The Language of Sisters (39 page)

“Yes. Okay.”

I knew she was smiling.

“I love breathing like a normal person, Toni, it's so much easier.”

* * *

I went to picket Tweedle Dee Dum and Tweedle Dum Dee's Randall Properties on Saturday for the Picket Party Against The Pricks And Portland Slumlords. Their office is located on a well-traveled street in downtown Portland, right in the center. Almost everyone from the dock came. We held signs that read “Save our dock, Save our homes,” and “Don't sink our houseboats!” and “Shrock brothers, get your hands off our neighborhood.” The news stations soon sent cameras and reporters.

Tweedle Dee Dum and Tweedle Dum Dee thundered down, along with their minions, and ordered us to leave. “This is private property ... we'll have you arrested ... disturbing the peace ... you have no right to be here ... affecting our business ...”

Charles stood in front of them, crossed his arms, and glared. Charles's two brothers, both former military, stood right by him, saying nothing. The two Tweedles backed down as the news cameras closed in. The Tweedles looked like frightened, guilty, wealthy, entitled men screwing yet another American.

Daisy went up to the Tweedles and whispered, “Trash eaters, home wreckers,” and in a rare slice of lucidity she turned to the news cameras and said, tears in her eyes, her voice cracking and wobbling, “My name is Daisy Episcopo. I'm eighty-five years old. I've lived in my houseboat for more than thirty years. It's home to me. The people on the dock are home to me. And these greedy Shrock brothers want to take it from me. How can Randall Properties take my home? How can the Shrock brothers kick my neighbors and me out? You couldn't burn down a neighborhood in the suburbs, why can you here? I'm too old to move. I want to die on the dock. I want to watch the sunrises and the sunsets from the home I've lived in for so long. Please help me.” She turned on the waterworks. “Please. Help me in my fight against Randall Properties.”

The news stations loved it, loved Daisy.

As soon as she was out of sight of the cameras, Daisy walked over to me and said, “If you come to my house tonight, I'll cook the shark. He jumped up on my deck this morning. A round of ketchup and he'll be delicious. He told me to eat him.”

We got a lot of publicity. No one likes sweet, old women being kicked out of their homes.

Tweedle Dee Dum and Tweedle Dum Dee, we heard through our attorney, blew up like Mount St. Helens. We laughed.

* * *

We went to Svetlana's that night and had a superb time. My parents greeted all of us. They were especially gracious to Nick when they saw us walk in with his arm around my waist. Both of my parents beamed; my mother clapped her hands. My father pumped his hand and semi shouted, “Welcome, Nick, welcome!” and my mother hugged him.

We had the back room. About forty people, all from the dock, were there.

Daisy led us in songs, mostly drinking songs, the daisies on her hat bopping about, the meal delicious. Our waitresses were pleased with their tips.

My mother's special that night, “Support The Dock,” and later, a chocolate dessert named “Hello, Nick!”

* * *

I loved the photos the photographer took of Jo Jo and her condo. The view, the spaciousness, the clean and modern lines, the color. The readers would love it, too.

I saw my ex-editor, William, in the hallway of
The Oregon Standard
.

“Ready to come back, Kozlovsky? Dying of boredom yet?”

“No, but gee, thanks. It's hard not to be working for a grump anymore.”

“I might like your columns.”

“You just made my day. How does that feel?”

“Don't get all gushy with me. It's irritating.”

“Got it. Nice to see you, Lopez.”

“Come back when you can't stand talking about granite countertops for one more second. I'm predicting that'll be soon.”

* * *

I knew it was coming.

Nick closed his eyes for a second, his chest rose and fell, then he leaned back against his kitchen counters and crossed his arms. “We need to take a break.”

I was unprepared for the instant, pounding pain in my chest, the feeling of falling and hitting cement, face-first. “Why?” But I knew why.

“Because this relationship is killing me.”

