F*ck Marriage(59)

“Yes,” I say.

Her face lights up and I wonder how hard that part is for Billie, taking the fall for the end of the marriage, being the bad guy to her parents.

“That’s nice,” she says again.

Her voice sounds far away, like it’s not part of this room, or Billie, or even New York. She’s here because she has to be, I think. This is what Billie grew up with, this person ... this parent. I think about my own childhood, my own parents.

Jennifer and Jeff Gable, who have an abundance of emotion, especially when it comes to their children. We are a talk-it-out family, and I can guarantee that if I were the one lying in the hospital bed, my entire family would have flown in the first night, including all six of my sisters. They’d all be fighting, but they’d be here.

“Is Mr. Bolster here?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “He had to stay behind to take care of the house.” Her voice is airy, barely there.

The house. Weak. Not a dog, or an ailing parent, or even a job—none of which are worthy of not being here for your daughter. The house. Something that doesn’t need taking care of. I glance at Billie and my gut twists into a knot.

I have a dozen more questions for her, but I can tell she’s already checking out of the conversation. I want to stay with Billie, but I feel awkward being here ... especially since I’ve just discovered how much I dislike her mother.

“Are you staying nearby?” I ask finally.

She shakes her head. “I have a red-eye flight tonight. I’ll stay here with her for a few more hours.”

“Tonight? But Billie hasn’t even woken up…”

She frowns at my proclamation like she doesn’t care to hear it.

“I can’t stay away for much longer ... Steven…” Her voice trails off at the end of her excuse, too weak to verbalize.

I say the only thing I’m thinking, the only thing that matters. “Billie needs you.”

She looks at Billie then and I notice that she’s still clutching her purse, the knuckles of her fingers white like she’s afraid someone is going to rip it from her grasp right here in the hospital. Big, bad New York. Always the villain to outsiders.

“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head.

And I don’t know if she’s saying sorry to me, or Billie, or the room in general. I glance at my watch, a ploy to leave the room before I tell this woman what I think of her.

“I have to go,” I say with a brief nod.

And then I leave before she can respond. It’s the holidays, I tell myself. She probably doesn’t want to be away from home for the holidays. But even as I try to smooth over Mrs. Bolster’s transgression, I can’t. Billie is her family.

I decide to go back to my condo and wait it out. The fact that Billie hasn’t woken up yet is a heavy weight around my heart. I want to be there when she does wake up. A couple of hours after I leave Mrs. Bolster at the hospital, I meet Jules for dinner. I didn’t want to come, but with Jules leaving for home in the morning, I feel obligated to see her one last time. I’m so distracted I can’t focus on anything she says to me.

“Satch, did you hear me?”

I set down my fork, which I’ve been holding without actually eating anything.

“No. I’m sorry,” I say.

“You’re worried about Billie, aren’t you?”

I don’t answer. It seems fairly obvious. We have plans to go to the hospital after our meal, but I’m dreading it.

I’ve become accustomed to holding back my feelings about Billie—careful constraint, an aloof tone when I speak to or about her, the way I’ve trained my eyes to only spill over her slightly so that no one notices. With her lying bruised in a hospital bed, it’s harder to remain neutral. The only way I know how to deal with her question is to ask one of my own.

“Aren’t you?”

“Of course,” she says.

I tell her about seeing Billie’s mother at the hospital, how she said she had to get back home instead of staying with her daughter who is in a coma.

“Maybe there’s something we don’t know,” she suggests. “A family sickness, or Billie’s dad may not know how to use the microwave.”

She’s trying to lighten the mood, but I flinch anyway.

“You’re probably right about the microwave,” I say. I’ve drunk more than I’ve eaten. “Fuck,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “I’m drunk.”

Jules looks nonplussed. She looks at her phone. “Satcher…”

“Yup…”

“She’s awake.”

I stand up so suddenly the table wobbles, spilling my full glass of water. I toss bills on the table ... forty ... sixty ... eighty. Our dinner didn’t cost that much, but I don’t want to wait for the check. Jules grabs her jacket and scarf, and we’re out the door less than four minutes later.



When we get to the hospital, Woods is already there waiting outside Billie’s room. I tense up. I shouldn’t have drunk as much as I did. I peer through the glass and see several nurses around her bed. I can’t see anything but Billie’s feet, a lump underneath the sheet. My mouth carries the bitter aftertaste of bourbon.

“What are they doing?” I ask gruffly. And then—“Where’s her mother?”