Divinely Yours Page 8

“I’m fine. Just frustrated.” He softened his tone. “Thanks for the books.”

  “Where’s Susan? She’s the only reason I come here anyway,” she teased.

  “She has an appointment with her orthopedist. Just a follow-up.”

  “Those doctor’s appointments are becoming less and less frequent. When I think of the condition she was in only a year ago…”

  “Let’s not talk about that, okay?”

  “You’re absolutely right.” Darcy clasped her hands to­gether and leaned forward. “Let’s talk about happier things. Like the wedding.” Her voice rose an octave. “Now that Susan’s recovered we can start planning.”

  Ryan had married Susan at her hospital bedside, promising her a proper wedding as soon as she was up to it. Darcy was itching to be in charge of the affair.

  “We’re thinking of having it sometime during the Christ­mas season. Might keep away the media,” Ryan said.

  “It’ll be a trick to have a ceremony with the press buzzing about, but I have some marvelous ideas—”

  “Darcy,” he said, holding up a hand to stop her. He’d have to swallow a half-dozen painkillers before he’d be in the mood to talk about the wedding. “There’s something I want to dis­cuss with you, but you have to promise to stay calm.”

  “I practice hot yoga, Ryan. You’re looking at the poster child for calm. What is it? You can tell me.”

  He took a generous gulp of air and melded his hands on his lap. “Here’s the thing. Susan and I are having...some problems.”

  “What kind of problems?” She leaned closer, eyes bright with curiosity.

  “It has to do with me. I’m having serious doubts about our relationship.”

  She smiled and gave his knee an indulgent pat. “You know what this is all about, don’t you? Pre-wedding jitters. Yes, I know you’re already married, but this is a public decla­ration of your love. You should have seen me a month before my wedding to Ronnie. I drank Scotch like it was spring water.”

  “This is much more than jitters.”

  She stared at him hard, her cheek muscles twitching.

  “Ryan Blaine, don’t tell me you’re going to break that poor girl’s heart. Not after everything she’s been through. Please don’t tell me that.”

  “Would you listen to me? I’ve already decided divorce isn’t an option. I’d never do that to her.”

  “So what, then? Oh, I see.” She wrinkled her nose. “Well, you certainly won’t be the first man of your stature to keep a mistress, and you won’t be the last. Obviously there’s someone else. You’ve always been so fickle, but I thought Susan cured you of that. Who is the little strumpet? That trampy paralegal in your office?”

  There was someone else, the Susan he knew before her accident, but how could he begin to explain himself without appearing to be the world’s most insensitive heel?

  “I don’t have a mistress, Darcy.”

  “Is this about Susan’s scars? I know she doesn’t look like the same woman because of all her surgeries, and some men—”

  “Give me a little credit, Darce,” Ryan interrupted. “It has nothing to do with the way Susan looks. She’s still very attrac­tive.”

  “I think you simply need to give the relationship time. It’s only in the last couple of months or so that she’s finally been able to function like a real person without having some opera­tion hanging over her. Soon she’ll go back to work—”

  “She’s not going back to work, Darcy.”

  Darcy made a pfft sound. “Come on. Susan adores furry and smelly creatures. Why do you think she was attracted to you, for God’s sake?”

  “I’m serious, Darce. She told me she’s through being a vet. She doesn’t even seem interested in our pets anymore. Liberty barked at her when she first came home from the hospital, and Susan’s been anxious around her ever since. Whenever Mutsy puts his muzzle on her lap she pushes him off. You know how she used to dote on that dog of hers, and—”

  “So she wants a career change. Did you expect her to fraternize with four-legged fur balls all her life? I think I read the average American changes careers four times, and—”

  “It’s not just that,” Ryan said, rubbing his temples. It likely had been a mistake to tell his sister. There simply wasn’t a good way of explaining how he felt. “It’s as if she’s a com­pletely different woman since the accident.”

