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  “Oh.” Realization crossed his face. “Do you think I should—”

  “No,” I shook my head. “Ask her first. Something like this might make her sick if it’s not what she wants. It’s different for everyone.”

  A long, explosive breath escaped him. “I think I’m finally starting to understand that.”

  And in his expression I could see he was getting that it wasn’t just different for each patient, either. A baby step. Maybe.

  Back at the hospital, I paused in the waiting area, checking him out one last time. He seemed better; the lines of worry smoothed out somewhat, the circles beneath his eyes not quite so bruised and angry, but I wanted to make sure.

  “Are you going to be all right?”

  “It’s a relative state, isn’t it?”

  I didn’t say anything, just waited. Shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans, he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “I guess. I’ll check on Kath, keep her company for a while. Go back to the hotel and get some work done.”

  And draw back into a shell where he might be too alone with the thoughts in his head. God, did I know him. “I’m probably going to be going back to the hotel after Ethan’s done with this.” I held up the drink. “I’d love some company for dinner.”

  One dark eyebrow rose. “Would you now?”

  My breath caught in my throat. I tried again. “I think it’d be a good thing if we both had some company for dinner.”

  A shadow of a smile crossed his face. “That’s what I thought, and, yeah, I think you’re right. And Libby?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I ask a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can we promise not to bullshit each other? To be straight up?”

  I could tell by the sudden, tense set of his shoulders that this was important to him. Insight struck like a lightening bolt—yet another way in which he was like me. He could handle what was thrown at him, so long as he felt he was getting the whole story. No pretense—no beating around the bush.

  “Absolutely.” I smiled and felt something in me loosen. Something I hadn’t even known was holding tight. Followed by surprise, as he leaned in and kissed my cheek in that most quintessential of Cuban gestures.

  “¿Te veo luego?”

  “Seguro.” How odd…yet natural. It was as if with that simple act he’d opened up that part of our common background, the conversation that followed flowing automatically in our shared second language. “I’ll leave you a message at the desk with my cell number. Just call whenever.”

  “I will.”

  Reaching up, I pressed a return kiss to his cheek before heading toward Ethan’s room, smiling and feeling…a kind of pleasure, I guess. Something warm and quiet—the kind of thing that had been in exceedingly short supply of late.

  Libby

  October 2

  “Damn, Libby, you’d think you’d learn,” I muttered to myself. Juggling grocery bags filled with the refrigerated stuff, my purse and my keys, I finally managed to separate my house key and fit it in the lock. “Find the key first.”

  I pushed open the door, dropping purse and keys on the dining table as I passed by on my way to the kitchen. Needed to get the perishables put away before they, well, perished. Even if it was October, it was still stupid hot and sticky and humid—perfect conditions for turning good food into biology experiments in a hurry. And what a waste that would be. Brie, queso blanco, and sharp cheddar, baby carrots, hummus, sweet ham, and turkey; finger foods that were my preferred snacks as I worked. Actually, finger foods that generally comprised my food intake most days. By and large, full meals had gone the way of the dodo bird. I’d never really gotten the hang of cooking just for one.

  As I unpacked and sorted, I felt a welcoming lick on the back of my knee and another along my ankle.

  “Hello, babies.” I reached back and absent-mindedly scratched under Sundance’s chin while I rubbed Butch’s warm belly with my foot. “Okay, that’s all you get until I’m done here.”

  As twin pitiful gazes assaulted me, I reached into the clear glass jar on the counter and pulled out two rawhides—one for Sundance and a slightly smaller one for Butch, who stared reproachfully.

  “Butch, get it through your little dachshund head. You are wee. Adorable, but wee.” The stare didn’t change, but he did deign to stand up on two stubby legs and accept the treat, which he regally carried into the Florida room after his Labrador sister.

  “You’ll never be able to convince him of that,” came Nora’s amused observation from behind me.

  “You think one of those jumbo rawhides that are three times his size would work?” I asked.

  “Probably not.”

