Good for You (16 page)

Chapter 32

REID

In three days, I’m leaving for Vancouver, a two-hour flight away. I could jump back to LA often during the next three months if I wanted to, but barring any emergencies, there’s no reason to bother. I need a break from everything here. I definitely need a break from my best friend, who’s walking the ragged edge of shit-for-brains-annoying at the moment.

“Look, I can’t maintain the kind of muscle I’ve been adding while drinking and getting high every night. I thought you got that.” I’ve tried to explain this to John multiple times in the past several days, but he’s smashed and missing al of my
drop-it
cues. We just got back to his place from a party, the first one we’ve left together this week.

“I know, I hear you. It’s just… you’re just…”

“I’m just
what
?”

“You’re not only cutting back on alcohol or whatever.

You’ve been crashing here for the past week, and not only are you almost always stone-cold sober, which is kind of a damned drag, you haven’t brought a girl back with you at al . Not once.”

“And?”

He sighs. “Nothing, man. But you aren’t yourself.” Sometimes my best friend seems perceptive, though I’m never sure how much of his insight is actual comprehension and how much is guesstimated bul shit. We don’t have what you’d cal a dig-deep sort of relationship. “Maybe I’m trying to develop some self-control.”

“C’mon, man—
no
alcohol,
no
weed,
no
girls? What the hel is this? It’s like you’re someone else. I usual y work just to keep up with you, and now I’m drinking alone ninety percent of the time,” he gestures to my Perrier with his beer, “and I’m stoned by myself, and the only thing you’re screwing with is my head.”

I give him half a smile. “What’s the matter, John? You wanna break up with me?”

He laughs and shakes his hair out of his eyes. “No man, the bromance is stil hot as ever.” He eyes me for a moment. “Oh, no way. It’s that Dori chick, isn’t it? You never screwed her, did you?”

My gaze narrows, fingers digging into my leg. “Don’t go there, man.”

He sits up and points at me, grinning. “That’s it! The last time we talked about her, you were just gonna do her and get over it. Don’t tel me you grew a conscience because of her little do-gooding act.”

I can’t believe we ever had that conversation, that I ever said something like that to John about Dori, but I know I probably did. I’m sure I was drunk and talking shit—a lifetime ago. Before I kissed her. Before I stopped being a complete prick long enough to know her at al . “I’m serious, John. Shut up.”

He takes a drag from his cigarette and I think he’s going to comply. No such luck. “I’m just saying, dude—you’ve got a couple more days in LA. Look her up, throw a bag over her head or whatever, and screw her respectable brains out so you can get back to normal.”

The combination of John being hammered and me being the farthest thing from it curbs my temper just enough not to beat the ever-loving shit out of him, but it doesn’t stop me from yanking him up by his shirtfront and slamming him back into his chair so hard his head snaps back. “Don’t
ever
fucking talk about her like that again. I mean it, John.

Don’t
.”

“Okay, man, okay.
Shit
. Chil . I’m s-sorry,” he stutters, eyes wide and startled, hands up in surrender. “I’m
sorry
.

Shit, Reid. I get it.”

I straighten, shaking, run a hand through my hair as I turn away from him. He’s right about one thing. I’m not myself.

*** *** ***

Dori

My flight was delayed half an hour because of a freakishly torrential but fast-moving rainstorm, but I’m not worried about missing my connection because the layover wil stil be over two hours. Plenty of time to get through customs in Miami and make the flight to LA—I hope. By 9:00 tonight I’l be home.

The past three weeks have been chal enging, but not in the usual way. I final y hit my stride this time, from speaking understandable Spanish to the locals to making concrete changes in the lives of the kids there. We persuaded a few parents to let their children attend school this fal instead of wasting their days soliciting change from tourists for shoe shines that blacken their hands with polish and offer them no hope for a future. And then there are the girls I tutored, who swore they’d email and keep me updated on their progress.

