For Keeps (12 page)

She heaves another sigh. Then she says, “Maybe you’re right.”

This, coming from the queen of rightness herself. Well. Maybe I will ask Riggs if there’s anyone he can think of who’d be a good match for Liv. Someone with a brain. Someone who will appreciate her twisted humor and her flair for fashion. Someone who’ll appreciate her worth. I don’t know if that person exists at Elmherst High School, but if he does, believe me, I will find him.

Thirteen

SOMETIMES BOB ASKS
me to come in on a Sunday early, to do prep work. Today is one of those days. So it’s exactly 6:17 a.m., and I am already lining pastry boxes with waxed paper. I am brewing coffee. Picking out a nice Sunday-morning CD—something classical, mellow.

All the while, Bob is scrubbing away. The floor, the chairs, the tabletops. I know he did this last night after closing, yet he is compelled to do it all over again. What does he think went down overnight? A roach wedding? Tiny trolls with wheelbarrows full of E. coli, dumping them everywhere? But you have to give the guy credit; this place is always spotless.

It’s 6:57, and someone is knocking on the door. We don’t open until eight—it says so right there in black and white—but whoever it is keeps pounding.

“Get that, would you, Josie?” Bob says. He’s busy, sliding a pan of sticky buns into the oven.

I yank open the door and there, wearing one of those canvas bucket hats and carrying
The New York Times
, is Big Nick.

“I know you’re not open yet,” he says. His face looks weird—grayish, with a sort of sheen to it. “But can I come in?” He starts to unzip his fleece jacket.

“Are you OK?” I ask.

“Hot,” he says. “Walked too fast.”

“OK, um . . .” I turn my head to call Bob, but he’s already here, standing at my elbow, rubbing his hands on a paper towel. “Mr. Tucci wants—”

“Our best customer,” Bob says, cutting me off. “Come in. Sit.” He gestures to the round table in the back.

Big Nick nods. The hat is off now. His hair is sticking up in silver tufts.

“Coffee?” Bob asks.

“Please.” Big Nick shuffles over to a chair and sits.

I busy myself straightening the cinnamon and nutmeg shakers on the bar next to his table.

“Can I get you something to eat?” I ask.

He pauses, reaching up to pull his shirt collar away from his throat.

I take a step toward him. “Are you sure you’re OK?”

He waves a hand at me. “I’m
fine
.” This comes out strong, like a bark. Then he says, lower, “Sorry. . . . You choose something.”

I tell him OK; I’ll be right back.

On my way to the counter I wonder briefly if he and Mrs. Tucci had a fight, if that’s why he’s here so early, acting weird. Maybe she found out he’s not really in a bowling league. Maybe he’s been lying about other things too, like Mel’s dad, who used to say he was working late when really he was shtupping his paralegal, or Schuyler’s dad, who drinks. . . . But somehow, I can’t imagine Mr. Tucci doing anything like that.

“He wants something to eat,” I tell Bob. “What should I—”

“Here,” Bob says, handing me a plate. Mini bear claws and chocolate croissants, arranged in the shape of a fan.

“Thanks,” I say.

I turn back toward the table. I take about three steps and then, like one of those cheesily dramatic slow-motion movie scenes, I watch, frozen, as Big Nick’s head flops to one side and his body slumps over, out of the chair and onto the floor with a sickening thud.

Only this isn’t a movie.

This is really happening.

I’m not sure exactly what comes next. I know I drop the plate. I know that Bob murmurs, “Oh my God,” and that, for at least a nanosecond, neither of us moves. But then, somehow, Bob is rushing past me, through the scattered pastries and shards of ceramic, and I am stepping back.

He is bending over Big Nick, touching his shoulder and saying his name.

Saying it again.

Saying it again.

Now he is leaning his ear to Big Nick’s chest.

I take a step forward. “Is he breathing?”

Bob shakes his head.

“You need to start rescue breaths,” I say, walking faster. I know this from our first-aid unit in health. Bob knows it too. There’s a laminated poster on the door of the bathroom. He showed it to me, my first day. He said he was CPR certified.