  Because Butch was nothing if not tenacious. Big part of how he’d survived being the cast-off runt of his litter. Even now I could see him sliding his rawhide under Sundance’s nose, trying to entice her. Sundance, being an affable sort, took it, leaving Butch to capture his original objective. Crafty little shit. No wonder Ethan loved him so much.

  I glanced over my shoulder at Nora. “How is he?”

  “Resting right now, but we played cards for a bit. Texas Hold ’Em. He owes me money.”

  “Oh.” I closed my eyes and sighed. A good day. “Maybe he’ll be up for some salmon if I poach it for him until it’s real soft. Or at least the broth…”

  “Salmon?” At Nora’s outraged gasp, I opened my eyes. “They’re going to skin you alive at Fish Tales. Buying farm-raised salmon at Publix like some tourist considering what you’ve got available in your backyard.”

  “Ethan likes salmon. If he’ll eat it, it’s what I’ll buy, even if I have to paddle my ass to Nova Scotia to get it.” I shrugged. “I’ll go to Fish Tales in the next couple days and get some grouper or maybe shrimp. I’ve had a taste for red curry lately.” And it kept fairly decently.

  Her wide mouth curved in the same half smile that I’d inherited. Along with the mouth itself—both in shape and the smartass commentary that tended to come out of it. “Am I invited?”

  “You non-vegan this week?”

  “For your red curry, yes.” Flipping her long, silver-streaked ponytail over her shoulder, she filled the tea kettle at the sink and placed it on the stove. “Especially since I never was able to master a decent curry.”

  I leaned into the fridge, putting the cold cuts and cheeses away. “Nora, sprinkling curry powder over Hamburger Helper and tofu doesn’t even qualify as an attempt to master curry.” I fought to suppress a shudder at the memory.

  Reaching over, I selected two of the hand-thrown and glazed mugs that had been Nora’s tenth anniversary gift to us from their rustic wood stand and placed them on the counter. My hand hovered over a third.

  “No, I don’t think so, Liberty. He was dozing when I left the room.”

  Nodding, I left the kitchen and went back out to my car to retrieve the rest of the groceries. By the time I returned, Nora had the tea steeping and a crusty, homemade baguette out and on the cutting board.

  “Anything else going on with him?”

  “No.” Even though she was holding them straight in the nun-educated posture she’d never managed to shed, I could still detect the subtle rise and fall of her shoulders as she took a deep breath. “Don’t baby him, Libby.”

  “I don’t.” I took a deep breath of my own. “But because I don’t, I have to ask questions, Nora. I have to know what’s going on with him. Otherwise, how can I take care of him?”

  I stiffened, as I sensed her coming up behind me, then relaxed as she began stroking my hair—just like when I was a little girl. “M’ija, you take good care of him.”

  My eyes drifted shut, soothed by the simple, comforting gesture. “But is it enough?”

  She actually didn’t reply—not that I expected her to. She had this habit of not answering questions to which she thought the answers were glaringly obvious. Instead, she steered me to the table and pushed me into a chair. A moment later, a cup of tea and a pla
te with a slice of bread liberally spread with butter appeared in front of me.

  “Have this, then go stretch out for a bit or maybe take the dogs for a walk on the beach.”

  “But…” So I’m stubborn.

  She took the chair opposite mine. After taking a careful sip of the hot tea, she said, “He’s going to be resting for a good bit, Libby. Aproveche.”

  Wait a minute—she seemed awfully certain and rest had been anything but a sure thing for Ethan, especially of late. “Nora, what did you do?”

  No answer again. Because the answer was glaringly, stupidly obvious given that this was my mother we were talking about. Closing my eyes and rubbing my forehead, I took a deep breath. And another. One more for good measure. “Nora, he cannot be smoking.” I opened my eyes and glared at her. “How could you? It’s the last thing he needs to be doing.”

  “I did it because he’s been in so much pain, Liberty.”

  And did she think I didn’t know this? Did she think I enjoyed seeing the spasms that took over and hearing the whimpers that escaped in his sleep because he tried so hard to contain them while he was awake? My mouth opened and closed, but all that came out was a weak, “Nora…”

  “No one could do more for him than you do. But I also know this is something you wouldn’t feel comfortable doing and I do.” Her gaze across the table was equal parts defiant and understanding—sort of like she was stuck in some bizarre time warp between the sixteen-year-old who’d run off on a grand adventure and the fifty-two-year-old who’d lived to tell the tale.

