The Job (30 page)

“If
you don’t want to go in there, we don’t have to, or if you’d rather go in there
alone, I can walk you to the room or I can wait here. It really comes down to
what you want to do,” he says. “I’m not here to force anything.”

My
hands are still on the steering wheel, and I’m looking down at the empty
ignition, wondering if it actually would be better to just put the key back in
and drive off into wherever.

“Let’s
go,” I tell him.

The
key, at least as far as I’m telling myself right now, is not to think about it,
to just keep walking until we’re in the room. Once we’re there, it’s not like
we’ll really be able to leave anyway.

I
pull my phone out of my pocket and quickly dial my dad’s cellphone.

“Hey
sweetheart,” my dad says, “I was just thinking about you.”

“Hey
Dad,” I answer, “I’m at the hospital. Are you here?”

“No,
sweetheart, I ran back home to get a shower and take a nap, but I’ll be back
there in about an hour if you want to stick around,” he says.

“Is
Kristin here?” I ask. “Do you know?”

“She
was when I left,” he says, “but I don’t know if she’s still there.”

“All
right,” I tell him. “We may or may not be here when you get back.”

“Who’s
we?” he asks.

“You
remember Eric?” I ask, still not quite ready to define the relationship.

“Oh,
that young man who brought you to the hospital last week?” he asks. “Yeah, I
remember him. He’s there with you?”

“Yeah,”
I answer.

“Would
you mind if I speak with him for a moment?” my dad asks.

I
don’t stop walking, but my pace slows enough that Eric turns to see what’s
going on.

“Why?”
I ask my father.

“I’d
just like to say hello and tell him thank you for being such a comfort to you.
I can tell that he cares about you,” my dad says.

“How
can you tell that?” I ask.

“It’s
just the way he looked at you when he came with you the last time,” my dad
answers. “And how nervous he was when he was talking to your sister and me.”

“That’s
quite the sixth sense you’ve got there, Dad,” I snort.

“I
promise I won’t embarrass you,” he says.

I
pull the phone away from my ear and tell Eric, “Hey, um, my dad wants to talk
to you.”

“He
does?” Eric asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah,”
I answer. “I wouldn’t worry about it. He’s the nice one.”

“All
right,” Eric says cautiously and reaches his hand out.

I
give him the phone and he says, “Hi, Mr. Davis, this is Eric.”

While
my dad
is
the nice one, he’s always
been a little protective of me and Kristin. I’m just hoping he’s not giving
that clichéd “You break my daughter’s heart and I’ll break your neck” line.

So
far, I’m not seeing any signs of terror on Eric’s face, so I’m hoping for the
best.

Eric’s
talking quietly for most of the brief conversation, but finally he turns back
toward me, saying, “Sure thing,” and “Yeah, I will. It’s nice talking to you,
too, sir. Here’s Jessica.”

He
hands the phone back to me. Before I put it back to my ear, I have to ask:
“Sir?”

“It’s
the respectful thing to say,” he explains.

I
shake my head and put the phone back to my ear. “Hey, Dad what’s up?”

“I’m
going to go ahead and stay here,” my dad says. “You’re coming home after you visit
with your mother, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,”
I tell him. “I’m thinking of—”

“Great,”
my dad interrupts. “Well, just give me a call when you’re leaving and I’ll make
sure I’m decent for when you get here. Talk to you later, sweetheart.”

“All
right Dad,” I smile. Wouldn’t
that
be
the twig and berries on top of the uncomfortable sundae that is this little
field trip? “I’ll see you when we get there.”

“I
love you,” he says.

“I
love you, too,” I answer and hang up.

“Shall
we?” Eric asks and we make our way to the elevator.

When
the doors are closed, I ask him, “So, what’d you two talk about?”

“Nothing
much,” Eric answers, watching the number above the door switch from one to two.

It’s
like he’s hiding something, but I have no idea what it could be.

“Nothing
much?” I ask.

“Yeah,”
he says. “He just wanted to say thanks for me coming with you. That’s all.”

“Okay,”
I answer.

The
door opens and I grab Eric’s hand as we turn down the hallway toward my mom’s
room. There are no loud expressions of disappointment or sarcastic remarks
coming from the room so either Kristin’s gone or my mom’s asleep.

Right
now, I’m hoping for the latter.

We
come around the corner into the room and my mom’s lying back in bed, watching
television.

“Oh,
hi dear,” she says when she sees me.

I
walk over and give her a hug, saying, “Hey Mom. How are you feeling?”

“I
feel great!” she exclaims. “I can’t move too much, but whatever the doctors
gave me for pain—you know, there are people that take this stuff just for fun?
I used to think they were crazy and I certainly wouldn’t do it myself, but not
everyone’s cut out for that kind of thing.”

Maybe
drugged up is almost as good as asleep. At least she’s in a good mood.

“Who’s
this, then?” she asks.

“This
is Eric,” I answer.

Eric
moves forward to shake my mom’s hand, either not knowing or forgetting that she
can’t really move to reciprocate. My mom, on the other hand hasn’t taken her
eyes off of me.

“No,”
she says, “I mean
who
is he?”

I
was really hoping I could get away with the brief introduction and not have to
settle on an answer for the question, but here we are.

“He
did some work for the store a while back,” I tell her. “He’s the one who headed
the crew that did the remodel.”

“So
he’s an employee?” my mom asks.

“No,”
I tell her. “He’s helped a bit after the remodel and all that, but I wouldn’t
say that he’s an employee.”

