Текст книги "Paper Thin"
Автор книги: Jennifer Snyder
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 16 страниц)
SUNNY BROOK COTTAGES WAs the nursing home we decided on for Mom. It wasn’t particularly sunny, unless you counted the gaudy, fading mural painted in the main entrance. From the sight of it, I guessed it was probably painted when the place opened back in the eighties. The staff was nice, and the residents—or patients, I wasn’t sure what they were supposed to be called—who lived there seemed happy. Although, that could have been due to any number of medications they were being pumped full of.
Emma and I continued to follow Mr. Holbrook through the maze of rooms and halls during our tour. I wasn’t sure I liked the place, but Emma seemed to approve. She had kept a smile on her face since meeting Mr. Holbrook. I knew it was fake, because it didn’t crinkle the corners of her eyes like I remembered her real ones doing, but it was as close to a real smile as I had seen from her in weeks, months even. My sister’s lips had been stuck in a permanent frown since waking from the accident.
“This is the room that gets the most enjoyment from all.” Mr. Holbrook motioned for us to follow him, as though we would have done anything else. We’d been following him for the past twenty minutes. “The activity room.”
I glanced around. The room was large with tables and chairs placed sporadically throughout, a TV, couch, two end tables, and a few bookshelves. Two of the random tables housed puzzles in stages of near completion. Pieces had been spread around and sorted into neat piles by someone. The blues were with the blues, the greens with the greens, and so on. I wondered who had taken time to do such a thing, and if it was the same person working on both of them at once.
A morbid thought hit me: What if the person doing the puzzles died? Did someone else swoop in to finish what the other had started, or did a staff member put all the pieces back into the box, erasing his or her hard work as though it never existed?
“We have a set schedule of weekly activities that occur in this room. Every Monday we hold a folding party,” Mr. Holbrook announced as though it were the best thing ever.
“Folding party?” Emma beat me to asking.
“That’s right.” He smiled. It was a goofy smile, one that made me think there might not be something quite right with him. It was the smile of a crazed man. “Every Monday we have towels, washcloths, sometimes sheets or resident clothing placed in here for those who feel up to it to fold. We call it our Monday night folding party, because some of the ladies here are a hoot to talk with, which makes it feel like a party.”
“They actually enjoy folding laundry?” I couldn’t help ask. The idea of thinking of folding laundry as a party seemed bizarre to me and sort of sad.
Mr. Holbrook nodded his head, his goofy grin growing. “Yes. They do. You see, sometimes they look for things to do. It’s a habit leftover from home. They enjoy doing something familiar, folding clothes is easy and enjoyable.”
“That makes sense.” It did, in a weird way.
“Tuesday night is our rotating night. Sometimes there will be a special guest, card games, board games, or something of that nature. The residents take a vote on what they would like to do.” He moved to stand behind the couch. “Also, once a month, Tuesday night is made into a glamour night for the ladies. The staff does the residents’ hair, nails, and makeup. It’s something fun for us all.”
“Mom would love that.” I knew she would. This was probably the only thing I had heard during the entire tour that made me smile.
“Most of the women do.” He placed a hand along the back of the couch and seemed to comb through his brain for the remainder of the schedule. “Wednesday is what we call Flexercise day. It’s where we play a DVD video for the residents to exercise to. We also have a few instructors who come and do hands-on workouts twice a month to keep things interesting. Thursday nights are another rotating night. Depending on the weather, we might listen to music in the quad out back or one of the staff members might choose a book to read out loud. Fridays are always movie and popcorn night. And weekends are generally when family come to visit, so we don’t have set things on those days.”
Emma glanced at me. “What do you think?”
“It’s nice. What about you?”
“I think it’s perfect for Mom,” Emma said. The fake smile that had been twisting her lips for Mr. Holbrook to see had finally morphed into a real one. “When can she move in?”
“We can go over the paperwork, and then I’ll let you know a date once I get my calendar in front of me. How does that sound?”
“Sounds great.” Emma beamed.
