Always the Last to Know by Kristan Higgins Page 0,117
was time for Barb Frost to get some respect from her younger child.
I called the Mandarin Oriental and ordered flowers and a bottle of champagne sent to their room. Yes, yes, it cost the earth. So what? I didn’t have children. I could afford it. “And for the card,” I asked the hotel clerk, “would you write, ‘To the best mother and sister in the world. Relax and enjoy. You deserve it. Love, Sadie.’ Thank you so much!”
The warm fuzzies I got were only slightly more fun than picturing their shock that I was so damn wonderful.
That night, after I’d made mac and cheese for Dad (it was easy for him to spear with his fork), Dad watched a documentary on the wolves of Yellowstone that made Pepper tremble with the call of the wild (or terror, but I was going with the former). I set up my easel in the little glass bump-out that abutted the living room, having made a run home for some things while Kit, the rather bitchy home health aide, was here earlier. She was efficient, but she wasn’t very nice. I’d have to help Mom find someone better.
But for now, all was well. Call me sentimental, but I was drawing a picture of my dad in charcoal. I wanted to capture him in one of his alert moments, with Pepper against him. His shirt was buttoned wrong, but in my picture, I’d fixed that, as well as the tuft of hair that just wouldn’t sit flat on the left side of his head, where he’d had his surgery.
Sometimes, a picture took on a life of its own, almost against the artist’s will. This was such a time. I mean, sure, I knew how to draw a human. I was nothing if not technically proficient, as a wretched professor had once told me. But the Dad in my drawing looked too sad, and lonely, and nothing I did was fixing that. Every line I added just seemed to emphasize the feeling of being lost.
Sometimes, the picture told the artist the truth.
A knock came on the door, and I answered it, expecting Caro.
It was Noah. And Mickey, holding the baby. “Hey!” I said.
“Yay!” said Mickey. “We came to see your dad, but we get you, too! Bonus points!”
“Come on in,” I said. Stepping aside, I glanced at Noah, feeling shy and blushy. His eyes. That hug. Curly hair. Et cetera.
“Hi, Mr. Frost,” Mickey said. “Oh, hi, doggy! Look, Marcus! A doggy! Woof woof!”
“Dog,” my father said.
“He’s talking so much,” I told them, giving Dad’s shoulder a squeeze.
Mickey deposited the baby on my father’s lap, and Dad held him. He smiled, even. There. Not lost or sad or lonely. My drawing was wrong.
“I hope it’s okay that we’re here,” Noah said.
“Yes, of course. It’s really nice of you.” My cheeks were hot.
“Your mom is the bomb,” Mickey said. “She really helped me last year when I was pregnant. My own mom died a few years ago.”
“Shit, Mickey. I didn’t know that. I’m so sorry.”
“No worries. But it was hard. Pancreatic fucking cancer. She and Barb were friends, and we got close. Plus, Noah here has always had a soft spot for your family.”
“Is this true?” I asked.
He shrugged amiably. “Sure.”
Marcus was babbling cheerfully and fascinated with my dad’s ear. I would need to trim some ear hair soon. Such was the life of a loving daughter. Maybe he’d like to go to the real barber in town, like he used to, every four weeks.
“You guys want something to drink?” I asked.
“I’ll have a beer,” Mickey said. “Half a beer. It’s good for nursing mothers. Don’t stink-eye me, Noah Pelletier. Split a brewski with me.”
“Okay.” He smiled at her, and my heart pulled a little.
They were a couple. A family. Not a romantic couple, but families came in all shapes and sizes, didn’t they? The ease between them, the affection, the way they were both so natural with their son . . . it was really lovely.
I was jealous. The certainty between Mickey and Noah was not something I’d ever had. Not with Noah, because we’d been too young, of course, and later because we’d wanted different things. And not with anyone else. The past few weeks since dumping Alexander, I’d come to realize that I’d filled in a lot of his blanks with answers I’d wanted, always making the best assumptions about him, never once wondering if he was lying to me.