Good For You
“I’l just, uh, cal for a car to pick me up then.” She gives me a pouty glare while I’m wondering why she didn’t just ride back with the delivery truck.
“No problem, I’l drop you off. We can test the zero to sixty in what was it—3.7 seconds? This baby needs a little breaking in before I park it in the garage.” She perks up for a moment, until she figures out I’m actual y interested in the car, and only the car.
My sunglasses are almost unnecessary with the darkest legal tint possible on the windows. Though I hit sixty before the end of my street, I’l have to wait for a deserted highway to test the highest recorded speed of 200 plus. Within minutes, we’re on Santa Monica and turning onto Wilshire.
“If you’re sure there’s nothing else you need—” she begins, leaning towards me al surplus cle**age and lacy bra when I pul up in front of the showroom window. I’m ready to shove her out the door because yeah sure, I can’t help wanting some of that when it’s tossed onto a platter and served hot. Why. The. Hell. Not? the John voice says.
“Nope, nothing.” When you final y figure out what you real y want, everything else pales in comparison. I never got that before. I get it now. “Thanks, uh…”
“Victoria.” She bestows a tight smile and hands me her card.
“Yeah. Thanks.” As I shove the card into my wal et, it sticks on a scrap of paper amongst the receipts and cash
—Frank’s cel number, scrawled on the back of an IN-N-OUT receipt. I haven’t talked to Frank since August—my last day at the Diego house. Maybe I should check in.
*** *** ***
Dori
Three days until Christmas. Four weeks until school begins.
Talking to Nick helped me realize that part of my absentmindedness can be attributed to the fact that I have nothing mental on which to focus. I began regarding school as something to ground me, rather than something too chal enging to handle. I saw an advisor, registered for classes, and got very lucky on a vacated dorm room, al within the past two weeks.
I’m dumping pasta into the colander when Mom comes home from visiting Deb. “Dinner on the table in ten minutes,” I tel her, turning to stir the sauce.
When she doesn’t reply, I glance back and she’s dropped into a chair at the table with a bewildered look. My stomach drops at her expression. I should have gone with stomach drops at her expression. I should have gone with her this afternoon instead of evading her let’s-pretend-Deb-responds display by spending hours in the kitchen making a from-scratch sauce that could have just as easily come from a jar.
“Mom? Is something wrong?”
“No.” She’s stil frowning, but she looks perplexed, not distraught. “They needed my approval to move Deb to a different room.”
“What? Why?”
She shakes her head slowly. “Someone set up a trust to pay for a private room.”
“That’s—that’s great. Who?”
Her head is stil moving placidly side-to-side. “They have no idea beyond the law firm that administers the trust. I could cal them tomorrow… but wouldn’t that be looking a gift horse in the mouth? This is a miracle…” And just like that, Mom’s crying, Esther is resting her head on Mom’s knee and whining, and Dad is bul eting out of his study in a panic.
“Maybe it’s someone from church?” I offer, while my brain suggests Reid?
“What’s someone from church?” Dad says, moving to Mom’s side.
They discuss the likelihood of anyone putting that kind of money out for Deb while I turn back to the bubbling sauce, reducing the heat and stirring. If Reid had anything to do with it, his attorney father would set it up, right? Easy enough to check. “What’s the name of the law firm?” Mom shrugs. “I don’t know. I was so shocked, I forgot to ask.”
***
I’m ashamed to admit that this is the first time I’ve visited Deb without Mom or Dad. At the same time, I was relieved when Nick agreed to come with me. He says hel o to my sister, sticks around long enough to make sure I’m not going to freak out, and then tel s me he’l be in the lobby chatting up the receptionist if I need him.
I grin at his shy smirk. “Her name is Sophie, and she likes cats and historical memoirs.”
He taps his lip with one finger. “Cats, huh? I think I could work with that.” Squeezing my hand, he says, “Text if you need me.”
I glance at Deb, tel ing Nick, “Go talk to Sophie. We’re good.”
I haven’t been alone with my sister since we moved her to LA. Before we came in, the nurse told me, “She’s just finished lunch fol owed by a couple hours in the sun room, so you two can just spend time talking in her room if you’d like.”
Talking. Right.
I strol around the room, straightening things, until there’s nothing left to rearrange, and then I perch on the upholstered chair in the corner. Deb’s new room is located on the second floor, and has a window shaded by tal oaks, overlooking the landscaped commons area— home to a native flower garden, slate pathways, and smooth, worn wooden benches. Several residents sit with guests or wander the trails admiring the winter blossoms, flanked by aides. Deb sits in her chair, staring out the window, her eyes fol owing nothing.
In my pocket is a slip of paper the office manager just gave me citing the law firm administering the trust paying for Deb’s new room. It’s incredibly upgraded—not just in privacy, but in understated touches like the chair and the south-facing window, the better-quality bedding and furniture, the patterned rug underfoot. When I get home, I’l explore the law firm’s website and look for clues to the anonymous benefactor. For now, I’m here with Deb, alone in the mute space between us, missing her laughter and her listening ear.