Chapter 10

10

GINA

" C ome on, Evil." I tried to coax my pesky feline out from under the bed. Somehow, she knew that we were going to the vet and was determined to thwart me. "You can't take over the world if you're a sick kitty."

Evil darted out from under the bed, making a beeline for the window. I scooped her up and slipped her into the cat carrier, neatly missing all her claws and teeth. It wasn't my favorite pastime either, but as a conscientious pet parent, I wanted to make sure she got her yearly checkups.

At the vet, there were two other people in the waiting room. One gentleman had a dog almost as large as me, who was seated patiently beside him, making no fuss. The other occupant had a parrot in a cage. I went up to the front desk to check in, then took my spot as far away from the massive hound as possible. I wasn't afraid of dogs; I just preferred them to be cat-sized. And I didn't know how Evil would react to such a creature, nor did I want to find out.

After the other customers were called back, it was my turn. I picked up Evil's carrier and took her into the examination room. The doctor was a young woman about my age. She opened the metal grate and reached into the plastic cube to remove my beloved nemesis.

"Evil," the vet said. "That's a funny name."

"Well, she's planning world domination," I explained.

"I see." The vet stroked Evil, gently placing her on the examination table.

For once the cat was behaving herself, and I could see that she was frightened. The exam took less than five minutes, and Evil was all too eager to climb back into the carrier once it was done. I took her home and cuddled for an hour, reading a book on the sofa. She was purring by the time I was done.

Next up on my agenda was to visit my mother's grave.

She had fallen down the steps outside her apartment building one morning—drunk, even so early in the day—and died. They tried to save her. Ambulances had been called, and emergency personnel attempted CPR, but it was a lost cause. I was in college at the time, learning all about addiction and what it could do to the body.

It didn't help the pain, knowing that she had brought it upon herself. I still mourned for her. My brother, George, had just graduated from high school and was still living with her, though his reaction was completely opposite from mine. He wouldn't talk to me or help in any way. The day of the funeral, I could tell he was high. I made one ill-fated attempt to talk him out of his stupor, but he would have none of it.

"Doesn't it make you think?" I pulled him aside at the funeral home, within sight of Mom's casket.

"What?" he slurred.

"Mom died because she was drunk. Aren't you worried that the same thing might happen to you?"

"We can't all be perfect," he spat, ripping his arm away and stumbling off.

That was the last time I had seen him. I was the only competent adult relative, so I became executor of her "estate." It was an estate in legal terms only; she had more debt than money. I also coordinated the funeral, picking out the casket, putting a notice in the paper. Lincoln had been too young to really be of much help. A few people sent flowers. My father and stepmother came to show support for us which meant a lot considering the relationship was strained at the time.

Mom was buried in a nondenominational cemetery about a thirty-minute drive away. I tried to visit at least twice a year, to make sure her plot was cared for. Today I was filling my hours with dreaded chores to avoid thinking about the relationship that I could not have. I resolved not even to think his name outside the confines of the treatment center. Not that it was working. Porter's face still haunted me wherever I went.

I pulled my car out of storage and took a minute to adjust the mirrors. Since I drove so rarely, it always took me a little bit of time to get comfortable in the driver's seat. I turned on the local country music station, maneuvering the city streets until I reached the highway. There was one love song after another, each singer pining for a partner they couldn't have. I switched it off, but the silence was almost just as bad.

My thoughts kept returning to Porter, wondering what he was doing, who was looking in on him. Was he in the gym, down on the floor doing more of those crazy push-ups? The memory of his muscles bunching and relaxing, like ripples beneath the surface, plagued me. His smile came back to me, warm and inviting and just a little bit shy. He didn't suffer from the same malady that most men I had met did. He wasn't overconfident. Life had taught him some hard lessons about his own abilities, and he was struggling to recover.

If he could just see, as I did, how much progress he had made, how much further ahead he was in his treatment than others who had come in with him, then maybe he could develop some self-confidence. I had an overwhelming desire to help him see what I saw. Because, more than an addict who was making a new start or a broken man trying to repair himself, I saw strength and character. He told me how he had saved his friend from drug dealers, how he had gotten sober once before without any help. He went to work every day, not because he wanted to, but because he had made a commitment. Even in the stupor of daily highs, Porter's word meant something.

