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Hi guys!
Here's a very insightful comment by @ren-nyy:
“amaaaaziing story :) and i was reading cassandra clare's blog, and like she says that authors reeeeeally get irritated when you're like suggesting ideas for the story when the author hasn't asked, because a) it can be a little insulting-like they cant figure out the story themselves and b) because if someone does suggest an idea and the author was already going to use the idea, it makes it seem like the author IS taking ideas, and that bugs them, so they won't use it and have to change it . . . . .”
Well, I know I’m not an author, but I guess it applies to teenage writers as well, cause those are my exact reasons. So, I’m sorry if anyone was offended – I wasn’t trying to be mean or anything, but it’s just how I feel. Anyway, here’s chapter 31. Hope you like it. :)
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RECAP:
I was just settling down to sleep – as there was nothing else to do – when I heard a soft knock against the door.
Well, at least the nurses were getting polite, I thought to myself. “Come in”, I called.
The door swung open, and in walked Deana.
I felt my breath get caught in my throat as she said, “Hi.”
31
Mrs. Carter’s P.O.V. --- Part 2.
“You came”, I breathed. I couldn’t believe she’d actually come to see me; I’d long since given up any hope I had left.
“Yeah”, she replied, leaning against the wall. She had a mixture of discomfort and remorse on her face.
“What made you?” I asked, curious.
“Dad . . mostly”, she answered, with a shrug.
So, that was Howard’s thing, that he had to go and do. He’d never been a fan of conflict of any kind – I mean, who is? – and, I could tell it was really getting to him that Deana and I were not on speaking terms.
“Well, I’m glad”, I said.
“How’s the heart?” she asked quietly.
“Much better now”, I replied, intending a double meaning for the response.
She nodded and we delved into an awkward silence, for a few minutes.
I was just about to break it, when she said, “Mom . . . I know I said some . . pretty harsh things to you last week; I yelled at you and . . I know it was wrong. I’m sorry about that . . . but . . I meant some of what I said, and I can’t . . . I don’t want to apologize for that, cause that'd be a lie.”
“I know, and I’m not asking you to”, I said.
“You’re not”, she stated, surprised, as she crinkled her brow.
“No, I’m not. You were right, Deana. I’ve been . . . completely awful. And I know it’s a little too late to try to fix things but . . . . . I’m just . . I’m sorry, honey. I’m so so sorry. For being neglectful . . nosy . . a pain . . controlling”, I sighed, “I’m just . . . sorry. And I don’t expect you to forgive me . . . in fact, you probably shouldn’t. I just wanted to say . . I’m sorry that you were right.”
She stared down at the ground for a couple minutes, without a response. When I couldn’t take the silence anymore, I said, “Deana . . can you say something? Please?”
“I don’t know what to say”, she answered with a small shrug, looking up.
“Say what you’re thinking”, I said, sitting up straighter.
She bit her lip and replied, “I’m thinking that . . . I said you were dead to me . . and a week later, you had a heart attack. That’s what I’m thinking. So, I don’t know what to say.”
I sighed. “Deana, that’s not why I’m in here! I’m in here because . . . well, I have a bad heart.”
She chuckled very slightly, “Do you mean that literally or metaphorically?”
“A bit of both”, I said.
“You know what? I don’t want to talk about it . . . don’t want to dwell on the past. What’s done is done, right? . . . spilt milk”, she said, still leaning against the wall.
I nodded. “Does this mean . . . you . . you forgive me?” I asked, feeling a mixture of shock and relief.
“It just means . . we’re . . . moving forward”, she answered, “Besides, it’s not like it’s all your fault; I’m not exactly the most open person in the world.”
I smiled. I certainly knew. “Moving forward. I like that”, I whispered.
I guess she didn’t want to discuss my wrongdoings while I was lying in a hospital bed; she probably thought it would have been a tad bit insensitive, or would render me another heart attack. But, I knew that one day, in the nearest future, we were going to sit, and just talk. About everything; God knows we had a lot to talk about.
She nodded, and after a brief silence, she said, “So, what is wrong with your heart?”
“Nothing major. I’ll be out of here in no time”, I lied. I didn’t want her getting worried, and I really didn’t want the talk to linger on me. I was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that she’d actually come to visit, not to talk of the fact that she was willing to put aside all the things I’d done; even just for a while. I would have felt a bit selfish talking about myself.
