Beautiful Graves, page 7
“Dom?” I ask.
He stops, cocks his head, until the penny drops. “Oh. Lynne. Hey.”
I cringe at the name he gave me. Now’s not the time to tell him I despise the nickname, though.
We stand in front of each other, me with my plastic bag dangling from my fingertips, him with his soul bleeding all over the floor between us.
“Everything all right?” I peer into his face.
“Yeah, I’m . . .” He looks around us, pushing his fingers through rich strands of chestnut locks. “I will be all right. I’m having a night. That’s all.”
“What happened?”
I’m aware that we have an audience in the form of Cashier Guy, but I don’t care. Dom looks off.
“Oh, it’s nothing.” He grabs a bag of chips, then slams it on the checkout counter. “Normal life stuff. Here. I’m getting fucking chips. Happy?” he asks the cashier.
“No, tell me.” I stay rooted in place. I’m not going to be an asshole twice tonight. I let Dad down. I’m not failing this guy too. Especially after the solid he did for me.
Not when I was thinking earlier how we all have a Virginia Woolf inside us. Someone who wants to fill their pockets with rocks and disappear into a lake.
Dom gives me a once-over. His smile hangs on his face like a half moon. Sad and incomplete. “I lost a patient today. She was nine.” The last word is barely audible as Dom’s voice breaks. I feel my heart ballooning to a monstrous size, then popping right there in my chest. I grab his hand and pull him from the cashier and from the pitiful bag of chips and from the convenience store. Far away from this place, with the static lights and stained linoleum floor.
“Come with me.”
“Who’s the axe murderer now?” he asks tiredly, but he doesn’t resist. For all his strength and muscles, his hand is limp and cold in mine. He follows me.
“I’m going to feed you something that’s not chips, and then I want you to tell me everything about your shift.” I stop for a beat, then add, “And then I am going to kill you. Don’t worry, I’ll dump your body somewhere exotic.”
He laughs weakly, because he has to, but he still laughs, which is what I was aiming for.
I shove him into my Chevy. I untuck the gas pump and start driving. We split a sleeve of Oreos, and I engage him in light small talk. Where did he go to college? (Northeastern for undergrad, Boston College for his nursing degree.) What’s his favorite color? (Purple.) If he could date one celebrity, who would it be? (Probably Kendall Jenner, though he reserves the right to switch to Zendaya.)
He answers my questions, subdued. I head to Wendy’s, where I buy him a Baconator burger with a side of fries, a Frosty, and chili. Okay, the chili is actually so I can have the crackers that come with it. I park in the joint’s parking lot and take the food out, then lean against the hood of my car. Dom joins me. I pass him his food.
“How long had she been there?” I ask.
He knows exactly who I’m talking about. The nine-year-old. He hangs his head, shaking it. I can’t see his face, but I know that he is crying. “Three months. It was horrible, Lynne. There was nothing we could do. Nothing I could say to her. And she was such a trooper. Strong, courageous, engaging. She tried to fight it with all she had. You should’ve seen her.”
“Dom.” I’m surprised by how deeply sad I feel for him, for her. Both of them are practically strangers to me. “I’m so sorry. Please eat. Tell me everything, but eat too.”
Dom takes a tentative bite of a french fry, just to appease me. His dim eyes zing when the salty fried potato hits his taste buds. He grabs two more and shoves them into his mouth. I think he is starting to succumb to his hunger, which is a good thing. It would make me very unhappy to know Dom, like me, is used to forgetting to eat. Though I cannot imagine it to be the case, based on how buff and healthy he looks.
“Was it . . . did she . . . ?” I don’t know how to ask the question. Thankfully, Dom knows exactly what I’m trying to say. He takes a pull of the milkshake before passing it to me. I put the straw in my mouth and suck, like it’s normal. Like sharing drinks, saliva, and secrets with beautiful men is something I do on a regular basis.
“No. She couldn’t really feel anything. She was in a medically induced coma. Her systems started shutting down in the afternoon, one after the other. It was the worst shift I’ve ever had. It was like watching a church being burned down, section by section. The fire consuming everything—the Bibles, the pews, Jesus on a cross.”
