Lovely (13 page)

“It doesn’t matter. It’s one thing that I’m just not good at.”

She cocks her head to the side with curiosity. “One thing meaning, you’re good at everything else?”

“Just about,” I come back, trying not to sound conceited and failing miserably. “I don’t want to sound like a cocky jerk, but typically, whenever I try things, I’m good at them.”

She props her elbows on the table with interest. “Like what?”

“Like … baseball, basketball, soccer, hockey, piano, guitar, flute, swimming …” I pause, smirking. “Shall I go on?”

She settles back against the booth, holding her hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay, I get the picture. It’s good to have things to improve upon, though. Otherwise, what else would you do with your time?”

“Yes, and poetry is one area where I need a
lot
of improvement.”

The waitress, a tall brunette with noticeably big tits, comes over to take our order. She leans over the table, waving those things in my direction and stares at me and only me. “What can I get you two?”

“Can we have a large pepperoni pizza?” I turn to Cara. “What do you want to drink?”

“I’ll just have water,” she says, staring at the waitress with disbelief.

I hand the menus to the waitress and her finger skims mine. “Okay, two waters then.”

She gazes at my lips, licking her own. “You got it, sweetheart.”

When I face Cara again, she’s rolling her eyes.

“What?” I ask, feigning innocence.

She fusses with the sugar packets on the table. “Do women always throw themselves at you?”

I try to act offended, though sometimes I think I have an invisible sign that says “show me your tits” or something. “What? No!”

“Well, that waitress was looking to serve something up to you and it certainly wasn’t pizza.” We both howl with laughter.

The busty waitress sets our waters down on the table, both Cara and I chuckling softly as she walks away. Cara takes a sip and grabs the lemon out of the glass, squeezing it into the water.

I rub my hands down my pant legs repeatedly, my eyes darting to her. “I’m sorry about your mom.”

“Yeah, me, too,” is all she says, wiping the moisture from the glass with her fingers.

“Do you miss them? Your parents, I mean?”

She doesn’t say anything right away, but starts shredding her napkin, tearing small pieces off and throwing them on the table. “Well, I miss my dad.”

“Not your mom?”

Her smile fades. “Not so much, no.” The napkin pile grows larger. “My mom was … she wasn’t a very nice person … and … well … she ignored me for several years of my life.”

I’m not sure I heard her correctly. “What do you mean, ignored?”

“I mean, she paid no attention to me. When I was in the house, she walked by me, pretended I wasn’t there. She had serious problems … issues with drugs and alcohol. I guess you could say she was extremely self-centered.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I whisper. I really don’t. The fact is, I don’t want to say anything. I want to reach out to her, let the strength of my arms embrace her and take all that bullshit away. What kind of a mother ignores her own daughter?

She grabs another napkin and adds to the mound and just as her hand touches it, mine touches hers. She pauses, eyeing my hand for a minute, then slowly slips out from under my grasp. A thick layer of discomfort weighs in the air.

“So what do you do when you’re not at school or in the library?”

She pushes the crumpled up napkin into the center of the table. “Mostly I read, and study.”

“You don’t go out at all with friends?”

“No. I don’t have many friends,” she replies, staring down at the table.

“Why not?”

She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I guess the glasses scare people away.”

I try and catch her attention with my eyes. “I think you want to scare people away.”

This is what baffles me about Cara, though. Her glasses say one thing, but the way she dresses screams the total opposite. It’s almost like she’s at war with herself.

She directs her gaze anywhere but at me. “So, how’s Colt?”

I guess that’s another subject that’s off limits
. “He’s okay. I’m going with him on Friday to get his scan. He doesn’t want my mom to go because he’s afraid she’ll have an emotional breakdown.”

“I’ll say some prayers for him. I have a feeling that he’s gonna be fine, though.”

“You do?” I ask, my voice shaky.

“Yeah, I do.” If hope was her smile, the world would believe that anything is possible. She takes another sip of water and as she’s placing her glass down, her eyes flick to my bicep. I realize she’s looking at my tattoo.

My eyes move to it as well, and I point my index finger in reference and pull my sleeve up to my shoulder. “I got this about six months before my dad passed away. It’s one of the best memories of my time with him. We went to this tattoo shop in LA; I walked in and told them that I wanted a guitar with loopy strings and musical notes flying out from it. My dad followed behind and took a seat next to me for support. I didn’t realize how much of a wimp I’d be once the artist started the tattoo. It actually hurt like hell and I managed unsuccessfully to wince every few seconds. My dad looked over at me and said, ‘son, be a man.’ Of course, he said it completely in jest—my dad didn’t have a condescending or critical bone in his body.”

Cara reaches out and traces the outline of the guitar with her fingers. I freeze momentarily, her touch spreading warmth through my entire arm, effectively disabling my ability to form any rational thoughts. I wonder if she has any idea what her touch does to me.

How do I recover? Continue talking and fast.

