Coda (Songs of Submission #9) (9 page)

None of it was rational. None of it made sense. And my nearly physical ache for children made the least sense of all the crazy nonsense I believed. Knowing that didn’t shake the fear or the longing away.

I’d managed to wiggle out of traveling until we drove down to Sheila’s place in Palos Verdes. The June sunset left the sky palette-knifed in orange and navy, and the temperature hung between inoffensively cold and completely generic. With the top down and Monica next to me in the Jag, twisted in her seat, the weather was perfect.

“Are you going to sit like that in front of my sisters?” I asked.

“Hey, if you wanted me to sit straight, you should have been a little gentler.”

“You didn’t marry me for my gentle ways.”

She poked me in the ribs and I laughed, but she sat straighter.

“Is there any country in the world you haven’t been to?” she asked.

“Probably.”

“Any one you want to go to?”

“Iceland. But I’m not cleared yet.”

“Yes, you are. You haven’t asked Dr. Solis at all. We could send a bunch of shit shakes ahead and make sure whatever cardiac unit there was knew you were coming.”

I didn’t answer right away. We were communicating, but I shouldn’t answer rashly. I pulled off the 110, slowing my car and my thoughts. “The thought of it is…” I knew what the honest answer was, but it was hard to speak aloud.

“We can do everything to make it less scary—”

“I didn’t say I was scared.”

“Well, I am.” She took my hand, looking out her side of the car. “Anyway. The food’s really bland there. You should like it.”

I reached under her arm and tickled her. She squealed and twisted away. What was I going to do with her? Besides spank her raw and love her senseless? At some point, I would keep our honesty promise and break it to her that even if I funded the artificial heart, I wouldn’t test it. But her relief and happiness were too precious and delicate. I hoped some other obstacle would present itself in the meantime. Blood type, body size, anything.

I went through the gate and parked in front of Sheila’s house, pulling the emergency brake. “About the Swiss thing…”

“Yeah?”

“If it’s not what you think or if it doesn’t work out, you’re going to be disappointed.”

“It’ll work out. I know it.”

She didn’t wait for me to come around. She just opened the door and got out, bouncing as if it were someone’s birthday.

MONICA

J
onathan followed me, flipping his keys in his palm, spinning them around a finger, flipping again. Spin. Flip. Spin. Flip. All in the rhythm of his gait, like a perfectly tuned instrument of movement and sound. He wore a white shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and jeans that fit as if custom built for him. Jogging miles every morning had toned his legs and added grace to his gait.

I rang Sheila’s bell. The door was wide enough to fit two adults walking abreast, so I didn’t know how he was supposed to get in without seeing everyone. But it hadn’t been my job to hide everyone. It had been my job to get him there on time.

He slipped his hand across my bare shoulder and grasped me by the back of the neck, saying nothing and owning me completely. I relaxed right into the warmth of his hand.

The door opened. Sheila wore a pair of skinny jeans and a lavender hoodie. Bare feet. Hair brushed for a change. “Happy birthday!”

“Thanks.” He kissed her on the cheek, leaving his other hand on me as if I’d run away.

Was the party off? Had something happened? Where was the big opening salvo? Sheila stepped out of the way. Jonathan guided me in the door, and I greeted her. Looking over her shoulder, I caught sight of the buffet and felt more than saw the presence of other people.

After Jonathan stepped in and the door closed behind him, the shout of “Surprise!” came all at once, at incredible volume, from an impossible number of people. They appeared from the hall, behind the couch, the patio, as if a switch had been flicked.

Jonathan stood in the doorway a second then clutched his chest and stepped back. Mouth open, eyes wide, as if in shock and surprise at the pain.

I went blind, reaching for him, everything shut out but the sounds of the beeping machines, the stench of alcohol, the shadowed lines of the blinds falling across his white face in the afternoon.

Hands on me. Strong arms, and the sounds of the room pierced the veil of terror.

Laughter. A few dozen people laughing hysterically, and a collective
awwww.

Jonathan held me up, looking at me with a smile.

“You asshole!” I said.

“Come on,” he said. “It was funny.”

