Lag (The Boys of RDA Book 2) Page 10

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ugh. Thoughts of Trey kept me up half the night and without enough sleep, the warmth of the water from the shower spray isn’t helping to energize me for the waiting day. I’d turn it cold if I had more self-control, but who in their right mind makes the decision to take a cold shower? Not even learning Trey’s an asshole of epic proportions can make me that insane.

  Trey stalked away from our group and I spent the rest of the night being the perfect companion to Roger. I smiled pretty and shook hands like nothing was wrong. But Trey’s look of betrayal before he turned and left played on repeat in my mind. By the end of the night, I regretted my final words to him. It was never about getting his account to Lowry, Lowry, and Fink, but in a time of weakness I played on his insecurities.

  I press my head against the cool tile of my shower as water flows over my eyes. I’m not sure why I’m even concerned with how he feels. Why do I feel miserable and guilty over what I said? The man has a girlfriend. Most women would have gone psycho on his ass. I was nice and calm. Too nice, too calm. I should be pissed off, but I’m just sad. I turn back into the spray and rinse the conditioner from my hair, scrubbing extra hard to remove any traces of last night.

  For some reason I allowed myself to believe I’d move to San Francisco and be entitled to a sweet and happy future with my vacation fling. I was delusional thinking this was some kind of fairytale where we’d get married and I’d get those two point five kids behind a white picket fence. Shit like that does not happen in real life. Not in my life.

  No. In real life you get promoted and leave a great boss in a city you love. Move across the country to work for an asshole and learn your soulmate is taken, by a tall beautiful redhead. I roll my eyes at myself over the thought and turn off the water.

  I want to lay around in pajamas today and wallow in the crappy hand life dealt me, but it’s Thursday and even though Roger and I were at the fundraiser until after midnight he’ll expect me in at nine. I’m sure of it… because he told me twice as he dropped me off.

  I need a plan. A plan to get me through the rest of the week. I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a big white towel, one of the few purchases I’ve made for the apartment.

  Okay, a plan then.

  Step 1: Get dressed for work

  Step 2: Go to work and avoid the bull terrier

  Step 3: Agonize over why I feel guilty about Trey while I stare into space

  Step 4: Come home and eat ice cream

  Right. Not a perfect plan, but it’s what I can manage right now. If I follow those four simple steps for the next twenty-five years, I’ll be set to retire. A few steps take me to the bedroom where I’ve laid out my outfit for the day. A blue short sleeve blouse and black pencil skirt with a black jacket to top it off. Feminine, but professional.

  There were a few times last night as I listened to Roger drone on and on to various clients where I considered asking for my old job back. Jay would welcome me home with open arms, but I’m not ready to leave San Francisco with my tail tucked between my legs. I didn’t come here for a man. Well… I didn’t come here for only a man. I’m here for a promotion, to kick butt at a job I love, and that’s exactly what I’ll do. Kick butt at my new job. If I turn down this promotion now, I may never get asked again.

  Day one post Trey has a killer outfit and nothing can make a girl feel better than a nice pair of shoes. My foot slips into teal high heels when my cell phone rings from my nightstand.

  My phone buzzes again, a default sound rather than the custom ring tones I’ve assigned to most of my friends. The lack of husky male singer on that end means it isn’t Trey. Not that I’d want him to call me and apologize anyway. I’ll have to find a new song to be his ring tone if I decide to keep his number. Good thing the world doesn’t lack songs about cheaters.

  One quick look to the phone where “Mom & Dad Home” pops up on the screen helps reset my gloomy thought. I’ll have someone from New York to help chase away some of Trey's sadness.

  I’m able to answer with honest excitement, “Hey.”

  “Simone, Sweetheart. Have you left for work yet?” my mom’s voice carries over the line.

  Fully dressed I sit down on the edge of my bed, crumbling the white comforter with big bright red roses in the design. “No, I have a few minutes until I need to leave. What’s up?”

