“Oh, really, Pax. Do you have to be such a brute? I’m an adult. I can make my own decisions.”
I thought she looked fine back in the hospital but out in the wild, without the warm, expert lighting she probably curated back in her private room, the cracks are beginning to show. She looks tired. Her skin is sallow grey, and the usually sharp edge to her gaze is nowhere to be found. She’s a close approximation to the powerhouse woman I grew up with, beautiful, but obviously weak in a way that’s tough to pinpoint.
“We’re going back to the hospital,” I snap. “Now.”
She throws down her napkin on the table, looking away in disgust, and the hollows of her cheeks make her look like a chic, well-dressed skeleton. “I never thought I’d see the day when my own son turned against me,” she mutters.
“Oh, please. Stop being so dramatic. You’re sick. Drinking the bar dry isn’t going to make you feel any better.”
“And how would you know? Have you had Leukemia before? Are you speaking from your vast well of knowledge on the subject?” Her eyes glitter with a cold, detached anger. “I’m sure you didn’t know a single thing about Leukemia before that stupid woman broke patient confidentiality.”
“You’re right. I didn’t. I should have, though, shouldn’t I? Because you should have told me what the fuck was going on.” The words rip out of me like bullets. They have little effect on Meredith.
“Don’t be so silly. What would have been the point? You know, I had to watch my mother die. Slowly. Painfully. It was awful. I would never want to wish that kind of pain on anyone.” She lifts her empty glass to her lips and tips it back like she’ll be able to manifest more wine by sheer force of will alone. Sadly, her plan doesn’t work out.
“Try the water,” I tell her. “Y’know. What Would Jesus Do. According to your book, he’d wiggle his fingers over his sparkling Perrier and turn it into a nice Shiraz.” I know I’m picking the wrong fight here, but I can’t stop myself. I want to irritate the shit out of her. I want to fuck with her. If I can make her a fraction as angry as me, then I might be able to breathe again. Maybe.
Just as I knew it would, the comment elicits a strong and immediate reaction. She slams the glass down with a thud. “It’s not my book. The Bible belongs to every human being who has ever or will ever live. Jesus turned water into wine as a demonstration that he could perform miracles—”
“I seem to recall that he did it because he was at a wedding and they’d run out of booze.” I tear apart a bread roll, ripping it into pieces, then I shove one of the mangled quarters into my mouth. I chew with my mouth open, staring her down.
Meredith fumes. “I shouldn’t even be surprised by this kind of behavior, coming from you. But you know how I feel when you disrespect our Lord and Savior. It upsets me—”
“Better get you back to your room before you blow out an aorta, then.” I jerk my head at our waiter as he passes by our table. I must have terrified the shit out of him with my dark look, because he already has our check printed and ready to go in a billfold in the front of his apron. He drops it gingerly at the table, grimace-smiling and thanking us for being such wonderful guests while hastily backing away like he’s afraid of losing a hand. I’ve made more than one scene at Harry’s in the past.
Dumping a wad of cash into the billfold, I laugh menacingly when Meredith rolls her eyes, snapping her AMEX back into her Louis Vuitton wallet. She’d only shoo me away if I tried to help walk her out of the restaurant, so I don’t even bother offering. I grab my backpack from the back of the seat next to me and head outside, taking the opportunity to spark up while she goes through the rounds of saying goodbye to the bartenders and the wait staff, the hostess and a whole slew of other people who are likely glad to see the back of her.
I’m down to the filter when Meredith emerges from the restaurant, dabbing delicately at the corner of her mouth with a paper napkin. Wafting her hand in front of her face, she opens her mouth, about to launch into an anti-smoking diatribe, but I cut her off. “Don’t. Just fucking don’t.”
We sit in silence in the car, and when we reach the hospital, we ride the elevator up to the second floor in silence, too. Meredith stops to chat with every single doctor and nurse we come across, and the fuckers fawn over her like she’s some kind of A-list celebrity. The coppery tang of blood coats my mouth as I chew on the inside of my cheek, bouncing on the balls of my feet, waiting for the gauche, never-ending parade to be over.
Meredith milks her micro-stardom for all its worth. She preens and falls over herself to issue compliments. She even air-kisses a porter. I growl out loud in annoyance, which earns me a stern lecture about how menial workers are people, too, and probably more deserving of our time and notice because they’re not used to their betters acknowledging them. Sadly, she doesn’t realize just how absolutely fucking hypocritical and condescending that statement is.
Back in her room, she unravels her scarf from around her neck and loops it over the arm of an antique coat rack that looks starkly out of place in Mountain Lakes’ tiny hospital. “Well, let’s get this out of the way, then, shall we?” she says, her tone dripping with frustration.
I throw the bag down on the bed and unzip it. The black box tumbles out onto paisley bed sheets—definitely not standard hospital issue—and Meredith arches an eyebrow coolly at it. “That’s what this is all about? The box?”
“You don’t get to leave me gifts for after you’re dead,” I spit.
She stifles a laugh, massaging the side of her neck. “Well, I’d hardly call it a gift.”
“What is it then, if not some sentimental gesture from the afterlife? That’s what it’s supposed to be, right?”
“You came here to bitch at me and ruin my day because of this, and you haven’t even looked inside?” She shakes her head. “Honestly, I don’t think you have the common sense you were born with, Pax. That doesn’t make any sense.” She picks up the box, turning it over until the script handwriting spelling out my name is facing the right way up. “The urn containing your father’s ashes is in here. I got sick of staring at it at the penthouse, so I packed it up for you to have once I was gone. What? Don’t look at me like that. What was I supposed to? Just tip him down the waste disposal?”
She genuinely sounds annoyed that I’m reacting badly to this. But what the actual fuck? “The urn containing my father’s ashes has been banging around in my backpack all day? My dead father? You’ve lost your fucking mind!”
“Really, Pax. You need to find a way to self-regulate, you know. You respond to very normal situations in truly bizarre ways.”
I grab my bag, gritting my teeth together and I jam my arms through its straps. “When you’re gone, I’ll ride around the subway with your incinerated remains in a Ziplock, then. Are you okay with that?”
“That depends. I know which neighborhoods you like to frequent, sweetheart.” She studies me rather disappointedly. “So long as you don’t take me to Queens, I suppose I wouldn’t really mind. But that’s a moot point. I’m not being cremated. I’m donating my body to medical science.”