Page 22 of A Cure for Recovery

He rolls over onto his side, stares blearily at the red numbers on the clock, and contemplates. And contemplates, and contemplates. Thinks of the mansion his team rented when he first returned to Eastman: its handsome wall paneling, and four-poster beds, and its wine cellar. Its chef’s kitchen, and extensive gardens, its bridges and koi ponds, and massive garage full of expensive cars.

Does he miss his silk shirts, and bespoke suits, and ruby-studied tie pins? His Rolex, and his Lincolns, and being “sir” and “Mr. Cattaneo,” always spoken with a deferential head-tilt.

His immediate, kneejerk reaction isno. All of those luxuries were the trappings of a lie, an act he was performing while the constant threat of death and discovery loomed overhead. He wasn’t having fun; was trying like mad to get back here. This town, this man, this family, thismarriage.

Which he’s rapidly dismantling, brick by brick, with bitterness, resentment, and harsh words.

He groans, and rolls the other way, and breathes in the smell of Lawson’s shampoo off the pillow.

He must doze at some point, because the alarm jars him awake at seven.

He’s still alone in bed.

~*~

The alarm is Lawson’s. It’s Saturday, and Tommy doesn’t have work, but Lawson does, and had allowed himself time to help ready his dad and have breakfast with Tommy before heading off for his noon shift at Coffee Town. After Tommy slaps the alarm button, he debates getting up and going downstairs to ensure that Lawson’s getting up – but there’s no need. He hears Lawson and Bill talking in low murmurs down the hall.

Gritty-eyed from a restless night, he rolls over and goes back to sleep. When he wakes next, it’s light out, he has a headache, and feels like shit in ways more than physical.

A light knock sounds at the door. “Tommy?” Lisa calls.

“Yes?” His voice is rough; he sounds like he’s been crying though he hasn’t. He sits up, rubs the grit from his eyes, and rakes a hand through his ruffled hair. “You can come in.”

Sheeasesthe door open, and her expression is cautious – until she sets eyes on him, and then her face does something distinctly motherly. She doesn’t cross the threshold. Lawson said she used to come in all the time to pick up his abandoned socks, gather Coke cans, and gently scold his housekeeping habits, despite him being thirty-seven. Once they got married, though, she stopped. It doubtless helps that Tommy keeps things much tidier than Lawson did on his own.

“Morning,” she says, half-hopeful, half-worried.

He glances at the clock. 12:22. “Morning.” His voice is croaky. He badly needs a drink of water.

She considers him a moment, and he thinks she’s going to ask if he’s okay. Or, worse, ask why Lawson spent the night on the couch.

Instead, she says, “I hate to bug you on your day off, but I need to run to the store, and wanted to see if you could keep Bill company?”

“Oh, sure, absolutely. Lemme just–” He gestures vaguely to his blanket-clad legs.

“Take your time.” She starts to step back, already reaching for the doorknob – then pauses, and steps into the room. Walks over to the nightstand to collect his empty plate and glass from last night, expression going maternal again. “I made biscuits. They’re under a towel on the counter downstairs.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Maybe it shouldn’t, but her entrance into the room is somehow a comfort. Like he’s her kid, and not the strange married man living in the second bedroom that she needs to tiptoe around.

When she’s gone, before he drags himself out of bed, he checks his phone to see if Lawson’s texted. They usually text off and on throughout every day. Work anecdotes, and random questions, and memes, and sometimes just emojis; little signs they’re thinking of one another.

But his screen is blank.

~*~

Bill’s watching cooking shoes – the Saturday Food Network lineup – and though Tommy settles in the window seat with his book, the sounds of chopping and sizzling keep capturing his attention, and before long his stomach is grumbling.

“I don’t know about you, but this is making me hungry,” he says as he climbs to his feet. Getting worked up and overly tense always leaves him fumbling more than usual, and after last night, he leans heavily on his cane and steps slowly and carefully. “Ready for lunch?”

“Ready for…” Bill lifts an unsteady arm to point at the TV. “Th-that.”

Onscreen, a woman makes some sort of steak sandwich with peppers, onions, and melty cheese sauce.

Tommy snorts. “We’re fresh out of that. But I’ll see what we’ve got.”

He’s microwaving the morning’s leftover biscuits with the intention of making sausage sandwiches with them when he hears the thud. One big one, and then a series of smaller ones. A pattern: thud-thud-thud. And a plastic and metallic clatter.

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