All the Good Parts (25 page)

“It was . . . interesting.”

“He was old and gross.”

“Older, yes, but gross? Not at all. I think you’ll like Darryl.”

“But?”

“
She’s
not my type,” I said, smiling. “But we’re going to be friends, beyond this class. At least I hope so.”

“Wow. Really? Didn’t see that one coming.” Carly wanted to say something biting, I could feel it rise in her. Instead, she took a sip of wine. “That’s nice, Lee,” she said. “Are you my friend, too? Want to chat with me for a while?”

I wanted to put on sweats and crawl into bed. “Sure,” I said, and got myself up to pour a glass of water.

“I need you to come to Ireland with us,” she said as soon as I’d settled. “I hate asking for things, and I know this is asking for a lot, but this shouldn’t even be a question. You’ve got to come. I don’t think I can do this without you, and I have to do it.”

I didn’t question that. I knew she needed Donal, and I understood that his life would be over without them in it. But Darryl’s words still swirled around my brain, finding places to fit in, spots where I hadn’t yet figured out how to live my life. I hadn’t realized that though Carly had things that needed fixing, and Donal, and even the kids, they were made up of good, solid parts, too, and didn’t need my help as much as they—or I—thought.

I didn’t take her hand, but laid mine on the table, palm up. “You know I love you, right?”

“Oh, God,” she moaned. “You can’t be saying no.”

“I’ve got to stay here, Carly.”

“You’ll miss the kids.”

“Of course I will. I’ll miss all of you.”

“It could be a new life for you.”

“I don’t want a new life. I want to work on this one.”

“What is it you have to work with?” She shook her head when she caught my venomous expression. “I don’t mean it to sound so insulting, I’m just being honest. What you have is kind of a broken life. Why wouldn’t you take the opportunity to start fresh?”

“Broken things can be fixed,” I said, but my nerve faltered at her words. Was I fooling myself? Was Darryl wrong?

“How do you intend to do that? You’ve lost one of your most important clients, you’re meeting up with strange people you met online, and let’s not forget the Garrett debacle. Not to mention your sudden desire to get pregnant when you are thirty-nine, underemployed, and desperate enough to place all your hopes and dreams on a glorified kitchen utensil to do what you should have done years ago with Andrew! I could strangle Dr. Bridget for planting that rotten seed in your head.”

“Don’t blame her,” I said quietly. “She was trying to help.”

“She’s a shit-stirrer. The last thing you need is a baby.”

“What if I still want one?”

“Then grow up. You don’t get a Christmas list anymore.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Don’t you get it? It doesn’t matter if I’m wrong or right. If you really think about it, what choice do you have?”

CHAPTER 29

I had a better understanding of my diminishing choices the following week, when an unending stream of random members of the population streaked slush through Brophy House as they inspected the interior. A good number of them poked their heads in the basement, curiously assessing the “mother-in-law” apartment, which apparently was being rented for $800 a month. If it didn’t mean I was out on my ass, I would have been happy for Carly and Donal, because it looked like they were going to get their asking price.

“Does it get cold down here?” a youngish, highlighted, very tan girl asked as I sat in the middle of my bed, pounding out a message to Darryl.

“Very. Sometimes I wake up convinced someone entombed me in a block of ice, like Superman’s father, what’s his name.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, turning around in a slow circle. “I can get rid of these depressing gray walls, right?”

“Why would you?” I asked innocently. “If you kept them, then you would be the brightest thing in the room.”

She eyed me suspiciously. “Are you the rental agent?”

“Nope. I live here.”

“Not for long,” she muttered.

“No,” I said. “I want to get out before the mold problem ruins my lungs.”

“Mold?” She hugged her arms protectively around her slight frame. “That causes cancer, or diabetes, or something major.”

I smiled weakly. “I’m hoping the damage is reversible.”

“I told Jason I’m not selling the house.”

Estelle had been pretty quiet since the start of my home-health visit, so it took me a moment to realize she said something. It didn’t help that I was also lying on my side on her kitchen floor, trying to figure out why her fridge was leaking yellowish water. “What?”

“You are a grown woman. You’re supposed to say, ‘Pardon me?’”

