Quarantales: The Complete Contemporary Romance Box Set, page 9
But by the time we get out of the car at Mavis’s little farm, I’ve revised that plan to only go see Harold about his toe thing. An hour and a half in the car with Rhys is already more time alone with him than I want to spend.
Yet, I can’t help but side-eye him as he gets out of the car. And not in a bad way either.
Seriously, why does he have to still be so fine?
I quickly gained fifteen pounds without a breakneck speed job to keep me on my feet all day. But it looks like he’s been spending even more time at the gym. His t-shirt clings to his lean muscles, and somehow he manages to look official doctor in workout clothes.
If anything Rhys has glowed up. He’s The Even Finer Prince now. And sure, he’s dressed completely inappropriate for a home visit, but I can already tell Mavis won’t mind.
But, ugh. Not the right thoughts to be having about the bitter ex-lover who clearly still hates me.
I speed my steps to go up the porch ahead of him. That’s better. I appreciate no longer having to look upon his Fine Prince radiance as I knock on the door.
I frown when no one answers my knock.
“Perhaps she isn’t home.”
Logical guess, but no. Her truck is sitting in front of the farm. There’s also an RV, and other than a light film of dust, it looks brand new.
“She might be around back, working.” I jog down the steps, trusting him to follow me.
“Mavis! Mavis, you out here?” I call as I come around the edge of the farm….
Only to stop cold at the sight of Mavis’s body, collapsed by a double set of storm cellar doors on the ground.
I’m three years removed from Raines-Jewish, but I guess there’s still an ER Nurse embedded inside of me. I rush over and I have the vinyl gloves pulled on by the time I drop down beside her.
“Mavis! It’s Cynda,” I say, pressing my fingers into her neck.
Her pulse is weaker than I’d want it to be, but it’s there.
Her eyes come open. Also good. But she’s disoriented and audibly wheezing. Not good. I do an old-fashioned hand test on her forehead and inwardly curse. She’s burning up.
Still, she looks over my shoulder and manages to ask, “Is that the handsome doctor everybody’s talking about? I don’t want him to see me like this. I don’t have on my wig.”
I’d laugh if her voice didn’t sound so wheezy and frail. “It’s okay, Mavis, we just want to get you taken care of. Lie still.”
“Can you at least go inside and fetch my wig?” Mavis asks, pitifully trying and failing to rise up.
“There’s no need for a wig, Mavis.” Rhys drops to his knees on the other side with a pair of vinyl gloves also on his hands. He must have gotten them out of dad’s bag. “I much prefer women without them. And you’re beautiful either way. Now can you tell me what happened?”
He holds a hand out and I pass him Dad’s stethoscope, then wipe down the infrared thermometer to do a real temperature check.
104. Dammit!
“Oh, I got this fever real bad and it just wouldn’t shake. But I didn’t have a cough so it ain’t that Rona!” Mavis is telling Rhys. She’s gasping between every other word. “Last thing I remember is deciding to come down to the storm cellar. That’s what my ma used to do for us when we got sick as children to cool us off.”
I quickly relay Mavis’s temperature to Rhys, along with her history of COPD.
Rhys nods toward the car, and I nod back in full agreement. “Okay, Mavis,” I say, helping her to her feet. “We’re going to drive you to the hospital now.”
“No, just get me a glass of cold water—,” Mavis cut off when she gets a good look at Rhys as he takes a hold of her on her other side. “Lord, he fine. Cynda, girl, get my wig! I don’t want him…”
She’s so breathless, she can’t even finish that sentence.
“How long have you had this fever, Mavis?” Rhys asks.
“Don’t know…day or two, maybe. Felt off during the Sunday sermon… but it’s not the Rona, I’m tellin’ ya.”
Rhys and I exchange a look. Sunday was seven days ago.
She’d had the fever for nearly a week straight.
It was almost most definitely the Rona.
“All right, then, Mavis, we’re going to drive you to the hospital now,” Rhys tells the little old lady.
So no other Saturday rounds like I’d imagined.
Instead, I end up driving as fast as I can back to the hospital in Guadalajara while Rhys monitored Mavis in the back seat.
“So handsome,” Mavis says. She’s now wheezing between every word. “I…kissed…a…White…boy…once. He…wasn’t…as…good-locking…as…you.”
She sounds so bad and we still have over half an hour until we get there.
“Mavis stop talking,” I call over my shoulder. “You need to conserve your energy.”
I press down even further on the gas, hating that I can’t get it to go any faster.
“What a coincidence,” Rhys answers. “I kissed a Black girl once and she wasn’t nearly as good-looking as you.”
Mavis’s laugh is a weak bird that can’t quite fly. But she manages to say, “You…funny…and…fine.”
“Mavis!” I yell, my voice shrill. “I know he’s stupid hot. But we’re still thirty minutes out and you’re not going to make it if you keep wasting your breath on Dr. Prince. Please, please. Just be quiet…”
I don’t realize I’m crying until I fail to finish that sentence and the road blurs.
I blink the tears away as best I can since it’s not a good idea at all to touch my face.
It works to a point. And by the time my vision clears, Rhys is on the phone with the hospital, letting them know we’re on the way with a possible COVID patient and that they should have the necessary equipment ready to go.
