The vow, p.20
The Vow, page 20
“I appreciate why you’re asking, but my lawyer’s on her way.” I cross my arms and glare at the guard and the nurses. “I don’t suppose you want to make it easier on all of us and honor both the Hippocratic oath and the moral imperative that we all should do the right thing and treat my dad?”
It’s a pretty tense forty-eight minutes, especially when Dad needs to go pee. The little girl who was in one of the stalls when Dad and I walk in shoots out like a mouse fleeing a barn cat when Dad starts moaning and whamming his hand against the side wall.
But true to his word, Steve does show up, and Abby’s walking right next to him. Apparently it took her eight minutes to get dressed in that suit, and judging by the look on the nurses’ faces, it was worth every second it took.
The old guard backs away slowly, heading for the door to the staff entrance.
Abby strides toward them like she owns the place, her head held high, her eyes alert, her hair pristine. Her black business suit molds to her body but isn’t clingy. It’s backstitched with bright white thread, and her shoes are high black stilettos with white heels. She nods as she passes me, brushing past the nurses, and heads directly for the check-in counter.
“My name is Abigail Brooks, a lawyer with Chase, Holden, and Park. I’m here on behalf of Mr. Ellingson, and I understand that although he presented here in acute distress, you’re refusing to provide him with the life-saving medical care he needs?” She lifts one eyebrow sharply. “Would you care to explain your actions?”
The ruddy-faced nurse was horrible to me, like I was a roadie she was ousting, but she practically trembles now. “Well—“
Abigail drums her fingers on the counter of the desk. “Oh, and I’d choose my words carefully. I have a sinking feeling that I’ll be repeating them to a judge very soon in a wrongful death action.”
The woman practically claws a stack of papers out of the way and clutches the power of attorney she printed off. Her mouth opens and then closes again, and she offers the papers to Abigail like a nun with a rosary.
“I hope that you’re not holding up those pieces of paper as some kind of defense.” Abigail snatches them out of her hands and glances at them. “I see that this is a medical directive, and it does list Patrick Ellingson, whom I presume you personally saw and can consequently attest was the person with whom you spoke?”
The woman blanches.
“Judging by how the blood just drained from your face, I doubt whether you actually saw and confirmed that the man telling you to let Mr. Ellingson here die was in fact his medical power of attorney. But let’s assume for the sake of argument, that you did what you were supposed to do.” Abigail drops the power of attorney on the desk. “You’re not a lawyer, but that document, on the third line, says, ‘if I become unable to make my own health care decisions, and that fact is certified in writing by my physician.’” Abigail looks around the room. “I don’t see a physician saying that, and there’s certainly not a certification attached, so. . .” She spreads her hands out. “I’m curious, when this poor man dies, what you’ll be saying to the prosecution about the murder charges they’ll probably bring.”
“Mu-mu-murder?” The nurse shakes her head. “No, I mean, look, the man on the phone—”
“The man claiming to be Mr. Patrick Ellingson? Is that who you’re referring to?”
She gulps.
“Go ahead. Tell me what you’ll say.”
The nurse looks past Abigail and waves at me. “Why don’t you bring your father back here, honey. I’m sure we can get him taken care of right quick.”
Abigail and Steve wait around long enough to make sure that they are, in fact, caring for my dad, but once we’re put in a room, Abigail just disappears.
“Where did she go?” I poke my head out into the hall, but I don’t see her.
“Has Aiden had dinner?” Steve asks.
“Uh, well.”
“I had Cheetos,” Aiden says cheerfully. Only then do I notice that both his hands and the front of his shirt are bright orange.
“It’s been a really weird day.”
Abigail breezes back through the door with a tray. It has three sandwiches, two chocolate milks, an apple juice, some Jello, and three saran-wrapped cookies.
“She suggested that you might be hungry,” Steve says. “I offered to go ask the nurses for some of the on-call food, but we both agreed that she was much scarier.”
