Teacher's Pet Complete Series (33 page)

I didn’t want to say it, but I had to. “I’m staying here.” I scrunched up my face soon after it was spoken. The words were sour on my tongue.

“No, no, no, that’s not acceptable,” blared my mother. My dad, however, being the person that he was, just looked at me out the corner of his eye. We were cut from the same cloth him and I; he knew my stubbornness was acute.

Dane ran his fingers through his hair, dark and brooding. “How in the world did I know you were going to say that?”

“Look, I’m sorry,” I said. “I just don’t feel right leaving here like this without getting the chance to see him.”

“To see Simon?” Dane began to pace down the long hall in front of the elevators. “You’re going to ditch me and your parents, in hopes that he wakes up, when you’re obviously not even wanted upstairs? Need I remind you that they threw you out on your ass?”

“Hey!” my father objected, which was rare.

Dane sighed and turned to face him. “My apologies, Mr. Minnelli…really. I didn’t mean to act like that in front of you. I’m just frustrated because I find it very hard to understand what’s going on here.”

“I’m with Dane on this one, Lynora.” My mother held her judgmental face. It was “I just sucked on a giant sour lemon, and I don’t know where to spit out the seeds, so I’ll just hold them all in my mouth.” I hated it.

“Look, I just feel funny about it, okay? No one said you couldn’t wait with me. Dane, he is your brother, for Christ’s sake. I know you’re probably sick of me saying that to you, but I don’t know why. If there’s anyone that doesn’t understand what’s going on, it’s me. I don’t understand why any of you don’t understand a man’s life is in the balance up there.”

“Don’t exaggerate. He’s out of the woods,” Dane said.

I placed my hands on my hips, channeling Bobbi. “And how would you know?”

He shook his head. “I, uh—it’s not important. If you insist on staying here, I can at least take your parents and get them a place to stay. There’s a great hotel not too far from here. I think you’ll like it, Mr. and Mrs. Minnelli. I’m staying there myself.”

I looked at my parents, who were disappointed with me. I looked at Dane’s face and saw he was pissed, even though he tried to hide it. I grabbed him by the sleeve and took him to the side so we could talk. “You don’t have to do this, you know. My parents are fully capable of taking care of themselves. They’ve been doing it for half a century, give or take. Besides, I’m their daughter. It’s
my
job. Not yours.”

“Well, you could look at it as me giving you time off, if you want.”

“Oh, if that’s true, that would that make you my boss, now wouldn’t it?” I turned to where my parents couldn’t see as I stroked his cock lightly with my fingers.

“Whatever floats your boat,” he said, trying to stay composed. “I got to tell you, though, I don’t mind navigating the ship.”

“I have something else I bet you won’t mind.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, it is very much so, captain.”

“I can deal with that. Carry on.”

Time was moving about as slowly as it could. It was torture to sit there and wait for something to happen, especially knowing I wouldn’t be told right away if anything did. I couldn’t believe Caroline had gotten me kicked out the way she had, picked up by two goons and discarded like last night’s trash.

To think I had imagined for a second she was softening toward me, and I had forgiven her shitty behavior. I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. I had to face the fact that Caroline was a deceitful, conniving, bitter woman who would stop at nothing to keep me away from her son.

I flipped through a magazine, idly thumbing the pages, thankful Dane had saved me from being thrown out on the streets. At least I was permitted to lounge around in the waiting room, where I could be close in case Simon took a turn for the worse, God forbid. I sat there agonizing over how the news would be revealed. Maybe Caroline would come around the corner crying, or Cornelius would enter wringing his hands. No one would seek me. I’d have to find out by happenstance and chance. But I was there.

Hours crawled by as I sat on a dull green, thin-cushioned chair with unyielding metal armrests in the cold waiting room. I couldn’t find comfort no matter how I squirmed. I shifted left to relieve one butt cheek; I shifted right to relieve the other. I put my legs up on the chair next to me, tried to curl into a ball. I even tried the fetal position, scrunched up in the ugly chair.

