A Really Bad Idea Page 20

  “Here’s the thing,” I say, closing the door with my back and leaning against it. “You don’t have to leave.”

  His hands halt on his shirt collar as he was adjusting it over his slung tie. He raises his brows. “I don’t?”

  “No. Unless you have surgery in the morning, then I know how you feel about sleeping out, but, if you want, you can just stay here. If you don’t, I’m gonna feel like a one-night stand, and if I’m being totally honest, I really don’t want to feel so … dirty.”

  “Dirty?”

  “Yes. I mean, we’ve always been able to just hang, so maybe you can stay for a few. Plus, you didn’t get to eat your lasagna. I have a half-bottle of Johnnie and a full tub of cookie dough ice cream. We could watch some baseball, or we can look through our high school yearbook and make fun of how ridiculous we looked. Anything really. Why are you looking at me like that? Say something.”

  I watch as his head rises and falls ever so slowly.

  A small smirk builds on those thick, kissable lips. “Meadow?”

  “Yes?” I bite my lip.

  “All you had to do was tell me to stay.”

  “You don’t have to just because I asked. Don’t feel obligated.”

  He puts a finger over my lips. “I got off a plane and came straight here. You’re all I’ve thought about for five days straight. Of course I want to hang out with you. You promised me lasagna. Besides, you said you feel dirty, and I have a great way to remedy that.”

  I curve my brows, my lips not moving because they’re still being shushed by his fingers. With his other hand, he undoes the buttons of his shirt.

  “Take a bath with me,” he says.

  I curve a brow and feel that rumbling in my gut whoosh in a rush of energy, zinging straight to my core.

  If I thought I felt tawdry before, I am downright turning into a vixen, and I only have the doctor to blame.

  “Four stars!” Dylan cheers as he moves his arms to the beat of Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance.”

  “How are you so good at this?” I huff.

  “I got swagger.” Dylan drops to the floor, mimicking the avatar on the Just Dance game we’re playing in their basement. He’s still grounded from video games, but I convinced Beth to let him play since his favorite aunt is here.

  Aiden is trying to keep up with the rapid arm movements. “Drop it like it’s hot, Aunt Meadow.”

  I do a tiger crawl on the carpet and wait as the music fades. The screen illuminates with the scores. Dylan wins with Aiden and me trailing far behind.

  “Rematch?” Dylan asks, but I put my controller down.

  “Seven dances was enough for me. Unless you have the ’90s boy band edition. In which case, I would school you two with some fly moves.”

  They look at me like I’m crazy as I do my best moves, including the NSYNC No Strings Attached puppetry dance and morph it into the Backstreet Boys’ zombie sway. I might not have been asked on a date until I was seventeen, but I certainly knew how to party. And by party, I mean, watch MTV in my basement and sing into my hairbrush.

  “You’re so old,” Dylan deadpans.

  “I might have nightmares when I go to bed tonight,” Aiden adds.

  With a drop of my shoulders, I tilt my head and surrender. “I lost my cool.”

  Dylan steps forward and places a hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, Aunt Meadow. You still have a little cool left.”

  I take the compliment from my nephew and pat his hand. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have to go play with grown-ups before they yell at me for hiding.”

  When I arrived for Sunday family day at Beth and Brian’s house, I conversed with the adults for a while before going down to the basement to hang with my nephews. My parents were on their iPads, playing Scrabble against one another, so I took the opportunity to hide—I mean, play.

  I head upstairs and make a quick detour to the powder room where Beth always keeps the pomegranate-scented soap because it matches the hand towels. She’s added some new artwork—framed stills from her and Brian’s trip to Corona last year. I wonder if anyone else finds it weird to have Brian staring at you while you pee. It’s as if his eyes move with you as you shift around the room. I take a hand towel and put it over the picture.

  When I went to see Dr. Abbot a few weeks ago, I had to provide him with information on my cycle. Since then, I’ve been trying not to track it because that’s what Christian and I agreed upon. Still, I’ve quite known of when I’m ovulating, which is why I’m surprised to see I have my period.

