Page 71 of Holiday Star
Smart dog.
“Okay. Things need to change.” I square my shoulders. “Where to start?”
With my hand on my forehead, I think until it finally comes to me. I’ve already said my peace to Jax. Someday down the road, I’ll have to deal with Caleb, but for now it’s time to put my father to rest.
I grab my phone off the table and search through my emails until I find what I’m looking for. It’s from my old therapist, the one who took care of me back in high school. She sent me this email when I left for college, but I never followed up. In the email she strongly advised I see a dedicated grief counselor. I didn’t listen to her back then, but it’s time to change that. After a bit of research to find the best therapist, I dial a number and leave a message, asking to make an appointment.
That phone call done, I go to my suitcase, with Pip trailing behind me, her tail wagging. I’ve only partially unpacked since returning from California. Digging to the bottom, my fingers find the edges of a rectangular package. I pull it out and stand there, an ache in the back of my throat, staring at the box for a very long time.
It’s the paint set that Caleb gave me for Christmas. At the last minute, I threw it into my bag without much thought.
After my panic attack earlier, I had remembered how painting used to soothe me, before Dad died. On my way home from the hospital, I had ducked into an art supply store. In a daze, I bought a large framed blank canvas, pretending that I didn’t know why I was buying it.
Now, I stare from the paints to the canvas, which leans against the wall of my small apartment. It’s late, but I won’t be able to sleep tonight anyway.
I glance down at Pip, who sits by my feet. “What do you think?” I ask her. “Should I try?”
Her tail wags even harder, which I take as a yes.
I get out the watercolors, set the canvas on the table, and paint.
41
Alvina makes it her life’s mission to fatten me up. During my next shift, I take a break from the ER and go to see her in the ICU. When I arrive, a paper plate covered with aluminum foil is waiting. My name is written on a piece of scotch tape across the top. When I pick it up, I almost drop it. The thing weighs as much as a brick.
“What’s in this?” I ask her, lifting one edge of the foil to peek underneath. The mouth-watering aroma of fresh-baked cornbread comes wafting out. I was going to wait and eat it later, but once that smell hits me, it’s game over.
The foil rips easily to reveal a full Thanksgiving-style dinner. There’s thick-sliced turkey, homemade mac ‘n’ cheese, sweet potatoes with mini marshmallows toasted brown on top, and, of course, chocolate chip cookies. Everything is delicious.
“Wow,” I tell her in between mouthfuls of food. “You sure can cook. This is amazing.”
Alvina tosses her hair and smiles proudly. “Cooking for five children makes you learn mighty quick. I’ve been missing it, cooking for someone else, so I’m happy to do it for you.”
Caleb used to cook for me, too.I push that thought aside.
“Five children?” My brows hit my hairline. “What moisturizer are you using because you look too good.”
That makes her laugh, hearty and loud, the sound bouncing off the harsh white walls and linoleum floors of the ICU. “I started young. My kids are mostly grown now. Got my first grandbaby on the way.”
“That’s one lucky baby, if you feed your family the way you’re feeding me. Your husband is lucky, too.” I smile around the food in my mouth, the gesture rusty from the last month.
Her smile falters. “My husband passed away two years ago. Heart attack.” Now I know why she understands sadness so well. Alvina’s had her own fair share of heartbreak.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper into the silence that follows.
She nods and her eyes sweep over my face. She harrumphs softly. “You got a little more color to your cheeks, Dr. Wright, but not enough. I expect you to finish that plate.”
I give her a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.” My smile comes easier this time.
My pager beeps. Time to go back to the ER. “Thanks, Alvina. I mean it, thanks a lot.” Smiling, she waves her hand, shooing me away. Down the hall I go, hoping to save someone else’s life the way that Alvina just saved mine.
42
Weeks pass, and most of the reporters go with them. Eventually, only one stands outside my doorstep. The older man, who I first noticed on the day I fired the bodyguard. The one who’s always smoking.
He’s probably in his late fifties, judging by the gray hair at his temples. His eyes are gray, too. Sharp, like they see too much. It’s unsettling when they focus on me. In honor ofThe X-Filesand my secret crush on David Duchovny, I name him the Smoking Man in my mind.
In rain, snow, and sunshine, he stands with unnatural stillness, as if it’s all the same to him. Only his eyes shift, roving over the cars and people who pass by.
