Tom Pov Present Day
"Christina, you wound me," I said as I fell into step beside her.
"What on earth are you talking about?" she asked, looking down at the chart in her hands.
"You didn't invite me to the wedding. And here I thought I was your friend," I frowned, feigning hurt.
She gave me a cool look that said she wasn't even going to respond to what I just said.
"No really, I'm great at weddings," I continued. "I make a killer toast, dance like a white guy, hit on all the bridesmaids –"
"Throw up in the azaleas," she finished for me.
"You'll never let me live that one down will you?" I chuckled.
"How could I ever forget how you ruined the thousand dollar flower arrangements at Mrs. Patterson's wedding? Maybe if you could hold your alcohol –"
"We were sixteen," I reminded her, as if that should excuse me being a lightweight. I mean I was plenty accustomed even at that age to having wine with my mom occasionally, that wasn't a problem in France, but wasn't used to downing vast amounts of Roland.
"How in the hell did they let us have champagne then?" she asked.
"By batting your eyelashes at one of the servers," I reminded her. Even then it was hard to refuse Christina. Especially when she was all decked out in her slinky bridesmaids dress. That poor waiter didn't know what hit him, and he just kept 'em coming.
"Still it's not like I put it in a bottle and force fed it to you," she retorted. "Besides, I thought you were a pretty good dancer."
"Slow dancing I can do," I started, feeling the heat rise to my face. I suddenly felt like my sixteen-year-old self all over again, trying to stifle teenaged hormones as Christina and I swayed on the dance floor. Not to mention the waltz we spent countless of rehearsals perfecting. Mrs. Patterson didn't really care that most teenagers didn't have a clue when it came to waltzing, although I did since my mom had taught me when I was younger, or fox-trotting for that matter. She wanted her wedding to be elegant, and that included thousand dollar flowers and dancing groomsmen and bridesmaids. "But I didn't have a clue about the cabbage patch, or running man, or the Egyptian dance for that matter."
"Don't forget the Hammer dance and the Electric Slide," she added. "Those were the days huh?" she laughed. "We must've looked utterly ridiculous, but you were a pro by the end of the night."
"Well I must admit I had a pretty good teacher," I said. "But we digress," I added, trying to steer the conversation back to the issue at hand.
"Congratulations, Christina," one of the nurses said in passing, making me laugh. I could sense her frustration.
"Well at least that'll squelch the rumors about you and me. For now," she said.
"What rumors," I asked. I know people often teased me about favoring Christina and being too lenient with her but . . .
"Oh you know same old same old. That I do you favors in return for you saving my ass with Morrissey," she shrugged. "Last week's was that we had sex on a medicine cart in one of the supply closets, and yesterday's . . . well you don't need to hear that one. It's my favorite so far though. People are so inventive," she said nonchalantly as we stopped outside of her "husband's" room.
I was taken aback by her frankness and nearly choked on my own saliva. Pulling at my collar, which seemed uncomfortably tight all of a sudden, I asked "Does he need a CT scan?" desperately needing to change the subject.
"Maybe?" she shrugged, batting her eyelashes and twirling her hair.
"I'll go take a look," I laughed, remembering that was the exact same thing she had done to the server when he asked us if we were old enough to be drinking.
"He's showing signs of an aneurism," I frowned. "But I'm not entirely sure. I'll send him down to imaging."
"Thank you, doctor," she winked as I left to respond to a page.
Christina POV Present Day
"Looks like you were right, it was an aneurism. Right frontal lobe," I confirmed.
"That thing's a ticking time bomb," Tom winced as he read the scan again. "Once his pressure stabilizes somewhat we'll have him sent to the OR."
"Right. I'm thinking 10/8," I added.
"You're being cautious, but I think he can go in a little lower than that," he shrugged. "I say ninety over eighty."
"Well he's at 70/60 right now, so I think he needs twenty more systolic and fifteen diastolic," I challenged.
"Fifteen systolic, ten diastolic," he said.
"Twenty-ten," I said, doing an internal happy dance as I watched him deflate.
"Deal," he relented.
Tom POV
I shook my head at Christina's insufferable tendencies all the way back to my office. But I couldn't help but laugh. She was persistent, irritatingly stubborn, and independent, yet all of her quirks made her all the more endearing to me. Our exchange reminded me of that one day, not too long after we first started our junior year, when I tried to convince her to let me give her a ride to school . . .