  “Damn it.”

  I know it shouldn’t disappoint me since Christian and I only had sex twice, but there was a part of me that was hoping it would happen on the first try.

  It’s funny; there were years of my life when I prayed to the gods that I wasn’t pregnant. Now, I’m disappointed to see I’m not.

  I clean up and use the supplies Beth keeps under the sink. I try to find comfort in the scented hand wash I enjoy so much and step out of the bathroom, only to return and remove the towel I put over Brian’s photograph.

  Beth is in the kitchen, stirring the sauce. “Are the boys kicking your ass in Just Dance?” she asks as I enter the room.

  “You should be proud of their twerking skills.”

  “Don’t even joke.” She puts the wooden spoon on the counter and wipes her hands with a rag. She faces me and gives me a once-over. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing.” I fold my arms and lean my hip against the counter. “I got my period.”

  Beth’s mouth presses into an understanding line as she looks at me with a nod. “That’s okay. It hardly ever happens on the first try.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I know.” My shoulder rises to my ear, like it’s no big deal.

  The basement door bursts open with Aiden and Dylan barreling through the hallway, chasing each other through the kitchen, nearly knocking over one of the barstools.

  Beth shouts out to them, “No roughhousing. And wash up for dinner!”

  They make their way out of the room, toward the living room.

  When she gives her attention back to me, it’s with a grimace. “See what you have to look forward to? Anyway, don’t worry about it. This is good. Now, you have an exact date to map your cycle with.”

  “We said we wouldn’t plan it.”

  She leans an arm on the counter and lowers her forehead. “You kinda need to if you want to have a baby.”

  “So far, it’s been fun, letting things happen organically. I’d hate to ruin it.”

  Her bottom jaw moves to the side as her tongue skim her back teeth. She has a mischievous gleam to her eye. “You’re having fun?”

  I look up to the ceiling. “You’re ridiculous.”

  She throws the rag at me, and I catch it before it hits my face.

  “Spill the beans. I want to know about all this fun you’re having.”

  I toss it back at her. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

  “Fine. Don’t tell. Just give me a rating. Scale of one to ten. Five being, It was good, but I didn’t orgasm. And ten being, Holy God, I might have triplets from the amount of times the man has made me come.”

  I look down with a grin and hold up my hands, showcasing all ten fingers. If I had more hands, I’d put those up, too.

  Beth pretends to fan herself with the rag. “This baby is going to be so worth it.”

  “Who’s having a baby?” Mom asks as she walks into the kitchen. She’s wearing a gold velour jogging suit, which went out of style about twenty years ago, yet she still pulls it off.

  I widen my eyes at Beth for being so damn loud. “Angela Yang, the receptionist, is trying to have a baby. She’s mapping her cycle.” I have been getting superb at lying lately. I hate that.

  Mom doesn’t miss a beat in her willingness to overshare. “Your father and I had to try for months for each of you. Sex every other day for a year to conceive Brian. We started right away for you, and that took two years.”

/>   “Wow, that’s a lot of intercourse.” Beth’s eyes widen as she tries to comprehend the amount of sex my parents must have had to get pregnant.

  “You need to fornicate if you want to procreate,” Mom sings. “And it helps to know when you ovulate. Most people are on the fourteenth day, so, Beth, if you want to have a third baby, you should try in about twelve days.”

  She looks horrified, the rag dropping to the floor with a slap. “Why do you know my ovulation schedule?”

  “I know Meadow’s, too. You’re synced!” Mom sways a hand in the air as she comes around the island.

  “Oh dear God,” Beth says, clutching her chest in mortification.

  “You’re insane,” I say to my mother as Beth and I move to the side when she steps up to the stove.

  She grabs the wooden spoon off the counter and gives the sauce a stir. “Don’t be so prude, Meadow. You’ll be ripe in about two weeks. Maybe that new man you’re seeing will slip in the bedroom. In my day, women used to poke a hole in their diaphragm.”

  “Mother!”

  “New man?” Beth turns toward me. Her face has gone from mortified to surprised.

