The Repeat Year (21 page)

Olive’s anger and indignation were slowly seeping out of her like air from a leaky beach ball. Her mom, Kathy Watson, née Rogers, soon to be Kathy Matheson, was—surprise!—a fallible human being, just like Olive. Her patience, her generosity, her unconditional love—all of those qualities coexisted with less worthy ones. With secrets. Olive wished she had known this last year when she and Phil had broken up. Maybe it would have lessened her self-loathing.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry for making you talk about this on your wedding day.”

“It’s actually a relief to have finally told someone. It was eating away at me. But I’m sorry if what I did hurt you.” Her mom’s voice was muffled by the washcloth. She removed it; under the fluorescent lights, her face was a smeared mosaic of pink, white, and beige. “Did I ruin it?”

Olive didn’t know if she was referring to their relationship or her makeup. “Let’s go out to the patio,” she said. “The natural lighting will be better, and we’ve got only twenty minutes now to get you ready.”

Red and purple tropical flowers hung over the edge of the roof and wound their way through the decorative wooden brackets. Olive’s mom sat in one of the rattan chairs, and Olive dumped the necessary tubes and bottles on the table. She swiftly reapplied the foundation, covering up the evidence of her mom’s tears, and brushed on a rosy, blushing glow, fit for a bride.

“It’s so strange, isn’t it? You helping me get ready for my wedding. Not the natural order of things.”

“Blue, gray, silver, or um, silver-gray?” Olive asked, showing her the squares of eye shadow.

“Silver-gray.” She obediently closed her eyes so Olive could dust the eye shadow over their lids. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like one of those pushy moms who’s always nagging her daughter about weddings and grandchildren.”

“It’s okay,” Olive said. “Please don’t say anything, but Phil proposed in February.”

Her mom opened her eyes and blinked a few times, sparkles of eye shadow raining from her lashes. She seemed to be thinking hard about something, and Olive knew she was probably remembering the engagement announcement dinner in March and how Olive had blown off her concerns about her relationship with Phil then. “You turned him down?” she asked softly, comprehension dawning on her face.

“I wanted to say yes, but I couldn’t.” Olive passed a tube of pearly pink lipstick to her mom.

She didn’t ask why. She held the lipstick distractedly in her fist, like she wasn’t sure what to do with it. Then she leaped from her chair and enfolded Olive in the large, white arms of the hotel bathrobe. “Oh, honey.”

Olive let herself be enveloped, giving in to her mom’s love. Her body relaxed. She pressed her nose against her mom’s shoulder, which smelled like bleach and felt scratchy. Barefoot, they were the exact same height.

“We’re cut from the same cloth, you and I,” her mom murmured into her ear. “Always dwelling on the past. Always second-guessing every single decision.” She stroked Olive’s hair. “But sometimes you just need to dive headfirst into the water.”

But you don’t know what I’ve done,
Olive wanted to say.
You don’t know how I hurt Phil last year and how he wasn’t able to forgive me. And even though I’ve been given a second chance, my mistake just won’t go away, and I can’t not tell him like you didn’t tell Dad, because it’s so important to me that he forgives me this time, that he understands, and that we can live our lives together without secrets. Even if I don’t tell him, I’m so scared that I’ll screw up again in some way and he’ll cast me off. He’s been through so much with his dad, and if I let him down, too . . . It’s just too much pressure sometimes. And this second chance? Isn’t it so that I can fix my impulsive behaviors from last year, the times I “dove in headfirst”? I can’t afford to give up my control
now.

Olive pulled away so she could see her mom’s face. She was riveted by the beauty and light there; it was like seeing her for the first time. And she realized that even though her mom didn’t know about her repeat year or the one-night stand, she understood Olive’s fears and worries all the same. Cut from the same cloth, Olive thought. Maybe she was right.

Olive heard hurried footsteps approaching and turned to see Verona clattering up the path in stilettos, three bouquets of flowers in her arms.

“We’ve got ten minutes to go!” Verona called out to them. “Everyone’s there. Even the officiant. You’re not dressed?”

“We’re a lot further along than we look,” Olive replied. She crouched down and retrieved the lipstick, which had rolled under the table. She gave it to her mom. “Put this on in the bathroom. I’ll help you with your dress.”

