Page 13 of Lovesick
Expertly, my mom ran a spatula around the edges of each pancake and flipped them in quick succession. “Mhm. I’m glad you two are talking again.”
“Talking again?” I sat on the bay window seat cushions and crossed my legs. “You make it sound like we parted on bad terms.”
“That’s not what I mean, Sweetie. I just mean that you haven’t talked in a while.” She poured more batter onto the griddle.
“We’ve both been busy.” I knew perfectly well what she was getting at. My mom didn’t usually ask me about my dating life - she wouldn’t know any of the men I had dated occasionally in New Orleans, anyway. But I guessed Marty was a special case since she had known him for a long time…and had seen how well we got along when we dated.
“Are you getting back together?” She finally asked the question I could tell she had wanted to ask all week.
“I don’t think so. I mean, he lives here, and I live in New Orleans.”
“Long distance relationships can work. And an hour’s drive isn’t really long distance. Look at your father and me.”
“Momma, you two have been married forever… and you are both from Lafayette. Daddy didn’t go offshore until after I was born.” I pointed out. “We’d be too busy to make the distance work. He was a good friend before he was ever my boyfriend. I just want to catch up. And make a little extra money.” That was what I should want, and if I kept repeating it to myself and others, maybe my heart would realize that had to be the reality.
“Okay, Sweetie. I get it. I was just wondering. Pancakes?”
As always, my mother had put chocolate chips in half the pancakes and left half plain. I took two of each, spread a nice layer of stick butter over them, and took the bottle of syrup into the dining room with me to eat.
The pancakes were delicious, but not enough to comfort me through a slew of thoughts. Marty and I had spent so much time together over the past few days. We had laughed and joked as we ran deliveries. He had shown me how to use the register, and we had wandered around the shop together, me naming all the flowers I knew and listening as he filled in the blanks in my knowledge. We had gone to the nursery, and he had shown me how to care for the flowers in the greenhouses, beds, hanging pots and little temporary cartons. We had even stolen a few kisses, sneaking moments of privacy in the shop’s backroom or the delivery van.
Never once during that whole time had either of us brought up the future. If we did that, we would have to admit that our time together had an end, and it was approaching much faster than either of us would like. I figured we both knew we needed to have that conversation, but we had an unspoken agreement of sorts to wait.
We were starting to have less and less time to wait, though. Today was Wednesday - the week was basically half over.
Still, I was content to let that rest for now and let it come up on its own when an opportune moment presented itself. That wasn’t the thought that soured the sweet syrup in my mouth, though.
When we went to the nursery yesterday - which was on the same property as the LaFleurs’ home, although the place also sold to customers - I had seen Marty’s father again for the first time in years. He had been…different. I remembered him as being very similar to his wife in that he was driven, wanted the business to succeed and was willing to do what it took to make that happen.
Now, apparently, he stayed at the nursery to “handle customers” and “maintain the flowers”…except that he always did that with a beer in his hand. He would walk around with a watering can in one hand and a beer can in the other, humming or singing. A draft of water for the peonies, a sip of beer for him, then repeat. Marty didn’t say anything - or even appear to notice, really - but as someone who hadn’t seen his father in a while, I could tell he had put on a considerable beer belly…and he even complained of restlessness during work if he didn’t drink “a little.”
I had managed to brush that off and just enjoyed my afternoon - at least until Marty’s mom called us all inside for dinner. Sitting at the old dining table in their large house, laughing and talking, Marty and his father had polished off an entire six-pack of beer just during the meal and cracked open a second afterward while we all sat in the living room, chatting. Marty’s mom had a couple, but she just laughed at the menfolk and didn’t seem particularly concerned - clearly this was their norm.
Which was bad. Very, very bad. The experience I was beginning to develop as a nurse - as well as instincts and common sense - told me that Marty’s father’s health wasn’t great, and if Marty drank like this all the time, his health might start to decline too. I also knew that alcoholism had been a problem in the LaFleur family for years. Marty’s uncle had died from liver cancer when we were in high school.
I needed to talk to him about this. He never got belligerent when he drank, and if he had deliveries to make he only drank in moderation, but the amount of alcohol I had seen him go through last night wasn’t healthy.
Luckily, Marty’s mom had scheduled us to work at the nursery again today, saying she could handle the shop and if there was a delivery, she would let us know. After polishing off my pancakes and orange juice, I dressed in comfortable clothes that wouldn’t mind a little dirt and sweat and headed to the nursery. I parked in the gravel lot and immediately spotted Marty coiling a hose. “Hey,” I greeted him, giving the spray nozzle attached to the hose a nudge with my sneaker to untangle it from a rock.
“Great timing, thanks.” He finished his task and wiped sweat from his brow. “Do you think you can cut flowers? There’s a work order on the passenger seat of my truck.”
Marty had shown me how to cut the flowers and how to wrap them before taking them to the shop or directly to a customer. So, when I hovered around for a second longer, he didn’t stop to ask what I wanted. He just grabbed the hose and headed off toward a storage shed.
I sighed and went to his truck for the order. I wanted to talk to him before we started work for the day, while my objections to his drinking were still fresh in my mind. Now, that conversation would have to wait until we took a break or some other time.I guess.
I didn’t have to wait long, actually. Hunched over in one of the greenhouses an hour or so later, I was eyeing a bunch of roses when I heard crunching on the gravel path behind me. ‘What do I do with…messed up flowers? Like if they have little holes in the petals or something?”
“If you already cut them, just throw them out. Otherwise, check them for bugs. They can stay if there aren’t any, and Momma will decide if they’re okay to donate to the hospital or the nursing home.”
“Oh, that’s really awesome.” I started to speak again, but I almost threw myself into the flowers as something freezing cold touched my shoulder. Giggling, I wiped the water droplet off my skin, accepting the bottle of water that a laughing Marty offered.
Then I realized that this was my chance and quickly steeled myself with a sip from the bottle. There was probably a smooth, less blunt way to bring this up, but I didn’t feel like taking the time to look for it. “Hey Marty, how much do you usually drink?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, about as much as last night, I guess?”
“A day?”
“Yeah. It helps me unwind after work. Why?”