  Mom lifts the spoon and has a taste. “Meadow’s seeing someone,” she explains to Beth. “And you need more garlic.”

  “Thanks,” Beth responds halfheartedly and then looks back at me with a wide smile. “Tell me about this new man you’re seeing, Meadow.”

  Mom takes it upon herself to open the cabinet and take out the garlic powder, adding it to the sauce. Beth is looking at her like someone has destroyed her artistic masterpiece.

  Mom doesn’t seem to notice or care. “Don’t ask this one anything about her love life. She’s zip-lipped. Just make sure you have on clean underwear, honey, and don’t wear the lavender eye shadow. Wear pink. It’s softer, and it makes you look romantic.”

  “I like this eye shadow.” I put a hand to my brow, protective of my favorite MAC color.

  “You know there’s no problem with …” Mom’s words trail off for a moment as she takes a deep breath in. Her eyes widen for a moment, as if the wind was knocked out of her. She regains her composure when the episode passes. “Excuse me. As I was saying, there’s no problem with trying to look your best for a man. Isn’t that right, George?” She motions toward my dad, who is walking into the room with Aiden on his back.

  “Whatever your mother says, I agree with her.” Dad chuckles. His gray hair stays in place despite how Aiden has his hands wrapped around the top of his head. “You hear that, buddy? Always agree with women, and you’ll live a happy life.”

  “Unless Mom says to eat your spinach.” Aiden makes a mock vomit face and shakes his shoulders in disgust. “I will never agree to that!”

  “I was just telling Meadow to wear pink eye shadow on her date with her new boyfriend,” Mom explains with a hand on the side of her rib cage.

  Dad’s grin widens. “You have a boyfriend?”

  “No. I’m not seeing anyone.” I’m adamant and about to continue when I see my mom doing that breathing thing again. “Are you okay?”

  She waves me off. “I’m fine. Just been having flutters.”

  “Heart palpitations for someone with a history of arrhythmia is a serious thing.”

  Dad lowers Aiden on the floor. “She’s been getting them the last three days. Last night, she complained of leg pain but said it passed.”

  Her breaths are deep, and she appears to be gripping her side like she’s trying to push pain away. “It’ll pass. It always does.”

  “Always does?” I’m momentarily flummoxed. “You’re in pain. That’s more than arrhythmia. Mom, you can’t ignore that,” I state.

  “It’s fine. I put on a few pounds from being housebound. I’m out of shape these days.” There’s a flinch to her eyes as she speaks. Even she knows she’s full of shit.

  I look at my mom’s face. She looks the same as she always has. Her skin is clear, her makeup is flawless, and her hair is as impeccable as expected. I look down at her shirt and realize she looks a little rounder around the middle. Not a lot, but it makes sense why she’s wearing sweat clothes. I kneel and pick up her pant leg to look at her ankles.

  “How long have you had this swelling?” I ask.

  “Please don’t make a fuss about my body like that. I ate Chinese food again last night,” she says.

  I stand up and look at her with a scold. “Mom, you’re wearing clogs. You never wear clogs. When were you going to tell someone about this?”

  Dad and Beth are staring at her, too, looking accusatory and worried. Aiden sits on the counter-height stool and grabs an apple, looking at us without a care in the world about what we’re talking about.

  When Dad takes a step forward toward Mom, he gives her a small plea, “Nightingale.” That’s his nickname for her. He hardly ever uses it in front of us.

  She looks up into his softened gaze and gives in. “I called Thomas this morning. I have an appointment to see him tomorrow.”

  “I work there. Why not just tell me?”

  “Because you worry too much,” she explains.

  “Hi, pot. Meet kettle. And, yes, I worry. You’re my mom. I love you. And, if you are going into heart failure, then that’s something I need to know.”

  “Heart failure?” Dad jumps in surprise.

  “Grandma’s heart is failing?” Aiden drops his apple in devastation. It rolls off the counter and falls to the floor.

  “No. That’s just a term for when your heart isn’t working well. Why don’t you and I go set the table?” Beth takes Aiden off the stool and escorts him into the dining room with her comforting hands on his shoulders. She curves her brows inward as she looks back at us.

