Текст книги "The Coincidence of Coconut Cake"

Автор книги: Amy E. Reichert

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

• CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR •

The frying pan made a spectacular sound as it hit the brick, a solid thwunk followed by a pattering, magnets flying off like firework sparks, carving out a chunk of wall from the impact site. Al threw the empty whiskey bottle at the same spot, missing it by three feet. Glass rained down, adding glittering specks to the rainbow-hued detritus. He staggered across the room to admire the effect. The destruction felt good, but it didn’t lighten the chains hanging around his conscience.

Karma had found him, and he’d paid the price for his arrogance. He walked back to the kitchen to search for another bottle. Behind his wineglasses, he found a half-empty bottle of vodka. That’d work. While unscrewing the cap, he leaned against the counter. Al didn’t think he could stand straight and tilt back the bottle at the same time. Better be safe than sorry. Before drinking, he listed his head to the side and studied a trail of red marks on the floor, difficult to see against the rosewood. Huh, it looked like blood. He dropped his head to see his feet, which were smeared with scarlet streaks.

“Bloody hell. Ha, bloody,” Al said to himself.

Al sank to the floor, the counter supporting his back, sliding his feet until his bum hit the wood, leaving a long stripe of red. He reached for a towel hanging on the oven door and started wiping the blood off his foot, smearing more than removing. Must have stepped on some glass. Probably not too bright to be barefoot. He took a long swig from the bottle. This should be enough to knock him into oblivion.

He leaned his head against the counter, closing his eyes. He needed to get new lights; these were much too bright. Everything blurred anyway. The whiskey and vodka were almost doing their job. But Lou’s face, red with anger, wet with tears, was still displayed crystal clear on the back of his lids. He would never forget her face, the hurt so plain. He could have tried to explain, but he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve her.

He pulled a slightly bent white note card from his shirt pocket, the note card he’d received months ago from an anonymous source. It suggested he review Luella’s. He had held it in his hands when he first encountered Lou at the newsstand. It was an unexpected gut punch when Sue set its twin next to the Polish dictionary. When he sobered, he’d give some thought to who wrote them.

He took another swig, staring at the white spot where the frying pan had hung, and waited for the liquor to knock him out.

He heard footsteps in the hallway. A tiny part of him, buried deep, hoped Lou had come to talk, to forgive him. Instead of her pale face framed in soft brown hair and kissable lips, he saw his parents. Bugger. He had forgotten about them sleeping off their jet lag in the guest bedroom.

“Alastair, what are you doing on the floor, I thought you were at a party, is that blood?”

His mom said it as one long question, her pitch rising as the interrogation morphed into panicked inquisition. This did not help the situation. His dad walked past the progressively hysterical woman. She was decidedly un-British when it came to her children. James stood in front of Al, sizing up the situation.

“He’s pissed. Best get him cleaned up and to bed,” James said.

“But why is he bleeding? Why is my baby bleeding?”

“Calm down, Katherine. He’s fine. Can you get a bowl of water and some clean towels to clean up his feet?”

Katherine began digging through cupboards, searching for the requested supplies.

“Has he been burgled? Should we call the police?” Katherine continued her stream of questions.

“He’s sloshed, drunk, arseholed. He’s done this quite on his own. No one’s attacked him.”

Al’s brain whirled like a Sit’n Spin in his head from moving it back and forth, trying to follow his parents’ conversation.

“Why would he do this? He’s never done this,” said Katherine.

That wasn’t entirely true, and his dad knew it. He did it once before, during university. He’d fallen hard for a daughter of a minor royal—Portia. They went to pubs, checked out movies, cheered at polo matches for his brother, Ian, and appeared at all the right parties. He thought about proposing, even took Ian ring shopping with him. He knew he couldn’t afford the kind of ring a girl like that expected, but she loved him and he loved her. He’d buy her a better one when he could afford it.

During a weekend party at a friend’s country estate, he’d overheard her trying to seduce Ian. When Ian refused, as she was his brother’s girl, she’d explained she was only dating Al to get to know Ian. He’d promptly kicked her out and apologized to Al, but the damage was done. Al had spent the next week drinking until Ian called their dad.

Al had expected his dad to lecture him about never turning to drink to solve problems. Instead, he’d commiserated that sometimes you need to get really pissed so your body feels as bad as your heart does. Once every fiber in your being feels like bloody hell, you can start mending the broken bits one day at a time. It helped him find the first bits to mend: his family.