“Terrifying.” My eyes well with tears. “And I can’t thank you enough.”
My dad’s lying back in his bed, his eyes closed for the first time all day. I’m not sure whether the antibiotics can possibly be helping this quickly, or whether he’s just as relieved as I am that we’re finally getting treatment.
“You’re welcome.” She sets the tray on the side table and ruffles Aiden’s hair. “Now, they told me that you can’t eat the cookie or the Jello until you’ve finished at least half a sandwich.” Her face is utterly serious.
“They did?” Aiden’s eyes are round.
Abigail nods. “And you’ve seen that this hospital means business. That guard is waiting outside to make sure you eat it.”
I’ve never seen Aiden eat his sandwich that fast. “I ate it all,” he says. “Every bite.”
“Good boy.” Abigail beams.
“We’re going to head out,” Steve says.
“Do you want us to take Aiden with us?” Abigail asks. “We can put him to bed, and you can swing by and pick him up later tonight or in the morning.”
I toss my head toward the hall.
Steve and Abigail step out while Aiden’s digging into a Jello cup.
I follow right behind them. “I just wanted to say how grateful—” My voice cracks on the word, as if I haven’t already been embarrassed enough today.
Abigail puts one hand on my arm, just above my wrist. “I hope your dad feels much better soon. I’m sorry this got so nasty. Please call me again if Patrick tries something that ridiculous.”
I didn’t cry at my wedding. I didn’t even cry when my mother died. I haven’t cried a single time during the mess my life has become: not when my husband was arrested, not when I filed for divorce, and not when I brokered a deal with my in-laws to prolong my miserable marriage long enough that my crap-bag husband could get out of going to prison.
But now, I burst into tears.
“Hey, it’s okay.” Steve’s awkwardly patting my back.
Abigail’s face is crumpled up, like she really feels sorry for me.
When I called, I expected gloating. I expected a tongue-lashing. I worried she might come all the way here just to tell me what I already know, that I was getting exactly what I deserved. But instead, she’s bringing me food for my son and offering to take him home and get him in bed. She’s sympathetic and empathetic.
And I’m the worst person in the world for lobbing a grenade at this smart, generous widow and her precious little children.
It’s all I can do to choke out the six words I have to say. “I don’t know why you came.”
A single tear rolls down Abigail’s cheek. “We never know what burden someone else is shouldering. But if I’ve learned anything in my thirty-eight years, it’s that we should always do everything we can to lighten someone else’s load. Today I could help you, so I did.”
My tears redouble, pathetically.
“Tomorrow will be better,” she says.
“You help people whom you should hate,” I say. “Who are you?”
“Hating someone is a waste of energy,” Abigail says. “It hurts you more than anyone else.”
I think about what she said while they process Dad’s paperwork, and I realize that she’s right. Hating Charlie only drags me down. Hating Patrick makes me miserable. Even anger at Dad holds me apart from joy.
The problem is, I’m not sure how to let go of any of it. That’s something Stanford never taught. And most days, my anger, my hatred, and my frustration with the terrible state of my life is the only thing that keeps me going. I don’t know who I’d be without it.
17
Amanda
Kevin is a miracle worker. His electrician buddy actually finishes up everything I need—and because I went with pre-fab ones, Kevin’s carpenter manages to install the cabinets, too. Which means that in only a week and a half, we were able to get enough things together that my new ovens can be installed when they bring them out today.
Of course, it’s not like I’ve been sitting around, either. It took me an entire day just to get the place mostly clean. My right shoulder’s still bugging me from spending all day sweeping and mopping and scrubbing, but hopefully the Voltaren will kick in soon. Tendonitis is the worst. Getting older stinks. My body feels like it’s slowly falling apart, and unlike a car where you can replace parts with new ones, there’s nothing anyone can really do about it.
Roscoe whines in the corner. I probably should have left him at home, but every time I do, Abigail tells me how terrible he is. “You need to stop crying whenever I leave.” I crouch down and he hops up and races over, his ears back, and his big, puppy eyes pleading with me. “Oh, fine.”
