Life is Sweet (22 page)

“You've spun a believable story, but I still don't have real proof. Given your history, why should I believe you aren't conning me?”

He shrugged. “I guess you shouldn't. I wouldn't.”

“A blood test would be proof.”

“That'd be fine—though I don't know why you'd bother. But if it'd make you feel better, I'd understand.”

“No offense, but nothing about this situation makes me feel better,” she said. “If seeing me on a television screen helped you turn your life around, I'm glad. But part of me can't help wishing you'd left it at that. I liked my father better as a mystery, and I liked you better when you were just Walt.”

He stared at the sheet again. “Maybe I should have left it alone.”

She stood up. “I have to go home. I didn't get much sleep last night, and today has been surreal.”

He looked drained himself.

When she'd gathered her things and was on the way out, he stopped her. “Becca?”

She turned.

“I didn't come here to be your father. I just wanted to see you again because . . .” He swallowed. “You're wrong. For a long time now, not a day goes by that I don't think of you, of what I missed.”

She battled the response welling up in her with every last ounce of determination. “Every one of those days that went by you could have done something about that,” she said. “Even if it was just a letter.”

She received no satisfaction from his shamefaced expression. He looked beaten. Tired.

“I'll see you tomorrow,” she told him.

She left him then, and purposefully didn't look back. Yet something in his tone had alarmed her.
I just wanted to see you again because . . .
What was she missing? Because . . . why?

Passing the nurses' station, she spotted the intern she'd talked to the night before. Becca had to keep herself from tackling the woman.

“Dr. Atar, can I speak to you?”

The doctor pivoted. “Oh, hi! Sure.” Her clipped tone conveyed that she would be happy to answer any questions so long as they didn't take more than two minutes to answer.

“You mentioned Walt Johnson's disease last night,” Becca prompted. “Something about his kidneys . . .”

Dr. Atar's gaze narrowed in concentration. “ESRD.”

“Right.” Becca had a feeling she should be writing this down, and fished through her purse for a pen. “And those letters stand for?”

“End stage renal disease.”

“End stage,” Becca repeated.

The words struck her with such force, she had to lean against the wall. “That means . . . well, ‘end stage' probably means just what it sounds like? I mean . . . it's . . .”

“It's a terminal condition.”

“Oh.” Becca gulped. Words like
end
and
terminal
were not mysterious, scientific jargon. She had been in this situation before, with her mom and cancer. But suddenly, she found herself wanting to put her hands over her ears and deny, deny, deny. “But there are things to do, right? Like the dialysis. That makes him better, right?”

“It's a treatment, not a cure. There is no cure for renal failure.”

“No cure,” Becca repeated. “So that means . . .”

Dr. Atar met her gaze steadily, with that veil of distanced compassion doctors had to assume to keep from going insane. “Unless drastic measures are taken, which so far Mr. Johnson has said he does not want, then I'm afraid his life will be significantly shortened.”

“How much shortened?”

The doctor looked reticent. “I'm not a renal specialist. I would hazard . . . a year? Two at the outset? But it could actually be less than that. He needs to see a nephrologist.”

Becca's body turned leaden and cold. She nodded, not able to take it all in, but at the same time understanding exactly what he'd been trying to tell her. That bit he hadn't been able to say.
I just wanted to see you again . . . because I'm dying.

Chapter 17

Somehow, she managed to wake up on time the next morning. She got up, brushed her teeth and dressed, but her mind never strayed too far from WebMD. She couldn't dislodge those dreadful words from her mind—
end stage
.
Terminal.
In all the resources she could find on the Internet, kidney disease was a long, and sometimes not-so-long, march toward either death or a transplant.

Was that where Walt was? How could she not have known?

She wanted to talk to Dr. Atar again. But she had too many questions for one of their corridor quickies.

Conflicting emotions warred within her. Could it really be that she'd found her father only to discover he was dying? Was the universe that perverse? If he actually was her father. That doubt, ever slimmer, still remained. Part of her wanted this to be a hoax. Maybe the old criminal had decided one way to get a new kidney was to find some fatherless person . . .

But she wasn't famous enough for that information about her to be widely known. If he wasn't her dad, how could he have found it out? When she was a kid, she certainly hadn't run around broadcasting the fact that she didn't know who her father was. And after she was grown up, nobody cared about her except in a vague “whatever happened to” way.

After struggling to get to sleep the night before, she'd bolted up at 3
A.M.
, shaken out of an uneasy sleep by the possibility that Walt might have been her real father's cell mate. Maybe her real father had died in prison, and Walt was an imposter trying to shake her down for money. He might have invented the whole story. He couldn't fake kidney disease, of course, but maybe that was the reason for the shakedown.

Now, in the cold light of day, she was pretty sure the cell-mate imposter idea was an old film plot she'd seen on Turner Classic Movies. And it hadn't seemed very believable even in black-and-white.

