The Good Nearby Page 14

  “That’s sweet of you, Margery, and I may take you up—” Gladys came close and touched her hair, obviously noticing it for the first time. “You cut it.”

  Margery fingered the nape of her neck. “Do you like it?”

  “It’s kind of cute. Bouncy.”

  “It’s easy care.”

  Gladys laughed and pulled out a hank of her frizzy red do. “At least you can do something with yours. Mine has a mind of its own.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Margery said.

  “It is what it is.” Gladys started to walk away, then turned back. “Oh. What I was going to tell you was that I arranged for an alarm company to come in next week to install alarms on both doors. We’ll need a code to get in.”

  “Code?”

  “Keypad. I should have done it a long time ago. A pharmacy is too big a temptation nowadays.” She straightened a Sale sign on some Bayer aspirin. “And if you don’t mind, I think I’ll be keeping the code to myself for a bit. No offense, but until I get used to it, until I feel safe again, I think it’s best King and I are the only ones responsible. I hope you understand.”

  “Of course.” Margery understood perfectly. She had an iffy reputation because she’d tried to steal from Gladys.

  Yet not having the code affected her life in more drastic ways: the access to her shower had just been cut off.

  As had her hair. She’d cut off her hair for nothing.

  * * *

  Angie handed her credit card to the clerk. She noticed the young woman’s name tag: Margery. She looked at the girl with new eyes. Was this the babysitter Talia had talked about? There weren’t that many Margerys in the world.

  “Excuse me, but do you babysit for Talia Soza?”

  The girl’s eyes flashed. “Little Tomás, yes. I babysat for Talia last night.”

  “I’m Talia’s mother. The baby’s grandmother.”

  Margery shook her hand vigorously. “I’m so happy to meet you. Tomás is such a good little boy. Very sweet. And I bet you’re excited for the new baby.”

  “Very.” Angie signed the charge slip as Margery sacked her purchase.

  “Are you going on a trip?” Margery asked.

  Angie didn’t understand.

  Margery held up a travel-sized bottle of shampoo. The entire sack was full of trial-sized toiletries.

  Angie laughed. “Those are for the homeless shelter. I ran out of hotel freebies to donate. I guess my husband and I need to go on another trip.” She shook her head. “I can’t imagine being homeless.”

  “Oh, I can,” Margery said. “Not to have a place to sleep, to eat, to spend your time. My heart goes out to them.”

  “That’s why I volunteer at the shelter.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Whatever needs doing. A lot of times I serve meals. And talk to the people.”

  “I bet they’re lonely.”

  Angie blinked. This was not the usual reaction. Most people nodded politely and said, “That’s nice.” But it was obvious Margery knew loneliness personally. And upon further study, there was a glow of compassion in her face. Angie decided to take a chance. “I’m going to serve lunch there tomorrow with a high school girl I’m mentoring. Would you like to come with us?”

  Margery hesitated, then said, “I think I’d like that.”

  “I’ll pick you up. What’s your address?”

  Margery fumbled the sack and nearly sent all the toiletries to the floor. She gathered the handles and handed them to Angie. “To make things easier, why don’t you pick me up here.”

  “Quarter to eleven, then.”

  What a nice young woman. No wonder Talia likes her.

  * * *

  Gennifer didn’t usually go into work on a Saturday, but with the way things were at home . . .

  She got out a file and had just read the first paragraph when she heard a noise, looked up, and saw her boss, Charles Chasen, in her doorway.

  “Gennifer.”

  “Hello, Mr. Chasen.” He was wearing a plaid shirt under a jeans jacket. She’d never seen him in anything but a suit. “I have a lot of work so I decided to come in and—”

  He held up a hand. “You will never hear me complain about someone working hard. Carry on.”

  She looked down, then realized he was still in the doorway. “Yes?”

  “Since you’re here . . . I’d like a chance to talk to you about your schedule issues.” He looked at his watch. “I have a few phone calls to make. Why don’t you stop into my office in a half hour or so. Would that work for you?”

