скачать книгу бесплатно
Heh. She almost smiles.
“I’m going back in,” she says.
Yikes. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. You shouldn’t, though. Just wait out here for me. Do you mind?”
“No, not at all,” I tell her, glad to be able to sit this one out. “I’ll either be here or in the waiting area.”
“I’m just going to go in and sit in a chair.”
“Good idea.”
“He can’t mind that.” She hands me her water cup and goes in.
I don’t hear any yelling, but five minutes later Estella is back out in the hall. “We’ll come back tomorrow.” She’s on the verge of crying again. Just holding it in. Barely. Poor woman. This guy is a major jerk, I don’t care how hurt he is. I take her hand and lead her outside for the walk back. The minute she leaves the hospital the waterworks fully unleash.
“Hey,” I say. “At least you know he’s strong enough to speak.”
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“I mean, think about it. He was hollering pretty good in there. Can’t be too close to death or anything.”
She smiles. Hiccups. I’m scrambling for a fresh tissue for her.
“He’s the sweetest boy. That’s what I don’t get. He’s never yelled at me once in his whole life.”
All the tissues in the world aren’t enough. As soon as we’re in the room she tells me she’s exhausted and taking a sleeping pill for the night. I don’t know how much those pills typically knock you out, but in about half an hour she crawls onto the bed and falls into what I seriously fear is a coma.
I’m not kidding. I fret over her and call Dad, who can’t speak to me because of the dinner rush, and I’m shaking her and I can’t call Luke because he’s working too and she stirs a little and I try to convince myself she’s fine. I call and order a pizza from room service. I realize she’ll sleep through it and it’ll be cold and I cancel the order. Then I realize I haven’t eaten all day and I call back and reorder, adding mushrooms and olives. The room service guy is nice about it.
I flip on the television, turn the volume down low and watch the news and some stupid reality show about a man living off of a pocketknife and pipe cleaner out in the jungle. I read a little of Jacques Pepin’s autobiography—he’s a famous French chef who used to be a hot guy—and the pizza arrives. I sign for it, eat two slices and worry over Estella’s possible coma some more. My phone battery is dead but I already left Dad a message. She did too, I think. I plug the cell phone in to charge it, brush my teeth and wash my face and get into bed.
As I switch off the light, I think of Julian and wonder why he’d tell Estella to leave like that. What could he be thinking? I try to imagine what happened to him—and I have literally no idea. What must it be like to change from a gorgeous, considerate athlete to that mess in the bed?
Poor Estella. I feel rotten for her. She dreamed of life in Vermont, in the country, with a handsome chef husband. I’m not stupid; I know my father’s attractive for an older guy. His brown hair is a little gray, he has a bump in his nose from where it was broken once and a heavy growth of beard he’s always having to shave, but underneath all this, Dad also has the same fine French features as his mother, who was a very beautiful lady. He claims I look just like her, but I’m not sure this is true. I’m five inches taller than she was, for one thing—five foot five, and not as delicate. She was so fragile, she looked like anything would break her.
Dad dated a lot of women after Mom left. Before Estella came into the picture, I’d suspected he’d been intimate with a good number of his mostly-female wait staff as well. It still seems to me like they’re always flirting with him, but then who knows, I could be imagining it.
What would he tell me to do now? He’d tell me to take care of Estella. I think it through. Hope she hasn’t poisoned herself. I switch the light back on, find a blanket and lay it over her. I take off her shoes and she whimpers in her sleep. Thank God, since it means she’s all right.
I climb into my own bed and try to think only of Luke caressing me, his mouth against mine. But images of Julian’s beaten face and those metal rods and bars on his leg keep intruding. Eventually, I fall into a troubled sleep.
Chapter Four
I’m used to waking up early, so I’m already up, showered and changed by the time Estella raises herself back to a state of awareness the next morning. She stumbles into the bathroom after me and I attempt to make coffee in the little coffeepot. I’m not used to making regular coffee—my father never drinks it, he only drinks espresso. He’s a snob, I know, but he’s a French chef so what do you expect? I started drinking it as well when I was in tenth grade and the class load required a few late study sessions. I fiddle with the thing, plug it in, flip the switch and Estella comes out in a towel and gets dressed. I pour her a cup of coffee and she tastes it and drinks it like it’s fine. “I have to go back to see Julian,” she says. “What will you do?”