I let him lick my face sometimes when no one else is around. I know it’s gross, but it makes him so happy.
“Alright, alright.” I shove him back. “That’s enough.”
Except it’s never enough for him. His tail is wagging and his eyes are pleading more than before.
“I already let you,” I say. “Now I’m all covered in dog slobber.”
My phone rings and hope rises in my chest. “Please be the delivery guy.” I flip it over, but it’s not. “Hello, Terrible Landlord.”
“Stop calling me that,” she says.
“I’ll stop calling you that when I stop being annoyed.”
“You’re not annoyed. You’re grateful.”
“His crazy wolf dog almost ate me. Did I tell you that?”
She laughs. “Three times, now.”
“And I’ll tell you fifteen more,” I say. “It’s horrifying. You’ve probably never even seen a wolf dog.”
“You’re such a New Yorker.” She chuckles. “I’ve seen actual wolves, you ninny. They don’t have collars, and they certainly don’t respond to Snuggles.”
I never mentioned that name to her. “You talked to Eddy?” I can barely keep myself from shouting, and also asking whether he said anything about me, which is ridiculous. I’ve posted three more photos with Derek and my fans are finally coming around. I’ve been slow to get on board with this one, but I’m coming around too. He may not be a former rock star, and he may not have rock hard abs—more like a keg than a six-pack—but he’s a good-looking guy and he really has been helping.
“Eddy called to thank me.”
I can barely breathe. “For what?”
“For cutting you a deal on the rent.” She coughs. “Does he know you’re not paying any?”
I wrack my brain. “I told him I’m not paying a lot.”
She exhales gustily. “Thank goodness. Did you know Eddy rents his vet clinic from me? I can’t have people thinking I’ve gone soft.”
I would never describe Amanda Saddler as soft, not if I wanted to go on living, anyway. “Is that all he said?” I hate myself for asking.
Even more when she cackles. “He told me that if I heard of anything that was troubling you to let him know. That boy does not like that you’re shacking up with that leather and meat guy.”
“Derek?” Her words finally register. “He said I was shacking up?”
“He said you were always with him.”
This time I’m the one laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
I’m lucky she can’t leap through the phone to throttle me. She might do it. “Shacking up means—” I clear my throat. “Living with someone.”
“Oh. Well, then he was upset you’re spending a lot of time with him.” She grumbles. “That doesn’t sound nearly as rapacious.”
I don’t think she’s using that word correctly either, but I’m not positive, so I let it slide. “Well, my bosses love Derek, and my fans are coming around.”
“Well, if your boss and your fans like him, maybe you should shack up.”
“Amanda, you know that I’m trying to start this business so that I can have the luxury of—”
“Be bold,” she says. “Do what you want to do right now. Trust that it’ll work out. That’s what youth is about.”
It’s still funny to me that she’s calling me young. I suppose it’s all in the perspective. “I’m channeling my inner Abigail,” I say. “She would never let go of one branch before she had a firm hold on another branch—or at least a sturdy vine.”
“Are you calling Abigail a monkey?” She giggles. “I wish I’d thought to record that one.”
“You’re the worst.”
The bell jingles on the front door. “Hey! I think those are my ovens.”
“You’re at the store now?” She practically growls. “Get home, girl! That storm is rolling in early.”
“Oh, please, it’s fine. It’s not even snowing.” I walk toward the front of the store, but it’s not the ovens. It’s just a package. “Hey, did you have something delivered here?”
“Me?” Amanda laughs. “I can’t even remember my own address.”
I don’t believe that for a moment.
“Girl, you listen to me. You being a New Yorker, you don’t understand our storms. You get home right now, and make sure your animals and your kids are safely inside. I want you close to a generator, you hear me?”
“We don’t even have one,” I say. “Only the tiny house does.”