“No, it wasn’t,” I whispered softly so he’d know I was serious. I dropped my register and changed my inflection to sound like him when he didn’t want an argument. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

“I think it was that bite of chimichuri.” He rubbed his stomach and smiled.

I didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile. Didn’t give him anything but ice cold anger.

He looked pensively at me, pressing his lips together, before he said, “I’m sorry.”

I was still shaken. I couldn’t forgive him. Not yet, and luckily I didn’t have to, because Leanne put a drink in my hand.

“Thanks,” I said.

“He’s a fucker.” For a fashion designer, Leanne usually dressed in clothes that were no more exciting than the average plain Jane’s, and to be honest, she was kind of a slob. But that day, her jeans were rippling with shades of blue and the creases in her hands were deep indigo.

I swished the drink. It was a yellow, juicy thing with ice. Behind me, Jonathan gladhanded and laughed.

“What happened to your hands?” I asked.

“We’re doing denim tie-dye in India.” She indicated her jeans, which went from deepest indigo to pale sky in irregular patterns.

“Hm,” was all I said.

“Not perfected yet, obviously. And it’s messing with the sideseams.” She grabbed her belt loops and yanked up her pants.

“God, I wish you’d brush your hair,” Margie said to Leanne from behind me.

Leanne’s bracelets jangled when she extended her silver-ringed middle finger at her sister. They tormented each other for a few more seconds, Drazen-style, and I twisted around to look for Jonathan. I found him chatting with Eddie and another guy, perfectly happy, no chest pain, arms gesturing without stiffness. He wasn’t having a heart attack.

As if summoned by my attention, he looked at me through the crowd and winked.

Asshole.

Gorgeous asshole.

I excused myself and went to the kitchen. Staff buzzed around, slapping the oven open and shut, speaking the language of waitstaff I knew all too well. Eileen Drazen stood by the sink in sensible tan pants and a jacket, throwing her head back as if she’d just taken a pill. She sipped whiskey and turned around.

“Hey,” I said. “How are you doing?”

I reached in the cabinet for a glass. She and I had met under terrible circumstances, and once I understood that, and she understood that I wasn’t after her son’s money, she was still made of ice. But at least she was only cold, rather than cold and dismissive.

“Fine. You?”

“I’m getting over the psychotic break I nearly had a few minutes ago.” I filled the glass from the fridge door.

“Yes. On the scale of inappropriate jokes, that was deep in the red. You should make him suffer for it.”

“Where’s Declan?” I wanted to avoid him. He’d laughed off the three-doctors incident as simple misinformation, and I didn’t have a fact to hold against him. Sure, he
could have
innocently told me three doctors exiting the operating room meant the patient had died because he’d thought it was the case. To a certain extent, it was true. But it had been two doctors and a patient advocate. So that was explainable. And he
might have
not known that the anesthesiologist was expected to sit through the entire transplant to manage the induced coma and, thus, would exit with the other doctors. Sure. It was all plausible. But his smile of satisfaction when I dropped? That was totally subjective and completely real.

So like the rest of his children, I simply didn’t trust him.

“My husband’s around.” Eileen waved her ring-thick hand. “Everyone is here somewhere. I lose count of all of them.”

“Have you seen Leanne’s jeans?”

I said it to get a reaction, and she shuddered as if it was scandalous. My mother-in-law was such a backward prude that sometimes I wondered if it was all an act to protect a burning sexuality.

“I think they’re cute,” I said, sipping my water.

“You would,” she said without reproach. “I’ve learned to stop concerning myself with my children’s tastes. They get away, and then, poof, they’re not your responsibility. They’re just people who invite you over for holidays.”

I nodded.

“How many does he want?” Eileen asked.

“Ten or more,” I said, putting my empty glass in the grey bus pan.

Eileen barked a little laugh. “Men.”

“Yeah.”

“They figure if they have the money for a staff, they can breed to their heart’s content.”

“You didn’t want eight kids?”

“I wanted seven. Though the eighth?” She shrugged with a smile. “He’ll do. It was nice to have a boy. Broke up the catfights over who used the last of the conditioner.”

I laughed. “Really? With all your staff? You ran out of conditioner?”

“Your husband was pouring it down the sink,” she said. “The joker. No matter how much Delilah bought, he dumped it or hid it.”

