Olive Oil and White Bread (14 page)

“Yeah?” Angie leaned closer.

“Absolutely,” Jillian assured her before their lips met.

Despite all the time that had passed since their last bout of lovemaking, there was no rush. Jillian crawled over Angie, straddled her lap, and let herself become lost in their nakedness. The wet skin, the ragged breaths, the familiarity with one another. Angie wrested the lead from Jillian and flipped their positions, taking over, taking charge, and taking Jillian to heights she hadn't felt in longer than she cared to think about. She came hard, clamping her mouth down on Angie's bare, wet shoulder as she did so.

When they were spent, they dried each other off, gently, lovingly, and cuddled in the enormous bed as if they were one living, breathing being. When Jillian was awakened by a sound outside somewhere at 3 a.m., she turned to kiss Angie, but Angie was awake as well, and took Jillian again with her fingers. And then again with her mouth. By the time they went back to sleep, Jillian couldn't feel her legs. She
couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so completely sated. She drifted off with a single thought in her head.

We're back
.

Twelve

Jillian hit the snooze button on Tuesday morning with a groan, then snuggled into Angie, drifting in and out of sleep and remembering the fantastic long weekend they'd shared.

Jillian had come embarrassingly close to crying when they'd left the Strathmore early Monday afternoon. They meandered through various tiny country villages, stopped for a delicious, relaxed lunch, hit a few antique shops, and drove on roads with a speed limit no faster than 45mph—but they still had to come back to real life. They held hands on the trip, and Angie said more than once, “I wish we didn't have to go back.”

“We need to take a weekend away more often,” Jillian suggested, something she'd been thinking about the entire morning. “I feel like we've recharged, you know?”

Angie lifted Jillian's hand to her lips and kissed her knuckles. “I know exactly how you feel.”

Despite their less than enthusiastic return home, Boo was ecstatic to see them, running in circles and howling, her nub of a tail going a mile a minute. That made things a little easier to bear. They unpacked, did some laundry, ate a light supper, and once in bed, they made love again. Jillian tried not to cheer with glee, but she couldn't remember the last time they'd been intimate more than two nights in a row—at least not since they were newlyweds. She loved this “new” side of Angie—which was the old side, the Angie she had first loved

Tuesday morning arrived like a hangover. Jillian didn't want to get up, to officially signify the end of the weekend by actually dressing for work. Her head was muzzy, and she was slightly
nauseous—though she suspected both symptoms derived from “I Don't Want to Go to Work Syndrome.” She hit the snooze one too many times, and both she and Angie ended up running around like crazy people, trying to make up for lost time. On Angie's way out the door, Jillian forced them to stop, face to face, by grabbing Angie's head with both hands.

“I just want you to know that I had an
amazing
weekend,” she said softly. “I can't wait to do it again. Thank you so much. I love you.” She kissed Angie's lips.

“I love you, too.” Angie's smile was radiant. “See you tonight.” And she was off.

Jillian was just giving Boo her treats and saying her goodbyes when the phone rang.

“Jill?”

“Brian?” Jillian hadn't spoken to her brother in weeks, and having him call her first thing in the morning was odd. He was more of an evening guy.

“I was hoping I'd catch you.” His lack of preamble combined with the slight crack in his voice put her on red alert.

“What's wrong?”

“It's Mom. Dad just called me here at the office. The ambulance is taking her to the hospital.”

“What? Why? What happened?”

“I didn't get a lot of detail. She told him she felt light-headed last night. Then this morning, she said her chest felt tight. When she started having trouble breathing, he called the ambulance.”

“Oh, my god.” Her heart was racing at triple time as she dropped onto a chair.

“I know.”

The siblings were silent for several moments. Jillian finally asked, “What if it's serious? What do we do?” As soon as the words left her mouth, she felt like she was ten years old.

She heard Brian exhale. “I don't know. I'm going to head over now.”

“Where are they taking her?”

“St. Mary's.”

“I'll meet you there.”

Angie felt helpless.

She wasn't even thirty yet. It hadn't even crossed her mind that she would lose her parents one day. Okay, yes, she could lose them
any
day, but hell, it just wasn't something she thought about. They were young, barely sixty. This was the 90s. People didn't just drop dead before they were sixty. So why would she even think about such a thing?

But Jillian was only twenty-seven. And her mother, at fifty-six had done just that: dropped dead. Not immediately. Not until she'd reached the hospital. Heart attack at fifty-six.

Sitting in the corner of the couch, her arms wrapped around Jillian, trying her best to keep her warm, keep her safe, keep her from crumbling or hold onto her if she did, she had no idea what she could possibly say or do to make things better. So she sat and she held her girlfriend, and she did her best to pour every ounce of love she had from her heart through her arms and into Jillian, hoping she'd feel it, hoping she'd know.

Jillian kept talking about the same thing. She was not ready for this. She was not prepared.
Who in their twenties thinks about the mortality of their parents?
She'd asked the question over and over, as if somebody would finally materialize and give her the answer she wanted.
Why, nobody, Jillian. You're absolutely right! This has all been a terrible mistake. Here's your mom back
.