Her mom gave her a wide-eyed look and disappeared inside.

“What did you say to her?” Verona asked. “Did she change her mind?”

“No, of course not. The wedding’s on. We were just talking and lost track of time.”

Verona gave her a disapproving look and set the bouquets on the rattan chair. Olive didn’t have time for her disapproval. She rushed into the bungalow, where her mom was just emerging from the bathroom in her dress. The dress was light and gauzy, calf length with a deep V-neck and flowing sleeves like butterfly wings. Her brown hair sailed behind her like its own wedding veil.

“Zip me up?” she asked Olive. “I don’t want to be late. I don’t want Harry to think I’m standing him up.”

She grabbed the beaded handbag on the nightstand and flew to the door.

“Wait,” Olive cried. “Your hair. The gardenia.” She dug in her own purse for the clear plastic box Rowena had given her this morning; inside was the delicate white flower.

Her mom stood still for her in the doorway. Olive tied her mom’s hair back and gently pinned the gardenia’s petals in place.

“Beautiful,” she said. “You’re beautiful.”

They were all waiting for them on the beach. Harry in his white linen, Christopher out of place in a dark suit coat and tie, Phil in a green polo shirt that matched the color of the ocean. The officiant stood underneath a bamboo archway draped with organza. It was the same image emblazoned into her memory—except for Phil’s added presence—but it looked very different. Olive took her place on the warm sand by her mom’s side.

Chapter 16

A
flat-screen TV would look great on that wall,” Phil said, spreading his arms out to the size of the imagined TV. He stood in a totally beige living room.

“We don’t have a flat-screen TV,” Olive said with a laugh. She pulled a pen and notebook from her handbag.

“Not yet. But if the genius of the place requires it . . .” He came up behind her and kissed her neck. She reached around and caught his lips with hers.

“But we haven’t decided on this place yet.” This was the fourth condo they had looked at today. Olive had to work in an hour, and she was already feeling burned out. “You don’t like that there’s only a one-car garage, there’s not enough cabinet space in the kitchen for my liking, and we both thought the window in the shower was creepy.”

“But I like it better than any of the others we saw today. It has more
character
. And it’s definitely closer to our price range.”

“You just like the gym and tennis courts.” She tapped her pen against the chart she’d made in her notebook, outlining the pros and cons of each condo they’d looked at.

“That may have swayed my opinion somewhat.”

“Well, we don’t have to pick just from the condos we saw today. And we definitely don’t have to decide this minute. We have plenty of time.” She closed the notebook and returned it to her handbag.

Plenty of time. It was late August, and Olive and Kerrigan’s lease on the upper flat of the pink house didn’t expire until the end of September, and Phil had his place until mid-October. Not that Kerrigan knew Phil and Olive were looking at condos. Olive had had several opportunities to tell her friend that she and Phil were planning to move in together, but every time the moment presented itself, she got cold feet. The promise she’d made to Kerrigan haunted her.
You don’t see me going anywhere, do you? I’m not moving
out.

She rationalized this in many different ways. She wanted to protect Kerrigan from the news until she had some kind of solution for Kerrigan’s living situation. She didn’t know what this might be. The ideal roommate to take her place? A cute, affordable apartment in the downtown high-rises that Kerrigan had always admired? A condo in the same neighborhood as—or better yet, right next door to—Olive and Phil’s?

And when it came right down to it, would Kerrigan really feel betrayed? Moving out was natural, a part of growing up. They were both twenty-five years old, after all, and had lived together for the past seven years. It seemed unlikely that Kerrigan would expect this to go on much longer. Last year Olive had moved out because she needed a change and wanted to be more mature; she could see how Kerrigan would have found this hurtful or insulting. But this year she was moving out because her relationship with Phil was getting more serious. It should be a happy occasion—a celebration of the next step of her life. Surely Kerrigan would understand that and want the best for her friend, especially since Olive wanted the same for her.

Yet even this line of reasoning couldn’t dispel Olive’s guilt. She kept imagining Kerrigan’s misery when she’d found out 2011 held nothing for her to look forward to. Or even worse, when she’d found out that she and Olive had drifted apart as friends last year. But Olive refused to let their friendship dissolve this year. She would make Kerrigan a priority even if they weren’t living together. She would prevent the injury she had caused her friend last year.

