The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [6]
Andrea saw Iona’s expression of surprise at hearing about her checkered past. She understood. After a year with little Courtney in and out of hospitals, Andrea had gotten so scrawny and flat chested that she looked like she ought to be wearing starched white dresses like Florence Nightingale’s, and doing acts of purity rather than drugs or sex.
Leaning against the edge of the tub, she gazed up into the night—a moonless, starless dome of charcoal gray—and told them the truth. “I haven’t smoked pot or done any other kind of drug for so long I wouldn’t know if it tasted like cigars,” she said. “Once I had Courtney, I was always afraid I’d get so stoned I’d pass out and something terrible would happen and it would be my fault. And the responsibility would be with me for the rest of my life.” She was quiet for a moment. “Then the cancer happened anyway.”
Julianne had to hold on to the lip of the hot tub so she wouldn’t fall. A mean thought flitted through her mind, which she was too drunk to censor. She hadn’t worked as a nurse since the kids started coming along, but she still thought like one. Maybe the drugs had something to do with Courtney’s illness. They very well might. Being a druggie for a couple of years might translate into a genetic defect you passed along to your child. A defect that would attack your child’s kidney. If she did a little research, she bet she’d find out that was true.
“Well, Courtney’s going to be fine,” Paisley said. “She practically is fine.”
Feeling guilty for what she was thinking, Julianne said, “Bill says Wilms’ tumors are the most curable. He’s really pleased with Courtney’s prognosis.” She was trying to be supportive, but her voice wavered with the liquor so badly that she sounded anything but.
A stab of envy knifed through Ginger at the idea of Julianne’s husband being a doctor. A surgeon. Bill Havelock, the man you wanted in the operating room if you got a bone disease or broke your shoulder or blew out your knee. A man who could make pronouncements about kidney cancer, which wasn’t even his specialty, and people would believe him.
Every woman in this tub was living a life of privilege, Ginger supposed, able to stay home with her children instead of going to work. All the husbands made enough money to support them. But only Julianne was married to a prominent surgeon.
Whereas Eddie sold hot tubs. Hot tubs, which he always referred to as spas, like every other cheap salesman on the planet.
“Hey, this is a party!” Paisley reminded them. “No negative thoughts!”
Julianne laughed. “No negative thoughts! No sir! Not me!” What a lie. She waved her drink around so forcefully that she lost her balance on the edge of the hot tub and fell right in, went all the way down until she was sitting on the bottom with her long hair streaming up above her. For the briefest moment she thought, I could stay down here forever. Then the most powerful urge for air came over her, and she propelled herself to the surface, spluttering and giggling. She didn’t feel like giggling—but there she was. She put her hand to her navel. “Oh, no! I think my ring fell out!”
“I’ll get it!” Andrea shouted.
“I will!” Ginger propelled herself forward, jumped in with a splash.
“No, don’t!” Paisley waved her arms at them from the side of the tub. “It’s too dark and we’re too drunk. I don’t want somebody to end up drowned. It’ll turn up in the strainer.”
Julianne raised her arm in a jubilant power fist. “Too drunk!” she shouted gleefully.
Paisley motioned Julianne to sit down. “You,” Paisley told her gently, “are drunk as a skunk.”
“As a skunk.” Julianne felt the gleeful expression drain from her face. “We’ve all been living in Brightwood Trace like a bunch of friends, and you tell me I’m a skunk.”
“Not a skunk, Julianne. Just drunk as—”
“You might think I’m a skunk but I’m not.” A dull throbbing began behind her eyes. “Julianne Havelock has an important role in this neighborhood. She’s a vital link.” Sloppily, Julianne pointed around the group. “If