The Light of Day (6 page)

              I nod.  “I won’t mess with her, Murph.  I would never do you like that.”

He stares at me for a minute and then he grins, quick and lethal.  “Shit, Jake, I’m going to miss you.  Let’s go get me married then, so I can send you off with one hell of a party.”

              And just like that, the son of a bitch is happy again.

Chapter Ten

Cora

Everything is choreographed and scheduled down to the last minute.  The bride and groom have said I do and kissed each other senseless.  We’ve processed back down the aisle to the side of the golf course, taken all of our photos and been ushered into the dining area to mingle and enjoy cocktails and hors d’oeuvres while Ryan and Mia finish up their final photos.

It was a relief to be released for a while, since I’d been paired up with Jake so the Scientist and Max could stand next to each other after the original procession.  Standing there pressed against him, his broad chest against my back as we smiled for the group photos was almost too much.  Not that he acted any differently.

When we were taking the photos, he was relaxed and happy, and now that we’ve been freed he’s removed his jacket (an act which I can only hope Auntie Mags skins him for) and is talking intently to Ryan’s sister, Caitlin, and Mia’s brother, Joshua, the other Murphy/Evans love affair.

He hasn’t tried to talk to me once, only making funny little comments as Auntie Mags and the wedding coordinator fluttered around us making certain we were all put together perfectly for each photo.  When we were finished, he squeezed my shoulder, gave me a small smile, and walked a little bit away to where he is now.  He never even mentioned living together, and goddammit, wasn’t it his idea?

To say I need a distraction is an understatement of epic proportion.

Even after my run this morning, I haven’t been able to clear my head enough and rationalize why Jake living with me is the worst idea on the planet.  I mean, the boy screams player and I just got out of the game.  Wouldn’t living with him be like settling a sugar addict in a cake shop and telling her good luck?

              Which prompts me to wonder if cake can be that horrible for you.  I mean, really, is sugar the worst addiction a person can have? It’s not crack.

              Christ, I’m even attacking my analogies.

              When my father steps up next to me, I wish fervently that I was still outside suffering the tortures of the photographer, wedding planner, and Auntie Mags.  At least then I was simply expected to do as I was told without responding.  One look at my father’s face tells me he won’t be as easy to be around.  Which is promptly followed by feelings of guilt for being such a bitch.

              He’s not a bad man, he simply had the bad luck to be flexible in a marriage where his partner was anything but.  As a result, we both suffered, and after a while, that suffering was no longer something we bonded over.

              “Cora, you look beautiful.”  He leans in to kiss my cheek and I keep my hands clasped in front of me, though I tilt my chin for him.

              He steps back and for a second I’m thrown into the past and the memories of the many social functions my mother dragged us to.  I would stand in the corner and pout, wearing whatever hateful and overly fussy dress she had forced on me, vowing revenge on her for plunking me down in her social life as a prized pony and then ignoring me.  Before long, my father would sidle up to me, hand me a Shirley Temple and stand next to me.  We’d never really speak, no more than a comment here or there, but by the time he walked away, I was no longer unhappy.

It went on like that until I got old enough to stop caring what my mother wanted, which was about the exact same time she stopped caring what I did.  My father never stopped caring what she wanted, and in the end, he chose her and I chose to go my own way.  The road back has been hard on both of us.

              Tonight he looks almost as I remember him, though, dashing as ever in his perfectly tailored suit, his brown hair now almost fully gray.  Though he’s just over sixty, older than many parents of kids my age as I was the one and only baby my mother conceived and kept from giving up in the womb after years of trying, he’s an attractive man, with a strong jaw and broad shoulders, a long frame that he handed down to me.  The only real difference comes from the fact this his normally content face is much thinner with deep lines, that weren’t there even last year, etched into it.  And still, he smiles at me.  I don’t know if it’s that or something else that prompts me to speak first.

              “How is she?”