After filling out a stack of papers, Mr. Holbrook told us Mom could move in around the twenty-third, which was nearly three weeks away. The relief that rolled off my shoulders was followed by tiny pinpricks of guilt. Before I could wallow in it for long, I reminded myself of what I had said to Dawson when he mentioned having felt relief instead of all-out grief after learning the news of his father’s passing. I was only human.
Three weeks came and went faster than I thought they would. Mom had taken the news fairly well, but when moving day was finally upon us, I worried the reality of what was happening to her would set in and things would become difficult. I was surprised that wasn’t the case. In fact, Mom had one of her moments the entire time Emma and I attempted to box up her room, which proved to be good for us, because she thought she was preparing to take that cruise she always talked about.
Mom’s room was going to be small at Sunny Brook, so we only packed the necessities. The rest of her belongings Emma insisted we place in the attic. I wasn’t sure why. It seemed like more of an out-of-sight-out-of-mind thing, which was odd for Emma, because I knew that wasn’t how she felt about our mother. Then again, it could be now. Things had changed with her. She was different.
“I’ll grab that one, if you’ll carry the blankets in,” Dawson said. He had offered to help us move Mom into Sunny Brook even though there wasn’t much to move. Emma hadn’t cared if he came or not. She was colder toward him now than she ever was, leaving me to wonder if she had seen our near kiss that one night or me consoling him after he had gotten the news about his father. I couldn’t bring myself to ask. I figured it would be best to wait and see if she brought it up. “Please, they make me itch.” Dawson flashed me a charming smile, the one that always made my knees grow weak.
I looked away, and reached for the blankets. “Sure.”
We wove through the halls, heading toward my mother’s room side by side. I had thought things between us after that night would have been strained or awkward, but they weren’t. Thankfully. We had both been able to pretend nothing happened. Which was best all the way around.
“This is the last of it,” I announced to Emma as we walked into the room. Mom was sitting on the edge of her new bed, testing out its firmness. I wondered how she would react once we left, if she would go to the activity room and make friends, or if she would sit in here and sulk. I hoped she decided to make friends.
“Are you all settled in?” a nurse asked from behind me.
I shifted so she could see into the room. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Mrs. Montgomery, would you like me to give you a tour?” She smiled. There was something friendly about her. It wasn’t just her smile; maybe it was her voice. It was sweet, but without the overly fake tone. Genuine, it was a genuinely sweet voice that put you at ease.
“Sure. I’m ready for my vacation to start.” Mom didn’t even wave to us as she hurried from the room.
The three of us remained silent as the nurse looped her arm through Mom’s and turned back to us. “You can stay here and wait for us to get back, or you can leave. It’s up to you.”
I glanced at Emma. “What do you want to do?”
“I’ve already said my goodbye to her.” Her voice was riddled with emotion.
Dawson leaned over, and kissed her on the forehead. “You still okay with this?”
“Yeah.” Emma moved away from him, as though she didn’t want his touch. Her gesture didn’t faze him. He never seemed to give in to the coldness she showed him. My lips twisted into a frown, hating she was treating him this way, especially after all he had lost.
“I can come visit tomorrow,” I said. “We can go.” A deep level of guilt at leaving our mom here swirled through me. Maybe Emma was so cold and quiet because she was having a hard time with the idea as well. It felt as though we were saying our final goodbyes to her, like we had moved her into a place where it was okay to die.
As we made our way out of her room and toward the parking lot, we passed residents. Some were dressed in oversized sweatpants and sweaters, while others were dressed in clothes that actually seemed to fit. I wondered if any of them ever got to go home just before, or if their families had moved them here so they could die.
I reminded myself that wasn’t why we agreed to move Mom here. She wasn’t here to die; she was here because it had become too much on us to watch over her. The thought soured my stomach. Wasn’t that supposed to be our job as her children? How could we have dropped her off here?
“Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” I asked Emma as we let ourselves out the main doors in the lobby area.
“Why wouldn’t it be? They have the capabilities of watching her around the clock. We don’t. Not anymore.”
“Does she really need ‘round the clock care though? I mean, she’s not that bad yet,” I argued. The idea of leaving her here seemed cruel to me. Mom wasn’t like some of the others here. She wasn’t that sick yet.
