My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts) (20 page)

“Sure.” I walked to the door. I hadn't even told him about Dad yet. “Edward?” I called after him as he made his way toward the elevator.

He turned, but first made an obvious glance at his watch. “Yes?”

“Never mind. I can talk to you later.”

Chapter 16

[She ducks into the shadows.]

A
fter cleaning myself up and grabbing my stuff, including my new laptop, I arrived back at the hospital at 11:00 a.m. Dad had been moved to a room with a nice view. Kate and Mother sat on opposite sides of the bed, staring at a man who lay perfectly motionless, breathing shallow but steady. Neither noticed when I walked in.

“Hey.”

They turned. I tried not to let my jaw fall open when I saw Mother. I'd seen her look this terrible only one other time in our whole lives. Kate had started her rebellious streak and had disappeared. Mother was certain she'd been kidnapped. Turned out she'd just skipped town for the weekend with friends, but that was the longest weekend of my mother's life, and the only time I saw her stay in her pajamas all day without a stitch of makeup on.

To this day, Mother still talks about it like it was a kidnapping. And when Elizabeth Smart was kidnapped, my mother's only comment about it was how pulled together Lois Smart looked every day. “How can she get up and do her hair and face?” my mother remarked. “When Kate was missing, I could hardly get out of bed.”

I went to Dad's bedside. “How's he doing?”

“He's mostly slept,” Mother said. “The doctors said that's normal, and that they don't expect him to be awake much until tomorrow, or possibly this evening.”

Kate added, “He woke up one time, smiled at Mom and tried to give the thumbs-up, then went back to sleep.”

I watched him for any movement. Then I looked at Mother. “Kate, why don't you take Mother home to get changed and take a rest—”

“No, no. I'm staying here,” Mother said firmly. “He needs me.”

“Mother, I'll stay here. Go home for an hour or two, change clothes, take a shower. Get a little bit of rest while he's resting. You're going to need your energy once he starts recovering. You know he's not going to want to take it slow. You're going to have to make him.”

Mother glanced at Kate, who I noticed looked particularly sophisticated with her hair tied up in a messy French twist. She was even wearing close-toed shoes and a blouse that you couldn't see through. I made myself stop staring. “I'm not sure,” Mother said to Kate. Why was she asking Kate?

But Kate nodded authoritatively and reached across the bed for Mother's hand. “It's okay, Mom. Let Leah sit here for a while. You need to go home and get a bag packed for you both anyway. I'll come and help you. Leah's right.”

I tried to smile, but it was hard hearing that line come out of Kate's mouth.
Leah's right.
Of course I was right. Why did that need to be stated by the daughter who had suddenly decided to act her age?

Mother looked at Dad, then slumped in resignation. And my mother never slumped. She was a total mess. “All right. But Leah, you can't leave. I want someone here with him the entire time.”

“I understand. He'll be in good hands.”

“Mom, why don't you tell the front desk you're leaving, and I'll gather your things and meet you out there.”

Mother walked out the door, and Kate whispered, “He looks like he's on his deathbed!”

“Kate, he's been through major surgery. Of course he's going to look that way.”

“I don't know. I think the doctors aren't telling us everything.” She looked at him like he was already dead. Tears formed in her eyes.

“You're going to have to pull yourself together. Mother doesn't need either of us falling apart.”

“I know,” she said, placing a finger under her nostrils. “I know. Did you call Dillan?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He offered to help, said he'd pray for us, but I told him to wait until you called.”

“Okay. I guess I'll go. It should be pretty quiet here for a while. And I gave the press a statement earlier this morning, so they should leave you alone too.”

“The . . . the press?”

“A group of reporters with nothing better to do was lingering downstairs. Mom asked me to go take care of them.”

“Oh.”

Kate walked to the door but then turned back and asked, “In case I can get Mom to go to sleep, is there a certain time I need to be back here?”

“Back here?”

“I mean, do you have anything going this afternoon or this evening?”