Fall 1989
I mentally cursed my mother for insisting that I micro-mow our lawn. Despite the fact that November was quickly approaching, it was still disgustingly hot out, and I was sweating like a piglet. I hadn't even started on the backyard yet. I looked over at the house next door, and found myself thinking about Christina yet again. I had seen her around school on several occasions. Actually she was in several of my classes which surprised me; while I was a junior here, if I were back home I would be graduating at the end of this year, and more often than not Christina and I were the only students our age in senior classes. But we haven't really spoken more than a few words to each other since her mom invited me over for dinner. I tried to make conversation, but with her one word answers it was hard to get past the usual 'hey' and 'how are you?' She obviously wasn't antisocial; she had more friends than anyone I knew. And despite the fact that I should feel offended at the fact that she was trying to shut me out, I still felt the overwhelming need to befriend her. I've quickly become accustomed to American culture, which in some ways wasn't entirely different from that of Europe, but I could never get used to Christina. She was truly unlike anyone I had ever met. She doesn't dress the same way that most of the girls at school do and listens to foreign music. But whether she was crusading for global injustice, arguing with the teacher, or trying to convert her car to a biodiesel, I wanted to know more. Over the rumbling drone of the lawnmower, I heard the sharp clanging of metal hitting the ground, followed by a steady stream of expletives. Chuckling, I cut the engine and sprinted next door to investigate.
"Jesus!" Christina exclaimed as she backed into me. "You really like popping up unannounced," she finished, bending over to pick up another tool.
"You sounded like you were having some trouble," I shrugged.
"Maybe you shouldn't eavesdrop," she accused.
"I wasn't eavesdropping," I said. "I just happened to overhear you breaking something . . . and yelling."
"Right," she bit as she rolled her eyes.
"You know, it's not my fault that you have a potty mouth. If you don't want people to hear you, maybe you should close the garage door," I advised.
"So that I could die of carbon monoxide poisoning," she quipped. "I don't think so."
I helped her pick up everything off the floor as we settled into a comfortable silence. "You've been working on this for a while," I noted, trying to make conversation.
"And your point is…" she said.
"Nothing, just making an observation," I shrugged.
She sighed dramatically. "You're not going to try to talk me out of this are you? Because my mom already tried…and failed. Several times."
"I don't think I could even if I wanted to," I laughed.
"Good answer," she said.
"How have you been getting to school?" I asked.
"Ugh," she groaned. "I've been taking the bus. My mom won't let me touch her car since I 'destroyed mine'," she jeered, making air quotes.
"I'll give you a ride tomorrow," I said, not anticipating the argument that would ensue.
"I'm not a charity case you know," she said.
"I know, I was just offering to help . . ."
"I'm perfectly fine taking the bus," she affirmed. Rather unconvincingly I might add. "Besides, public transportation is good."
"You don't like the school bus?" I asked.
"It gets here way too early," she shrugged.
"Christina, you're being absolutely ridiculous. I live right next door . . ."
"But - " she started.
"It'd make me feel a lot less guilty driving my 'gas guzzler'," I said, knowing I had her with my next point. "Carpooling is good too."
"Fine," she relented as I rejoice internally. "But," she added making me halt instantly. "As soon as my car is up and running again, we take my car to school."
"Deal," I smiled as we shook hands. Christina was definitely crazy. What kind of girl takes twenty minutes to accept her neighbor's offer to drive her to school when they're going to the same place? I didn't risk saying this out loud, especially considering she had a monkey wrench in hand. After all, she was still dangerous too.
Tom POV Present Day
I tried not to let it show just how much Christina pretending to be some random patient's husband annoyed me. I know that she was only trying to help him, and being the Joan of Arc that she is, she went along with it. Everyone took it as a joke. I mean, I understood it as such; it was obviously just a mix up; a disoriented man suffering brain injuries mistook her for his wife. Then why was it that watching her dote over this man bothered me so? I had no right to feel this way. Christina wasn't mine. I had no claim on her. And maybe if I had, claimed her as my own that is, she wouldn't have left all those years ago. Maybe I would be the one she'd be being so affectionate with right now. Under different circumstances of course.
As I grabbed Mr. Bernard's chart from the plastic box bolted to the wall outside his room, I noticed Christina was still in there with him. One hand was in his, and the other was stroking his forehead. He looked up at her lovingly as she spoke softly to him. And when she smiled that pretty smile of hers at him, I saw red. She didn't even notice me standing in the doorway. I wasn't thinking clearly, and I knew I was bound to stick my foot in my mouth.
Christina POV Present Day
I could feel Tom standing in the doorway. It kind of unnerved me that after all this time, I could sense when he was near. But Fred needed me more, so I stayed by his side, waiting for Tom to announce himself.
"May I speak to you for a moment," he said, his voice tight.
