I toss my leather pack over my left arm and scoop the scale up in my right. The columned brick home has a wide, stone staircase, and it takes me forever to drag my tired self up it. I press my thumb against the keyless entry and the door pops open immediately—so quickly, in fact, I worry that it wasn't locked. Which is strange since Suri always uses the kitchen door.
I wiggle my cell phone out of the pocket of my baggy Lucky jeans and quickly pull up the emergency services phone number, conveniently stored as No. 2, in honor of the bullshit usually going down with Mom when I have to use it. I'm not sure what scares me most as I slowly step inside: the idea of Crestwood being burglarized like the Dalton's city home has been a time or two, or the images that resurrect themselves inside my mind: visions of my mom lying in a broken heap at the bottom of the stairs or passed out in a pile of Oxy.
Thinking of Oxy—or any drug, for that matter—makes me think of Cross, which makes my heart ache. Really, it's a sharp pain, like I imagine a knife stab would feel like.
After the miracle of Wednesday, I skipped my classes Thursday to be at the hospital with him, convinced he would finally wake up. He squeezed my hand when I asked if he was glad to see me, but that was all. This morning when I called, Nanette sounded weird. When I prodded her about what was up, she said he'd had another N-therapy session and during it, he said my name.
Amazing.
I'm wondering if I can slip in during Nanette's shift tonight when the scent of cinnamon rolls hits my nose.
I race through the foyer, past the spiral staircase, through the formal dining room, and into the massive kitchen like a kid hot off the school bus.
I come to a stop on the rug that spans most of the kitchen with a satisfied smile. Suri, in a pink and green paisley apron, has her back to me. Her curly brown hair is locked away in pigtails, and she looks like she just stepped out of Martha Stewart Living.
My smile disappears when she turns to me.
I hold up my hands, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. "Remember what we said last time with Mom. Just spit it out, Sur. No sugar coating, ‘cause that makes it worse."
I bite down on my lip when Suri's eyes tear and she steps over, closer to me, fiddling with the oven mitt and meeting my eyes with a deep frown. "You're going to be so upset, Lizzy. I am, too."
"Suri, spit it out!"
She wrings her hands and starts speaking on fast-forward. "My mother told me today. She heard from their new housekeeper—she cleans Cross's family's house, too." My stomach takes a nose-dive. "They've dropped him off their insurance. They're not going to pay for his healthcare anymore. They've moved him, Lizzy. This morning, to a state-run place in L.A."
"What?"
Suri's eyes are wet. "Sunshine Acres Assisted Living. It's part of the Los Angeles County Public Hospital System."
"Is that the one my mom went to when she was sentenced for violating her parole? The one with no visiting hours and those shitty double rooms and that bad pee smell?"
Suri bites her lip. "I looked up the hours. Noon to three p.m. Except on Saturday." I feel like I've been punched. Suri sniffs. “It’s closed Saturdays.”
Chapter Five
~ELIZABETH~
I don't know if it's the thought of Cross locked up where I can't get to him or the knowledge that he'll never have the super special come-out-of-your-coma N-therapy again, but something hits me in the chest and a sob slips out my lips.
Suri's arms come around my shoulders and I smell the cinnamon rolls burning as she hugs me tightly. "I can't believe they're doing this to him." She pats my back and I hide my face in her chest, feeling like a child—I never cry—but unwilling to pull away because I know how hideous I look when I do, and I don't want to subject Suri to that even though she's seen it a time or two.
When I finally compose myself, there's a definite smoky smell in the kitchen. Suri squeezes my arm once more before dashing to the oven and yanking the cinnamon rolls out. They look like they've survived a volcanic eruption at close range.
"I'm sorry!" She looks anguished as she stares down at the cinnamon rolls.
"Suri." I can't help laughing, because this is classic Suri, dealing with a crisis via yummy foods, concert tickets, fruity daiquiris, and spa trips. It's actually pretty great, and I’ve enjoyed it since we were kids.
"I don't care about the cinnamon rolls," I say, unable to swallow a laugh at their horrible appearance. "It's the thought that counts." I smile, although my tears have started up again. "Do you want to go out or something? Maybe we can break Cross free from that shithole and move him here."
"That's the thing," she says, her voice going all high-pitched like it does when she's really distressed. "Adam is making me fly to New York tonight. Some special occasion he won't tell me anything about."
Despite my leaking eyes, my brain shifts gears. "Do you think that he's proposing?"
"I don't know, but he better not," she says, waving her arms. "He knows how I feel about New York, and he can be a literary agent on the West Coast much more easily than I can run Northern California Interiors from New York! His clients are all virtual. Mine have homes."
She bares her teeth and mimes a cat scratch, and I know things must have gotten really rough with Adam. I think it's safe to say he's not proposing.
"So the two of you are still at an impasse about where to live?"
She nods miserably but quickly finds a smile. "Maybe he's finally going to give in. I would so accept a Cali-shaped cupcake or...I dunno, Alcatraz earrings."
"Alcatraz earrings." I smile a little, and Suri giggles.
"I can hope," she says.
She pulls a napkin from the pocket of her apron and dabs at her eyes, and I put my arm around her. She wraps hers around me, and together we walk over to one of the windows. I'm not sure who steered us here: her or me. It's like a game of Ouija Board; maybe we both needed a look outside.
It's quiet inside the house, so all we can hear is the low whoosh of the heat through the vents down by our feet, and the utter quiet beyond the glass-paned windows.
When Suri speaks, her voice is high and shaky. "Remember when we were in seventh grade and Cross invited you to Fall Ball?"
I nod, smiling at the memory. He came to my house to ask, wearing a black leather jacket and jeans with holes. I frown next, because I remember how his parents never drove him anywhere. It was always Renault, the Carlsons' butler.
Suri inhales softly, and I watch her face as she sucks her lips in and makes a classic Suri Thinking face. Then she drops a bomb. "Ever since then I kind of had a secret crush on him."