“Sweetums, we won’t get any answers today. I’m guessing the cuts came from stepping on the broken bottle all over the other room. If you can, why don’t you sweep it up,” Al’s father said. “And I’ll call John. I think we could use his help.”

Katherine rushed off to find a broom.

Al had tried to explain, but it came out only as mumbles. It appeared he drank enough that his mouth no longer functioned. Someone took his bottle away—he couldn’t tell who. Black crept in from the sides until all he could see was his father’s face, mouthing words he couldn’t understand. Then sweet oblivion.

• • • • •

Consciousness came back the reverse of how it went: first a circle of light framing his father’s face, then growing to reveal his worried mum and a serious-looking John. Wait, one difference: instead of his not feeling anything, everything screamed. His mouth tasted like cheap whiskey used to disinfect a toilet, then stored in a dirty ashtray. His stomach agreed. Before he could fall out of bed in the direction of the bathroom, he felt a bucket land in front of him and his father said, “About time. Better out than in.” His mother left the room.

Al heaved until he saw stars, then fell back into the pillows feeling much better. He took stock of all his body parts: stomach woozy but better, head contained a thousand sharp-toothed chipmunks intent on gnawing their way out, feet stung, everything hurt. His father and John shared concerned looks, and Al figured he should explain. He cleared his throat.

“Lesson learned—don’t try to replace blood with whiskey.”

His lips tried to twist into a smile but failed.

“This is not funny, Alastair. Your mother and I—”

“And me,” John added.

“Quite right, and John, were very worried. We came in last night to you barely conscious, sprawled in the kitchen with bloody feet.”

Oh yeah, Al remembered, the glass. That explained the stinging feet. He lifted the covers to see stocking-covered puffy feet.

“We bandaged them and put socks over to keep everything in place. They’ll be fine in a day or two,” said James.

“Thanks,” replied Al.

“That’s it? Thanks?” John said. “I think you owe us more than that.”

Al looked behind his father at John.

“She found out. I went to propose, and she’d found out. I cocked up.”

Al could feel the tears starting to burn behind his eyes again. The whiskey should have dried those up.

“Language, Alastair. And what did she find out?”

Al’s mother came up the stairs carrying a tray full of tea and scones, the same tray Lou had used when he had faked sick. The sight almost sent him reaching for another bottle. Mum made him a cup with just a little tea and handed it to him.

“Now tell us what she—I’m assuming you mean your lady friend—found out,” said Katherine.

Al sipped the hot tea. It helped. It bolstered him enough to admit what he had done. The arrogance, the unprofessionalism, the lies, and the breakup. The last part was new to John, too. They let him finish without interruption.

“You’re lucky she didn’t stick that knife in you. You quite deserved it,” Katherine said when he finished. “That poor girl. Everything she’s been through because of you.”

“I’m not responsible for all of it. She dated that arse all on her own.” Al paused, having put a few things together. “And he may be more involved than I thought.” Al told them about the note card he had received suggesting he review Luella’s several months ago, and the matching card he saw with the Polish dictionary yesterday. He realized now that the DP were initials, Devlin Pontellier’s initials.

Katherine handed out tea to the rest of the group. John sniffed it, then dipped a finger in to taste. Satisfied, he took a drink.

“So you’re just going to let her go?” John asked.

Al looked as if he’d been hit by a train.

“What am I to do? I wouldn’t forgive me. How can I ask her to?”

“She doesn’t know the entire story; from what you said, she thinks you knew the entire time, that this was one big joke on her.”

“You’re right. She should know the entire truth. I can’t let her think I used her,” Al said. Hope blossomed a little in his eyes. “You think she might listen?”

“Don’t be all talk and no trousers. And you can’t tell her anything moping about in bed,” James said, pointing at some fresh clothes on the end of his bed.

“Make her listen. She has an answering machine. Leave a message on that,” John said.

Al nodded, thinking about what he wanted his darling Lou to know most. When his mum and dad went down to the kitchen, John snickered.

“Your name is Alastair.”

“Bugger off.”

“Merry Christmas to you, too.”

Then he trotted down the stairs, leaving Al alone with his delicate stomach, tender feet, and a scrap of hope.

• CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE •

She didn’t remember getting home after the dinner. Sue had settled her on the couch with a blanket, some tea, and a promise to call her in the morning. Sometime after Al had disappeared, her emotions shut down. Too much data and too many crashes, and now she was the human equivalent of the Blue Screen of Death. She had sat on the couch all night, staring at the calla lily painting propped on her mantel.