  He could cite hundreds of new Susan/old Susan contradictions, but the most wrenching difference was one he couldn’t bring himself to discuss with anyone. Before the accident, his and Susan’s lovemaking had become even deeper and more intense than their first extraordinary encounter. It was the one time he felt that she was completely giving herself to him. However, when he and the “new” Susan had their first sexual encounter, Ryan had to excuse himself to the bathroom after­ward so she wouldn’t sense how upset he was. There hadn’t been a trace of their former connection, and for Ryan, that was the most painful difference of all. He’d kept trying, sometimes faking a desperate sort of passion, but their couplings never came close to those of the past.

  “You know what Dr. Ambrose said,” Darcy said. “Patients with traumatic brain surgery often experience personality changes—”

  “That’s an understatement,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s like Invasion of the Body Snatchers.”

  He realized he sounded like a jerk. He knew Susan couldn’t help it that her brain was damaged to the extent that she no longer seemed remotely like the woman she was before the accident. But he couldn’t help how he felt about her changes either. If he didn’t talk about it he’d go insane.

  Darcy crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, if you’re going to get married and you’re not going to keep a mistress, what do you intend to do?”

  “I have no idea,” he said, tugging at the yarn of the afghan. He was considering having a sexless marriage with Susan but didn’t want to discuss it with Darcy. “I wish I knew. I need—”

  “A counselor. I know a woman who is a true miracle worker. Helped me work through my OCD three years ago and I still drop in for the occasional tune-up. I’m going to give you her card and I want you to call her today,” Darcy said. She rooted through her purse until she found it.

  “A shrink?” he said, recoiling. In his experience, counselors were often more screwed up than their patients.

  “Call her,” Darcy said, wagging the card in front of his face. “Jennifer Carr is a miracle worker.”

  Ryan took the card and dropped it on his lap. “I’ll look into it.”

  “It’ll be the best thing. Both of you have been through the wringer this year. It’s natural that there’d be some adjustment problems.”

  This was far more than an “adjustment” problem. His sister still didn’t get it.

  “She’s still recovering,” Darcy said. “Every day she seems more and more like her old—”

  “No, she doesn’t!” Ryan hadn’t meant to shout, but the situation was eating him alive. He paused for a moment to slow his breathing. “She’s nothing like she used to be...but I’m going to try and deal with that.”

  “She is a little different. I’ve noticed it too. Coarser, somehow. And I’ll try to have a word with her about her wardrobe. But considering what she’s been through—”

  “She’s been through hell.” Ryan shook a couple of Darvocets into his open palm and swallowed them dry. “Don’t you think I’m ashamed of myself for feeling this way?”

  “She tries so hard to please you.”

  “I know that,” Ryan said, which made him feel even worse. Last week Susan had stood in front of her bookshelf and pulled down some of her favorite Anne Tyler novels. He sus­pected that she’d only done it for his benefit. These days it was hard to tell what her motives were.

  Darcy stood and hitched a bulky leather bag on her shoul­der. “Gotta run.”
She leaned down to kiss him on the cheek. “I know this year’s been hard on you, and I’m not trying to make you out to be as bad as Bluebeard, but promise me you’ll call Jennifer.”

  He looked down at the raised lettering on the counselor’s card, not really seeing it. Maybe he would call. Not that he thought it would help. But at least he’d have someone to talk to other than his sister and a voice on the radio.

  Nine

  “Hi Minerva. It’s Alone in Atlanta.”’

  Caroline made a fake snoring sound. Not him again. The man probably had B.O. or halitosis. Maybe that’s why he was “alone” in Atlanta.

  “She’s not coming back, Romeo,” Caroline said. “Go find yourself another little chippy at the Waffle House.”

  “Hello, Alone,” Minerva said. “So good to hear from you again. What’s on your mind tonight?” Clearly she wasn’t tired of the caller. Alone in Atlanta’s sultry voice suggested a full head of hair and big biceps, but Caroline wouldn’t be surprised if he sported a liver-spotted pate and a potbelly.

  “I’ve gotten very discouraged over the last few days,” he said. “She’s not coming back. It’s been too long.”

