Seven Days of Friday (Women of Greece Book 1) (12 page)

T
he
retsina
is strong
, but hey, it’s something to do.

When she spots Effie, Vivi slips out of the room and into another, where she continues her imitation as the sparkling (glowing) guest of honor.

Different room, same questions. And so it goes. She would have printed a FAQ, but she’s not sure they can all read.

Now Effie’s coming at her from a new angle, dragging one of her kids by the elbow. The poor kid’s legs are crossed and he’s doing the got-to-pee jiggle.

“Tell her,” Effie barks.

Vivi crouches beside the little guy. “Are you okay, George?”

“
Thea
Vivi, Melissa won’t come out of the bathroom.”

“Wait until she's finished, Honey. Then you can go in.”

“But I need to go now, and she’s taking forever.”

“How long has she been in there?”

He thinks about it for a moment. “Forever. I yelled at her to come out but she won't answer.”

“She didn't say anything?”

Shaggy brown hair whips his face. “No.”

“Who knows what she is doing in there,” Effie says.

Vivi sets the bottle on the nearest flat surface. Then she goes to the bathroom to see what’s up. She jiggles the handle.

Locked.

“Mel? It’s just me. Are you okay?”

Nothing.

Now her nerves are shot-gunning Ping-Pong balls inside her head. She bashes the door with both fists. “Melissa?”

Thea
Dora appears at her side, along with her posse of flapping tongues.

“What is wrong?”

“Melissa’s in there.”

“Is she sick?”

No time for stupid questions. She needs action, not questions.

“How the hell should I know? She's locked herself in there!”

A big guy pushes through the crowd. One of her uncles –
Theo
Apostoli. He has hair like a lion and a screwdriver in one hand.

He looks at the door. “Good thing somebody put this door on wrong, eh?”

“It is not wrong,”
Thea
Dora says.

“It is wrong. Trust me.”

It takes forever, the process of digging out the hinges. They’ve seen a lot of paint.

Then the boulder rolls (slumps) aside and she’s in.

Time slows to a drunken crawl. Vivi turns to stone. A Melissa doll is on the floor, broken and drowning in red, red wine.

It’s fragmented after that. Some moments are too difficult to swallow hole. Try choking them down and you may as well shove a grenade into your mouth.

Pulse: Yes. Fast, shallow.

Breathing: Yes.

Someone gives her a towel, tape.

She says, “Hospital, now.”

“Come,” her uncle says. “We go in my car.”

Hands reach for Melissa, but Vivi’s not giving her up.

Thea
’s mouth is moving.

“You want me to come?”

“No.”

They move through a field of whispers, to the gate. The car is there and it’s ready to leave.

Effie is a temporary newel post. Up down, up down, with her stupid clown face. “My Virgin Mary, what kind of mother is she that her daughter would do such a thing?”

A whisper intended to be heard by all.

It’s not her way, but Vivi prays.

M
ax is at the
hospital
, as (if his mother and girlfriend are to be believed) always.

This isn’t his usual stomping ground. Max is in the ER as a favor. It’s been quiet, as far as nights go. Not so bad.

Until the woman staggers in.

There’s no missing her, the pink woman cradling a blonde girl. Tourists. Probably British or German. Her scaffolding is about to collapse.

Then he sees the dull red flower unfurling on her dress. Her hands are blood and bone.

Max runs.

“Oh my God, please tell me someone here speaks English. Help! Please help my daughter!”

“Why is she still standing there?” he barks at the nurse. “Come,” he says in English. “I’ve got her. He snatches the girl from her, rushes to the nearest empty treatment room

“What's her name?”

“Melissa Tyler,” the woman says.

“Stay with me, Melissa,” he tells the girl. “We're going to put you back together.” He looks at the woman. “Your daughter?”

She nods. Both mother and daughter are bloodless and grey beneath their Hers and Hers sunburns.

“Start an IV,” he barks at the nurse, but she’s already doing her job.

He takes it easy, in case it’s a gusher. But what’s underneath the towel has already begun to clot. The girl is lucky her mother is smart.

“The bleeding has stopped. That’s promising, Mrs. . . .?”

“Tyler,” she says. “Vivi – Paraskevi Tyler.”

He looks at the naked wrist. Not a knife or razorblade, but definitely something that enjoys cutting.

The nurse directs him to the girl’s head. There’s a cut, shallow and short.
Retsina
, she mouths, flicks her eyes at the mother. That will go in the chart. Hospital regulation.