I know it’s unsafe, but I press my foot into the gas pedal, pushing it even faster.
We’ve got to get there on time. We have to. I can’t lose Mavis like I lost my father.
Chapter Eleven
Three Years Ago
“I want to come home with you. I want to meet your father and be made to feel massively uncomfortable because of our opposite skin color by your townspeople. I want to be with you in Guadalajara this weekend. That’s what I should have told you yesterday morning.”
I read and re-read the message at least ten times to see if I was missing something. But no, Rhys seemed dead serious about wanting to come home with me to Guadalajara even after all my warnings.
“But why tho?” I started to type back.
Another text came through before I could hit send. “I miss you.”
He missed me. My heart squeezed. And my thumbs hovered above the keyboard as I tried to decide…
Send the irreverent “But why though” text anyway?
Or erase that text and replace it with the truth? I miss you too.
“Haven’t seen you smile like that since you got to town, pumpkin.”
I didn’t realize I was smiling until my father said that.
I looked up from the little church alcove where I’d hidden away with my phone to find Dad standing above me. Tall and still super handsome despite his paunch and grey beard. He had kind brown eyes that I wish I’d inherited—kind eyes help in the medical professions. But I’d been a composite of my mother’s side of the family. I’d gotten my grandma’s beauty, my mother’s winning smile, and my post office worker grandfather’s shrewd gaze.
No kind eyes for me.
But I frowned upon further observation of my father that night. He was sweating profusely and seemed a little out of breath.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yes, yes,” Dad answered, waving me off. “Just danced too much with my bride. It was smart of you to find somewhere dark and cool to take a break. You must be my daughter. I was thinking the same thing.”
I laughed and scooted over.
Dad had a way of making a request and a compliment at the same time. It always made people, including me happy, verging on eager to do anything he asked.
Rachel doesn’t deserve him. I thought that to myself as he sat down beside me and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the sheen of sweat from his forehead.
Dad had seemed jovial and happy to be getting remarried again for a second time. And I was trying to be happy for him. I know he was from a different generation, and he was probably lonely without my mom for those months before he met Rachel. But I didn’t love his wife.
Not because she was Thai. Who cared about that when I’m dating a White guy? And it wasn’t because she was almost twenty years younger than him with two kids either. In fact, I liked my stepsiblings. They were funny and a little bit weird. Their opposite dynamic reminded me of my two best friends, Billie the nerd, and Gina the knockout.
What I didn’t like was how Rachel was constantly snapping at them. Like her kids just walking around and breathing was some kind of burden. I also didn’t like how she ignored them while clinging to my dad like a second skin. Or how she acted resentful when he gave the twins any kind of attention.
Yes, it was their completely unnecessary second wedding. And maybe this was her way of displaying love. But she almost seemed like a jealous older sibling whenever dad tried to engage A and E in conversation. As if being interested in them was an insult to her.
I mean, I kind of got it. My dad was one of those doctors who made you feel like you were the only patient he had in the world when you were in his office. Who wouldn’t want that kind of attention 24/7?
But her behavior had been hard to take since I arrived back in Guadalajara. And even more so as she became drunker and drunker at the reception after their vow renewal. I’d found myself yet again wondering how Dad could have married her. She was absolutely nothing like the woman he claimed to adore. I couldn’t stand it.
And that was part of the reason I’d ended up here in the alcove debating whether or not to send Rhys an “I miss you too” text.
But I put the phone aside when I noticed my dad was still sweating and after taking a seat. And breathing a little too heavily.
That was the first thing I would regret when remembering that night later on. Seeing the signs and not doing anything about them other than asking again, “You alright, Dad?”
“I’m fine. That Rachel sure can cut a rug though. If I hadn’t come to find you, she would have had me dancing all night. Just give me a minute or two to get myself right.”
That was my second regret. Doctors are terrible at diagnosing themselves. Everybody knows that. They either think their symptoms are fatal or nothing at all. No in-between.
But that night, I’d been so caught up in my should I or shouldn’t I loop, I’d let him distract me away from my worry when he asked, “You texting that guy you’ve been seeing for serious?”
My eyes widened at his guess.
And Dad answered my unspoken question with, “Usually your thumbs fly when you’re talking to your girlfriends. Never seen anybody else text so fast. Before she died, I told your mother, you should switch from piano to texting for your Beauty Queen of America talent.”
“I probably would have won if I had,” I agreed with a laugh.
“Oh, you won. Those judges just didn’t know it. But I do. Bet.”
He patted his heart. The one neither of us knew at that moment was about to give out on him.
I shook my head with a little laugh. My dad got even sweeter than usual when he was drunk. And way more St. Louis. Usually, he sounded like Billy Dee Williams, sophisticated and smooth with perfect enunciation on top. But when he had a few too many, he sounded exactly like where he was from. Kinloch, Missouri.
“We should get you home,” I told him.
“Nah, I promised Rachel one more dance.”
Third regret. I should have insisted on him leaving with me. But instead, I rolled my eyes and answered, “And if Rachel wants it, you should do it, right? Dance and drink too much even if it’s bad for your health.”
