I Like You Just Fine When You're Not Around (22 page)

“All right, you two. That's about enough.” Dr. Jenson strode down the hall, his white lab coat snapping around his thighs. Tig and Wendy stopped speaking. Dr. Jenson frowned. “This is not the place for this; you both know better. You're upsetting the other residents.”

Wendy scoffed and mumbled, “Other residents.”

Dr. Jenson trained a disapproving gaze on Wendy and said, “Yes, Wendy. Tig has been performing a very valuable service here at Hope House. We have been collecting data on family impact in a healthcare situation, hoping this pilot will underscore the need for more data.”

Tig cocked her head, all but sticking out her tongue at her sister. Dr. Jenson caught the movement. “Tig, I'm surprised at you. You, better than anyone, know we need peace and stability, not stress and strife in our hallways. If you have an issue, bring it to the conference room.” The two women dropped their heads and gazed at the carpet. “Your mother always said there were no two people who loved each other more than you two, as long as you weren't in the same room.”

Tig started to explain. Dr. Jenson put his hand up. “I heard what this was about all the way down the hall; I certainly don't need a reprise.”

“We all heard.” Fern made her way forward from her own doorway.

Dr. Jenson smiled. “Mrs. Fobes. Good to see you up and around.”

“Thank you, Dr. Jenson. I'll take it from here.” Then, with a wry smile, she said, “Did I not say this would happen? I told you so.”

Apparently happy to go back to the comfort of science and prescription pads, he said, “Time will say nothing but.”

Tig opened her mouth to call after him, but Fern said, “Listen, neither one of you is thinking straight.” Fern wheeled herself between the two women. First, she addressed Wendy. “You can't come in here and yank Clementine out of your mother's hands and your sister's responsibility without so much as a second's consideration to what you will leave behind. For heaven's sake.” Then she angled her chair closer and said, with the gentleness of age and understanding, “Tig, you didn't really think you could keep that baby forever, did you? She's not a kitten. And she has a mother.” Fern gave Wendy a thin-lipped grimace, adding, “Albeit a challenged one.”

Tig took a breath and snuck a sorry, protective peek at her sister. While Wendy had gotten her hair cut and colored and was dressed in real clothes, Tig could see her weight loss and the patches of eczema on the back of her hands that always showed up in times of stress.

With both authority and tenderness, Fern addressed Wendy. “Go on in there and spend some time with your mother and your child. Watch Clementine in another person's arms. Get to know her before you claim her. Once Hallie's asleep, you can take her and nurse her if you like. Plan to spend the night. It's going to be a long one for everyone.”

She rolled her chair back. Looking between the two sisters, she said, “I'm going to take myself back home now. You two make up and don't make me come out here again. Tig, honey, when you're done, I need you to do something for me in my room.” Fern propelled herself over her threshold.

Wendy said, “I don't think she likes me much.”

“I suppose not much yet. But she will. Everyone likes you.”

The words sat between them like a special delivery package of undeserved kindness. Wendy asked, “Do you think Clementine does?”

“Likes you?”

“Remembers me?”

“Don't be stupid, Wendy. Just show her your boob and all will be forgiven. It's called the mother advantage.”

Tig walked to Fern's room. “The bio on your door says you were a labor relations specialist, but I could never picture it until now.”

Fern wrestled the black gloves she always wore off her hands. She had her teeth involved and was clearly losing the fight. She straightened and gestured for Tig's help. “I was never a labor relations specialist.”

“What?” Tig said. “That's what your biography says. Labor relations specialist, accountant, and community theater actress.”

Fern grunted a little as Tig pulled at one of the fingers on the gloves. “I was a homemaker. For that job, you have to be skilled at mediation, finances, and acting if you're going to succeed at marriage and motherhood. I put in the time. Can't I be a little creative with my history?”

“Sure. I guess. But why?”

“The generation that works here, they value titles, experience, and achievement. I may not have been the CEO of my own accounting firm, but I want them to wipe my heinie like I was.”

Tig pulled the glove free and gasped at the swollen shiny surface of Fern's hand. “Fern. What happened to your hand?” It had the pale, waxy appearance of a mannequin's hand. Tig tried to warm it in hers.