The wake had been rough. Endless parades of people hugging Jillian, her brother Brian, their dad, telling them how shocking it all was. As if they didn't know. As if the three of them didn't look like the dictionary definition of the word “shocked.” Mr. Clark was slack-jawed, and he looked like he hadn't slept in days as he tried to put up a strong front for his kids. Brian was a taller, handsome version of Jillian, his sandy hair freshly cut, his black suit classic, his lavender and black tie somber. Angie thought it was a blessing that he'd gone into the real estate business with his father because he slipped easily into businessman mode, shaking hands, thanking people for their attendance, keeping himself one step removed from the reality of the pain. Jillian's
expression could only be described as bewildered. Like she was a backstage manager who'd just found herself directly in the spotlight, in front of a full audience. Her blue eyes were wide, too wide. Bloodshot and swollen and too wide. Her face was drawn, her skin so pale as to be nearly translucent. She had barely eaten in three days, and it made her dress hang loosely off her body, as if she were a child in her mother's clothes.

Angie had hung back. Mr. Clark and Brian knew who she was to Jillian and were glad she was there for moral support. But most of Mrs. Clark's friends and family—aside from Shay and her parents—either didn't know or didn't approve, and Angie knew it wasn't the time or place to make a stand for gay equality. She stayed close, supplied Jillian with water, tissues, mints, whatever she needed. At one point late in the evening, she approached Jillian to see how she was holding up. Jillian simply grasped her hand and held onto it for the next twenty minutes until the last mourner left the funeral home.

The funeral itself had been a blur. Much quicker than Angie—a Catholic used to long masses and services—had expected. Then she stood by feeling useless while Jillian talked and smiled and greeted people for as long as she could until finally tugging her partner into a corner, she uttered seven words that gave Angie something she could do.

“Get me the hell out of here.”

They'd come home, changed into comfies, and cuddled on the couch. They'd been there ever since, just breathing, just being together. Boo paced and circled, sensing Jillian's sadness, wanting to help. She came up on the couch, licked a stray tear off Jillian's cheek, lay down with her head on Jillian's thigh, where she'd remain for a few minutes before pacing some more.

I know just how you feel, sweetie
, said Angie to Boo when the dog made eye contact. She tightened her hold on Jillian and spoke aloud. “Honey, you should eat something.”

“Not hungry.” Jillian's voice was gravelly.

“I know, but I still think you should eat. You've hardly put a thing in your belly in days.” When Jillian inhaled, about to protest, Angie interrupted her. “And no, the three spoons of yogurt this morning
don't count.” Jillian blew out the breath in defeat. “How about some scrambled eggs?”

It wasn't really a question, but Jillian gave a curt nod. “Okay.”

“Come and sit while I cook.”

In the kitchen, Jillian sat on a stool, propping her elbows on the counter with her chin in her hands.

Angie pulled eggs, tomato, cheese, and spinach from the fridge, determined to get as many vitamins and minerals into the meal as she could. Frying pan on the stove, butter melting in it, she quickly chopped the tomato, then the spinach, surprised when Jillian spoke.

“It's so weird.”

What could she say to that? It was
totally
weird. It was
absolutely
weird. She grimaced and nodded.

“My mom's gone.”

Angie glanced over her shoulder, expecting another breakdown, but Jillian was the most dry-eyed she'd been all day, picking at a spot on the counter with a thumbnail.

“I mean, we had our issues. It's not like we had this super fantastic relationship…” Jillian began.

It was the most she'd said in two days, so Angie let her talk.

“She could be a total pain in my ass. And she was. Often.”

Angie sautéed the tomatoes and spinach in the butter, nodding encouragingly.

“She did
not
handle the gay thing well.”

“If you consider ignoring it completely the same as not handling it well, then yes, she did not handle it well.”

Jillian barked what almost sounded like a laugh. “Exactly.”

Angie cracked the eggs into the pan, stirred them into the veggies.

“I was hoping she'd come around eventually. I was hoping time would help, you know?”

Angie glanced over and this time, Jillian seemed to expect a reply. “I know, babe.”

“And now there isn't any. There isn't any more time.”

“I know.”

“It's not fair.”

“No, it's not.”

“It fucking sucks.”

“Big time.” Angie added the cheese, let it melt, then scooped the eggs onto two plates. She fished two forks out of a drawer and set the plates at the breakfast bar, side by side.

“My mom's gone, Angie.”

“I know, honey. I'm so sorry.”

Jillian exhaled, picked up a fork, and stabbed at her eggs.

1997

Semi-Charmed Life

Thirteen

“Am I going to be the only straight girl there?” Maria gave her sister Angie a look of hesitation as she passed the plate of meatballs to her left. “I don't want to be the only straight girl there.”

“I promise I won't let any of my friends hit on you,” Angie said, coupling her words with an eye roll and sending the meatballs on to her mother. “I can't make any promises, though, what with you being all irresistible and stuff.”

Across the table, Angie's father grinned. Dom barked a laugh.

Maria laughed and swatted Angie with her napkin. “I'm sorry. That was ridiculous. You know how I am around new people. I just get all nervous and jerky.”

That was true. For every ounce of gregariousness Angie had, Maria had an equal amount of reserve. In a group of people she knew well, nobody would ever accuse the youngest Righetti of being shy. But surrounded by strangers, she clammed up and needed to be coaxed into conversation. Angie had spent much of their childhood serving as the transition-easer between her little sister and potential new friends.