The Good Daughter (30 page)

It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if she lost her mind. It might even be a good thing. That way if she did have to kill Howie, she could always plead insanity.

B
y Thursday morning, Kit was beginning to miss her small Queen Anne house and her routine and her students and their noise and chaos and laughter and stories. She texted Polly midmorning in between folding loads of laundry. Polly called her back at noon during her lunch hour.

“How are you, Kit?”

Kit was thrilled to hear her voice. “I’m so glad you called!” she said, curling up onto her bed in the guest room adjacent to her parents’ room. “How are things at school? Can’t get any info out of my sub. She just keeps telling me to relax and take care of my mom.”

“How
is
your mom?”

“Some days are better than others. Today’s okay. Yesterday was terrible. Mom made me call these hospice facilities and inquire about their death packages.”

“They are not called death packages.”

“They should be. I felt like I was booking a one-way trip for
her—which insurance companies did they work with, and how did they bill, and what was their policy on pain management. Bleck.”

“Your mom doesn’t want to just stay put and let hospice care workers come to her?”

“That’s what I thought, and it’s what Dad’s planning on. But Mom has control issues about the house. And I get it. It’s her home, her domain. She finds it difficult to let go here. She probably would be more peaceful ‘letting go’ somewhere else.”

“Your dad isn’t going to like it.”

“I know. There’s going to be some interesting conversations when he comes home.”

“When does he come home?”

“Saturday night.”

“Two days from now. You’re almost there, girl.”

“I know. I’m glad. Mom misses Dad. She’s anxious for him to get home.”

“I bet he’s just as anxious to get back.” Polly snapped her fingers. “Oh, hey, before I forget. One of your students is really missing you. She’s asked me twice this week about you.”

“Who’s that?”“

“That new girl. Delilah.”

“Aw. How is she?”

“‘Aw? How is she?’” Polly snorted. “Same as always. Distant. Surly. Unhappy. Well, except when she’s asking about you and then she just looks unhappy.”

“I’ve been wondering about her. Things aren’t good for her at home.”

“She’s fine, Kit. She’s a little drama queen. And don’t you have enough on your plate taking care of your mom without taking on Delilah Hartnel?”

“Probably.”

“Speaking of your mom, I’d love to bring you two dinner tomorrow
night. She might not be up to visitors, and in that case I can just drop it off—”

“What do you mean, just drop it off? Of course you’re going to stay. Mom would love to see you.”

“I don’t want to tire her out.”

“You won’t. Trust me. We’d both enjoy your company.”

K
it stayed up late Thursday night reading, and had just fallen asleep when she heard a strange sound, almost like a kitten mewling, coming from a room in the house.

She opened her eyes, listened. It wasn’t a kitten. It was Mom. She was crying.

Leaving the bed, she stuffed her arms in her robe, tying it over her nightshirt, and rushed to her mother’s room. Marilyn was lying with her face in the pillow, weeping.

“Mom,” Kit whispered, leaning over and touching her on the shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“Oooo, hurts.” Her voice was high and thin and faint. “Hurts, Kit.”

“Where’s your pain medicine, Mom?”

“Don’t know.”

“You took it with dinner, though.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Couldn’t find it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Forgot.” Her mom was panting. “Help me?”

“I will, Mom. I promise.” Kit turned on the bedside lamp, searched the bottles on the table, pills for everything…antinausea, sleeping pills, depression medicine, stool softener, Tylenol…but none of the powerful stuff.

She got on the ground, searched on her hands and knees beneath
the bed, behind the table, in the little metal waste bin, trying to stay calm while her mother cried, the mewling sounds more like the bleating of a lamb.

She went to the bathroom, searched there, going through the medicine in the cabinet, searching in drawers, in shadowy corners beneath the sink. Nothing.

“Mom, this is crazy,” she said, more to herself than to anyone else, because her mother couldn’t hear her, and even if she could, she wouldn’t be able to answer.

Trying to stay calm, Kit grabbed her phone, called her mom’s oncologist, and as expected, got his answering service. She told the answering service that it was an emergency, that her mom was in the end stages of cancer and had run out of her pain medicine. “I need Dr. Hilbert to please call a prescription in to a twenty-four-hour pharmacy for my mother, Marilyn Brennan. She takes hydromorphone.”