“Bob!”

He nods, lowering his face to Big Nick’s. Then he pops up again. “I can’t . . . I’m just . . . I can’t . . . I can’t breathe . . . I—”

He’s babbling, and I can feel the panic rising in my chest, but I keep my voice calm as I kneel down on the floor. “Bob, listen to me. You have to. You have to do it.”

He turns to me, looking stricken.

“You have to do it,” I repeat. “Think about it. This is a life. This . . . is someone’s life. You have to do it.”

Bob nods. He lowers his face again, and this time he does it. He breathes.

I watch Big Nick’s chest rise, and my head feels fuzzy, like I might pass out. “You’re doing great,” I tell Bob. My voice sounds far away and high-pitched. “I’m going to call 911 now,” I say, reaching into my pocket for my cell. “OK? You keep going. You’re doing great.”

“Clear a path,” a gruff voice says.

I look up and there are two gloved hands, reaching out to rip open Big Nick’s shirt. A third hand, pressing fingers to his neck. “Sixtysomething male . . . cardiac arrest . . .”

A gurney is rolling through the door.

I stumble to my feet, my legs tingling and heavy as lead pipes, so relieved I could cry.

Bob wouldn’t get into the ambulance. He started to; after the paramedics wheeled Big Nick up the ramp, Bob took about five steps forward, then turned right around and walked down.

“I can’t,” he mumbled to me. “I’m sorry. . . . Hospitals . . . they just . . . I’m sorry. . . . I can’t.”

“It’s OK,” I told him. “I’ll go.”

Now, strapped into the shiny black ambulance seat, I am trying to be helpful, telling the paramedics everything I know. One of them, the woman, has a form.
Name. Address. Next of kin.
Her hair is dishwater blonde and lank-looking, but her eyes are kind. She’s patient while I dig through my backpack for the real-estate listing Liv printed out—the one with the Tuccis’ house on it.

“Your friend’s a diabetic,” the woman says. “Did you know that?”

I shake my head.

He was wearing a medic alert bracelet on his wrist; that’s how they knew. That’s why he was acting so strangely, she explains. He was having a hypoglycemic attack. That’s why there’s a needle in his arm right now, pumping in insulin.

I nod, a little too vigorously, hurting my neck.
How did I not notice the medic alert bracelet? If I had, I might have been able to—

“He’s lucky you were there,” the woman says, as the ambulance flies over a bump. “Otherwise he’d be in a coma.”

Lucky
. Uh-huh. I am still nodding.
Coma.

She reaches out to pat my knee. “You did good, honey. You did real good.”

“Mom?” I’m calling from the ER lobby. From the pay phone, collect, because cell phones aren’t allowed here.

“Josie?”

“Mom?” My voice sounds high and thin. “Mom, I’m in the hospital—”

“The
hospital
? What? Are you—”

“I’m fine,” I tell her. “It’s not me, it’s . . . it’s Mr. Tucci. . . . He passed out in Fiorello’s. He came in, looking all sweaty and weird, and all of a sudden he just . . .” I pause, swallowing hard. I yank on the silver phone cord, wrapping it around my arm like a bracelet.

“Oh, honey.”

“Mom?” I don’t even think, I just say it. “Will you come?”

“We’ll get in the car right now. It’ll be a while—a few hours, at least.”

“That’s OK. . . . Mom?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

I put the phone back in its cradle. Letting go, I see that my hand is trembling, just slightly, like I’ve aged eighty years in five minutes.

I am eating my third HoHo from the vending machine in the lobby when Paul Tucci’s mother bursts through the door. I recognize her right away: silver bob, crisp white shirt, khakis. You can tell she was in a big rush to get here, though; she’s wearing bedroom slippers. There’s mud caked along the bottoms. Everywhere she steps, she leaves a footprint.

I get to observe Mrs. Tucci for a whole twenty minutes while she talks to the nurses. She’s asking a lot of questions. I can’t hear the words, but I can see her mouth move. She has thin lips, two straight lines, with creases all around.

