Somewhere from the dreamy, distorted depths of sleep she heard a phone ringing. Or maybe not. It would go away.
"Didn't think you were on call tonight." That was a little clearer – because it was directly in her ear.
"I'm not," she managed to mumble while reaching out an arm. She smacked her hand around on the end table a few times before landing on her cell phone. She glanced at the clock – 3:16 AM. What the hell?
"Hello?" she croaked into the phone.
"Oh, sweetheart, I'm so sorry to call you at this hour. I know you were asleep, but I had to call. I'm so sorry, I just didn't know what else to do, and I thought about waiting . . ."
The voice was frantic, babbling, and familiar.
"Nancy?!" Juliet sat straight up, dislodging James, who had been snuggled into her back. "What's going on?!"
"I'm in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. It doesn't look good, sweetie, and I just . . . I needed to call . . ."
"Nancy, slow down. What's happened? Is it Dad?"
"He's having another heart attack. This time it seems really bad." Juliet could hear the tears behind her step-mother's words. "He hasn't regained consciousness. I know this is an awful lot to ask, but can you meet us at the hospital? Please? Rachel can't leave Julian alone, and I just need someone . . ."
Juliet agreed, of course. She told Nancy to tend to Dad – she'd be at the hospital ASAP. She dressed quickly, filling James in, and headed downstairs.
She stopped in the kitchen, suddenly paralyzed with indecision. Should she call Rachel? Rachel couldn't leave Julian alone -- she really couldn't do anything but sit home and worry. Better to let her sleep. Then again, if something really bad was going to happen or if Dad was only going to regain consciousness for a little bit, wouldn't Rachel want to be there? She should be allowed to decide for herself. If she wanted, she could bring Julian over here. But getting an 8-year-old out of bed at 3:30 in the morning sounded like a terrible idea. Rachel really would be confronted with no good options . . . better to let her sleep. And round and round. Juliet couldn't make up her mind, so just stood, staring at the wreck of a kitchen. She really should have cleaned it up before going to bed.
They'd spent the afternoon at the pumpkin patch. Or, well, the front lawn of the local high school, where the band was selling pumpkins, spiced cider, and hayrides as a fundraiser for a trip to the Rose Bowl Parade. As jarring as Christmas in Miami could be – candy canes and beach bashes, evergreen wreaths and palm trees, decorative snowmen in the near-80º heat – she often found the faux autumn at Halloween even more absurd. The tuba players sweating in their overalls and plaid flannels taking kids on a hayride; the smell of crisp apples and the taste of warm apple cider in the muggy, humid air; the pumpkin patch set amongst the palm trees. But it was Halloween – one of the handful of holidays James jumped into feet first, and so, there they were, at the "pumpkin patch," sweating and squinting against the sun.
Jay ran through the pumpkins. "Here's a good one!" He shouted, holding up a tall, oblong pumpkin.
"Nah." James shook his head. He was particular.
"What about this one?" Jay pointed to an enormous pumpkin – as high as his knees.
"Too big," judged James. "We gotta be able to pick it up and get it outta the car when we get home. You gotta find a good round one – not too big, but not too little, either. Look for one that's just the size of Mom's tummy."
She looked at him over the top of her sunglasses, but couldn't even manage a glare. He wasn't looking at her in that "ha, ha, got your goat," way he so often did. He wasn't even looking at her -- he wasn't trying to get her goat. He was simply trying to give easy-to-follow instructions.
In fact, he didn't realize what he'd done until Jay took his instructions very literally. Every pumpkin he picked up he dutifully held to Juliet's belly to make his judgment. "Nope. Too small," "Too big," "Too lumpy." When James realized what he had wrought, he began to laugh.
"OK! Enough, you two. Stop using me as your pumpkin template. Pick some, and let's go," she said when she was finally tired of being laughed at.
After dinner that night, they put down newspaper on the kitchen table to let the carving begin. They'd settled on three pumpkins. Jay wanted a "mean one," and James was planning a "surprised one." ("Ya know, with a mouth like an 'O'.") While James carved and Jay dug out pumpkin seeds, they discussed what to do with the third pumpkin. Whenever Jay got a big handful of pumpkin innards, he'd shove it Juliet's face. "Look, Mom! Gross! Pumpkin guts. Oozy, slimy pumpkin guts." She'd pretend to be grossed out, even though they were nowhere near as gross as human guts. Or slices of orange, quite frankly. She said a silent thank you that Halloween didn't involve orange carving.
