Lily Love (11 page)

“Caroline, I’m sorry,” Peter pleaded. “Talk to me. Yell at me. Something!”

I couldn’t. My voice was crushed under the weight of the guilt I carried. There was nothing I could say that could erase his outburst anyway. I didn’t want to absolve myself or him. I wanted to hoard the pain, cloak myself in it and use it to validate my misery.

“I should’ve been there. I don’t blame you for your anger.” My words were as flat and colorless as I felt. Neither of us could cope with the hand we’d been dealt; we just kept repeating the same toxic pattern. Peter would explode with painful words and I would lose all ability to use mine.

“Goddammit, Caroline, you can’t believe that.” Peter gripped his blond hair in frustration. He waited, but I was adamant in my silence. “I don’t know what else you want me to say,” he mumbled as he stalked out of the kitchen.

“I love you” might’ve worked, though at that point I don’t know if I would have believed him, anyway.

As I walk down the hallway, I fight the urge to turn around and apologize for being so combative; Peter was only trying to help. Grief makes people say the most awful things. I know that Peter is not a cruel man. I would never have married him, let alone had a child with him, if he were. That day was a nightmare. It took seven stitches to close the gash above Lily’s eyebrow; the faint scar it left was a constant reminder.

I understood the desperation Peter was feeling, back then; I was feeling it, too. I was grieving, too. I forgave Peter for saying what he did, but he can never take those words back. Clearly they’ve remained a trigger for my own cruelty. I can’t decide which is the lesser of two evils: Caroline the silent martyr, or Caroline the sharp-tongued bitch. Honestly, I’m not very fond of either one of them. I don’t like who I am when I’m around Peter anymore. I don’t want the anger or resentment. I just want to move on. I choke back a sob as it occurs to me: that’s exactly the reason Peter left. Somewhere along the way, the magnitude of caring for Lily eclipsed that of our love. Unwilling to reach out to the rest of the world, we lashed out at each other, ripping lethal wounds in our marriage.

Hindsight might be clear, but it burns all the same.

fault line

T
he elevator is excruciatingly slow on the way down to Radiology. I have too much space to think, and remembering my exchange with Peter makes my head throb in time with my wrist. In his defense, he has no idea where I’m coming from. He didn’t when we were married, and he certainly doesn’t now. Attacking him was a stupid move on my part; I can’t exactly move on to a brighter future without finding a way to be civil to Peter. Poor guy. I’m sure my attitude was a shock; that’s the most verbose I’ve been about my feelings in years.

There was a time when I was happy to conform myself to exist in Peter’s likeness. He never asked me to; it was my own doing. I floundered in college, never really finding my niche. I was at the peak of my wandering when I met him. I’d spent three years trying to discover what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. Three major changes later, I was still drifting without vision.

The only thing I cared about was writing, but my dad had put the kibosh on that dream: “I’m not paying for a bachelor’s degree in creative writing that you will never use.”

I tried to major in education; I really did. That lasted one semester. Then I thought I’d try journalism but soon discovered that making up
news stories was frowned upon. I was a writer of fiction, not a columnist or news writer.

The one good thing that came out of the journalism department was my involvement with the literary magazine. At least there I didn’t feel so lost. I had purpose. In addition to writing my own submissions, I got to help choose the work that went into publication. That was the only reason I lasted three semesters—I loved that magazine.

I was too far into my schooling to reasonably change my mind again. My advisor was fed up with my apathy; my father had made it clear that he would not be paying for a fifth year of school. So I did the only thing I could at that point: I changed my major again. With a quick trip to the advising office, I was now
Caroline Hunter, liberal-arts major
.

Adding to my self-doubt was my “boyfriend,” Trent. We’d been dating for a few months, and I knew it was going nowhere. Still, I couldn’t even make the decision to break up with him. I was pathetic. A loser. All the things that Peter wasn’t. I was amazed at his confidence. He knew exactly what he wanted and where he was headed. In his third year of studying to be an electrical engineer, he already knew he wanted to work alongside the military as a defense contractor. I was fascinated and intimidated. I adored Peter, so it was easy for me to like the things he did. I let go of trying to figure out what I wanted out of life, and hitched my star to his. I felt safe tethered to his plans, but I never made any of my own. In fact, it was Peter’s suggestion that I turn my love of the written word into a career. I’m so grateful to him for that. Still, as bright as Peter’s star shone, it wasn’t meant to illuminate us both.