“So
who is he?” she asks, but just as quickly moves on, saying, “You know, there
are spiders in this world that flick their hair at you when you invade their
space?”

“I
didn’t know that,” I answer, smiling.

“Does
Eric?” she asks and leans her head forward a bit, whispering, “Who is he
again?”

“I
did, actually,” Eric tells her. “We used to have a Chilean rose tarantula when
I was a kid. That thing would urticate every time we’d go to feed it. It was a
pretty foul-tempered thing.”

“Oh,
how nice,” my mom says, looking at him ever so briefly. She looks back at me,
saying, “You know, I think the nurses are after my sugar free gum.”

She
gives an exaggerated nod of her head, and I’m trying not to laugh.

This
is actually about the best case scenario. Not only is she being semi-polite to
Eric and me, but she’s got some color back in her face. She’s already looking
healthier.

“Eric,”
my mom says, “I’m wondering if I could impose upon you for a favor.”

“Sure
thing,” he answers. “What can I do for you?”

“I
keep asking the nurses to bring me a diet cherry cola, but they always seem to
come back with a diet cola, no cherry, or a cherry cola, no diet. Last night,
one of them came back with a diet cherry soda that wasn’t even a cola. I was
wondering if you might have the sense enough to bring me the right thing for
the first time since I’ve been in this hospital,” she requests.

“Not
a problem,” he says. “Did you want a can or a bottle?”

“It
doesn’t matter, dear,” she answers. “Thank you.”

He
walks out of the room and I sit next to my mother’s bed.

“You’re
sleeping together, aren’t you?” my mom asks.

I’m
a teenager again, coming home in the passenger’s seat of my then-boyfriend’s
Camaro, asking him to just keep driving for a little while longer.

“Why
would you say that?” I ask.

“Well,
for one thing,” my mom says, “he’s g-r-e-g-o-n-s-e-u-s, gorgeous.”

“You
do know that’s not how you spell gorgeous, right?” I ask with a chortle.

“What
did I spell?” she asks.

“I
don’t know,” I answer. “Something like
gregonseus
.”

“Well,
that’s
not a word, sweetheart,” my mom
says. “You really should have paid more attention in school.”

I’m
hoping that we’re past her question and onto something else, but that’s a hope
that never seems to see fruition.

“You
are, aren’t you?” she asks.

“I’m
what?” I ask, just going for that last-ditch possibility that there’s still
time for me to avoid this conversation.

“You’re
having sex with him,” she says. “I may be your mother, but I was a young woman
once. I know the signs.”

“What
are the signs?” I ask.

“I
know what you’re doing,” she says. “Answer the question.”

“Mom,
I think it’s just the drugs talking,” I answer.

“So
you’re not having a relationship with him?” she asks.

“I
wouldn’t say that,” I answer.

“What
would
you say?” she asks. “Remember,
if you don’t tell me, I’m just as happy watching my nature program.”

She
lifts a finger toward the television which is on some ultra-violent prison
show.

“Mom,
what are they giving you for the pain?” I ask, smirking.

“You
can’t have any, dear,” she answers. “You know, if I was your age, I wouldn’t
waste a minute with that man.”

“Really?”
I ask. “You don’t like him?”

“What?”
my mom asks, “Why would you say that?”

“You
just said that you wouldn’t waste a minute with him,” I remind her.

“No,”
she says, “I meant that I would be bent over the arm of the couch with my pants
around my—”

OMG.

“Is
there any way I could get you to not finish that sentence?” I interrupt with a
shudder.

“Do
you love him?” she asks.

“Can
we talk about something else?” I return.

“If
you don’t, that’s okay, sweetheart,” she says. “I just want to know that you’re
well taken care of.”

“I
like him,” I tell her. “I think love is a ways off, though.”

I
was lying to myself…to my mom. I hoped the questions would stop by saying that.

“Is
there potential for it?” she asks.

I
was wrong.

“I
don’t know,” I tell her, “maybe.”

“Oh,
I hope so,” she says. “The two of you would have the most beautiful
grandchildren. Don’t you think?”

“I
really haven’t given it that much thought,” I answer.

“No,”
she says. “I was talking to
him
.”

I
spin around and sure enough, Eric’s in the doorway with a bottle of diet cherry
cola in his hand.

He
pretends like he doesn’t hear the question and, opening the bottle and handing
it to my mother, he says, “I think this was the last one, but if you like, we
can pick you up some from the store so you have them while you’re here.”

“That’s
very kind of you,” my mom says and I know the smile on her face is in reaction
to the hot redness of my face. “I was just asking my daughter if she thought
the two of you had a future together and she didn’t seem to have a clear answer
to the question. I was hoping maybe you might.”

It’s
been so long since I’ve dated anyone that I’d forgotten about her little
gambits with my significant others.

She
did something similar with Will when I was in high school, only that time it took
the form of asking him whether he had any useful knowledge about the female
anatomy. After he left and I demanded an explanation, she just told me that it
was a character question.

When
I pressed her on the subject, she said that there was no right answer. If he
said yes, he would be admitting that he’s either slept with me or some other
floozy (she made sure to include the word “other” before the word “floozy) before
he and I got together. If he said no, then he was an idiot. The truth, she
said, was in
how
he answered, not
what he answered.

“I
don’t know,” he says. “The relationship’s still very new, but I’m hopeful.”

He
looks at me and then winks. And that’s all it took to fill my body with warmth.

“And
what are you hoping for?” my mom asks.

“How’s
your treatment going?” I ask, knowing it to be a futile exercise.