Something To Dream On (29 page)

Did Laura eat Ho-Hos, or was she some health food nut? The thought of her nibbling on a salad and dreaming of sinning with chocolate thrilled me. It turned my image of her hazel eyes sad. Bet she would be jealous!

I smiled as I devoured the first bite, but during the second my heart ached of loneliness. By the third, tears came. Even as a little girl, I realized I was a junkie who couldn’t say no. How different would life have been if I had given that Ho-Ho away and told mom to never give me another one?

Laura puts her hand on Jensen’s arm. Why doesn’t he jerk away? “You okay?” she asks.

His eyes stay on the photo. “No. Not at all. She was so adorable. I can’t believe we may never have the children we dreamt of.”

No. Don’t think that way. It
will
happen.

Laura’s hand goes to his leg in an offer of sympathy, but this time he tenses to her touch. He looks into her eyes while shaking his head in disbelief. “Lizetta being friends with someone who was going through all that pain, while wanting to hide from her own suffering, reminds me of how selfless she is. I need some air.”
 

Laura gulps. Did his words actually get to her?

“Why don't you get some coffee?” she asks. “I’ll keep Lizetta company. Maybe hearing some old stories will help.”

Jensen nods and heads off, leaving me with the horrible woman. The moment he's out of earshot, she seems to forget how Jensen hit one of her nerves. She puts her feet up, not just on my bed, but also on my pillow! “Seriously, how the hell did
you
nail Jensen?” She takes her feet down so she can lean in and rub my misery in deeper. “I really need to thank you, because with this little stunt here, Jensen is turning vulnerable again. He's perfect for me now—like really perfect. I can finally have my happily ever after.”

Oh, no! Not her! Absolutely not her!

That painting. That Tarot reading. My dream. They all pointed to another woman coming in and taking the glory. That absolutely, positively, will not be Laura Muler! If I can't come back and get him, I will find someone else for Jensen—
anyone
other than this horrible person.

The coins
clank
down the slot and into the bucket. The cup drops, and the smell of coffee rises.
 

How the hell were Lizetta and Laura friends? Laura's been screwed up since she was a little girl. Would Lizetta really have a friend like that? Lizetta fights her misconception that she's three times her actual size. Maybe Laura’s reality is distorted as well. She told me she didn't have anyone she could trust. Lizetta would never be less than the perfect friend.

The sound of pouring ends and coffee waits. What the hell am I doing? I gave up coffee when I gave up alcohol, because it was part of my hangover cure. Having no crutches for the morning after makes staying sober a little easier. Right now I need every drop of help I can get.
 

The cup stays in the machine. I’m damn near broke and just shy of maxing out my credit card due to wedding flowers, yet I plunk down more cash for some juice. Dammit! All Laura did was suggest coffee and it gave me the notion that it's what I need. Man, that girl clutters my mind.

Shit! I left her alone with Lizetta! I almost hope Lizetta hasn’t woken and they are laughing it up, because the last thing I want is Laura on the guest list to our wedding.

Inside the room, Laura is whispering to Lizetta and giggling like she’s part of the girlfriend brigade. She looks at me, smiles, and giggles again. I guess it's good that some girl talk is going on. Anything to help, right?

I look to my girl, hoping to see a hint of a smile that shows her friend is getting through. Instead, I swear, I freaking swear that there is a disturbance in this room, and Lizetta looks just as lifeless as before. I’m about to hurl my juice.

This is too much.

“Hey, Laura, would you mind taking off? I need some alone time with my fiancée.”

Good enough. I’ve done about all I can here.

“See you later, old friend.” If she can hear me, she’s fuming. If my lies don’t bring her out of the coma, nothing will.

At the foot of the bed, I turn to give one last pout of sympathy, but the unexpected hits as I get a solid look at the full picture—the wires, the tubes, the bags of fluids. My stomach feels like the bottom has dropped out. I’ve been so wrapped up in the goal that I’ve missed the direness of the situation. That’s Lizetta under all those bandages. My old, childhood … schoolmate. She’s a good person who always tries to do the right thing, even when people hurt her. Good people shouldn’t suffer.

I used to think I was a good person. Then I suffered too much. I had to do something to take the focus off of the pain, so I became me. Jensen did the same thing.

Lizetta doesn’t deserve her fate.

As soon as the door closes, the room seems to brighten. I go to my side of the bed, the side where I keep the chair and the same side that I sleep on at home. I kick off my shoes and curl up next to Lizetta.

Come on universe. Work this one out. We need a miracle.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Wednesday, July 26

Outside my window, the rest of the world carries on with worries of their own. Most of the people around here are probably in a deep sleep. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. I should have stayed at the hospital, because I can’t feel Lizetta now, and even though Paul assures me that she is fine, it’s making me crazy.

Why are there times when I can’t feel her? It’s rare but …

Maybe she’s normally with me but is now off taking care of something important.

That’s crazy. My mind is frying.

My fingers press into my eyelids in hopes of making my eyes water. They are so dry that it hurts to move them. My mouth is also one huge cotton ball.

Pain shoots in my gut. My weakened state is only partially the result of a lack of sleep. I can't remember the last time I had a real meal, and my intake has consisted of small amounts of water, a sip of protein shake here and there, and an occasional piece of bread. Anything else makes a return appearance.

Etta whimpers when my feet hit the ground. I rub her belly and assure straight into her droopy eyes that I am okay. I need a vegetable, a piece of fruit—anything to give me nutrients before I keel over. What happened to the man who was so healthy? How ironic is it that while Lizetta has to be fed through a tube, in some ways she is healthier than I am?

It's a clear night, yet all I see is fog. Somehow Bertha manages to get me to a grocery store. I turn off my thoughts about how queasy my stomach is and let the colors guide me through the produce section—carrots, kale, strawberries, blueberries—nature's rainbow of health. My knees buckle when I grab a gallon of milk. The liquid splashes in the plastic and the bile in my stomach goes with it. I try to ignore the queasiness and move on, but instead of seeing nutrition, I see acid reflux. If I eat this, I'm going to need something to counteract how sick it will make me.

No.

No drugs of any kind are allowed in my body. Antacids weren’t acceptable a few weeks ago, so they shouldn’t be now.

I stare at the groceries, and my stomach burns. The weakness that makes this basket seem far heavier than it should becomes mentally draining. Will this ordeal ever end? Is there a way out other than the unthinkable? Am I only waiting for the inevitable, just like the doctors say?

Oh dear God, why me? Why Lizetta? Why the challenges? I can’t do this anymore. I can’t go on without food, without support, without something to ease the pain that gets harder to face each day.
My face scrunches, and my chest heaves. Dry sobs—again.
It’s too much.

I have too many decisions to make. Whether it's about food or the love of my life, someone needs to tell me what to do, because I can’t live like this anymore. Hell, with the way things are going, I won't be alive much longer anyway. Please, God, help me, because I am not as strong as you seem to think I am.

A moment later, I have to will my hand not to shake when I give the check out woman my credit card, and then walk away with a bottle of vodka and two six packs of Ensure.

There has to be a reason why I was allowed back other than to get Etta to stop Jensen from drinking. What was it that crazy angel said? That I’m not coming back “in that busted body.” Then there was that shady comment, “For years you wanted to trade it in for another, and now you are clamoring for it back.” It sure sounds like he is implying that I need to find a new shell.