The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus (18 page)

Someone who won't insist

on going on and on and on and on

and on and on when we're fighting,

till each word he flings at me

feels like a poisoned dart

piercing my skin.

Someone who never says,

“You're
angrier than
I
am.”

whenever I get angry,

who never says,

“I would never do that to
you.”

whenever I do that to him,

who never says, “No one but you

has ever complained about that.”

whenever I complain about that.

I want

to be with someone

about whom I have no complaints.

I brace for the first thwacks

as Michael raises his ax

to fell what's left of our pepper tree.

I feel the sharp cracks

as he splits her bare grayed limbs

into logs.

Together we stack them

on the covered porch by our front door,

the two of us grim as reapers.

Our pepper tree

will never offer shade again,

never give shelter,

never spread wide her arms,

inviting our daughter

to climb up into her lap.

As barren as me.

And so empty—

like a well drained of its water.

I stand in my bedroom,

looking out through

the open French door

at the terrible gap

where our pepper tree

once stood.

It's as though our garden

has had its two front teeth

knocked out.

I glance next door

and see Jane step into their yard.

She's got a whining Madison

perched on her very pregnant belly.

The little girl rubs her eyes,

then notices that our tree is gone.

She points at the stump

and bursts into tears.

“What happened?” she wails.

“What happened?”

Jane tells her our tree got sick.

So sick that we had to cut it down.

This does not go over well

with the overtired toddler.

She starts flailing her arms

and kicking her chubby little feet.

Jane tries to sooth

her scarlet-faced, frenzied moppet.

But Madison will not be stopped.

She screams and screams and screams.

What happened?
I think to myself.

What happened…?

Michael and I

each grab an extension

and hang on to them like life preservers.

She tells us

that there's a thunderstorm—

right now, right outside her window.

“It's
awe
some!” she says.

Then she holds the phone out

so that we can hear the rumble rocking the air.

She holds the phone out

so that we

can
be
there…

I don't get it.

Why do
I
feel so homesick

when
she's
the one so far from home?

“Why don't you give me the good news first?” I say.

I'm trying for sarcasm, but it seems

he's mistaken it for an affectionate jibe

because there's that chuckle of his—

the one that makes me feel as if

my skin's being rubbed off with a grater.

He says he's got
lots
of good news today:

my mother's polymyositis

appears to be in remission.

And now that he's managed

to wean her off the steroids,

she's finally stopped hallucinating.

I hug Secret to my chest.

For a split second I feel as weightless

as an astronaut in deep space.

But then Hack nails me with the bad news:

he says the withdrawal from the steroids

seems to have brought on an agitated depression.

So he's started my mother on Prozac,

because she's refusing to go to rehab

and she's hardly eating.

Though, he says, the good news is

that she was twenty pounds overweight

when she was admitted.

So,

chuckle, chuckle, chuckle,

grate, grate, grate,

a little weight loss

might actually be

just what the doctor ordered.

“Oh, and when I saw her today,” he adds,

“she did mention suicide—but only in passing.

We're keeping an extra close eye on her, though.”

I'm hurtling toward Cleveland

at five hundred miles per hour.

A few minutes ago,

right before the plane took off,

Laura's mother

called me on my cell.

“I seem to have started a trend,” she said.

“Now
Wendy's
parents are getting divorced!”

Which is why

as I sit here gripping the armrests,

listening to a trio of howling babies

bawling with utter abandon,

I'm thinking how good

it would feel to toss back my head,

fling open my mouth,

and join them.

I show up at the hospital

armed with a bouquet of yellow tulips,

a stack of cooking magazines,

and a batch of Sam's defrosted brownies.

I peek into my mother's room

and feel my stomach tighten.

That woman in there looks like

someone else's mother—

her cheeks are withered apples,

her eyes frightened and much bigger

than they should be.

Even her nose seems to have grown.

She's sitting up in bed,

wringing her hands,

her hair

a tangled gray tornado.

As soon as she sees me,

she starts moaning my name.

Then she bursts into tears.

So I do, too.

But when I wrap my arms around her,

she quiets like a small child.

“I'm so glad you're here,” she whispers.

“I am, too,” I whisper back.