  With the time difference it’s almost lunch in Buffalo and my mom has taken to calling me on her break so we do a quick catch up before I start my day at work. It’s an arrangement that’s worked well for us over the last two weeks, although today is a bit earlier than normal.

  “Well, your dad and I went to the doctor today.” It takes her a long time to push the stressed words out. She doesn’t remind me of the woman who harassed me over every man on vacation. “I’ve been so tired lately, you know. I wanted to make sure it wasn’t the flu.” Her voice breaks and I clutch my phone harder.

  “Mom?” Fear twists my gut in a death grip and my lungs won’t fill with air.

  “It’s cancer.”

  These words are spoken with strength, they broker no disagreement, but they won’t stop me from not believing. “Cancer? What do you mean?”

  She sucks in a breath, but then there’s silence on the other end. Rustles of clothing or air across the speaker break up the silence, a telling sign she hasn’t hung up. The word cancer hangs in the air without any explanation and I go into survival mode.

  Cancer sucks, but science has made huge improvements in treatment. We’ll get Mom into a center, one of those places I always see commercials for on TV. There’s bound to be one in New York. It’s New York for fuck’s sake. What doesn’t the city have? I’ll ask for an immediate transfer back and be by her side whenever she needs me.

  With a reasonable plan now in place, I allow myself a calming breath and wait for her to get back on the line. It doesn’t take long, but it’s my father’s voice I'm greeted with.

  “Simone, its ovarian cancer and it’s… spread.” My Dad struggles to get each word out in a calm manner, making them choppy.

  I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out so I close it again when he continues talking.

  “The doctor wants to run more tests of course, but…they’ve given her thirty days.”

  The floor drops out from under me, but I refuse to admit it so I stand on the invisible surface. “Thirty days? For what? To find a treatment center? Can’t they start her treatment there?” My head is already clocking through all my contacts in New York and who I’ll call to help Mom get into the best center the fastest.

  “To live.” He pauses again as my thoughts skid to a stop. “They’re giving her a month to live.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I buckle my seatbelt before the flight attendant walks the aisle and my mind wanders back to my earlier conversation with my father. I can’t remember anything concrete after he said my mother, the woman who brought me into this world, had thirty days to live.

  I brought a bag on the plane with me, but I’m clueless to what’s in it. Hopefully clean underwear or socks, maybe some pants. I move a hand to my temple and push on the space in frustration at myself. Isn’t it amazing that in a time of turmoil my damn brain is worried if I packed clean underwear? Is it my feeble attempt to try and keep it together?

  I’ve done well so far. Maybe this is what people call shock. Thirty days to live. How can doctors calculate thirty days? Where does this number come from? Is there some demonic cancer calculator floating around the Internet? My other hand reaches up to rub the opposite temple as I lean both elbows on my knees. Who has the right to tell my mother she only has thirty days left on Earth? I want to talk to them because they’re wrong.

  In parts of my memory, my dad used words like “silent killer” and “found too late” and “no treatment options,” but they mean little to me except my mom will die. My mom will die before Elena and I give her those grandchildren she wants so badly.

  I
mages of the children I’ll never watch her bake cookies with, or open Christmas gifts with, any of those grandma activities that everyone should get the chance to take part in flood my vision with tears. I turn my head to the window thankful for the inside seat on this last minute flight.

  I arrived at the airport ticketless with a dazed look and an overstuffed carry-on bag. The counter worker was helpful until she realized I wasn’t concerned with a return flight to San Francisco. I didn’t have the strength to explain to her without losing it, so I booked a flight back for thirty days exactly. Not sure if I was sealing my mother’s fate with the action.

  If I’d booked my return ticket for sixty days out, could I have bought her more time? The idea causes fresh panic to well up inside and I reach for my seatbelt, ready to get off the plane and change my ticket time, but I’m stopped by the flight attendant as she walks through the aisle again.