She kept busy pinning rags to an old pair of Jay's jeans and artfully ripping holes in a too-small shirt. He wanted to be a hobo for Halloween. That seemed a delightfully odd and retro costume choice, until she remembered it's what Julian had been last year. She was concentrating on fraying the hem of his sleeve when James remarked, "Bring back fond memories?"
She looked at him curiously. What was he talking about?
"You know, just fixin' up the rags. Gettin' all dolled up in Others gear."
She set Jay's shirt on the table, and fixed a hurt stare on James. For a beat, she said nothing. The only noise in the room was the squelching sounds Jay made pulling out pumpkin guts. Finally she said, "Seriously? Really? Is there nothing I can ever do to make you stop making those jokes?"
James looked around the kitchen, making a big show of pondering everything – the refrigerator covered in Jay's art, his soccer schedule, Juliet's on-call schedule; Jay holding up his latest fistful of "oozy, slimy pumpkin guts;" the big stack of books on the kitchen counter, ready for eBay shipment. Finally, he looked her over from head to toe. He shook his head. "Nah. I ain't never gonna stop with those jokes." He laughed when he said it, though, and reached over to put a hand on her knee. He leaned in to kiss her.
"Ewwwwwwww! Gross!" Jay exclaimed – not at the pumpkin guts all over his hands, but at the spectacle of his parents kissing. James stopped kissing her long enough to look over at Jay, but turned back to give her an exaggerated, face-sucking kiss. "UGH! Get a room!" Jay yelped.
James broke away. "Where'd you learn that phrase, champ?" he asked.
"Julian," Jay answered. (Of course)
"And what do you think it means?" asked Juliet.
"It means it's gross when you're kissing and stuff. You got to go to a different room and do that gross stuff in private."
James clapped his hands together once, slapped them on his thighs, and jerked his thumbs in the vague direction of upstairs. "Come on, babe," he said. "You heard the kid – let's head upstairs." He stood up, held out a hand to help her out of her chair.
"But Dad! What about the surprised pumpkin?!" Jay looked horrified at the idea his parents might actually abandon him for upstairs, leaving the pumpkin carving unfinished.
"Ah, good point," James answered, and sat back down. Juliet returned to fraying Jay's sleeve. Truth be told, this absolutely did remind her of an Others activity, but no way in hell was she telling James that.
They'd gotten the pumpkins carved without further incident – the third pumpkin was supposed to be a cat, but looked more like a smiling pumpkin with bad acne. James took Jay upstairs to get him bathed and ready for bed. Juliet set to cleaning the kitchen, but Rachel called and distracted her, and by the time James came back downstairs, she'd only just started washing dishes.
He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. He lifted the hair from her shoulder and kissed her neck. "It comes to my attention," he said, "that we already got our own private room upstairs." He pulled her closer, so she could rest fully up against him. She looked around the kitchen, though, at the piles of pumpkin guts sitting on newspaper, the rag scraps on the floor around the kitchen table, dinner dishes sitting right next to the sink. "Let me just finish up in here," she said.
"All right," he agreed, and she was somewhat surprised he didn't put up more of a fight. But he didn't let her go, and he went back to kissing her neck.
"James . . ." she started.
"Don't mind me," he said. "You just keep right on doing those dishes."
"If you helped, I'd be done a lot sooner."
"Good point," he conceded, but went right back to kissing her neck.
So she hadn't done any more cleaning. Now it was 3:30 in the morning, and the kitchen was a complete disaster zone. She looked in dismay at the dishes next to the sink, the pumpkin guts beginning to crust over on the table. And she still hadn't decided whether to call Rachel.
"You OK?" James asked, entering the kitchen.
His casual tone bothered her. She choked back tears. "Of course not! My dad may be dying!"
"Hey, hey," he softened. "I just mean why're you zoned out in the kitchen instead of on the way to the hospital?"
"Because the kitchen's a wreck, and I can't decide if I should call Rachel."
To James' credit, he didn't make any kind of smart remark about how the cleanliness of the kitchen had nothing to do with calling her sister. Instead he said, "Ain't nothin' she can do at 3:30 in the morning. Call her at six. Let her get at least a halfway decent night's sleep."
She appreciated his certainty. Yes, six was early, but not too early. Maybe they'd have more details by then. She blinked back the tears threatening to fall, and nodded firmly. Good plan. James continued then. "As for the kitchen, don't worry about it. I'll leave it just like this, and you'll have plenty to clean up as soon as you get home." He winked, and she laughed. God, how could she be laughing at a time like this?
