This Place of Wonder (53)

This is the memory that floats back to me as I lie on the couch with my broken wrist throbbing, afraid that even an ibuprofen will send me back into the spiral of addiction. Usually, I push away those memories of his good side, but lying in the living room where he reigned so often, listening to the endless sound of the sea coming to shore over and over and over and over, I hold ice on my wrist and let my father rise. In my mind, I can hear him singing in his faint accent, his voice rumbling into my ear from his chest. I can almost feel him holding my small self, and the self I am now, and I suddenly miss him starkly.

Daddy!

I’m alone in the house, and although I’ve been longing for it, now I want my father or Meadow or Rory, someone to love me and take care of me when I feel so crappy. My arm hurts like that devil with his axe is back again. Now, when I need someone, I’ve sent Meadow back to her farm, and Rory has enough to deal with, and my dad is dead.

Dead. How is that possible? How could my big, charismatic, infuriating, charming father be dead, just like that? He’s always taken up so much space in my mind and life that I feel like an earthquake has knocked everything down. Along with, you know, everything else in my entire life.

My brain offers me an image of a tall cold glass of sauvignon blanc. That will help.

And honestly, it would. It would ease my tension. I’d feel less anxious. It would make my wrist hurt less.

I text my sponsor. Bad day at work. Broke my wrist. No drugs, but damn it hurts.

Poor baby! That sounds painful. Why don’t you give me a call?

Maybe later.

The gnawing animal in my wrist and the restlessness in my soul combine to create a symphony of distress. Like a coyote, I want to howl, howl out my fury and sense of loss and pain. I want to make noise about it.

It occurs to me that there’s nothing stopping me. If I want to howl, I can. For a moment, I consider getting up and going to the french doors in a dramatic gesture—roaring out my pain at the moon like an abandoned wolf—but instead I stay right where I am. Resting a comforting hand on my belly, bracing my swelling wrist against my chest, I take in a massive breath and just . . . howl. Howl at the top of my voice, with all my fury and loss, and my fiery arm. I howl and howl, finding release and some strange solace. My voice sails out the open french doors and into the night.

A noise makes me sit up straight, too fast, sending agony through my arm. I grab it to my chest, and call out, “Who’s there?”

“Me.” A woman comes out of the kitchen. She’s the woman from the café, the long-haired woman who was so kind, but I cannot figure out what she’s doing here. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

I peer at her, trying to fit the pieces together. “How . . . What . . . ?”

“I’m sorry,” she says, again, coming into the room. “I just have to pour this out all at once. I heard you crying and wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Heard me?”

She holds up her hands. “Wait, let me just spill it all. It will be easier. Then you can call the cops or whatever.” She’s barefoot, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a braid, and she sinks down to the ottoman in front of me. Up close, I notice again that she’s remarkably beautiful, and oddly familiar. “My name is Norah Rivera. I was your dad’s girlfriend, living here with him when he died.”

I blink.

“Your mom kicked me out when you were getting out of rehab, and I didn’t have any money or anything because I’m a student and I came out here to write about Meadow, but then I got mixed up with your dad, and—” She breaks off. “Ugh. Anyway, I’m sorry, but I snuck back in and I’ve been living in the room off the garage.”

Her words have gone into my brain, but not one single bit of it makes sense. “I don’t get it,” I say.

“I know. Let me get you some more ice,” she says. “And ibuprofen?”

“No,” I say. “I can’t.”

“Sure? Is it the recovery thing? I’m pretty sure ibuprofen is okay.”

“It’s not recovery I’m worried about,” I say. I feel high even though I’ve had nothing. Is it serotonin or oxytocin or some other brain response to pain? Whatever, it’s strange and I can’t really think straight. “Turns out I’m pregnant.”

For a long moment, she stares at me. “Wow.” She plucks the Ziploc out of my hands and goes to the kitchen. The ice maker in the fridge grinds out its product and she brings it back to me, competently picking up my arm by the cast and placing it on the bag on the arm of the sofa. “Is that comfortable?”

“Yes.” I tug the comforter around me, and it unexpectedly releases a scent I can’t name but I know belongs to my dad. Tears sting my eyes again, and it’s ridiculous. I let my head fall back. “Thank you.”

“How about a cup of tea? Unless Meadow got rid of it, I kept a bunch of different ones.”

“I think they’re still there.” The ice starts to cool the cast, and thus my wrist, and the pain starts to subside. “I’d love something, anything, with lots of honey.”

She lifts a finger. “I know just the thing. And how about some music, something easy? It sometimes helps me stop thinking.”

The situation is completely weird, but at the moment, I don’t care. It’s like I rubbed a magic lamp and out came a beautiful jinn to take care of me. “Yes, please.”