Wait for Me (18 page)

“Holly? This is Bobby. Who is this fellow, this Oliver, Antonio talks about? I think I should meet him, yes? Just because you’re having another birthday doesn’t mean you can forget about your family. You call me tomorrow.”

“This is me again, Bobby. Happy Birthday, little girl. I love you.”

“Hol-ly! Happy Birthday! Remember when you turned twenty-one and we all took you out New Year’s Eve and you said it was like having the whole world celebrate your birthday? Every New Year’s I think of that and cheer your birthday more than I do the new year. Oh, in case you can’t tell one message from the next, this is Tom. Bye. I love ya.”

In all, there were twelve birthday messages. One from her mother, two from her brother Bobby, and one each from her nine other brothers—and Oliver’s missive from the day before made thirteen.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?” he asked, disappointed that she hadn’t, flabbergasted by the outpouring of love he felt from her family. His father had always remembered his birthday, but it was usually a quiet, simple thing that came and went each year without much ado. “I should have known from your name it was sometime around Christmas.”

“Yeah,” she said, laughing. “I used to wonder about that. Then I decided Carolann must have been strung out on something and thought it was still Christmas—otherwise, she might have named me Time or Eve or Passing or something else very hippielike. I lucked out, huh?”

He smiled. “I still wish I’d known.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. As you heard, I’ve always had more than enough to put up with on my birthday.”

“But I want to get you something... a gift.” Wholly unconscious of her attire, she walked into his embrace and kissed him as if he were the beginning and end of all she knew.

“You
are
the best present you could ever give me.”

M
ERCHANTS RUTHLESSLY REMOVED ALL
signs of Christmas and the New Year from their windows and within days were pushing hearts and flowers and shiny boxes of chocolates. A few moved straight into spring—setting shamrocks and leprechauns and daffodils and baby ducks in the same window.

Holly stood at one such window and wished she could make time travel as fast. She wished it were April and that whatever was to happen between that moment and then, was over and done.

The grant hearing was scheduled for the twelfth of January, eight days away, and if she were facing anyone but Elizabeth George, she might have been able to sleep soundly at night. As it was, she slept fitfully, waking often to ponder the future of the clinic, of the people it served. She made mental lists of other available grants, private and federal. She rehashed her own budget, cutting already dull corners, squeezing out every penny she could spare.

She wasn’t going to give up. Between Joan Ellerbey and herself, they would find a way to keep the clinic open... she hoped and prayed. But then there was St. Augustine’s.

Every day she went to visit Carolann and every day she wondered if, when St. Augustine’s was threatened with a loss of funds, would she go to Oliver for help? She had no real influence there; she wasn’t aware of the complete financial situation. Could they withstand the loss of a single grant? Or would it break them, force them to close their doors? And if she did turn to Oliver, would it be fair to do so to ensure her mother’s safety, when she wouldn’t do it for the hundreds of needy people at the clinic?

Holly was a gut-reaction sort of person. She acted on instinct, thrived on impulse. But lately her judgment was clouded with the dust from the battle between her love for Oliver and her pride.

He’d have given her the moon and the stars, too, if she asked. It would make him happy if she asked. All she had to do was ask, but she couldn’t. She went over every reason and found fault with each. Oliver knew she didn’t need him to fight her battles; he knew she wasn’t after his money; he would know that she wasn’t asking for herself but for countless others... and still she couldn’t bring herself to ask.

“Will you please pay attention,” Oliver spoke sternly, scattering her thoughts. “I’m not doing this for my health. I’m doing it for yours. Pay attention.”

He stood before her in gray fleece sweats—formal wear at Bill’s Health-o-Rama, where, for her birthday, he’d given her a lifetime membership. He’d said it was the closest thing he could find to a real gym within walking distance of her apartment and that if he couldn’t make her see reason, he would at least see to it that she could defend herself.

For the first half-hour he’d coached her through a series of muscle-building exercises. He’d been wholly indelicate in pointing out what he called flab on her body, and he’d pushed her aching muscles to a point where she could have taken said flab and beat him about the head and shoulders with it.

