“You have Internet?” Elizabeth was astonished—and excited. She had a video to upload.
“It’s blinked on a couple of times. But no. Not yet. If we had Internet, the patients’ families wouldn’t be so worried. My husband wouldn’t be so worried.” Yvonne looked to Garik as if he could fix the situation.
A typical guy, he responded as if he could actually cure the problem. “The power will come first. The Internet will be back soon. Then they’ve got to fix the roads.” He rolled his eyes.
“Rumors say the DOT is working Highway one-oh-one as hard and as fast as they can,” Yvonne said. “I hope it’s true.”
“I’m sure the state officials will not want to leave us without power and water for long,” Elizabeth said.
Yvonne snorted. “State officials only care about Seattle. They’ll get to us folks in the country after they get the important city folks fixed up.”
“Cynical.” But Garik sounded as if he agreed.
Room 323 had the door closed.
Yvonne put her hand out to stop them. “Listen, Elizabeth, I tried to call you yesterday and couldn’t get through. This is not good news. Your father had a seizure.”
Elizabeth swung to face her. “What?”
“Late in the afternoon, in the rec room, he stiffened, fell out of his chair, started shuddering, was unconscious, and when he revived, he was unable to speak or move for about thirty minutes.” Yvonne gave her report in a cool tone that belied the anxiety in her eyes. “The nursing staff took care of him, and when Dr. Frownfelter came in last night to make rounds, he examined him. Your father seemed rather distracted and as if he was looking for something. But he’s fine.”
Elizabeth swayed.
Garik caught her arm. “Is this the first time this has happened?”
“That we know of.” Yvonne spoke to him, but kept an eye on Elizabeth.
“Is he in danger?” Elizabeth asked.
Yvonne opened her mouth, sighed, and nodded. “For a man his age, he’s not in the best of health. Prison, the stress of losing his family, the beatings he’s taken … Dr. Frownfelter doesn’t think there’s any immediate danger. We put a monitor on him, so if he seizes again, we’ll know immediately. But there’s a good chance this is his first seizure. There’s a good chance he’ll never have another. Try not to worry. He’s doing fine today. It seems sometimes the mind chooses what it can bear. Your father usually doesn’t remember his years in prison.”
“Twenty-three years are gone?” Elizabeth asked.
“For the most part. When he does remember, he’s agitated, unhappy. So we like it better when he remembers you and your mother. It’s a gentler, happier memory for him, and he likes to tell us about those times.”
“He’s told you about meeting my mother?”
“Yes, that she was his student and made all the moves on him.” Yvonne chuckled. “Which doesn’t surprise me; it fits his personality, I think.” She looked down at her pager, turned, and hurried away. She called over her shoulder, “I’ve got to go. We’re still short-handed. Don’t worry!”
“Don’t worry?” Elizabeth repeated to Garik. “I almost didn’t come back to see him.”
He put his arm around her. “We’re here now. And we’ll keep coming back for as long as he needs us.”
For no reason, without ever meeting her father, Garik was taking responsibility. So Charles wasn’t merely her charge, but also Garik’s, and sharing the burden made her relax a little, feel as if life could be within her control.
Garik opened the door.
She walked into room 323.
Charles sat at his desk, typing on his aging laptop.
“Hello, Father.”
Charles looked hard at her, adjusted his glasses, and said, “Hello, dear, how good to see you.”
Elizabeth braced herself. “I’m Elizabeth, your daughter.”
“I know.” He sounded slightly irritated, as if she was stating the obvious.
Elizabeth leaned in to kiss his cheek.
“Before she left,” he said, “Misty explained all to me.”
Elizabeth pulled back. He’d had a seizure. She knew he was delusional. But those delusions made her feel sort of itchy, as if someone—Misty—was stroking ghostly fingers across her skin. “Mother left?”
“Yes, but don’t worry, she said she would be back,” Charles assured her.
Elizabeth did not feel measurably reassured.