Yes, she had her days. She forgot who we all were more often than she remembered now, and we’d had a few issues every now and then, but did that mean we needed to send her to this place? Sunny Brook Cottages seemed like jail all the sudden.
“She’s only getting worse,” Dawson chimed in. “It’s best for her to be here, where she doesn’t have access to a real kitchen and can’t catch things on fire. She’ll be safe. It seems like a really good place.”
He was right. She was getting worse, and even though we had Carla to help during the day, nights were becoming hard with her. She didn’t sleep much, and there had been a few times when I had caught her trying to slip out of the house in the middle of the night. Thank goodness I was a night owl, or we could have had some serious issues first thing in the morning.
“It’s for the best.” Emma’s words were flat.
I glanced at her, but didn’t say anything. I figured this was harder for her than it was for me. Besides, she wasn’t the best at expressing her emotions lately. Sadly, I felt as though I was getting used to it.
MOM SEEMED TO ADJUST well, or at least that was what the nurses told me the handful of times I had been to visit with her over the last two weeks. Emma refused to come with me. When she said she’d already said her goodbyes to Mom, I hadn’t thought she meant for forever, but apparently, she had.
I was counting down the days until her next doctor’s appointment. There were some things I wanted to discuss with him in regards to her mental state. It was hard for me to think of Emma as being depressed, but I was beginning to realize that was her issue. I had hoped after our argument awhile back she would have shook off her funk and started making her way back to being my sister. The one I loved, the one I missed. But, she hadn’t.
Instead, she’d fallen deeper into the hole of depression, making me think it would take an act of God to finally pull her free.
She had started eating again, albeit like a bird. She still needed to gain some of her original weight back. She was nearing the point of becoming too gaunt and sickly looking. It was a general topic of conversation between Dawson and me lately. He was worried about her, and so was I. Even if the doctors didn’t seem to be. They viewed her limited eating habits as progress. I viewed them as an attempt to appease everyone for the time being. I knew my sister better than they did.
I hoisted the bags of groceries out of my trunk, being sure I gathered every last one, because I hated making trips back to the car. Tonight, I had invited over three of Emma’s closest friends for dinner and drinks, thinking it might make something click inside her, or at the very least allow her to have fun for a change and forget everything else for a while.
“Need some help?” Dawson called to me from the front door of the house. He being here was no surprise. I had sent him a text, letting him know I needed to head to the store and run some errands for a little while, practically inviting him over to spend time with my sister.
That wasn’t my only reasoning though. With the way Emma had been sulking around the house, I was scared she would try to hurt herself if she was left alone. Maybe I was wrong, dear God, I hoped I was, but it was a strange feeling in my gut I couldn’t ignore when I was around her.
“Sure.” I grunted while staring toward the door. “You can close my trunk for me.”
Dawson hurried over. “Or, I could take a few of these off your hands before you break your wrists.” He grinned. “And then close the trunk for you. How does that sound?”
“Fabulous actually.” I stretched out the arm holding the bulk of the heavy bags to him.
“You’re welcome.” He winked.
“Thank you.” I flashed him a smile, ignoring the sensation in my stomach his wink caused, and started up the ramp to the porch. Emma was in the living room when I walked in, watching something on TV. “Hey, whatcha watching?”
“Some movie. It’s a comedy.”
“Really? I would have never known from the absence of your laughter.” I adjusted the bags on my arms, evenly distributing their weight. “Must not be that good.”
“It’s okay.” She eyed the bags in my arms. “What’s all that?”
“I told you. I have a surprise for you tonight,” I said in a singsong voice, hoping to get at least a flicker of excitement shooting through her. I wanted to see her alive, but the deadness that seemed to overtake her more each day was the only thing reflected back at me.
She brought her fingers up to rub her right temple, and a sigh escaped her. “Char, I already told you, I’m not in the mood for any surprises.”
“And I told you I don’t care.” I continued toward the kitchen, ready to drop off the heavy bags, but also not willing to argue with Emma about tonight again. “I want you showered and dressed to impress by five tonight. I mean it!” The sound of her grumbling something made its way to my ears, but it was too low for me to make out the words, which was probably a good thing, because I knew it wouldn’t be anything nice.
