CHAPTER 2 I JUST DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MYSELF
I JUST DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MYSELF
Veronica
At Sarabeth’s Restaurant, Veronica Walker cut a fine figure, handsome and refined. Her graying hair was coiffed stylishly, and she wore a tapered cardigan.
She sat alone, wondering what could possibly be delaying her normally responsible son. Phoenix was already forty minutes late. She regarded her watch again, as if that could make him appear faster.
The young waitress checked her iPhone, with a different reason for noting the same duration. “I’m sorry, ma’am, Sunday mornings are our busiest time. If you don’t order, I’ll get in trouble with my manager.”
Veronica glanced at the menu. “Four Flowers mimosa, hold the flowers.”
“Anything to eat?”
“Okay, leave the flowers.”
When the waitress stayed waiting for an order, Veronica cleared her throat. “Please give me a few minutes.”
The waitress nodded politely. “Certainly,” she said, and left the older woman.
This was not like Phoenix. If it were Caleb, she could be confident he was most likely asleep in a strange woman’s bed, hungover and disheveled. But Phoenix? He’d texted he was running a little late. This was more than a little. Maybe the anniversary of her husband’s death was making her edgy.
Veronica’s phone vibrated on the table. Must be Phoenix. Thank the Lord.
She answered with no preamble. “Phoenix Walker, is that you? Do you know how long I’ve been waiting?”
She didn’t recognize the woman who spoke. “Hello? Is this a family member of Mr. Phoenix Walker?”
Her tone struck Veronica with fear. Time slowed. “Yes. I’m his mother.”
There are moments when self-preservation inspires the brain to slow the speed of input, because it can only absorb so much at a time. Veronica heard “accident,” “train,” “surgery” and then her mind shut down. It couldn’t be him. He was on his way straight here.
“Where?” she asked. She pushed against the weight of the news to stand up, her focus narrowed to the one place she needed to be right now.
Veronica grabbed her Louis Vuitton satchel. She caught sight of her waitress, champagne flute in hand, mouth wide with surprise. For the first time in her life, Veronica fled without paying and didn’t give a damn.
“How is he?” Veronica was overcome by desperation. She stood up from the hospital’s plastic chair. Her high-heeled feet, swollen from pelting pavement, complained at bearing her weight. She ignored them, angry at her own weakness. Phoenix was who mattered.
“We don’t know yet. I just came to check on you. You have someone coming?” The nurse’s hand hovered near her, as if ready to comfort a lost child.
“Yes, I’m about to call my other son, Caleb. Here’s a picture of him.” She bent to pull up the home-screen photo on her phone.
“So handsome,” the nurse said, eying not Caleb’s features but Phoenix’s.
It was often the case, that even as people complimented her boys, they lingered on Phoenix’s tousled hair and blue eyes.
Both were good-looking, but Caleb frightened strangers off with his scowl and tattoos.
In contrast, Phoenix’s warmth held universal appeal.
The screenshot had been taken years ago.
It showed young adult boys, virile with the lie that nothing could harm them.
Fear rose in her throat. “It can’t be him. Please don’t let it be him,” she pleaded, both with the nurse and an omniscient being. The rigid seat caught her collapsing mass.