Then I offer her a butterscotch brownie,

which she politely declines.

I arrange the tulips in a pitcher,

find her brush, and try to tame her hair.

“Tell me how you've been,” she says.

A wave of relief washes over me—

and suddenly I want to tell her
every
thing.

I'd climb right into her lap if I could.

But as soon as I start pouring it all out,

telling her about my troubles with Michael—

she interrupts me.

“Now tell me about the brownies.”

So I begin to tell her that Samantha

baked them especially for her—

but she interrupts me again.

“Now tell me how you've been.”

So I start talking about how worried I am

that I'll never be able to finish my book—

but she interrupts me again.

“Now tell me about the brownies.”

So I try one more time,

but I've barely begun—

when she interrupts me again.

“Now tell me how you've been.”

And all the while

the woman in the next bed

is quietly chanting,

“Help me, God. Help me, God…”

Help
me,
God.

I rush out into the hall to escape the chanting,

and somehow manage to trip a man

wearing sky-blue scrubs,

whose stethoscope goes flying

as he crashes to the floor.

“Omigosh,” I say. “I am so sorry!”

I reach down to help him up

and when our fingers touch,

a strange shiver runs through me—

like I'm a character in a tacky romance novel.

The man flashes me a dizzying grin,

and I notice that he's tall and pale and lean—

handsome in a vampirey kind of way,

with incisors that almost make me wish

he'd bite my neck.

I take in his graceful forearms,

his mile-wide shoulders,

his utter and complete silver-foxiness.

And when he locks his George-Clooney eyes

to mine—I'm thirteen again.

I can feel my cheeks flushing,

my pulse quickening.

“Is there…a doctor in the house?” I ask lamely.

And when he starts chuckling

I nearly keel over:

it's Dr. Hack!

And

it's also

the good news.

Because now that I know who he is

I won't even be
tempted

to jeopardize my marriage.

Not that he'd ever be interested in
me.

I mean, I'm not exactly having

a good hair day.

And he must be

at least ten years younger

than I am.

But when he takes my hand in his to shake it,

he seems to hold onto it

a beat longer than he should.

“And whom do I have the pleasure

of being tripped by?” he purrs.

“I'm…I'm Holly…Myra's daughter.”

His smoldery eyes widen.

“And I'm Dr. Hack!” he says.

“I had no idea you were…coming.”

I wish I could think of a clever reply

but I'm too busy trying not to faint—

because now his eyes have begun to wander

and I can feel the heat of them

roaming over every curve

of my body.

Or maybe

I'm just having

one heck of a hot flash.

No one has looked at me like this

in a very long time.

I'd given up hope

that anyone ever would again.

Is
he interested in me?

He can't be…
Can
he?

Aw come on, Holly. Don't be an idiot.

This whole thing is all in your head…

But then he bats his ludicrously long lashes

and says, “It's so amazing to finally see

the face that goes with the voice.”

“It sure
is,
doctor…” I murmur.

“Please, Holly,” he says,

with a smile that turns my legs to linguine,

“call me Griffin.”

“Griffin…” I repeat, as if in a trance.

What is going
on
here?

Is this guy some kind of hypnotist?

If he snaps his fingers

will I start unbuttoning my blouse?

How can I be swooning

for a man I detest?

How can I be drooling

for such a complete idiot?

How can I be besotted with a man

who has proven himself to have

about as much bedside manner

as an alarm clock?

But it's like Griffin

is a thousand-watt bulb,

and I'm a moth with a death wish.

I watch, transfixed,

as he lets his thumb drift across

his lower lip—

exactly the same way

I saw Brad Pitt do it once on TV

when he was flirting with Barbara Walters…

My own lips begin to tremble…

Goosebumps rise on my arms…

My wedding band throbs on my finger…

Then, Griffin says,

“Why don't we go up to my office,

where we can…talk?”

Is it just my imagination,

or by “talk” does he mean

“have mind-bogglingly hot sex?”

Of
course
it's my imagination.

Though I take a quick step back,

just in case.

And trying hard to remain strong,

I say, “We do need to talk.

About my
mother
!”

But when he rests his hand

on the small of my back

and guides me toward the open elevator,

I can feel my resolve

melting faster than butter

on hot toast.