Chapter 24
The afternoon passes in a blur.
I’ve just been discharged from the ER with assurances that my internal organs are in one piece and instructions to wear my sling for four to seven days and to avoid heavy lifting for twelve weeks—catastrophic news I barely have time to absorb when Aunt Cathy starts blowing up my phone.
Gramps is out of surgery and doing well, so well they might let a few of us in to see him in the next hour!
I hustle to the hospital gift shop as fast as my sore body will allow, possessed by the need to have something tangible to give to my grandfather to show him how much I need him to stick around. I settle on a stuffed lobster wearing a t-shirt that says “You’re Claw-some” and head for the elevator.
As I’m stepping off, Weaver’s voice message pops through. I listen to it, relief flooding my body, but before I can respond, Cathy is at my elbow, talking a mile a minute.
“Your dad just called!” she says, beaming. “The charges were dropped. Weaver must have changed his mind, thank God. Leon asked me to come pick him up. Can you keep an eye on everyone here while I go? Murray and Steven need to eat something and Henna needs someone to watch the kids while she runs Jennifer’s baby present over to the maternity ward. Poor Jen. The baby kind of took a back seat in all the worry over your grandad.”
She heaves a heavy sigh, laughing as she pats my good arm and leads me toward the waiting room our clan has taken over. “But all’s well that ends well. The baby wasn’t born until one a.m. Did I tell you that? So, Aunt Sue is happy. And Jen had a boy so David is happy, too.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever, David. How is it okay to say shit like that anymore? He should just be happy to have a healthy baby.”
Cathy shoos my concerns away with a flick of her heavily-ringed hand. “Oh, come on. It’s normal for a man to want a son.”
“Is it? Why?” I grumble. “Because they’ll ‘have more in common?’ What if his son turns out to be an artist who doesn’t want to set foot on a boat? Or hates football? Or likes to dress up in vintage ball gowns and kiss boys? What’s he going to think then?”
Cathy stops a few feet from the waiting room, turning to shoot me a concerned look as she hisses, “What’s eating you all of a sudden? We’ve got nothing but good news here. Dad’s out of surgery and doing well, your father’s not going to jail, and Jen has a healthy baby. All reasons to be happy and grateful.”
“Where does Dad want you to take him after you pick him up?’ I ask, ignoring her questions. “Because he left me a message a couple hours ago about wanting to go to rehab. I can call around now, try to find him a bed before you go get him. That way he can go straight to the facility before he has a chance to get cold feet.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Cathy says, plucking at the collar of her cowl neck sweater. “He didn’t say. I was assuming he wanted a ride home or…a ride here, if that was okay with you.”
I snort. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
She lifts her hands in mock surrender, even as she lobs her next volley. “I don’t know, Gertie. I don’t know what you’re thinking lately. First, you’re getting involved with the man who ruined your family. Now, you don’t want your dad around when?—”
“He sent me to the ER, Cathy!” I say in a voice too loud for her liking. She shushes me, trying to drag me farther from the waiting room by my good arm. But I pull away, adding in an only slightly softer voice, “I’m in a sling for a week because of him, and I’ll be out of work for at least twelve weeks. Maybe more if my shoulder doesn’t heal as quickly as expected since I have a pre-existing issue in that joint. Unless Dad’s planning to get on the boat and do mine and Gramp’s work for us while we’re out of commission, I don’t see that he has anything worthwhile to offer this family. Certainly nothing better than going to rehab.”
Cathy’s lips turn down hard at the edges. “That’s not what family’s about. It’s not about what you can take, it’s about what you give.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying!” An outraged laugh bursts from my chest. “All he’s done is take, Cathy. And take and take and take. Even if he wanted to take over on the boat for us, he couldn’t. He’s too sick. The best thing he can do for everyone is go to rehab. And the best thing you can do for him is help him get there.” I tug my cell from my purse. “I’ll start calling places now. Text Dad and tell him you’ll touch base about picking him up in a little while. And tell him that he’ll be going straight to treatment, do not pass go or stop at the pub for a farewell whiskey.”
Her lips press into a puckered line. “I don’t know if he’s going to go for it, Gertie. He wanted to see Dad. He loves your grandfather as much as you do, you know.”
“I doubt it,” I say, my patience way thinner than normal. Whether it’s the pain in my abdomen and shoulder or Weaver’s outsider’s perspective making me see the dysfunction of my family in a new light, I can’t say. I only know that I don’t hesitate before I add, “Love is about showing up for people, and he hasn’t shown up for me or Gramps in a long time. But we’ve shown up for him, and I’m ready to show up again by paying for his treatment from my savings. Tell him that.” I start to walk away, only to turn back at the last minute and add, “And tell him that if he doesn’t go, if he didn’t mean what he said in the message that he left for me, then he can forget he has a daughter.”