“Correction, hands. And feet, abdomen, chest and legs.”

Fern continued cataloging her affected areas: “Esophagus, colon, and lungs, too, if you really want an inventory.”

Tig held Fern's hands and pressed them together between hers. “What is it? What do you call this?”

“Scleroderma, the diffuse form.” When Tig shook her head slightly, not comprehending, Fern said, “It doesn't sound that bad, does it? Like a little ointment might do the trick. But it's a nasty disease.”

“Tell me,” Tig said, still trying to warm Fern's fingers.

“You know when you have a pencil with one of those hard erasers? Like it's old, no longer flexible? Always rips the paper when you try to use it and leaves crumbles behind?”

Fern waited for Tig to nod, and continued. “That's what my body is turning into. A hard, thick, band of connective tissue. It has something to do with autoimmunity.”

“What does it mean, Fern?”

“What do you think it means, dear heart? I am going to die from it. Probably sooner rather than later—from complications.” Fern rolled her eyes to the ceiling and said, “God, at least I hope sooner. I just have a few more things to take care of and then I'm checking out.”

“You don't mean that.”

“Well, yes, I do.” Fern patted Tig's hands and did a pretty good impression of John Wayne in his cowboy incarnation. “There are worse things than dyin', missy.”

“No, don't joke. I didn't know.”

“You're just like Alec. He's got this constant cheerful ‘life is good' goal. I got news for you kids, sometimes life is lame and that's just the way it is.”

Tig started to speak, but Fern interrupted her. “I called you in here to get you out of your sister's way.”

Surprised by the hairpin turn, Tig swallowed hard. “I thought you were on my side.”

“Oh, I am. And I'm also on Hallie's, Clementine's, and Wendy's sides because—and you already know this—we're all on the same side. That's what Dr. Jenson's been trying to accomplish here, in his own tortured, noncommunicative way.” Fern clicked her tongue, “Men. I swear. I spent my life wishing I could live in a menses hut like they did in biblical times. No men. Just nurturing women all speaking the same language. Lucky me, I finally get to do that. A nursing home is essentially a post-menopausal hut, but it's run by a man.” She shook her head in disgust.

Tig smiled.

Fern said, “Have you figured him out yet?”

“Figured who out? Who? Pete?”

Fern, without changing her expression, appraised Tig for a long moment and changed the subject.

“Did I tell you? Alec took me over to Erin Ann's school the other day. She goes to that Lutheran day school. They had a Grandparents and Special Person morning. It was lovely. We had homemade
lefse
and
krumkakke
. Erin sang this song, ‘My God is an awesome God; He reigns from heaven above.'” Fern waved one damaged hand over her head. “I don't remember the rest. Erin likes to change the words and, you know how badly she wants a dog; she sang, ‘My dog is an awesome dog.'” Fern smiled and said, “One of the teachers got really mad about it. Pulled Alec aside and told him Erin needed more ‘limits at home.'”

“Oh, brother,” Tig said.

“Right. You know what Alec said to her? He said, ‘You don't think it's limiting enough to lose your mother at seven?' Then he said, ‘If my daughter finds something funny in a day overshadowed by loss, she can sing any damn thing she wants.'” Fern whooped. “Oh, you should have seen her face.”

Tig smiled. “That's fabulous. Alec's a great dad.”

“When we left that afternoon, I saw that teacher get into a car with license plates that said SUPA MOM. Now, Alec sings ‘My dog is an awesome dog' to Erin whenever she's stressed and he wants to let her know he loves her just the way she is.”

“Here, Fern, let me help you into bed, get your feet up and warm.”

“No! You aren't paying attention. SUPA MOM is caught in the trap of rules and rights. You're in that trap, Tig. Say what you want about your sister. She did what she had to do, let it be dammed how it looked or what people thought. She saved herself so she could be a mother.”

Tig shook her head. “But she left in the night. She was a coward.”

“So we don't agree with the mechanics of how she did it. But she wasn't a coward.” Fern wrapped her hands in her lap robe. “When Clementine hears the story later in her life, I hope she hears that her mom was willing to do the impossible, which was to put herself first so she could be better for others. She can be a narcissistic little snipe, your sister. I hardly know her, but I know that much. Still, she's smarter than you in some ways.”