“All right, I’ll play,” I said, and parroted her phrase in a terrible British accent, tacking on a “milady” at the end, a la
Downton Abbey
.

Not even a hint of a laugh.

“Jason thinks I should go live in one of those residence halls by the forest preserve.”

“Forestview Assisted Living?” I switched off my flashlight, mystified by the undercarriage of a refrigerator built before I was born. “It’s not so bad. I hear they have real chefs working there, and it’s pretty social.”

“Forestview sounds like a mausoleum. And I hate bingo.”

“I think those seniors are more into yoga and salsa dancing.”

“Then they’re making fools of themselves,” she snapped.

“I’m sure you’d find something to occupy your time,” I said, treading carefully. “Wouldn’t it be nice to know someone is always close by to help if you need it?”

“I don’t need any assistance.”

I laughed. “Then I’d like to know what I’m doing here.”

“You’re hired help,” she said. “You come and you go and you’re not waking me up at all hours to take my medicine or restricting my eating habits. People get ill in those places. They’re cesspools. I won’t go.”

I thought of Jerry’s MRSA infection and acknowledged she might have a point. “Jason’s worried about you. Maybe if you could have a talk with him, to tell him you can still live independently, he’ll reconsider.”

“He doesn’t have the legal right to force me,” she insisted, ignoring my point completely. Was Jason as stubborn as his mother? If yes, then I wanted to be very far away when those two battled it out.

“Maybe if
you
spoke with him, he’d leave me alone,” she continued, flashing an awkward, toothy smile. “You could tell him I’m fit as a fiddle.”

“I can’t evaluate your health,” I said firmly. “I’m not a doctor.”

“So you think I’m unhealthy? You do, don’t you?” Her voice rose. “Have I given you any indication that I’m sick? Why wouldn’t you discuss this with me?”

“I don’t think you’re sick,” I said quickly, gathering every bit of patience I possessed. “I only said I couldn’t evaluate you. I’m not even a nurse yet.”

She visibly calmed. “I forgot you’re still in school. Did you fail college the first time, is that what happened?”

“I majored in art when I was younger.”

“Well, that was stupid.”

“It was a decision I made. Now, I’m making another decision to become a nurse.”

“Then why in the world do you want a baby?”

“Because I have a lot to offer a child,” I said confidently. It felt good to say it out loud.

“The only thing a child has to offer
you
is heartache,” she replied.

“I don’t think that’s true.”

Estelle shrugged. “To each her own, I suppose.”

“Now,
that’s
the truth.”

“On to more important things,” she said, shifting in her seat. “Can you fix this refrigerator?”

“Those wires under there look like a plate of spaghetti. I don’t even know where to start.”

“What am I supposed to do with all my food?”

“Tell you what. I’ll call a repairman, and if he can make it out soon, I’ll sit with you until he leaves.”

She nodded, satisfied. “The Boston Strangler was a repairman. That’s how he found his victims.”

“He’d be no match against us.”

The repairman, a sweet-faced grandfatherly type, decided he’d much rather fix the refrigerator than strangle two bickering women, and was done in an hour. Estelle wrote him a check, and we sat in the kitchen together for a cup of coffee before I had to get home. I’d promised Donal and Carly some babysitting time, and I looked forward to it. I didn’t know how much longer I’d have with the kids.

“I’m going to take off,” I said after washing her dishes.

Estelle pursed her lips. “I need to see your purse before you go.”

I’d let this go way too far. “No,” I said, overarticulating the word.

“What do you mean, no?”

“When are you going to trust me?” I said, trying to ignore the image of Maura’s horrified face as I rifled through her things. “Haven’t I proven myself?”

Estelle brought a hand to her face, and I noticed she was trembling. “Get your damn purse, Leona.”

“Fine.” I dashed down the hallway, yanked my purse from her closet, and dropped it on her lap.

She took her time. With a table in front of her, she could line up my belongings and study them more closely. “What’s Chipotle?” she asked, picking up a receipt.

“Lunch.”

“You spent too much money on lunch. Don’t you stick to a budget?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

She weighed my wallet in her palm. “You should put your coins in a box, they’re dragging your purse down. The leather will bulge at the bottom.”