The answering service promised to pass the message along and fifteen minutes later Kit’s phone rang. It was Dr. Hilbert. “I’m so sorry to have woken you,” Kit apologized, “but we can’t find Mom’s medicine. She’s in so much pain. I’ve never seen her like this.”

“Do you want to take her to the emergency room?”

Kit knew how it worked in emergency. Her mother would wait hours to be seen. “No. Can you call in a prescription for her? Please.”

“There isn’t a lot open right now. The Walgreens on Castro in the Castro district—”

“That’s fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, please. Just call it in and let them know we’re on the way.”

Hanging up the phone, Kit returned to her mom’s side. There were tears on her face. “The prescription is being called in right
now, Mom,” she soothed. “I’ll have it for you soon. Hang in there, okay?”

Kit didn’t wait for her mom to respond. She was trying to think of who to call to either sit with Mom, so she could dash to Walgreens, or who could just go straight to the drugstore for her. Normally there’d be a dozen Brennans available, but right now they were all on a cruise ship sleeping soundly. She could call Polly, but it was one-thirty in the morning, and while the Castro district wasn’t dangerous, it also wasn’t completely safe.

And then glancing at her phone, scrolling through messages, she saw Jude’s text.

Jude.

He’d do it for her. And knowing him, he probably wasn’t even in bed yet.

Kit called him without wasting another second. He answered immediately. “You okay, Kit Kat?”

“Can you help me?”

“Just tell me what you need.”

Her eyes stung. “It means dragging you into the city.”

“I’m already here, shooting pool with friends.”

Thank you, Jesus
.

“Can you go to the Walgreens on Castro street and pick up my mom’s pain medicine? We ran out earlier and she’s in bad shape.” Her voice broke. “It’ll be under Marilyn Brennan. Dr. Hilbert just called it in. Not sure if they have her insurance info, though—”

“Text me your address, I’ll get the medicine, and be there soon.”

T
wenty-five minutes later Kit heard the roar of Jude’s motorcycle and ran out of the house to meet him on the curb, bundled up in jeans and one of her dad’s old baseball sweatshirts.

Jude eased the bike between two parked cars and turned the engine off, silencing the throbbing noise. “Have you been waiting out here the whole time?” he asked, removing his helmet.

“No. Came running out when I heard you approach the house.”

“That loud?”

“Pretty loud, but it’s okay. It’ll give the neighbors something to talk about tomorrow.”

He unzipped his leather jacket and pulled out a small pharmacy bag from an inside pocket.

Kit glanced into the pharmacy bag at the small box and syringes. “What is this?”

“Hydromorphone, the same medicine she’s been taking—”

“It’s a shot!”

“The pharmacist said her doctor wanted her to do the injectable form tonight—”

“I can’t give her a shot, Jude!” Panicked, she crumpled the bag in her hand. “I don’t know how to give a shot. I need the pills. We have to get the pills.”

“The injectable version will kick into her system faster, dull the pain quicker.”

“But, Jude, I’ve never given a shot before. I don’t know how to give a shot.”

He shrugged. “I do.”

Of course he did
.

She shuddered as visions of him injecting heroin into a vein flashed through her mind.

He saw her shudder and shook his head, disgusted. “It’s nice to see you have such a high opinion of me, Kit Kat.”

“Why do you know how to do this?”

“My grandmother had diabetes. She was on insulin for years. Just because I ride a motorcycle doesn’t mean I’m an addict. Now, do you want help or not?”

Kit knew she deserved that. “Want help,” she said in a small voice.

“Then let’s do it.”

In the master bathroom adjacent to the bedroom, Jude thoroughly scrubbed his hands with hot water and the antibacterial soap on the counter while Kit helped her mom onto her side and tried to comfort her, telling her that soon she’d feel better.

From the side of the bed, Kit watched Jude in the bathroom open all the packaging, examine the glass bottle of medicine, then wipe the top with alcohol, insert the syringe into the rubber seal, and draw the hydromorphone.

He carried the syringe and a fresh alcohol swab to her at the bed. “I really can’t do this,” Kit whispered, lightly rubbing her mom’s back.