  “Besides, no one said anything about smoking.” One shoulder lifted beneath her orange gauze peasant shirt as she took another leisurely sip of tea.

  “Oh my God, you made brownies.”

  Jesus. It’d been years since she pulled a stunt like this. Back when my junior high English teacher gave me that wholly unfair B- on my report on the collected works of Betty Smith. Nora dried my tears, told me to calm down, that she’d take care of it. She did a little baking for the new bachelor teacher in town—he was grateful, probably thinking he was going to score with some free-love hippy. What he actually scored was a naked frolic in the surf with the entire staff of Madison Junior High called out for the event and his tiny little dick immortalized on film from Nora’s Polaroid Instamatic. Nothing less than what the Fascist pig deserved. But doing this to Ethan?

  “Look, Libby, if it makes you feel any better, I did call Tia Laura and ask her opinion before I did anything.”

  “You called Tia? Voluntarily?”

  Espresso-dark eyebrows drew together in a straight line over equally dark eyes. “Oye, you don’t really think I’d do something like this without advice, do you?”

  “Well, no, not necessarily—” But I’d think she’d consult her shaman or the I Ching or her horoscope or the mailman. Something I could legitimately berate her over. Not—“Tia?” I know I sounded like some sort of demented parrot, but this bordered on surreal that she would call my aunt.

  “I’ll admit the woman is an uptight pain in the ass, and I wonder about my little brother’s obvious affinity for pain given that he’s stayed married to her for twenty years, but she’s a good doctor.”

  “And?”

  Another shrug as she waved that I should eat my bread. “In between the expected bitching and moaning, she basically gave her blessing.”

  “Far out,” I breathed around a mouthful of warm sourdough.

  “She also suggested I spark up and blow smoke for him so that he’d get some immediate relief before the brownie kicked in.”

  I shook my head slowly. “Far fucking out.”

  “Indeed.” Nora nodded. “I hope you don’t mind, but I broke into your Butterfingers stash.”

  Laughter was good. I was still pissed, but laughter definitely lessened the lingering impulse to strangle her.

  After we finished our tea, I left Nora with the cleaning up and went to retrieve my flip-flops from the hall closet. However, the closed door down at the end of the hall beckoned, if only because I just had to see for myself—had to make sure.

  The room was dim, blinds pulled against the sharp late-afternoon sun. Near-forgotten memories mingled with the acrid-sweet smoke lingering on the air, teasing my nose and making it itch. And as predictably as Pavlov’s drooling dog, an old, familiar irritation tightened my spine. Holy hell, the things the woman had done when I was a kid. And yet…I couldn't deny her intentions were generally in the right place. Like now.

  God, he looked almost unbearably peaceful like this, lying on his side, hand curled into a loose fist on the pillow beside his face. Quiet and still, not twitching or grimacing, the lines not as deeply etched. It could probably be chalked up to nothing more than imagination, but the contours—of jaw and brow and cheekbone—even appeared fuller, edging his distinctive bone structure back toward strong and away from the terrifying gaunt appearance that had become the norm. When was the last time I’d seen him look like this without having to resort to pictures?

  My fingers traced over those lines and contours, hovering without actually touching. “I love you so much, Ethan,” I murmured.

  Deep blue eyes blinked slowly. “Hey, gorgeous.”

  Shit. I dropped to my knees beside the bed. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “S’okay,” he slurred. “Not asleep. Flying.”

  “Man, you are so stoned. How many brownies did you have?”

  “Two.” His lower lip jutted out slightly. “Wanted another but Nora said no.”

  “Nora exhibiting restraint?” My eyebrows rose. “Bacchus is weeping.”

  His chuckling turned into a dry, rasping cough that had me reaching for the water on the nightstand and easing an arm beneath his shoulders to prop him up in one smooth, practiced move.