  It’s not until the overhead speaker warns us it’s time to turn off all electronic devices that I remember I never called Roger to explain my absence. The bull terrier will pissed, but even he will forgive this one indiscretion.

  **

  It’s dark when my plane sets down at the Buffalo airport. I didn’t check a bag, so getting off the plane is quick and easy with my small carry-on. A five-hour ride fraught with intermittent bouts of crying has my steps heavy, boulders of despair weighing down each shoe.

  Elena waits for me to the side of the baggage claim carousel and we hug in the middle of the open space. Her body rocks against mine with each of her sobs. It’s not until she starts to pull away that I realize I’m crying right along with her.

  “What are we going to do?” Elena looks to me for sisterly advice.

  There’s none I can offer. “I don’t know.”

  Together we walk out the double doors to the waiting darkness outside. Elena pulls to the left and stops at my parents’ hunter green Jeep parked at the curb. The passenger side door opens and my mom steps to the sidewalk. She’s lost weight from the last time I saw her in the Caribbean. The islands that will forever hold some of the last memories I’ll get to keep of my mother.

  I drop my bag on the ground next to Elena and run to my mom. My tears increase before I wrap my arms around her. She allows me a few minutes in her embrace as my father gets out to stow my case in the trunk. As two sets of car doors close, she pulls away and grabs me by the shoulders.

  “I’m so happy to see you, sweetheart,” she gives me another tight hug, “but now you need to get it together. You can do this. Be strong for Elena. No more tears. This is a happy time.”

  My mouth falls open at her words and I step back. She gently pushes me into the backseat of the car and wears a determined smile on her face by the time she takes her place in the front seat.

  “Now that both of my girls are home again, we’re going to have a great month together. Right, dear?” She pats my father's leg as he puts the car into gear and pulls away from the curb.

  His grey streaked head turns to her for a moment before he smiles, pats her leg in a matching endearment they’ve been doing for years, and nods his agreement.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sheila Stevens, known to me as Mom, lived more than her projected thirty days. Her life stretched past forty. On day forty-seven, her dreams ended in a cold and sterile hospital room. The beeping noises drained to a constant buzz, a horrid sound still inundating my ears three days later. Standing over her defective body while my sister and I shared the hand on her right side, she took her last breath.

  I didn’t cry. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. My body screamed at me to push my sister out of the way and wrap my arms around my mommy and never let go. My sister cried, my father cried, but my tears wouldn’t come. I stared off into space instead. I’d cried the last forty-six days, maybe I had no tears left. I didn’t cry that day or the next or even the next, but today the tears won’t stop.

  It’s dark in the small room I’ve chosen to hide out in. It isn’t fair to my sister or my father, but it’s a better option than lying on the floor in the fetal position and asking guests to walk over my body. At the end of the small two-person sofa sits a wooden end table, the lone item a box of tissue perched delicately on the edge. Proof I’m not the first person to use this as a personal hideaway.

  A gentle knock filters past my now silent sobs. “Simone, it’s time, sweetheart,” my father’s voice is strong. I wish he could loan me the ability to walk out there and not crumble at what we have to do now.

  “No.”

  A small line of light inches across the floor and up the wall as he opens the door enough to slide his body into the space. His black suit makes most of him invisible in the room as the door is closed again, but the couch dips as he sits beside me.

  I turn to face him. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t, Dad.”

  His arm wraps around my shoulders and he pulls me into him. The musky fatherly smell of the cologne Elena and I purchase for him every Christmas is a harsh reminder I’ll never smell my mother’s signature lavender scent again. It's enough to start the tears I worked so hard to stop moments earlier and I grab on to him for support.

  “Yes, you can. We’re going to go out there and do this together, okay?”

  I nod my head yes, but don’t make a move to stand. He doesn’t push me and I hate I’m forcing my father to be so strong for me. The man lost the love of his life. I should be his pillar during this time. For him and my sister. It’s enough to bully myself to a standing position with two deep breaths.