He took both her hands in his. "Now get going. Call me when you hear anything, OK? I'll just tell Jay you got called in to the hospital . . .and speaking of, I know it's Monday morning now, but promise me you don't start working first chance you get? OK? I know you're just a few floors away, but take the day off – got it?"
Work was always a good way to take her mind off things . . . She mentally crossed her fingers, then nodded in agreement.
He narrowed his eyes. He knew she wasn't quite ready to give up the idea of doing a little work when she got a chance. So, he crouched down, and spoke directly to her stomach. "Listen up, kiddoes. If she starts tryin' to do too much, I want you guys to start kickin' the shit outta her, OK?"
"Don't curse at them," she chided.
"Don't run yourself ragged," he countered. "Now, seriously, get going. Nancy's gonna start to worry."
When the elevator doors opened onto the cardiac floor, Nancy was there in the lobby, pacing, waiting to greet her. "Thank God, Juliet, I don't know how much longer I could take being here alone," she said, taking both her hands and squeezing them. Her next words came out in rapid-fire succession. "Oh dear, I shouldn't have called you, you should still be sleeping, but I just can't handle this alone and you can talk to the doctors better than I can. Oh, James probably hates me for getting you out of bed at this hour, but really, sweetheart, I didn't know what else . . ."
Juliet cut her off. "Nancy," she said gently, but Nancy kept on. Juliet tried again, "Nancy!" she barked. Nancy went silent and looked stunned. "Sorry," Juliet apologized for yelling at her step-mother. "Just calm down. It's OK. I'm glad you called – I'm glad I'm here. Let's sit." She guided Nancy to the seats in the waiting room. Seated, she looked directly into Nancy's eyes. "Stop worrying about me. Let's focus on Dad. Tell me what happened, what's going on now."
Nancy recounted the events of the evening, and filled her in on what she knew of Dad's current status – not much. He still hadn't regained consciousness. Other than that, she knew nothing. "The doctor's aren't telling me anything."
"That means they're busy working. That's not a bad sign. They won't tell you anything until they get to a stopping point."
Nancy nodded, smiled. "Right. I knew I wanted you here for a reason."
So they sat. And waited. Juliet watched the minutes on the waiting room clock tick by excruciatingly slowly. The moment the little hand hit the six and the big hand hit the twelve, she was going to call Rachel. She chuckled internally at her "little hand, big hand" time formulation. Next time Jay complained about having to learn to tell time ("It's all digital, Mom."), she'd pull this one out. If Dad is dying of a heart attack, and you are waiting to call the twins to tell them about it, and the waiting room only has an analog clock . . . Or maybe not. Maybe she'd stick to, "It's important because I say so."
Anytime anyone walked by, Nancy would jerk her head up and follow them with her eyes until they passed out of sight. Still no news. Still they waited. Juliet felt an eerie sense of déjà vu. Had it been more than five years ago that she stepped out of the elevator onto this very floor to hear about Dad? Five years? Because it seemed like yesterday. And it seemed like another lifetime entirely.
She'd been so desperate to get here. So desperate that she drove through the night with a stranger. Someone she thought was a stranger, at least. And the next day, she sat here, waiting for news of Dad's bypass. She remembered how lonely she felt. Nancy was allowed back to see Dad; Rachel ran off quickly to get Julian settled with the babysitter; Juliet sat in the waiting room all alone. Maybe as lonely as she'd ever felt in her life. Until James called. She remembered how desperately forlorn she was, how his phone call was like a lifeline, and how she'd gone to bed with this complete stranger . . .
Yep, it had been a little more than five years ago that she sat right here, perhaps in this very chair. But the loneliness of that life seemed so foreign to her now. Without that day, there would be no Jay. "It's all digital, Mom," she imagined him again. A tiny little copy of his father, but his words so matter of fact, straightforward, no-nonsense. How what he said could seem so innocent and guileless, and then he'd smirk at her. "It's all digital, Mom." Smirk. She found it alternately annoying and endearing. She complained about it once to James. "You're kidding, right?" he'd asked.
"No," she said. "That smirk can be really annoying. Like he thinks he knows more than the rest of us."
James looked at her wide-eyed for a minute. "Seriously?" he asked.
"It doesn't bother you?"
"No. No, it hasn't bothered me for a long time," he said, then shook his head at her like she was a crazy person.