When the sun rose, she put on her coat and walked to the nearby Sendik’s, stopping at the ATM on the way. The balance on the screen said $63.39. She took out sixty dollars.

The grocery store was full of harried people finishing their Christmas food shopping. Lou ignored them all. Weaving through carts and shoppers, not deviating from her precise shopping list, she collected her items and paid for them, leaving her with $2.45. She bought a two-dollar scratch-off lottery ticket and dropped the forty-five cents into the Salvation Army bucket by the exit.

Back in her apartment, she unpacked the items (the scratch-off was a loser). She planned to make a roast beef, a pile of mashed potatoes, corn—then mound it into a bowl and drown it in gravy. Some people ate ice cream or pie when depressed; she went for the warm comfort food she learned to make in her grandma’s kitchen.

While the beef roasted, Lou slipped into her pajamas, complete with a ratty bathrobe and bear-claw slippers. When it finished, she took a big bowl, mixed the beef, corn, potatoes, and gravy all together like her dad used to do, and sat cross-legged in the center of her bed. A little eating in bed seemed warranted.

With each bite, her emotions rebooted. Her heart ached, her anger simmered; she had lost her restaurant, didn’t have any money . . . and Al. Al. Al was the fifty-ton straw that broke the camel’s back. Her tears fell to season her food.

Her phone rang and she let it go to voice mail. When the phone chirped, indicating there was a message, she played it. Even though she knew who had left it, hearing the voice yanked at her insides.

“Lou, I know you don’t want to talk to me, but I want you to know everything so you hate me for the right reasons. I did write that review; I didn’t follow up. It was the most unprofessional thing I’ve ever done, and it was a mistake. When I first met you, I was a very different person. I will never regret anything more than that review, except if I didn’t tell you the entire story now. I tried to get a retraction, or even write a new review, but my editor wouldn’t let me. That doesn’t make it right. I’m sure I could have done something.

“I didn’t know you were a chef until the morning after the barbecue. After our first night together. It never occurred to me you were the Lou of Luella’s—I knew the owner as Elizabeth. It was too late. I already loved you. I tried to stay away. I faked the trip to California and being sick to give me time. But I couldn’t stay away. You were so amazing, so wonderful, and I was selfish and greedy for you. I came up with the crazy plan to kill off Wodyski so then I could get hired as the new critic. I tried to protect you, but I know that was a mistake, too. That’s the story, the whole story. I’ve lied to you in so many ways, but you still know me better than anyone ever has. You know the real Al Waters, the Al Waters who loves you. I’m so sorry.”

Lou sat still, absorbing the long message. The onslaught of information came at her like a bear attack. She curled herself into a ball, tucking her head into her hands. Each loss was another clawed swipe. Her restaurant. Her family. Al. She was alone. Just she and the onslaught. She wasn’t brave enough to fight back or strong enough to run away—she could only take each brutal blow. She stayed curled tight, praying she’d survive.

• • • • •

The ringing phone pulled Lou out of her bed. It was a local number she didn’t recognize. She cleared her throat before answering so it wouldn’t sound like she had just woken up.

“Hello.” The throat clearing didn’t work.

“Ms. Johnson?”

“Yes?”

“This is Pam with the St. Boniface Hospice. I’m calling because Otto and Gertrude Meyer requested we contact you.”

Lou was awake now.

“Okay. Are they all right?”

“We’ve admitted them both. They asked that we let you know.”

Lou looked around her dark bedroom. Clothes lay scattered. Dirty dishes threatened to topple off her nightstand. There was a definite funk in the air.

“Can I visit today?”

Pam with St. Boniface Hospice paused.

“I think that would be a very good idea.”

“I’m on my way. Thanks.”

Lou hung up the phone.

Five days after Luella’s last supper and five days since her last shower, worry about Gertrude and Otto had her moving again. Life continued, and there were people who still needed her. She pulled on the nearest clothes and darted out of her apartment.

• • • • •

Lou rushed past fake presents stacked under an artificial Christmas tree to the hospice’s front desk. Paper snowflakes cut out by children hung from the ceiling and each door had red stockings with the patients’ names. The fluorescent lights made the decorations appear garish next to the boxes of gloves and hand sanitizer hanging every few feet. The staff tried to create a festive air, but you couldn’t hide illness and death under sparkly garlands and Santa window clings.

The woman at the desk wore reindeer scrubs and a name tag reading “Pam.” She had a Santa hat with a pin that read “All I want for Christmas is a narwhal.”