All of this back and forth wouldn’t have been worth it if it weren’t for Phil. When Olive had first mentioned the idea, as they lay in his bed and she bemoaned the fact that she still had to drive home and change for work, Phil’s eyes had lit up with boyish excitement. And the more they talked about it, the more enthusiastic she became. She envisioned painting the walls together, breakfast in bed, playing with Cashew in their own yard, and best of all, coming home and crawling into bed beside him every morning. It was one step closer to marriage. It was a commitment that wasn’t as hard for her conscience to say yes to. And living together would give her more chances to observe Phil, study his mood, and pick the perfect time and way to tell him the whole truth. Or some of the truth, a little at a time, so as not to overwhelm him. She needed him to know and accept her for who she was, flaws and all, before they could progress to the next step in their relationship. The prospect of creating a home together made this task seem less insurmountable somehow.

The real estate agent, evidently hearing a concluding note in Olive’s voice, chose that moment to wander back into the living room. “Any other questions I can answer?” she asked. She halfheartedly gave them her card, as if sensing they wouldn’t be calling.

Phil dropped Olive off at her apartment so she could change into her scrubs. She walked around to the driver’s side to kiss him good-bye. His arm rested outside the window, revealing the golfer’s tan lines that were so common for him at this time of the year. His hand was paler than the rest of his arm, as if he were still wearing his golf glove. Suddenly, she felt overwhelmed by how much she cherished each of these little details. His funny tan lines, the dark freckle under his left eye, the Mickey Mouse boxers she knew he was wearing because he was running low on clean clothes and desperately needed to do laundry.

She grabbed his face with both hands, drawing him closer to her, catching him off guard, and kissing him deeply. He responded in kind, nearly pulling her through the car window.

“Wow. What was that for?” he asked breathlessly.

She kissed the back of his hand. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he said, “and I can’t wait until we live together.”

Kerrigan wasn’t home, but Olive felt dishonest as she let herself into their apartment, as if it were a place in which she already didn’t belong. She guiltily removed the notebook from her handbag and slid it facedown into one of her desk drawers. She knew this was probably childish and unnecessary, but she didn’t want Kerrigan finding out the wrong way and before she was ready.

As she dressed in a pair of pink scrubs and tied her hair up in a high ponytail, she listened to her voice mail messages on speakerphone. The first two were from real estate agents returning her call. The third was from her mom, who sounded distraught. For a split second, Olive wondered if she and Harry had had a fight.

“Olive. How could you not tell me? Sherry Witan and I did lunch today. That poor woman. You know her mother died of ovarian cancer? I just feel so awful. Here I’ve been enjoying myself these past few months, and she’s been suffering all alone. If you’d only told me. Even if she wanted her privacy and wasn’t feeling up to visitors, I could’ve at least been praying for her. Call me back when you get a chance so I can scold you properly. Also we want to invite you and Phil to our Labor Day picnic.”

Relief washed over her. It didn’t bother her that her mom was annoyed, because she knew that a quick explanation of patient confidentiality would convince her that Olive couldn’t have done otherwise. Instead, now that Olive’s mom knew about Sherry’s breast cancer, her burden was lessened. Her mom would know how to console and encourage Sherry in a way that Olive couldn’t. Sherry would listen to her. Olive had tried calling Sherry twice since she’d been back from St. Lucia, and neither time had Sherry called her back. Olive speculated that she was either too sick or still too mad at her to pick up the phone. At least now she could get an update on Sherry’s health from her mom.

The ICU was louder than usual when she arrived, but she quickly realized that just one man was making all the ruckus. A heavyset, dark-haired man in his sixties was arguing with Tina at the nurses’ station. He gesticulated wildly, yet Tina, who was only half his size, stood her ground.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Dodge. Visiting hours aren’t until eight o’clock. Hospital rules. You can come back and see your brother then.”

Mr. Dodge snarled something unintelligible and tried to go around the desk.

“Mr. Dodge! The waiting room is that way! And if you don’t listen to me, then I’ll have to call security and have you removed.”

Hangdog, the large man turned around and retreated to the waiting room, mumbling under his breath the whole way. As he passed Olive, she caught a strong whiff of alcohol.