Finally, finally, the big hand hit the 12 and the little hand hit the 6. She called Rachel. Still no news from the doctors. Dad was still unconscious.
When both the big and little hands hit the 6, a man in a white coat entered the waiting room. Nancy stood up, excitedly. But it was just Harris, Juliet's intern. He came bearing a cardboard tray, strawberry yogurt, a banana, half an everything bagel (toasted) with cream cheese, and a half-caf coffee. Harris was a sweet guy. But seriously? Was she that predictable? Or was he such a sycophant that he'd memorized her daily breakfast? It's not like she ate breakfast at work every day.
She joked, "Boy, I'm predictable, huh?"
"Your husband called and told me what to get."
Oh, poor Harris. They'd finally gotten back on even ground a few months back when she explained to him why she'd been acting so weird, why oranges were verboten, why she sometimes just fled his presence for the bathroom. Poor, brilliant, self conscious, timid, whiz-kid Harris began to gain confidence around her.
And then? And then, one day he found a man roaming the back halls. How and why Kristi the receptionist let this guy back was a puzzle to Harris. This man didn't belong -- he was wearing dusty work boots, ratty jeans, a dirty t-shirt, poking his head in the drug lock-up, the seminar room, the break room. Harris, recently filled with new self confidence, confronted the guy, who claimed to be Juliet's husband. Harris was no dummy. Juliet's husband managed a book store. Whoever this fellow was, he wasn't Juliet's husband.
Harris put on his best voice-of-God, I'm-a-doctor, I-know-what's-best voice, and asked the man to leave. Mistake. James hates doctors (well, most doctors -- he's learned to make, as he says, "one fuckin' exception"). He especially hates when doctors talk to him like he's an ignorant hick. He hates how they just assume they are the smartest, most noble people around. Screw them (not literally, of course -- OK, with one fuckin' exception). So, he stepped toward this small, cowardly looking fella, planning to intimidate him into submission. The scared-looking doctor boy backed up a few steps. Wow. This was going to be easier than he thought. Kristi came around the corner.
"Sorry, James. I gave you the wrong info. She's down at the dean's office. You want to wait?" Kristi batted her eyes, flirted with him. James looked at Harris. Harris had a look like he shit his pants. Poor Harris. But James couldn't really wait. He was just stopping by -- the building supply company happened to be two blocks from the hospital and he was on his way to pick up some materials.
Juliet returned from the dean's office half an hour later. Harris stuttered and hemmed and hawwed his way around her the rest of the afternoon. Confusing. Until Kristi told her James had stopped by. "I think he scared Harris," she said.
"That sounds about right," Juliet had admitted. Oh, poor Harris.
So, now what? James had just called and frightened Harris into bringing her breakfast? Oh, dear. Poor Harris.
"Mrs. Ford? Mrs. Ford?" Harris was now saying tentatively. Juliet looked at him over the rim of her yogurt cup. "Is your step-mom Mrs. Ford?" he asked.
Oh good lord, Harris could be clueless. Of course her step-mom wasn't Mrs. Ford. Oh, Harris. He was so amazingly brilliant and mind-numbingly ignorant all at once. "Her name is Nancy, Harris."
Harris approached Nancy to ask if she, too, would like some breakfast. Sweet guy. Rachel arrived at 7. "My neighbor's getting Julian to school. James said he'd pick him up after."
Finally, a doctor came in at 7:30. Dad was stable, but still hadn't regained consciousness. "We'll just have to wait and see," he said. So they waited more. And waited. Nancy sat still in her seat, her arms wrapped tightly around her body. Rachel incessantly texted (who was she texting so frantically? Juliet wondered). Juliet read the paperback she'd stuffed in her bag, but that wasn't really making the time go by any faster. She thought idly about seeing if there was anything she could do down on her floor, but she remembered James' warning. Actually, she was starting to get rather tired. The couch in her office began to seem wholly inviting. But she didn't want to leave Nancy and Rachel up here to wait alone. She read some more. Rachel kept texting.
"Who are you texting?"
"None of your beeswax."
Fine . . maybe she'd just go take a quick power nap. She could play the pregnancy sympathy card.
Her power nap ended up lasting more than two hours. When she returned to the cardiac floor waiting room, she was dismayed to learn she'd missed an important turn of events. Nancy approached. "He's awake! The doctors are in with him now. When they leave, you have to go talk sense into him." Noticing Juliet's baffled look, she continued. "They say his heart is irreparably damaged. It will probably hold up for another year. But there's an experimental treatment -- he says he doesn't want it. You have to talk sense to him."