  “Sure.”

  When he left her Gennifer felt her heart race into panic mode. With this one exchange, another problem was added to her burden. Charles Chasen was the partner who’d cornered her about coming in late three days a week. She’d lied and told him Sarah needed a ride to tutoring on those days, and had planned to come up with a better excuse. But with the Douglas-and-the-necklace fiasco she’d forgotten all about it. She couldn’t get to work before nine because . . . ?

  A blank.

  She leaned her elbows on her desk and massaged the back of her neck. This was just great. Her health was bad and going to get worse, her marriage was in trouble, her daughter couldn’t stand the sight of her, and now her career was teetering on the edge of a cliff.

  So why fight it?

  Gennifer grabbed a few dollars from her purse and strode to the vending machines in the office kitchen. It was like viewing a cornucopia of forbidden delights. She chose some potato chips, a Snickers bar, and a carton of chocolate milk. She returned to her office, leaned back in her chair, and put her feet up. Her ankles were swelling, as they often did between dialysis sessions. She opened the bag of chips and pulled out the first one. It was folded over, her favorite kind. She turned it around, studying its lusciousness. How long had it been since she’d had chips? The dialysis diet was a bore: high protein, low carbs, low sodium. She was lucky she wasn’t diabetic or they would’ve taken sugar from her too. She moved the Snickers close, as well as the carton of milk. They were next.

  She wasn’t really hungry. Her appetite had also been a casualty of the disease. This wasn’t about hunger; it was about the other kind of appetite—desire. Comfort. Decadence. It was about drowning her troubles in what used to be her four favorite food groups: fat, sugar, salt, and chemicals.

  So there.

  She carefully laid the chip on her tongue and enjoyed the tingle of the salt against her taste buds. Then the crispy crunch. Ahhh. This was the life.

  Not anymore. You’re going to pay for this Monday. Your electrolytes, minerals, and fluid measurements are going to be way off at dialysis. They’ll know you were a bad girl, and your body is going to rebel.

  So be it. The way she was feeling, rebellion of body might as well join the rebellion of her spirit, her emotions, and her intellect.

  She cracked open the milk and took a big swig.

  * * *

  Charles Chasen stood when Gennifer entered his office. “Have a seat,” he said. “Glad you could make it.”

  Was that a cut?

  Charles settled in behind the desk. “Well then.”

  She smiled and nodded.

  He picked up a pen. “How’s the car situation going with your daughter?”

  Fine collided with We’re working on it smashed into . . .

  The truth.

  What else could she do? Her job was important to her. With her marriage and family in mutiny mode, she didn’t have the strength to battle her career too. Maybe if she surrendered a smidgen of her coveted control to one, she would gain it back elsewhere.

  Charles’s face reflected her hesitation. “Is there a problem?”

  “Yes.” She crossed her legs and adjusted her khakis so they wouldn’t wrinkle. “And no.”

  He set the pen aside. “Go on.”

  Gennifer took a deep breath. “I’ve been lying to you about my reason for being late three days a week.”

  His eyes hardened.
“Oh?”

  “The truth is, I have a kidney problem. Renal failure they call it. I’m on dialysis those mornings.”

  “Is that where they hook you up and clean out your system?”

  “Pretty much.” Since sympathy was vital, she added, “I need the procedure to survive.”

  “Oh my,” Charles said. “I’m so sorry.”

  She shrugged, and actually liked the feeling of being the victim—the brave victim. This wasn’t as bad as she’d expected.

  He picked up his pen again. “So . . . how do you feel?”

  Gennifer thought about her junk-food binge, but honestly could say, “At the moment, I feel fine.” She uncrossed her legs and leaned toward his desk. “This does not and will not affect my work. The dialysis is successfully keeping everything under control. I’m fine. Really.”

  “What about a transplant? I was reading an article about those and—”

  Yes. That. “I’m on a list.”