I close my eyes, picturing it. A chill runs down my spine. You don’t have to be religious to want to throw up.
Leaning back against the hood of my car, Dom grabs his burger and takes an enormous bite. I rub at his arm, knowing words are meaningless right now.
He rips another piece of his burger with his teeth. His jaw ticks sharply each time he takes a bite. “And all I was thinking as I watched her losing the battle to this disease was that . . . there’s so much bullshit in the world, you know? Right now, at this very moment, there’s a tabloid columnist writing a nasty piece about a pop star just because they can. Because it’s cool to hate on celebrities. A politician plotting to ruin a colleague standing in their way to the presidency. A girl crying into her pillow because she cannot afford a fucking Gucci bag. When all the while, people are losing their lives and would happily sign on for a Gucci-less existence. I know there’s this whole thing about not minimizing people’s problems, but fuck it, I feel like some things should be minimized, you know? Yeah, being an Afghan refugee trying to escape a horrible fate is a bigger problem than not getting asked by your crush to prom, and I’m tired of pretending all troubles were born equal when obviously that’s not the goddamn truth!”
Proportions. Dom’s got them in spades. I now understand why he is in a choir and a book club and does CrossFit and goes to the movies twice a week. He knows better than anyone how fragile life is.
“Don’t expect the world to be fair. It’s a lost battle. What you’re doing is amazing. The way you help those kids . . . I mean, I don’t know why anyone would put themselves through this, but I’m glad the world has Doms in it,” I say.
He finishes the burger in three bites before washing it down with the milkshake. The color is back to his cheeks. He still looks sad, but not sickly anymore.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t really have a choice.” He grimaces.
“What do you mean?”
He grabs the wrappers and disposes of them in a nearby trash can. It gives me time to admire his body in the scrubs. I know I shouldn’t. I know it’s not the time. But I can’t help but feel a pang of desire when I think about what’s under his uniform. Then he’s back next to me, ready to tell his story.
“When I was five years old, I was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia. The most common blood cancer among children.”
I feel like he’s punched me in the gut. I actually fold over a little. Dom, beautiful and big and tall and sturdy Dom, had leukemia? How could it be?
“I’m sorry,” I say dumbly. Humbly. What else can you say in this situation?
He nods. “It was actually a pretty by-the-book case. A story with a happy ending, as you can guess. I got chemotherapy right away. Went into induction. Four weeks later, I started going into remission. We weren’t out of the woods for a few years, though. It was a whole process. The interim maintenance, the checkups, the wait for the results to come back each time. Sleepless nights. Hearing my parents cry in their room when they thought I was asleep. Knowing my baby brother was sitting there, waiting for someone to throw him a crumb of attention because everyone was too busy taking care of me. It was . . . I don’t think there’s even a word for what it was.”
“I can imagine. No child should go through this.” My hand is on his arm again, and I realize clichés exist because they’re true. No child should go through this.
“The one thing I remember more than anything else was the nurses. The doctors. The people around me,” Dom continues. “I felt like they truly cared. They would call my mom after hours to see how I was doing. They would give me gifts, and tell me stories, and play with me. And the few people on staff who weren’t so nice stood out too. So I decided being a nurse was what I wanted to do pretty early on. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted the next Dom to know I had their back. That’s why I chose the oncology department.”
We talk about his childhood a little more. How it was overshadowed by the constant reminder of his mortality. How his brother was discarded at their grandparents’ house, sometimes for weeks at a time. How Dom is still guilt ridden about what he put his family through. Then Dom takes a deep breath and says, “And what brought you to 7-Eleven at two in the morning, young lady? I’m assuming your night has been as shitty as mine.”
“Not anymore.” I let out a soft chuckle.
He poured his heart out to me. Now I owe him at least a fraction of my truth.
“Family stuff.” I wave my hand. “My dad wanted me to come home to San Francisco for Thanksgiving. I dodged it.”
“Why?”
