Wish Me Tomorrow. Karen Rock
and framed photographs. The apartment could have graced the cover of a decorating magazine...if it wasn’t completely and utterly trashed.
Holy cow.
She leaned against the closed door and gaped at the mess. It looked as if a Kansas twister had barreled through the room, scattering papers, books, toys and, of all things, a sewing machine covered in fabric pieces, feathers and open bags of sequins and rhinestones. Not that the place was dirty. In fact, every uncovered surface shone. No doubt Mary was doing her best to keep things clean, but why leave it so untidy?
She twitched at the lack of organization and bent to pick up a paperback.
“Dad doesn’t like anyone touching his stuff,” Becca said behind her.
Christie put the book on a recessed shelf and turned. “I can see that.” She smiled at the young girl, who wore a pink tank top and gray sweatpants. Her dark hair hung past her shoulders in loose curls. “How are you, Becca?”
“Good. A little hungry, though,” Becca laughed. “I can never eat enough after dance class.” She looked around and lowered her voice. “Is Mr. Vaccaro going to be okay?”
“He’s getting the best possible care,” Christie assured the girl. Good thing her voice sounded steady. When she’d seen John sitting so still in his wheelchair, she’d felt as if her own heart had quit beating. “Now, let’s find you something to eat.”
“Oh. Me, too. Me, too.” Tommy burst from behind his sister and dropped his plastic Tyrannosaurus rex. Scout snatched the toy, trotted to a plaid dog bed beside the door and settled down to gnaw on the dinosaur’s tail.
“It looks like everyone’s starving.” Christie eyed Scout. “Give,” she commanded in her firmest nurse voice. The dog’s mouth slackened, the toy dropping to the floor.
“Wow.” Becca tucked her hair behind her ears. “He never listens to anyone. How did you do that?”
She grabbed the toy and sidestepped a shoe pile on her way to the kitchen. “I have a dog, too.” She turned on the hot water and washed the dinosaur in a double sink set in a black granite countertop.
It felt good to clean. Create order. There was nothing like busywork to distract her from worries. She took her first solid breath since she’d noticed John was unconscious.
“What kind of dog? Is he big like Scout?” Tommy and Becca seated themselves in beige leather stools at the counter that separated the kitchen from the rest of the living space.
“He is actually a she and her name’s Sweet Pea.” She handed Tommy the slobber-free T. rex. Scout trotted over at the toy’s reappearance but scuttled back at her stern look. She glanced at a stainless-steel microwave over a matching cooktop. It was 8:15. How much longer until Eli called again?
“Sweet Pea.” Becca spun in her seat. “That’s such a cute name. What kind of dog is she?”
She smiled, picturing her small, white-and-tan dog. On her way to the apartment, she’d phoned Laura, who’d agreed to walk Sweet Pea. How lucky to have such an amazing roommate. She’d pick up Laura’s favorite frozen yogurt, Pinkberry’s chocolate with honey-almond granola topping, on her way home.
“She’s a Cavalier King Charles spaniel.” She thumbed to a photo of Sweet Pea on her iPhone and passed it to the kids. She headed to the fridge. “How do grilled-cheese sandwiches sound?”
“Are they the healthy kind?” Tommy’s fingers traced Sweet Pea’s long ears and their curly fur.
Christie paused on her way back to the counter, organic cheese and butter in hand. “Do you have whole-wheat bread?”
Becca grimaced. “That’s the only kind we have. Dad’s been a complete health-food nut ever since—” Her face froze and she fell silent.
Christie located the bread behind a stack of unopened mail while her mind turned over the possibilities of Becca’s unfinished sentence. Although Eli had sounded annoyed at the cancer-support-group meeting, she’d glimpsed pain, too. Was his decision to be more health conscious related to that?
“This is seriously the cutest dog ever.” Becca held up the iPhone, Sweet Pea’s tilted head and tiny snout on display.
“Is she a puppy?” Tommy got to his knees and stretched toward an overhead pot rack. “Here.” He handed her a frying pan as Becca steadied his stool.
“Thanks.” Christie hunted for a spatula and a butter knife. “Sweet Pea’s almost ten, which is old for a diabetic dog.”
Becca came around the counter, pulled open a couple of drawers and located the utensils. “Need a hand?”
“Sure. Would you turn on the cooktop while I butter the bread?”
“What’s tiabetic mean?” Tommy hopped off his stool and stood next to Christie. “I can help, too.”
“It’s diabetic, Little Man.” Becca grabbed a buttered sandwich. “It means she needs shots.” The frying pan hissed as she placed it inside. “Insulin, right?”
Christie nodded, impressed. “Twice a day, breakfast and dinner.” She handed Tommy two cheese slices, which he lined up with careful precision, tongue sticking out between his teeth. “Becca, I’ll take over the frying, okay?”
“Why do you do that?” Tommy placed the last piece of bread on top and followed her to the range. “Shots hurt.”
Becca pulled Tommy away from the hot pan and wrapped her arms around him. “Because if she didn’t, Sweet Pea would die. We learned that in health class.”
“Die?” Tommy looked stricken. He ran back to his stool and picked up the iPhone.
Christie turned from the stove and gave Tommy a reassuring look. “Not until it’s her time, Tommy. Her medicine keeps her healthy and I make sure she gets it every day.”
Tommy’s quivering lip stilled and Christie flipped the browned sandwich.
Why had Becca said that? The bluntness of teenagers. Her veterinarian had advised her to euthanize Sweet Pea years ago, saying that she’d go blind (she hadn’t) and that it would be difficult to keep up with the shots (it wasn’t). Sweet Pea’s life expectancy was shorter than other dogs, but it only made their time together more precious. She would rather have ten years with Sweet Pea than fifteen with another dog.
“My daddy got medicine so he wouldn’t die,” Tommy blurted.
Christie nearly dropped the cooked sandwich as she slid it onto a plate. Was he saying his father had been treated for a terminal illness? Her insides clenched.
“Tommy!” Becca scowled and passed him the dish. “Eat.”
“Well, it’s true.” Tommy ignored the steaming food. “And Christie understands ’cause she helps other people with cancer, like Mr. Vaccaro.”
“Yes, I do.” The spatula slipped from her grip and clattered to the floor. She bent down and rested her forehead against a lower cabinet, hiding her surprise. So it was true. Eli was recovering from cancer. Her stomach twisted in empathy for him and his children. What they must be going through, and by the look of things, without a wife or mother to help. No wonder he sounded bitter. She grabbed the utensil and rose, her face as composed as possible.
She turned off the stove and handed a scowling Becca the last grilled cheese. “Becca, eat something.”
“Dad doesn’t want people knowing.” Becca pushed the plate away. “He won’t let us talk about it with anyone. Even each other. Ever.”
Becca’s frustration touched a chord, her distant behavior toward her father suddenly making sense. Becca didn’t ignore him out of anger—she avoided him out of fear. And Christie should know; she’d done it to her own brother.
She hated thinking about that painful time in her life. But Becca’s reaction