3. The Things I’ve Done

EVANGELINE

Idrag my luggage into the kitchen and stop when I see Lottie, but it's too late to back out because she's already noticed me.

"Evangeline!" Lottie smiles, peeking around the refrigerator door, her eyes stopping on my luggage. She finishes placing a carton of milk on the shelf and knocks the door shut with her hip.

"Good morning." I glance towards the front door, willing my rideshare to hurry up and get here.

"Would you like some breakfast? I made scones," she offers in a cheerful tone while ignoring my luggage, at least for now.

I shake my head. "I don't have time."

I don't think I could stomach anything right now anyway.

"Well, surely you have time for a cup of coffee." She doesn't take no for an answer easily, and since my rideshare hasn't arrived yet, I reluctantly take the seat opposite her at the kitchen island.

"Are you going on a trip?" she inquires casually while grabbing a cup from the nearby cupboard.

"Not exactly," I manage to say. "Have you seen Darren?" I ask not so subtly. He left and hasn't come back, which is probably a good thing right now.

"Darren can be difficult," she replies, sliding the cup of coffee towards me, and I'm grateful to have something solid to hold onto. "But he usually comes around."

"Difficult, yes," I nod. "Coming around? Not so sure about that."

"I know it's none of my business," she admits, resting her arms on the island, "but when Will and I got married, I had this silly notion that it would always be like our honeymoon." She offers a small smile. "We had to learn how to be with one another in the real world." She pushes away from the island and finishes putting away the groceries.

"I don't think this is the same situation," I admit, feeling like a fraud – especially with Lottie.

"You're right, it's not. You and Darren got married under very different circumstances," she offers, making me wonder what she knows. "Losing his parents has been difficult for him. I know he pretends that it doesn't bother him, but believe me, it does."

"Some things don't get a pass in the name of tragedy. At some point, you have to grow up," I state, knowing it sounds harsh, but I'm not inclined to make excuses for Darren – especially when I know exactly how he feels about me.

"I know you think I'm making excuses for him. Lord knows Darren can push your limits, but everyone deserves a little grace."

Lottie has a knack for reading people's minds.

"I think you're a better woman than me," I sigh.

"That's not true."

"You don't know me or the things I've done." I doubt Lottie has ever had to make the choices I've had to make.

"We've all done things we're not proud of. Doesn't make you a bad person. It just makes you a person who's had to make tough choices." She reaches out to take my hand, but I pull away. I'm feeling very vulnerable right now, and if I let her touch me, she'll be able to extracts truths I'm not ready to let go of.

Lottie seems to take my silence as a way of agreement, but I stare at the entryway wishing my car would arrive.

"I'm sure he'll be back soon," she tries to reassure me. "You can always work things out."

"That's not what I'm worried about. Even when he does come back, then what?"

"You argue until one of you gives in," she explains. "Then you go upstairs and make love until you forget about what it is you were arguing about in the first place," she states matter-of-factly.

If I had taken a sip of coffee, I might have spit it out all of over the island. Lottie always seems to surprise me.

"I only wish it were that easy," I counter.

The doorbell rings and I slide off the chair. Before I reach my luggage, Lottie stops me by placing a gentle hand on my arm.

"Don't give up on him." I know she cares for Darren deeply, it's evident in the worried expression on her face, but this isn't up to me.

"I have to go." I hesitate for a moment before I give her a brief hug and head for the door.

I shouldn't be emotional over saying goodbye to Lottie, but in the short time I've been here, she's been more of a mother than I've had in a very long time.

It's a short ride to the airport. As we cross the Potomac, I can't help but think of the first time I crossed it, seeing the city I had fantasized about for so long. My hands are shaking, and to stop them, I hold my purse tighter.

I never belonged here, and I was kidding myself if I ever thought I did. I need the money, but it's not worth it. I'll figure something out – I always do.

Just to piss him off, I chartered Darren's private plane. After everything he's done, I figure I deserved at least a nice ride back home.

The driver holds out my luggage and whistles at the plane sitting on the tarmac. "Sure must be nice to have a private jet," he says.

"I'm sure it is, but it's not mine." I hand him what little cash I have on me as the stewardess descends the stairs.

She takes my luggage with a smile. "Welcome aboard, Mrs. Walker."

She says the name so effortlessly… but I'm nothing but a fraud, playing pretend wife in a mansion, boarding a private jet that isn't mine.

Now that I'm on the plane, I'm not so sure it was a good idea.

On the seat is a book. A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway, and a small laugh escapes me. "Asshole," I whisper as I settle in and flip through the pages.

"I'll let you know when we're ready for takeoff," the stewardess says and then disappears.

