nostrils. “I know. Did you call Dillan?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “He offered to help, said he’d pray for us, but I told him to wait until you called.”

  “Okay. I guess I’ll go. It should be pretty quiet here for a while. And I gave the press a statement earlier this morning, so they should leave you alone too.”

  “The . . . the press?”

  “A group of reporters with nothing better to do was lingering downstairs. Mom asked me to go take care of them.”

  “Oh.”

  Kate walked to the door but then turned back and asked, “In case I can get Mom to go
to sleep, is there a certain time I need to be back here?”

  “Back here?”

  “I mean, do you have anything going this afternoon or this evening?”

  “No . . .” I stopped, realizing that tonight was my celebration dinner with Cinco.

  Kate waited as I hesitated. “Is there something?” she finally asked.

  I glanced at Dad and closed my eyes, tightening my grip around the handle of my laptop case. Then I shook my head. “No, nothing.”

  “Okay. Don’t know when we’ll get back. I’ll try to call you.”

  I nodded and took a seat. I hadn’t brought Cinco’s number with me. It was still in my bathroom drawer. I didn’t even know what radio station he worked for. But Mangalos was only about ten blocks away from the hospital.

  I decided not to think about it for now. Perhaps this was God’s way of saying I shouldn’t be anywhere near Cinco Dublin. Poor Dad, having to suffer a heart attack just to keep my social life straight.

  I decided Dad wasn’t going to wake up anytime soon, so I opened up my new laptop. I had to hand it to Edward— the computer was really nice. He’d even bought me a flash drive, and I’d had the presence of mind to transfer my play onto it before leaving for the hospital. Of course, presence of mind was up for debate, as I was really trying to recover from J. R.’s emotional tongue-lashing.

  I hated it kept echoing from the four corners of my mind. Just days ago she’d liked it. Now she hated it. How could things have changed so quickly?

  I uploaded my file and scanned the play as if I could assess where exactly I’d gone wrong by paging down at lightning speed.

  I was a rational person, and so as diplomatically as I could, I retraced our conversation and tried to convince myself that I’d misinterpreted what J. R. had said. But fifteen minutes later, I realized there was really no misinterpreting I hate it. That said it all.

  So with nurses coming in and out and my father oblivious to the world around him, I worked feverishly, trying to pinpoint the problem areas. Obviously, there was the small issue with lack of conflict, but it was done intentionally, and eventually the conflict would come. Maybe my literary experiment wasn’t working. Or maybe I was fooling myself, and Elisabeth’s speculation that I was a prophet had jarred my common sense.