“I immediately shot back, ‘oh yeah, you just try getting one, old man.’ Then, my dad did something that surprised me. He threw me a look and said, ‘you’re on.’ When another tattoo artist passed by, he told her that he wanted the same tattoo in a smaller version on his forearm with ‘Dolores,’ my mom’s name, in script as one of the strings.” I smile at the memory. “My 52-year-old dad getting a tattoo. Oh, and if you’re wondering if he winced, yeah, he did … same as my mom did when we came home with almost matching tattoos. She did manage to soften, though, when she saw her name sprawled across his arm.”

A smile touches Cara’s lips. “It sounds like you two had a really special bond.”

My chest aches with a mixture of longing and happiness. “Yes, we did.”

She brings her knee up so the bottom of her sandaled foot is resting on the cold leather of the booth, making sure to smooth her dress down to cover her legs. She angles her left foot to the side. “I have one, too.”

I don’t know how I didn’t notice it before. We don’t often look down at people’s feet I suppose. It’s the word daisy in a diagonal across her ankle in black script, except for a yellow ‘a’ surrounded by white flower petals. It actually suits her.

A wistful smile tugs at her lips as she follows the lines of the tattoo with her index finger. “I don’t remember how old I was, but I remember how blue the sky was and that there was a nest with baby birds in one of the trees. I had also just lost a tooth and my mouth felt like it had a big hole in it. I was skipping through the grass, waving my hands in the air, smiling because I was with my dad. He wasn’t traveling that weekend for work and I remember thinking at the time I never wanted him to go away again.” The brown tone in her eyes gets deeper and I can almost see the memory reflected in them. “The field was covered with daisies and the breeze was blowing their petals. My dad picked me up and swung me around, him laughing loud and deep, me giggling uncontrollably until he finally got dizzy and we toppled over onto the grass. He sat up and brushed us both off then pulled me onto his lap, stroking my hair, and plucked a daisy from the ground. Holding it out to me, he said, ‘you’re like a daisy, Cara, precious and beautiful. Every day you’ll discover new petals, blooming until you’re everything you’re meant to be.’ I didn’t really understand what he meant but it didn’t matter. I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him so tight … I felt happy. I remember happy.”

When I pore over her face, I can sense that happiness she’s talking about. There’s something inside of me that feels it too, like it’s almost within my grasp if I just reach out and grab it. I might not have to extend my arms too far. Happiness may be much closer than I think.

When we get back to her house, I open my door and she lays her hand on my arm. “You don’t have to open my door, Ash, I’m fine.” She corners me with those eyes. “Thank you … for listening … and, well, for not being judgmental.”

“I’m your friend, Cara. I’ll never judge you.”

She nods and pulls her hand away quickly. “Thanks for the gooey pizza, and for the book, too. Maybe sometime I’ll read some Robert Frost to you.”

“I’d like that,” I tell her.
I’d like that very much
.

I’m really nervous today. Colt and I are going to Cedars-Sinai to get his scan. The breakfast table is quiet, like the calm before a storm. There’s none of our usual banter, only tension bearing down on us, dragging our thoughts along with it. I look over at Delilah. “So, baby girl, anything exciting happening at school?”

Her eyes don’t stray from the book. “Exciting and school aren’t even in the same sentence, Ash.” She swallows the rest of the waffle in her mouth and grabs her book. “Mom, can we get going? I’ve got a test this morning and I want some time to study.” She’s trying to keep up that tough exterior even though I can see right through her.

“Sure, hon.” Mom has the same stoic look everyone else has—the one that’s making me insane. She walks over to Colt. “Good luck today, honey. I’ll be thinking about you.” She hugs him tightly for what seems like minutes before reluctantly letting him go and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

“I love you, Mom,” Colt says.

Mom’s eyes are misty with tears. She links arms with Delilah and speeds out of the kitchen. Delilah runs back in, flings her arms around Colt, and whispers, “I love you.” She blows a kiss in our direction and disappears.

After I hear the door shut, I turn to Colt, who now has his head buried in the newspaper. “So, how’re you holding up?”

He drops the paper to the table and his hands are shaking. “Truth? I’m scared shitless, man.”

“Jesus, Colt.” I pull him to me, hard, and I don’t want to let go.

The last time I was at Cedars-Sinai was when Dad got sick. I don’t like coming here. The memories stab at my chest like daggers, each one hurting more than the last. But Colt needs me, so here I am. There’s a tightness in my chest and my limbs go completely numb as we push through the revolving glass door and make our way to the security desk.

“I’m here to get a scan.” Colt frowns, and I grab his arm and tuck it under my elbow.

A gentleman with bleach blond hair and blue-gray eyes gives us a sympathetic smile. “Third floor, west wing.”

We ride the empty elevator up to the third floor, neither of us saying a word. I can feel Colt’s anxiety rolling over me and mixing with my own, a pit of nausea working its way around my stomach. I hold on to Colt as best I can. I’m supposed to be his rock but yet right now I feel like I’m the one who’s clinging for support.