Something To Dream On (31 page)

She tosses her hands up. “Fine! I respect it.”

“You still using that shit?” She shakes her head, and my glare shows I don’t believe her.

“I’m chipping back.”

“That’s useless, and you know it. When was the last time?”

“Last weekend. I used to ride Saturday and Sunday. Now I’m down to Saturday.”

“Stop lying. That shit don’t fly with me. We both know you take it whenever you can get it. Let’s change that. What I heard you say was, ‘I just quit.’ To which I replied, ‘Good, then I’ll help you.’ Don't move.”
 

From inside the fridge I grab a pitcher of strawberry protein shakes I made five minutes before she got here. I pour a couple of glasses and set one in front of her. “Drink.”

“The hell? What is this crap? Pepto-Bismol?”

“You and I have spent way too much time getting the other to drink, and in some ways that's not such a bad thing. We were just drinking the wrong stuff. A few days ago you said you wanted me to show you how to get better. If you really meant that, down that protein shake and then drink another one. Come back tomorrow, and we'll do it again. We are back to being drinking buddies, and when I know I can actually trust you, we will start talking.
Like, actual talking.
But not today. One step at a time.”

“Is this a challenge?”

My glare speaks that if anyone here is doing any challenging, it is Laura with my patience. But yeah, it’s a challenge for her to shape up, just like it is a reminder for me to stay clean.

Laura raises her glass. “Cheers.”

She chugs while I sip. My stomach tries to squeeze the shake back up.

Once she downs her second shake, she gets the boot. “See you tomorrow. Swing by at six o’clock every morning for breakfast. If you have to do that, you won’t be up partying all night. Meanwhile, eat something! Eat a lot of something and drink a lot of water or juice with nothing in it, okay? Don't screw up!”

When I shut the door, Etta glares at me to say, “That goes double for you.” I start to thank her, then make for the bathroom to say hello again to the protein shake.

Yes!

Yes! Yes! Yes! My insides want to burst!

It takes everything I’ve got to hold back my scream until I drive away. “Score!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Thursday, July 27

Paul and Jimmy stare at each other. Mom paces while repeatedly slapping her hands on her legs, like she is trying to beat herself up. At Paul’s touch, she puts out her hands in a signal for him to stop. “I'm fine, but I need more answers than that so-called doctor, who just strutted out, can give me. How can it be that my daughter has survived like this for so long, yet they are giving me this line of bull? It doesn't make any sense. The fact that my baby is obviously fighting must mean something!”

“June Bug, have a seat and calm down for a moment.”

Her hands sharply cross in front of her. “No. I'm fine. I’m going for a walk. There's a man upstairs who owes me answers. Clearly no one here has them. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Paul and Jimmy resume staring at each other. “Which of us is going to tell Jensen?” Jimmy asks.

Paul’s shoulders drop in acceptance of the weight. “I’ll handle it as soon as he gets off work.”

“Maybe we should call Arlene and ask her to do it.”
 

“Nah, she’ll want to come down, and if he’s not up to company, it will add stress. Jensen likes to handle things his own way. She and I had a good talk. The best way to be there for Jensen is to let him call the shots, but when you have to tell your kid bad news, you want to be there to smother him. Besides, this isn't the first time I’ve had to give news regarding someone in a coma. That time sure was different though.”

Paul strokes my cheek with his thumb. The reduction in my number of bandages has taken me from mummy-like to resembling a crash victim in a cheesy, made-for-TV movie. The good news is, the people in those movies always recover.

“Let's just say the accident that guy had was self-inflicted, which is all the more reason why it should be me who talks to Jensen.”

Thing is, no one else seems to know I’m going to make it back.

For the last week I have spent a good chunk of my life in this chair while staring at a woman in distress. First the coma, then seizures, then holes in her head. Now, because of the results of her latest MRI and EEG test, the neurologist has changed her diagnosis to Persistent Vegetative State. The doctor tried to explain what that really means, but all I heard him say was Lizetta’s chances of recovery are slimmer than ever.

You allowed this mess, God. You probably think I should be grateful that she is still alive. I could justify you taking her because you were jealous and wanted to spend time with her, but to cause her this suffering is senseless.

My stomach lets out a roar. I promised I wouldn't allow that to happen again. I promised Lizetta I’d marry her. I promised to never touch drugs or get wasted again.

I am really sick of promises.

The can of strawberry Ensure I grab out of my backpack seems appropriate. This is the crap they give people in hospitals and convalescent homes—the food of the geriatric—the food for those too sick to eat. I raise the bottle and toast its followers. I swig down the goo. It almost comes back up when I put it all together. This is the thing we are considering depriving Lizetta of so she can pass on and be at peace. How ironic is it that my decline puts me on the same treatment path as someone who can’t care for herself?

The bottle gets stashed under my chair so I can’t smell it. There is no way I can drink that stuff now that I see it for what it really is—the same stuff that is in that disgusting feeding tube.

When it comes down to it, I need that bottle to help me hold it together, just like alcohol once did. How much healthier am I now? How much have we all suffered since Lizetta’s accident? Hell, her family and I all look like walking zombies. What good is a bottle that keeps you alive when you’re dead inside?

The doctors’ constant hints that we are prolonging the inevitable are their way of saying that we have only succeeded in adding to her misery. Then again, some of them say she is not even aware of what is happening. If we are the ones hurting, and Lizetta’s condition is hopeless, why are we doing this to ourselves?

Am I really thinking what I think I'm thinking?

Maybe it would be best for everyone’s sake.

But I can’t imagine life without her. I need her here.

There I go being selfish again.

I didn’t just promise to marry her; I promised to make her happy. She can’t possibly be happy now.

I give Lizetta's hand a kiss, right where the reminder of a promise sits, and I get defensive over my desire to run. “I need some sleep, honey. I’ll be back in a few hours. I love you, always, no matter what.”

I bolt out the door, leaving Lizetta and the Ensure behind.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Friday, July 28

Lizetta stands inside a field of green.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I run to her.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Her hand reaches for mine and—

Pound! Pound! Pound!

I rip the covers off and sprint for the door. Etta dashes along while barking. With a snap of my wrist and a yank, the door flies open. “Looks like you couldn't sleep either,” Laura has the balls to say.

Before I can ask her why the hell she is here, she's plopped onto my sofa. She’s in pink fuzzy slippers and black PJs with little pink kittens on them. Laura owns pajamas? If she were a normal person, I’d think going out like that was ridiculous. However, this is Laura. Only one thing seems to explain her. Ten bucks says the outfit gives her the excuse to fall asleep on my sofa. Being the gentleman that I am, of course I would offer her my bed, and—oh, no possible way!

“I couldn't stop thinking about Lizetta, so I pulled out some photos from prom. I thought you might like to see them.”

Yeah, I'd love to see pictures of Lizetta, but not at two in the morning. Especially not when I was finally getting a little sleep.

Laura makes herself all kinds of comfortable by snuggling into the sofa. She has the audacity to put her furry feet up on the coffee table. When they nearly bump into Lizetta’s tiara, my death glare tells her to remove them. “You are not supposed to be here for another four hours. Can we please do this at another time? Despite the facts that my fiancée is in a coma and I've left school, I do still need to go to work.”

“You quit school?”