“Let me guess,” she said to Tina. “He’s related to one of my patients?” The truth was she remembered Frank Dodge and his ill brother, Ed. They were a pretty memorable pair. Ed had cirrhosis of the liver, and Frank had shown up drunk and insisted that all good old Ed needed to make him feel better was a tumbler or two of Scotch.

Tina nodded. “This always happens. First it looks like it’s going to be a slow night—we’re under capacity, only eight beds full—and then some basket case comes in to make things complicated.” She grinned and handed her two clipboards. “But now he’s your problem.”

Olive tucked the clipboards under her arm and set off to check on her patients. Sometimes she wished this whole repeat year thing had a fast-forward button. There were moments in her life that just didn’t seem worth reliving; there was nothing she needed to change, nothing new to learn, nothing more to gain. She was worn out from her day of condo hunting with Phil and didn’t know if she was up to the Dodge brothers tonight.

Ed Dodge had a reddish nose shaped like a summer squash. His hairy arms were speckled with purple, spidery lesions. He was hooked up to everything but the ventilator. She skimmed through his chart before she took his vital signs. He’d gone through a battery of blood tests to measure his clotting factors and liver function markers to see how advanced his cirrhosis was. Fluid had collected in his abdomen, which had led to a pretty serious bacterial infection. There was an important note here. He was allergic to penicillin, and his cirrhosis had made him very sensitive to a lot of other drugs and their side effects.

The drug allergy note tickled something deep and forgotten in her brain. Not something to do with Ed but another patient. She stared at the scrawled word
penicillin
for a long moment. Suddenly, the memory was jarred loose. A patient with a morphine allergy: a young man who’d been in a rollover accident. Not her patient, but Tina’s. There had been no note of any drug allergies—no MedicAlert bracelet or pendant, no card in his wallet. But after the morphine had been administered, he had gone into anaphylactic shock. The shot of epinephrine had been too little, too late; he had died only minutes later.

Now here was a chance for Olive to make a difference in this year; she could save the life of someone who had wrongfully died. While she didn’t know how critical the young man’s injuries had been, she did know he had a one hundred percent better chance of recovering if the lethal morphine was not given to him. She could be responsible for totally changing the outcome of 2011 for someone.

If only she knew when he had been brought in. She remembered only that his death had occurred in the fall, and of course, it happened on a night when both she and Tina were working. That didn’t narrow it down much. She would have to be vigilant.

She watched the rise and fall of Ed’s massive chest and counted his respirations. Twenty breaths per minute wasn’t bad. She jotted the number down and then almost dropped her pen when she saw Alex looking through the window at her.

He leaned against the doorway. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I wanted to ask you to tell me when Mr. Dodge wakes up. He needs to meet with a hepatologist to get the evaluation process started for a liver transplant.”

“Oh. Of course.” She had suspected Ed’s liver was totally shot, but no one had told her he was trying to get on the transplant list. It was hard for a person of his age with his habits to get on the national list.

He read her expression. “Yeah, I don’t think his chances are good, either. A sixty-eight-year-old chronic alcoholic? They’d be crazy to give him another liver to ruin.”

“Actually, I disagree. It’s a slippery slope, isn’t it? Deciding whose life is more valuable? Whose life is worth saving?” She looked up from her clipboard.

Alex gazed intently at her. “I know what you mean because I once thought that, too. But there’s a limited supply of organs, and they have to decide somehow, right? And shouldn’t they go to the people who have the best chance of making a full recovery and having long, healthy lives?” He tugged on the ends of his stethoscope, which was draped around his neck. “Let me give you a scenario. A little girl born with biliary atresia or an elderly man who’s destroyed his liver from years of drinking?”

She jotted down Ed’s oxygen saturation levels and closed his chart. “I took an ethics course, too. I get it. It’s just . . . well, alcoholism is a disease, too.” She pushed past him lightly to get to her next patient’s room.

He followed her. She didn’t understand his persistence. Since their chance encounter at Heureux Hasard in April, Olive had doubled, no—tripled her guard. Her behavior toward him was brisk and professional, sometimes bordering on cold and rude, and whenever she found the opportunity, she mentioned her
boyfriend
. She even spoke her mind and disagreed with him more than she had last year, less wowed this time by his white coat and years of medical school.