Deciding I don’t want to tell Dom too much, I explain: “I can’t look at my family again after I broke it into a million pieces.”
“So I’m not the only one with a guilt trip. Interesting. How did you break your family into a million pieces?” he asks patiently. I get the feeling that he truly wants to know. That I’m the center of his attention.
It feels new . . . and not unwelcome.
I wiggle my toes in my boots, frowning at them. “I . . . my mom died.”
Silence engulfs us from all angles. Finally, Dom says, “I’m so sorry, Lynne. How is it your fault, though?”
“It is. Trust me. It’s a long story, but it is.” I’m not exaggerating. It’s not me being melodramatic. I really did cause it. And I know Dad and Renn think so too. It’s something I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life.
“Let me get this straight.” He rubs at his jaw. “You think you caused your mom’s death, yet you’re not in prison, so I’m going to go ahead and assume it was an accident. Your solution is to deny the rest of your family a daughter and a sister too?”
I know he has a point, but it’s not that simple. I can’t look at Dad’s and Renn’s faces without feeling like the Grim Reaper, who slunk through the crack of their door and stole their joy. Plus, it’s not like they’re so hot on getting back in touch with me either. Renn is cordial at most with me. Mostly, he ignores my existence. Dad treats me like a long-distance cousin he feels obliged to text every now and then.
Shaking my head, I push away from the hood and round the car back to the driver’s seat. Dom takes my cue and does the same. The drive back to the 7-Eleven, where he left his car, is silent but not uncomfortable. It feels like we’re both processing what was said tonight.
I park behind his red convertible Mazda MX-5 Miata. It’s such a Dom car I want to laugh. He likes big shiny things in bold colors. A part of him must always be that five-year-old kid who almost died.
The sun begins to rise, bruising the historical town in bluish-orange hues. Dom unfastens his seat belt and turns to me. “Thanks for the company. And the burger.”
“First doughnuts, now a burger. Perhaps my calling in life is to feed you.” I wink, trying to keep it light. “Hope you feel better today.”
“Even if I don’t, I have two fitness classes to attend, and my brother said he wants me to come over for a few beers and to watch the game. At the very least, I’ll have a distraction.”
I reach to squeeze his hand. I don’t want to let go, but I don’t want anything romantic with Dom either. I just want us to coexist in the same sphere. To be there for each other. I’ve missed having someone who listens. So I brave the rejection this time. I put myself out there, so to speak.
“Hey, Dom, do you want to maybe . . . exchange numbers? I would really like to be your friend.”
Dom smiles, squeezing my hand back. “Thank you for the offer, Lynne, but I can’t be your friend. I’d be constantly pining for you, and that would be a very miserable existence indeed.”
And then, before I can say anything more, before I can tell him Nora is going to kill me if I tell her we met again and I didn’t get his number, he reaches over, kisses my cheek softly, and leaves.
SIX
Two weeks pass.
I never tell Nora I ran into Dom at the gas station. I have a feeling this would just inspire another you-have-to-get-over-Joe conversation. As it turns out, Nora doesn’t need Dom as an excuse. One day, when we are perched on a picnic blanket at the park, a semicute guy glances my way. He is reading a book. A book I happen to like a lot. Infinite Jest, by David Foster Wallace.
“You should go over there and talk to him,” Nora urges, rolling from her back to her stomach, thirstily drinking in the measly rays of sunshine slipping through the fat clouds.
“That’s a hard no.” I bury my face in my own paperback—Stephen King’s newest.
“Why? Because of Joe?” She pushes her sunglasses up her nose.
“No,” I say, but the real answer is among other reasons. “Because I’m not that person who goes up to a guy and asks for his number.”
“Do you need to be a certain type of girl to do that?” Nora blinks. “It’s always a risk to ask someone out. Do you think your feelings are more precious than those of a girl who would ask this guy out?”
“I’m not saying that at all. Kudos to girls who have the guts to hit on men. I think they make the world a better place. But in the risk-management hierarchy, I scale pretty low. I’m not a risk-taker. I don’t . . . I don’t put myself out there.” I use Pippa’s words. It makes me miss her again. I wonder if one day I’ll stop missing her like she was a part of my body. I wish for that day, but I also dread it.
