Goodnight Tweetheart (14 page)

Abby_Donovan: I hope you’re okay. I hope the flying monkeys and lab vamps didn’t join forces to defeat you.

Abby_Donovan: I hope you slept like a baby last night and didn’t dream of a single Kardashian.

Abby_Donovan: I hope you’ll tweet me as soon as you’re able. I’m scared.

Monday, June 27—2:37
A.M.

MarkBaynard: What are you wearing?

Abby_Donovan: Coffee-stained sweats and Doris Day’s pillbox hat from … well … just about any of her movies. You?

MarkBaynard: I twisted my bedsheet into Bluto’s toga from ANIMAL HOUSE. I didn’t really think you’d be up. It’s 2:30 in the morning in New York.

Abby_Donovan: I couldn’t sleep.

MarkBaynard: Isn’t that my line?

Abby_Donovan: Maybe insomnia is contagious. Where have you been?

MarkBaynard: I had to take a brief tour of the cardiac care unit. I’m thinking of investing in a time share.

Abby_Donovan: Are you okay? What happened?

MarkBaynard: They forced me to watch a really boring video starring a lot of happy old people playing golf just to get the free gift.

Abby_Donovan: Have I ever told you I don’t have much of a sense of humor at 2:30 in the morning?

MarkBaynard: It was nothing major. Just a little blip on the heart monitor. Some of the drugs can damage your muscles. Including the muscle of love.

Abby_Donovan: Um … Mark … I think “muscle of love” refers to an entirely different part of the anatomy.

MarkBaynard: Oh … well, in that case, the drugs I’m on can QUADRUPLE the size of your muscles.

Abby_Donovan: No wonder you’re so popular with the naughty nurses. Will this setback interfere with your procedure?

MarkBaynard: No. Now that my heart is beating again, everything is a go.

Abby_Donovan: Your heart stopped???!!!

MarkBaynard: Just for a few seconds. Some guy in a bathrobe tried to drag me kicking & screaming into the white light, but I told him to go to hell.

Abby_Donovan: Did they have to shock you?

MarkBaynard: Just a little. All it took was showing me Lady Gaga’s new video.

Abby_Donovan: I was getting really worried about you.

MarkBaynard: I tried to bribe the CCU nurse into giving me my laptop, but all I had to offer her was the leftover lime Jell-O from my lunch tray.

Abby_Donovan: You should have offered her your tapioca pudding. I’ve heard it works every time.

MarkBaynard: Enough about my adventures. What have you been up to?

Abby_Donovan: Well, I went over to the Bronx to visit my mom in the nursing home this afternoon.

MarkBaynard: How was she?

Abby_Donovan: Not bad. Elvis was dropping by later and that always puts her in a good mood.

MarkBaynard: Was he bringing Napoleon and Teddy Roosevelt with him?

Abby_Donovan: No … just Janis Joplin and Jim Morrison.

MarkBaynard: If I’d have gone into the light with that guy in the bathrobe, I could have dropped by too.

Abby_Donovan: Sometimes when your mom is demented she says hilariously inappropriate things that make you want to gouge out your eyes with a fork.

MarkBaynard: My mom does that too. But I’d have to use a spork, since that’s all they give you here.

Abby_Donovan: I think my mom would like you.

MarkBaynard: Because we’re both demented? Your mom is lucky to have you. You’re a good girl, Abby Donovan.

Abby_Donovan: A good little Catholic school girl? I thought I was a naughty little vixen?

MarkBaynard: Only on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Why don’t you go get some sleep? I’m still a little wrung out myself.

Abby_Donovan: Thank you for letting me know you’re okay.

MarkBaynard: I’m always okay when you’re around.

Abby_Donovan: Goodnight Potsie

MarkBaynard: Goodnight Mrs. C.

Abby_Donovan: Goodnight Richie

MarkBaynard: Goodnight Joanie

Abby_Donovan: Goodnight Arnold

MarkBaynard: Goodnight Pinkie

Abby_Donovan: Goodnight Arthur

MarkBaynard: Goodnight Tweetheart …

Wednesday, June 29—9:58
P.M.