I caught sight of Eddie in a tan suit and red tie.

“Ed,” Eileen said. “Nice to see you.” They double-kissed.

“You too, Mrs. Drazen.”

I rarely saw Eddie Milpas in his social setting. He knew Jonathan from college, but to me, he was the guy in the engineering room who made everyone else nervous. So I nearly burst out laughing when he called Eileen Mrs. Drazen.

“Come to check on the catering?” Eileen asked.

“Came to steal away this lady,” he replied, cocking his head toward me.

“Do we have to talk about business?” I asked.

“If you’d call me back—”

“My cue to leave,” Eileen said. Without another word, she was gone, leaving me with Eddie and the constantly moving catering staff.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was going to call you on Monday.”

“Which Monday, exactly?”

“This coming—”

“Look, I know you have other things on your mind. So I’m not going to sit here and watch you fidget.”

I crossed my arms. “I’m not fidgeting.”

“Can I give you a piece of friendly advice?”

“No.”

“Professional advice then. One hundred percent free. Get yourself an agent to filter your damn calls.”

I laughed softly at the irony. That was exactly what I’d been trying to do when I met Jonathan.

Eddie continued, “If I wasn’t friends with your boyfriend—”

“Husband.”

“You’d miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime if I didn’t happen to be at this party.”

“Okay, you’ve got my attention.”

“Your EP is releasing in a few weeks. Right about then, Quentin Marshall is doing another charity song. Single cut. Wide distribution. Like the Christmas one for the drought in Australia. Everyone’s on it.”

“Everyone?”

“Everyone. Omar. Brad Frasier. The Glocks. Benita. The list will knock you over. They have a space for a girl act like you, but here’s the thing.”

My heart pounded. That did sound like something groundbreaking for my career. Being associated with big names like that could get my name out to people who had never heard of me. It could give me credibility and standing. And if it was a little after the EP came out, even better.

“Okay,” I said. “Tell me the thing.”

“They have to herd all these cats, and that means it could record on a dime any time between the fifteenth and the thirtieth, and the big names? Well, they call the shots. They get there when they get there. The less-established artists have to be ready to go.”

“I’m ready.”

“Can you fly to New York tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? New York?”

“Quentin Marshall? Hello?”

My throat went dry. I wanted to go. I wanted to get on a plane immediately and sit in the studio waiting for The Glocks to show up. I wanted to hear Omar sing in a studio. I could learn so much from that guy. He had a sound no one could emulate. If I could watch him, I was sure I’d pick up some tips.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You don’t know?”

“I have to ask Jonathan.”

He put up his hands. “Fine. You have until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is Sunday.”

“Music doesn’t take the weekend off.”

“Okay. I’ll call you by tomorrow night.”

“Noon. That’s the best you get. I have a line of people who would scratch your eyes out for this opportunity.”

“Monica,” Margie said, poking her head in. “We need you at the piano.”

I glanced at the counter before following Margie. The catering staff hovered over a cake, lighting thirty-three candles. It seemed like enough fire to burn the house down, but that was the point. A man who almost died at thirty-two deserved every single flame.

Stop
.

I needed to stop obsessing over the transplant. I’d given my worry a wide berth, as if it was insurance against something bad happening, but I’d let a healthy concern metastasize into a cancer. I had been perfectly happy letting it take over my life until I dreaded singing “Happy Birthday” because it sounded like a dirge.

I knew where the piano was from my last visit, when Sheila had insisted I play. I’d thought she was trotting me out like a trained monkey, which I resented for a few seconds, but once my fingers hit the keys, I realized what she’d done. I’d played “Wade in the Water” for his family, and music did what music does: it brought us together and gave us something to talk about. It was a way into our shared humanity. I’d loved music before I loved my husband, and it would outlast the two of us.

As I stroked out a scale in the parlor with thirty people in attendance, I let myself love it again. I caught Jonathan’s eye across the room. He was fingering an apple with his nephew David. I knew the positioning. Split-fingered fastball. David, at ten, was too young for that. I shook my head at Jonathan and took my hand from the keys long enough to wave my finger “no no” at him. He smiled, winked, and showed David the whipping motion that would get the ball to split, along with his nephew’s young tendons.