Not long after, she got her chance. Rachel was down in the cafeteria getting lunch. Nancy was making calls to various neighbors and friends, and she gestured to Juliet in a little "get going" hand signal. "Hold on a minute," she said to whoever she was speaking with. She put down her phone. "Go talk sense into that stubborn old bastard."
Dad looked gray, washed out, and 10 years older than when she'd seen him last. He turned his eyes to see her walk in, but didn't so much as move his head. With his right hand, lying limply on the bed next to him, he waved her over. She bent down to kiss him, sat next to him, and took his hand.
"Nancy says you're being a stubborn old bastard."
Dad rolled his eyes. Smirked. "She wants me to agree to this experimental treatment."
"She told me that."
"Did she tell you it's in New York?" he asked.
"She didn't mention that, no."
"Well, it is. It's entirely experimental, and I can spend a good bit of the next year up in New York for no reason at all. No thank you," he sounded weak, but petulant.
"So they say you have a year. You won't be able to golf, to fix cars, go to sporting events . . . all the things you love," she reasoned with him.
"No. If I spend the year in New York -- then I won't be able to do the things I love. I can't sit on the porch swing with my wife if I go to New York. I can't take my daughters to lunch and watch them bicker. I can't watch my son-in-law pretend he's interested in my engineering stories. I can't build Lego's with my grandsons. I won't be around to rock my new grandbabies. These docs say there's no guarantees. And hell if I'm spending the last year of my life all the way up there."
"Maybe you should just consider it, Dad. At least for Nancy."
"I am doing this for her. For all of you. This experimental treatment? Come on, sweetie, you know as well as anyone that it's a crapshoot. I might not make it past a year even if I do it. And instead of spending this year with my family, I'll spend it back and forth to New York. Insurance won't cover travel or living expenses. Nancy will be in debt. She'll spend the whole year away from all her friends . . ." he drifted off. Turned to look at her. She was blinking back tears. She squeezed his hand tighter.
It sounded like he was giving up. "Dad, no . . ." she started.
"It's okay," he said, calmly and firmly. "It's okay," he repeated. "Sometimes, for the people you love, you just have to learn when it's okay to let go." To demonstrate, he lifted his hand, still holding hers, from the bed. He dramatically dropped her hand, allowing it to fall limply to his bedside.
She watched in seeming slow motion as her hand slipped out of her dad's. Her blood ran to ice. The room suddenly felt dark and dank. There was a pounding in her head, and she felt the onset of tunnel vision. Sweat trickled down her back. She had a sick realization that she was going to pass out. Her eyelids began to flutter, just as her dad put his large, warm hand back down on hers. He patted it. At his touch, the room grew brighter, warmer. She regained some bit of equilibrium.
"You'll understand one day," he said.
"I understand, Daddy," she barely whispered. Oh, I understand. I understand.
"So, you'll tell Nancy to back off?" he asked.
"Scared to do it yourself, Dad?" she sassed at him.
"Don't smirk at me, young lady."
Everyone in Nancy and Dad's house seemed pleasantly occupied. Rachel was in the living room, picking up discarded wrapping paper. Dad was busy helping Julian and Jay with the Lego sets Santa brought them both. James was on the back deck talking to Clementine. They'd sent an American Girl doll, and she'd called, squealing, to thank him. Nancy was alone in the kitchen, washing dishes. A cozy family holiday. Juliet half imagined a roaring fire, and the lot of them decked out in fuzzy, Christmas-themed sweaters. Except it was nearing 80 degrees.
No one was stating the obvious. Probably Dad's last Christmas. He'd been in the hospital a month, and home now for nearly another month. Nancy had long since dropped the pleading for him to go to New York for treatment. She understood what he wanted. But it was difficult for all of them (the adults at least), fully understanding that chances were good Dad wouldn't be around this time next year. Juliet peeked in at Nancy in the kitchen. She was facing away, busy scrubbing baking dishes.
"Need any help?" she asked her step-mother.
Nancy turned to face her, and Juliet was surprised to NOT see tears streaming down her cheeks. She'd assumed Nancy was ensconced at the sink to have a good cry. Her eyes were sad, though. She looked at Juliet as if she hadn't heard her question.
"Anything I can do to help you?" she asked again.
"Sure. Sit down right over there," Nancy gestured at the kitchen table, "and keep me company."
