Fix It Up - Mary Calmes Page 0,20
when are there blankets in there?”
“Since yesterday,” I replied.
He reached for the remote and paused the movie. “What did you do with all my blow?”
“You didn’t actually have very much,” I told him.
“No, there was a lot.”
“Then somebody took it with them.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think you got it all, because I’m really good at hiding my shit.”
He sounded so cocky. “I had another security company in here on Friday, and they have a retired drug dog, so believe me when I tell you there is nothing left in this house but some edibles.”
He looked pained.
“From what I understand, they can help you sleep,” I told him.
“What?”
“The pot edibles,” I clarified.
“I don’t have them to sleep. I have them to get high.”
I shrugged.
“And what’d you do with all my booze?”
“The high-end wine was donated in your name to a charity auction, along with the unopened top-shelf bourbon, scotch, and tequila.”
“And the rest?”
“Well, the rest went down the drain,” I explained, “and it was painful to see the whiskey go, so yeah, I share in your time of mourning.”
He got to his knees on the couch, glaring at me. “I’m not a child, and you can’t treat me like one.”
“I’ll make you a deal; you stop acting like one, and I’ll stop treating you like one,” I countered, squinting at him. “Whaddya say?”
He shook his head. “I’m going to call my lawyer tomorrow.”
“On a Sunday?”
“When you’re rich, they always pick up the phone,” he assured me snidely.
“Good, then make the call. I think you should.”
“You don’t think I will.”
“No, I’m sure you will, and I suspect she’ll tell you exactly what I’m telling you now,” I said with a sigh. “You need to play ball with Mr. Cox so he doesn’t take over your entire life.”
“What’s the difference between that and this?”
“Well, right now, me being here still gives you a say. You get to spend your money how you like, as long as it’s not on drugs or booze,” I told him. “With a conservatorship, there are hard limits not only on who you can see and where you can go, but also on how you’re allowed to spend any money that’s allotted to you.”
His growl was loud as he flopped back down onto the couch.
“Are you tired? Do you wanna just go to bed?”
“No.” He pouted, arms crossed, scowling as he started the movie again.
I sat back down, and fifteen minutes later, he put a pillow beside my left thigh and laid his head down, still watching. Another ten after that, he jolted hard, almost throwing himself off the couch. I reached out and put my hand on his back, rubbing gently, and he calmed. There was snoring soon after. I turned the movie off when he fell asleep so he wouldn’t miss any of it, and went to Netflix and watched a documentary series on the mob that I’d been wanting to catch. Even though I was interested, it didn’t escape my notice that with my hand on his back, there was no more twitching or jolting. He settled and slept soundly.
When I woke up in the early morning, his head was on the pillow in my lap, and he was on his side with his legs stretched out, his right hand tucked under my thigh. I was going to carry him to bed, but I put my feet up on the coffee table instead, turned off the lamp beside me, and closed my eyes. I was certain that it was better not to disturb him. He needed his rest after all.
Four
He hated me.
Honestly, it made sense that I was his least favorite person on the planet. I was the embodiment of the new life that he didn’t want. It all started on Sunday morning when he called his lawyer. I watched him in the living room, pacing in front of the couch, listening as Mavis Barrington, the managing partner at Eastman and Barrington, told him to play ball and do whatever I said. There was no chance for us to have a friendship after that.
I became, as anticipated, the focus of all his ire and frustration. He did as I directed, but we didn’t converse, ever. He talked at me, not to me, and the flat, dead look in his eyes told me how he felt even if he kept the words to himself. I was his warden, keeping him from enjoying his life. And he wasn’t wrong. He could have flamed out, like many