From the doorway, Garik watched her. “Won’t you introduce me, Elizabeth?”
Charles looked at him, broke into a smile, pushed his chair back, and stood. “I recognize you. Elizabeth’s husband, Garik Jacobsen. Margaret Smith forwarded me a photo when you two got married.”
Which explained a lot.
“Good to meet you!” Charles offered his hand.
Garik took it. “You’re looking well, sir.”
Charles adjusted his glasses. “I’m feeling well, too. I wish Misty was here to meet you, though.”
“I wish that, too.” Garik scrutinized Charles, then said softly, “Elizabeth and I found Misty’s body yesterday. Did you know?”
“No, but I’m not surprised.” Charles turned to his daughter. “I did ask if you’d found the bones, you know.”
“I know.” Her lips felt numb, and she was sweating again. “That’s why I wanted you to tell me more about how you and Misty met and got married.”
Charles chuckled softly and collapsed into his desk chair. “Marrying Misty was the best thing I ever did.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Charles waited in the lobby of the hotel, nervously tugging at his suit and wishing Misty would hurry up.
If she had a fault, it was that she was always late. Although in her defense, she was always late because people stopped her and talked to her.
Men told her she was pretty, and she smiled and thanked them. Women asked her about the color of her lipstick or how she made her eyes appear so big, and she smiled at them, too, and talked to them as if her makeup tips would help create full lips or large eyes. She charmed everybody, and that took time, so she was always late.
He hated the late part, but he always waited without reproach. He couldn’t urge her to ignore the people who spoke to her. If she did that, she wouldn’t be the Misty he adored.
Right now, though, they needed to get to the chapel on time or they’d have to wait another day to get married. This hotel was full, and he didn’t have enough money to stay another day in Las Vegas. Not with a baby on the way.
A baby on the way.
He felt almost faint with terror and pride. He was going to be a father.
He stood facing the outer doors, worrying that he wouldn’t be able to get a cab in time, when he heard that particular hush fall across the lobby, the hush that meant Misty had finally made her appearance. He turned … and there she was, the most beautiful woman in the world.
She wore white; she had somehow managed to come up with a dress that looked like a fifties-era prom gown, with a wide, crisp gathered skirt, a fitted bodice, and cap sleeves. Her satin heels were low, and her little hat had an attached veil. She held a bouquet of white roses, and she smiled at him as if he was the only man on earth.
He swallowed.
She walked toward him across the lobby, floating, incandescent with joy. At marrying him? It seemed impossible. But he had to believe the truth in her blue eyes.
She loved him.
“Darling.” Her low, warm voice sent chills up his spine. She slipped her hand into his arm. “Are you ready? Because I can’t wait any longer to marry you.”
He nodded, mesmerized, like everybody else, by her glow. “I’ll get a cab.”
Of course, he didn’t have to do anything.
Misty smiled at the doorman, and prettily explained that because she had taken so long getting into her gown, they were late for their own wedding, and could they cut the taxi line?
The next cab was theirs.
The doorman helped he
r in, and when she waved, the people in the line waved back and called out congratulations. She enchanted them as much as she enchanted Charles.
Charles heard one guy say, “He must have money.”
And he wished everyone would stop looking at him as if they knew what he’d done to a girl who was almost young enough to be his daughter.
He leaned forward and told the cabbie they wanted to go to the White Shoulders Wedding Chapel, and quickly.
The cabbie nodded, hit the gas as hard as he could, and Charles slammed back against the seat. “Crazy driver,” he muttered.
“Never mind him.” Misty took his hand. “Do you like it?”
“What?” He stared at her, half-crazed with amazement, embarrassment, and mad, possessive, giddy happiness.
“My dress.” She smoothed a hand down the skirt. “It’s vintage. Old-fashioned clothing fits me well, because in those days women had curves. And so do I.”
“You look beautiful.” If he could, he would kneel at her feet.