"Sure - " I started before he cut me off.
"Outside," he continued, not even waiting to see if I had followed him.
"Is there a problem?" I asked, trying to keep my anger in check. His attitude was not sitting well with me at all.
"There's always a problem when it comes to you," he said. "Don't sound surprised."
"Unfortunately that's the truth," I admitted, "so no, I'm not surprised. What astounds me however, is your attitude right now."
"Christina, you're in there pretending to be some man's wife," he scolded.
"The helpful wife. The loving wife. The dutiful wife," I spat. "What can I say, it's a role I play very well," I shrugged.
"This goes against hospital protocol," he protested. "You're out of line."
"Since when did you give a damn about protocol?" I hissed. "I'm trying to help a patient."
"I'm still trying to figure out who needs more help; him or you? Who are you really helping here Christina?"
I narrowed my eyes at him in disbelief. How dare he go as far as to insinuate such a thing?
"You're not his wife," he accused.
"I know that!" I snapped.
"Do you?" he asked.
"Now who's the one that's out of line?" I responded as I walked away from him.
I returned to Fred's room where one of the interns was seeing him off to the OR. Standing in the empty room, I silently prayed that he would be okay. There was no way I'd be able to tell this woman that her husband had died without her even having the chance to say goodbye to him.
"He was being a real jerk," I vented to my other best friend. Tom may have had a point, I thought, as much as I hated to admit it, but he didn't have to go about it so unkindly.
"I really don't think you breaking yet another one of the hospital's rules is what's got his panties in a twist," Bobbie said.
"Then what the hell is his problem?" I shrieked.
"You really don't know?" she laughed. "Christina, you know all the inner workings of everything that goes down here at all times, and you can't figure out what's bugging Tom? I swear you are so oblivious to what is right in front of you."
I was about to demand an explanation when a commotion began to stir in the ER, causing both of us to spring into action.
"What do we have here?" I asked.
"Patient crashed on the way to the OR," Dr. Spitzer said.
Shit. It was Fred. I cleared away from the railing as the doctor charged the defibrillator and watched in horror as his heart rate and bp continued to plummet.
"Charge to three hundred," Spitzer ordered. "Clear!" Fred's body rose off the bed in reaction to the electric shock, but his heart continued to fail. "That's it," Dr. Spitzer said after his third attempt. I'm calling time."
Pushing him aside, I grabbed the paddles and ordered a recharge, with no response from Fred. "Again," I barked, as everybody stared. "Charge to 360, damn it! Clear!"
I felt a pair of strong arms envelope me and I struggled to break free of their hold. "Christina, he's gone," I heard Tom say. I flailed and thrashed about to no avail. The steady beep of him flat lining burned my ears as I fought back a scream. I couldn't let Fred die.
"He's back!" Bobbie shouted. "Blood pressure 60/40 and climbing!"
I released a breath I didn't notice I was holding.
"Keep her under control," Dr. Spitzer told Tom. "She's crazy!"
I gave Tom a disapproving glare and tore away from his grasp.
I watched Lindsey sit attentively by Fred's side. Needless to say, I was happy that the operation was a success and that he was getting better slowly but surely. While I was also happy that I was able to do for Lindsey what no one was able to do for me, this case hit too close to home. I felt myself getting sucked into the past, and ran out of the room as fast as my legs could carry me. I needed air.
"Am I fired?" I asked, my voice echoing off the vast expanse that was the rooftop.
"You saved a guy's life, so you get a free pass. This time," Tom answered.
"Are you anticipating a next time?" I inquired, causing him to smile at me for the first time in what seemed like forever. My heart softened. I much preferred this side of him to the one that yelled at me.
"Not exactly," he chuckled, shaking his head. "Listen, I'm sorry for the way I reacted earlier. I went too far…"
"No," I interrupted. "I'm the one who should be apologizing. You called me out on my bullshit when no one else would, so thank you. Goes to show how well you still know me," I said. "The truth of the matter is, it felt good to feel needed again. To feel wanted," I admitted. "To play that part again. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever play that part again – for real, you know?"
"I do," Tom agreed. "More than you could ever imagine," he muttered.
"It reminded me of old times," I sighed. "Except they got a happier ending," I shrugged.
"You can still get your happy ending, Christina," Tom said softly.
I wanted nothing more than to believe him. Tom never gave me reason not to. But how could I live happily ever after when my husband was dead? Granted it's been over a year. I just couldn't escape Michael's memory, and I felt guilty for wanting to. He haunted my dreams at night. And every morning when I looked into my daughter's face, I saw more and more of him. While I realized a long time ago that part of me died with him, I was still here. I was living and breathing and causing trouble at the hospital. Looking up at Tom, I couldn't help but feel for the first time that maybe, just maybe, I could have my happy ending.