I set the bags on the countertop and began putting things away. I had spent the majority of last night browsing recipes for various appetizers, entrees, and desserts I could make for entertaining Emma’s friends tonight. Hopefully something turned out edible. I also prayed I didn’t pull a Mom moment and nearly burn down the kitchen.
“Here are the rest.” Dawson set the remaining bags on the counter beside the ones I’d brought in. “Need any help putting them away?”
I frowned at him. Things with Emma must not have gone so well, because he seemed to be doing everything he could to avoid spending more time with her. “No. I am perfectly capable of putting groceries away. Thanks for the offer though.” Heavy sarcasm dripped from my words.
He held up his hands in surrender and walked backward out of the room. “Okay, sure.”
I fought the desire to reach inside the bag of lemons I was holding, and chuck one at him. Why did he think I was incapable of doing things on my own? Maybe there was still a bit of the little Charlotte he had grown up with fresh in his mind. My lips twisted into a frown at the thought.
After I put all the groceries up, I pulled out my cell and read through the recipes I had bookmarked for tonight, trying to decide on what to attempt first. I’d bought double the ingredients for nearly every recipe, hoping for a fifty-fifty chance one of each would be okay. If not, I might be making a mad dash to the local BBQ place around the corner before everyone arrived.
Deciding I would start with the desserts, because they seemed to be the easiest and needed some time to chill in the fridge before being served, I gathered all the ingredients. Laughter from the living room floated to my ears. A smile twisted my lips at the sound. Dawson had the best laugh. It was deep and rich, smooth sounding even. It was the type of laugh that was contagious, and forced everyone within earshot to smile. Something funny must have happened during the movie. I paused in what I was doing and listened for the sound of my sister’s laughter as well, but I didn’t hear it. I hated that it had been so long since I’d heard her laugh. I hoped she was at least smiling. She hardly ever smiled anymore either.
Focusing my attention on the recipe, I hoped I wouldn’t forget a step or screw something up. I needed this night to be perfect. It was too important for it not to be.
AN HOUR LATER, I was drowning in sweet potato slices, freaking out over the creamy cilantro-serrano dip that was supposed to go with them because it was nowhere near as creamy as it was supposed to be, and praying the chocolate cream pie turned out okay, because the double-chocolate macaroons looked like brown turds instead of the perfect balls of goodness the recipe claimed they would be.
Cooking was not my forte, I knew this, and I had no idea what the hell I had been thinking when I decided I could handle catering for tonight’s event. Clearly, I had suffered from temporary insanity.
“Something smells good.” Dawson strolled into the kitchen. He headed straight for the fridge, causing icicles of panic to stab through me.
“No! Please don’t open that!” I envisioned the blobs that were supposed to be perfect balls of macaroons falling to the floor with a disgusting splat the second he swung the door open.
“Why not? What sort of concoction have you got chilling in here?” He gripped the handle, and eyed me.
“I’m trying to let something set, or at least I’m hoping it sets,” I admitted while pushing the sleeves up on my sweater. I reached for the whisk I’d been using to stir the dip for the sweet potatoes and tried one last time to whip it into something creamy and delicious, like what the picture showed. It seemed to be clumping more by the second, and I wasn’t sure why.
“Okay. So I won’t open the fridge.” He backed away and moved closer to me, checking out what I had cooking. I was positive nothing looked appetizing. “What’s all this?”
I wiped at my forehead. Exhaustion was getting the best of me, along with frustration. Nothing had turned out to be as easy as the recipes claimed. Nothing. “It’s supposed to be a creamy dip for the sweet potato chips, but as you can see.” I lifted the whisk showing him the texture. “There is nothing creamy about it.”
“I can see that.” He picked up one of the sweet potatoes and waved it back and forth. “Aren’t you supposed to cook these in order to make them chips? I don’t know about you, but any chip I’ve ever eaten has been crisp.”
“Oh shit!” I’d forgotten to put them in the oven. “They were supposed to bake for thirty minutes! I can’t believe I did that.” I set the whisk down, but missed the counter and it fell to the floor, hitting my capris and leg on its way. Chunky whiteness slid down my shin. I froze, unable to believe the mess I was making. I was completely botching this dinner.