Instead, he hoped they didn’t hit any more speed bumps, because he was tired of being airborne.
“Thank you.” She fluttered her lashes. “I didn’t know if you’d noticed.”
In deep, heartfelt sincerity, he said, “There is not one moment of the day when I forget how beautiful you are, and how lucky I am.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, and he was suddenly digging for his handkerchief.
She took it and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “Really? Because I feel guilty. I knew you didn’t think you ought to sleep with me, and then when I got pregnant, I thought, Oh God, he’s going to insist on marrying me and I’ll let him because my father left before I was born and that’s no way to raise a child. But I don’t want you to be unhappy, or feel awkward. I’ll do whatever you want, live wherever you need … as long as we can be together. I love you, you know.”
She’d said it before.
This time he believed her. “I love you, too.”
* * *
Elizabeth couldn’t quite get up the nerve to glance at Garik.
She remembered a time when Garik had looked at her the way Charles described looking at Misty. And their wedding … their wedding had been very much like her parents’, not a grand and glorious religious ceremony, but a civil union in a courthouse in Santa Barbara. It was a beautiful spot, but the location didn’t quite make up for their bleak lack of relatives.
Margaret had come down to meet her and witness the ceremony, but the trip had proved too much for her and at the last minute, she had had to admit defeat and rest in her hotel room.
Aunt Sandy, Uncle Bill, and the cousins “just couldn’t make it.”
Elizabeth had been prosaic about the quiet ceremony; she told Garik that having each other was all that was important.
Remembering now, she blinked away tears.
That stupid sentiment had proved quite untrue.
Yet as if Garik was remembering that same thing, his hand stroked her shoulder.
The quick, gentle contact made the tears harder to subdue. She had to take a long breath before she could speak, and when she did, her voice wobbled a little. “I have a photo of your wedding.” She opened her scrapbook and found the photo taken in front of a glittering sign proclaiming them JUST MARRIED, and underneath, in smaller letters, THE WHITE SHOULDERS CHAPEL. “Mama was beautiful, but you looked handsome, too, Daddy.”
Charles stared at Elizabeth with detachment, then studied the photo and nodded. “I did look very presentable. I had such doubts about our union, but she believed in us. She believed we could make it, and she convinced me of it, too.” He gave a single, dry chuckle. “Then I met her family.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
As a cliffhanger, Garik thought that couldn’t be surpassed … pretty impressive for a man with Alzheimer’s. “After Elizabeth and I got married,” Garik said, “we drove up to Santa Clara so I could meet Aunt Sandy and her crew. I thought they put the diss in dysfunctional. Is that who you met?”
“Did you meet my grandparents?” Elizabeth asked, her eyes wide with curiosity.
“No, not Misty’s father. He decamped before she was born, fled like a coward into the night, and when I met Misty’s mother, I knew why. That woman…” For a mild-mannered scholar, Charles projected scorn very well. “Frankie Winston was the reason Misty took theater arts as her college major. From the moment Misty was born, Frankie decided that Misty would be her ticket to Hollywood. She put that little girl in tap, ballet, gymnastics, voice, deportment, all by the time Misty was five.”
“What about Aunt Sandy?” Elizabeth asked.
Charles looked at Elizabeth in that way he had, his head half-tilted as if he could almost remember who she was … but not quite. “Sandy was pretty enough, and she had a pleasant singing voice, but when she stood next to Misty, there was no comparison. Misty was … luminescent. Sandy never stood a chance. Not in a contest where she was pitted against Misty. And Frankie always made sure she compared the girls. Misty loved me, I know, but I also know she wanted to get away from her mother, and she saw marriage to me as a way out.”
* * *
As they drove to Sandy’s house in Santa Clara, Misty presented a calm front, but Charles could tell she was nervous. “Hey,” he said, “I’m meeting your family. I’m the one who’s supposed to be scared.”
“If you knew what you were getting into, you would be.”