The fluorescent lights flicker as I meander down the hallway, lost in my depressing reverie. Not paying attention, I bypass X-ray altogether and end up in the reception area of the MRI clinic. It figures my feet would automatically carry me here. My thoughts turn to Max, and my mood instantly brightens. I could really use a friend right now.

“Need to sign in?” The triage nurse taps her pen against the clipboard in her hand. She looks at me expectantly. “Hello?”

“Oh. Um. No,” I stutter. “Is Max Swain here, by chance?”

“No, he’s taking a late lunch,” she says. I watch as her sharp eyes home in on my left hand and the absence of a wedding ring. She arches a judgmental eyebrow at me and adds, “Can I tell him who stopped by?”

Nosy cow.

“No, that’s all right.” I sigh. “Can you tell me how to get to X-ray, though?”

“Down the hall and to the left.” She smiles sweetly, but her eyes are still picking me apart like a turkey vulture on roadkill. I fight the urge to fidget under her scrutiny, and I nod my thanks as I retreat. It’s not that I blame her; Max is totally hot, and single to boot. I have a feeling that’s the kind of reaction all women have around him.

I fight to regain my composure as I check myself in at the X-ray clinic. The receptionist waves me toward the waiting room, where I’m shocked to stillness in my tracks.

“How’d you know I’d be here?” There’s no hiding the surprise in my voice or the smile on my face. I debate whether to tell Max that he’s supposed to be having a late lunch, but I’m sure the triage nurse back in MRI will fill him in soon enough. Let her gossip all she wants. I’m so relieved to see a friendly face, I don’t care.

“Word travels fast when there’s a fight on hospital grounds.” Max chuckles and pulls me in for a quick hug. “Though I hear the bed won.” He gently places his hand over the front of the sling.

I breathe in slow and steady, willing myself not to cry.

Max wraps his arm around my shoulders and guides me toward the seats. “You don’t have to talk about it. I just didn’t want you to be down here alone.”

Together, we sit in silence on worn blue vinyl seats, waiting to hear my name. Despite a herculean effort on my part, the tears fall en masse. Ever my hero, Max passes me tissues and pretends that there isn’t a hysterical woman sniveling all over his shoulder. He just holds me tighter and rests his cheek on the top of my head.

“Ms. Hunter?” I turn my head toward my name, to find a tall man in a business suit scanning the room for me. Clearly this isn’t the X-ray tech. My stomach hits the floor. When his eyes finally meet mine, I give him a small wave and he walks my way.

“Ms. Hunter, my name is Alex Drake; I work for the hospital.” He shakes my good hand and sits in the chair across from Max and me.

“You’re a lawyer,” I say. It’s not a question; I want his confirmation so I can steel myself for the coming conversation.

“Yes, I am. I didn’t want to lead with that, though.” He smiles genuinely, regardless of my chilly reception. He leans back and crosses his ankle over his knee, not bothered by my wariness at all.

“Before you have your wrist looked at, I wanted to go over a few things with you.” He pauses to look back and forth between Max and me.

“This is my friend Max,” I explain. “I’d like him to stay.” There’s no way I’m letting this guy dismiss my lifeline. Max stays. Period.

“That’s fine,” Alex assures me. My face must reflect my surprise, because he grins as he continues. “First, all of your care will be covered by the hospital. At no time will you incur any expense related to the accident. Second, I want to assure you that nothing discussed in the accident report will be included in your daughter’s medical file. Honestly, the only thing I need from you is an account of what happened from the moment you entered the room until you struck your hand.”

I try not to tense at his careful choice of words. His face reflects sympathy, not the calloused legal eagle I was expecting.

“The other staff that were present will be interviewed as well, and you will be notified of any disciplinary action that may be taken as a result.” He heaves a heavy sigh and reaches into his breast pocket for his card. “Ms. Hunter, I have a twelve-year-old son with high-functioning autism. I know that isn’t what you’re dealing with, but I hope you believe me when I say that I understand. We want to get to the bottom of what happened today, but that in no way means we’re looking to blame Lily. I promise you that.”