“Mrs. Tyler, did your daughter hit her head, or did something hit her?”

“I . . . don't know. I found her like this on the bathroom floor. We were having a family party.”

She never stops stroking her daughter’s hand.

“I’m sending her down for a CT scan. Just in case.”

“Oh God.” Her knees buckle. For a moment he thinks he might have two patients on his hands, but the moment passes and Mrs. Tyler comes back, stronger than ever. “Do whatever you have to do.”

“Are you visiting from America?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Visiting, staying, I don’t know. My family is Greek. We just got here this week.” She honks into a tissue. “Sorry.”

He turns away to give her privacy and to prepare sutures.

“So you’re Greek. Do you speak Greek?”

Nod. “It’s decent, but in this situation . . .”

“You need the familiarity of your own language? I understand.” He turns now to the problem that is Melissa Tyler. “Usually a wound like this wouldn’t be so bad. Veins don't like to bleed, and they tend to contract to minimize blood loss. But it's a hot spring, and you're both sunburned and new to this country, so Melissa's blood vessels were already dilated. In winter, she would have lost very little blood. Still, the head injury is the more immediate problem. We’ll be taking her down for that scan as soon as someone can locate the technician.” His fingers weave a crooked bridge of tiny knots. “Do you need us to contact someone – your husband?”

“No,” she says. “It’s just us. God, what the hell is going on?”

Max is good at stitches, bad at non-medical answers.

“Mrs. Tyler, do you think your daughter meant to do this?”

She hunches forward, sliding her hands through dark, tangled hair. “I don't know. So much has happened lately, and Melissa and I have been fighting every step of the way.” A red-rimmed gaze meets his. Under the sunburn she’s attractive, beautiful even. “What do you think?”

What does he think? That Melissa Tyler has problems. Her wrists are a spider web of thin white scars and new scabs. He’s seen it before, on other girls around her age. Sometimes on boys, but mostly it’s the girls. Cutting. Self-harm. A physical release to anesthetize mental pain.

In a fucked up way, this is a blessing. Now she can get help.

“Accident or not, your daughter needs help. We’ll make sure she gets it.”

Relief blossoms in her eyes. They’re the warm, deep amber of cognac.

“I think you could use some, too,” he says.

“What I could use is a miracle.”

The nurse comes back. “They’re waiting for her.”

“When you're ready,” he tells Mrs. Tyler, “I know a place where you can talk to God.”

H
eaven and hell
occupy
the same disinfected space inside a hospital. Doesn’t matter which hospital – they are all heaven, they are all hell.

Vivi has seen both, tonight. Even now she can’t help feeling like she has a foot in each.

Melissa is spread out in a hospital bed in a quiet room in the children's ward. It’s real, Vivi knows it, but still this can’t be happening – not to her baby.

A limp hand rests in hers. Vivi won’t let go.

The machines say Melissa is fine, no lasting damage, but what do machines know about minds? What do they know about families and their secrets?

What do they know about love?

I
t’s nearly
ten when
he gets a chance to check on Melissa Tyler. Thanks to a rush in the ER, he’s running nearly two hours late for a family dinner at Mama’s. Family includes Anastasia, her mother, and her aunt. But not Kostas.

Not exactly a family dinner then, is it?

One of his women will kill him for being so late. Maybe both.

No problem. They can wait five more minutes for dinner, and he can wait five more minutes to die – easy.

Shoulder against the door jamb, he watches the Tylers sleep.

The mother has pulled her chair close to the bed to hold her daughter’s hand. It can’t be comfortable, the way she’s using her free arm as a pillow, but she’s doing it anyway. Her slim shoulders rise and fall.

This is love, he thinks. Honest, real love.

He hopes she’s dreaming of a place where her daughter isn’t lying in a hospital bed.

His boots take him to the nurse’s office. He flashes his most charming smile, asks for a blanket.

“Taking this one personally, Max?” one of the nurses jokes.

“They're all personal,” he says.

She leads him to the supply closet where the blanket and pillows wait to be useful. “Take care you do not become too attached, eh?”

He drapes the blanket over Mrs. Tyler’s shoulders, then walks away.

H
e’s
a human sacrifice and Anastasia is the volcano.

Mama wants grandchildren, so in he must go.

But he wants this, too – doesn’t he? Once he marries Anastasia and their children are born, he’ll be a happy man.

A
nastasia
and her family are waiting at Mama’s place. They’re waving from the third-floor balcony.

