6. Six #2
“Eh, Auntie Dot’s being a good girl for me, too. Mostly.” Ruthie gives a dismissive wave. “Your hair is messy, Mom.”
I tug on my purse, thankfully salvaged by Jack from the wreck, and search for a scrunchie. It’s not until I attempt to put my hair up that I realize I can’t one-handed. Dot comes to my rescue, sweeping my dirty ends into a high knot.
“That’s what I call a messy bun,” she says, and Ruthie giggles.
Down the hall, Cherry calls out in her cheeriest business voice, “Thanks, Elaine!” before the confident clicks of her signature stilettos bang closer.
The curtain whooshes aside with her dramatic entry, like she’s taking the stage at a fashion show, especially in her silky green Ralph Lauren halter dress and strapped black heels.
With her typical swagger, she says, “Lena, you little witch! You scared us to death! Just talked to Elaine… I mean, Dr. Langston. I designed a… um, playroom for her last year—very inventive.”
Her wink-wink clearly indicates a sex room. Dot and I share a glance before looking at Ruthie, who seems distracted by the buttons on the side of the hospital bed.
“Anyway,” Cherry says, crossing the room for a brief hug. “She says slight concussion and probably a broken arm. Glad you got her—she’s a great doctor and a fascinating client.”
Cherry’s chuckle perks my curiosity. Though Dot and I love hearing about Cherry’s fascinating interior design clients, we’ll have to save that story for a wine night.
“Sounds like you were lucky, kiddo,” Dot reiterates with a gentle slap on my back.
Then, we all ask each other at once, “Heard from Ben?”
Everyone huffs and shrugs.
“No one has.” Cherry holds up her phone.
“Your weird neighbor started a group text. For the friends and family of Lena Buckley-Wright—there’s been an accident.
She’s been updating everyone on your condition.
I have to hand it to her—she’s thorough.
How did she get my number? And your brother Lucas’s?
And twenty-four others? How many friends does she think you have? ”
I check my phone. Still nothing but a text from Millie saying not to worry about the cupcakes. “Why didn’t Alice include me?”
“Didn’t want to bother you, babe,” Dot says. “She’s organized a team to help at Saddletree with cleanup and the support groups tonight. Maybe she should be your manager, eh?”
I roll my eyes but can’t argue.
Cherry sighs, scanning her phone again. “Can’t you track Ben on your phone?”
“No, why would I?”
She scoffs. “Tracking apps keep men honest. Wish I’d had one on Warren. Could’ve saved myself a few years, at least. If only they made tracking apps for penises.”
“Cherry!” I scold in a hushed tone while turning the TV volume up on Spongebob for Ruthie.
“Like an activity tracker?” Dot asks curiously.
“Precisely. It’d send alerts whenever it entered restricted territory. A man-tivity tracker.”
“Penis-dar,” Dot offers. “That’d make bank.”
Cherry puts her finger up. “It could truly make a better world, knowing what all the penises are up to—”
“Not another word about that,” I spit through gritted teeth, eyeing Ruthie’s distraction level. Spongebob is doing his job, thankfully.
Cherry smirks. “Sorry, Lena. Just trying to keep things light.”
“Yeah, besides, you wouldn’t need that app for Ben. He’s already honest. He’ll be here,” Dot assures us.
I relax somewhat. Cherry always defaults to distrust, anyway.
I don’t envy her ongoing experiences with her cheating ex.
She still sees him at parties and business events, sometimes with his former mistress, Olive.
Sometimes, with someone else. It’s hard to heal when you’re continuously exposed to the one who hurt you.
Though she won’t admit it, Cherry still feels broken from having her heart bashed into roadkill by that asshole.
She won’t be comfortable enough to love someone else anytime soon, if ever again.
“Dot’s right,” I say, trying to call him again. “He’s just… I don’t know.”
“Daddy had a meeting,” Ruthie shares incidentally as she leans against my pillow to watch Spongebob.
“What meeting?” I ask.
Ruthie’s shoulders bounce. “I dunno.”
“How do you know he had a meeting?” I try, squeezing her against me.
“He dressed nice. In his suit.” She giggles. “Jeremiah got glue on it this morning.”
Worry pecks at me again, like a bird rooting in the ground, hunting for worms.
“Sounds suspicious,” Cherry says, one brow cocked high on her forehead.
“Everything sounds suspicious to you,” Dot returns.
“I’m a realist,” Cherry defends, but her doll-like face softens when our eyes meet. “But we’re talking about Ben here. It’s nothing, I’m sure. He’s got the least game of any man I’ve ever met.”
I gape. “He’s got some game.”
“Must save it all for you, Lena, babe,” Dot grins.
Cherry huffs. “He probably had an important meeting and silenced his phone.”
“I bet he dropped it while diving into the Cape Fear to rescue a dog,” Dot laughs.
“No, he lost it chasing a purse snatcher on roller skates,” Cherry chuckles.
“Roller skates?” Ruthie giggles. “That’s funny.”
Though the laughter feels good, my thoughts wander as I try to fill in the blanks Ben’s left open. I try him again. Nothing.
“Hey, Ruthie, let’s hit up the vending machine,” Cherry offers before winking at us, “and check out that handsome nurse I noticed on the way in here.”
“Ugh,” she groans but slides off the bed and takes Cherry’s extended hand.
“Everything’ll be okay.” Dot plops beside me. “The important thing is not to panic.”
“I need to know he’s okay. This isn’t like him.”
“He’s fine. Let’s focus on you. Do that breathing thing,” she instructs. “And the wrist thing.”
I scoff but smile. During anxious moments, Ben massages the pressure points at my wrists to relieve anxiety. I can’t do that now, I remind her with a look toward my immovable hand.
“Just breathe, then,” she says, demonstrating a deep breath as if I’ve forgotten how to do it.
Maybe I have.
I take deep breaths, determined to fight back the anxiety zombies rising inside me and chomping at my reason. My husband had something important going on today, and he didn’t tell me about it.
Jack pops into the curtained room. “Hey, little ladies. The nurse is ‘bout to take you to x-ray. No word from Ben.”
“You’re still okay to stay?” I ask.
“Alice’d kill me if I didn’t.”
“Dot, take Ruthie home to pack a bag for your sleepover. Make it a fun night for her. I’ll be here a while, and Ben’ll be here any minute. Jack’s here to take me home if not.” When she gives me a concerned look, I force a smile. “I’m fine. Promise. Or… I will be.”
Dot lets me crumble onto her shoulder long enough to breathe and scrape together my leftover bits of composure.
“I’ve got Ruthie,” she says finally. “And he better have a fucking good explanation.”
Soon, they leave. The room quiets. Missing Ben so sharply, I feel desperately alone. Not fine. I am definitely not fine.