Hurt, Tig stood and withdrew, putting her chair back next to the chest of drawers.

Fern tilted her head in concession. “Sorry. I'm not mad at you. I just don't have a lot of time to mince words anymore. Just call the nurse; it's her job to put me to bed. And you go find my son; he needs a kick in the butt, too.”

From the doorway, Tig watched as Wendy shut off the overhead light above their mother's bed and lifted her child to her breast. Clementine drowsily raised her hand to her mother's face. Wendy guided the tiny hand to her lips and kissed the pudgy fingers. Clementine finally settled her fingers on her mother's nose. It wasn't a Mary Cassatt
Mother and Child
. It was better. More real. One might want perfectly placed reunion kisses, but sometimes a nose-hold will have to do.

Tig stepped from the voyeur shadows. “I'm heading back to my house for the night. Let you guys get reacquainted.”

Holding Clementine's gaze, Wendy nodded.

“I'll be back tomorrow. Come on, Thatcher. Let's go.”

Thatcher wagged her tail without lifting her head.

“Oh no, you're not staying; you're coming with me, you old traitor.” To her sister, she said, “Mom's been feeding Thatcher off her dinner tray.” Tig added, “The diapers are under the bed and the bottles are . . . .” Tig didn't finish her sentence. “Never mind, you don't actually need the bottle, do you?”

Wendy said quietly, “I've been pumping like mad for this moment, and I'm talking a really low level of med . . . .” she stopped, looked at Tig and reached for her hand. “Thank you, little sister.”

Tig squeezed Wendy's hand. “If Mom wakes, give her Clementine.”

• • •

At home, Tig woke with a start, fumbled for Clementine, and came fully awake to her aloneness. She peered at her clock: 3:16
A.M
. She propped herself up with pillows against her headboard and looked around her bedroom, the only place mostly untouched by either her mother or Clementine. It was not a perfect haven, though, with Pete's memorabilia scattered around the room. Before, when she took inventory of his things, they felt comforting, like maybe he'd just left for a run and would return sweaty but calm. Now, they stuck out as harbingers of what she'd lost being stubborn and refusing to deal with her feelings or lack of feelings for him. A Milwaukee Brewers baseball cap dangled on the bedpost, and a pedometer lay on her dresser next to an entry form for the Chicago Marathon, now only a couple of months away. The walls of her bedroom were pumpkin-colored, and when she and Pete had painted them, they had joked that they would dream in cinnamon and clove and wake up craving pie.

On impulse she grabbed her phone and dialed. As it rang, she glanced at the clock. It was after ten
P.M.
in Hawaii. His phone was sure to be off, given Pete's early bedtime, but Tig waited anyway, just to hear his voice. He always sounded like he was just about to tell a joke or start laughing in his voicemail message. Tig remembered reading an article about how just hearing your lover's voice could provoke endorphin release and feelings of well-being.

A woman's voice said, “Hello?”

Tig snapped the phone shut, checked to see if she had dialed correctly. It was one thing to lose Pete to Hawaii, but quite another to lose Pete to a Hawaiian girl. Surely a beauty, a surfer with muscular thighs and hair thick with sea foam. A Title Nine catalog model with lean biceps and teeth as straight as a row of white corn. She grimaced and screwed her face into an expression where tears would surely follow. Dry-eyed, she searched for the photo she now kept under her mattress and pulled it out. She studied Pete's unguarded face, his scruffy beard, his angular jaw. There it was, in the pit of her stomach: regret. A knobby macadamia nut of longing, but for what? For Pete? For his uncomplicated view of a life comprised of eating, exercising, making love, and working?

She dropped the photo onto the bed. How quickly he'd found her substitute. He'd once said Tig was his home. His home apparently was an Airstream or Winnebago motor home, not one of substance, of roots or staying power. She touched her lips and thought of Alec. He felt more solid, dependable. Could she be attracted to both sides of the coin? Was this why she couldn't get a handle on her feelings for Pete?