Objects of My Affection (24 page)

I'm entirely out of my depth. My gut says I should tell Will about Marva since he's her closest family. It'd be the decent thing to do. After all, if someone knew that Ash was suicidal, I'd want to be told. I'm still bitter that nobody tipped me off to how bad my son's drug problem was. I'd had to hear it from that cabdriver.

The problem is, Will is such a jerk. He might kill the messenger.

“It's not too early,” my mom says. “I'm mall walking, but I can talk. Your father pooped out on me after the first ten minutes. He's already at the Starbucks having a muffin. What's up?”

“I need motherly advice. Let's say I knew of someone who was planning to commit suicide.”

“Who is going to commit suicide?”

“I can't say.”

“Not one of your brothers?”

“It's no one you know. She's older, and the son is grown, but she's keeping it a secret from him. I'd like to warn him in case he can talk her out of it, but I'm not sure that he will. It might make things worse.”

“It's not my sister Joyce, is it?”

“Mom.”

“All right. Let me think.” After a moment, she says, “Do you know
why
she's planning to do it?”

“Because she's depressed, I guess. Why else would anyone kill themselves?”

“You said she's older. Could it be that she's terminally ill and she wants to go with dignity? It wouldn't be an unreasonable notion. Nobody wants to be a burden to their children.”

I mull it for a moment. “You might be onto something. She's only a few years younger than you, but she has a nurse come around regularly, plus she recently spent time in the hospital. It certainly is possible.”

“There you go!” my mom says triumphantly.

“She's also a recluse and, other than the hospital, hasn't left the house in years. She could want to end what she considers her miserable life.”

We debate the possibilities for a few more minutes until I'm more confused than when I first called. “Thanks, I'd better get going,” I say.

“Did you decide what to do?”

“I suppose first I need to find out if she's dying and is simply speeding up the process. Although, while we're on the subject, if you're planning anything drastic at any point, you'd better tell me.”

“You can count on it. I keep nagging your father about doing one of those living wills. If there ever comes a point that I'm going to be a vegetable, or completely doddering, I'd rather you pull the plug sooner than later. It needs to be in writing that my daughter will handle it if I can't.”

“Not me. That's Mike's job. He's the oldest.”

“No, it has to be you. Mike would never do it. He's responsible enough to be put in charge of the money, but when it comes down to the nitty-gritty, he'd wimp out. He doesn't have your strength.”

When I end the call, I'm smiling. Even with all the mistakes I've made with Ash, that's my mom's gentle reminder that I'm stepping up and being strong in handling the situation. Even if I'm not entirely sure it's true, it sure feels nice to know that somebody sees it that way.

B
y Monday morning I'm determined to intercept Nelson when he stops in to check on Marva. With God as my witness, that man is going to tell me whether Marva is dying. He's sidestepped my questions in the past, but I'm not letting him get away with that today. All weekend, instead of being elated anytime I pried an item from Marva's grasp, I wrestled with worry: Am I helping her take one step closer to the grave?

I've got enough mother guilt; I don't need to add to it.

As I stand in the kitchen waiting for Marva to emerge from her bedroom, I plot my strategy for when I confront Nelson. He's the type
who'll withhold information to toy with me, so I need to be cagey. My thoughts are interrupted by a bang of the back door, and Niko walks in through the mudroom. “Hey, gorgeous,” he says, “how was your weekend?”

If I had any concerns I'd feel awkward—after all, the last time I saw him, we were horizontal—I needn't have. He's looking at me as if I were three scoops high on a waffle cone.

“Busy,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear in what I hope is a come-hither manner. “I've got a ton for you guys to clear out today.”

“That woman works you way too hard. It's not healthy.”

“I've got a deadline to meet.” I neglect to mention I also don't have anything else to do.

“Haven't you ever heard that saying? All work and no play … ?”

“I'm a dull girl?”

“Not even close.”