The biggest chal enge has been banishing Reid from my thoughts. There were times during that last week when I was so busy and focused that I didn’t think of him al day, but that changed the moment I fel into my bunk and burrowed under the blankets at night. There was nothing I could do to keep him out of my head when I shut my eyes. I know I’l get past missing him. His teasing and our tongue-in-cheek debates became a habit, that’s al —an exasperating, stimulating, and infuriatingly enjoyable habit. I don’t know what his motivation was for kissing me, beyond the fact that he seems to do the same with a lot of girls. I don’t think he meant to be cruel, though kissing him revived a long-buried hunger in me.

When we land, there’s an announcement, and I think I hear my name inside a flurry of instructions, but the words are inaudible because everyone is talking and unbuckling and there’s a baby crying in the row ahead of me. She’s teething, so she cried most of the trip. I’ve never been so ready to get off of a flight. I’l be home in—ugh—seven hours.

From my place in the next-to-last row, it takes forever to deplane. Before I exit, I stop to ask a flight attendant,

“Excuse me, I think I heard my name during the announcement? I’m not sure. I was near the baby.” She gives me a rueful smile. “
I understand
.” She asks another flight attendant about the announcement, and he turns to me.

“Ms. Cantrel ?”

I get a creeping sensation when it occurs to me that having a message delivered at the end of a flight probably isn’t a good thing. “Yes…?”

He smiles reassuringly. “As you exit the jet bridge, there wil be an agent waiting for you, wearing a plaid jacket.

Please speak with her.”

“Um, okay. Should I be worried?”

The helpful expression on his face never changes. “I’m afraid we aren’t privy to that information—you’l need to ask her.”

I’m the last passenger off of the plane. The agent is waiting for me as promised, her expression identical to the flight attendant’s. I don’t feel reassured. The creeping sensation has become a slow, stomach-churning fear.

“Dorcas Cantrel ?” she asks.

“Yes?” My breath’s gone shal ow.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Cantrel , I’m Lucia. Your family contacted the airline this morning while you were en route.

There’s been an emergency of some kind, and we need to reroute you to Indianapolis, instead of Los Angeles. I assume this is acceptable to you?”

I nod. The bottom has dropped out of my stomach.

“What emergency?” Indianapolis.
Deb
.

The agent takes the handle of my wheeled bag and motions for me to fol ow. “Let’s walk while we talk, because we need to get you through customs as quickly as possible.

First things first—there are no direct flights to Indianapolis from Miami this evening, but we can connect you through Dal as and get you there by 10:30. Is this acceptable, or would you prefer to wait until tomorrow morning, and fly direct?”

My feet are moving, fol owing the agent’s clip-clopping steps as she pul s my bag to the line at customs, but I can’t feel anything. My whole body has gone numb. What kind of emergency would require me to go to Indianapolis? “I… I can do the connection,” I answer, my mouth dry.

“Very good. Wait here, I’m going to see if I can get you moved up so we can get you through this line sooner. Your flight is boarding in five minutes.” She hurries away, and I stand where she left me, shuffling forward in the line no more than three feet while she’s gone. I pul my cel phone out and turn it on. I cal Dad’s number. It goes straight to voicemail and I hang up. Mom’s does as wel , and Deb’s.

My heart is pounding and I’m just concentrating on breathing and standing and not freaking out.

The agent returns, taking my bag, moving me from the back of one line to the front of another. I’m only vaguely aware of the other passengers’ stares and speculations.

I’m asked if I have anything to declare and I say no. My bags are examined, and I’m through customs in record time. “The emergency? What is it?” I ask as we board a motorized cart and she gives the gate number to the driver.

“I have very little information, but here’s what I was told: your sister has had an accident. She’s in the hospital, in critical condition. Your parents are en route to Indianapolis now, and someone wil meet you when you land at IND.”

“An accident? Like, a car accident? What kind of accident?”

She places her hand on my shoulder and looks in my eyes. “I’m not sure, honey. I’m afraid that’s al the information I got at this end. I wasn’t even given the name of the hospital. Your job right now is to stay calm. I’m going to give you your new flight numbers and such, but don’t worry, we’l give you a printout with everything on it…” She’s tel ing me gates and flights and times and I can’t absorb any of it. Deb wil be fine. She’s young and strong and healthy. She always wears her seatbelt and her car has airbags al over the place and that thing that cal s in an accident for you if you’re unconscious. Critical condition means she’s
alive
, and I’m focusing on that.