“I’ll go with you, and stay in the hallway or the waiting room.”
“You’ll be bored there all day.”
I think she’ll be thrown out of the room inside five minutes, but I say nothing about this. I just tell her I have a book and I’ll be fine.
We head downstairs and it occurs to me Estella didn’t touch the pizza. She hasn’t eaten in a long time. “That free coffee in the room was terrible,” I say as we walk to the hospital. “I wonder if there’s a place where we could get a latte.”
She looks annoyed by this, but I convince her to stop at a coffee shop on the way. I get my latte and order two muffins to go with it and hand her one. She takes it without complaint, so I go get a latte for her as well, and then silently offer myself a major pat on the back. For stealth-feeding of the crazed woman.
“It’s probably just the trauma,” Estella says to herself as I steer her toward a table in the back. “They probably have a psychologist he’s working with who specializes in cases like this. I’m sure there are things they can do.”
I want to stay quiet, but my curiosity finally gets the better of me. “So, do you know what condition he’s in?” I try to ask it very gently.
She looks at me and sighs. “He lost his right leg below the knee, of course. His left femur is broken. He has whiplash and a broken nose and a host of other smaller cuts and contusions. There’s talk of possible mild TBI, traumatic brain injury, but that’s unconfirmed.”
“I’m sorry, Estella. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, I had to get it out.” She is almost crying. “I should have told you before we even left.” The barista is staring at us. I glare back at her. “The thing is, Julian’s really very lucky, not just to have survived, but to have not been caught up in the blast itself.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he was thrown by the force of the second explosion. If he’d been closer to it when it detonated, his injuries would probably have been far worse—shattered limbs, multiple amputations....”
Her voice trails off. Her face is a wall of stress.
“So, the doctors think he’ll recover all right then,” I say, attempting to refocus her on something more positive.
“Eventually,” she says with a sigh, “though he’ll always have the amputation to deal with. He has a surgery today at eleven on his other leg. It’s being fitted with an internal pin.”
“Is he staying in the Marines?”
“He’s receiving a medical discharge.” She looks at me. “You know he’s coming to live with us, right?”
I stare at her, mouth agape. “Um. No. He’s coming to live with us?”
“I thought your father would have told you. He’ll be moving in probably this winter.”
“How long will he stay?”
“As long as he needs,” she answers, fiddling with her cup.
How long is that? I wonder. “Okay, but where is he staying? The house only has two bedrooms.”
“I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you about that,” she says. “You know your room is the only one that’s downstairs. And your shower is the walk-in kind....”
Okay, wait—I’ve had that bedroom all my life. “You’re giving him my room?”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t mind letting him use it awhile.”
“And where do I go?”
“I was thinking we could put a bed up in the alcove for you. There’s a closet there.”
“And no door.”
“No one goes down that hallway. You’d have it all to yourself.”
She’s moving me upstairs into a little storage space that’s down the hallway from the master bedroom. My only bathroom will be the small one she uses with just a bathtub. It has almost no cabinet or counter space, and her stuff fills it completely. “Does Dad know about this plan?”
“We’ve discussed it.”
This is unreal. I say nothing.
“Julian will have a wheelchair and crutches. That’s the main reason.”
“Where will all my stuff go?”
“Different places. You can still keep most of your closet. We don’t have to do this if you don’t want, Cami,” she says.
Where else will her nephew go if I say no to this? It’s my room or nothing. Obviously. The stairs up to the second floor are extremely steep, completely out of the question for someone on crutches. “No, it’s fine,” I say with a frown.
Estella looks at me like I’m an angel. “I knew you’d understand.”
Yeah, like I have a choice.
“I’m glad you’re here, Cami. Your father was right to have you come with me.”
“Thanks,” I say, slightly mollified.
“We’ll make the alcove nice for you, and make sure you have room for your things. You can share my closet. I can give you that whole upstairs bathroom.”
“No, that’s your space. We’ll figure out the bathroom thing somehow. Don’t worry.” Okay, this sucks.
“Good,” she says. “Ready to go?”