I feel that familiar rush Niko's flirting gives me. I'm searching a brain that's gone gooey for a clever response when my cell phone rings. When I pull it from my pocket to give it a quick glance, I see that Daniel's calling. Probably wants to report in on the warehouse—he texted me over the weekend to say he was going to stop there this morning to see what they had to say about the break-in.

Switching my phone over to vibrate without answering, I say to Niko, “From now on, I'll do my best to be interesting.”

“To be on the safe side,” he says, stepping closer, “you and I should—”

He stops when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Stupid Daniel—I can't believe he's calling again already.
If I wanted to talk to you, don't you think I'd have picked up the first time? I'm prying a date out of a hot guy here!
“I'm ignoring it,” I say. “It's just the collectibles guy. What were you saying?”

“That we should grab drinks tonight after work.”

I nod, trying to hide my giddiness. A date! Not just that, but potentially s-e-x. This very evening! I almost want to suggest to Niko that we
skip the drinks and get straight to the fun stuff, but I'll need alcohol to fuel my courage. Not only do I usually go beyond the third-date-equals-sex rule but I have to be, if not in love, at least in a reasonable facsimile if I'm going to feel comfortable offering up the goods. In recent months, however, my life has been one dreary event after another. I deserve romance. Not to mention skin-to-skin contact. It's time for a whole new me, and it so happens this me is sluttier. “Okay,” I say.

“I'll swing back here after I drop off the last load—like around seven?”

“Sounds good.”

From there, I give him instructions on what he and his crew can start on. As he heads up the stairs, I can't help but watch him, thinking,
In mere hours, I'll totally get to tap that!

S
hortly after noon, I hear Nelson's van rumble up. I slam shut the drawer I'm sorting through and run out to greet him. He's pulling a duffel from the van as I approach. “Hey, Nelson. You have a minute to talk?”

“Not now, my love. I'm already running late. Why—what do you need?”

I don't want to blurt it out right there. “How about lunch? I'll treat.”

He starts walking to the front door. “No can do. I'm on rounds today. Only here to do a quick procedure.”

“Oh, really? What sort of procedure?”

“The usual.”

“Which is … ?”

He pauses before heading through the door, which I've left open. “Which is none of your business.”

“Come on, Nelson. Please? Tell me what Marva has—why she was in the hospital.”

“I'm not going to divulge personal information about Marva's health for your entertainment. You may not believe this, but I have professional standards.”

“Is that your opinion of me? That I only want to know for kicks?”

“What, suddenly you care about her?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I do.” Oddly enough, I realize I mean it.

He pats the top of my head. “Sure you do. And I'm Mother Teresa.”

I start to object, but Niko and Torch are carrying a couch down the stairs toward us. “Hold the door!” Torch yells. As I do, Nelson, that wily minx, manages to slip past me and into Marva's room.

Not wanting to risk being foiled again, I go out to Nelson's van and sit in the passenger seat. When he climbs in twenty minutes later, he greets me with “You've got to be kidding.”

“Hi, honey!”

“Seriously, get out. I've got a man with late-stage liver cancer that needs his legs wrapped to reduce the swelling. You want to make him wait?”

“Do
you
? Look, answer my question and I'll leave you be. Is Marva dying?”

“We're all dying. It's only a matter of when.”

“Nelson, I can't believe you won't answer a simple question for me. I thought we were friends.”

He sits back and levels a look at me. “You want me to confide in you. Why should I? What secrets have you ever shared with me?”

“I would … if I had anything worth telling.”

“Everybody has something worth telling. Come on … spill.”

I'm dumbfounded. “You want me to give you a personal secret of mine, just so I can find out if Marva is dying?”

“Yep, that sounds about right.”

“That's evil. Not to mention blackmail.”

He puts a key in the ignition.

“Fine,” I say, and his hand drops without starting the engine. “How about this. I've never told you this, and it's probably the worst and most personal secret in my life. My son is at drug rehab.”