“No . . .” I stopped, realizing that tonight was my celebration dinner with Cinco.

Kate waited as I hesitated. “Is there something?” she finally asked.

I glanced at Dad and closed my eyes, tightening my grip around the handle of my laptop case. Then I shook my head. “No, nothing.”

“Okay. Don't know when we'll get back. I'll try to call you.”

I nodded and took a seat. I hadn't brought Cinco's number with me. It was still in my bathroom drawer. I didn't even know what radio station he worked for. But Mangalos was only about ten blocks away from the hospital.

I decided not to think about it for now. Perhaps this was God's way of saying I shouldn't be anywhere near Cinco Dublin. Poor Dad, having to suffer a heart attack just to keep my social life straight.

I decided Dad wasn't going to wake up anytime soon, so I opened up my new laptop. I had to hand it to Edward— the computer was really nice. He'd even bought me a flash drive, and I'd had the presence of mind to transfer my play onto it before leaving for the hospital. Of course,
presence
of mind
was up for debate, as I was really trying to recover from J. R.'s emotional tongue-lashing.

I hated it
kept echoing from the four corners of my mind. Just days ago she'd liked it. Now she hated it. How could things have changed so quickly?

I uploaded my file and scanned the play as if I could assess where exactly I'd gone wrong by paging down at lightning speed.

I was a rational person, and so as diplomatically as I could, I retraced our conversation and tried to convince myself that I'd misinterpreted what J. R. had said. But fifteen minutes later, I realized there was really no misinterpreting
I hate it.
That said it all.

So with nurses coming in and out and my father oblivious to the world around him, I worked feverishly, trying to pinpoint the problem areas. Obviously, there was the small issue with lack of conflict, but it was done intentionally, and eventually the conflict would come. Maybe my literary experiment wasn't working. Or maybe I was fooling myself, and Elisabeth's speculation that I was a prophet had jarred my common sense.

“I'm not a prophet, I'm not a prophet, I'm not a prophet,” I whispered to myself.

“Leah?”

I jumped in my chair, just catching the laptop before sending it crashing to the ground. I whipped around to see Kate standing over me. “Oh, hi.”

Kate glanced over at Dad, then behind her, then said, “What were you saying?”

I clamped my laptop shut and stood. “It's nothing, just a writing exercise. You're back so soon?”

“Soon? We've been gone for four hours. I was worried it was too long.”

Four hours?
I looked at the wall clock. I couldn't believe the time had slipped away like that.

“How's Dad?”

“The nurses said he's doing fine. He hasn't woken up, but he stirred once or twice. How's Mother?”

“Much better now that she's had a chance to rest and apply rouge. She went to get some coffee. Look, why don't you take a break. You really look pretty awful.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yeah. Go home, maybe come back after dinner.”

Dinner. Cinco. My heart fluttered with indecision.

“Okay. Tell Mother I'll be back after dinner. But call me if anything happens.”

“I will.” Kate smiled, and for the first time in years, it was the smile I remembered from our youth. I felt tears strike my eyes and I turned away. Maybe it was the fatigue and the stress of the last few hours talking.

“I'll see you,” I said, walking out the door. I'd seen a flash of Kate's old self, and maybe, just maybe, I had Dillan to thank for that.

I went home, agonizing over what to wear, then agonizing over the fact that I was agonizing over what to wear. After the fourth application of eyedrops, I realized my eyes were just going to have to look tired. I was, after all, tired. I couldn't shake the excitement that kept buzzing through my body as I waited at Mangalos, a full fifteen minutes before we'd agreed to meet.

I stood outside the door and watched the attractive people enter the attractive restaurant. There were two voices going off in my head as I waited. The first was guilt. I was having dinner with a man and hadn't told Edward. I'd tried to tell Edward, but Edward seemed very uninterested in my life. But maybe that wasn't fair. After all, he'd dropped a couple of thousand dollars to buy me a laptop computer, which was supposed to solve the apparent premidlife crisis I was enduring.

