Читать книгу Stir Me Up - Sabrina Elkins - Страница 8

Chapter Four

I’m used to waking up early, so I’m already up, showered and changed by the time Estella raises herself back to a state of awareness the next morning. She stumbles into the bathroom after me and I attempt to make coffee in the little coffeepot. I’m not used to making regular coffee—my father never drinks it, he only drinks espresso. He’s a snob, I know, but he’s a French chef so what do you expect? I started drinking it as well when I was in tenth grade and the class load required a few late study sessions. I fiddle with the thing, plug it in, flip the switch and Estella comes out in a towel and gets dressed. I pour her a cup of coffee and she tastes it and drinks it like it’s fine. “I have to go back to see Julian,” she says. “What will you do?”

“I’ll go with you, and stay in the hallway or the waiting room.”

“You’ll be bored there all day.”

I think she’ll be thrown out of the room inside five minutes, but I say nothing about this. I just tell her I have a book and I’ll be fine.

We head downstairs and it occurs to me Estella didn’t touch the pizza. She hasn’t eaten in a long time. “That free coffee in the room was terrible,” I say as we walk to the hospital. “I wonder if there’s a place where we could get a latte.”

She looks annoyed by this, but I convince her to stop at a coffee shop on the way. I get my latte and order two muffins to go with it and hand her one. She takes it without complaint, so I go get a latte for her as well, and then silently offer myself a major pat on the back. For stealth-feeding of the crazed woman.

“It’s probably just the trauma,” Estella says to herself as I steer her toward a table in the back. “They probably have a psychologist he’s working with who specializes in cases like this. I’m sure there are things they can do.”

I want to stay quiet, but my curiosity finally gets the better of me. “So, do you know what condition he’s in?” I try to ask it very gently.

She looks at me and sighs. “He lost his right leg below the knee, of course. His left femur is broken. He has whiplash and a broken nose and a host of other smaller cuts and contusions. There’s talk of possible mild TBI, traumatic brain injury, but that’s unconfirmed.”

“I’m sorry, Estella. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, I had to get it out.” She is almost crying. “I should have told you before we even left.” The barista is staring at us. I glare back at her. “The thing is, Julian’s really very lucky, not just to have survived, but to have not been caught up in the blast itself.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he was thrown by the force of the second explosion. If he’d been closer to it when it detonated, his injuries would probably have been far worse—shattered limbs, multiple amputations....”

Her voice trails off. Her face is a wall of stress.

“So, the doctors think he’ll recover all right then,” I say, attempting to refocus her on something more positive.

“Eventually,” she says with a sigh, “though he’ll always have the amputation to deal with. He has a surgery today at eleven on his other leg. It’s being fitted with an internal pin.”

“Is he staying in the Marines?”

“He’s receiving a medical discharge.” She looks at me. “You know he’s coming to live with us, right?”

I stare at her, mouth agape. “Um. No. He’s coming to live with us?”

“I thought your father would have told you. He’ll be moving in probably this winter.”

“How long will he stay?”

“As long as he needs,” she answers, fiddling with her cup.

How long is that? I wonder. “Okay, but where is he staying? The house only has two bedrooms.”

“I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you about that,” she says. “You know your room is the only one that’s downstairs. And your shower is the walk-in kind....”

Okay, wait—I’ve had that bedroom all my life. “You’re giving him my room?”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t mind letting him use it awhile.”

“And where do I go?”

“I was thinking we could put a bed up in the alcove for you. There’s a closet there.”

“And no door.”

“No one goes down that hallway. You’d have it all to yourself.”

She’s moving me upstairs into a little storage space that’s down the hallway from the master bedroom. My only bathroom will be the small one she uses with just a bathtub. It has almost no cabinet or counter space, and her stuff fills it completely. “Does Dad know about this plan?”

“We’ve discussed it.”

This is unreal. I say nothing.

“Julian will have a wheelchair and crutches. That’s the main reason.”

“Where will all my stuff go?”

“Different places. You can still keep most of your closet. We don’t have to do this if you don’t want, Cami,” she says.

Where else will her nephew go if I say no to this? It’s my room or nothing. Obviously. The stairs up to the second floor are extremely steep, completely out of the question for someone on crutches. “No, it’s fine,” I say with a frown.

Estella looks at me like I’m an angel. “I knew you’d understand.”

Yeah, like I have a choice.

“I’m glad you’re here, Cami. Your father was right to have you come with me.”

“Thanks,” I say, slightly mollified.

“We’ll make the alcove nice for you, and make sure you have room for your things. You can share my closet. I can give you that whole upstairs bathroom.”

“No, that’s your space. We’ll figure out the bathroom thing somehow. Don’t worry.” Okay, this sucks.

“Good,” she says. “Ready to go?”