Now he was showing her self-defense techniques—and he was a brutal instructor.

“You have to be focused. Tune into everything around you. Nine tenths of the battle is surprising your attacker with your awareness. Make it a habit.” He stopped, his body relaxed, then he cocked his head to one side and asked, “Are you okay? You seem sort of out of it today.”

“I’m fine. I’m tired and I want to go home and I don’t think this is really necessary, but I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he said, taking on an attacker’s attitude, ignoring her complaints. “Now, be ready and be focused. Remember, there are five prime targets. Their sight”—he pointed to his eyes—“their breathing”—nose and diaphragm—“their ability to walk or chase after you”—legs and feet—“and where they live.”

She followed the direction of his hands and smiled.

“Does Clavin press your sweatpants like that, or do you wear a new pair every time you go to a gym?”

He screwed up his face at her. “At least mine are in one piece and there aren’t great gaping holes to show everyone the color of my underwear.”

She pulled at the elastic and peeked into her pants.

“I thought you liked these pink ones,” she said, trying hard to look hurt.

“I do,” he said, quickly glancing at the bodybuilders. “Everyone does. They’re distracting as hell.”

She grinned at him—the time-tested grin, the grin she knew made his blood boil.

“Are you going to pay attention or not?” he asked harshly, feeling a little overexerted.

“I really can take care of myself, Oliver.”

“Humor me.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes, ever indulgent.

“Okay,” he said. “Turn around and let’s say I come at you from behind. Like this. I grab you around the neck like so and twist your arm back like this. What are you going to do?”

“Scream?”

He tightened the hold on her neck enough to make her realize that screaming wouldn’t help.

“Poke you in the eyes with my other hand?”

She tried, but he shifted his weight, pulled on her twisted arm, and kept her defenseless.

“Not so smart now, are you, Holly?” he said, close to her ear. “This is why I want you to learn self-defense. You’re an easy target. If I wanted your money, I’d take it. If I wanted your body, I could take that too. If I wanted to bash your head in, I’d do it now...”

She knew his intentions were good, but there was just something about his attitude that was starting to tick her off.

Before he could take another breath or say another word, she stomped down on his instep, and as his head reared back in pain, she twisted and rammed her elbow into his diaphragm. When he bent forward, she nailed two more targets with an upper cut, catching his nose in a hit directly between the eyes. He reeled backward on his heels, and she tapped his groin with only enough force to let him know that had she wanted to, she could have cracked his family jewels wide open.

He landed on the mat on his backside, and when he felt blood trickling through his nose he went flat on his back. When the stars began to fade and he could breathe again, he opened his eyes.

Holly stood above him, looking concerned until he opened his eyes and glared at her. Then she smiled, shrugged easily, and said, “Ten brothers.”

“Your brothers taught you that?” He struggled to a sitting position, trying not to notice the delighted smirks on the faces of their bemuscled audience.

“They taught me the important stuff, but I picked up the fine points at the YWCA when I first came to Oakland and had to move into a potentially tough neighborhood.” She leaned forward and helped him to his feet, looking closely at his nose. “It was great therapy while I was going to court for Carolann. I’d pretend all my attackers were lawyers. We’d better get some ice on that. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he said, the terse remark an indicator that his ego was bruised worse than his nose. They started for the locker rooms. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“Well, I didn’t want to hurt you, but I figured that if I didn’t, you’d never believe I could do it.”

“You could have warned me.”

“Surprise is nine tenths of the battle, remember?”

He gave her a sidelong glance as he wiped blood from his nose with the back of his hand.

“Are you mad?” she asked.

“No.”

“Yes, you are mad. I can tell.”

“I’m not mad,” he said, getting angry. They stopped at the entrance to the men’s locker rooms. “I’m... disappointed, is all.”

“Disappointed? Why?”

“Well, you don’t want my money. You don’t need me to teach you anything. I can’t do anything for you. You won’t let me help. I feel... useless.”