“Hi, I think I spoke with you earlier,” Lou said. “I’m here to see the Meyers.”

Pam looked up and raised an eyebrow at Lou. Lou looked down at her clothes. She wore hot pink sweatpants, a red “Teach me how to Bucky” sweatshirt, and her green Crocs. Covering her messy hair was a knitted cupcake hat. Pam blinked.

“Yes, that was me. Are you family?”

“No, a good friend.”

She nodded.

“They’re in one-seventeen, fourth door on the left.”

Lou hurried down the hall. As she approached the door, a nurse came out of the Meyers’ room. Lou pulled her hat off her head and smoothed her hair. The nurse saw Lou and stopped.

“Are you here to visit Gertrude and Otto?”

Lou nodded.

“You must be Lou. I’m Val. I’m their afternoon nurse today. They’ve mentioned you.”

“How are they?”

“They’re extraordinary, as I’m sure you know. Healthwise, not well.”

“I just saw them a few days ago.”

“At their age, things can change very quickly. Bottom line—Gertrude has had stage-four breast cancer for a while. They’ve chosen not to treat it and instead to manage the pain. Otto seems to be deteriorating along with Gertrude. It isn’t unheard of in a couple this close.”

“That’s it? They just die?” Lou’s knees wobbled.

“This is what they want. They’ve been very clear about their wishes—that’s why they’re here instead of the hospital. We’ll make them comfortable.”

Lou just blinked at her. It felt as if a dump truck full of sand had just landed on her.

“Are you going to be okay?”

She shook her head and tried to speak, but her mouth twisted itself like a Slinky mangled by a toddler. “Mmph,” was all she could manage.

Nurse Val opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. Then opened it again.

“You know you have mashed potatoes in your hair, right?”

She pointed to a spot near Lou’s shoulder. Lou ran a hand through her hair, feeling the dry, crusty chunks. That explained a lot.

“Ugh. Long story.”

Val smiled and nodded.

“I think you should go in and talk with them. You’ll feel better.”

Nurse Val squeezed her arm and left while Lou tried to scrape the potatoes out of her hair with her fingers. Sadness hung in the air, floating down the hallways, seeping under closed doors. People spoke in whispers to not draw Death’s attention too soon.

Lou entered the room, expecting the same sorrow and distress. Instead, thin and pale versions of Otto and Gertrude lay in twin beds, turned toward each other, both smiling. Their love sent out a beacon of calm, their shared memories a bulwark against despair. A few IVs dripped from their hooks, administering the pain medications needed, but serenity reigned in room 117.

Lou studied Gertrude. The hospital bed nearly swallowed her. Lou frowned at seeing her good friend so weak.

“Ach, Liebchen, don’t make that face,” Gertrude said as Lou stood in the doorway. “Come here.”

Lou squeezed Otto’s cold hand in greeting, then slipped into the chair between the hospital beds so Gertrude could see her face. She reached out to hold Gertrude’s hand, noticing the blue fingertips and chilled skin. She had never been around death. Her parents had died so quickly she’d only had coffins to comfort her.

“This face better not be for us. We have lived good, long lives.”

She looked at Otto, who had drifted off to sleep, then back to Gertrude.

“Does it hurt?”

“Nothing a tough woman like me can’t handle.” Lou chuckled. “It hurts more to see those we love sad about something inevitable. We are born, we live, if we are lucky we love, then we die. That is the way, not something to mourn. Only mourn those who haven’t lived, who haven’t found love. They deserve your sadness, not us.”

Lou held her hand, wanting to savor the powdery softness of it, the smell of ivory soap and tea, the comfortable sweat suit she wore, so unlike her normal crisp attire.

“I don’t know what to say,” Lou said.

Gertrude smiled at her honesty and reached up to touch her cheek.

“Say you will forgive your young man.”

Lou’s face turned stony; only her respect for Gertrude kept her from pulling back from the touch.

“I can’t do that, Gertrude. He betrayed me too deeply. He destroyed my life.”

“You love him, yes?” Lou nodded. “I saw his face. He didn’t defend himself; he didn’t try to talk his way out of your accusations. That is not how a bad person would act.”

“The Al I thought I knew couldn’t have written that article.”

Gertrude took several short breaths and pointed to her water. Lou gave her a sip. Seeing her dear friend struggle with a simple task frightened Lou. It seemed another bit of joy was getting sucked out of the world. She took a deep breath and returned the cup to the table.

“Maybe you didn’t know the Al who wrote it. Maybe you knew a different Al, one who knew and loved you. People change. You are worth changing for.” Gertrude pointed her finger at Lou.