“You know what, Estelle?”

“W-what?” she said, growing apprehensive when she caught my expression.

I stalked out of the kitchen and down the hall to her bedroom. Estelle’s black, shapeless handbag drooped from her bedpost.

She didn’t say anything when I returned. I plopped myself down at the table and dumped the contents of her bag, which weren’t all that different from mine. Wallet, eyeglasses case, tissue packet, and . . .

“Gum! You chew gum, too. You dirty dog!”

“Only when I feel a migraine coming on,” she sniffed.

I ran my hands over everything, complete with running commentary. At first, I relished the feeling of justice being served, but then, as I examined her lipstick, which was worn down to nothing, the coupons carefully clipped from magazines, and the other belongings of a woman who held on so tightly to what she had, I felt a connection to her, thin and fragile, but there. When I glanced up at Estelle, she’d stilled, watching me. She held my wallet, her thumb moving slowly over the leather. I picked up hers. “Every time you demand to sift through my personal belongings,” I said, wondering if I knew what I was doing, “I’m going to do the same to you. Understand?”

She nodded. “That’s fair.”

“It is?” I’d half expected an argument.

“Yes,” she agreed.

“Well, okay then.” I began to pack up her things. She left mine on the table.

“You should consider skipping lunch every once in a while and using the money to invest in a higher-quality wallet,” she suggested. “I can help you choose one.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“Good.”

I returned her purse, but she hadn’t let go of my wallet.

“Can I have that back?”

“Of course,” she said. When she pressed it into my palm, her other hand came up, and so quickly I almost thought I imagined it, she squeezed my arm.

“See you on Tuesday, Leona,” she said, and retreated to her bedroom.

“See you on Tuesday, Estelle,” I called, and let myself out.

Nursing 320 (Online): Community Health

Private message—Leona A to Darryl K

Leona A:
Thanks for last Saturday. I’ve been giving what you said a lot of thought. I don’t think you’re right about everything, but I think you are right about some things.

Darryl K:
I can think I’m right about everything, but you shouldn’t. It would mean you weren’t thinking for yourself, and that would disappoint me.

Leona A:
I hope this doesn’t disappoint—I’m not moving to Ireland. I’m staying here to finish up my nursing degree. I think I’m going to try for a job in geriatrics—I’m suited for it.

Darryl K:
Glad to hear it! You’ll make a wonderful geriatric nurse. You have a talent for lifting people’s spirits, and God knows we oldsters can be weighted down by so many things.

Leona A:
Thanks.

Leona A:
Oh . . . and I paid the sperm bank a visit.

Darryl K:
Yes! Call your insurance company and demand they cover it. Sorry, I’m obsessed with medical bills because I have so many I could use them to insulate my house this winter.

Leona A:
Speaking of medical stuff, what’s going on with you? How was the scan on Tuesday?

Darryl K:
Looks like Willie won’t have to bring out the good stuff. Though I could probably use all the wheatgrass I could choke down.

Leona A:
Oh, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.

Darryl K:
Yes, you do.

Leona A:
Okay. I do. FUCK. SHIT. Stupid fucking shit shit shitty motherfucking cancer.

Darryl K:
See? You did know what to say, and it was exactly the right thing. You’re very eloquent when you want to be.

Leona A:
Let’s hope Paul the Asshole feels the same way when I come a-calling to get my job back.

Darryl K:
Maybe start by just calling him Paul?

Leona A:
Solid advice.

Darryl K:
So, I know it’s been a while, but we need to talk about school.

Leona A:
We do?

Darryl K:
Yes, because now that we’ve added the wonderful quotes from our spirited single mothers, our project is finito. I’ll miss it, Leona.

Leona A:
I will, too. Hey, don’t we still need to turn in our reflective essays? We could work on it together—our last hurrah!

Darryl K:
Professor Larmon said we’ve got to write those solo. And that’s good, my friend. It’s time for you to leave the nest.

Leona A:
But nests are so cozy.

Darryl K:
They are. And so much more so when you build your own.

Leona A:
So it’s time for me to start gathering my sticks.

Darryl K:
Oh, honey, we don’t use sticks! Chicago brick, baby. No one’s blowing that sucker down.