Tom POV Fall 1989
"I should probably get back to work," Christina sighed.
"Do you mind if I help?" I asked.
"Um, sure," she conceded. "As long as you don't mind music while you work," she said. My mom says I have a disorder. I can't do anything without listening to music. Whether it's washing the dishes, or doing my homework, there has to be something playing. It helps me focus, and keeps my interest in the task at hand I guess. I get bored and distracted a lot."
I chuckled. That made sense; it suited her personality. At least what I knew of her personality thus far. "No problem," I said as she put the CD in the sound system. "No record player today?"
"You're very observant," she smiled. I didn't think myself as a particularly observant person, but I guess in a sense I was. With most people, I didn't have to work hard to read them. I've found that if I don't say much, the other person does all the talking. You learn more about people by just listening. That wasn't the case with Christina, however. It seemed like nothing she did had any rhyme or reason, at least not an obvious one, so I catalogued everything I noticed about her. Every detail was yet another clue to the mystery that she was.
"It's over in the corner. I don't have this album in vinyl," she explained. "And today is feeling like a very Nana day."
The singer's voice sounded very familiar, but I couldn't quite pin it. "Who's this?" I asked.
"Nana Mouskouri," she said. "She's - "
"Greek," I finished for her. Now I remembered. My grandma used to play her records all the time.
"Finally!" she yelled. "Someone who shares my enthusiasm for something other than grunge rock," she laughed. "Don't get me wrong. I love Alice in Chains as much as the next guy. But there's so much more cool stuff out there," she rambled. "Pass me the spanner wrench?"
I looked hopelessly through the mountain of metal in the box next to me before admitting, "You know I haven't the slightest clue as to what that is, right?"
"It doesn't actually look like a wrench," she said. "It's this black, bridge looking thingie with two screws in it."
"Bridge?" I echoed, amused when I found it.
"I'm not much of a mechanic, if you haven't already noticed," she joked. "So I have to make up pictures for everything to help me remember what's what."
"And what does the spanner wrench do?" I asked, intrigued.
"It," she demonstrated, "removes and installs the ring that holds the fuel pump to the gas tank."
"Where'd you get all this stuff?"
"Mike's shop," she shrugged.
"Couldn't you just take the car in and have him do it for you?" I posed.
"Where's the fun in that?" Christina said. "Has anybody told you that you ask a lot of questions?"
"Sorry. I'm just curious I guess," I apologized.
"Curiosity killed the cat," she mused. "But, in the words of Einstein, it is a miracle that it's survived formal education; which you've had plenty of I'm sure. So you're forgiven."
"Thank you?" I said, only it came out as more of a question. Meanwhile, I was just happy to be in her good graces.
She laughed. "You know what, I've had enough of fixing the car for today. And it's getting really hot out here," she added, fanning herself. "Do you want to come inside?"
"Sure," I answered, following her into the kitchen where she washed her hands before pouring two glasses of lemonade.
"I'm going to go wash the car grease off of me. You can wait for me in my room," she offered.
"Okay," I agreed. Walking past the family room and through the living room, we happened upon a piano near the staircase I hadn't noticed the last time I had been over for dinner. "Do you play?" I asked, gesturing towards the old instrument.
"You could say that," she chuckled. "I'd always loved the piano, and bugged my mom about taking lessons forever. So finally for my 10th birthday she takes me to this music center where I started taking lessons from old man John. I drove him crazy, to put it lightly. I never observed the 5-finger position, and my fingering was a mess. I didn't care if my thumb went under my middle finger or not, as long as I got the notes right. The fact that I didn't like keeping my nails uber short, so they kept clicking on the keys didn't help either. Then it got kinda hard keeping lessons up with my crazy schedule, so I quit a year later. Most of what I do now I taught myself. I'm no Tchaikovsky, but I manage," she shrugged.
"Is he your favorite?" I wondered aloud.
"I have too many that I like to pick one," she said. "I like Mozart even though people pinned him as a madman. I just think he was ahead of his time. Then there's Saint-Saëns, and Gottschalk. Not to mention Chopin and Debussy. If I had to pick a particular period, it would probably be either Romantic or Impressionistic."
It made perfect sense. Her taste in classical music very much reflected her personality. She preferred composers that transcended the boundaries of typical western music established in the baroque era of the renaissance. And I told her as such.
"You really are something, Tom," she smiled, as she led the way up the stairs.