I waved my hand dismissively and said, “So, what about you? How’ve you been?”
“Good. I’ve been . . good”, she answered, nodding.
“That’s . . . . good”, I replied, awkwardness slowly filling the room.
Silence. Again.
I was beginning to lack appreciation for it, after all. I could practically hear my irregular heartbeat in the tension-filled air.
As a kid, the one thing Deana had in common with me was her love for playing cards. It was the one thing that thing that helped us bond – well, as much bonding as we could do, with our extreme personalities. But, I wasn’t sure that it’d still work; I mean, do thirty year olds like the same things they did when they were three or thirteen?
I turned and reached for my handbag, rummaging through it for the pack of cards I always carried around with me. I guess I’d always hoped that one day she might want to talk to me about her life and her problems.
“Mom, what are you doing? Do you need help?” she asked, coming to my side.
I pulled out the frayed box of Bicycle playing cards; they had to be at least thirty years old. Maybe even older, because I vaguely recall playing them with Howard at some point in the earlier days of our marriage.
“Ta-da!” I said, holding them up.
“Are those the---”, she trailed off.
“Yeah, the exact ones.”
“Wow. I can’t remember the last time I played any card games”, she murmured.
“Want to play now?” I asked, eagerly.
“Um . . right now?” she asked, reluctant.
I sighed. “Honey . . we both know that this”, I gestured between me and her, “is awkward. And . . it might be for a while. I just wanted to . . . ease the tension. And maybe . . . talk a little . . I don’t know. I get it if you don’t want to . . . God knows . . you don’t owe me anything”, I said, putting the cards back in my bag.
She stared at me for a few seconds and then, pulled the cards back out. “Go Fish?”, she said.
I breathed deeply. “Yes. Please.”
She climbed onto the bed across from me, the over-bed table between us.
“I don’t know if I still remember how”, she said, crossing her legs, and opening up the box of cards.
“Shuffle. Deal. Ask. Fish. Or Rank”, I said, counting the steps on my fingers.
She stared at me curiously. “Really?”
“It’s the best way to remember it.”
She shook her head, and began to shuffle the cards. Then, she dealt them equally, giving us seven each, piling the remaining cards on the side afterwards. And then, the game began, with me holding a King diamond, a six and a two Spade, a five and a four Heart and a seven Club.
“Any threes?” she asked, looking down at her cards, a smile on her face. Tension eased.
I shook my head, “Go fish”, as she slipped a card off the top of the pool. We played in silence for a short while, and then, I said, “So . . . Jeremy came to see me today”, making conversation.
I thought she should at least know just how much he cared about her, without actually prying. Or was it prying? I guess I couldn’t even tell anymore.
“I know. I saw him outside”, she replied, still looking down at her cards.
“Sevens?” I asked, and she handed me a Heart. I smiled at the irony of the gesture.
“What did you guys talk about?” she asked slowly.
“You, mainly”, I answered, “Twos?”
“Me?”, she looked up in surprise.
“Well, what else do we have to talk about? You’re the only thing we have in common”, I answered, “Twos”, I then repeated.
“Go fish. What did he say about me?” she asked.
I pulled up a three Club. “Just . . . stuff.”
“Mom”, she said, in a serious tone.
“Everything. What you like, what you don’t and all that”, I answered.
“We’ve only been seeing each other for about two months. He doesn’t know that much about me”, she said, shuffling her cards.
“Oh, you’d be surprised”, I said, my brows raised.
“You didn’t say anything . . embarrassing, did you?” she asked.
I shook my head, with a chuckle. “No, I didn’t. By the way, it’s your turn.”
“Um, threes”, she asked.
I handed her my three Club and leaned back into my pillows.
“Are you okay? Do you . . feel tired? I could leave”, she said.
“No, I’m fine. You just stay where you are”, I said, with a small smile.
“Okay. Well, your turn.”
I sighed. The game seemed to be working; I mean, we weren’t exactly going to be sharing cosmos anytime soon, but we were making progress.
“Twos?” I asked.
“Fish.”
I pulled a seven Diamond off the pile.
I sighed. “He really likes you, you know”, I said.
“Yeah . . . I know”, she said so quietly, I almost hadn’t heard it. She looked like she didn’t really believe it.
“Do you?” I asked, with raised brows.