Up, up, up the stairs that will take him to his volcano. No point rushing, no point taking the elevator.

The door flies open before he can press the bell.

"
Ay-yi-yi
! Here you are. You are late,” Mama says.

He drops a kiss on her forehead. “I had an emergency.”

“Always an emergency. Come, we have guests. Perhaps you and Anastasia have an announcement to make?”

“Not tonight, Mama.”

“Why you take so long? We are waiting for you. I might die before – ”

“Yes, that's what you always say.”

“You are not too old for me to smack you!” She wags a finger in his face. “Where is my stick?”

Anastasia is pacing inside, a golden goddess in her gilt mini dress. She grabs his arm as soon as she sees him, drags him out into the empty stairwell.

“We need to talk.”

“I’m tired, Anastasia. What’s wrong?”

She holds him tight, won’t let go. “Nothing is wrong. I missed you because you are late.”

His dick – his fucking dick – gets hard. And what happens? He wants to run. He shakes her loose, steps away so he can swallow some air.

“I'm a doctor, Anastasia. Sometimes people get sick and need my help. Maybe I should give them my schedule first. Or, even better, yours.”

Her scarlet lips quiver. “Was it an emergency?”

“Yes, and that's why I'm late.”

This conversation is in its hundredth rerun. Yeah, his dick is hard, but the only thing she makes him feel is . . . exhausted.

“What happened?”

“Lots of things to lots of people.”

Poison Ivy curls herself around him. “I hate them.”

His mind blanks. “Who?

“Those people. Because of them you weren’t here sooner.”

He steps back, because . . . wow. How can this woman be the mother of his children? She’s a shark.

“Jesus Christ, Anastasia. They’re human beings. How can you be jealous of sick people?”

It’s a child’s shrug. “I just am. I don't have to explain it.”

He moves backwards. She follows. “What do you want from me?” Her hands are all over him. His fucking dick gets harder.

“I want you,” she says, playing her seductive best. “I want to see you more.”

“We spent almost every night together this week.”

“I know. But you always work so late.”

“You knew I was a doctor before we met.”

Yes, he puts in almost as many hours as he did during his internship, but that’s the job. And he loves his work more than any woman.

More than
this
woman.

The door opens again and Mama’s silhouette is there. “What are you two doing?” She sounds bright, hopeful.

“Nothing,” Max says. “We're just talking.”

“Mr. Information. Which is it: nothing or talking?”

“Talking,” he says, irritation metastasizing.

“About what? Do you have something to say that you can't discuss in front of family?”

“As a matter of fact, no.” He leaves Anastasia there, slack against the wall. “It's just work talk.”

“Max has been too busy to see me,” Anastasia says in her infantile voice.

He goes numb. Deadened to the two of them.

Mama slaps his arm; she barely registers. “Surely you can make a sacrifice at the hospital for such a lovely girl.”

The platinum ring, with its transparent stones, is a lead weight in his pocket, a boat anchor keeping him from moving forward.

“Of course, Mama,” he tells his jailer.

H
e drives Anastasia home
.

Tonight’s the night. He’s going to do it.

Over dinner with their families he planned how he’s going to shake her off. Nothing elaborate, plain truth: It’s not working out. He’s done it before, many times. He can do it again. Anastasia, Anastasia’s family, Mama, they will all have to get over it.

He parks around the corner from her place. Plans to do it quick. Merciful.

But Anastasia being Anastasia, she has her own plans. Before he kills the Jeep, she’s inside his zipper, inside his boxer briefs. “I want you,” she says, doing that thing to his ear with her tongue.

The woman works fast but s-l-o-w.

She stops just as he’s about to –

“Jesus, Anastasia!”

“Shut up.”

Then she’s all over him on him around him dress up around her waist and she tastes like honey and cinnamon and all the good things women are made of.

She says, “Just think . . .”

He can’t think.

“. . . we could do this, be this, every single night.”

He can feel the “No” bobbing in his throat. He’s trying not to lose it – the “No” or the orgasm. He wants both.

Tonight something’s different. Anastasia is different. Hotter, wetter.

A siren goes off in his head, but he’s seeing stars as he comes, not blue and red lights.

No condom. His fault, her fault – does it matter?

You know better, Max. Amateur.

The cell door slams. The bolt slides home. The future stretches way, way out. Nowhere to go, nothing to do but live out his life sentence.

It’s now or never.

“Anastasia,” he says when his breath comes back. “Let’s get married.”