“Nick—”
Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

“Toni, I can't be a substitute for another man anymore. I can't be the stand-in.”

“You're not a substitute.” He wasn't. “You're not the stand-in.”

“Yes, I am. Your head is with Marty. I was willing to wait. I thought if I was patient, if I was your best friend, that eventually your head would be 100 percent with me. I wasn't looking to make you forget Marty, you'll never forget him, and I accept that, but I wanted us to be together. I can't do this anymore. It's driving me, you're driving me, out of my head. It's distracting me at work. Being with you actually hurts.”

“Nick, please, I don't want to hurt you, I never wanted to hurt you—”

“I know you don't, baby, I know. You are a kind and loyal person who is also stubborn and difficult, but our timing is off. We're off. You need more time to grieve.”

“I'm trying to get past it. I'm trying to move on.” Trying so hard.

“I know you are. You can't rush it. You can't speed through this on a timetable. On my timetable. And I can't ask you to. You can't will it away. We've been sleeping together for months. Being with you has been the best time of my life, but you're always pulling away. You keep space between us. You don't trust me, you don't trust us, you're not sure if you can handle us. You're not even sure if you want us.”

“I ... I ... like you so much, Nick.” I couldn't say the other words. I couldn't say
I love you, Nick.

My words hurt him again, like a body blow. He didn't want to hear
I like you so much.

“You can't commit to me on any level. I get it. I'm not mad, Toni. Okay, I am mad, but not at you. I understand. But I can't continue to be with you when all you'll agree to do is sleep with me. I need more.”

“I am so sorry, Nick. I'm a wreck. I'm a mess.”
I am not brave.

“Honey, don't cry. Please. When you cry, I want to cry. This whole situation is ... it's damn tough. That's what it is. And you need to figure out what you want, who you want, which might very well not be me, and I need to pull back until you do. I can't take it like it is anymore. I don't want to hurt you any more than you've already been hurt, but I can't do this, have us like this, with no future, no commitment.”

“I know.” I wiped my tears. “I know.” I walked over to him, my legs actually shaking, and kissed his cheek, kissed him on the mouth, and that passion flared again, at least for me, but he pulled away. I dropped my head, then tried to hug him, but he pulled away again.

“Nick ...” My voice faltered, cracked. “Nick ...”

I wanted to cry on him and beg him not to do this, but I couldn't do it. I was aching, but this wasn't fair to him. He was sleeping with a woman with a head full of turbulence and emotional storms.

I wouldn't want to be with me, either. Sleeping with someone, nothing more. No future, refusal to even talk about a future. I walked out, but not before I saw that wet sheen over his blue eyes, how he was leaning heavily against his kitchen island, both hands down. He did not walk me home.

I climbed up to the wheelhouse and lay on my bench and stared at the stars.

Numb now, alone. Again. My tears slid into the pillows.

* * *

It was like falling off a cliff, arms out.

I actually had a nightmare that I had purposefully stood on a rock, on a cliff, high above a valley, and jumped.

The next morning, I could not decide what to wear to work. No, scratch that. I didn't
care
what I wore. I didn't care what I looked like. I wasn't interested. It was like going back to the first six months after Marty died. I didn't care what I wore then, either. I let myself go. I hardly brushed my hair, did not eat well. The light went out, and I lost interest.

I finally grabbed a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt, and black boots. I ran a brush through my hair. I didn't shower. I'd overslept because of the cliff jumping.

I broke my mother's rule: Always put on lipstick and earrings before you leave the house unless the house is on fire.

My house was not on fire. I left for work.

My lack of interest in clothing that day continued.

And continued.

Then came my lack of interest in washing my hair.

I lost interest in eating, too.

Soon, I did not feel well.

* * *

When Nick left for work on a Monday, two weeks later, he walked off the dock with a duffel bag. He had a scruffy beard, his hair was longer, and an earring was in his ear. Back undercover. New case. I was by the front door of my tugboat, heading out to work myself.