Dawson laughed as he bent to retrieve the whisk. “You look like you could use a little help.” He rinsed the whisk in the sink, struggling to gain control over his laughter.
“Ya think?” I reached for the dish towel as he was. Our hands touched, sending shockwaves through my core. I pulled away and let him have the rag first.
“I can help, if you want.” He cleared his throat and handed me the rag after he’d dried the whisk. “I’m pretty good in the kitchen.”
Every part of me wanted to say yes to him, because God knew I could use the help, but thoughts of Emma crushed the idea. “Where’s Emma? Is your movie over?”
“Yeah, she went to shower and get ready for tonight. I was supposed to be on my way out the door, but I wanted to grab a few of the beers I left here the other night first.” An amused grin twisted his lips as he glanced around the kitchen once more. “I can see you might need my help though. So what do you say? Wanna show me the recipes for what you were trying to do, and we’ll see what we can salvage?”
Gratitude paraded through me as every muscle in my body released from the tension I’d been straining them with. I needed the help, and if Emma was getting ready for the party, that meant I wasn’t pulling Dawson away and ruining time they could have had together. He had already said goodnight to her.
“Sure. As you can see, I could use it.” I wiped my shin off and searched for my cell. It was buried beneath a pile of sweet potato peelings. I pulled up the recipe for them and checked to see what the oven needed to be preheated to before handing it to him so he could read it. “Okay, I’m putting you in charge of the sweet potato chips.”
“Shouldn’t I be putting you in charge of them so I can take over whatever sauce that is you’ve ruined?” He grinned and handed my phone back to me. “Sweet potato chips are easy.”
“If you remember to cook them apparently,” I said under my breath as I took my cell from him. I didn’t think it was loud enough for him to have heard, but from the chuckle that escaped him, I was sure he had. “Okay, here is the dip for them.” I pulled up the recipe for the dip passed my phone over to him again.
He glanced over the recipe before moving to start a new batch. “Did you happen to read this recipe in its entirety?”
“Yeah, why?” I sprayed some oil on the cookie sheet I had set out earlier for the sweet potatoes to bake on.
“Because you aren’t supposed to simmer it on the stove. It’s supposed to be blended in a blender, and then set in the fridge to marinate and chill.” He flashed me a shit-eating grin. “You soured it, Charlotte.”
“Ah crap, no wonder it was so chunky.” My cheeks heated from the embarrassment of my blunder. Thank goodness I hadn’t tried to serve it yet. I bet it would have tasted horrible.
“You got enough for me to start from scratch with this one?”
“Yeah.” I laughed at myself. “I actually bought double of everything in case I screwed something up and had to start over.”
“Wow, you are seriously lacking faith in your cooking abilities.” He shook his head. There was humor in his voice, but his back was to me so I couldn’t see if there was a smile on his face.
“No, I’m being honest about my ability,” I countered as I continued to place the sweet potatoes on the cookie sheet in a single layer. It was nearly time for my sister’s group of friends to start arriving. I had about twenty minutes left, unless someone showed up before then. The sweet potatoes might not be done by then, but at least they would be warm when I served them. Maybe forgetting to cook them had been a good thing.
After sprinkling them with some salt, pepper, and a little chili powder, I popped them in the oven. I set the timer on the stove for thirty minutes so I wouldn’t forget when to take them out, and moved on to glance over the other things I had left to do. The menu was a fairly simple one, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to tolerate much else. Sweet potato chips and a special dipping sauce for the appetizer, a summer salad with dressing, some lemon-bail salmon, sautéed green beans and mushrooms, and the chocolate pie and macaroons for dessert. I was forgetting something, but I couldn’t remember what.
Dawson switched on the blender, and the noise of it instantly triggered my memory—drinks! I had bought the stuff to make a few cocktails too. There was a rosemary-blueberry smash drink, as well as a cranberry limeade. I prayed I was a better bartender than I was a cook.
