Good For You

I want to believe that God is everywhere—in the miracle of life, in the love we have for one another, flying in the face of death. I want to believe there’s a reason and a purpose for what happened to Deb.

But there is no reason.

My two selves are old adversaries, forever circling, persistently employing the same inadequate arguments.

Each is close-minded, deaf to the other, and I cannot reconcile them.

Chapter 34

REID

Funny thing about not waking up hungover on days off—

there’s more day off to the day. I can’t believe I actual y dreaded this. I was certain I’d be bored as hel inside 48

hours—evenings without the usual entertainment fol owed by entire days to fil . But what’s to miss about headaches, nausea and acute sensitivity to light and sound? My enthusiasm may have as much to do with Vancouver itself as it does the lack of hangovers. I wouldn’t know; before this project, I’ve had little experience with either.

It’s our first Sunday off, and Chelsea and her husband, Chad, invited me along to explore Gastown, an area of the city with cobblestone streets and smal shops, gal eries and restaurants. A bodyguard trails us, but hasn’t been necessary. Vancouver is known as Hol ywood North, and the locals are semi-inured to celebrity sightings. No one’s bothered us, though cel phones are frequently aimed in our direction and I’ve heard my name and Chelsea’s hissed emphatical y a dozen times.

I lace my fingers behind my neck and stretch my sore shoulder careful y. The screenwriter is working the bruise into the storyline for the shirtless scenes because hiding it is impractical. It’s huge and ugly, and I wonder at my sanity over the fact that I’m more amused than annoyed by it. I frequently left the Diego house lightly bruised and battered, as did Dori. Once, I pointed out a purple welt on the back of her thigh, and she twisted to look at it. “Hmm,” she said, shrugging. “I’ve had worse.” I wanted to slap myself for how hot that was.

“This city is marvelous,” Chelsea says now, opening a menu. Chelsea is fond of words like marvelous and fabulous and splendid, lengthening the first syl able as though she’s trying to remember the rest of the word. She smiles at her husband. “I think we should move here.” We’ve found a corner bistro across the way from an idyl ic green space that’s commonplace in Vancouver, mixed in with the modernized buildings and concrete. This one boasts a fountain. As kids are tossing coins and making wishes, one smal boy pockets a handful of change and throws his baby sister’s shoe into the water instead.

Out of nowhere, I’m fighting the urge to cal Dori and tel her about it. I want her to tel me I’m mean and try not to laugh as I mimic my costar’s unnatural love for multi-syl abic adjectives. I wonder if she’d be more sympathetic or amused that I got slammed with a chair during a simulated bar fight.

“I hope you’re suggesting that I become a kept man,” Chad says, “because I don’t think my license from the California bar extends this far north.”

“Oh, no, no. You’re the sugar daddy and I’m the bril iant artistic type in this marriage.” Chelsea purses her lips endearingly, while I battle a desire to punch one or both of them in the face.

My cel buzzes with a text from Tadd, and I’m elated at the distraction from both the Chelsea and Chad lovefest, and futile thoughts of Dori.

Tadd: Hey dude, are you in vancouver now? Rob and i are flying up later this week. Would like to meet for dinner if you can. Let me know.

Me: I think i can squeeze you in, haha. Text me when you get here.

*** *** ***

Dori

By the time Dad and I reached the hospital, it was close to midnight. “Oh, Dori,” Mom said, throwing her arms around me as though I was a life preserver and she would sink and drown without me. She was a wreck—her face blotchy, eyes red, a smudge of mascara dissolved under each eye, giving her delicate skin a gray cast under the greenish fluorescent lighting of the critical care waiting area. We held each other as Dad looked on helplessly.

Deb’s medical team gives us periodic updates, much of it too complex to understand. I’ve tried to take notes, but mostly end up with scraps of paper covered in scribbles l i k e increased intracranial pressure and epidural

hematoma and Glasgow coma scale—5. I don’t know what hematoma and Glasgow coma scale—5. I don’t know what any of it means, but the words are menacing and my mother is shaken by them, so I know the prognosis isn’t favorable. Deb had a seizure shortly after the accident, one of the many reasons for her sedation.

“The increased pressure inside her skul from the brain swel ing is common in this sort of injury,” one of the doctors intoned, but it was clear this wasn’t meant as reassurance.

If the swel ing doesn’t stop, my sister could die.

These aren’t the circumstances under which any of us wanted to meet Bradford. Deb told me once that he’s seldom overcome with emotion because he deals in the realities of death and dying every day. Sitting next to me in the hospital cafeteria, though, he’s visibly anguished, hands clasped and rigid on the tabletop, next to his tepid coffee.

“Hardly anyone at the hospital knows about our relationship.” His voice is hoarse, his handsome face pal id and drawn. “As far as most people know, we were distant acquaintances. I’m not expected to be… not expected to feel…” I put my hand on his arm as he struggles to stay composed.

When my parents are given Deb’s belongings—the clothes and jewelry she was wearing when the accident occurred, a beautiful, unfamiliar solitaire threaded onto a long gold chain is included with her things. Bradford’s swift intake of breath and compressed jaw is al the answer we need to confirm that this is Deb’s engagement ring—