              He doesn’t flinch, but his smile falters a bit before he clears his throat.  “As good as can be expected, I guess.  You know your mother.”

              “Not really,” I say and feel like a child.  Since it’s the truth, I refuse to feel badly about saying it.

              He clears his throat again.  “She just finished a round of tests with the doctors again, blood work and all of that.  They’re still trying to pinpoint the exact stage she’s in based on memory loss, gaps in social habits and other things in order to complete her overall timeline.  They say this will give us a clearer view of expected years.”

              It takes me more than a minute to process his words, and finally it hits me.  Expected years.  Life.  My mother isn’t battling a disease anymore; there is no battling this.  What she’s battling for is time, for life.  And it’s a battle she knows she’s ultimately going to lose.

              Almost two years ago, my mother was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s disease.  The only reason it was even detected was because she went in for her routine physical and her doctor discovered there were holes in her answers; lapses of time where she was fuzzy, incomplete in her memories of what had happened.  When he asked if she’d had a concussion recently, she couldn’t answer him.

              This led to tests which led to more tests and finally, at the end of it all, their diagnosis was confirmed: early onset Alzheimer’s, a disease that is usually fatal within ten years of the first sign.  Only, those estimated years don’t take into account the actual living years for the person suffering.  They don’t explain what it’s like to live with someone who’s so afraid of not remembering you, she chooses to forget you before her mind does it for her.

              I haven’t seen my mother in almost a year, not since right before I went to rehab and she was beginning her slow transition away from the world and into solitude.  I was broken from the divorce, devastated from the failure I felt surrounded every choice I’d ever made, and she was the person to tell me that being disappointed was what living was about.  She looked right at me and I knew what she wasn’t saying: I had disappointed her, so it was only fitting that life handed some of that back to me.  And then she walked away, just like Rafe, and I decided giving up on life was easier than feeling as useless and unwanted as I felt at that moment.

              Looking at my father now, all these months later, I wonder what it’s been like for him to watch the woman he’s loved and cared for his entire adult life, fall victim to her memories, growing angrier with every one that fades.

              “I’m sorry,” I say and feel like a failure.  I don’t have the words to express what I feel; an inherited trait from the very woman we’re speaking of.  My mother could never talk to me unless it was to tell me exactly what I was lacking, and I had followed suit.  By the time I turned eighteen, we could go days on end without uttering so much as a word to one another, and if one slipped through, it was always hostile.

              My dad doesn’t call me on my absent response, though, he just nods.  And then, as if he’s just remembered who I am, he reaches out and places his hand on my shoulder.  It’s a small gesture, one that shouldn’t hold so much weight, but in my family, touching — like communicating — isn’t something we do.

              “I’m sorry, too, Cora, for a lot of things.”  He clears his throat and drops his hand, sipping from the glass he holds in the other.  “Margaret tells me Mia’s moving back home.”

              He doesn’t ask and I get the feeling it’s because he doesn’t think he has a right to, but I can sense the question that statement prompts: will you be all right by yourself?

              I nod.  “Next month, actually.”  He nods and sips from his water again.  I clear my throat this time.  “I’m thinking of moving back to Portland.”

              His expression clears for just a second, but in that timeframe I see what appears to be genuine happiness on his face before he schools his features back into quiet interest and he’s just a polite stranger again.  It’s odd how for that small space of time, I wanted him to be happy that I was moving back, and more, I wanted to throw my arms around him and tell him how sorry I am.  For nothing, for everything, just, sorry.  But I don’t and we move on from the moment.

“Will you be moving next month as well, then?”  I nod.  So does he.  Then he takes a deep breath.  “You know you’re more than welcome to move back… we haven’t changed your room.  It’s there if you want it.”

              Uncomfortable, I nod my thanks.  “I’m actually going to live with someone.  A friend, sort of.  He’s more like Ryan’s friend, but he’s moving, too, so we thought it would be a good idea to go together.”