That explosive, irritated gasp of words startled him. Misty was always so composed, almost placid, even when in the grips of passion. And he … hated that. Worked hard to make her crazy with desire. Sometimes he thought he succeeded, but when he caught his breath, she was always placid again.
“I’m sorry.” She was trying for placid now, and not quite succeeding. “I didn’t mean to take out my fear on you. I’ve never told you about my mother. My sister, too. But mostly my mother.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Stage mother in the complete sense of the word. I mean, I feel bad for my mother. When she was young, she had a lot of talent and worked to get into movies, but she never got beyond the bit parts. She got pregnant with Sandy, got married, got divorced, and tried to get into movies again…” Misty sighed, a brief, breathy gasp. “I think my sister was neglected when she was young. Sandy’s married now and expecting her third child.”
“That is great news. Our baby will have cousins!”
“Yes.” Misty smiled.
But Charles had learned she always smiled most when she was stressed. How did he know when she meant it? “Is there something wrong with your sister’s children?”
“No! Not at all. They’re just kids. The house is small, though, and Sandy works, too, so another child … I don’t think Bill and Sandy meant to have another child. It’s sort of stretching their resources.”
He nodded, trying to comprehend the morass of family Misty was describing.
“My sister tenses up when my mother is around. Everybody does, but after thirty minutes, you can tell Sandy wants to shriek at Mother, and if she gives in then Mother wins.” Misty touched his hand as it rested on the steering wheel. “You’ll see. Mother always wins.”
He smiled at her. “Your mother sounds like a challenge.”
“She’s a monster.” Misty pointed to the small bungalow tucked into a fifties pocket Santa Clara neighborhood. “There it is.”
“Do you want me to park on the street so if we have to make a quick getaway, we can?”
“Yes!” For a moment, Misty’s eyes lit up. Then the anticipation faded. “No. I can’t abandon Sandy. It wouldn’t be fair.” She nodded at the low-slung sports car in the driveway. “Mother’s here.” The two words dropped like distilled poison from Misty’s lips, and after Charles turned off the car, she sat with her hands clenched in her lap. Abruptly, she turned to him. “Promise me you’ll still love me when this is over.”
He smoothed her hair off her forehead. “I’ve got it. I understand. We’re stepping int
o an ugly, mean swamp of emotions. But listen to me, Misty. You’re beautiful. But more than that, you’re kind, you’re caring, you’re generous, and for some reason that I don’t understand, you love me. And I love you more than…” At the crucial moment, he realized what he was saying, how important this was. “More than…” His eloquence dried up, and he began to panic.
The dimple blinked in her cheek. “More than rocks?”
“Definitely more than rocks.”
“More than volcanoes?”
“Definitely more than volcanoes.”
“More than … earthquakes?”
He hesitated.
With a wail, she flung herself on his chest. “Not more than earthquakes?”
She was crying.
Was she crying?
Yes, she was crying.
He tilted her chin up.
No, she was laughing.
“Wretched wench,” he said, and pinched her ear. “I love you as much as any earthquake under seven-point-five on the Richter scale.”
“Oh!” She punched him in the chest. “At least an eight.”
“Seven-point-five, and I’ll throw in the aftershocks.”
She laughed again, a little too long and a little too hysterically, but when she dug out a tissue from her purse to dab at her eyes, she said, “Thank you. I feel better. Not quite so afraid.”
“She can’t hurt you.”
Misty touched his cheek sadly, as if he was a pleasant fool. “Let’s go in.”
Sandy and her husband, Bill Frisk, were middle-class American normal.
Bill was six-two and looked like an aging football player, which in fact he was. He patted his stomach and joked that he used to have a six-pack, but now it was more like a keg.
Their kids, Hope and Mary, were five and almost two.
Hope was in kindergarten; she’d already received three pink slips but she promised her mommy not to bully anyone ever again.
Mary had an ear infection and was going in next week to get tubes in her ears. In the meantime, if she wasn’t crying, she was whining.