MarkBaynard: What are you wearing?

Abby_Donovan: A purple Sue Sylvester track suit with approximately 2 lbs of Buffy hair on it. You?

MarkBaynard: A really pissed-off expression and what feels like 35 yards of IV tubing I’m about to use to hang myself. Or someone else.

Abby_Donovan: Bad day?

MarkBaynard: I’m this close to throwing a hydrotherapy unit through the window and making my escape.

Abby_Donovan: Where would you go?

MarkBaynard: Florence? The Loire Valley? Tuscany? Maybe Rome? …

MarkBaynard: We could drink too much wine, dance naked in the fountains & make mad, passionate love until dawn.

Abby_Donovan: Or until the polizia come to lock us up.

MarkBaynard: Trust me. An Italian jail cell would be preferable to this place.

Abby_Donovan: Only if some big, hairy Sicilian doesn’t make you his bitch.

MarkBaynard: I think you just described my night nurse. And I’m already her bitch.

Abby_Donovan: You’re not losing your sense of humor, are you? I’ve always heard it was the last thing to go.

MarkBaynard: You know what they say—dying is easy; comedy is hard.

Abby_Donovan: Are you still hitting as many notes as you can?

MarkBaynard: God knows I’m trying. If I were God, I’d be zapping people w/lightning bolts on an hourly basis. Forgot to use a turn signal? ZAP!!!

Abby_Donovan: Didn’t wipe off frappucino cup before handing it to me? ZAP!!!

MarkBaynard: Take 20 minutes to sing the National Anthem before a ball game? ZAP!!!

Abby_Donovan: Charge me $8.50 for a small popcorn at the movies? ZAP!!!

MarkBaynard: Too busy worrying about finishing up your shift to give me my next dose of pain meds. ZAP!!!

Abby_Donovan: If you’ll tell me where you are, I’ll come do my Shirley MacLaine impression from TERMS OF ENDEARMENT. I’ll get you those meds.

MarkBaynard: If you were Shirley MacLaine, your psychic friends could tell you where I was.

Abby_Donovan: I think you’re getting Shirley mixed up with Dionne Warwick. Shirley’s the one who was Charlemagne’s lover in her past life.

MarkBaynard: I must have been Genghis Freaking Khan in my past life. That’s the only thing that would explain the day I’ve had.

Abby_Donovan: What can I do?

MarkBaynard: Could you just talk to me for a minute? I’m having trouble concentrating on anything but the sound of your voice.

Abby_Donovan: You think YOU’VE had a bad day? If you want to really look death in the face, you should try trimming Buffy the Mouse Slayer’s claws.

Abby_Donovan: I only managed to get two of them done before being forced to call an exorcist.

Abby_Donovan: Even as a kitten, Buffy had the look of a burgeoning serial killer.
http://tweetpic.com/2825190620

Abby_Donovan: Today a stray cat tried to flag me down in the park as if to say “Take me home.” Are Buffy & Willow signaling the mothership while I sleep?

Abby_Donovan: My day only got better when I found a scathing one-star review of my book on Amazon.

Abby_Donovan: I’d take these amateur reviewers more seriously if they’d say, “This book doesn’t work for me” …

Abby_Donovan: … as opposed to “No more innocent trees should die in the service of this demon author.”

Abby_Donovan: Tonight I watched some chick on the Food Channel make lobster tacos with chocolate-covered bacon in them.

Abby_Donovan: I know it sounds icky but it was DARK chocolate and APPLEWOOD bacon. That makes it okay, doesn’t it? Wonder if she’s married?

Abby_Donovan: Mark?

Abby_Donovan: Mark? Are you asleep?

Abby_Donovan: Sweet dreams, Tweetheart …

Tuesday, July 5—8:35
A.M.

MarkBaynard: What are you wearing?

Abby_Donovan: Coffee-stained sweats and Bill Murray’s Proton Pack from GHOSTBUSTERS. You?

MarkBaynard: Coffee-stained sweats & a mortified blush …

MarkBaynard: Sorry I fell asleep on you the other night. My wife used to hate when I did that. Especially if she was on the bottom.