I argued with guilt, defending my position. If not for Edward, I wouldn't be in this position in the first place. Edward had been the one insisting that I go to the stupid class. So I went. I conquered. Now I was celebrating. And that was all it was. A celebration dinner.

Guilt, however, was no match for Jodie Bellarusa, who was the second voice and in a particularly foul mood following this morning's conversation with J. R. She'd been snappy and sarcastic all day. She was often fond of playing the devil's advocate. She took a completely opposite stance of guilt, and as I stood quietly in the shadows, she got pushy.

Edward doesn't deserve to know about your escapades.

“Escapades!” I whispered. A few people glanced in my direction. I stepped deeper into the shadow of the building, until my back was against the wall.

All right. Maybe that's too harsh of a word. I meant “esca
pades” in a completely non-sinful sense. But if Edward thinks
the solution to all of your problems is that you need to drink
coffee that costs ten times as much as it does to make it at home,
maybe Edward needs a wake-up call. That's all I'm saying.

It wasn't often Jodie took my side. Mostly she ridiculed me, so I stayed silent to see what else she might have to say. But then I noticed him. He was taking long strides down the sidewalk, combing his hair with his hands.

He walked under the awning toward the front door, and as I stepped away from the building and into the soft light that illuminated the front of the restaurant, he spotted me.

His face looked both distressed and relieved. “Hi.”

“Hi there.”

“I thought I was running late.” He checked his watch. “I'm sorry.”

“You're not late,” I said. “I'm early. I was nearby, so it wasn't far for me to get here.” Lie number one. I'd gone home and I knew it. Who was I trying to fool? Actually, that was lie number two, because lie number one was that I didn't care what I was wearing.

He placed his hand on the small of my back and guided me in the door. I could smell his cologne. It made my knees weak. And the fact that my knees went weak made my heart flutter. And my heart fluttering made my cheeks flush. I tried to get a grip.

We were taken to our table, which had a nice window view, on the second floor of the restaurant. The room was filled with dusky light, and the candles were already lit. This was much more of a romantic setting than I had imagined.

Cinco pulled my chair out, waited for me to sit, then took his own chair. He smiled, and for the first time I noticed how straight and white his teeth were. They weren't overly white like they'd seen a bleaching tray. They just looked natural and clean.

He tilted his head. “You look a little tired. You okay?”

I blinked away my observations and focused. “It has been a long day. I'm . . . wrestling with the play I'm writing.”

“You write plays?” His face lit up with complete interest. It had become so much my toil and labor that I'd actually forgotten it was kind of an interesting aspect of my life. Maybe the most interesting aspect of my life. I was not all that interesting of a person apart from that.

“Yeah,” I said. “I had one that took off, but I've been struggling ever since.”

“What is your play about?”

It was a question writers loathe. Most people ask the question because it seems to be the one that should be asked of a writer. But most people's eyes glaze over as you begin to answer, because they really don't want to know. It's kind of like the literary form of “How are you?” Except there's no way to answer, “Fine.”

I waved my hand. “I'm not really sure yet. All I know is my character is named Jodie and she's an antiromantic.”

Cinco laughed. “An antiromantic. That sounds interesting.”

“You would think, but my agent doesn't really agree.”

The waiter brought us water and menus. “So, I've been wanting to ask you about your name. Every time I say it, I feel like I need to throw a fiesta and eat guacamole. Where did the nickname come from?”

“I insisted on a nickname when I turned ten, and it was actually my buddy who named me. He happened to be taking Spanish classes at the time. We thought it was pretty funny. My parents never liked it, and they still call me Rupert.”

“What does a string of Rupert Dublins do all their lives?”

“We've all been in journalism of some sort. My great-great-grandfather started a printing press, my great-grandfather took over the business, my grandfather started a newspaper from that printing press, and then my father became a journalist.”

“Then there's you.”

“Then there's me.” He smiled. “And my parents are still getting over the shock of me moving to radio. But they also see the importance. I'm lucky that they're supportive.” “I've tried to listen to your show before.”