Sweet Forty-Two (27 page)

Given the last time I’d seen Dr. Carver was when I was in his office stomping my feet like a sugar-crashing toddler, chatting with him before my mother’s procedure was awkward at best. The nurse had taken my mother back to do all of her vitals, and things of that nature, while Dr. Carver discussed what to expect during and after the minutes-long procedure.

I sat at his desk, in an office I’d never been to before. We weren’t at Breezy Pointe, which was nice on a superficial level. This office was more clinical. Sterile, with mock 1940’s Coca-Cola advertisements on the wall. Bizarre, I thought, given the obesity crisis the medical community rants about. Though, I suppose if you have someone in front of you who is literally losing their minds, offering them a Coke is the least you can do.

“Georgia.” He nodded, the way a principal might. Then he took a casual seat and fussed with his lab coat. His next lab was my mom’s brain. I wanted to burn the coat.

“Hi, Dr. Carver. How long will the procedure last?” I didn’t need him to retell the tale of why they were doing the procedure and what the procedure consisted of, or a discussion of why were incessantly calling it a
procedure
.

When people go in for most other procedures, they outline the parameters. Not here. Here, it was a
procedure
, because no matter how you sliced it, you couldn’t keep the
electro
out of the conversation.

“Just a few minutes.”

I knew how long it would last. As I said, I’d been doing my homework. I just felt the need to act like I gave a shit about what he said. Maybe my attitude wasn’t fair. He’d been an exceptional doctor to my mom, but he was still the one who was going to be zapping her brain. There are some things I just can’t look past in a person.

Procedure will last a few minutes.

Procedure.

She’ll be monitored in recovery for a couple of hours.

Go home.

Those were the highlights of the conversation. I couldn’t be in the room for a number of reasons, all of which prevented me from having to scream,
I don
’
t want to be in there.

So, I waited. I didn’t count ceiling tiles or entertain the fish in the oversized tank with my longing gaze. There was no playing around on my smart phone, because if it were so smart, it would transform into a portal through which I could escape. I didn’t want to be angry at my phone for not existing outside of reality, so I left it in my backpack.

“Georgia Hall?” The pleasant nurse who wasn’t much older than thirty had a calm smile on her face. Not an overly enthusiastic one. I appreciated the common sense of her facial muscles.

I flowed from sitting to standing in one overly graceful motion. One that I’m sure made it look like I was trying not to look as twisted up inside as I felt.

“That’s me,” I chirped. I was done trying not to seem anxious. I needed to let it all out before I saw my mom.

“Everything went well. She’s still coming out of anesthesia, so we can’t let you back yet. Did you and your mother discuss you going home before she was released?”

My ears got hot. “No ... why would I go home?”

The nurse tilted her head. “It might be a few hours before she’s ready to go home, and we won’t be able to let you back to see her for quite some time. You might want to go get food or something?”

I looked around, not having an answer. Not having a place to go, really. “I’ll stay here.”

I put enough conviction behind it that she didn’t try to encourage me again to leave. “Okay. Well there’s a deli two buildings down if you get hungry. Other than that, just make yourself comfortable, and we’ll be out to get you as soon as we can.”

“K...” I trailed off with a slight shrug. I’d hoped to be there when my mom came out of anesthesia.

Who am I kidding? I’d hoped not to be here at all. Once those expectations were blown, I didn’t bother forming new ones.

I shuffled back to my seat and took out my cell phone as a matter of
procedure
. There was no one I had to notify about how it went or how long we’d be. I did a double-take as I was about to slide my phone back into my bag. I had a text message. Tapping on the envelope icon, I noted a message from a number I didn’t recognize. Because I didn’t keep any numbers in my phone besides my mother’s. It was too risky, putting someone’s number in your contacts like you were going to let them stick around enough to be “tapped” for a phone call one lazy Sunday.

Hey
, the message started,
the food was a hit! All gone within the first half of our se
s
sion.

Regan?
I typed back.

Are you handing out baked goods anywhere else? Any black market I should be aware of? Bo would raid it.

I smiled. The little girl smile I mocked with an eye roll. It seemed Regan really did make me smile like I used to. And he made me smile even when I was doing that slow lazy fall like Alice did through the rabbit hole. The one my mother trained me to parachute through. People refer to it as a fast, velocity-hungry descent. It’s not. It’s slow, and you get drunk on too much time to think while you beg for the bottom. Still, I smiled.

No, no black market. I forgot I gave you my number.

I didn’t think I had.

You didn
’
t. Lissa did.

Fucking Lissa.

Fucking Lissa. She can
’
t keep a secret to save her life.

She really couldn’t. Which is why she didn’t know any of mine.

She put up a good fight, but I wore her down. I told her there was a leak in the apartment and your bakery was starting to flood.

I smiled again.
Crafty, Kane.

Thank you. So. Can we have more of your goodies? Like tomorrow. Or ... every day?

No. You can
’
t possibly appreciate it every day.

I appreciate everything every day.

Damn him. I knew he did, too.

Come on,
he cut in front of me,
please? They
’
re so good. The hippies are in love. Do you use organic ingredients?

I rolled my eyes.
Tell them yes.

It wasn
’
t them who asked. It was me. ;)

I chuckled out loud, my bitter exterior fading, peeling like old paint.

Still yes.

You
’
re lying.

What do you care?

I don
’
t want to die from pesticide-laden food.

Regan, I think the three cigarettes a day you think I don
’
t know you smoke will kill you faster than processed tapioca flour will.

My smile took over my full face. Once I knew his recording schedule, I’d watch him leave sometimes. You can tell a lot about a person by how they leave a place in the morning. He was someone who wasn’t at all convinced that mornings should exist.