I must have had a few too many too. I couldn’t keep my true feelings from tumbling out.
“You don’t like Rachel much, do you?” Dad easily guessed.
“She could treat her kids better,” I answered, trying to keep my tone as judicious as mom’s whenever she had something negative to say. “You know, like they’re her children and not her competition.”
“She just likes attention is all,” Dad said with a wry chuckle. “And as for the twins, they’ve got me now. They’re bright kids, but they’re lacking stability and love. And I’m just glad it’s not too late to give it to them. Rachel is fun, but I wouldn’t have married her if not for them. I tell you it feels like God let me live after your mama died so that I could be the father they deserve.”
So that was why he’d married her….
My many reservations about Dad’s new set up melted away in that moment. I should have known that it wasn’t just Rachel he’d fallen in love with but her wonderful kids. Of course, they were the reason he put up with his fun, but horrible mother of a wife.
“This is why you’re my hero and everybody else’s, too,” I told him.
Dad waved me off. “I ain’t nobody special. Now tell me about this man you texting slow.”
“It’s…I don’t know. I mean, maybe it’s something. But I don’t know what.”
My father raised his eyebrows. “You bringing Mr. I Don’t Know home to meet me? You can sleep in your old room and we can put him in the back house.”
Dad was making the same request as Rhys. And something rippled in my stomach at the thought of bringing The Fine Prince home to meet my father. Fear? Excitement? I couldn’t figure out which.
“He’s White by the way,” I let my father know.
Dad’s lips thinned, but then he took my hand in his. “Used to be unimaginable to bring a boy outside your race home to meet your daddy. But the world’s changing. Even Missouri. Bring him home. Let me meet him, and I’ll tell you if he’s worth you knowing for sure.”
“Alright, Dad, deal,” I agreed with a soft smile. I picked back up the phone with my free hand. “I’ll text him right now and see if he can—”
I never finished that sentence. I cut off when my father gripped my hand tight. Too tight.
“Daddy, what’s wrong?” I asked.
Then I screamed when he suddenly pitched forward.
And that was my last regret. Screaming instead of immediately jumping into action. Maybe if I’d called 9-1-1 and started chest compressions just a few seconds earlier things would have gone differently.
Maybe if I’d been looking at him instead of at my phone, I would have registered that my dad really wasn’t alright.
But that wasn’t what happened.
I didn’t do anything I should have done from the start of our conversation. And less than an hour later, he was dead on arrival, the victim of a massive coronary attack.
He never got to meet Mr. I Don’t Know.
And the next morning I woke up to a text from the guy we’d been talking about when Dad died. “Hello, Cynda. Found your glass slipper—also known as a Dansko. You should come straight here when you return on Monday and The Fine Prince will put it directly on your foot.”
He was just asking for me to make fun of him for referring to himself in the third person and by his 90s-licious nickname.
But all I felt was rage. And grief. And….and….
“I think you’re scared. Scared of getting close. Scared of intimacy.”
Forget Rhys and English-accented analysis. He didn’t get it. Didn’t understand me. He still had two parents. And a crazy-ass sister, and a brother, too. And though he hadn’t talked much about his family, English boarding school didn’t exactly scream “I grew up not rich.”
He didn’t get it. Didn’t understand what it was like to have someone you loved ripped away, just like that. To be all alone.
Plus, the twins needed me. Just like they’d needed Dad. And Rhys only liked me for the same reason all guys liked me. Because I was a pretty bitch who could never be caught. What was that one Taylor Swift line about being a nightmare disguised as a daydream?
Well, I guessed it was time to teach him that life lesson.
Wiping away tears, I texted him back, “Not feeling St. Louis anymore. Have decided to stay here. Maybe make up with Ingrid. Best of luck.”
Then I blocked his number so that I wouldn’t have to answer any follow-up questions.
Chapter Twelve
A break-up text. The subject of much lore and countless Medium articles.
Not the nicest thing to do, I’ll admit. But my father was gone and the twins needed me. Under the circumstances, ghosting out had been all I could manage.
However, against all odds Rhys had ended up here in Guadalajara. Sleeping separate from me in the back house, just like my churchgoing father had wanted. He was also helping me make the twins’ dreams come true via his rent check.
And now he’s in the back seat of my Honda, holding Mavis up to keep the fluid in her chest at the bottom of her lungs and her airway as free as possible while she struggled to breathe.
We screech to a stop in front of the hospital less than forty-five minutes, door-to-door. Record time. But was it good enough? Mavis lost consciousness again on the drive over. And though she still had a pulse, it was extremely weak.
I stand by helplessly as a team of orderlies dressed in face shields and full protective gear pull Mavis on to a gurney. Rhys gives the admitting nurse further instructions, but it sounds like they’ve got oxygen waiting in a sealed off room. Also, the hospital’s one ventilator is on standby. Thank goodness.
But then that’s it. We can’t go any further on Mavis’s journey. We’ve been too exposed to safely enter the hospital with her.
There’s nothing left to do but leave and wait to see if she makes it.
I drive us home in a daze. The memory of waiting for news of my father sits heavy in my head as I park in back and get out of the car.