I began to loathe the beige walls with the boring artwork. The vibrant greenery, creatively placed along half-walls to separate the large waiting area into different nooks for greater privacy, took on a dusty, ragged appearance on closer examination, and I had plenty of time to scrutinize.

There were others who made their way in and out, and I watched them, envious when they left. To help pass the time, there was a TV in the corner, but it was stuck on CNN and a person could only watch so much of that before it skewed their perception of society.

It was frigid, and I shivered every handful of minutes. I wished for a sweater or even my discarded graduation gown to keep me warm. The room was a sterile, quiet, miserable place. The looks on people’s faces ranged from depression to worry. Eyes were red, and faces were flushed from crying or exhaustion. I wordlessly watched and tried to guess who had gotten bad news, who was sick. There was complimentary coffee on a table against one wall, but the acrid odor of scorched coffee was unappealing. There were vending machines in the corner selling soda and salty snacks, but I avoided nervous eating. If I started I wouldn’t have stopped.

My most fervent wish was to drop to the floor and fall asleep, tune out the rest of the world out until I heard some tangible news. I was sure the nurse or secretary at the desk of the ER waiting room was sick of my ass walking up to her and asking for updates every fifteen to thirty minutes. I then extended my inquiries to every hour on the hour, but she still gave me a weary look when I got up out of my chair.

The news was the same every time: she was no longer authorized to tell me about a patient’s condition unless I was a member of the family, blah-blah-blah. For the hundredth time, I listened to her decline to comment and dragged my feet back to my seat, hating life.

One minute passed for every five minutes, it seemed, like I was stuck in a class while my professor repeated his lecture over and over. This was the point where I would normally try to keep my head off my desk. I was nodding off in the chair, and I felt myself welcoming the sleep.

“Would you like some?” I heard someone say, right before the scent of a freshly peeled orange wafted to my nose and made my mouth water.

To the right and behind me on another row of seats sat an old man, with wispy, thinning gray hair that was fuller on the sides and the back and nearly nonexistent up top. He had a wizened old face creased with wrinkles, and he was craning his neck to reach over the seats with a half an orange in his hand, offering it to me. “No thank you.” I half smiled.

“I promise my hands are clean. I washed them twice. I been here as long as you have. Hell, even longer, because I saw you when you walked in, and I haven’t seen you eat anything.” He looked at his watch, a cheap digital with large numbers and a plastic band. He squinted. “It’s been over four hours.” He tapped on the face. “I really hate this thing. My wife made me get it. I had a real watch once. An old Timex with leather straps I got from my father when I graduated from high school. He said, ‘A man always knows what time it is, son.’ And he gave it to me so as I could never lose track of it, made me a man. I had that watch since I was seventeen years old. Fifty years I had that watch on my wrist.” His face made a downturn, and he shook his head slightly and paused, juice from the orange dripping through his fingers.

“Did you lose it?”

“Huh?” His eyes refocused on me.

“The watch, did you lose it or something? Did it get stolen?”

“Oh, ha! No, nothing like that. It’s sitting on my dresser staring me in the face every time I get dressed in the morning. No, I had to replace it with this piece of crap. My eyes aren’t what they used to be, and my wife bought me this one, with the big numbers, for my birthday.” He stretched over the seats and whispered in my ear, “Truth is, I don’t very much like the thing, but I will say I can tell time a lot easier. Leave it to old Myrna to know what’s best for me.” He smiled…barely.

I twisted around in my chair to make it easier to face him, bending my legs up in the seat. There was a woman sitting next to him, but I doubted she was his wife or even closely related, as she was an Asian woman, probably in her thirties. I looked around, trying to pair the few women in the waiting room with the old man holding a discussion with me, and none of them seemed to match.

“Where is she?” I inquisitively met his eyes, but as soon as I did, I realized my mistake. His eyes watered. Tears welled up, about to spill, and my common sense kicked in, albeit too late.
Where do you think she is, dummy? We’re sitting in a hospital waiting room.