“Thank you, Alex,” Max speaks up for me, as I’ve been rendered speechless by the compassion of this lawyer. Aren’t they supposed to look for a way to absolve the hospital of blame? I thought for sure he’d be going over all the ways that Lily was an aggressive and out-of-control child who beat the crap out of her mother. Nothing ceases to surprise me today.

“Now, let’s get you looked at, so you can get back to your daughter.” Alex shakes my hand again, and encourages me to call with any questions that might come up. I smile and nod, unable to articulate anything else right now. All I can do is stare as Alex Drake walks away; I’m completely and utterly overwhelmed.

“Carolina.” Max’s hushed voice breaks through my anxiety. I look up at him, and he tips his chin toward the door. “They just called your name.” My brain and my body continue to misfire. I hear Max; I just can’t seem to get up. He stands, pulling me along with him. “I’ll be here when you get back,” he promises.

My first reaction is to say, “I’ll be fine.” It’s what I’ve been saying for years. Three words with multiple passive-aggressive meanings. There’s the “I’ll be fine” I gave to well-meaning family who asked if they could help with Lily, understanding they were asking because they felt it was the right thing to do. In reality, the whole thing made them uncomfortable. My mom and dad mean well, but they’ve got no idea how to relate to Lily—or to me, for that matter.

Then there were the ones I gave Peter. “I’ll be fine” could’ve meant exactly the opposite, and that I was irate that he didn’t know why I wasn’t fine. It could also have been my response to a half-assed attempt on his part to help me.

Regardless of who you are, an “I’ll be fine” from Caroline is the ultimate blowoff. It’s the verbal shove I give to get people to back off. I don’t want to be that way anymore. I’m so tired of being a martyr—but it’s hard to break free from a habit so deeply ingrained.

“Thanks, Max,” I manage, without bursting into flames.
Baby steps
, I tell myself. “I’m really glad you’re here.” With a sheepish smile, I head toward the waiting technician.

After a quick stint in X-ray, Max and I are escorted to a room in the Emergency Department, where we wait for a doctor. Alex Drake stops by with a copy of the incident report for me to read. If I am comfortable with it, I’m supposed to sign. If I’m not, then we go back to the drawing board until it’s right. I feel much more empowered than I thought I would.

“Mr. Drake, can I ask you a personal question?” I ask softly.

He looks at me, suspicious and curious at the same time. “I suppose it depends on the question.”

“Was it harder when your son was younger?” I cringe at the boldness of my question.

He gives me a reassuring smile before he answers. “I wouldn’t say a certain period of time has been harder than another. I used to tell myself that if we could just get through this one rough patch, then everything would be better. I learned quickly that that was the fast lane to frustration, because there is no finish line. There will never be a point in CJ’s life that he won’t be dependent on my wife and me in some way.”

Alex’s candid words seep through my skin, into the center of my chest, and take root. He doesn’t regale me with a story of hope and wonderment. His honesty is breathtakingly beautiful, in all of its sadness. His acceptance of his son’s condition isn’t decorated with rainbows or unicorns. It is what it is, and that’s okay.

“I’ve never heard anyone say it quite like that,” I admit. Most of what I hear comes from the “helpful” articles my mother-in-law sends me. My favorite was about a father who quit his job, sold all his belongings, and flew all the way around the world for a vial of Australian shark piss, thinking it would cure his son.

“Days like today will strip you raw. They happen regardless of what we do, not because of it.” Alex starts to gather his papers as he talks. “Sometimes, it just is what it is,” he says with solemn resignation.

It is what it is.

“Geri, it didn’t work. His son still has diabetes,” I huff into the phone. Peter buries his nose further into the newspaper, pretending he doesn’t know his mother’s driving me insane. Ever since Lily’s visit to the urgent-care clinic, Geri’s been flooding my in-box with these “miracle cure” articles.

“Honestly, Caroline, sometimes I think you don’t read the things I send you,” she sniffs. Oh, I read the crap she sends; just because I don’t agree doesn’t mean I didn’t read it.

“I read every word, down to the part where the shark piss didn’t work and the kid is still sick,” I bark. A rogue snicker floats over the top of Peter’s paper. I’m getting reamed by his mom, and he’s laughing. Ass.