In frustration, I turned the radio back on again. I flipped channels until I came to the news, learning more than I wanted to about the latest crisis abroad. When the graveyard came into view down a narrow lane, I breathed a sigh of relief.

I chose a parking spot and turned off the engine, climbing out into the sun. It was a beautiful day, not too hot, not too cold. I reached in to grab a bouquet of flowers and a trash bag off the seat. Mom's grave was about twenty yards past the gate, twelfth stone on the left. The remnants of the last batch of flowers I had brought still lay untouched, shriveled and blackened. I scooped them into the trash bag and brushed the dust off Mother's tombstone.

"Oh, Mom." I knelt beside her marker, scanning the cemetery quickly to make sure we were alone. There were a few people visiting their own relatives, but no one within earshot. "I'm in trouble." I paused, imagining her smiling, welcoming me into her arms as she had hardly ever done in real life. "There's a patient that I'm starting to develop feelings for." I exhaled, determined to tell the whole truth. "Starting is the wrong word. I have feelings for him. I don't know what to do. I can't tell anyone, especially not him. If anybody knew…" I put my head down into my palms, letting all the frustration and pent-up tension roll off my shoulders.

"He's so beautiful, and he's kind and funny, and I think he has feelings for me too. But he's an addict and a patient. Mom, what do I do? I can't stop thinking about him." I felt a sob rising from my chest that had nothing to do with Porter. All my life, I'd wished I had a functioning mother I could come to with problems like this. Now, in death, she had almost become more of a confidant than she had been in life.

A breeze stirred the trees in the distance, picking up my hair and whispering across my back. It was like my mom had heard me and was using the wind to comfort me. I could picture her in Heaven, a beacon of light, having shed the chains of alcoholism, restored to her natural self. She was beautiful. I placed a kiss on my fingertips and touched them to the headstone before climbing to my feet.

Driving back to Nashville, I decided to pick up some Thai food at my favorite restaurant. It was too far away to use a delivery app and much too far to walk. Thai food was a treat I only allowed myself when I decided to use the car. And after the day I had, a reward was in order.

Evil and I stretched out on the couch to watch a movie when I got home. The visit to the gravesite had left me feeling hollow and itchy. I wanted to relax, but I couldn't seem to manage it. I texted Cindy to see what she was up to, and I wasn't disappointed.

You want to go dancing? Cindy responded after I explained what I had done that day.

It's a Tuesday , I responded.

Doesn't matter. I'll pick you up in half an hour.

I set the phone down. Sometimes Cindy was too much to handle, but on nights like this, when I really needed to get out of my own headspace, she was a godsend. I boxed up my leftovers and put them in the fridge and changed into my one and only clubbing outfit. It was a tight yellow dress with a big blue belt and these gaudy high heels that I scored at a vintage clothing store. I wasn't actually looking for male attention, but if someone happened to notice and happened to check off all my boxes, that wouldn't be the worst thing.

Cindy picked me up, just as she said she would, a half hour later. Her car was packed. Cindy never went anywhere without a friend or three, so I wasn't surprised. I knew Kara, the girl in the front seat. She worked night shift, but she must have had the day off, like me. There was a man and a woman in the back seat, and I had to squish in beside them.

"Hi, I'm Todd," the man said, offering his hand around the woman between us.

"Gina," I said, grinning.

"Shira." The woman opted for a hug instead, and I took it, eager for the contact.

We stayed out until two in the morning. I offered to be the designated driver, and Cindy didn't wait for me to offer twice. She began pounding back shots at the bar as if there were no tomorrow. I had a thing or two I could have said about working in a treatment center and getting plastered on a Tuesday night, but I held my tongue.

I had a lot of fun. I danced with Todd and with Shira. There was one guy who showed some interest, who wanted to buy me a drink. I explained that I wasn't drinking, and that apparently soured him on the relationship because he walked away. Kara decided to go home with someone she met at the club, so I had only three people to taxi at the end of the night. Todd and Shira were apparently a couple, who lived at the same address, so that left Cindy and me.