The old man looked up, didn’t say where she was, and didn’t need to. He eyes left the ceiling after a moment. “Stroke. We were taking a walk, like we always do first thing in the morning when there’s just a bite of cold to wake our old bones up. We were talking, and right in the middle of it all, she went blank in the face and her knees gave out. I tell you, I have never been so scared in all my life. And I’ve been in the war—did two tours of service for my country.”

I didn’t know what to say, although I suspected he didn’t expect me to say anything. But I had to say something. “I’m sorry to hear that.” I knew it was clichéd, but it was the best I could do. The old man nodded.

He stuck out his hand, probably in an effort to shake it off. “I’m Hank Faulkner. And you are, young lady?”

I accepted his sticky hand and shook it. “My name’s Lynora. It’s nice to meet you, Hank.”

“Oh, Lynora! What a beautiful name. Fitting. What brings you here in this godforsaken place?”

“A friend of mine is upstairs…motorcycle accident.”

“Oh, those things put more people in these places than disease and old age combined. How is he?”

“As yet to be determined, but he seems to be out of the woods, as the doctor said.”

“Well, that’s a good thing, ain’t it?”

“I guess.” Hank gave me a sideways glance. I amended my nonchalant response: “I mean, of course it’s a good thing. There’s just some family drama going on, that’s all. I’m happy he’s stable. It could’ve been a lot worse.”

“Yes, it could’ve been. As far as family goes, there’s nothing much you can do about that. I, for one”—he leaned in to whisper again, this time I noticed his breath smelled like citrus. My stomach did a flip-flop. I was starving—“can’t stand my mother-in-law, but she’s up there all the same. I had to step out, though. Its best I wait down here. I can’t stand to see my wife with her face all lopsided the way it is. She was such a beautiful woman.”

We fell into silence after that. I accepted Hank’s orange that he seemed determined I eat. It was the best-tasting thing I’d had in a while, and I ate greedily, feeling the juicy slices burst on my tongue. Tangy juice dribbled into my palm and from the side of my mouth, and I wiped it away.

There was something about food tasting better the messier the meal. Done with my snack, I sank back with a satiated sigh. My hands were now the sticky ones, and eventually my upbringing kicked in and I went to get napkins. I could hear my mother clearly in my head: “What’s on your hands and under your nails tells the story of your life. Sticky fingers means icky little girls, so you must show people your mother raised you better.”
Ugh, party kill
, I thought with a rueful smile to myself.

“Mr. Faulkner,” the woman at the front desk called, and said something to Hank I couldn’t hear. His eyes got wide. He nodded and turned around, heading toward the elevator doors.

“Hank?”

He stopped for a moment and slowly turned back to me.

“Hold on to what you love, young lady. Hold on to it tight and never let it go. It’s those things you hold dear and your loved ones that get you through life. Don’t let anybody ever tell you different.”

“Does that mean you’ll be wearing your watch again soon?”

“You know, I think it just might mean that indeed.”

He walked in as the elevator doors slid open and waved as they slid closed.

I had almost forgotten I had my phone. Actually, I
had
forgotten about it, even though it had been in my hand some moments before. It buzzed as a reminder, and I found it where I had left it on the next seat. I picked it up and checked, realized I’d received a text.

Hey chick where are you? Thought we had plans?

It was my best friend, Bobbi, checking in on me. With all the drama happening, our plans had completely slipped my mind. As far as she knew, I had flaked on her and Sonja by not showing up. I pondered how to tell her where I was and about the accident with Simon. Or I could just fake being sick, make my apologies, and tell her I couldn’t make it out. I hated to lie to my friends, but I didn’t want to ruin their graduation night. They were loyal girls and would likely try and to come sit with me in the waiting room to comfort me. They should be out having fun and celebrating till they wake up in the morning regretting it.

I stared at my phone, hoping the right decision would emerge, maybe pop into mind or pop up on the screen and guide my fingers to type the right response. But no such luck. I couldn’t think straight, as tired as I was.

Fuck it, I thought. I’d respond with the truth and hope they didn’t change their plans. One lie would require another and another, and lying to my friends would make me feel horrible. I put my thumbs to the screen and formulated a reply.