The agent and flight attendants essential y put me on the plane to Dal as and al but buckle me in. I have a boarding pass for my flight from Dal as to Indianapolis, with only an hour between flights. I feel like a zombie, and I’m sure I look like one to everyone around me, but it doesn’t matter.

My sister is alive, and she’s going to be fine. This wil be my mantra for the next six hours.

Chapter 33

REID

Vancouver is exactly the change I need. Given the different atmosphere for this film, the older starring group (I’m the youngest cast member), the physical demands of the stunts I’m doing and the muscle I have to maintain, I’ve decided to do something I haven’t done since I was fourteen. Not that it was a choice then, just the typical restrictions of childhood.

While I’m on location, I’m going to abstain. From everything.

Alcohol, weed, pil s,
sex
.

While Olaf and I were adding that last five pounds, I only got high once, and I cut back on drinking solely to survive his torture sessions. (If he suspected me of drinking the night before a workout, he practical y kil ed me in the weight room.) As for sex, I haven’t been with a girl since I kissed Dori. In some twisted way, this fact is like purposeful y leaving a sweet taste in my mouth. Instead of my usual hookups, which are at best quick and dirty and done just sober enough to recal them, I have a graphical y clear memory of her soft lips opening under mine. That thought in mind, I may set a record over this time period for whacking off, from which I wil
not
be abstaining, for obvious reasons.

The film we’re doing is an action thril er plus love story, the script reading like a Guy Ritchie/Nicholas Sparks mash-up. My character’s romantic interest is being played by Chelsea Radin, who’s drop-dead hot and twenty-seven.

Both characters are “approximately twenty-three,” so while I’m playing up, she’s playing down. Hol ywood, yeah? We’re on our third day of filming, and the cast is grabbing lunch from craft services when she turns to me and says, “You know, you’re nothing like what I expected, from al the rumors.”

I’m picking through sandwiches, trying to avoid the tuna because we have our first kissing scene coming up after lunch. Turning to her, holding a turkey on whole wheat that would make Olaf proud, I say, “Oh? What were you expecting?”

She shrugs. “Not that I presumed you’d hit on
me
or anything, but you’re portrayed as this sort of evil, virtue-slaying playboy, and I haven’t seen any evidence of that.

Yet.”

I choke a little on the wedge of sandwich I’ve just bitten into, and she slams her palm on my back until I can breathe again. I give her a half-grin. “Chelsea, don’t you know you can’t trust everything you read on the Internet?” She shakes her head, her short dark hair flipping back and forth. “Photos, baby.
Lots
of photos.
Lots
of girls. My husband was actual y a little concerned when they gave you the role.”

I laugh. “Um, no offense, but you’re safe.” Damn, she’s I laugh. “Um, no offense, but you’re safe.” Damn, she’s pretty up close.

She frowns. “I’ve never been so relieved and so insulted al at one time.” Tilting her head, she peers at me like I’m a map and she’s looking for directions. “So who’s the girl?”

“Huh?”

She takes a sip of her diet cola and begins picking through the sandwiches. “The girl responsible for this transformation from virgin-eradicator to choir boy.” This train of thought conjures Dori, images of her flashing through my mind rapidly like a slideshow on speed.

She should be back in LA tonight, and in a couple of weeks, she’l be at Berkeley, studying to advance from amateur to professional do-gooder.

“I’m no choir boy, and there’s no girl.”

“Hmm,” Chelsea smiles. “If you say so.” She bites into a sandwich—unbelievably, a
tuna
sandwich—and saunters over to another costar to ask about his new baby.

Virgin eradicator? Harsh.

***

The afternoon scenes went wel enough, though I’ve got a hel acious bruise forming on one shoulder from a choreography error. I’m not doing
all
of my own stunts because I’m not suicidal. (In one, my double wil be jumping from the roof of a semi to the roof of a BMW, while both are moving at 60 mph.) But the fight scenes, the climbing scenes—those I’m doing. The casualty today happened during a bar fight that should have—and would have—gone off without a hitch, except the guy who was supposed to smash a chair onto the bar top as I rol ed to the left screwed up and cracked the chair down right on top of me. The director cut the scene and cal ed a medic, but luckily nothing was broken. Muscle or no muscle, though, that shit
hurts
.