              My dad’s nodding before I finish speaking, his head punctuating each of my words.  “Of course.  Well, it will still be good to have you close.  We’ve, uh, we’ve missed you.  I’ve missed you,” he says, and I hear the sincerity in his voice.

Wishing again that I was more, that I could give him more, I reach out and touch his arm, waiting until his eyes meet mine.  “I’ve missed you, too, Dad.  I’ll come by the house when I get there.  We can have dinner and you can tell me about the new mansion Uncle Tommy has commissioned you to build.”

“I’d like that.”

A few minutes later, the bride and groom are announced and I say goodbye to him before walking over to take my place around the dance floor and watch them.  They’ve chosen something old for their song, with a hint of blues to it, and while the female vocalist croons about never letting go, I watch the couple sway.  Mia chose a simple strapless dress in white, with an empire waist and sweetheart neckline.  The sweetheart top is lightly jeweled, separated from the skirt with a sheer white band, and the skirt is full and flowing without a train.  Her hair is pinned back from her face with a Swarovski hair comb that was our grandmother’s, and then left to flow down her back in heavy waves.  She’s a vintage princess, elegant in her simple dress and hair.

Ryan went for a tie instead of a bow tie with his tux, and the slim fit of the jacket makes him look twice as sexy as normal.  Together, they make a breathtaking couple, only more so when his fingers slide from her waist to lose themselves in her hair while he brings his forehead to hers.  It’s such an intimate moment I almost feel like the rest of us are intruding.

“She really is an angel,” Jake says in my ear and I hate that goose bumps pop out over my skin.  “Though, I have to say with everything I’ve heard by way of wedding torture stories, I’m not understanding the rumor about ugly bridesmaids.”

I smile because it’s true.  Our dresses are strapless tea length champagne silk that nip in at the waist and flare out into a skirt.  Auntie Mags almost had a coronary when Mia told her we weren’t wearing floor length, but that didn’t stop Mia.  Just as she didn’t give in to the heavy pressure to have the wedding somewhere more formal or somewhere exotic.  She and Ryan met in Verrado, that’s their place, that’s where they wanted to be married.  While I myself would rather be on the beach, I can appreciate her sentiment.

When the bride and groom dance ends, the father daughter dance begins and I watch as Uncle Thomas takes Mia’s hand formally and begins to waltz her expertly across the floor.  Halfway through, Ryan bows to his mother lavishly before leading her onto the floor.  Soon, the rest of the wedding party is joining, another request of the bride and groom that was met with parental resistance at first.

At his cue, Jake holds out his hand to me.  “It’s our turn, Blue, what do you say?”

I nod, having known this moment was coming.  When we’re on the dance floor, I try to ignore the heat from his body, and his smell, as they wrap around me and draw me closer to him.  Something about Jake makes me want to lay my head on his shoulder and let him take the lead — or just take me, which is as dangerous an image as it is a delicious one.  Even when I was having sex I didn’t think about it this much.

“So, have you thought about living with me yet?”

For the last twenty-four hours straight
.  “A little.”

He smiles but lets my lie go.  “Come to any conclusions?”

“That it’s the worst idea on the planet, not just because we hardly know each other, though that’s definitely one of the reasons.”

“Worst idea on the planet? You’ve heard of our recent health care issues, right?”

I glare at him.  “Then there’s that.  Can you take anything seriously?”

“Maybe I would if you didn’t take everything so seriously.  Come on, Blue, lighten up.  I get that you’re hesitant because you have a hard time resisting me, but I promise to respect your boundaries while they’re there.”

“You say that as if they’ll be disappearing.”

“I said respect them, not give up getting around them.”

My laughter escapes before I can contain it.  Dropping my head on his shoulder, I let it come because it feels right and denying the decision I’ve already made is pointless.  I feel good about the idea of living with Jake — though I know it’s bound to be a stupid choice.  Right now, the thought of going home alone isn’t appealing, but the thought of reclaiming my city and having Jake there to help, or at least distract me,
is
.