Easy enough. Or not. What was she supposed to say? So, just thinking about how this is probably your husband's last Christmas?
Nancy spoke. "I used to say all I wanted was for us to grow old together. I guess when I said that, I thought 70 was old. Now I'm wishing I'd been more specific." She chuckled, a little mirthless laugh. "It all goes by so fast."
Juliet wanted to comfort her, say the right things, and was struggling to think what those right things were. I still think 70 is old seemed heartless.
Rachel appeared at the doorway. "Steve says he can come for dinner tonight." Steve was her new boyfriend, the person she'd been mysteriously texting when Dad had been so sick.
"If he's so great, why are we only just meeting him now?" Juliet inquired.
"Oh. My. God," started Rachel, in that exaggerated way she always used when her little sister was irritating her. "You can be so un-self-aware sometimes, you know that? Because I'm reminded of a 4th of July picnic . . ."
Nancy interrupted. "Rachel can you help me dry these?" She indicated the sink full of dishes.
"Why does she just get to sit there doing nothing?" Rachel complained, waving at Juliet, sitting. She was smiling, though, as was Nancy. It didn't take a whole lot of time under the same roof for the girls to fall into the old, time-worn patterns of their relationship. Sniping, teasing, laughing . . . there was something very comforting about it all
Lying in bed that Christmas night, she had trouble concentrating on her book. She just couldn't stop thinking of Nancy's words. "It all goes by so fast." Time was such a weird thing. Hell, who knew that better than she did? But even in the real world, it did weird things. The budget meeting earlier this week. That had only been an hour, but seemed to last at least a month. On the other hand, it seemed like she simply blinked and her dad had turned into an old man.
She looked over to James, intensely concentrating on his book. His glasses were perched at the end of his nose. The little gray that had begun dotting his temples a few years ago was creeping further into his hairline. And his stubble was nearly half gray. He shaved pretty much every morning because of it.
He noticed her stare, put his thumb in his book, shut it, turned to her. "What? What're you lookin' at?"
"Just never imagined being married to an old man."
He immediately raked his fingers through his hair. Doing so, he believed, hid most of the gray. He was touchy about this. She probably shouldn't have said it. She winced internally, and was getting ready to apologize, to say she actually thought he looked good with the gray (and that was true, she did think that).
He didn't give her a chance, though. Instead, gave her a once-over and commented, "Well, I never imagined being married to a fat broad, so I guess we're even." He winked.
OK, she deserved that. Although she was starting to get as touchy about that as he was about his gray. She was as big – no bigger – than she'd ever been before Jay was born. And had at least another six weeks to go? Hell. She didn't need winking little reminders from James of all people. She made a mental note to, in the future, keep all mention of his age and his gray hair to herself. She picked up her book again and began reading.
She hadn't gotten more than half a page read when he put his book on the bedside table and turned to her, scooching close to her side. He was talking in a thin, reedy voice that she quickly realized was supposed to be his "old man voice."
"Well, babe, I think my Viagra just kicked in."
She could feel that, yes, that was the case. "You cannot be serious," she said.
"Sorry, sweetheart, but even elderly gentlemen such as myself have needs. What? You think ain't up to it? Those little blue pills work magic, ya know."
She rolled her eyes. "I wasn't thinking about you being old. I was thinking about me being fat."
"Ah, well, I ain't picky," he scoffed.
"Oh my God," she declared.
"What?"
"That was supposed to be your opening to say something like 'I think you look beautiful,' not to say you 'ain't picky'."
"Oh, come on. If I'd said that, you would have totally given me crap about that, too. You would have said something like, 'Don't be patronizing, James,' or some shit like that."
Yes, she probably would have. The whole time they were having this ridiculous old man vs. the fat broad argument, though, he'd been nuzzling closer. Now he whispered in her ear. "How 'bout this. Merry Christmas, love."
"Not bad," she replied, and turned to kiss him.
Ay yi yi yi yi that ending was sappy! Oh well.
So, if you are a fan of the other story, DON'T WORRY, I am going to get back to it, I just want to finish this one first (which I know I've said before), and I think there's not much more for this story (and I know I've said THAT before, too), so I'm just trying to get it DONE, and move on to the other one.
Thanks for staying with me on this one! I should just state for the record that I know absolutely nothing about heart attacks, heart treatment, etc., so I am sure there's NOTHING realistic in the whole heart attack scenario bit, but . . .