In comparison, the kiss went much better and was decidedly less painful. Chelsea and I have good chemistry, though not, perhaps, what I had with Emma last year. Stil , we nailed it in one take. I concentrated the entire time on
not
thinking of Dori. My level of success was questionable, at best. No matter what I’m doing to forget her, she pushes into my consciousness like a walking daydream.

John’s Words of Wisdom when I was trying to come to grips with Emma’s rejection: “The best way to get over a girl is to get under another one.” I listened to him then. For the record? That shit doesn’t work.

*** *** ***

Dori

Not until I see Dad’s face does my anesthetized shield begin to recede, leaving in its place pins and needles of feeling, sharp and stabbing, fear piercing through me at his distressed look. I find myself pleading in my head
Deb,
please don’t be dead. Please, please don’t be dead
.

Just like that, for the first time I let myself consider the possibility. And then I shove it away violently.

I rush into his arms and he enfolds me tightly. “Dad, what happened? How is she?” I can’t breathe, demanding and fearful of the words I’ve been waiting hours to hear.

“There was an accident.” His voice is hoarse, tight. He swal ows and I want to say
I know that already!
I want him to skip to the end and assure me that she’s alive, but I bite my tongue and let him gather his thoughts and his courage and speak. “At the hospital, during her rounds. She… she slipped. There was a wet spot on the floor, and she slipped.

She fel and hit her head.”

Wet spot. Floor. Fel . Hit her head. This is terrible, horrible, but oh so much better than the accident of my imagination—mangled metal, blackened and twisted in the middle of a busy intersection. Infinitely better than the massive loss of blood, the scarring, the internal injuries, the potential paralysis, the possible fatality. I nearly giggle with relief, but it evaporates in my throat because my father hasn’t loosened his hold. “Dad?” My voice is muffled against his chest.

“She’s had a closed head injury, Dori. Before your mother and I arrived, she was unconscious, and then lucid and talking for an hour or so, but then her brain started swel ing, and they haven’t been able to get it to stop. She’s been unresponsive since we’ve been here.”

I pul away and look into his eyes. “Unresponsive? You mean like a coma? But why—? You said she slipped and hit her head, but I mean how hard could she have hit it—

she’s as short as me—we’re close to the ground, remember?” My pitch is somewhere between eager and hysterical, my mouth stil turning up into a smile because no part of me is accepting that word.
Unresponsive
.

He squeezes me tight and releases me. “Let’s get your luggage. I need to get back to your mother. We can talk on the way.”

We’re silent except for hol ow exchanges like
I can carry
this bag, you take that one
. With the push of a button, he releases the locks on an unfamiliar vehicle, a compact SUV

in a jaunty red. The rental, more wel -appointed than either of our cars, smel s faintly of pine and strangers. We stow my luggage in the back, stil mute until our seatbelts are fastened and the engine has turned over, cool air blowing too briskly from the vents. I reach to the one aimed at my face and point it towards the window as Dad grabs my hand. I open my mouth to say
Let’s go, let’s go
, but his head is bowed and the plea hangs in my throat.

“Lord,” he begins, eyes closed, voice breaking, “we believe in your healing power. We believe in your promises.

You watch over the sparrow when he fal s. You were watching over my little girl when she—” his voice breaks again and I clasp his hand firmly, tears streaming down my face.

In that moment, I experience a blinding explosion of self-realization: I am two people. The Dori everyone knows is trusting, hopeful and light—like a spark, like a feather. I am ful of faith, and nothing is impossible.

The anti-Dori has been hidden away since her formation. She’s skeptical and riddled with doubt, doggedly probing dark theories of disbelief. In the wake of my father’s fragmented prayer, his gut-wrenching pain that echoes mine, it’s her words I hear.
No fate, no destiny, no
meant-to-be.

I want to believe that God is everywhere—in the miracle of life, in the love we have for one another, flying in the face of death. I want to believe there’s a reason and a purpose for what happened to Deb.

But there is no reason.

My two selves are old adversaries, forever circling, persistently employing the same inadequate arguments.

Each is close-minded, deaf to the other, and I cannot reconcile them.