  “Good.” He pointed his pen at her. “It’s your duty to cover every base, grab on to every alternative.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Please know that when the time comes, we’re with you. You can take all the time you need.”

  “I can?”

  “Of course.” Chasen stood and came around the desk toward her. He pulled her into an awkward hug, then let go. “You’re a valued member of this firm, Gennifer. We’ll stand behind you. Just let us know what you need.”

  She felt tears threaten. She had not expected simple kindness. “Thank you. I appreciate—”

  He pointed a finger at her, looking very much like a father chastising a child. “But no more fake excuses.”

  “Agreed.” They shook hands; then she added, “I’d appreciate if you kept this between us, Mr. Chasen. At least for the time being.”

  He hesitated just a moment. “I think we can do that. And speaking of others . . . how are your husband and daughter taking it?”

  The lie came quickly. “They’re very supportive.”

  * * *

  Gennifer entered her office in a far different mood from the way she’d exited fifteen minutes earlier. The burden that had been weighing her down was lighter now, and she was amazed at how good it felt to have someone know her secret.

  Even if it wasn’t her family.

  The pity she’d so frantically avoided had not been condescending or embarrassing. Charles Chasen had shown true concern and a willingness to help. Maybe—just maybe—Douglas and Sarah would respond in kind.

  Maybe it was time to tell them.

  She’d have to think about it.

  * * *

  Talia liked the Garden Atrium at the hotel where she worked. It was an open-air inner courtyard dotted with planters and benches, its greenery carefully maintained by the hotel staff. It was often booked for small receptions—when weather permitted.

  Which left out today. Talia buttoned her coat and lifted the collar before taking out her PB and J sandwich. Good thing she was wearing pants and leather boots.

  No, the good thing was, she was alone. She wasn’t fit for human consumption today. Snappy, moody, with no patience whatsoever. She’d come this close to hanging up on a difficult client. That’s when she’d grabbed her coat and lunch and escaped into the cold.

  Cold Talia. Cold.

  The memories of last night’s aborted dinner with Nesto, with his ending up sleeping in his recliner . . . where was her empathy? Where was her common sense? Of course the man would talk about TV shows. He needed someone to talk to. Who was she to judge if his subject choices were good enough? And of course he wanted to pay for the check.

  Of course she’d blown every point.

  She took multiple bites, cramming her mouth with sandwich—if only it were a half-pound burger with the works. She shook her head, making crumbs fall. In disgust, she tossed the rest of her sandwich into a planter nearby.

  “Halt! No littering allowed!”

  It was Wade. She chewed furiously, covering her mouth with a hand, the peanut butter and soft bread making the process difficult. “I didn’t hear you come out.”

  “You were too busy desecrating company property.” He retrieved her discarded sandwich and opened it. “Peanut butter.”

  She swallowed with difficulty. “With apple jelly. I get tired of hotel food.” Expensive hotel food.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Sorry. Actually, I felt the need for some comfort food.” She patted her very pregnant belly. “It’s for the baby.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I had one of these.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  He shocked her by brushing a piece of dirt off the bread and taking a bite. He chewed thoughtfully. “Not bad.”

  “I have another half I’ll share with you—minus the dirt.”

  “I’ll take you up on that.” She scooted over and he sat on the bench beside her. She tore the sandwich in two and offered both sections. He took the smaller one.

  “So. Why the cold-weather picnic?”

  Talia realized Wade was wearing only his suit coat. She stood. “You must be freezing. You need to go inside.”

  He took her hand. “I’m plenty warm. Sit.”

  Once she was seated again he did not let go but placed their clasped hands on his knee. “You’re having a bad day.”

  She laughed softly. “You noticed.”

  “Mr. Collins called back and asked if something was wrong.”

  And to think she’d almost hung up on him . . . “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t let my problems affect my work.”

  “No, you shouldn’t. But it’s not surprising you do.”