The lingering doubts resulted in emotional whiplash. Facts warred with emotions. Skepticism collided with caring. One minute she was straining her brain to think of things she could do to make Walt more comfortable. The next, searing rage would grab hold of her. Could he have hunted her down just so he could guilt a kidney from her? When she wasn't worried about how to save him, she hated him. Worse, she hated herself for hating him.

Just as she was opening her door to leave her apartment and open the shop, Cal pushed his way in, gangster-style. Becca gasped. Scurrying over the threshold with the lightning quickness of a cockroach, he looked desperate, hunted.

“Shut the door,” he whispered, collapsing against the stairwell banister and heaving in nervous breaths. “Lock it.”

She did as he directed, only because she was so surprised. And curious. “Who am I hiding you from? An angry husband? Interpol?”

“Pam.”

“Is she armed?” When he shook his head, she started to unlock the door again.

The click of the tumbler panicked him. “Please. Help me. I've gotten myself into a situation,” he said. “Has Pam told you about us?”

“Pam? Is that why you're scrambling around so early?”

“I snuck out while she was still asleep.” He ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. “She's hard to shake. What am I going to do?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“You got me into this mess,” he said. “I was all mixed up on Saturday, and then Pam called. She came over to let me cry on her shoulder and to fix me some really lethal drinks. The next thing I knew, I found myself in West Virginia listening to Pam speculate about bridesmaids.”

“You just
found yourself
there.” As if he had nothing to do with it.

“You know what I mean. . . .” He heaved a breath. “I've barely had a moment alone all week. Or even when I've got one, she's calling me.”

“Uh-huh.” God forgive her for smiling at his misery. “Who did Pam decide on for maid of honor? Me or Erin?”

“Please! I'm begging for help.”

“What do you want me to do?” Becca asked.

“You're Pam's friend. Do us both a favor and tell her what a lousy husband I was.”

She twisted her lips in thought. “Pam could probably do worse.”

Scowling, he thumped down on a stair. “I never knew till now how vicious you are.”

She laughed. “I can't help you. I already warned Pam she was getting you on the rebound.”

“That's it!” His eyes lit with excitement. “The rebound. That wouldn't be fair to her.”

Becca shook her head. “She thought it was my inflated ego talking. Now she's pissed off at me. Doesn't even plan to keep working at the shop.”

“Okay.” She recognized the expression on his face as he pondered this roadblock, searching for a slant that could ease him out of any commitment. “I could explain that I don't want to come between good friends. . . .”

“Keep me out of it. I've got troubles enough.”

He let out a long sigh of helpless exasperation. “What am I going to do? It's not as if I don't like her. But it's so weird. Have you ever woken up naked with your best friend? I mean, sure, Pam and I always liked hanging out together, but there's always been this smidgeon I've kept private from her.”

“I've seen it,” Becca reassured him. “It's bigger than a smidgeon.”

“Hey—I'm being serious here.”

“So am I. You do realize you're making a problem where there isn't one? All you've told me so far is that you're involved in a relationship with someone you like a lot. There are worse things.”

He looked doubtful.

“Cal, have you ever considered that when we were in Vegas, you asked the wrong woman to marry you?”

His eyes bugged. “You think I should
marry
Pam?”

She laughed. “Not right this minute. But if you stopped panicking, you might realize you feel more than you think you do.”

He actually seemed to consider the idea. And then, just as quickly, he dismissed it with a head shake and a full-body shiver, like Harvey trying to rid himself of a pesky horsefly. “She nags.”

“You need nagging.” She nudged his leg with her foot. “You also need to get out of my stairwell. I have to work.”

“Can I stay in your apartment today?”

Coward. “No. Be a man. Go home. In fact, Pam's scheduled to work at the shop today.”

“This morning?” He rolled his eyes. “She didn't tell me that, or else I would've stayed dug in where I was.”

“If you're trying to dodge her instead of talking things over like a civilized person, you should probably go now, before she heads in to work.”

He pushed himself to standing. He aimed a petulant scowl at her, but then seemed to see her for the first time that morning. “What's wrong with you? You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you feeling okay?”

“I haven't been sleeping very well lately. Walt's in the hospital, and he's . . . well, it's a long story.”

Cal made sympathetic noises, but obviously didn't have time for long stories. He edged to the door, cracked it open, and peeked through. “You think she'll spot me?”

Pam wasn't due to arrive for another hour, actually, but Becca relished his paranoia. “Not if you hurry.” She shook her head in wonder as he dashed down the sidewalk in a serpentine crouch.

Bare shelves greeted her when she opened up the shop. Welcoming the distraction of work, she turned the sound system to a classical radio station and got busy preparing batter. Within an hour she was pulling the first batch of cupcakes out of the oven and had several more pans queued up. After two hours, the shelves were beginning to look a little less like Soviet Russia.

