The Repeat Year (23 page)

Olive smoothed Ed’s pillow. “He’s very sick, Mr. Dodge. The damage to his liver can’t be reversed. But if he stops drinking and with the proper medication and an improved diet, it may be controlled for a few more years.” She didn’t mention the transplant list because she didn’t want to raise his hopes for something she was almost certain would not happen.

Frank leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Relaxed, his face looked very similar to his brother’s. Same summer squash nose, same unruly eyebrows and full lips. She wondered if he was imagining a similar fate for himself.

She stayed longer than she should have, fiddling with Ed’s IV. She didn’t want to bump into Alex again, and there was something so peaceful about being in a room with two grown men, who were otherwise so boisterous and disruptive, fast asleep like tuckered-out toddlers.

In his sleep, Frank twitched his scruffy head like a dog. Beneath his reddish eyelids, his eyes tracked back and forth rapidly. He moaned something, and his lips opened just enough for Olive to make out the words. “I’m sorry,” he moaned. “I can’t.” And then again and again, slightly more gargled and desperate each time. “I’m sorry I can’t I’m sorry I’m sorry I can’t I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I can’t I can’t.”

Olive pressed her palm over her eyes and ducked out of the room.

Phil had left. Had he gone immediately or had he waited to see if Frank would cause any trouble? She walked around the ICU, which was shaped like half of a circle. Tina was pushing meds. Christine was sitting at her computer, monitoring the telemetry on her patients and drinking a cup of coffee. She smiled and said hello to Olive. Kevin was talking to a family with small children in his patient’s room. But many of the beds were empty, and while Olive knew this was a good thing, the dark rooms made the ICU feel bereft.

She came back to the point where she had started and sat down at her computer station. Frank was now snoring loudly. From her perch, she could also hear a chorus of steady beeps that filled the ICU. Machines working to regulate hearts and lungs. A constant cacophony reporting back the most secret workings of organs. Normally in such a moment, she felt like the grand conductor of those whirring, clicking, beeping, whooshing machines. Now she felt only Phil’s absence. She longed to call him back and have him simply listen to that dissonant orchestra of life. Perhaps then he would understand.

A hand cupped her shoulder, and she nearly leaped from her stool. Alex? Phil? But it was Tina, holding out the white paper bag. “You should eat,” she said.

“Thanks.” Olive set the bag on the desk but didn’t open it.

“So what do you think?”

For a moment, Olive thought Tina was psychic and could read all her innermost thoughts, but then she noticed Tina was gazing into Ed Dodge’s room with a tiny smirk. Tina was playing their game.

“Definitely a boxer, when he was in his prime,” Olive started, keeping her voice low in case Frank woke up. “They called him The Great Dodger. But he turned to the bottle when his wife left him for his biggest rival.” She immediately regretted this last speculation, wondering if it maybe contained a kernel of truth.

“Bah, is that all you’ve got? I’m pretty sure my lady in bed seven is the second cousin of the Duchess of Kent. You should’ve seen the sapphire studs she came in with, and when I overheard her daughter talking to Dr. Dominguez, she clearly had a British accent.” Tina was obsessed with the royal family and suspected at least a third of her patients of having connections of varying degrees to the throne.

Olive attempted a laugh. “Sounds likely.”

Tina turned to leave but stopped abruptly. “Look, Watson, it’s none of my business, but—” She put her hands on her hips, her face warring between fierceness and a look of apology. “He’s a good guy, Phil. Don’t let him get away.”

Chapter 17

O
live’s African violet looked sickly. It wasn’t blooming, and small brown spots flecked the leaves. She wasn’t doing a very good job of keeping her promise; she would have to water it first thing when she got to the condo and then find a window with good sun exposure for it. She placed the plant in a shoebox without a lid, carried it out to her SUV, and set it on the passenger seat. She stood there for a moment, hands on hips, wondering what she had done on this day last year.

By October, her life had been on a totally different trajectory. No Phil, no Kerrigan. Even her relationship with her mom had been stretched thin. She had had her job and her condo; it was clear to her now that she hadn’t had much more. It made her light-headed to think,
what if?
What if she hadn’t been given this chance to repeat the year? What if she’d continued on her set path, isolating herself more and more from the people she loved? Her whole life would have been tragically different.

And although she wasn’t diving in headfirst as her mom had recommended, moving in with Phil at least felt like getting her feet wet. She was trying to be brave. She was trying to be happy. But sometimes it was hard to trust her good fortune. She felt like she was on a whirling carnival ride, waiting for the floor to drop out from under her. And for some reason, every step she took forward with Phil seemed to leave Kerrigan a little further behind.

“I don’t know if this pizza cutter is yours or mine,” Kerrigan said, as Olive reentered the apartment. She was helping Olive pack by sorting through their hodgepodge of kitchen items, which had mingled together over the years. Cardboard boxes and plastic tubs were stacked everywhere; the whole apartment looked like a rummage sale in progress.

“I think it’s mine. But you can have it because—” Olive cut herself off. She had been about to say,
Phil already has one
, but something stopped her. “You use it more than me,” she concluded.