Now you
’
re the crafty one, Hall. Won
’
t you be sorry when you
’
re wrong. My tom
b
stone will read
“
For the love of Tapioca.
”

I laughed out loud. An elderly man with his hand on a cane as he sat across from me looked up and smiled, too. I bit my lip and formed my response.

With a capital
“
T
”
?

Well, if it was the death of me, I
’
d say it
’
s important.

I
’
ll allow it.

Are you working at the bar tonight?

Yes.

Hmm. I
’
m coming. Let me play, too. Also, I
’
ll stay till close and then we can go back to your bakery and make more muffins. And cupcakes. I swear Bo has to shut up about the cupcakes. It
’
s like he grew up in an Amish household the way he
’
s carrying on about them.

You won
’
t get any sleep if you do that.

Trust me, I don
’
t need sleep. Baking that stuff keeps Ember and Willow from an MMA fight.

The power of food.

“Georgia?” The real-life voice sounded out of place in my ears. I’d spent the last half hour with Regan’s muddled Bostonian-Irish mashup flowing through my brain.

Brain.

Shit.

I looked up to find the same pleasant nurse with the rehearsed smile and precision head tilt standing in the doorway.

“You can come back with me, now.”

I stood. Smiled. Walked forward. Rehearsed.

We were all actors here.

I walked into E’s promptly at 9:00 PM. That wasn’t a time Georgia had told me to come. In fact, she never texted me back with confirmation of my request to come and play, and then to bake with her. No response at all even after a series of cheeky texts designed to make her smile. I know I couldn’t actually see if she smiled or not. But the thought of her smiling was reason enough.

Bo and Ember were going to be coming in later, a make up of our cancelled date last night when we’d all ended up in Georgia’s bakery for a couple of hours, openly processing Rae’s letter.

As I approached the crowded bar at E’s—a place just as crowded on a Monday as a Saturday—I was giddy for the first time in a long time. Baking with Georgia last night gave me direction and focus with a direct result. No waiting for an album to be cut, the results were immediate and delicious. Georgia’s back was to me as she was waiting on people a few tables away from the bar. I hopped—literally hopped—onto the last open stool and ordered a Guinness from a male bartender I hadn’t seen before. I always felt like they gave way more attitude than necessary. Maybe that was their schtick, like the women dressing the way they do.

“Here ya go, man.” With triceps that tried too hard, he set the beer down without looking at me. That’s the problem with young bartenders, too. They miss out on the stories around them while they’re too busy flexing their egos. Too busy to hear what people are drinking to remember ... or forget.

“Thank you. Do you guys have anyone playing tonight?”

“Nah.” He shook his head with an authority that would have made you think he’d just said an actual word. “Football season just ended, though, so maybe they’ve got someone soon. Why?”

I looked over my shoulder to find Georgia, but she was nowhere to be seen. Surely she’d seen me by now. I wanted to ask her about playing and not submit myself to this guy’s decision making.

“I brought my violin...” I started, but he stopped me.

“Oh, you’re Georgia’s friend, right?”

The word tasted like burnt coffee.
Friend
.

“I am.”

“She said you’d be in and you could set up whenever.”

“Oh,” I hesitated, looking around once more for her, “did she go home, or something?”

He shook his head. “Nah, she’s just in and out all night. Some family stuff to take care of.”

CJ said
nah
all the time, but when this guy said it I wanted to grab him by the collar and scream,
Please just take the time to form the word!
I would have pressed him for more information, but I actually thought he would give me what he knew, and if there was anything for me to know, I’d want to hear it from Georgia.

I was a little concerned, given she dropped out of our text conversation without a goodbye. She hadn’t told me about anything in particular going on with her mother, but there was no one in here I could ask about that, given I was under the impression no one else knew. Or, at least, knew as much as I did.

Just as I was spinning in a junior high blender of self pity, swirling with the word
friend
and my apparent insecurity, a hand landed in the middle of my back.

“Did Devin tell you it was okay if you played tonight?”

She smelled like almonds tonight.

I turned with a smile, which vanished as I studied her eyes. She’d been crying.

“What happened?” I ducked my head and whispered into her ear.

She shook her head. “Nothing, why?”

“You look like you’ve been crying.”

Her eyes flicked to the guy behind the bar, then to the floor, before back to me. It was fast, designed to escape my notice, I’m sure.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” I reached my hand out to touch her arm, but she took a step back.

“Can you play that song you were practicing the other night?” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, seeming to steel herself from whatever was happening in her eyes.

I shrugged. “Which one?”

“I obviously don’t know the name but it sounded like ... like birds weeping on a branch over a funeral service.”

I brought my hand to my mouth and close my eyes for a split second. The collision of her description of the song—which was so spot on I almost stopped breathing—and her specific request that I play it was overwhelming. It was the Chopin
Nocturne
that I’d played the day I brought CJ to Blue Seed Studios.

“Why? Why that song? It’s so...”

“Guttural.” Her voice was as flat as her eyes had gone.

I nodded. “Guttural.”

She shrugged. “I think sometimes the people in here need to hear what their problems sound like coming from your violin.”

We were clearly not talking about anyone else in the room, but I nodded, knowing her emotional limits. And mine.

“I’ll play it ... if you’ll tell me why that guy said you’re going to be in and out all night for
family stuff.
What’s going on?”

Georgia glared at the empty space behind my shoulder. “I’ll tell you if you leave it alone for now and wait till the bar closes.”

My nostrils flared as I took a frustrated breath. She didn’t give anything away easily. “I’ll leave it alone for now if you let me come bake with you when we’re both done here.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Just play it, okay?”

“Any other requests?” I slid away from the bar, violin case in hand.

She bit her lip and looked down for a moment. “Just one,” she said as she looked up, fresh pink in her cheeks.