  “You still haven’t heard a word?” Minerva said.

  “No.”

  “Was there a disagreement?”

  Alone paused. “I’m not ready to talk about it,” he finally said.

  “Maybe she’s gone because he hit her over the head and buried her in the backyard,” Caroline said. “Ever think about that, Minerva? Maybe that’s why he’s always shilly-shallying whenever you ask him what happened.”

  “Perhaps it is time to move on,” Minerva said gently.

  “I loved her so much,” said the caller, his voice thickening. “And I had her with me for only a year. It seems so unjust to finally find the person you’ve been looking for your entire life and then—”

  “Enough of that whining.” Caroline switched off the radio and reached out to take Emily’s hand, struck, as always, by the contrast between the two of them. Her own hand was a gnarled claw—mapped with eighty-five years of lines and blemishes. Emily’s hand was small and pink, like something newly born. Caroline’s fingers curled protectively around it.

  “What should I sing to you tonight?” she asked, staring out the window. The sky was a moody dark blue, and a sliver of moon cut through a bank of clouds like a sickle.

  This morning she sang “Seventy-six Trombones.” Today before a lunch of beef patties she sang “Whoopie Ti Yi Yo. Git Along Little Doggies.” Caroline decided to go with her old stan­dard, “Inky Dinky parlez vous.”

  As Caroline began singing, her voice scratched in protest.

  Her eyes watered after the first verse, so she decided to pack it in.

  “Tomorrow’s another day,” she said, hefting herself out of the chair. She let out a groan when she noticed her door was ajar. It seemed like such a long trek across the room, and she was more than ready to crawl under the covers and slip into oblivion.

  Caroline’s slippers whispered over the carpet as she headed in the direction of the light slanting in from the hall. She grunted when she saw the “Welcome Friends” plaque lying on the floor. Mona had given it to her after Caroline had been living at Magnolia Manor for two months and hadn’t yet dec­orated her door. Apparently there was some unwritten law that people in nursing homes were required to display a silly doodad on their door.

  She put a hand to her waist and bent over to pick up the plaque.

  “Welcome friends, my foot,” Caroline said. “Have you ever seen a friend darken this door?” She glanced at Emily over her shoulder. “All my friends are dead, and I don’t remember—”

  She stopped in mid-sentence. It almost looked as if the girl was eyeballing her!

  “Emily?” she called out softly. The bedside lamp poured light on the girl’s face. Caroline blinked, took off her glasses, and rubbed them with a corner of her nightdress. Then she squinted at Emily again. She hadn’t been mistaken; the girl’s eyes were trained on her. Caroline took a step forward and then another. She was wide awake now, her heart beating as fast as a hummingbird’s. She counted out ten steps before she reached Emily’s bedside and then, with a slow and deliberate pace, she crossed back to the door.

  She repeated her actions five times more, just to be abso­lutely certain that what she was witnessing wasn’t a trick of the shadows or an invention of her imagination. Every single time Emily’s eyes followed her path across the carpet, tracking her every movement.

  “Katy bar the door! I think you can see me.” She stared into Emily’s blue orbs. This time Emily stared right back.

  Caroline spent the rest of the night talking to her room­mate until her voice cracked and she was left with a labored whisper.

  “I can’t believe it. You’re finally coming out of your spell,” she said for what must have been the hundredth time. The surge of adrenaline she’d gained earlier had petered away and sleep tugged at her eyelids. Emily was still staring at her as if taking in every word, and Caroline didn’t want the experience to end. A few robins had made their first feeble morning calls, and the sky outside the window had lightened to the pearly gray of earliest morning.

  “Never in my entire life...” Caroline began, but sleep cloaked her mind before she could finish the sentence.

  “Mrs. Brodie, are you all right?”

  Strong hands gripped her shoulders and gave them a brisk shake.

  It was full light out now, and Caroline’s gritty eyes were stung by the brightness. Gertie Haynes, a nurse’s aide, loomed over her, a frown on her face. “You feeling punk, Mrs. Brodie? You slept through breakfast.”