  She yanked her hand away and stood. “Because I’m an emotional woman? Because I’m not as professional as a man would be? Because—”

  “Because you have a husband who’s critically ill. Because you’re having to deal with dealing alone.”

  She felt like a complete fool and sank onto the bench. “Sorry. Again. I wish I had a button I could push that would light a Sorry sign on my forehead.”

  “It would save time.”

  Talia relished the levity. She hadn’t had enough levity. Hadn’t had enough . . . of a lot of things.

  “Anything I can do?” Wade asked.

  Unfortunately, the initial answer to his question involved one of the not-enough issues in her life. She set that aside and said, “Just do what you’re doing. Tolerate me. Listen to me. Don’t fire me.”

  “I can handle that.” Wade stood. “I’ll leave you to your lunch.”

  “I’m done.” She packed up the brown sack, choosing company over solitude.

  * * *

  I can’t believe I did that. I can’t believe I ran out of gas.

  Talia pulled into their driveway and stopped with a squeal of the tires, shoved the gearshift into park, and got out of the car. She stormed up the front walk, then suddenly realized she’d left Tomás in the backseat.

  She tried to ignore the niggling feeling in her stomach. Running out of gas, then leaving her child strapped in the car were mistakes that heralded something far more serious, far deeper than her normal harried state of mind. The only blessing had been the fact she’d run out of gas before picking her son up at day care. She never would have been able to walk the three blocks to the gas station with him in tow.

  Talia didn’t need to use her key. Nesto met her at the door. “Where have you been?”

  Usually she’d be quite willing to play the martyr by listing her woes. But not today. “Don’t ask.”

  “I was ready to call the police.”

  She unzipped Tomás’s jacket. “We’re not that late.”

  “Over an hour.”

  “I ran out of gas.” She didn’t mention forgetting Tomás in the car.

  “Why didn’t you call?”

  She didn’t want to admit her cell phone was dead. She’d forgotten to recharge it. “Sorry.” She tossed the jacket and her own coat on the
back of the couch, went into the kitchen, and turned on the oven. “I made a casserole this morning. I’ll preheat the oven and we’ll be eating in forty-five minutes.” She backtracked to the stairs. “Take care of Tomás while I change.”

  Talia didn’t wait for him to object. Not that he would. But she didn’t want anything to stop her from getting inside her room where she could close the door and . . .

  Fall on the bed.

  She closed her eyes. Maybe after a quick nap she’d wake up and be happy and kind and—

  Mmmm. Sleep . . .

  Talia’s eyes shot open. She held her breath, unsure what had yanked her from her sleep.

  “Talia! Come down here!”

  She was on the stairs in seconds. Tomás was standing in a corner by his father’s recliner, biting on the corner of a board book. He looked at her, then toward the kitchen.

  It was only then, when she allowed herself a full breath, that she noticed a horrible smell emanating from that room. A foreign, nonfood type of smell.

  She found Nesto in the kitchen with the oven door open, smoke rolling out.

  “The Tupperware melted!”

  Even as Talia was telling herself this was not possible, she saw the ocean of red plastic covering the bottom of the oven as well as the red stalactites hanging from the metal rack. Lemon mini-muffins dotted the top of the rack like survivors of a sinking ship.

  “Did you check the oven before turning it on?”

  Obviously not. And she always checked the oven. Her mind leapfrogged guilt and zeroed in on finding a solution. She grabbed hot pads and removed the rack, carefully balancing the unlucky muffins. “Open the door!” she told her husband. From the back stoop she tossed the hot rack into the grass.

  Inside, she left the back door open to air out the place and tried to think of something she could use to scrape up the goo. She opened the utensil drawer and found a stainless-steel baker’s scraper and grabbed the morning newspaper sitting on the counter. “Move!” she said to Nesto. She set the papers on the opened oven door and began scooping up the red mess with the scraper, transferring it to the newspaper.

  “Don’t get burned,” Nesto said.