“Thanks,” Kerrigan said, and dropped the pizza cutter into a rectangular container. She rubbed her temples and yawned hugely, looking like a cat revealing the ridged roof of its mouth. “Ugh. I feel like a fire truck ran over my head.”

“A fire truck, huh?” Olive had heard Kerrigan stumble in around four this morning and had been surprised when she dragged herself from bed at eleven to offer her assistance. “How long have I been telling you to drink a couple of glasses of water before you go to bed? Alcohol dehydrates you terribly. Hence the hangover.”

“And how long have I been telling you that drinking even more at that point makes my stomach feel all sloshy? And there was that one time I wet the bed . . . yuck. It’s not worth it.” Kerrigan held up another cooking utensil. “I don’t even know what this is, so it must be yours.”

“It’s a lemon zester. I think it came as part of a set. You can put that in the Goodwill pile. I’ve never used it.” Olive sat on one of the bar stools. She peered into a box on the stool next to her. Kerrigan had carefully wrapped all her glasses and plates in paper towels. “Thank you so much for doing this. I was really running out of steam.”

“Sure.” Kerrigan kept her eyes on the jumble of whisks, spatulas, and wooden spoons in front of her. “I’m thinking of it as a kind of inventory, you know? An opportunity to take stock of everything before I make my next move.”

Kerrigan had already donated three boxes of purses, shoes, and University of Wisconsin clothing and paraphernalia to Goodwill, but Olive understood she meant taking stock of more than just handbags and cutlery. “Have you decided what you’re going to do yet?” she asked, with what she hoped sounded like an air of nonchalance.

“I’ve given up trying to find another roommate just for the sake of staying in this place, that’s for sure. I mean, look at it!” She gestured to the cheap metal cupboards painted brown to look like wood, the bare bulb with no light fixture covering it, the scratched and peeling pink linoleum. “It’s a total shithole. What possessed us to stay here for all these years?”

“We were too lazy to move?” Olive ventured, but she knew the real reason. It wasn’t the apartment that mattered. It was the home that she and Kerrigan had made together. “Listen, my offer’s still on the table. I’d be happy to contribute to the rent until you can find another place to move. It could take a while in this town.”

“Your money’s no good here anymore.” Kerrigan’s tone was playful, but her eyes were bloodshot and solemn. She massaged her forehead vigorously. “What do you think? Hair of the dog that bit me?” She opened the fridge and retrieved a bottle of beer.

“Some orange juice would be better. Maybe you should go back to bed and get some rest if you’re not feeling up to this.”

“Not feeling up to helping my best friend move?” She took a swig of beer and rifled through a half-filled box. She held up a white coffee mug and turned it around so Olive could read the familiar message in black type.
YOU ARE DUMB.

Olive laughed. “Do you remember who originally bought that? Didn’t Robin buy it for you as a gag gift for your twenty-first birthday? Or maybe Alistair bought it for me?”

“I don’t think it matters now. What matters is who gets to keep it. Who do you think needs it as a reminder more?” Kerrigan’s hands fluttered around the mug, displaying it like a game show prize to be won. “Me for making my same old mistakes and never learning? Or you for hiding from every mistake you’ve made and ever could make?”

Olive leaned forward on her stool, and it gave a disconcerting wobble. It was the one with the loose leg, the one she’d been meaning to report to their landlord but kept forgetting. She stood up. “Kerrigan, I’m sorry. I know I kind of promised you that I wouldn’t be moving out anytime soon, and I know it’s been a rough couple of weeks for both of us. I’m sorry if you think I’m being hypocritical—”

“Don’t bother saying you’re sorry unless it’s sincere. I’m not in the mood for another lecture disguised as an apology.” Kerrigan set the coffee cup down in exchange for her beer.

Olive knew Kerrigan was referring to last weekend, when Olive had come home from work in the early hours of the morning to find a half-dressed teenage boy smoking in their bathroom. Dark-skinned with black hair and full, perfect eyebrows: Kerrigan’s office crush. They had argued about him.

“Six years’ age difference is not that big of a deal. You act like he’s not legal,” Kerrigan had said.

“Nineteen and twenty-five is a world apart. Think of yourself at nineteen. And boys are even less mature!”

“Just say what I know you’re thinking. You think I’m loose. You think I’ll bring anyone home.”

“Of course not! I would never think that about you, and I’m sorry if you think that. I’m not trying to judge. I’m just worried, is all.”

“If you’re worried about his feelings, don’t be. He knows this isn’t a relationship.”

“And what about your feelings? Do you think this is healthy for you? Where is this coming from, Kerrigan? Is it because I’m moving out?”

Kerrigan had whirled around to face her with the terrible force of a tornado. “Contrary to what you think, Olive, not everything is always about
you
.”

“I know that. I just thought that— Never mind. But what if your coworkers find out? What if he spills the beans? You’ll get fired.”

“Oh, I forgot I was the only one who ever had an affair with a coworker,” Kerrigan had taunted, and this had ended their conversation. But Olive hadn’t seen the boy at their apartment since.