She hesitated outside what I assumed to be her bedroom door, but she opened it anyway. I wasn't wrong in thinking that her taste in music reflected her personality, however everything in her room screamed Christina. What I could actually see of her walls was painted a bright green, and one wall was entirely covered in pictures. At the other end of the space was a massive bookshelf that wrapped around to cover two walls, floor to ceiling. I trailed my fingers along some of the spines perusing titles and authors. From Tolstoy, to Orwell, Hugo to Al Green, there were shelves upon shelves of books and music.
"You have more vinyl in here than a record store," I noted.
"I ran out of room on the shelves so there are some more in boxes under my bed and up in the attic," she shrugged.
"You don't like using CDs?" I asked.
"I do. I have a CD collection and a cassette collection stashed somewhere, but I like vinyl better. They make me feel like part of something else, you know? Like, it gives me a connection to a past I'll never see," she sighed, her eyes sparkling.
I continued to stare at everything, taking in her bed in the middle of the fourth wall. The iron-wrought headboard wove an intricate pattern that disappeared below her mattress that was covered in a yellow bedding set dotted with tiny flowers.
"You have Christmas lights on your footboard," I chuckled, watching the little white lights twinkle.
"Everyday should be like Christmas, don't you think?" she shrugged.
To one side of her bed was what seemed like a stuffed animal collection, and to the other side was an old gramophone that had to be at least 75 years old. Propped up next to it was a . . . mandolin?
"I don't exactly shop at the Pottery Barn, much to my mom's dismay. I redecorated last year. Most of what's in here I got at random thrift shops, or I made myself," she explained. "Like this red blob looking thingie that I put all of my jewelry in I got at this pawn shop for two dollars. It's actually a bowl that was made by an Italian glass blower, Lino Tagliapietra. He made this back in the '50s, and when I looked him up I found out that his work was actually pretty valuable elsewhere. I can thank American ignorance for not catching on yet, or else I wouldn't have been able to buy it," she chuckled.
I smiled, thinking how my mom actually had some Tagliapietra at home. She discovered his work when we went to visit my dad in Italy, and if it weren't for his connections probably would have paid thousands for it.
"Did you make your bookshelf?"
"I wish I could say that I did. I picked out the wood and the finish," she said. "And I helped put in the bottom shelves, but I didn't have much luck with the top ones," she frowned. "I did however make the clothes on this mannequin," she said, pointing out the figure standing near her closet. "My mom got me into sewing. She says my taste in clothing is too eclectic for department stores so it'd help if I started making my own stuff. What she didn't mention is how much work it takes, so I only have a few that I've actually made."
She disappeared into her closet, which instead of a door had a curtain of beads that waved about. Coming out with a towel and an armful of clothes she said, "I'll be right back. The other bathroom's at the end of the hall to your left if you need it."
I listened as her movements faded behind the soft click of a door right outside her room. Looking at her wall of pictures, I studied as many as I could; her with different friends, at different events, and some just of random subjects. I noticed a small table with several different cameras on it. So she was into photography too.
Everything in her room was so spontaneous, so interesting. But it all fit, nothing looked out of place. Nothing about this room was like that of the average teenager's. And then again, nothing about her was normal either. As the steady hum of the shower continued next door, I couldn't help but wonder who was this crazy girl who made her own clothes and admired Chopin? I also couldn't help the smile that took over my face. Because I wanted to know more.
Christina POV Fall 1989
I didn't hate change, I really didn't. Change was good. Our small suburb off of Richmond, Virginia didn't see much excitement, so I should've been all excited about the new family moving next door, right? From a different continent, no less. My mom and Amélie got along really well, which was cool, and Tom was alright, albeit a bit more reserved than I was used to. What wasn't cool was how everyone at school hailed him as some kind of god. People treated him like a shiny new toy, and girls giggled about him as if Vanilla Ice just walked on campus. Sure he was really nice to me, and tried to talk to me on more than one occasion. But I refused to give him any special treatment to fodder his probably gargantuan ego. Until I discovered today that he had none. And hell if I didn't admire him for his tenacity. I'm pretty sure Amber had already gotten to him and warned him all about big bad old me. People didn't have to guess hard to know what I was thinking, and she was one of the unfortunate few who had been on the receiving end; I was really bad about blurting just about anything that came to mind. But something drew me to Tom's calm demeanor, and I wanted to know more of what went on in that quiet head of his. Anybody who could appreciate Nana Mouskouri and Chopin was good in my book. So maybe Tom wasn't so bad after all, I mused as I shut off the water. I had a feeling we could be really good friends. And that thought made me dangerously giddy.