"I'll pick up the car tomorrow," she muttered, waving away my offer to spend the night or take an Uber.

I didn't really feel like climbing into a car with a stranger, or crashing on Cindy's couch, so I took the car home and parked it next to my own. Crawling into bed, I finally felt relieved. The night's activity took my mind off my problems, allowing me a glimpse into a world where I could date someone if I desired. Unfortunately, it hadn't been the start of anything new. But it had been fun, and exhausting, and I slept like a baby straight through the morning to the early afternoon.

C indy buzzed my door the next day, wearing dark sunglasses, looking like something the cat dragged in.

"You had to work today?" I gasped.

"I'm fine." She waved off my concern. "Your boy helped us out of a jam in the game room."

"He's not ‘my boy.'" I frowned, knowing instinctively that she was talking about Porter. "What happened?"

"One of the other residents got rowdy, and Porter calmed him down," Cindy shared, moving to the kitchen to rummage through the fridge.

"Rowdy how?" I asked, following her.

"Throwing things, threatening the orderlies." Cindy came up with some orange juice and grabbed a mug from the cabinet.

"Oh my gosh." I selected another mug for myself and put it down next to Cindy's.

She poured juice into both cups. "Yeah. He was smooth. He just went in there, with his arms up like he was approaching a terrorist gunman, and he started talking some crap about cartoon shows, and the guy calmed right down. Porter had him singing the theme song to something or other by the time he was done."

I picked up my mug, laughing. It looked like Porter might have found his calling. Maybe he would come back to the treatment center as a peer counselor. I wasn't sure if liaisons between nurses and peer counselors were above board, but they had to be more acceptable than screwing patients. I frowned, nipping that particular thought in the bud. I really needed to stop thinking of him like that.

By the time my weekend was over, I was ready to go back. Just like the previous "Monday," I woke eager to return to work and see him. It was getting harder and harder to suppress my interest. Now that I had admitted it to my mother, and now that Cindy made it obvious that she knew, I was a little more comfortable acknowledging my feelings. Not that it made any difference. He was still off-limits, but at least I was coming to terms with my own fantasies.

I clocked in and checked the whiteboard. Porter wasn't on my schedule anymore. He had moved beyond needing a dedicated nurse and was close to release. When the next time his name appeared on my clipboard, it would be to say goodbye. The thought gave me pause, but that day wasn't today. He was around somewhere.

I decided a quick visit couldn't hurt, but I took pains to disguise my real intentions by peeking in on other patients first. Mrs. Berger was in her room, sitting straight up in bed. I breezed in, fluffing her pillow, pretending to be interested in how many calories were in the hot dog buns we served. I excused myself after a moment, moving on to Mr. Dyers' room. As my luck would have it, he was there too, fumbling his way through a Stephen King novel. He had so many questions about the plot and the characters, I hunted through his bookshelf for a more appropriate title.

"Why don't you try the Hardy Boys?" I replaced his massive novel with a much smaller one. "It has bigger print, and it's easier to follow."

He frowned, not sure if he wanted to accept the advice.

"This book has a lot of detail," I explained patiently. "I just think you might have a better time if you paced yourself."

"Okay." He settled back with the new reading material, leaving me free to slip away.

Finally, I ducked into Porter's room, knocking on the open door before entering. He wasn't there. I tried not to feel put out. After the ten minutes I had spent pretending to be interested in other clients, I had hoped to be rewarded by his smile. I reminded myself, every patient was important, and I had maybe brightened two days by checking in on people, and that wasn't time lost.

I went about my rounds, keeping an eye open for Porter. I was passing by the bay windows that circled the common area when I saw him. He was outside with a small group of other patients, pulling up weeds. My heart warmed to see him actively engaged. So soon, he would be returning to real life, where he mattered to his friends and the people he worked with. He was going to do just fine, I knew.

I inhaled, storing a picture of him in my memory. Before anyone could accuse me of staring, I moved on. I had rooms to visit and medicine to dispense. I would find him again later this afternoon, and then we could have a real chat. I suspected it would be one of the last times we would be together. Packing all my disappointment deep into my chest, I put a smile on my face and went to work.