She walked around the kitchen counter. “I am sincerely sorry that I’ve hurt you. I guess I earned that mug.”

Kerrigan handed it to her. “Don’t you forget it. You know, Olive, I’m not a naïve child who thought we would live together until we were little old ladies wearing dentures and Depends. I knew it was only a matter of time until you and Phil wised up and moved in together. I just thought the circumstances would be a little different when it happened.” She let out a world-weary sigh.

“I know. But we’ll still be best friends. And it’s a brand-new start for both of us.”

“Sure it is.” Kerrigan looked like she was going to say something more but changed her mind. She turned away and began sorting through the drawer of dish towels.

“I’m going to take another load to the condo. Do you want to come along?” Olive asked.

“No, thanks. I’m kind of on a roll. I think I’ll stay here.”

Olive’s heart sank. In her mind’s eye, she saw her friendship with Kerrigan getting packed away and shelved in some dusty corner, as it had last year. Stored like some object she was tired of or a gadget that had no practical purpose, instead of one of the most meaningful relationships in her life. While on the surface Kerrigan was doing all the things a good, supportive friend would, there was a razor-sharp bitterness just below her exterior.
You’re hiding from every mistake you’ve made and ever could make.
Clearly it wasn’t just the move that was upsetting her. Her self-destructive behavior and resentment of Olive had started earlier. It had started when Kerrigan found out about her repeat year. In her eyes, it must have seemed as if the universe had cast judgment on them: Olive had been singled out, Kerrigan had not. Olive wished she had never told her the truth.

Despite herself, she enjoyed the drive to the condo. It was a warm day, and she drove with her windows down. Some of the trees had already started changing color: russets and bronze, purples and scarlet. The sunlight and everything it touched had a golden quality. All her worries were carried out the window on a cross breeze. The moment was filled with pure and utter potential.

Brian’s red pickup truck was parked in the driveway; the truck bed was empty except for a few ragged blankets. Brian and Jeff had been helping Phil move the heavy furniture all morning: bookcases, dressers, the oak entertainment center. She hurried inside to greet them—the African violet’s pot balanced in one hand—and found that the condo was empty. Phil had left a note.

Went to get a game of Ultimate going at the Arb. Be back around 5:00. Love, Phil.

She walked through the house still carrying the African violet. The guys had moved the furniture pieces into their designated rooms and created a mountain of boxes in the otherwise empty dining room. The pile almost reached the dangling gold light fixture. It was too soon to feel like home, but there was something
right
about this place. Olive had felt it the first moment she and Phil crossed the threshold. They belonged here. It was almost as if the condo had been reserved specifically for them, and in a way, it had been. Phil had heard about the place through his principal, whose son and daughter-in-law had lived there and were moving to Boston for a job change. The condo, which wouldn’t have lasted long on the market because of its convenient location in a well-to-do neighborhood, had never even been listed.

Her heels clicked on the hardwood floors, and the noise reverberated off the bare walls. She set the African violet on the kitchen counter next to the sink and then opened the cabinets below. No watering can, of course. And no cups or glasses, either. She settled for turning the faucet on at a slow drip and letting the water trickle into the soil. The room with the best sunlight was the living room, but the windowsills weren’t wide enough to hold the pot. She struggled to lift and maneuver one of the end tables to position it under the window. In the direct sunlight, her plant looked even more lackluster.

Her cell phone rang. She clattered through the rooms of the condo, trying to trace the amplified sound of her ring tone and remember where she’d dropped her purse. She found it, just in time, on top of one of the boxes in the dining room.

“Hello?” she answered, catching her breath.

“Hi,” her mom said. “How’s the move going?”

“Good. Most of the big furniture is in now. We’re still packing up some of the minor things at my apartment. Books, knickknacks, kitchen stuff.”

“Only you would consider kitchen stuff ‘minor.’ Well, let me know if you need an extra pair of hands packing or unpacking. I’d be happy to help.”

“Thanks. What are you up to today?” Olive leaned against the window and watched a man walk his golden retriever down the street.

“I made banana bread this morning, and I’m taking some over to Sherry Witan’s. It’s her favorite.”

“Sherry? When—right now?” Olive sat down on a tall box marked
DVDS ANIMAL HOUSE THRU GHOSTBUSTERS II
. Phil’s collection.

“Yes. Would you like to come along?”

She hesitated. Sherry brought up a whirlwind of emotions: grief and frustration, sorrow and anger. Olive didn’t understand how a grown woman could be so petty and immature. She’d walked away from Olive, shut the door on her, never returned her phone calls. All for suggesting she call her son? Olive had wanted to help Sherry through this year, the same way that Sherry had extended an offer of help and guidance. But then she had completely turned her back on Olive.

“Can I?” she asked in a small voice. In spite of all this, she still wanted to see her.

“Are you at the condo? I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Maybe you can give me the grand tour before we go?” She’d seen the condo briefly several weeks ago, when they’d been considering making an offer, but the previous owner’s furniture had still been in place then.