Lovesick (15 page)

Earlier this year, Ruth buried her third husband, Harold. Her first, Joseph, was killed in World War II. Her second, Samuel Mulrooney, died of a stroke thirty-five years ago. Then there was Harold S.
Warner, husband number three. Before he died, Warner was considered Crockett’s wealthiest resident. Now Ruth is. Warner Construction is known throughout the Bay Area. Harold invested all of his construction money in real estate. Among the properties Ruth Mulrooney inherited: Ollie’s Auto Shop, the Carquinez Manor retirement home, and a block of unused warehouses originally owned and operated by C & H Sugar. Ruth is fond of saying Harold died in bed, but not peacefully and not in his sleep.

“Too much,” she complains, studying the contents of one of the bottles through cat-eye reading glasses.

I tell her that a thirty-day supply is minimum. “You don’t have to wait a full month before visiting us again,” I reassure her. Ruth is among the pharmacy’s many do-drop-ins, something Gregory encourages.

I come out from behind the counter to escort Ruth to the front door. She hooks her arm around mine and squeezes it tightly. At the register, Ruth pays in cash. She always pays in cash. Then I give her a kiss on the cheek, pop open her umbrella for her, and send Ruth on her merry way.

Gregory’s “big talk” never happens. In fact, Gregory doesn’t speak to anyone all morning, just grunting and gesturing. I finally work up the nerve to ask him whether he can talk, but he pretends to ignore me. After Gregory refuses to acknowledge the question a second time, I decide that he is no longer entitled to my apology.
Who cares why he originally asked me to wait.
He’s right: I
am
going to fix this. I’ve decided that after work I’ll end the misery, drain him of all his power, and come clean to Paige.
Then what are you going to do, Gregory?

By lunchtime, I’m ready to break down and beg him for forgiveness.

It’s a welcome relief when I see Sid and Loki walk through the front door. I run over to Sid like a Death Row inmate:
Any word from the governor?

I’m flattered—he’s using that stupid dog umbrella I invented a few months back.

“It still needs improvement. I’m sort of sorry we PMPed it so
fast,” he adds, clumsily folding the contraption up and jamming it in the umbrella bucket.

“You look good, Sid,” I say, flattening out his raincoat.
Help me.

Sid knocks away my hands. Loki races up and down Aisle Three.

“You can’t bring that animal in here.” It’s the first thing Gregory’s said in hours.

“But Sid’s potty trained,” I remind Gregory.

Sid raises his fists and silently cheers
good one.

Gregory is nonplussed.

“This is a place of business,” Gregory demands, raising his voice. “No dogs!”

“Come on, G-man, why the long face?” Sid chirps. “Your daughter is getting married. You’re about to gain a son-in-law!”

Gregory shakes his head in disgust. The ground begins to shake.

“It’s not sanitary to distribute medication around pets,” Gregory yells in between coughs. “All I need is someone tripping over that creature.”

We both look at Loki, then at each other, and then back to Gregory.

“Seriously?” Sid and I ask in unison.

“OUT!” Gregory yells at the tiny pooch, startling a customer one aisle over and sending himself into a total hacking fit.

Gregory tries to hold his mouth closed to muffle the coughs. Then he pats down his lab coat for an inhaler, but can’t find it. Once he catches his breath on his own, he goes back to crushing pills with his mortar and pestle.

Sid and I know better than to antagonize him further. Sid picks up Loki, who is terrified, and we move the conversation a few feet down Aisle Three.

“What’s going on here?” Sid whispers.

“It’s complicated,” I whisper back. I’m convinced Gregory can still hear us.

Sid studies me stone-faced while Loki licks his cheek. I wish we could step outside, but it’s still pouring.

“Please, Sid, just talk about something else. Anything.”

“Okay. I’ve been giving your bladeless windshield wipers concept some more thought,” he replies at normal speaking volume. “I’m not convinced we can get those jet streams blowing hard enough to clear away heavy snow or mud.”

I stop him. “I’ve come up with something even better,” I tell him. “Do you have the time?”

“Time for what?”

“No, what time do you have?” I ask, tapping my wristwatch.

This prompts a peculiar look.
Check for yourself.
He hesitantly plays along. Sid awkwardly hands me Loki, pulls up his sleeve, and squints to read his Timex.

“Three … no four-fifteen,” he says.

I place Loki on the floor and unfold a piece of paper from my back pocket.

Sid has become conditioned to worry when I do this. I hand him the technical drawing I spent all night drafting.

“I call it a ‘tactile timepiece,’” I say proudly.

Gregory clears his throat. If he has something to say, I wish he’d just say it. His nonverbal signs are driving me crazy.

Sid is intrigued. He traces the lines with his finger.

“Study the diagram and tell me what time it displays.”

Sid’s eyes dart around the picture. “Twelve o’clock,” he concludes.

“Yes. The digits in the middle represent the hours. But what about the minutes?”

Gregory starts coughing again. I brace myself for the yelling.

Sid studies the drawing. “A quarter to one!” he cries like eureka.

“Nice!” I scream, smacking him smartly in the chest with the back of my hand. “The hour is big so you can read it with your eyes
or
your fingers. All you have to do is rub your thumb over the raised numerals.”

“And the minutes are represented by elevated markers at each quadrant around the circumference,” Sid determines. “North, south, east, and in this case, west, representing forty-five minutes.”

“Like a compass,” I cheer.

“Hmpf. But don’t Braille watches already exist?”

“They do, but that’s the beauty of this timepiece, it works for the sighted as well as the visually impaired, and requires no special training whatsoever. Business meetings that go long, dates that stretch on for eternity, now you can reach under the table and surreptitiously check the time with your fingertips.”