Abby_Donovan: It’s probably not the first time someone has lapsed into a coma while reading my work. But they usually have to buy my book first.

MarkBaynard: I dreamed about a cat with Ted Bundy eyes spewing green pea soup and woke up with a terrible craving for dark chocolate and bacon.

Abby_Donovan: How is the pain today?

MarkBaynard: Somewhere between an ingrown toenail & hitting oneself repeatedly in the groin with a hammer.

Abby_Donovan: Have you had your meds?

MarkBaynard: Not yet. I wanted to stay coherent enough to let you know that you might not hear from me for a little while.

Abby_Donovan: Planning another tour of the cardiac care unit?

MarkBaynard: Dr. Horrible just came in to tell me I’ll be in strict isolation for most of the next week. They’ve finally scheduled my procedure.

MarkBaynard: Abby?

Abby_Donovan: Tell me where you are. I’ll come. Anywhere.

MarkBaynard: I’m afraid I can’t let you do that. I’ve retreated to my volcano lair. No girls allowed.

Abby_Donovan: Mark, I was being serious.

MarkBaynard: So was I.

Abby_Donovan: Now you’re really scaring me.

MarkBaynard: I kind of hate you, you know. Just a little bit.

Abby_Donovan: Why?

MarkBaynard: Before I met you I didn’t have a whole hell of a lot to live for. My wife had left me. My son was gone …

MarkBaynard: I could laugh in the face of Death without worrying that he was going to kick my teeth in with his steel-toed boots.

Abby_Donovan: Tell me where you are. I’ll bring my Proton Pack so we can fight him together. He can’t be any tougher than the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

MarkBaynard: I’m afraid we’d cross our streams and he’d annihilate us both.

Abby_Donovan: It’s a chance I’m willing to take.

MarkBaynard: But not one I’m willing to give you.

Abby_Donovan: I forgave you for lying to me. But I’ll never forgive you if you die. I’ll find your grave & let Buffy use it for a litter box.

MarkBaynard: Thank you for making me laugh. Thank you for making me forget …

MarkBaynard: And most of all, thank you for making me remember that there are still things in this world worth laughing about.

Abby_Donovan: Don’t you tell me good-bye, Mark Baynard. Don’t you dare tell me good-bye!

MarkBaynard: I’m not going to say good-bye. Or even “Until we tweet again.” I’m just going to say …

MarkBaynard: Goodnight Tweetheart …

And just like that, he was gone.

Abby leaned back in her desk chair, her fingers frozen over the keyboard. She lifted her gaze to the window, but the world outside seemed no more substantial than a picture on a TV screen.

She knew deep in her heart that there would be no point in pleading with Mark. No point in sending repeated tweets trying to coax him into relenting. His mind was made up. He was determined to march into this last battle all alone with nothing but his fragile hope for a shield.

Leaving her with nothing to do … but wait.

Chapter Fifteen

Abby blew through the doorway of the AT&T store, propelled by a violent gust of wind and rain. Even though there was no bear chasing her, she’d run nearly the entire half a mile between her apartment and the store. She doubled over and sucked in a few tortured gasps of air before straightening to take stock of her surroundings.

Several people in the crowded store were eyeing her with open suspicion. She wasn’t sure she could blame them. She probably looked like something even the cat would decline to drag in.

She’d rushed out of the apartment without bothering to snag the elegant Burberry raincoat hanging in the back of her closet. She’d been too distracted to realize it was pouring down rain until she was halfway across Grand Army Plaza. By then she was already soaked to the skin so there hadn’t seemed to be much point in going back for the raincoat.

She shook the soaking strands of her hair out of her eyes, accidentally spattering the shoppers closest to her. Ignoring their annoyed looks, she worked her way clumsily through their ranks until she reached the sales counter on the far side of the room, her faded Chuck Taylors squelching with each step.

A skinny white kid with acne scars, Harry Potter glasses, and a lopsided blond Afro was demonstrating the delights of the latest iPhone to a rapt couple who had
not
forgotten their Burberry raincoats when they left their swank Upper West Side apartment.