We continue our trek to the hospital, but both of us are quiet. Estella’s probably thinking about Julian. I’m thinking about him, and losing my room to him. But also, I’m thinking a little bit about my mother—my real mother. She disappeared from our lives when I was eight. She just left. Because of a man. Because she couldn’t take my father or me, I don’t know. Maybe she just hated Vermont. She never calls us. I have no idea where she is now. Does Estella want to fill that role for me, or is this bedroom thing her way of trying to squeeze me out of her and Dad’s life? She has her son and nephew, her own family. And I’m almost eighteen already. I just can’t tell where I stand with her yet. And now, apparently, we’ll be throwing a wounded Marine into the mix.
“Did Julian join up right after high school?” I ask, out of sheer curiosity. The hospital’s just up ahead.
“Yes, he did. He could have had his choice of colleges, but he made up his mind to enlist.” She sighs. “He’s been in the Marines for almost two years now.”
“He’s twenty?”
“Just turned. Let’s go. I want to find out what’s happening.”
We head inside and make our way back to Julian’s room. As we approach the door, I hear voices and cross my fingers that Julian won’t scream at her again. I don’t care if he screams at me, just not at Estella.
“I have to speak to Julian’s doctor,” Estella says. She looks at me like she’s waiting for me to do something about this.
“Okay,” I say uncertainly. “I’ll see if I can track him down for you.”
She goes into a sort of brief trance and then snaps out of it and enters Julian’s room. I watch her, fearing for her sanity and realizing more than ever that my father was right to have me come with her. When a nurse passes, I ask her if we can see Julian’s doctor. Her answer isn’t very promising. I slip into the room just to share the news that the doctor will come as soon as he finishes his rounds, however long that takes, and Estella turns and Julian falls into my line of vision and I’m horrified all over again. I try to hide it, but I’m not that experienced at masking such huge reactions.
“Hey, Julian,” I say with fake cheer.
Estella forces a smile, and Julian says, “Get her out.” He says it quietly this time. He turns his face away.
“I brought some German chocolate for you,” I tell him. I actually brought it for myself, but I want him to have it. I leave it on the wheelie half table that goes over his bed. “It’s a bit bitter. But very rich.”
Julian’s hand covers his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Estella ushers me out of the room. I’m babbling some kind of apology and she’s humoring me instead of being in the room with him like she wants. I excuse myself, head for the lobby and text Taryn, my best friend who’s currently in Los Angeles studying acting at a prestigious summer arts program.
Guess where I am? I type.
PARIS? She replies. LONDON? CANNES? OMG!!! ARE YOU HERE IN L.A.???
NO, I text her. I’m at the military hospital in Bethesda.
HUH? WHY?
Estella’s nephew’s just been flown in from Afghanistan.
HOT MARINE? she texts.
No! He’s a mess. He lost one leg, broke the other...broken nose...neck brace.
I have to wait awhile for the reply. HOT WOUNDED MARINE??
He’s a TRAIN WRECK and a major jerk. He yells at Estella and throws things.
HOT WOUNDED MARINE—WITH ATTITUDE?? Taryn texts.
I roll my eyes and grin, shake my head. You’re insane, you know this.
SPEAKING OF WHICH, I GOTTA GO BRING ON THE CRAZY (ACTING CLASS ;). WAIT, WHAT DOES HE LOOK LIKE WHEN HE’S NOT A MESS? ACH! STOP DISTRACTING ME WITH STORIES OF HOT, HARD AND WOUNDED PISSED-OFF MARINES! I HAVE TO GO TO CLASS!!!
It feels good to laugh.
Taryn’s crazy—in a great way. Crazy-talented at acting, too. She recently signed with an agent in L.A. who’s sent her on a few auditions, but no big breaks yet. I read my book, and eventually Estella comes in and sits next to me. “Julian is going in for surgery any minute now.” Her face seems to crease up like an accordion, just fold into itself.
“Hey,” I say, as soothingly as I can. “Hey, don’t worry. It’s a good thing. He’ll have a bionic leg. Just think of it.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“It’ll be fine.”
She squeezes my hand. “I have to go back. I don’t want him taken into surgery without me knowing it.”
“I’ll be here.”