Cathy’s jaw drops, but I don’t stick around to see what she’s going to stay when she stops sputtering. I pull up the website for the rehab center with income-adjusted admission and place my call, moving toward the railing overlooking the atrium for privacy.
Twenty minutes later, I have a bed reserved for Dad at the second place I called, which thankfully takes Dad’s insurance. It won’t pay for everything—we’ll still have to pay the three-thousand-dollar deductible—but they have room to take him tonight and a successful six-week program that has solid online reviews.
I tell them I’ll call back when I know Dad’s estimated arrival time and head into the waiting room to rejoin the family.
Cathy’s sitting in the corner, looking like the cat who got sprayed with water and denied her daily dose of catnip, but when I tell her I found a bed for Dad, she nods.
“Okay,” she says, waving her phone in the air. “He said he’s ready to go as soon as I come get him, but I know he’d like to see his dad first. So, we’ll just swing by here on our way and?—”
“No, he should go straight to the center,” I cut in, my gut assuring me this is the best way. The less time Dad has to worry about what rehab is going to be like before he’s there, the better.
And selfishly, I don’t want to see him again right now. I’m in too much pain—emotional and physical—and I’m not sure I would be able to hold back all the angry things I want to say. That wouldn’t be good for me or Dad, and sometimes, it’s okay to be selfish.
It isn’t even “selfish,” I realize as I stand firm throughout Aunt Cathy’s second attempt to wheedle me into changing my mind. This is self-preservation. My father has probably sobered up by now, but there’s no doubt he’s still exhausted from his drunken run-in with the law and the fight with Weaver. Not to mention craving a drink. He’s in no place to handle a stressful situation like seeing his father fresh out of surgery.
Besides, as I remind Cathy, “He was kicked out of the hospital. They’re not going to let him walk back in. Not if they see him coming, and I don’t see how they could miss him in a blood-spattered shirt.” Cathy’s lips part, and I quickly add, “Don’t say you can take him home to change or buy him a shirt or whatever you were going to say. He’s going to rehab. That’s it. If you don’t want to take him, I can order a car service.”
Weaver offered to arrange for the service, but I don’t feel right asking him to help any more than he has already.
He’s already done enough for the man who assaulted him by giving him a chance to clean up his act. From now on, I intend to do my damnedest to make sure my family drama doesn’t touch Weaver in any way. He’s been so understanding and wonderful, but I know everyone has a limit to how much crazy they’ll tolerate from their significant other’s family, and I don’t want to push Weaver’s.
Because hearing him say “I love you” at the end of his message?
It was by far the best thing to happen to me today. Even in the midst of all the insanity and pain and disappointment and fear for Gramps, those three words made me feel like I was sixteen again and Henry Chandler just asked me to the prom after the first beach volleyball game of the summer.
It also made me feel like a grown ass woman for the first time in my life.
I’ve been “grown” for a while now, but working with family means I’m still treated like a kid most of the time. To Gramps, I’ll always be that ratty haired little girl he brought home after her parents abandoned her. As far as he’s concerned, all my problems can be solved by ordering pizza and letting me watch cartoons, and it’s inappropriate to go any deeper than saying “your dad tries” when discussing the failures of the man who helped bring me into this world.
But it’s high time we had a real talk and decided how to move forward with Dad. Things need to change. If rehab works and Dad’s able to start working again—amazing. If not, we have to deal with the reality that maybe we aren’t doing what’s best for him by continuing to make it so easy for him to flush his life down the toilet.
“All right, fine,” Cathy says, shaking her head as she lifts both hands in surrender. “I’ll take him straight there. But can I at least grab him some fast food on the way? I’m sure he’s starving after spending the day in the drunk tank.”
“Sure,” I say. “That would be nice, and I’m sure he’d appreciate it.” I nod toward her cell. “Why don’t you tell him you’ll be there in thirty minutes? And I’ll call the center and tell them to expect you in about an hour. I’ll send you a link to the location. It’s only about twenty minutes outside of Bangor, between here and Sea Breeze.”
“All right, and you’ll take care of everything here?” Cathy asks, glancing around at the rest of the family, most of whom are pretending to be on their phones.
In reality, of course, they’re shamelessly eavesdropping, a fact Uncle Murray proves by saying, “Go take care of Leon, we can take care of ourselves, Cathy. We aren’t retarded.”
“You shouldn’t say that, Dad,” my cousin Steven pipes up. “It’s insensitive to disabled people.”
Uncle Murray grunts as he makes a show of looking around the room. “So? There aren’t any retarded people around to hear me. That’s what I was just saying, that we aren’t retarded.”