  Mom flinches for a moment. Whatever she’s working through in her body right now is not going away.

  I keep my voice calm yet firm. “Go to the hospital.”

  “They will make me stay, and I’m not ready to be poked and prodded.” Her tone is obstinate.

  She has mentioned that she’s tired, and if Dad is saying she’s had these episodes a lot, it means I’ve been lax on monitoring my mother’s health. I’ve been so consumed with Christian and having his baby that I selfishly ignored the signs.

  A pang of inner guilt swells inside of me, but I brush it aside. Now is not about me. I have to get my mom to the hospital.

  “What’s going on?” Brian bellows as he walks into the room, picking the apple off the floor. “Beth just told me to come in here.”

  I give my mom a stern look. She knows damn well that, if she thinks I’m a pain in the ass, Brian can be an even bigger one.

  She closes her eyes and concedes, “Fine. I’ll go after dinner. If they’re going to keep me in the hospital, I will have a good meal first. Now, get me the salt because Beth’s sauce is tasteless.”

  St. Xavier’s emergency room is busy for a Sunday. We check Mom in and sit in triage for an hour while we wait for a bed to open. The only one they have is in a hallway, but it’s enough to get her started on an IV.

  “Why do you keep saying Mom’s in heart failure? She looks fine,” Brian asks when we step out of the way as a nurse takes her vitals.

  “It doesn’t mean her ticker’s stopped beating. Because of her valve, her heart can’t pump blood as well as it should, so it’s working overtime, getting weaker. The kidneys react by causing the body to hold on to water,” I explain. “It’s common with valve disease.”

  With his mouth pinched, he takes in the information and doesn’t say or ask anything else. I know it’s killing him to rely on other people for their expertise. If this were a finance issue, he’d have the facts and figures laid out for the next year. Because he knows little about the human body, he has to just take what information he’s given. I bet he spends the rest of the evening on the web, doing research.

  “What is taking so long to get her a room?” he asks, looking at his watch with clenched teeth. “Can’t Thomas or Christian get her upstairs faster than this?”


  I agree; it’s frustrating as hell. But I know the criteria for admittance in this hospital. “She’s not in immediate distress. They’re going to take someone having a heart attack in first, and they won’t kick a critical patient out of bed just to get Mom up there. Don’t worry. A bed will open, and she’ll be more comfortable.”

  It’s two more hours until Thomas arrives, saying he secured Mom a room upstairs in the coronary care unit. Thank God because, with Brian pacing and the lack of oxygen and windows in this place, I was getting motion sickness.

  “We’ll keep you on an IV of a diuretic called Lasix to get the water out. In the morning, we’ll run tests and see what’s going on,” Thomas says from the foot of Mom’s bed.

  She just nods as he talks to her about her symptoms over the last few days and explains what she can expect in the ones ahead.

  Brian seems annoyed that we went through all this trouble to get Mom up here, only to have her sit and wait. He wants action and answers. I kind of understand and am grateful that he just stands here and grunts instead of saying anything rude to Thomas or the nurses on staff.

  When Thomas leaves, Dad unpacks Mom’s hospital bag, putting her books and magazines in the top drawer and slipping a bag of candy in the second.

  Brian and I are sitting on the heating vent with our backs against the window, being nothing but flies on the wall, watching and worrying. As much as I hate to say it, being a nurse leaves me unprepared for the emotional toll of my mother being in the cardiac care unit of a heart institute.

  I’m chewing on my thumbnail when Christian walks in. My nerves vary when he appears—a little more relaxed because I know he’ll take care of my mom and heightened as I remember what we did the last time we were together.

  I might never look at my kitchen counter the same way again.

  He’s in slacks and a button-down. You’d only know he was a doctor from the hospital ID badge he’s wearing around his neck.

  “I heard we had a new patient up here,” he says with a broad smile, not showing a lick of concern.

  Mom beams when she sees him. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes? I didn’t want to come, but someone”—she thumbs in my direction with a twisted expression—“bullied me here.”