At one point, the shorter nurse, Patty—I met her when I came in—nods in my direction, and Mrs. Tucci looks over. I squint, pretending to read the clock above her head.

But that doesn’t stop her.

She’s walking over, leaving one muddy footprint after another in her wake. Now she’s standing in front of me, clutching her tan leather purse in both hands. “You saved my husband’s life.”

My mouth feels sticky suddenly, each tooth encased in HoHo sludge. She doesn’t recognize me, from Shop-Co or from anywhere. That much is clear.

“You saved my husband’s life,” she repeats.

I shake my head.

“You did. They told me.”

“It wasn’t me,” I say. “It was Bob. Bob Schottenstein, from Fiorello’s Café. He did the rescue breathing. I just . . . you know . . . called 911. And then the paramedics really—”

She bends down to hug me, her purse thumping against my back. “Thank you.” She smells like Lysol. “Thank you. . . . Thank you.” She holds on tight for a minute, then stands up straight again, dabbing her eyes with the back of one knuckle.

“You’re welcome,” I say.

“Christina Tucci,” she blurts, shooting out a hand. Long, tapered fingers, no polish.

I nod. My throat is dry. “Josie. Josie Gardner.”

It’s Liv I’m talking to when the Tucci brothers arrive, all three of them, bursting through the ER doors together, speed walking en masse to the nurses station. “We’re looking for Nico Tucci,” one of them says.

And another one says, “He’s our father.”

“Oh my God.” I almost drop the phone. “Oh my God. . . . Oh my
God
. OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod.”

“What?” Liv says. “Josie,
what
?”

I turn my back to the nurses station, whisper, “I think my father’s here.”

Silence.

“Liv?”

“Are you serious?”

“Would I joke about this?”

Another pause. A bigger one. Then, “Holy
shite
, Josie, are you sure?”

“Well, yeah. There are three of them, and they said Big Nick was their dad, so one of them has to be . . .”

“Your dad.”

“
Paul
. One of them has to be—”

“Wait,” Liv says, cutting me off. “How?”

“What?”

“How could they get there so fast?”

“I don’t know.”

“I mean, assuming they came from North Carolina, even if they
flew
it would take, like, at least—”

“Who
knows
?” I say. “Who
cares
? The point is, they’re here. I’m telling you—”

“That’s it, I’m coming to the hospital. Wait right there. Don’t
leave
, even if Kate gets there.
Especially
if Kate gets there. Holy shite, Jose. HOLY FRIGGIN’ SHITE!”

“I know!”

“I’m coming right now,” she says. “As soon as I hang up.”

“Well, hang up then.”

“OK, I am! Chill!”

Chill?
How can I
chill
? How can I do
anything
? I flop back into a chair again, staring at the nurses station. The Tucci brothers are gone. Nurse Patty must have taken them to Big Nick’s room to join their mother.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, let it out again. “Oh my God,” I whisper.

It hits me that this is the Before. This moment, right here. Everything that comes next will be the After.

Fourteen

I AM IN
the waiting room, waiting. There are two other people in here: a skinny blonde in Spandex and an iron-on cat sweatshirt, and a sketchy-looking guy with long, greasy hair. I can feel him staring at me, but I am avoiding eye contact.

My mom texted me to say that she and Jonathan are still two hours away; there’s a pileup on I-95. Liv will be here any second. That is, unless she’s picking out the perfect emergency-room outfit, in which case it’s anyone’s guess.

I’m not remotely hungry, but here I am in front of the vending machine again, considering the Cheez Doodles. No cheese in there, really.
Cheez
. Which can’t be good for anyone.

I walk to the corner of the room, perch myself on the edge of a hard green chair, one eye locked on the door to the hallway.
Stay where you are, Tuccis,
I think.
Just stay exactly where you are and don’t move.
Down the hall, I know, in some antiseptic room, the five of them are gathered.

Josie,
is what I told her.
Josie Gardner
.