I maneuvered around Dawson and reached for my phone. After bringing up the recipes for the drinks, I gathered all the ingredients, lining everything up on the counter in front of me. I was determined not to screw up these drinks. Dawson had come in and saved the day on the appetizer, the macaroons were crap, but everything else seemed to be looking good. As long as I didn’t burn the sweet potatoes or screw up making these drinks, I was in the clear.
“Anything else I can help with?” Dawson asked as I crushed up some blueberries and rosemary in the bottom of the cocktail shaker I’d bought specifically for tonight.
“Um.” I thought for a second. “I don’t know. Hold on. Let me see if I can get this right.” I squeezed in some honey and a little lemon juice, somehow managing to get a squirt directly in my eye. It burned like a mother. “Damn it!”
“Here.” Dawson gripped my shoulders and positioned me in front of the sink. Tingles slipped along my spine from his sudden touch. “Flush your eye out with some water.”
Ignoring the prickles of sensation coursing through me because of him, I did as he said. Instantly, the stinging died down to nothing. Dawson handed me a paper towel. “Thanks.” I wiped my eyes and left side of my face with it. “Apparently, I can’t even make drinks without something horrible happening,” I muttered.
“Eh, you did good. The pie looks awesome.”
“Have you seen the macaroons? Did you forget about the chunky dip?” I swiped under my eye again, and then glanced at the paper towel. Sure enough, my eyeliner and mascara had been washed down my face. “And now I look like some crazy emo chick with black crap smudged to my chin.”
“It’s not that bad,” Dawson insisted, an amused breath escaping him. He stepped closer to me. “Here, let me.” He took the paper towel from me, and cupped my face with his free hand. He swiped it beneath my eye, erasing the final smudges of my makeup, causing my breath to hitch in my throat. The warmth from his hand radiated from where he gripped my face, and spread all the way to my lower stomach.
His lips hooked into the half-grin I had loved since as far back as I could remember. “There. Got it all.”
“Thank you.” I licked my lips, waiting for him to release me, to take a step back, because I couldn’t. I was rooted in place, unable to breathe from his touch.
Something shifted in his eyes. His breathing turned into shallow gasps that matched my own. The same sensation I’d felt by the fire pit however many nights ago it was seemed to charge the space between us again. This time it harbored more velocity in its build up. I could feel it prickling against my skin, causing my entire body to tingle from his close proximity.
Dawson leaned in, his scent clouded my mind, and made me hunger for him in ways I shouldn’t. His vivid blue eyes and the desire in them had me pinned in place, flaming my craving for him to new levels. His hand that cupped my face slipped to cradle against the nap of my neck, lifting my lips to a position his could better reach them. I didn’t stop him. I didn’t speak. Shockwaves of heat surged through me as his thumb brushed against the sensitive area beneath my earlobe.
I closed my eyes, sealing off myself from the thoughts of my conscience, and waited for the feel of his lips pressed against mine. I wondered if they would steal the breath from my lungs like they had when I was fifteen. I wondered if his kiss would cripple me with lust the way I always imagined. My heart thundered with anticipation inside my chest even though I knew this moment was wrong.
A knock at the front door had us jumping apart in the next heartbeat. I blinked, and my hand flew to my mouth. I was sick with crumbled desire and self-loathing. Emma was in the next room. What the hell had I been thinking? What was Dawson thinking? Another knock echoed through the house.
“I’ll get it!” I shouted loud enough for Emma to hear. More space needed to be between Dawson and me, because my traitorous body wanted him still. I could feel the tendrils of desire coursing through every cell of my being.
“I think,” he said before I could walk too far away from him. I paused and glanced at him. “I should probably go.” He cleared his throat, but he didn’t move. The same sense of disbelief I felt with myself clouded his blue eyes, letting me know he was disgusted with himself as well.
“Okay.” The word came out in a twisted whisper. Part of me felt relieved he wouldn’t be staying to help me with the party, while another wanted him to so we could somehow pick up where we had left off.
I was a horrible sister. The worst of the worst.
Dawson turned away from me, and leaned against the countertop. His head hung in what I knew was shame. I walked to the front door and let my sister’s friends in. Tonight was about Emma. I needed to see her happy again, and I damn sure needed to forget everything about Dawson.