“Yes, you can. Do a silent count, one, two, three, and put it in. Don’t think about it. Just one, two, three, in, push down, and that’s it.”

“It’ll hurt her, won’t it?”

“It’s intramuscular. You’ll put it in her hip or butt cheek. The solution is thick. Inject it slowly.” He handed her an alcohol swab. “Come on. You can do it. You need to know how, and I’m here if anything goes wrong.”

Kit did exactly what he said, counted one, two, three, and then jabbed the needle in. Her mom cried out when she poked her and Kit nearly yanked the needle out of her hip, but Jude leaned forward, steadied Kit’s hand, made sure the medicine got in.

“Good job,” he whispered.

She shook her head, tears filling her eyes, and remained with her mom, soothing her, comforting her, until she fell asleep.

Kit was still teary when she and Jude headed downstairs once her mother was sleeping peacefully. “That was awful,” she said. “Don’t want to do that again.”

“It gets easier.”

“Never wanted to be a nurse. Never wanted to do any of this.”

“But you’re doing a great job. And from what I gathered at the pharmacy, your doctor plans on getting your mom on an IV tomorrow. It’ll make it easier for her to get her medicine, and it won’t be painful.”

“Good. Because I can’t do that again, and it’ll kill me if we’ve got to poke her with needles every couple of hours.” They were standing near the front door and the lights were dim. Kit dragged a trembling hand through her hair, combing it smooth, trying to pull herself together. The last couple of hours had completely shattered her. “What a day. Thank God you came.”

“I’m glad I could help.”

She blinked back tears, crossed her arms, shivering. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You did good. And she’s okay now. She’ll sleep through to morning.” He reached for the leather jacket he’d left on the hall table, slipped it on. “It’s time you went to bed. Get some sleep.”

She nodded but she didn’t want him to go, wasn’t ready to see him go. She liked his company. He was good company. “I don’t think I can. Too wound up to sleep.” She squeezed her arms tighter, glanced up at him hopefully. “Can I make you something to eat? Get you something to drink?”

He looked at her, dark eyes shadowed, his expression impossible to read. “Feeling lonely?”

She nodded. “When Mom’s sleeping, gets awfully quiet here sometimes.”

He reached out to pluck a strand of hair from her eyelashes. “I am a little hungry.”

She liked the way he touched her. Carefully, thoughtfully, gently. She remembered the kiss on her forehead outside Durty Nelly’s. For a big, tough guy, he was awfully tender. “What sounds good to you?” she asked unsteadily.

“Do you know how to make grilled cheese?”

Grilled cheese. Her heart turned over. He really was a sheep in wolf’s clothing. “You’re in luck, Mr. Knight. Grilled cheese sandwiches just happen to be my specialty.”

In the kitchen he took a stool at the counter and watched her gather the bread and butter and cheese and heat the pan. He didn’t try to chitchat, but let her focus on putting the sandwiches together. Kit appreciated the quiet. She was tired and her thoughts were jumbled and her emotions felt raw and intense.

She liked him here with her, watching her, being near her. He was calm and focused and his stillness steadied her. “You’re a puzzle, you know,” she said, cutting the hot sandwiches, toasted a perfect golden brown, then setting his plate before him. “You’re not as scary as you look.”

He sipped from his coffee cup and his thick biceps bunched. “I look scary?”

She sat down on a stool opposite him. “You know you do.”

“What makes me so scary?”

“Your eyes, the hair, the stubble on the jaw, the tattoos, the bike, the boots, the black leather…oh, and all those muscles.”

“Well, if that’s all,” he said wryly, picking up half the sandwich.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I did the ink and the piercings, but inherited the hair, the eyes, and the body.”

She looked at him, seeing his straight black eyebrows and dark olive skin. “You told me in Capitola you were part Choctaw.”

“And a little bit of English, Irish, French, and Norwegian.”

“Was your mom or dad Choctaw?”

“My dad. He was raised on a reservation in Oklahoma, moved to Texas for a bit, then California.”

“Where is he now?”

“Died when I was ten.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “Long time ago. I barely remember him.”

“Where did your mom meet him?”

“They were introduced to each other by friends.”

“Was it a happy marriage?”

“Could have been. Should have been. My mom’s a really good woman. My dad should have taken care of her.”