Coda (Songs of Submission #9)(23)

I went blind, reaching for him, everything shut out but the sounds of the beeping machines, the stench of alcohol, the shadowed lines of the blinds falling across his white face in the afternoon.

Hands on me. Strong arms, and the sounds of the room pierced the veil of terror.

Laughter. A few dozen people laughing hysterically, and a collective awwww.

Jonathan held me up, looking at me with a smile.

“You *!” I said.

“Come on,” he said. “It was funny.”

“No, it wasn’t,” I whispered softly so he’d know I was serious. I dropped my register and changed my inflection to sound like him when he didn’t want an argument. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

“I think it was that bite of chimichuri.” He rubbed his stomach and smiled.

I didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile. Didn’t give him anything but ice cold anger.

He looked pensively at me, pressing his lips together, before he said, “I’m sorry.”

I was still shaken. I couldn’t forgive him. Not yet, and luckily I didn’t have to, because Leanne put a drink in my hand.

“Thanks,” I said.

“He’s a f*cker.” For a fashion designer, Leanne usually dressed in clothes that were no more exciting than the average plain Jane’s, and to be honest, she was kind of a slob. But that day, her jeans were rippling with shades of blue and the creases in her hands were deep indigo.

I swished the drink. It was a yellow, juicy thing with ice. Behind me, Jonathan gladhanded and laughed.

“What happened to your hands?” I asked.

“We’re doing denim tie-dye in India.” She indicated her jeans, which went from deepest indigo to pale sky in irregular patterns.

“Hm,” was all I said.

“Not perfected yet, obviously. And it’s messing with the sideseams.” She grabbed her belt loops and yanked up her pants.

“God, I wish you’d brush your hair,” Margie said to Leanne from behind me.

Leanne’s bracelets jangled when she extended her silver-ringed middle finger at her sister. They tormented each other for a few more seconds, Drazen-style, and I twisted around to look for Jonathan. I found him chatting with Eddie and another guy, perfectly happy, no chest pain, arms gesturing without stiffness. He wasn’t having a heart attack.

As if summoned by my attention, he looked at me through the crowd and winked.

Asshole.

Gorgeous *.

I excused myself and went to the kitchen. Staff buzzed around, slapping the oven open and shut, speaking the language of waitstaff I knew all too well. Eileen Drazen stood by the sink in sensible tan pants and a jacket, throwing her head back as if she’d just taken a pill. She sipped whiskey and turned around.

“Hey,” I said. “How are you doing?”

I reached in the cabinet for a glass. She and I had met under terrible circumstances, and once I understood that, and she understood that I wasn’t after her son’s money, she was still made of ice. But at least she was only cold, rather than cold and dismissive.

“Fine. You?”

“I’m getting over the psychotic break I nearly had a few minutes ago.” I filled the glass from the fridge door.

“Yes. On the scale of inappropriate jokes, that was deep in the red. You should make him suffer for it.”

“Where’s Declan?” I wanted to avoid him. He’d laughed off the three-doctors incident as simple misinformation, and I didn’t have a fact to hold against him. Sure, he could have innocently told me three doctors exiting the operating room meant the patient had died because he’d thought it was the case. To a certain extent, it was true. But it had been two doctors and a patient advocate. So that was explainable. And he might have not known that the anesthesiologist was expected to sit through the entire transplant to manage the induced coma and, thus, would exit with the other doctors. Sure. It was all plausible. But his smile of satisfaction when I dropped? That was totally subjective and completely real.

So like the rest of his children, I simply didn’t trust him.

“My husband’s around.” Eileen waved her ring-thick hand. “Everyone is here somewhere. I lose count of all of them.”

“Have you seen Leanne’s jeans?”

I said it to get a reaction, and she shuddered as if it was scandalous. My mother-in-law was such a backward prude that sometimes I wondered if it was all an act to protect a burning sexuality.

“I think they’re cute,” I said, sipping my water.

“You would,” she said without reproach. “I’ve learned to stop concerning myself with my children’s tastes. They get away, and then, poof, they’re not your responsibility. They’re just people who invite you over for holidays.”

I nodded.

“How many does he want?” Eileen asked.

“Ten or more,” I said, putting my empty glass in the grey bus pan.

Eileen barked a little laugh. “Men.”

“Yeah.”

“They figure if they have the money for a staff, they can breed to their heart’s content.”

“You didn’t want eight kids?”

“I wanted seven. Though the eighth?” She shrugged with a smile. “He’ll do. It was nice to have a boy. Broke up the catfights over who used the last of the conditioner.”