We continue our trek to the hospital, but both of us are quiet. Estella’s probably thinking about Julian. I’m thinking about him, and losing my room to him. But also, I’m thinking a little bit about my mother—my real mother. She disappeared from our lives when I was eight. She just left. Because of a man. Because she couldn’t take my father or me, I don’t know. Maybe she just hated Vermont. She never calls us. I have no idea where she is now. Does Estella want to fill that role for me, or is this bedroom thing her way of trying to squeeze me out of her and Dad’s life? She has her son and nephew, her own family. And I’m almost eighteen already. I just can’t tell where I stand with her yet. And now, apparently, we’ll be throwing a wounded Marine into the mix.

“Did Julian join up right after high school?” I ask, out of sheer curiosity. The hospital’s just up ahead.

“Yes, he did. He could have had his choice of colleges, but he made up his mind to enlist.” She sighs. “He’s been in the Marines for almost two years now.”

“He’s twenty?”

“Just turned. Let’s go. I want to find out what’s happening.”

We head inside and make our way back to Julian’s room. As we approach the door, I hear voices and cross my fingers that Julian won’t scream at her again. I don’t care if he screams at me, just not at Estella.

“I have to speak to Julian’s doctor,” Estella says. She looks at me like she’s waiting for me to do something about this.

“Okay,” I say uncertainly. “I’ll see if I can track him down for you.”

She goes into a sort of brief trance and then snaps out of it and enters Julian’s room. I watch her, fearing for her sanity and realizing more than ever that my father was right to have me come with her. When a nurse passes, I ask her if we can see Julian’s doctor. Her answer isn’t very promising. I slip into the room just to share the news that the doctor will come as soon as he finishes his rounds, however long that takes, and Estella turns and Julian falls into my line of vision and I’m horrified all over again. I try to hide it, but I’m not that experienced at masking such huge reactions.

“Hey, Julian,” I say with fake cheer.

Estella forces a smile, and Julian says, “Get her out.” He says it quietly this time. He turns his face away.

“I brought some German chocolate for you,” I tell him. I actually brought it for myself, but I want him to have it. I leave it on the wheelie half table that goes over his bed. “It’s a bit bitter. But very rich.”

Julian’s hand covers his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Estella ushers me out of the room. I’m babbling some kind of apology and she’s humoring me instead of being in the room with him like she wants. I excuse myself, head for the lobby and text Taryn, my best friend who’s currently in Los Angeles studying acting at a prestigious summer arts program.

Guess where I am? I type.

PARIS? She replies. LONDON? CANNES? OMG!!! ARE YOU HERE IN L.A.???

NO, I text her. I’m at the military hospital in Bethesda.

HUH? WHY?

Estella’s nephew’s just been flown in from Afghanistan.

HOT MARINE? she texts.

No! He’s a mess. He lost one leg, broke the other...broken nose...neck brace.

I have to wait awhile for the reply. HOT WOUNDED MARINE??

He’s a TRAIN WRECK and a major jerk. He yells at Estella and throws things.

HOT WOUNDED MARINE—WITH ATTITUDE?? Taryn texts.

I roll my eyes and grin, shake my head. You’re insane, you know this.

SPEAKING OF WHICH, I GOTTA GO BRING ON THE CRAZY (ACTING CLASS ;). WAIT, WHAT DOES HE LOOK LIKE WHEN HE’S NOT A MESS? ACH! STOP DISTRACTING ME WITH STORIES OF HOT, HARD AND WOUNDED PISSED-OFF MARINES! I HAVE TO GO TO CLASS!!!

It feels good to laugh.

Taryn’s crazy—in a great way. Crazy-talented at acting, too. She recently signed with an agent in L.A. who’s sent her on a few auditions, but no big breaks yet. I read my book, and eventually Estella comes in and sits next to me. “Julian is going in for surgery any minute now.” Her face seems to crease up like an accordion, just fold into itself.

“Hey,” I say, as soothingly as I can. “Hey, don’t worry. It’s a good thing. He’ll have a bionic leg. Just think of it.”

“I’m trying not to.”

“It’ll be fine.”

She squeezes my hand. “I have to go back. I don’t want him taken into surgery without me knowing it.”

“I’ll be here.”

“I’ll come get you and we can wait together for him,” she says.

“Sure.”

She goes back to wait with him and I call Luke.

“Hey you,” he says. “How’s it going down there?”

“It’s going okay. I wish I was home.”

“I wish you were home too. How’s what’s-his-name, the nephew?”

“He’s a mess.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean his right calf is missing, and his left leg is broken. He’s in surgery getting it fixed now. It’s awful. He yelled at us both to leave the room. Estella burst into tears.”

“How are you holding up?”

“Fine. Estella took some kind of sleeping pill last night and I was worried she’d killed herself.”

“Yeah, try not to let her kill herself.”

“Thank you. How’s work?”