“Not bad,” he admits.

“I’ve even got a slogan. Ready for this? ‘The Touch Ticker: Changing the Face of Time.’”

Sid rubs his chin and studies the drawing some more.

The crash is loud and sudden. Sid and I cringe as if someone has botched up that trick where you pull a tablecloth from underneath six place settings. Chunks of glass and pills glide across the floor and come to a sudden stop.

Has Gregory snapped? Oh man, where’s Loki?

No one is standing behind the pharmacy counter. I call out to Gregory, but there is no answer. I rush over, smashing open the saloon doors and leaping to the raised platform. Gregory is on the floor, eyes shut, his vintage porcelain mortar and pestle shattered to bits. White powder is everywhere.

I yell out to Belinda, “Call 911!”

“I’m on it,” she screams back.

Sid is crouching next to me now.

“Is he breathing?” Sid asks anxiously.

“I can’t tell.” He’s gasping, I think. “Sid, go to the end of the aisle right behind you, second shelf from the bottom. I need one of the inhalers labeled ‘ipratropium bromide.’”

Sid springs into action. Once he’s back there, he needs me to
repeat the name of the medication. My mind is racing. I took a beginner’s first aid course three years ago. It included the basics on nutrition, fractures, burns, and the Heimlich maneuver. We worked on dummies. I’ve never attempted to save anyone’s life.

The color has drained from Gregory’s doughy cheeks. He’s perspiring. I gently sit Gregory up and pat him on the back—maybe this will clear his throat. I listen for breathing.

“Please, Gregory, come through this,” I beg him.

Belinda rushes over.

I gently lower him, tipping his head back, and try mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I’m not sure I know what I’m doing, but I’m blowing air, pumping his chest, and counting. Sid uses my tactile timepiece drawing to cradle a heaping pile of inhalers. He drops everything next to us.

“Tell me what to do,” I ask Sid urgently.

“An ambulance should be here any moment now,” Belinda yells.

“Just hang tight, kiddo. Don’t get yourself all worked up,” Sid says.

Only then do I realize that I’m crying.

“He’s going to be fine, Andy,” Sid promises.

I wring my hands.

“I’m sorry, Gregory,” I say softly. “I’m so sorry.”

GREGORY died.

I still can’t believe it.

The ambulance arrived two hours later. (Sid tells me it was more like ten minutes.) Brandon Mills, Gregory’s primary physician, says it was a massive coronary due to chronic emphysema. At a loss for air, Gregory’s heart gave out. He never made it to the hospital. Mills assures us Gregory didn’t suffer, but this is something doctors always say. I killed Gregory.

In the waiting room of the Veterans Affairs Hospital, Lara pressed Mills for more answers. Most of Gregory’s medical problems were irreversible, Mills told us. Gregory relied heavily on quick fixes. He used medicated inhalers when oxygen therapy was called for. Paige tried, but the Mayor of Pomona Street had too much pride to cart around a tank of oxygen. Even at home, getting Gregory strapped in was a feat. The few times he did capitulate to Paige’s pleas, I was always refused admission to the house.
Daddy needs his privacy
, Paige would tell me, closing the front door behind her. The only person who ever managed to convince Gregory to really take care of himself was Lydia.

Losing Gregory is the most awful thing that has ever happened. People say time heals all wounds, but it’s hard to imagine that happening in our lifetimes. Nothing will ever be the same. Inserting arbitrary words into a live television newscast, pretend arguing, burning clothes, awarding points, singing Chewbacca—nothing will be funny again.

I am no comfort to Paige at all. She cries. She is doubled over in pain.
Hold her
, Sid tells me.
Leave her alone
, Cookie insists.
Love her
, says everyone. I try, but nothing works.

The last week has been a blur. Gregory asked to be cremated, and Lara and Paige privately dispersed his ashes in the Pacific.
People are always dropping by the house. One thing Crockett does well is death. People die here all the time. Unlike me, everyone seems to know his or her role. They know what to say and they usually say it with chicken—the refrigerator is jam-packed with chicken casseroles, grilled chicken, and chicken Parmesan. The countertops are always crowded with baked goods and bagel spreads.

The pharmacy has remained closed ever since. Every afternoon I try to meet Manny at the pharmacy to sign off on a few deliveries, and forward any outstanding prescriptions to the Walgreens in Benicia.

It’s hard to be in the pharmacy for too long, particularly now that Lara is there all the time. She’s co-opted the space, splitting her day between her accounting responsibilities out of Los Angeles and Gregory’s affairs. To hear Lara describe it, sorting out everything could take months.

Paige hasn’t returned to work and hasn’t decided if she will. Within the last week, I can count on one hand how many times she’s left the house. When her mother passed away, Gregory refused to let anyone go through Lydia’s belongings. That was nearly two years ago. Now Paige talks about the dread of going through two lifetimes’ worth of stuff.

Paige floats around the house, not so much cleaning it, but moving items from one side to the other. She has yet to go into Gregory’s bedroom. Lara sleeps in there; I sleep in Lara’s room; and Paige sleeps in her own room. I keep waiting for something to happen, decisions to be made, but nobody seems to be talking about anything.

When I’m not ineffectively comforting Paige or irritating Lara, I’m bored to tears. I busted my ass for Gregory in those final days. Fifty-to sixty-hour workweeks were typical. I used to complain so much about that job—about how it was distracting me from doing what I really wanted in life—and yet now I don’t find any of the other things I used to do very fulfilling. Yesterday, Sid and I spent a few hours tooling around in his garage, but all of our ideas fell
flat. Our hearts aren’t in it. Only now do I realize that, in short, Gregory and that pharmacy came to define who I am.