“Jed was the cheapest man I ever met.” She sighs. “If you want to, you can all come up and stay with me. Jed would love the company.”
“It’s alright. We already talked to Jeff and Kevin. If the power goes out, we’ll all take blankets and mattresses over to their house and have a sleepover.”
“That sounds terrible. Good luck.”
I laugh. She’s not totally wrong. I wave at the mail lady and pick up the box. It’s from a company called Gourmet Chic. It takes me a minute to find a razor blade—left by the tile guys, I think—but I slice it open. It’s the cutest apron I’ve ever seen, with a double flared skirt, candy stripes going horizontal, and a bow tied on the side of the waist. It’s retro and modern at the same time. Did I let something slip on social? Could this company be looking for a sponsor?
But how did they get my address?
I’m folding it up to set it back in the box, where hopefully it’ll stay clean, when a piece of paper flutters to the floor. It says GIFT RECEIPT: THE CUTEST APRON FOR THE CUTEST BAKER. BEST OF LUCK WITH YOUR NEW ENTERPRISE. DEREK
I should’ve known. He’s one of the only people who could have gotten the address. And sure enough, when I look at the label again, it’s made out to CEO AMANDA BAKER; C/O DOUBLE OR NOTHING. How cute is that? See? He really is growing on me. I barely think about Eddy.
Or his abs.
Or his double dimples.
I almost never dream about him singing to me.
Or his hair as he does, falling down over his bedroom eyes.
Unfortunately, once I start thinking about him, it’s nearly impossible to stop. I even try singing “The Song that Never Ends,” but that doesn’t make a dent. If something is more persistent than the song that never ends, it can’t be defeated.
So I give in.
While I’m cleaning out the double refrigerator that came yesterday, I think about Eddy at the July Fourth dance. I think about Eddy catching my eye from across the room at the Grill. I think about him working in our garage without his shirt on. And I think about him offering to do anything I need to help with my shop.
Even the memory of him rubbing his terrifying monster’s head is a fond one.
I’m definitely messed up. I wonder what a shrink would say about me liking the guy I can’t have instead of the one who I can. What’s wrong with me? Why do I spend my time liking the cowboy/vet/rocker/addict with whom I have nothing in common instead of the handsome businessman who sends thoughtful gifts and cute cards? A shrink would probably tell me it’s because I don’t love myself, so I can’t love anything that’s good for me.
Is that right?
Just as I finish the fridge cleaning, the bell jingles again, and this time it is the oven guy. “We better hurry,” he says. “You’re my last delivery, and I don’t have snow chains.”
Neither do I. “I’m with you. Let me know what I can do to help.”
Luckily he has another guy in the van with him, and it only takes them about thirty minutes to get the ovens unloaded, and another thirty to get them all hooked up. “Alright, if you can sign here.” He hands me a clipboard.
I almost just sign, but I think about what Abigail would say if I did that. Reluctantly, I force myself to scan the words, and I notice that it says they tested the ovens and they’re both uniform and consistent in their baking temperatures. “Um, we didn’t do any of this.”
The guy takes the pen and marks that section off. He writes in, “Will return to level and check uniformity at later date if client informs us there’s an issue.”
“How will I know if there’s an issue?” I point at the ovens. “How long does it take?”
“Lady, I’m not about to get snowed in at some startup bakery in the buttcrack of nowhere—”
“Manila,” I say. “We’re in Manila. It has a name, and it’s printed right here on the slip.”
“Fine, crazy pants, I’m not about to get stuck in Manila, because you’re worried we’re cheating you.” He jots his phone number down. “Call me if this don’t work, and I’ll come back once the storm’s past.”
I glance out the front windows at the snowflakes falling, and I shrug. “Fine.” I sign.
The men practically leap into their van and peel out. They’re probably going farther than I am, though. I’m sure I’ll be fine just to get home. I grab my keys and lock up, only to remember that Roscoe’s locked in the back. He didn’t like one of the install guys and he kept growling at him.