  Caroline twisted her neck to glance at Emily, expecting the blue irises to still be cast in her direction. Instead, Emily’s stare was fastened to the same stain on the ceiling, as if noth­ing had changed since last night.

  “Emily looked at me,” Caroline said, her voice still hoarse from overuse. “Her eyes followed me around the room. And I’m the one who made it happen.”

  “Did you?” Gertie said. She lumbered over to Emily and made a small adjustment to her feeding tube. “Looks to me like she’s still counting the cracks in the ceiling.”

  “She is now,” Caroline said, flinging her covers away and dangling her bare feet over the side of the bed. “But last night she was looking right at me. Listening to me. It was like there was finally a light in the window.”

  “Is that so?” Gertie’s big square form blocked Emily from Caroline’s view.

  “We should call the doctor. Make him run some tests. He could see if—”

  Gertie turned around to face Caroline, her uniform a series of straining white bulges like those of the Michelin Man.

  “Coma patients are always doing strange things, Miz Brodie,” she said. “They got electricity running in their body and every now and then it goes ka-flooey.” She twirled a finger near her ear. “If you hooked this girl’s brain up to a ma­chine, I promise, all you’d see is a flat line.” She jerked her head in the direction of the door. “You oughta get dressed. They probably got some danishes or bagels left over from breakfast.”

  Caroline punched her mattress. “There’s been a miracle right here in this room and you’re going on about bagels.”

  “Oh, Miz Brodie, I don’t have no time for miracles. I got work to do.”

  “Never mind,” Caroline muttered, deciding not to waste any more breath on the ignorant country girl. Gertie had probably gotten her nursing aide’s certificate from the back of a matchbox. Caroline likely knew more about Emily’s condi­tion than she did. Nor would she say boo to Poppy, Emily’s physical therapist, whose lips were permanently pursed into a sour pucker. No. She needed to talk with Mona, the nursing home’s director. Mona would listen to Caroline and have a doctor run over to take a look at Emily. Yes. That’s what she’d do, Caroline though
t to herself, feeling a sense of purpose, even though she was still groggy from her short night’s sleep. She’d put on some clothes, have a little bite, and then pop by Mona’s office. An hour later, after she was showered, dressed, and pow­dered, she headed toward the administration suite.

  “You’re going to flip your wig, Miss Mona,” she whispered as she strode pass the cafeteria, the aroma of corned beef hash drifting into the hall. She’d been rehearsing her speech all morning. About how she’d been conducting research on the computer about Emily’s condition. How she’d embarked on a regular regime to help the poor lamb wake up. How her labor of love had finally paid off.

  The suite was located just off the front foyer of Magnolia Manor. It had a fake fireplace and fussy, overly formal furniture, which were all for show and never used by the residents. Caroline stuck her head into the small glass outer cubicle and saw Dixie Waters, Mona’s niece, sitting at her desk eating a microwave burrito. Mona had recently hired Dixie on as the assistant director.

  “Hey, Mrs. Brodie. You sure look pretty today. What can I do ya for?” Dixie’s voice was loud enough to carry across a football field. She assumed all the residents were deaf as tree stumps.

  “Where’s Miss Mona?” Caroline asked.

  Dixie looked like Betty Boop come to life with big round eyes, jet-black hair, and red baby-doll lips. Looked sweet, but had a mean streak longer than the tail of a comet.

  “She’ll be gone for two weeks.” Dixie was chasing down an errant bean, which left a brown stain on the paperwork in front of her. “That’s fourteen days! Her daughter had twin babies, and she flew out to Oregon to lend a hand.”

  I can hear you, Caroline wanted to say, but she held her tongue. She wouldn’t bother telling Dixie about Emily’s prog­ress. The woman wasn’t any brighter than Gertie.

  “Is there something I can do, Mrs. Brodie?”

  “No, no,” Caroline said, lingering outside the office, won­dering what she should do next. She was like a seed pod, bursting with Emily’s news. What a shame there wasn’t a single soul to tell.