“Big deal. These days, who isn't? For that, I'm willing to tell you that Marva is a hoarder. There. Quid pro quo.”

Ugh. I search my mind for a juicier piece of gossip—other than
Marva's suicide plans. There's no way I'd trust Nelson with that. Then the perfect thing occurs to me and I wilt. Surely there must be something less humiliating to reveal. But I struggle to figure out anything else. Nelson starts the van up. “I haven't got all day. Either get out or you're coming with me.”

“Wait,” I say, giving up. “Here's something. Friday, at work? Niko and I made out on Marva's bed. We only stopped because you and she came home.”

He kicks the engine off in acceptance of my offering. “Now that's more like it. And here I was thinking you'd be a spinster for life. Was it good? Was there any removal of clothing and, if so, what exact pieces?”

“Forget it. I'm not giving you details. You haven't coughed up anything yet.”

“Marva has diabetes. She was at the hospital for minor surgery to remove some infected tissue in her foot that was giving her trouble. Plus her knees are shot. She desperately needs replacement knees, but for reasons that elude me, she keeps putting it off. A lot of what I do is help her manage the pain.”

“That's it? Diabetes? Bad knees? So you're telling me that it's not fatal?”

“Did Niko get any boob action?”

I can't believe I'm about to answer his question. “No. But there
was
feeling around.”

“There now, that wasn't so hard, was it?” He lifts his brows suggestively. “Or was it …
hard
that is?”

“That's enough. Is Marva dying or not?”

“She's not. Other than the diabetes, some complications of arthritis, and those bum knees, that woman is healthy as a cow.”

M
arva holds up a sweater from a heap of clothes on the dining room table. “This is a keep.”

Irritation rises in me like bile.
Why?
I want to ask her.
That's a
heavy winter sweater, and—as far as your plan goes—you'll never experience a winter again.

Perhaps a better woman than me would feel sympathy for someone who has lost her zest for life, but I don't. It makes me furious. Marva has so much talent and opportunity and
money
—not to mention a son—and instead of appreciating all she has, she's choosing to have herself a pity party. One that—
grrrrr
—is forcing me to be a guest of honor. “It's pilly,” I say, taking the sweater from her and tossing it into a pile for the yard sale.

“You've certainly got quite a bit of cheek today,” Marva remarks, although she doesn't retrieve the sweater.

“Trying to make your deadline.” I realize I'm on the brink of acting insubordinate, but I keep thinking of all the people who
are
terminally ill—such as that cancer patient of Nelson's—and what they wouldn't give to have a chance to live. Marva is throwing it all away. I snort from the irony—the first thing Marva willingly throws away, and it's her life.

She gives me a curious look. “Are you feeling well?”

Reminding myself how badly I need this job, I check my attitude and offer a polite “I'm fine, thank you.” We work in peaceable silence until midafternoon, when the front doorbell rings. “I'll get it,” I say. “You can keep going.”

When I open the door, Daniel is standing on the porch, holding a sled under one arm. “I called earlier. Thought I'd try my luck at stopping by.”

As he steps into the living room, I say, “What's with the sled?” I recognize it as the movie prop we'd sent to the warehouse.

Daniel spies Marva in the dining room and calls a hello to her. Then he says to me in a low voice, “I snagged it back when I went to the warehouse this morning. If Marva changes her mind about—you know—she'd be upset she gave it up.”

“You're bringing things
back
?”

“Not things.
Thing
—singular. While I'm here, I can take a look upstairs again. You said you wanted me to mark anything of value up
there, right? Plus,” he says, leaning closer, “it'll give us a chance to talk all this over. Figure out what we're going to do to stop her.”

He's being sweet—very sweet—but I don't want to deal with Daniel right now. Not when I'm on the brink of getting it on with Niko. Being around the man who broke my heart will only undermine my confidence, which is shaky to begin with. “Today's not so good,” I whisper. “Marva's in a terrible mood, and—”