Fourth Comings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [81]
“What’s wrong with that…” What’s wrong with that, I thought, is that more and more women deal with emotional insecurities by fixing their physical flaws, all in the false name of self-love. What’s wrong with this, I thought, is that we’re reducing ourselves to a gender of firm flesh and unlined faces, empty heads and hollow hearts. It’s no wonder that my mom is getting maintenance, or that Bethany promotes the DONUT HO’ and refers to herself as a MILF.
“I don’t understand how you can be so cavalier,” I finally replied.
She pulled up to the orange cone that designated the drop-off zone. “I can be so cavalier,” she said, putting italics on my word because she wouldn’t use it herself, “because your father did this on purpose.”
“Did what on purpose?” The silver monster idled in the circular drive at the entrance to the hospital, creating a traffic jam behind us.
“Crashed his bike.”
“Why would Dad do something stupid like that?” I asked. I was eager to find out, then get out because a line of cars was honking at us to move on already.
“He’d do something stupid like that to get my attention.”
fifty-one
I called my sister from the bright and antiseptic hospital lobby. As the phone rang, I watched keys pop up and down on a player piano programmed to play “feel good” music. I listened for Barry Manilow. Maybe a little “Can’t Smile Without You” or “Bandstand Boogie.” But he never came on.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“At the hospital.”
“How’s Dad?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t been up to see him yet.”
“What are you waiting for?”
My phone beep beep beeped: low battery. In my haste I’d forgotten the charger.
“I’m waiting to recover from my ride with Mom,” I said.
“What did she say?”
And then I quickly recounted the conversation, including my mom’s accusation that he had crashed his bike on purpose.
“See?” Bethany asked.
“Please don’t mention the Signs,” I said.
My phone beep beep beeped again.
“Asserting her financial independence. Improving her physical appearance. Distancing herself from her spouse,” Bethany said with a certain smugness. “All three Signs in a single conversation….”
Just then a chubby girl around Marin’s age came and stood next to me in front of the piano. She wore a thin acrylic sweater, the pink pilled fabric barely stretching over her round belly. Her jeans were both too large and too small, with the elastic waistband straining against her stomach and cuffs dragging on the floor. Two pink butterfly barrettes were haphazardly clipped to either side of her dirty blond hair. Dirty in both senses of the word, as I detected a certain oily, unwashed scent. This girl existed in the real world of cheap fast food, unpaid credit-card bills, and trips to the ER instead of insurance-covered doctor visits.
She broke my heart.
“By the way, how was Dr. Kate? Was she as incredible in person as she is on TV? When do—”
And then my phone beep beep beeped a final time before crapping out—thank God—for good.
The girl tugged on the hem of my T-shirt with grubby fingers half-licked of chocolate from vending machine snack cakes. “Who playin’ dat pee-an-nah?”
I glanced at the piano, then back at the girl. A Pinky the Poodle Band-Aid was stuck to her forehead, through which I could see a brownish dash of blood. As you might recall, Pinky had once been Marin’s favorite cartoon character. But that was a birthday or two in the past. Marin had already moved on.
One look at this girl and I felt like I could—and should—make a monumental difference in her life. I was overcome by an irrational urge to take her home with me. If I had the choice, I would have chosen to be her legal guardian, and not my own niece’s. I’m not under the illusion that money buys happiness, but