“Excuse me,” Abby blurted out, wondering if she looked as wild-eyed as she felt. “I need a CrackBerry … I mean a Black-Berry, or an iPhone!”

The clerk didn’t even bother to glance at her. “If you’ll take a number, ma’am, the next available associate will be with you as soon as possible.”

Abby looked frantically around until she spotted the number dispenser at the end of the counter. The saucy little tongue of paper protruding from the mouth of the bright orange box was currently showing “467.” The digital number on the screen over the counter read “433.”

She inched sideways, struggling to place herself in the clerk’s line of sight and earning a justifiably irritated look from the couple.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “I haven’t been able to leave my apartment in over four days because I’m expecting a message. A very
important
message.”

“From your home planet?” the clerk ventured, slanting her hair a disparaging look. The wetter it got, the weirder it got. Abby could feel it coiling around her head like broken bedsprings as it soaked up every last drop of humidity in the air.

She sighed. The rational thing to do would be to take a number, take a seat, and patiently wait for the next available associate to help her.

She couldn’t stay in her apartment forever. She’d already missed her regular Monday visit to her mother’s nursing home and she and her agent were supposed to have lunch tomorrow to discuss a potential offer for her book from a small but very prestigious literary publisher. She could carry her laptop with her when she went out, but what if there was no WiFi connection available at her destination? And what about the time it took to travel from her apartment to wherever she was going? Mark could be tweeting her at that very moment while she stood there in a rapidly spreading puddle of rainwater, fighting the urge to grab the smug clerk by his skinny tie and yank him across the counter.

“Please,” she whispered, feeling the humiliating sting of tears at the backs of her eyes. “I
really
need a new phone. It’s a matter of life and death.”

There must have been some hint of her anguish in her voice because for a fraction of a second, the young clerk looked at her and saw her.
Really
saw her in a way that New Yorkers rarely did.

Heaving a defeated sigh, he fished a brochure out from under the counter and handed it to the couple. “Why don’t you guys check out the specs on our upcoming 5GS plan while you’re waiting?”

They spared Abby a resentful pout, but dutifully huddled over the brochure together while the clerk entered Abby’s current cell phone number into his computer terminal and consulted his monitor. “Your current contract won’t be fulfilled until November, which means we can’t offer you any discount whatsoever on a new phone. You’ll have to pay the full retail price, which is five hundred and fifty—”

“I’ll take it.”

The clerk blinked owlishly at the platinum American Express card that had magically appeared in her hand. “O-oo-okey-dokey,” he sang out, plucking the card from her hand.

“One more thing?” Now that she was on the verge of having a brand-new phone in her hot little hands, Abby even managed to dredge up a grateful smile.

He paused before swiping the card, eyeing her warily. “Yes?”

“Could you show me how to download Tweetdeck?”

Abby gazed down at the sleek iPhone cradled in her palm, silently willing the haughty thing to do something—anything at all—that might acknowledge her existence. For all the good it had done her in the past three days, she might as well go ahead and hurl it into the Lake. With her luck, it would probably hit one of the boaters taking a leisurely row around the shoreline of Central Park’s most famous body of water.

Still gripping the phone as if it were some ancient talisman designed to ward off evil, she leaned back on the park bench and tilted her face to the sky. It was one of those perfect summer days when humidity fell and hope soared. Cotton puff clouds drifted across a crisp blue sky. The park was an oasis of green in the middle of the soaring gray canyons of the city, irresistibly drawing anyone starved for a breath of fresh air and the illusion of freedom.

Based on outward appearances, Abby’s luck seemed to be changing. Her book was only a handful of chapters away from being done and she thought it was good, maybe even better than her first book. At that very minute her agent was hammering out the details of a nice six-figure deal with a starry-eyed editor eager to work with her on her next three projects. Abby might have to give up her Plaza sublet, but she would be able to keep Buffy and Willow Tum-Tum in kibble.

She was tired of living in a renovated hotel room anyway. The fragility of Mark’s life had made her realize just how
impermanent
she had allowed her own life to become.