Nora groans as she drops her face into a patch of grass. “You’re going to die an old, lonely hag.”
“Thanks,” I murmur as I get back to my book. Relief washes over me when I spot the guy who looked at me tuck his book under his arm, lift his picnic blanket, and carry it back to his car.
“You’ll see, Ever. It’s going to be so sad. And don’t think I’ll be there to change your diapers or buy your groceries.”
“We are the same age. Who told you I’m going to be in need of a nurse while you live your best athletic life?” I pop an eyebrow up.
“Even Loki is not going to stick around. He is not getting any younger, your cat,” she continues, ignoring my words.
“He’ll live forever in my heart.” I tear the bag of Skittles I bought at the 7-Eleven two weeks ago and empty its contents into my mouth.
But Nora is on a roll. She is still talking, her words muffled by blades of grass. “And Joe? He is probably married right now. Or at least has a serious girlfriend or something. She is lovely. An artist. They met in New York. Fuck three times a day, even though they’ve been together for three years now.”
I smile bitterly, relishing the pain that comes with this statement. Because pain, after all, is a feeling, too, and I haven’t felt for so long. She’s probably right. Joe would be twenty-five now. This guy, filled with magnetism, sarcasm, and talent, is a catch. Anyone could see that.
“Good talk, Nor.”
We collect our blanket and head to my car. I drop her off at the funeral home for work, then drive to the post office and send Renn a huge package for his twentieth birthday. I got him funky new socks, ankle length—his favorite—a special Australian wax for his surfboards, and a gift card for Billabong. I add a heartfelt handwritten note. Then I go back home.
I push the door open and head to my room, where I toe off my boots and drop off my backpack. That’s where I usually find the lord of the manor sitting on the far corner of my bed, a look of deep exhaustion on his face. I don’t know what makes cats always look like they are fed up with your shit, but it’s one of the things I admire about them the most.
Only Loki is not here. I stroll to the living room. “Loki Lucifer Lawson, where art thou?” I call out. Normally, he’d meow something that translates to You’re not my real mom at his full name. Not this time.
Has he gone to his sugar daddy again?
I head over to the kitchen and crack a can of Fancy Feast open. I lower it to the floor and make all the noises people make when they want their kitties to show themselves. Nothing happens.
Not again. Have some self-respect, dude.
My pulse kicking up now, I grab my laptop. I power it up and pull up Dom’s email.
I feel like a world-class idiot, coming to him with this for the second time in a month. But maybe Nora is right. Maybe Loki got tired of slumming it up with Two Broke Girls over here and adopted Dom, who lives at the Waldorf Astoria in comparison.
Ever: Hey, Dom, it’s Ever. Loki is missing again. I checked everywhere. I know it sounds bizarre, but is he at your place by any chance?
(I swear I don’t abuse him or anything. I wish I could attribute it to a rebellious phase. But he is ten years old, which is sixty in cat years. Let me ask you—have you ever met a sixty-year-old who is such a pain in the ass?)
P.S. I’ve been wanting to ask how you’re doing since we last spoke, so here I am asking—are you okay?
E.
I’m about to go look for my cat outside. But first, I need to pee. I shut the laptop and amble to the bathroom. After pushing the door open, I’m surprised to feel something solid and fluffy looping around my leg. I look down, and it’s Loki. The bastard.
“Where do you think you’re going, young man?” I’m at his heels. He was in the bathroom all along? What for? It’s not like he can use it. No, he has his own litter box. He takes immense pleasure in watching me clean it every day.
Loki whacks his tail irritably before finding the open can of Fancy Feast and helping himself to an early dinner. I sag against the hallway wall, closing my eyes. I think I’m losing it. I’m too lonely. Too deep in my own head. A ping from my phone alerts me that I have a new email. I take it out of my pocket and swipe the screen. Pulse pounding, I open my email, but the connection is slow, and I find myself pacing from side to side.