Cousin Steven rolls his eyes to the ceiling, muttering beneath his breath in what I suspect is a prayer for strength.
“Or maybe I got it wrong,” Murray continues. “You always were a little soft in the head. That’s probably why you’re so concerned about what words people are using, while I’m the one actually down at the rec center volunteering to teach the retards how to fish.”
“Oh, my fucking God,” Steven mutters, rising from his chair and making a beeline my way.
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Great Aunt Sue croaks from the sofa where she seemed to be asleep until a hot second ago.
“You want to get out of here? Take a walk or something?” Steven asks.
“Or you two can be the first to see Grandpa,” his brother, Seth, says from the doorway, a big grin on his face. “The nurse said he’s ready for his first visitors and we can go in two at a time until he gets tired.”
“Yes, please,” I say, my heart leaping as I grab the bag with my gift in it from a nearby table. “I’m dying to see him.”
The rest of the family calls out for us to tell Gramps how happy we are that’s he’s okay—just in case he’s too tired to see all of us in person—and Steven and I head toward the entrance to the intensive care unit.
As soon as we’re clear of the waiting room, Steven asks in a soft voice, “So what’s up with you and Weaver Tripp?”
I cut a surprised glance his way.
“Cathy was saying something to Aunt Sue about March women having a weakness for Weaver Tripp,” he adds, answering my unspoken question.
“March” women. So, I’m a Sullivan when they need me to toe the line for the clan, but a “March,” my mother’s maiden name, as soon as I do something Cathy isn’t happy about?
Good to know.
Meanwhile, I haven’t talked to my mother in well over a decade and never met the March side of my family, aside from sweet Grammy March who passed when I was in kindergarten.
“Cathy’s a menace,” I mutter.
“Oh, for sure,” Steven agrees, “but she’s not wrong about Weaver Tripp. He’s dangerous.”
I sigh. “He’s not, Steven. I…I know him. He’s actually a pretty great guy.”
Steven grunts. “Yeah? Tell that to Chris. Cops just showed up at his place to arrest him for aggravated criminal mischief for getting on Weaver’s bad side.”
I grind to a halt several feet from the intensive care unit, causing two nurses behind us to trip over themselves to avoid stepping on the backs of our feet.
“Sorry,” I apologize to them as I grab Steven’s shirt and tug him toward the railing overlooking the atrium. “So sorry.”
Once they’ve moved on with irritated assurances that “it’s fine,” I turn back to my cousin and hiss, “What? How is that even possible? What did he do?”
“He didn’t do anything,” Steven says, running a hand over his close-cropped brown hair. “Mark invited him to party on the yacht, so he and Stella went. But apparently, Mark’s not allowed to use the yacht anymore. I guess Weaver got it in the will after Mark’s dad died or whatever.”
“Yeah, he did,” I say. “So?”
“So, Weaver showed up, saw them drinking beers on his fancy boat, and flipped out. He called the police and had everyone arrested. And then Chris called me to beg for a loan to pay for his lawyer.” Steven’s upper lip curls. “Though I’m sure Mark isn’t shopping for lawyers. That little shit always wiggles his way out of trouble. I told Chris not to hang out with him, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Shit,” I say, remembering the camera I encouraged Weaver to set up. With video evidence, he won’t have any trouble proving my cousin and his friends were trespassing.
But is that really their fault if they were just following Mark’s lead? If he told them that it was fine? After all, we’ve all hung out on the yacht with Mark at one point or another. He wasn’t supposed to use it when it belonged to his father, either, but he always did, and no one ever got arrested.
“Yeah,” Steven agrees. “And Stella is freaking out that they’re coming to slap the cuffs on her next, and she’ll have to turn the kid over to foster care for a while, or something. Her mom’s out of town. She left Gavin with a sitter this afternoon so she could go out, but the sitter’s only sixteen and has to get home to her own family. She can’t stay at Stella’s place just in case Stella gets arrested.”
I curse again. This is a nightmare.
Chris is far from my favorite cousin—he’s kind of an asshole, to be honest, and not the guy I’d choose to date if I were a single mom with a two-year-old—but that’s neither here nor there. These are vulnerable people with so much to lose, and I for one don’t think Stella should lose her child or Chris his clean criminal record over trespassing on some rich guy’s yacht.
Some rich guy…
God. Weaver went from my brave, thoughtful, sexy boyfriend, to “some rich guy” in the blink of an eye.
Maybe I’m not as cool with our class differences as I’ve convinced myself I am in the past few days.
“There has to be some explanation,” I say, tugging at my earlobe as I try to think this through. “Something we’re not understanding right now. Weaver wouldn’t do this just because people were trespassing. And he wouldn’t punish innocent guests and let Mark walk away. That’s not the kind of person he is. He honestly isn’t a big fan of his nephew.”