“Any fives?” she asked, avoiding the question.
“Fish”, I said, and she dug into the pile of cards. I went on, “Anyway, he does. I mean, he came to talk to me for you. That’s . . . that’s something”, I replied.
“Well, I really like him too”, she said softly. I could see a small smile playing at the corner of her lips, and I could tell her mind was far off.
“Yeah, I can see that”, I said knowingly.
“He’s really great”, she said slowly, biting her lower lip, a dreamy look in her eye as she stared into space. Jeremy had told me nearly all of Deana’s famous expressions – nervousness, irritation, et cetera – but the one that he didn’t even need to tell me, which I knew he probably couldn’t read, was the one in her eyes at that moment. Love.
I’d seen the way Deana used to look at Matthew during their dating period, and I’d assumed it was love. But now, as she held her cards in one hand, her other elbow leaning on the table, head in hand, faraway look on her face, thoughts of Jeremy probably swimming through her mind, I could see how very wrong I was. And it only made me feel even more remorseful than I already did, at how hard I’d pushed them together. She had it right; I wasn’t a mom. A mother, certainly – I had three offspring to show for it. But, a mom, no. Because a real mom would never mistake a mixture of amusement and excitement for love; never.
“Oh wow”, I said. I couldn’t really help myself; it just came out.
Her head snapped up to look at me, “What? Are you feeling okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, it’s . . . it’s you. You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” I asked. Like I said, I really couldn’t help myself.
She looked down at her cards, her hair covering her face. “It’s your turn.”
I took that as a signal to drop it, so I did. I couldn’t get on her bad side just when I was starting to get on the good.
“Sevens?” I asked.
She handed me a seven Spade, which created my winning streak, but I just let it go. I certainly wasn’t going to win our first game of cards in about seventeen years; that wasn’t even the point of the game anyway.
“Twos?” she asked.
I handed her my spade and, as she lined her four suits of Twos in front of me, she whispered so low, I almost hadn’t heard it, “I think I am.”
I smiled, knowing what she meant. Like I said, progress. I don’t know what charm the cards held, but I planned on keeping them as long as I could. They worked like magic!
A nurse barged in right then – not the redhead this time. This one was African-American, and she had an angry look about her.
“Mrs. Carter, you need to get your rest now”, she said to me, and then turned to Deana, “Visiting hours are over, ma’am. Unless you’re spending the night?”
Ma’am? I thought to myself. So, what did that make me?
“I’m going to ---”, she was saying to the nurse.
I interjected, “Can you? Spend the night? I mean . . only if you want to, or . . if you’re free to.”
“Um, well . . . I . . I guess so”, she said, packing up the cards.
“Alright. Would you like us to arrange a cot for you?” the nurse asked, a bit impatient.
“No, the chair’s fine”, she replied, climbing off the bed.
“Well, I’m just going to administer your morphine and prophylaxis now, Mrs. Carter. You should fall asleep shortly.”
I watched Deana curl into the armchair, and I handed her the tartan blanket – looks like it came in handy, after all.
The nurse gave me the drugs intravenously and said, “If you need anything at all, during the night, press the call button; somebody will be in here immediately”, and with that, she left, after turning out the light.
“Thank you”, I said, into the darkness, to Deana.
“You let me win, didn’t you?” she asked quietly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about”, I slurred, feeling drowsy already.
She chuckled lightly, “Night mom.”
“You know, we are going to have to talk about it at some point”, I said, referring to our little argument.
As much as I would have liked to forget it all happened, there was some stuff she was dealing with, and one of these days, she could very well blow up again, unless the air was completely cleared. It just felt like everything was right there, hanging above our heads – in the balance – and before long, it was probably going to come crashing down.
“I know”, I heard her murmur.
I sighed, as relief flooded through my chest.
A myocardial infarction, commonly known as a heart attack, is the interruption of blood supply to a part of the heart, causing heart cells to die. The resulting restriction in blood supply and oxygen shortage, if left untreated for a sufficient period of time, can cause damage or death of heart muscle.
Simply put, heart attacks are awful.
Or, are they?
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Thanks for reading.
I know this was short and uneventful – yet again – but I wanted to divide both convos. The ‘talk’ is still coming up. It's just not the right moment.
I’ll upload . . . when I upload. Should be soon though. :)