Page 47 of You're So Vine
Mom, bless her, puts out her cookies, but also some homemade hummus and corn chips. All organic. Dad won’t touch anything else.
“I saw Doc Wilson this morning.” I launch into it before Dad can. “There’s nothing obviously wrong with me, so I’ve had some blood tests and we’ll wait for the results, which should come tomorrow.”
“But what is Ray expecting those to show? He must have some idea.”
I can see why Doc stopped taking Dad’s calls.Breathe, Ava. Be cool.
“One step at a time, Dad,” I say. “Doc’s not going to throw around diagnoses until he has some firm evidence. You know how he works.”
Mitch drums on the table with his fingertips. Impatience is strong in our bloodline.
“Did you have a virus before the onset of the fatigue?”
I know why he’s asking this question. Dad’s heart condition is called dilated cardiomyopathy. In layman’s language, my super-healthy, athletic father got a virus that weakened his heart muscle, and the damaged muscle started slowly being replaced with scar tissue, forcing his heart to enlarge. If he hadn’t finallyaccepted medical intervention, it would have failed. Permanently.
“I didn’t have a virus, Dad.” And more for Mom’s sake, I add, “Honestly, I think I just got plain old worn out.”
“You’re twenty-seven!” protests Dad. “You should have energy to burn!”
“Mitchell,” soothes Mom, “Ray will find out what’s going on as quickly as he can. He’s never let us down.”
She spoons up hummus with a corn chip and offers it to him. Dad’s Spartan defenses kick in (eating between meals?!) Then he relents and crunches it up.
A car is making its way toward the house. Danny’s home, and if my ears don’t deceive me, driving a different car from the one he came up from LA in, which means he must have sold that beautiful Porsche 550 Spyder replica. It’s not worth anywhere nearthe several million an original would fetch, but I’m sure Danny has managed to wrangle top dollar out of some susceptible buyer.
“Is that Nate with him?”
Mom’s heard the second male voice, too. The pair are guffawing as they approach, joking around, so it can’t be Nate. Nate has a sense of humor, but it’s quiet and dry. This second guy sounds more like—
“You all remember Shelby’s brother, Jackson?” says Danny, entering the kitchen.
“Good morning, ma’am,” Jackson says to Mom. “Sir.”
He sticks out a hand to my father, who gets to his feet and takes it reluctantly. Mitch isn’t that great with strangers, even ones who’ve recently become related by marriage.
“Ava.” Jackson gives me a smile.
He’s looking a little rough around the edges. Maybe he and Danny went drinking after they left Nate and Shelby’s last night?
Danny pours two bigmugs of coffee, hands one to Jackson. My theory’s holding up so far.
“Mom, Jackson’s accommodation arrangement has fallen through. Is it okay if he stays here until Sunday? I’ve got a couple more clients to visit, then we’ll both head back to LA.”
“Of course,” says Mom, ever the gracious hostess.
“Can’t he stay with Shelby?” says Dad, unaware that gracious is even a word.
“Dad, Shelby and Nate just got married,” Danny says. “Did you and Mom want guests on your honeymoon?”
Mom smiles and takes Dad’s hand. “We were so preoccupied that we didn’t even notice the blackflies.”
“Ginny!” Dad protests, but his mouth twitches upward. Dang. He really has mellowed.
My heart gives a lurch so sudden it sends a knot of nausea up into my throat, and it’s all I can do not to let it show. My parents love each other. They’re devoted to each other. And sitting here watching them, I wish that I felt that kind of love from them. Okay, more specifically from my father. I wish I felt like he loved me as unconditionally as he loves Mom. I wish I felt like he saw me as a whole being, not just a series of achievements. Not just a venture to be continuously improved. I wish I could talk to him, and to Mom, and to my whole damn family without feeling guarded and defensive. It’s why I know I can’t stay here now that the possibility of me being ill is out in the open. I’d feel constantly under scrutiny. Constantly judged for falling short.
I felt that way with Cam this morning. When he called me pushy. Attack has always been my best form of defense and I went there without hesitating. I knew the subject was difficult for him, as it would be for anyone who’s experienced what he has. His response was not unreasonable. I could have apologized and backed off, but instead I leapt down his throat. Whereas he had cause to be touchy, I didn’t. And now I’ve got what I deserve: a big fat zilch.
My heart lurches again. I don’t want zilch! I want Cam, goddammit! Cam, who is kind and gentle and there for me. Whose generosity I threw back in his face, along with a bunch of nasty remarks. It may be too late for me to ever have a great relationship with my dad, but I refuse to give up on me and Cam. Okay, so it’ll mean learning to break the habits of a lifetime, but I am nothing if not goal-oriented. Of course, this plan entirely depends on whether Cam’s willing to forgive me, but I’ll cross that shaky bridge when I get to it.