Steven arches a dubious brow. “Okay, whatever you say.”
“I do say,” I double down, with only a slight flutter of anxiety in my stomach. I know Weaver, and I know he wouldn’t do this…don’t I?
“Then text him.” Steven crosses his arms.
“What?”
“Text Mark,” he says, nodding toward the purse slung over my good shoulder. “Ask him if he’s in jail.”
I exhale. “I’d rather not. We’re not on good terms right now.”
Steven frowns. “Why?”
“Reasons,” I say vaguely, but he’s right. Texting Mark is probably the quickest way to get to the bottom of this. But it will have to wait. Gramps is expecting us, and I don’t want to keep him waiting. I start toward the ICU doors again, “Come on, we should see Gramps. We can figure this out after.”
Steven catches my elbow gently between his fingers, and I turn back to see an unusually worried expression on my cousin’s face. Steven isn’t usually much for feelings—positive or negative. He’s the chill, steady sort, a voice of reason amongst the chaos of our loud, emotional family.
So, his warning hits differently as he says, “Just be careful, okay? With Weaver? There are things you don’t know, Gert, about what went down between him and your mom when we were little. The Olds tried to keep it a secret from all the kids, but you know me. I’m always listening, and Cathy’s always talking, and I spent almost every day after school at her house until my dad finally trusted me to stay home on my own. I heard things.”
I want to ask him what he heard, but I also want to turn and walk away. I want to head down the elevator, walk out of the hospital, and keep walking until I’m at whatever hotel room Weaver found for tonight. Then, I want to rest my head on his chest, feel his arms wrap around me, and forget everything else but us.
There’s no ugly past, no family feuds, no beatings or arrests or criminal charges, there’s just the man I love and how perfect I feel in his arms.
Perfectly happy.
Perfectly cared for.
And maybe, perfectly lied to…
I owe it to myself and everyone I love to find out.
But first, I owe it to the man who raised me to tell him how much I treasure him.
I nod, my jaw tight. “Let’s grab a coffee after we see Gramps, and you can tell me whatever you’ve heard.”
Steven looks uncertain for a moment, but nods. “Okay. But you’re not going to like it.”
“That’s okay,” I say, a humorless smile twisting my lips. “I don’t like anything that’s happened today. Might as well add one more topping to the shit sundae.”
Steven grunts out a soft laugh. “Yeah. That sounds about right.” He rests a hand between my shoulder blades as we walk to the ICU. “Wouldn’t be a Sullivan family weekend if there wasn’t drama.”
He’s right, but this is a lot of drama, even for our family.
Still, I do my best to put it out of my head as we enter Gramp’s room. He looks so small in his bed, despite his ample belly. So small, and so frail. All I want to do is hug him and tell him how glad I am he’s alive, but the tubes hooked up to his chest and my sling make that difficult.
I end up resting my forehead on his for a moment and whispering, “Don’t leave me, old man. I still need you.”
He smiles as I pull away. “Of course, you do.” His gaze is tired, but clear as it shifts between Steven and me. “Glad they sent you two. I don’t have the patience for the rest of those clowns today. Don’t let Cathy in here. If I have to hear her say ‘I told you so’ about all the butter I put on my lobster roll, I might have another heart attack.”
We laugh and promise to keep Cathy away, then move on to discussing the surgery and next steps. Gramps is eager to be home, but they’ll be keeping him for five or six days, until they see how he’s healing up. Then, he’ll need to take it easy for a couple months as he builds his strength.
“We’ll need to get help for you on the boat until I’m back on my feet,” Gramps says, scowling as he eyes my sling, seeming to notice it for the first time. “What happened to you?”
“Long story,” I say, forcing a smile. “But I’ll be out for a while, too. But don’t worry, I already have some thoughts on who to hire to fill in for the rest of the season.”
“Not the Cooper kid,” Gramps says, scowling harder. “He’s strong, but he’s an idiot, and I don’t want an idiot wrecking my boat.”
“Not the Cooper kid,” I agree, but hold up a hand when he starts running through a list of other people he doesn’t trust with his baby. “We’ll worry about it later, okay? We have time. Our profits are up over last year. We can afford to take a few days off while I figure this out. And I will figure it out,” I emphasize. “All you need to worry about it resting up and getting better. I’ve got this.”
And I do.
I can handle staffing the boat and figuring out how we’re going to pay a crew and still eek out enough profit to stay ahead of our bills.
What I’m not sure I can handle is the truth.
What if what Steven tells me changes everything? What if it burns what I’ve built with Weaver to the ground?
Or…what I thought I’d built.
Could be this love is built on shifting sand.
Guess I’m about to find out.