Pam arrived, greeting her with a chilly, “Your eye makeup is a disaster,” and then heading straight to the storage closet. She flicked the broom around the floor, pointedly not making eye contact or saying anything.

By the time she flipped the Open sign, the strain of silence had evidently become too much. She turned, glanced at Becca, and blurted out, “Did Cal ever act strange with you?”

“Always. Cal is strange.”

Pam draped herself over the counter. “But I mean acting really weird. I'm beginning to think he has a secret life or something. He's really hard to get hold of on the phone. And then, when we're together, it's like he's always got somewhere else he needs to be.”

“Hm.”

Pam stiffened. “What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing.” Becca shrugged. “Just hm.”

Pam pushed herself away from the counter. “Obviously you're not the best person to talk to on this subject.”

A couple arrived and looked over their offerings. For a moment, the tension lifted and Pam and Becca both bantered with the customers like old times. After the two finally made their big decision and walked out with chocolate frosted cupcakes with sprinkles, Becca and Pam turned to each other, smiling. Their smiles promptly disappeared, and they stepped back.

For the first time, the shop seemed too small. All these months, she and Pam had operated together without a hitch, but now suddenly they were bumping into each other like the Keystone Cops. And as the morning wore on, and her worries about Walt continued, she couldn't forget that her best friend was mere feet away, not talking to her. Until this morning, Becca had never realized that gabbing was such an important part of their routine. Yet she'd never felt that Pam's friendship was something she could take for granted. From the very beginning, she'd felt lucky to have fallen in with Pam and Erin. To be on the outs with them—with everyone—was dreary.

Several times, she drew breath to make an apology, and to tell Pam how happy she was that she and Cal were getting together. But then she would remember Cal dashing down the street. If she sensed the relationship was doomed, shouldn't she say something? She hadn't said anything to Erin, and look what had happened. Or maybe this was different. As a friend, was she supposed to put her anxiety aside and pretend that Pam and Cal's new relationship was hunky-dory? Would Pam have done that if their positions were reversed?

She opened the refrigerator and was almost relieved to see that they were out of lemons. She turned to Pam, glad for an excuse to escape the tension. “Can you hold down the fort while I run out for a moment?”

“Sure, that's why you pay me the big bucks.”

For some reason, the flippant answer made Becca want to cry. “You know, if you don't want to stay, you don't have to give two weeks' notice. I'll get by. Frankly, it's breaking my heart to have you here and not be speaking.”

Pam blinked. “I thought it was you. I didn't want to talk about Cal around you.”

Probably the same way Becca didn't want to talk about Walt around Pam. To hear her problems trivialized or met with words about how she'd known all along that Walt wasn't to be trusted just wasn't what Becca needed right now.

“Look,” she told Pam. “When I get back, we can hash it all out. I'll be your and Cal's biggest cheerleader.”

Pam shifted warily. “I wouldn't want you to have to force yourself.”

“It wouldn't be forced. I'm really happy for you. And all the worries I had about you both, they just seem less important now that I've got Walt on my mind.”

Pam frowned. “What's happened with Walt? I noticed he hasn't been doing a very good job keeping this place swept up.”

“He's in the hospital.” Becca gave her a brief rundown of Walt's collapse and his kidney ailment. She didn't mention that he might be her father. She wasn't ready yet to announce that to the world.

“I'm sorry he's so sick,” Pam said. “If I'd known . . .”

“I know. Me too.” She threw a couple of fresh cupcakes into a bag and grabbed her purse. “I'll be back in a little bit.”

In the produce aisle at the grocery store, her cell phone rang. Matthew's name came up on her screen, and it felt as if someone was tossing her a lifeline. She hit Talk.

“I was thinking about calling to see if you wanted to have coffee,” she said.

“I'd love to, but I'm in DC today. But I was curious about how things went with Walt. You were supposed to call but you didn't.”

No, she hadn't. Given all the strains going on in her life, she was wary of stepping into a situation with Matthew. She'd barely had time to think about what he'd said to her yesterday—about his feelings for her. It didn't help that his declaration had come after she'd assured Erin that there was nothing between them. She'd almost convinced herself, too.

These days it felt as if one wrong move could make her entire social structure collapse. She imagined herself grabbing her bags and fleeing from town altogether, the smoke of a failed marriage, frazzled friendships, one would-be romance, and a long-lost father behind her.

“Walt and I talked,” she told him. “It went okay. I still don't know what to believe. Or what to do about him.”

“He seemed distracted when I saw him,” Matthew said.

“You visited him at the hospital? When?”

“Last night, late. We had a nice visit. And distracted or not, he still managed to win ten dollars from me at poker.”

She shook her head. “He's finally figured out a moneymaking racket.”

“How is he today?”

“I haven't been to the hospital yet. I was trying to get things done at the shop. The cupboards were a little bare over there. But I'm armed with cupcakes, so I might swing by after I finish here. I'm at the grocery store.”

“Our old hangout,” he said.