I hold the book to my nose inhaling the worn pages, and thinking about how many times I've read it. I may not have understood poetry when I was in college, but Hemingway had an immersive way of telling a story that made me feel a part of it; so much so that I already felt like I had been to Paris.

First editions of this book aren't worth an exorbitant amount, and I imagine Darren would have a snarky comment about how Hemingway is undervalued.

It was incredibly sweet of Darren to remember our conversation and get it for me, but that was before. Now, holding it in my hands, I'm not sure what to make of it or how I should feel. The Emerson portrait, the book… everything… it doesn't matter now.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket, and when I look at the caller my stomach tightens.

"Is everything okay with Mimi?" I ask, my pulse quickening.

"She's having a good day today, and she was asking for you," her nurse, Maria, explains immediately, making me feel better.

I used to speak to Mimi every Sunday morning and she'd tell me about her week, like what dessert she had with dinner, and what they watched for movie night. In the last year, she's started to forget who I am. When she puts Mimi on the phone for me, I have to fight back the rush of emotions at hearing her voice.

"Evan, are you taking care of yourself?" she asks sweetly.

"Yes, Mimi."

"You're not overdoing it at the paper, are you? You work too hard."

I hold the phone tight to my ear. "I'm not overdoing it."

"When am I going to get to read something of yours in the paper?" she asks, her voice excited and proud.

I swallow hard before I say, "Hopefully soon. Journalism is very competitive."

I hate lying to her, but most of the time she doesn't remember what I told her, and if it makes her happy to think that I graduated and am now working at a paper, then I'll play along. If she knew what I did to pay for her care she'd never forgive me. Not that she'd judge me harshly, but to know that I'd given up my dreams would destroy her.

"You tell them I said to run your articles," she demands with all seriousness, "or I'll come down there and give them a whack with my cane."

She's been confined to a wheelchair for the last couple of years and hasn't used a cane since then, but I laugh anyway, picturing her poking someone in order to get them to print my fictional article.

"You can't go around threatening people, Mimi."

"Well, why not?"

I giggle. "Because it's not polite."

"Oh pfffft," she says.

I always loved her feistiness.

"I've missed you so much," I say with a shaky voice.

"Well, honey, I've been right here," she says.

"I know." I cover the phone speaker so she doesn't hear me fighting to keep the tears at bay. It's not just her, but this whole situation I've managed to get myself into.

"Oh, honey, Maria wants to talk to you before we hang up. Dirty Dancing is playing tonight and I don't want to miss the Swayze."

I blurt out, "I love you," but she's already handed the phone to Maria.

"She sounded good today."

"She seems to be responding to the new medication Dr. Rakesh has her on, but it's too soon to tell if it will be consistent. Um, Evangeline, Medicare isn't going to be covering the medication anymore."

"Why? If it seems to be helping, isn"t that a good thing? You'd think Medicare would want to prevent having to cover costly treatments if she wasn't on the medication," I bark into the phone knowing it's not Maria's fault, but I have no one else to take my frustration out on.

Dealing with insurance companies and doctors over the years has left me with little patience.

"Honey, the one thing I've learned after all these years dealing with insurance companies is that they'll do anything to avoid having to pay for something."

It's the same experience I've had trying to get Mimi's treatments paid for with no results.

"How much is the prescription?" I have a sinking feeling that it's not cheap.

"I'll have to look it up to be sure, but we're talking at least four figures a month."

It feels like the air has been pushed out of my lungs, and I desperately fight to keep the tears at bay, but I'm tired. I'm tired of swimming against the current. This just might be the last straw that sinks me.

"What do you want me to do?" Maria inquires cautiously.

I lean over my lap just trying to catch my breath; my lungs feel like they're caving in on me.

"Evan?" Maria prods.

I manage to sit up and when I look around the plane, I can't help but notice the opulence – from the elegant lighting, the bar, the TVs, and the leather seats. It looks like you could be in someone's living room instead of a plane.

"Have Dr. Rakesh fill the prescription."

"Your grandmother is so lucky to have you."

"Thank you, Maria," I work to keep my voice even. "I'll talk to you later, I have to go."

I hang up the phone quickly before she can say anything else and hold my head in my hands. The book sits in my lap and I stare at the cover, a picture of the Seine in Paris that blurs with each drop of my tears.

"We're almost ready to taxi, just waiting for clearance," the stewardess interrupts my thoughts.

I quickly wipe the tears from my eyes and spring from my seat. "I can't leave," I say panicked, hoping it's not too late to get off.

"I'm sorry, ma'am?" she asks, confused.

"I have to go." I leave the book on the seat in a rush as I make my way to the door. "I'm so sorry."