She had fooled herself into believing she was living the life she’d always dreamed of living when all she had been doing was hiding from it. But Mark had refused to let her hide. He had dragged her kicking and screaming through the streets of Paris, into the Tuscan sunshine, and past the fountains of Florence until she had finally found herself standing at the very peak of Blarney Castle with the rest of her life spread out below her. He had shown her what it really meant to live until you die, even if the countries you visited only existed in your imagination.

She didn’t want to waste another minute sleeping on a futon and living in someone else’s apartment. She wanted a place to call her own—maybe a modest cottage in the Hamptons or some old Victorian house along the Jersey Shore that would require both elbow grease and love to become a home. A place where she could get three times the square footage for a mortgage that was half what she’d been paying in rent. She’d even considered returning to North Carolina, settling in Asheville or one of the other communities that welcomed artists with open arms.

Or she could simply spend the rest of her life sitting on this park bench, waiting for a tweet that might never come.

The clouds blurred before her eyes as she was forced to face the truth she’d been denying for the past week. She might never find out what had happened to Mark. Might never hear his voice again—a voice that had come to echo in her head as clearly as her own.

She blinked, bringing the clouds back into sharp focus.

She couldn’t bring herself to assume the worst. Not yet. Mark might still be in strict isolation or struggling with the regimen of drugs they were giving him to prepare him for his treatment. Maybe he hadn’t been able to use his leftover lime Jell-O to bribe Nurse Ratched into giving him his laptop.

He had been willing to hold on to hope even when it looked like all hope was lost. She owed him no less.

Tucking the phone in the pocket of her cargo shorts, she rose and headed for her apartment, where she could spend the rest of the afternoon eating Ben & Jerry’s directly out of the container and gazing morosely at her laptop.

Her pocket chirped.

For a minute she thought her own heart was going to stop.

Fumbling to fish the phone out of the deep pocket of the baggy shorts, she raced toward a shady spot under the sheltering boughs of an oak where she would be able to read the display more clearly.

She swiped her finger frantically over the phone’s touch screen until the Direct Message column of her mobile Tweetdeck appeared. The incoming tweet was accompanied by Mark’s profile pic: a pensive John Cusack holding a boom-box over his head as if his arms would never grow tired as long as there was still a chance of being heard by the girl he loved.

Abby felt a grin start to curve her lips, but it was replaced by a frown of confusion as she read the incoming tweet.

Thursday, July 14th—1:22
P.M.

MarkBaynard: Are you Abby?

Abby_Donovan: I am.

MarkBaynard: Mark’s Abby?

Abby_Donovan: I think so.

MarkBaynard: I’m Kate. Mark’s little sister.

Abby_Donovan: Hi, Kate. I’m so glad to hear from you. How is he?

MarkBaynard: I’m on Facebook, but I have no clue what I’m doing when it comes to this Tweeter stuff.

Abby_Donovan: It’s okay. I’m listening.

MarkBaynard: My brother will be going in for his treatment tomorrow and he left some instructions and a note for you.

Abby_Donovan: ???

MarkBaynard: Tell her Roger Daltrey can still kick David Cassidy’s ass. Tell her she’s prettier than Jen or Angelina. Tell her she was the love of my li

Abby_Donovan: Kate?

Abby_Donovan: Kate? Are you still there?

“Kate?” Abby whispered as the phone went dark and silent once again. “Mark?” she added in more of a breath than a whisper.

She slumped against the trunk of the tree, clutching the phone in fingers that had gone as numb as her heart. The sun was still filtering through the tender green leaves of the oak. The clouds were still drifting across the robin’s egg blue of the sky. Mothers were still chasing their laughing children and frolicking dogs around Bethesda Terrace. Lovers were still strolling hand in hand around the lake. Yet everything inside of Abby had gone quiet and still, as if she’d drawn in a breath she never expected to exhale.

“Damn you, Mark Baynard,” she finally said in a voice she barely recognized as her own. “I won’t let you do this.” Shoving the phone back into the pocket of her shorts, she pushed herself away from the tree and took off for her apartment at a determined jog.