I need to fix this. The whole scenario is my fault, somehow, although I’ve forgotten what it is that I’ve done. If Tony hits Greg and Greg sues him, that’s my fault. If Greg gets pissed off and takes Elle away from me, on grounds that I’m an incompetent mother who is exposing her to unhealthy influences, that’s my fault. If the day of my mother’s funeral is desecrated by a postfuneral brawl, that is definitely my fault.
But my imagination, so adept at making up stories so real I can see them unfolding in front of my eyes, is a total dud at real-life solutions. All I can seem to do is breathe past the pain of Greg’s iron hand clamping down on my ribs, the looming shadow of his power play over my life, my child, this room.
Mrs. Medina breaks the tension.
“Oh, thank God, you’re here,” she says. “Take this plate from me, Tony. I ate so much I can’t get up off this couch. Come and give me a hug, Maisey. How are you holding up, my girl? Exhausted, I am sure.”
Tony doesn’t move, doesn’t even look at his mother. His eyes lock on mine, asking a question I’m too afraid to answer.
“I can take your plate, ma’am.” Greg releases me, flashing Mrs. Medina an easy smile. “I know exactly what you mean. Edna here has orchestrated quite a feast. I think I’ve gained five pounds myself.” He pats his flat belly and winks at Mrs. Carlton, who actually dimples.
My legs feel a little unsteady, but it’s my wavering reality that makes me want to sink down onto the floor to make sure it’s still solid. I watch Greg take Mrs. Medina’s plate, bend down to pick up a dropped napkin, bestow another extravagant compliment on Mrs. Carlton, and then hug Elle and drop a kiss on the top of her head.
I take a deep breath. It hurts, but it’s a relief and it anchors me back into my body, this room, this time and place.
Maybe I’ve been manufacturing drama out of nothing. Again. Greg is a good man, I tell myself. He didn’t mean to hurt me. I only imagined the tension between him and Tony. Still, I find myself automatically putting distance between us, moving around the edge of the small room and scooching Elle over so I can sit on the end of the love seat with her beside me as a buffer.
The instant Greg clears the room, Mrs. Medina hefts herself up from the couch, no assistance needed. “Go hug your grandpa,” she says to Elle, and then plunks down beside me. Her bulk fills the vacant space.
“I’ll go look for Mia,” Tony says, and vanishes. I catch myself listening to his receding footsteps, knowing they are walking not only away down the hall, but out of my world. He’ll be like Lenny and all the others—poof, gone—which is just as well, really.
So why does his absence exaggerate the empty space in my belly, make me want to run after him, grab his arm, and spill a bunch of apologies and explanations and even a plea to be my knight in shining armor and fight for me?
That’s an image that instigates an urge to laugh and then to cry.
A knight will fight a dragon, sure, or maybe even a cutthroat attorney, but generally for some sort of reward. The hand of a princess, say. I am far from a princess and too much of a failure to be worth fighting for.
Laughter and sadness both give way to a wave of weariness so intense that I want to lie down on the floor, right in the middle of everybody, and close my eyes. But I can’t even let my head lean back, because this love seat is the most uncomfortable piece of furniture on the planet. The plastic cover is an extra diabolical touch. I keep sliding toward Mrs. Medina and the hollow her bulk has made in the seat cushion. At first I fight it, but finally give in and let my body rest up against hers.
She’s more solid than she looks, muscle overlaid with padding. She pats my knee, her hand warm and steadying, and then, as if she knows what I need, guides my head down onto her shoulder and strokes my hair.
I hear footsteps in the hall and know they are Greg’s. My heart lurches sideways, my eyes fly open. When I go to sit up, Mrs. Medina makes a soothing sound and weighs my head down with her hand, not so heavily that I couldn’t easily break away, but just enough to encourage me to stay. I feel safe, protected, and I let my eyes close.
If I can’t see him, he can’t hurt me.
Maybe I’m an ostrich with my head in the sand, but at the moment I’m a very comfortable ostrich.
“How long are you staying, Daddy?” Elle chirps, and I feel my shoulders tighten, listening for the answer.
“Thought I’d stay a few days and help your mom square away some paperwork. Maybe I’ll take you back with me.”
“I’m staying till Mom goes.” Her voice is decisive and fearless, and I feel a small burst of pride at her strength and confidence. “School’s out next week already. I’m not missing anything.”
“We will discuss it later,” he says, and I wonder if he’s already bought her a ticket. “Got an extra bed for a stray traveler, Walter?” It’s a question, technically, but said rhetorically. My stomach rises, then free-falls, like a broken elevator in a high-rise.
Dad hasn’t made a single decision since my arrival. Sometimes he’s reasonably present and focused; sometimes he wanders where I can’t follow. I’m not capable of telling Greg no. I can already see all the rational arguments he’ll trot out if I should even try.
“I don’t,” Dad says. “No room at this particular inn, I’m afraid.”
Greg laughs. “I’m sure we’ll work something out.”
“Well,” Dad says, in a considering sort of way, “Elle has the spare room bed. Maisey’s got the couch. I could offer to give up mine, I suppose.”
“I wouldn’t dream of taking your bed, sir,” Greg says. “Elle can sleep on the floor. Right, Ellie?”
“No.”
My response surprises all of us, especially me.
“Good girl,” Mrs. Medina whispers, releasing my head and patting my shoulder.
I sit up, roll my shoulders back, straighten my spine. “Nobody’s sleeping on the floor. Nobody’s sharing beds. Wouldn’t your mother be disappointed not to have you?”
“She moved into Parkview last summer. You know that. She doesn’t have room for guests.”
“Neither does Dad. You could get a motel, maybe, or else sleep on her couch.”
Greg laughs again, in a doting, condescending way as if he’s humoring a precocious child. “Come on, Maise. That’s just silly.”
My momentary courage ebbs. He’s probably right. What would it hurt me to share a house with him for a couple of days? He’ll need access to paperwork. We have funeral food that needs to be eaten. He can spend some time with Elle, see that she’s okay, and will be more likely to let her stay with me, at least for the summer.
I’m about to acquiesce when my father speaks up. “Maisey’s right. I’m afraid I can’t possibly put you up with any sort of comfort. Maybe Benny’s Inn? Or there’s that new hotel down by the Super One. What’s that called again?”
Dad and Mrs. Carlton dive into a discussion of the merits of the local motels. Greg gives me his I know best and you’d better pay attention stare, the one he likes to bestow on the jury during his final argument, and then seamlessly joins into the motel discussion.
“Have you eaten?” Mrs. Medina leans over to whisper in my ear.
I blink at her, finally shaking my head. I’m not sure which time frame she’s talking about, but if she means today, the answer is no.
“Come with me, dear. Let’s get you fed.” She hoists herself up with a whoosh of expelled breath and then reaches down and pulls me up. She precedes me down the hallway, runs interference between me and anybody who presents as too weepy, too clingy, or too nosy, and makes sure my plate is filled with not only salads and veggies, but two brownies and a slice of apple pie.
“Don’t you dare even think about dieting at a time like this. Comfort food all the way. I wonder where my children have got to?”
I shrug, but if Tony and Mia have any sense, they’ve gotten themselves well away from the train wreck that is me and my life. My sadness about this feels as inevitable as rain, and I brush it off. There’s a little glimmer that keeps me afloat. With Greg here to occupy Elle and keep an eye on Dad, with Tony and Mia safely out of the way, there is nobody to interfere with my plan to drive down to the TriCities and make my sister talk to me.
Chapter Twenty-Three