Is Mrs. Tucci saying my name out loud? Are lightbulbs going on over anyone’s head?
Gardner. . . . Gardner. . . . Hey, Paul, remember that girl you dated back in high school? Whatshername?
. . .

No. They are too focused on Big Nick right now. On how he’s doing. Big Nick in a hospital bed, hooked up to needles and tubes. There’s no reason for them to be thinking about me at all. I could be anyone. Just another teenage girl in a ponytail, perched on a hard green chair, waiting.

I hear footsteps in the hallway, voices.

I stand. I can’t help it. I pop straight out of my seat like a jack-in-the-box. Is it them? Paul Tucci and his brothers?

I yank my hair loose from its elastic, pinch my cheeks to make them pink. Cat Sweatshirt and Greaseball are both staring at me, but I don’t care. I am picturing the yearbook photo I’ve seen a thousand times: Paul Tucci at seventeen. His baseball hat, his Tom Cruise nose, his white lopsided grin. If Paul’s mom told him about the girl who called 911, he could be coming to meet me. I have to be prepared. I have to be ready to—

“Josie?”

It’s Liv, rounding the corner. Liv, in a JUST ADD WATER T-shirt, holding out her arms. “Oh my God, Josie.”

Glad though I am to see her, I am also weirdly disappointed.

“Thanks for coming,” I mumble into her shoulder. Liv’s hug is as familiar to me as the scruffy patchwork quilt on my bed—the one I’ve slept with since I was three.

“Of course I came! How could I not?” We walk over to the window, scoot two chairs together. “Well?” she says, leaning in close.

“Well what?”

“Where is he?”
She is whispering, but loudly, like she’s onstage.

Cat Sweatshirt stares at us, popping her gum.

“Shhh,” I say. “I don’t know. I think in Big Nick’s room, with everyone else.”

“Well, what does he look like? Is he cute?”

I tell her I don’t know; I didn’t get a good look. Anyway, there were three of them and they were all wearing hats. I couldn’t tell which was which.

“What kind of hats?” Liv says.

“Who cares?”

“I do. A hat can say a lot about a person. Like if he’s wearing one of those puffy John Deere tractor caps he could be some right-wing nutjob, but if it’s just, like, a plain black stocking cap—”

“Liv, I didn’t notice. OK? I was a little preoccupied with, you know, the whole
my-dad-showing-up-out-of-nowhere
thing.”

She smiles. “You realize you just called him your dad.”

“So what! I’m nervous! This whole thing is, like . . . insanity!”

She nods. “I know.” She reaches into her back pocket for something. “I brought Altoids.”

“I hate those things. They always sound like a good idea.
Curiously Strong Peppermints
. But then you eat one and it burns the taste buds right off your tongue.”

“Just take it. It’ll distract you.”

I stare at the little white pellet in my hand. “Liv?”

“Yeah.”

“Paul Tucci is in this building right now. My
father
is in this building right now.”

“I know.”

“What do I say? I mean, if I see him again.”

“You say what you say, Josie.”

“Right.”

You say what you say.
Of course. This is the perfect advice. So organic, so natural. You
say
what you
say. . . .
Right.

While I am pondering this, Liv brings me hot cocoa from the nurses station. It tastes horrible, like chalk and battery acid, warmed to a nauseating fifty-five degrees.

I thank her.

She shrugs. “What can I say? It’s a Livaccino.”

For the next hour and a half, every hair on my body is standing at alert. My ears perk every time someone walks down the hall. Whenever we hear a male voice, Liv sprints to the doorway, peeks out. Then she slinks back in. “Just a doctor,” she tells me. Or, “Just some dude with a mop.” Then, the fifth time: “Holy shite.”

There is no question in my mind who is coming.

I want to see him, but I don’t.

I’m scared, but I’m not.

Liv sprints to the coffee table, grabs two magazines, tosses one to me.

As the Tuccis walk in, we both pretend we are reading.

“Josie?” Mrs. Tucci says. “These are my sons.”

I make myself look up, make my mouth crack open. “Hey.”