“Useless?” she said, laughing softly as she reached up and gently wiped blood from his upper lip. “Oliver, I’m depending on you to give me what I need the most. I need you to love me. I need you to teach me how to slow down and enjoy my life. I need your help to get through the day. I want to be with you more than anything I’ve ever wanted before.”

He took her hand and watched his thumb rub back and forth over her knuckles.

“It’s not enough, Holly,” he said slowly. “It’s as if you have two separate lives. The one with me and the one you struggle with day after day. I need to be a part of that too. You don’t talk about the problems you live with every day, so how can I fix any of them? Make it easier for you? Make a difference in your life? I feel left out. I want to be involved in your whole life, not just a part of it.”

“You want to work at the clinic?” she asked, floored.

“No, of course not. But I want more than to come over and make love to you every night, or take you out to eat once in a while. It’s not enough. I want more.”

She didn’t know what to say to that.

Did he really want to hear how she had to beg for food or that they were running out of warm clothes in children’s sizes or that the shelters were full and they had waiting lists for jobs and housing and nonemergency medical care? What would he do? Go out and buy food and clothing? Hire doctors and nurses? Invent jobs? Build housing?

And what about his aunt? What if she told him she was threatening to cut the funds to the clinic? Would he take over the foundation and would he expect Holly to tell him which charities to support and which not to? Even she didn’t want that kind of responsibility.

And she didn’t want Oliver thinking he had to single-handedly cure the world’s ills, just to make her happy. It wasn’t all up to Oliver. It was everyone’s responsibility.

“Hello, Oliver?” she said, calling impulsively with her great idea. “How’s your nose?”

“Swollen and I have two black eyes. Clavin sends his cheers.” She covered the mouthpiece so he couldn’t hear her giggles. “Are you calling to gloat?”

“Who, me? Gloat?”

“Are you laughing?”

“No way. I’m dead serious. I have a favor to ask.”

“What is it?” His attitude changed instantly.

“Were you serious when you said you wanted to do something to help?”

“You know I was—I am.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking...”

“There’s news.”

“...there’s not a lot I could ask you to do at the clinic. I mean, you’ve donated money and—”

“What’s the favor?”

“Well, if I work at my end and you do the work that’s appropriate for you at your end, would that make you feel a little less left out? I mean, it doesn’t have to be day-to-day nitty-gritty stuff, it just needs to be helpful, right?”

“What is it?”

“Well,” she said, finding it hard to ask, knowing it was a stupid way to feel. “There’s a bill in the state senate to appropriate more funds for prenatal care, immunizations, and special ed services. I was wondering if... well, if...”

“If I could throw some Carey weight around and get it passed?” he asked with enthusiasm.

“I thought that since you sort of hobnob with those kinds of people that maybe—”

“Holly, you don’t need to explain. It’s a great idea, and I want to help. I’ll do whatever I can.” There was a brief silence. “Was it really that hard for you to ask me for such a small favor?”

“I’m not used to asking people to do what I couldn’t or wouldn’t do myself. But in this case, nothing I did would make any difference. You said you wanted to make a difference.”

“I do,” he said, and after another brief pause he added, “And Holly? Thanks for letting me try.”

That Thursday she dyed three gray heads the same striking blue, gave four tight perms and ten haircuts. She listened to the hospital gossip involving two night-shift attendants and caught up on the story about Mr. Jared’s niece and the Arab prince she was dating. She tried not to give any weight to the whispers about old Ed McGreevy chasing after Darleen Gibbs, a young seventy-six, but then she didn’t deny any of the rumors she heard that Oliver had a serious crush on Mrs. Quinn... he’d sent her a box of batteries for the fans.

She told Carolann all about her problems with the Carey Foundation. She was wishing for some empathy when she began to tell her about the situation between her and Oliver and Elizabeth Carey George. She wanted advice, but got none.

It was a gray, yucky day, but dry and far from dark when she decided to walk the ten blocks home rather than take the bus. Oliver had a dinner meeting and wouldn’t be coming till late, if he came at all. She took her time, walking and thinking.