  My father takes my hand and I follow him out to the main room where people gather for Mom’s funeral. She didn’t want visitation hours, saying the idea of people looking at her dead body and talking over it was creepy, so the room is full.

  We walk to the front of the room and take seats in the first aisle of chairs closest to the mahogany casket she picked out a week before her death. It happened on a happy day, if you’ll believe it. Well as happy as a day can get when you’re using a magazine to pick out caskets with your mother.

  The room doesn’t have many flowers besides the plants worked in so naturally they must be part of the normal décor. Another choice she made before she became too weak to talk much. No flowers, preferring donations made to the local animal shelter — her favorite charity. I guess people listened. Most did when Sheila Stevens spoke. Thirty some years as a high school principal gave her authority no one questioned.

  The thought makes me smile until I look up and spot the mahogany casket that had me retreating to my small room in the first place. Her rail thin body is laid out in her favorite light blue ankle length dress. The small paisley decorated fabric another of her final choices. The day has more of her touch than anyone here will recognize. Her hands lay folded one on top of the other and rest on her stomach.

  I can’t take my eyes off her and I stare at her chest waiting to catch it move. A breath. A twitch. Any sign of life. As the pastor starts to speak I worry if I stop, if I turn my head away, I’ll miss her climbing out of her open tomb.

  But she doesn’t.

  The lid seals Mom from the outside world and six men chosen from our church and extended family lift the casket, carrying it out of the room as the pastor ends his sermon.

  Elena and I follow my father, stopping to talk to no one. We move as one fluid body to the hearse as our friend, mother, and protector is loaded behind us. The car jerks as the last man pushes the casket forward and Elena and I break again. On opposite sides of our father we both rest our heads on his shoulders as he allows his own tears to join ours in the drive to the cemetery.

  **

  It’s only the first week of November, but there’s an extra chill in the air as I’m the last to exit the car back at my parents’ house for the post-funeral luncheon. The cold set into my bones as we stood outside at the grave site and I worry I’ll never be warm again. Of course I’ve been cold for more than the last month, so this might be my new condition. Cold. A little dead to the
world.

  The three of us are silent as we walk in the house we once shared, but never will again. My sister continues to the kitchen while my father and I stop in the living room to our right. He sits in the old green chair he’s called his for more years than I remember, and I take a place on the matching couch. It doesn’t actually match, but its close enough in color that when my mother found it a few years ago she bought it on sight. Then sent me pictures and text messages for the next week about how amazing it was to find a piece of furniture the exact hideous pea green color of Dad’s favorite chair. She loved to hate this couch.

  Dad looks at the wall lost in thought and my eyes stay glued to the black television screen in front of me. There will be people here soon enough and I’ll have to put on a brave face, but for now we all need a minute. The couch sinks in next to me, but I don’t look up, expecting it to be Elena.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Simone.” Two arms reach out and wrap around me from the side. I look up into the big brown eyes of Aspen and my face twitches into a small smile at her presence before tears cloud my vision.

  Marissa perches on the arm of the couch too high up to hug, but she reaches her hand out and squeezes my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  A tiny part of me wants to lash out at her even though I’m sure the question was heartfelt. But really, am I doing okay? No.

  No. I’m most certainly not doing okay. I can’t tell her that, of course. Everyone expects your answer to be yes, so that’s what she gets.

  “Thank you both for coming.” At least I get those words out without crying. If I attempt more, I’ll probably lose it from the unexpected kindness from both of them. Their presence might have caught me off guard, but Aspen warned me they’d be here when the time came. I just didn’t believe her.

  When I wasn’t at girls’ brunch on Sunday, Aspen forced the truth out of Trey and immediately called me. She thought she was inviting me to brunch, and her first words something about not letting Trey keep me from good French toast. It made me laugh…… right before I broke down crying big angry sobs to her over the phone. Over time she worked the story out of me and when both our tears eased, Aspen told me about losing her own parents to a car accident at a young age.