“It’s too soon. I can’t even think about him without getting so angry I want to . . . pry his teeth out with a dinner fork.”

Gertrude’s eyes crinkled and her shoulders moved a little, trying to express the laugh she didn’t have energy to make.

“Little savage. Just don’t let your heart get too hard. He made you happy. That was not an act. Try to forgive him– promise me.”

Lou looked into Gertrude’s watery eyes and pale face, her wispy hair floating away, the first part of her escaping toward heaven. She couldn’t deny Gertrude.

“I promise.”

“Good, now where is my Otto? I need to rest.”

Lou stood and moved the chair so she could push Otto’s bed closer to Gertrude’s. Gertrude’s eyes still sparkled in response. Lou bent over to kiss Gertrude on the cheek, then did the same to Otto.

“I’ll be in the chair if you need anything.”

Gertrude’s lips twitched, but her eyes were already closed, her breathing slow and sleepy.

Lou settled into the chair to watch over her favorite customers and think about Gertrude’s request. She had been happy, even amid her restaurant failing, but with her emotions rubbed raw from too many assaults, Lou needed a distraction. Being trapped in the hospice bubble isolated her, leaving her in close quarters with her troubles and amplifying the solitude. The more time alone, the more she worried about Otto and Gertrude, her stalled career, and whether her heart would ever heal.

The subdued quiet was only broken when nurses came in and out, checking vital signs and replacing IV bags. One suggested she take a shower, handing her a towel and soap. Afterward, she scrounged up a notepad and pen from the nurses’ station.

Over the next day, Lou sat vigil as Gertrude’s breathing became more labored, her skin more purple. She scribbled ideas in the notepad. New recipes, table settings, and a plan. Sometime in the night a nurse brought her some bland chicken noodle soup and stale crackers. Lou kept writing. A new restaurant was being born even as Gertrude’s breathing became more ragged.

Action in the hospice picked up as the sun rose, and visitors came and went. Midmorning Gertrude opened her eyes and beckoned Lou over. She bent close to Gertrude so she could hear her whisper.

“What are you writing?”

“A business plan. For a new restaurant.”

“Good. Second chances are good.”

Lou tilted her head in confusion. Gertrude waved at the notepad.

“You deserve a second chance at your dreams. Otto was my second chance at love.”

“It will take some work, but I have a plan. Do you want to hear about it?”

Gertrude nodded and listened as Lou poured out all her ideas.

“It is a good plan.” Her breathing became short and quick. “Liebchen, you must take my advice and find your happiness.”

“I will.”

Lou rubbed Gertrude’s icy hand, more purple than not.

“Keep my Otto company until he is ready?”

Lou nodded.

“Of course.”

Gertrude took a deep, wet breath, patted Lou’s hand, and closed her eyes again, reaching for Otto’s hand. Lou helped her find it, linking the two together, as it should be. She walked to the coffee station, trying to control her breath. The nurses she passed nodded and let her have some privacy.

When Lou returned to Otto and Gertrude’s room, Otto’s breathing was loud and heavy, but the two still held hands. Gertrude’s covers had slipped off her legs. Lou pulled them up and noticed Gertrude wasn’t breathing. She watched for a few minutes to make sure, as a mother would watch her newborn baby, then sigh in relief as the chest rose and fell. But Gertrude’s chest did not rise and fall. A tear plopped on the blankets. Lou covered Gertrude up, made sure Otto still slept, and went to tell the nurses.

• • • • •

Otto stayed unconscious while Gertrude’s body was wheeled away. Lou knew because she held his hand the entire time, feeling it grow colder. She pulled the chair next to his bed and continued to plan. It kept her mind from dwelling on the remarkable people the world was losing.

Otto moved his sheets and opened his eyes.

Lou’s stomach twisted. She had to tell him. She reached for his hand and looked into his shiny blue eyes.

“Otto, Gertrude passed earlier today.”

Otto smiled and nodded his head. Of course, he knew already. He tilted his head toward the door.

“I’m not leaving you alone. I promised Gertrude.”

He worked his mouth until he could manage a crackled whisper.

“When you love someone, Schätzchen, you are never alone.”

Lou kissed his forehead.

“Thank you for everything.” Lou’s voice choked. “Give Gertrude a hug when you see her.”

Lou picked up her notebook and settled into her chair. She looked back at Otto’s shining head and peaceful face, thinking about second chances.

Otto died in the early morning, Lou keeping vigil.