Now That You Mention It. Kristan Higgins
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sat down across from me. “So what are your plans, Nora?”
“I thought I could stay here until I was a little bit better. And then...well, I don’t know, really.”
I want us to be close. I miss Lily. I want to love Poe. I was hit by a car, and according to the Hallmark Channel, I’m supposed to come home.
I want to find out why Dad left us, and where he’s been all these years...and if he’s still alive.
“How long till you get better?”
She meant how long till I could move out. Tweety screeched, probably wondering the same thing, and I eyed the bird warily. “I’ll probably need help for a week or two.”
She nodded. “All right. And after that? You goin’ back to Boston, I imagine?”
“I thought I’d stay here for the summer. I took a leave of absence.”
“Now, why’d you do that? You’re a doctor, Nora!”
“I’m well aware of that. But, Mom, come on. I was hit by a van. I almost died.”
“That’s not what Bobby said.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Should I have gotten more hurt for you? Being knocked out cold and lying broken in the street wasn’t quite dramatic enough?”
For a second, I thought about telling her about the Big Bad Event, but I doubted that would impact her. I’d lived, after all. How bad could it have been?
“Well, I’m just sayin’ we don’t have a lot of room here. What with Poe and all.”
“I’ll rent a place in a couple weeks, okay?” I took a slow breath, remembering my resolutions, my new take on life. I was going to be sunshiny again, goddamn it. “I’ve missed you, Mom. I want us to spend time together.”
I sensed she wanted to roll her eyes, but she didn’t. “So we’ll hold hands and sing ‘Kumbaya’?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s my favorite song.”
That got a tiny smile.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” I said. “And a Vicodin.”
“Don’t get hooked on those,” my mother said.
Wrong daughter to be lecturing about drug abuse. “Thanks for the advice.”
I stood up, positioned my crutch and hobbled into the living room. “Poe, could you bring my suitcases upstairs?”
She inhaled a very long, slow breath, exhaled and raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Sure.”
I went up the stairs, one at a time, Boomer trying to help, running up and down, nearly killing me. The bird flew right at my head, either attacking me or trying to nest in my hair. “Jesus! Get away, Tweety!” He zoomed past again, and Boomer lunged. “No, Boomer! Down.” Imagine if my dog ate my mother’s favorite living creature on my first day home.
“No bird,” I told him, and he looked deeply ashamed. Luckily, my mom called for Tweety, and the creepy little thing whizzed past again, diving at Boomer, who ducked, this time and went into the kitchen.
By the time I made it to the top, I was drenched in sweat and in a bonfire of pain. God, my ribs were killing me! And my back. And my knee! And my stupid collarbone. I was one giant ball of hurt.
I went into my room. Poe had taken my old bed, based on the snarl of sheets. The other bed, once Lily’s, was covered in clothes, magazines, makeup.
Poe came in with my suitcases and dropped them.
“You’ll need to clear off that bed,” I said.
“Then where am I supposed to put my stuff?”
“The bureau? The closet? The trash? I don’t know, honey, but I have to sleep there. Let’s try to get along, okay? I’ll be here all summer.”
“I have to share a room with my elderly aunt all summer? Do I have to rub lotion on your feet and Tiger Balm on your shoulder, too?”
“I was hoping you’d shave off my corns.”
“Jesus!”
“Poe. I’m kidding. And I’m not elderly, okay? I’m thirty-five. I’ll rent a place as soon as I can get around on my own. If I sleep well and don’t break another bone tripping on your crap, I’ll get out of here sooner. See? Clearing off the bed works in both our interests.”
“Whatever.”
My eye twitched. “Would you please get me a glass of water?” I asked sweetly. “I have to take some medication.” I cleared a spot on the bed, then used my crutch to snag my purse as Poe went into the bathroom. She returned instantly with a slightly grubby glass filled with water which, if experience was an indicator, would be tepid, since she didn’t run the water beforehand.
It was lukewarm, all right, but my knee was on fire, and my left arm felt like lead. I swallowed a pill. Poe picked up the bottle. “Oh, the good stuff,” she said. “No generics for you doctors, I guess. Can I have one?”
“Put that down and stay away from it.”
“I was kidding. Jesus.” She stomped down the stairs.
Boomer came up and nuzzled my hand. “You love me, right?” I asked. He licked my hand in affirmation.
The travel and stress of my injuries caught up with me. I lay back against Poe’s clothes and closed my eyes. To my surprise, tears leaked out. Though he didn’t deserve it, I missed Bobby. I missed Boston. I missed Roseline and the hospital and Dr. Breckenridge, that old flirt.
I missed my old life and the old me, the way things were before, when Bobby and I were still new and life seemed so perfect and clean and pure.
I wasn’t wanted here. There was a pretty huge chance that coming back had been a big mistake.
With all the speed of an elderly slug, the first week passed. Poe had a habit of sleeping through her alarm (a lovely little ditty called “Black Dying Rose,” which consisted of someone screaming so hard I imagined he’d eventually cause variceal hemorrhaging). Somehow, Poe wasn’t jolted into a state of terror as I was, so I had to throw my pillow at her every morning.
“What? God!” was her customary greeting. Then she’d stumble about the room, tossing clothes, grumbling, accusing me of moving her stuff, before using up all the hot water in her way-too-long shower. She’d stomp downstairs like Hagrid the giant, refuse to eat breakfast, then get in the car with my mother, who dropped her at school on the way to the hotel. At least they let Boomer out on their way.
My dog loved it here. He’d come in after a half an hour of romping in the woods, burs or twigs stuck in his feathery fur. I’d brush him as best I could with my good arm, Boomer crooning as I did so, going into his doggy trance.
My knee was already a lot better, though too much weight on it still made me see stars. The collarbone would take a little longer, but the pain had subsided to a dull ache.
I napped. I read. I watched three seasons of House of Cards. I was recovering from a shock, I told myself, and not just lazy. Tweety watched my every move and, if my guess was right, whispered my activities to my mother later in the day.
But being lazy felt pretty good. I was also starting to feel...safe. Since the Big Bad Event, I’d put a lot of effort into life, especially where Bobby was concerned—trying not to be too much of a downer, to have something interesting to say, to save pajamas for actual bedtime, to pretend I didn’t mind his nights out with friends, when Boomer and I would lock every window no matter what the weather was and stick a chair in front of the door, too.
Here, it was surprisingly great to do nothing.