  After a few measured sips from the straw and a couple more coughs, he relaxed back against the pillows with a sigh that rattled only a little. “It didn’t hurt.”

  I slipped my arm free and returned the glass to the table, unable to look at him. The touch of his hand, fingers curling around my wrist, was what finally made me look. “I swear, Libby, it didn’t. The meds,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching in its endearingly familiar smirk, “did their job.”

  When he looked at me that way, so relaxed—so much like my Ethan—I had no choice but to believe him. And to smile in return before dropping my forehead to the mattress. Turning my head slightly, I asked, “You swear?” The skin of his hand warm and dry against my lips.

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay.” I sighed before kissing his fingers. “I should let you get more rest then, while you can.”

  His answer was to slide farther down on his pillows, turning to his side once again. “I want to write some columns. Stockpile again.”

  I paused, my hand braced on the mattress and halfway to standing. “Think you’ll be up to it?”

  “Once I quit flying, I think so.” Another faint twitch of the corners of his mouth made me smile in response.

  “I’ll bring the laptop in later then.”

  No reply at all this time—just his eyes drifting shut, the few lashes that somehow stubbornly survived looking like intermittent pencil strokes drawn across his cheekbones.

  It was a good two hours on the beach with the dogs, secure in the knowledge that Ethan was resting, which allowed me to escape feeling like I wasn’t there for him. So I took my time, tossing the tennis ball over and over, laughing as Butch took four frantic gallops for every one of Sundance’s, trying to beat her to the toy and skidding ass over teakettle when he couldn’t put the brakes on fast enough. Enjoyed the deserted stretches, and the heavy scent of salt on the air—took pleasure in curling my toes into damp, thick sand and felt a childlike joy at discovering a near-perfect spiral shell, its graduated shades of pink and peach and coral echoing the coming sunset. Even took the time to give the dogs baths when we returned rather than simply hosing them down, savoring the feel of their fur, sleek with soap, beneat
h my fingers, and laughing as they both shook themselves fiercely.

  “Liberty, you just missed a phone call.”

  I set Butch down on the floor of the carport and took the towel to Sundance, who’d been patiently waiting her turn. “From who?”

  Nora’s audible inhale made me jerk my head up—“Nora?”

  “Nan.”

  Before the name had fully left her mouth, I was in the kitchen and reaching for my cell, hitting the autodial.

  “Hello, bebe.”

  “Marilyn?”

  “Yes.”

  Air left my body in one explosive rush as I sagged against the counter. You told yourself over and over you were prepared. Knew it was bound to happen, what the odds were, yet every time it did, it punched you in the gut every bit as hard. Left you reeling and heartsick and railing at the gods.

  “How is she?” Stupid fucking question. Asked it every damn time, though.

  “As well as can be expected. Her son finally showed up.”

  Little bastard. “Thank God for small favors.”

  “No, thank God for Nick.”

  I straightened. “Nick?”

  “Oui.” A surprising thread of humor, grim, maybe, but definitely humor, underscored Nan’s voice. “Marilyn knew the end was close, was devastated that Lawrence hadn’t come yet. Next thing we knew, Nick was dragging the boy practically by his ear into the hospital.”

  “How on earth…?”

  Nan laughed outright at this. “He took me aside and asked the name of the firm Lawrence works for. Told me not to say anything to Marilyn, because he didn’t want her getting her hopes up, but I suspect nothing shy of being arrested would have kept him from bringing Lawrence to his parents.”

  “God, I wish I’d been there to see that.”

  “It was something, bebe. It offended every sensibility he had that the boy wouldn’t come see his father—stand by his mother while Ray slipped away. He’s a good one, that Nick.”

  Yeah. Maybe even more so than I had figured.

  “Is he okay?”

  “Nick?” Nan’s voice held a slight note of surprise. She knew, better than anyone else, that even though I was better about sharing the load, I still tended to hold myself at a remove. A lifetime of conditioning that was a bitch to overcome. And let’s face it—a defense mechanism. That I’d already formed something of a bond with Nick? Yeah, definitely merited a bit of surprise. For me, too.