“It’s lonesome. Boring. All the eye-candy is gone.”

I can’t help but smile. “I’m not eye-candy.”

“Yes you are. Hey, a guest found a pit in the cherry granita last night,” he says.

“Oh no! You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not kidding. Fortunately, she didn’t chip a tooth. Even more fortunately, you weren’t the one who pitted the cherries.”

Oh wow, Dad must be completely losing it. “Who did it?”

“Dave.”

“Did Dad can him?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Yes. And now your father’s going ape over all of us. At least out there you can keep out of the line of fire.”

I knew Dad would be mad as hell. “I’m in a line of fire of my own. That guy Julian hates my guts.”

“He probably doesn’t want to have people gaping at him. Stay away. You don’t know him anyway.”

“True.” I know Luke’s right. I don’t know Julian, and he is hurt, so of course he doesn’t want me around. But does he have to be so adamant about it? I know I shouldn’t take this personally, but I kind of do.

“When you get home, come for the whole night. Don’t leave at six,” Luke says.

Oh no—now he’s asking for the impossible. “How will I manage that?”

“Tell your father you’re spending the night at a friend’s house.”

“Taryn’s not back yet.”

“Tell him it’s with someone else.”

Who? I wonder. It might be nice to not have to wake up and leave his house so early, but not if it means I get caught. “Maybe. We’ll figure something out.”

I say goodbye to Luke, then call Dad to give him the update.

“What’s going on?” he asks. “How’s Estella?”

“She’s fine. So, Julian’s moving into our house with us this winter?”

Dad pauses. “He’s like a son to her, and he’s going to need some help.”

“I heard about the plan to give him my room.”

“There’s no other place he can go, Camille. We have no choice. Think about it from his point of view. How difficult it’s going to be for him to readjust to life now.”

“I know. But still...”

“You’ll be moving out for college next year anyway,” he points out.

Oh no. Not this can of worms again. After letting me train to be a chef for half my life, my father, in all his wisdom, now insists that doing this for a career is too hard and what I need to make sure I have a good future is a college degree. I don’t want to be anything other than a chef. But Dad wants me to have the kind of “flexibility” and “earning potential” I can get by having both a chef’s capability and an advanced education. I think it’s more about him having to drop out of school to work and never being able to go to a university himself. “Can we not get into this now? Sorry, but I have enough to deal with at the moment.”

“Fine. We’ll discuss it later.”

Again. For the millionth damned time. “Goody, I can’t wait. Hold on, Estella just came in.”

I hand my phone to her, telling her it’s Dad, and the two of them talk for a while. I try not to listen to all the “I love yous.” When she hangs up, we go to the waiting room for the families of people in surgery.

This room is insane. It’s full of stress, thick with it. The occupants have that look in their eyes, like they’re watching each minute tick past. “Maybe we should wait in the hall,” I suggest to Estella.

“No. I have to be here in case there’s word.” She flips through a magazine without really looking at it and sets it down again. “Julian’s being adamant about his privacy. He doesn’t want to receive any fanfare or get any press. No hero’s welcome or calls of support. He doesn’t even want to get in contact with old buddies of his who are still at the base.” Estella’s speaking to me, but to herself really. Her eyes are distant. “I think it’s for the best, him wanting to keep everything so quiet. But I’m not sure.”

I don’t know what to say to this. I wish I did. “Vermont’s a good place for privacy,” I finally—and lamely—tell her.

She squeezes my hand and we sit. For what feels like the longest block of time in my entire life we sit. Finally, the doctor comes in and Estella goes over to him.

“He’s in recovery,” she says when she returns to me. Once again, it strikes me that Estella, who’s usually so well put-together, seems frazzled. Her clothes are sloppier, just jeans and a blouse. Her long dark hair is a mess in its ponytail. She’s wearing almost no makeup, other than the mascara she’s rarely without, and this is smeared. Her eyes are puffy and faintly bloodshot.

“Go see him,” I suggest.

She sighs and her shoulders sag. “You come with me.”

“Estella, that’s not a good idea. Julian doesn’t want me near him.”

“But I need the moral support,” she says, and I go with her. We head for recovery and the first thing I see when I spot Julian in the room full of post-surgery patients is that he’s vomiting onto the floor.

Estella forgets I exist. She races to him, finds towels and throws them over the vomit, then wipes his face with more towels. She’s gentle about it. He’s hanging his head over the bed rail and she’s cradling his face, repositioning him back on the pillows. This isn’t even her son, and yet she is a beautiful mother. Suddenly I don’t just like her, I admire her. She’s stepping on the towels—the ones covering the vomit. She doesn’t care. She just wants to smooth his hair and fix his blankets and touch little bits of him.

The nurse comes over and starts taking care of him, and meanwhile Julian takes Estella’s hand and holds it. I turn away and leave them to go back out and wait in the hallway.