Page 16 of Corkscrew You
“But there are two of us against one,” adds Max. “If necessary, we can carry her.”
The twins jog to catch up with Danny, and link arms with him, one on either side. Danny is their favourite. He’severyone’sfavourite. He has an easy charm and our Mom’s all-American blue-eyed blond good looks. Max and Izzy triggered some ancestral gene that gave them auburn hair and hazel eyes. Ava and I are the only ones with Dad’s dark hair, and eyes in his particular shade of blue, way colder than Mom’s and Danny’s.
We’ve also inherited Dad’s overbearing personality and his propensity for emotional constipation. While the other three, and Mom, share openly, Ava and I prefer to keep our feelings in check.
“You OK?”
Even in low light and with my poker face still intact, Ava can read me. Takes one to know one, I guess.
I appreciate her concern. But I’m not about to break the no-sharing habit tonight.
“Getting there,” is all I’m prepared to offer. “What exactly did Doc Wilson say?”
“He said reducing stress is mandatory, as is limiting hard physical activity. He said Dad will need to be on drugs forever and will probably also need a defibrillator device implanted.”
“Surgery.”
“Yep,” Ava says. “All of the above went downsuperwell, as you can imagine.”
Short story is that Dad, fifty-nine, athlete-fit, clean-living health nut, got a virus that damaged his heart. The medical term is dilated cardiomyopathy. The virus weakened the heart muscle, so it can’t pump as hard, and the damaged muscle is now slowly being replaced with scar tissue, which forces the heart to enlarge and eventually – or, more often, quickly – fail.
It’s not that uncommon, and if the patient hasn’t already dropped dead, it can be managed.Ifsaid patient is cool with modern medical practices and doesn’t believe Big Pharma is an enemy that needs to be destroyed.
Mitchell Durant won’t even take an aspirin. Before this, he’d never had a day of ill health, which he put down to his, frankly punishing, exercise regime and discipline around diet. Our father would have made a terrific Spartan.
So you can see how Doc Wilson’s treatment plan might not have been so eagerly received.
“Dad pushed back, I assume?”
Ava’s grin is rueful. “And Doc listened, because he’s a good guy. And then he told Dad that if he didn’t stop being a fool, he’d be dead in a week.”
“Ouch. No wonder Mom cried.”
My sister pulls up her knees and hugs them, an unusually vulnerable gesture for her.
“Thing is, he’s right,” she says. “Dad could die anytime.”
That should be my cue to offer some kind of reassurance. Be the brother in charge, like I used to be. The man with the plan.
But the weight of it all presses down on me, black and suffocating. Before France, before the ass-dumping, I thought Ididhave a plan. I’ve always been methodical and organized, disciplined like Dad, and up until then, that had proved a winning strategy. I graduated from Harvard with a top degree, I turned the French winery around, I had a beautiful fiancée. I was in charge, in control, ontop.
And then I wasn’t, and the worst of it was that I didn’t see it coming. My plan fell apart without warning and it shook me to the core. My confidence was dealt a body blow, and if I hadn’t had the excuse to run home and look after Dad, I don’t know how I would have handled it. Badly, if how I reacted to Shelby is anything to go by. One little unexpected moment and I hightailed it like a startled jackrabbit. So much for being in control.
And all this leads to a fact I’ve so far avoided thinking about. If Dad goes, which, if he keeps this shit up, he might, I can’t take his place. I can’t be the force that keeps our family together because I’m not the man with a plan anymore. I’m only pretending to be. And the truth I can’t face is that my family don’t know that. I’m pushing on, making it look like I’m in charge, and it’s all a lie. I don’t want tothinkabout what will happen when they realize.
It’s why I can’t even for a second contemplate a relationship with Shelby Armstrong. If I fuck up with the winery, then that’s yet another person I’ve let down, and my list of potential let-downees is way too long already. If I keep my emotional distance from her, then I can protect my heart from another hammering. I’llcarebut I won’t be emotionally slaughtered.
But I have to admit that if things were different, if I felt less bruised and less like a fraud, then I would be doing all I could to win Shelby’s affection. She’s kind, funny, beautiful and – uncomplicated. I haven’t had much experience with people like that. People who might make it possible for me to let down my guard.
Ava’s standing, brushing dust off her jeans.
“You coming in?” she says.
“No, I’ll sit a while longer,” I tell her. “It’s a warm night.”
When she’s out of sight, I reach for the bourbon bottle. There’s a third left, and I pour it generously into my shitty plastic tumbler.
I’ll regret it in the morning, but right now, Jack seems like the only friend I have.
