Holt, Her Ruthless Billionairee_50 Loving States-Connecticut Page 3

  “Malcolm Gladwell,” I answer, scanning all the medical equipment beside Daddy’s chair.

  I don’t like the level on his catheter, so I go into the kitchen and fish a new drainage bag and a plastic bedpan out of the bottom cabinet where we keep all his medical supplies in a tidy plastic organizer. One I am pretty sure Mommy bought from Cal-Mart. Without warning, my skin warms with the memory of how the Cal-Mart heir had looked at me. Hungrily, like he wanted to gulp me down the way he gulped down that first glass of water I brought him.

  Boys never look at me like that. Not ever.

  I close the cabinet and stand with the new bag before I can delve too deeply into that thought. I wonder how long it will be before I forget or can even stop thinking about my brief meeting with Holt Calson.

  “And you say he a Jamaican?” Mommy asks when I return to the living room. Still on the subject of Malcolm Gladwell.

  I can feel both sets of my parents’ eyes on me as I bend down on the other side of Daddy’s recliner. They’ve been like this since they put Lydia on that plane: suspicious bordering on distrustful. And asking more questions than necessary about anything I tell them.

  “His mama is,” I answer, setting down the plastic container under the catheter bag clipped to the side of Daddy’s recliner.

  “He only wanted a few sips of water with dinner. The bag is most likely fine,” Mommy says.

  “Just in case,” I answer as I change the bag, grateful for the excuse not to look her in the eye.

  “Alright, you are the smarter one than me when it comes to these things. And you say this man gets paid to talk to young people? About what exactly?”

  “Ideas,” I answer. I can feel Daddy’s eyes on me, as interested in my answers as my mother even if ALS has taken away his ability to speak.

  “Ideas,” Mommy says with a harrumph of a laugh as if she’d never heard of such a thing. “Daddy and me was talking about it. We could understand if it be a singer like Mr. Belafonte. Or maybe even that runner Usain Bolt. But imagine you girls driving all the way down to New Haven to hear a man with a Jamaican mumma talk about ideas. Probably none of them even close to godly!”

  I don’t answer, don’t argue with her about the value of ideas that aren’t regurgitated from a pulpit every Sunday morning. I’ve learned Lydia’s lesson and I don’t want to be put on the next plane to Jamaica. So, I finish changing out the catheter bag in silence. Then I help my mom get my father out of the recliner and into his wheelchair, and then into the bed they still share.

  While Mommy readies herself for bed in the bathroom, I take Daddy through his nighttime routine. Uncurling his painfully thin body on the bed and slipping an oxygen mask over his mouth to help him breathe at night.

  He doesn’t communicate to me as clearly as he can with my mother, but I can feel his thoughts. Grateful, embarrassed, sad, resigned…

  His hair used to be jet black. Not 1B like my mother and sister, but jet black, same as mine. However, three years after receiving his ALS diagnosis, Daddy’s hair is more salt than pepper. He is either aging faster than a one-term president, or he was dyeing his hair before. Either way, it feels like ALS has taken everything from him along with the privacy he enjoyed before I started helping Mommy take care of his every need.

  He can’t weigh more than 100 pounds now, I think, stroking a hand over his wiry hair. I wonder how his life would have turned out if he’d never been diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. But I no longer wish for it like I used to. ALS has been a kind disease in that way. It took our hope away, flare up by flare up until one day, all I wanted was for my father to die in peace knowing he was loved during his time on this earth.

  But tonight is different. After I put his breathing apparatus on, I look at him and he looks at me, and I wonder if he knows I lied to him and Mommy. Lied to save Prin like I couldn’t save Lydia.

  Strangely, I want to tell him about what happened. How I’d met Holt Calson, the sad little boy we’d read about in the newspaper when his mother killed herself in the dead of night. How he wasn’t at all as I’d expected. Neither completely sad, nor standard Beaumont issue.

  How I’d recognized him, but just barely. Because the clean-cut boy who cut the ribbon on the Calson Center, had been buried beneath a tangle of long blond hair and a scraggly beard, patchy and resentful—like even it knew it had no business at all covering his beautiful face. How his eyes had been…mesmerizing. A perfect classic blue, but pained like he was bleeding out from a wound no one else could see.

  I should have felt sorry for him. Under the influence of God knew what. Confused about what he wanted from the girl who’d shown up on his balcony and told him to come inside. But instead of pity, I felt something else. Especially when he said he wanted to have sex on a cloud with me….

  But of course, I don’t tell my father any of this. I don’t say anything but, “Good night, Daddy,” as I lean over and kiss him on his forehead. It’s dry and still smooth, despite the gray hair.

  Daddy is only forty-four, I remind myself as I turn off the overhead lights and walk the short distance to the room I used to share with my big sister.

  And I’m only eighteen. I shouldn’t be in my bed thinking about meeting Holt Calson at that graveyard party. There’s no reason for warmth to pool between my legs. I don’t touch myself below as I could do now that I no longer share a room with my sister. I still feel too guilty about lying to my parents anyway…and about telling Lydia everything would be all right.

  I have a restless night, tossing and turning with strange dreams that remind me of trailers for the European arthouse movies I’m not allowed to watch. And when I wake up, my head still feels like it’s trapped in a dream as I help Mommy with breakfast and Daddy’s morning routine.

  “Any good news about a summer job?” my mother asks as we eat green banana porridge at the round linoleum table in our front room. Just the three of us, Daddy in his wheelchair, and Mommy and me in two dining room chairs. Mommy moved the chair that was Lydia’s down to the unfinished basement because she claimed it was taking up space.

  Sometimes I wonder if she put all our laughter in the basement, too. When Lydia was here, we used to laugh around this table all the time. Even Daddy, because laughing is something even ALS cannot take away.

  But these days, our mornings are filled with sober and practical conversations. Daily schedules, and who will do what for Daddy after I finish reading him the morning news.

  Mommy works seven days a week cleaning houses. Saturdays are particularly bad because she has two back-to-back houses to clean, one in Avon and the other in Farmington. That means twelve hours of work topped off by at least two hours of bus rides there and back.

  At least when I was still at Beaumont, I was able to contribute the pitiful amount I made babysitting staff children and grabbing extra hours at the childcare center to our family income. But now I am out of work—which makes me less than useless as the bills continue to pile up, worse and worse.

  “I’m still looking for a daycare job,” I answer my mother. But I am not confident I will find one. That morning while Mommy put together the porridge, I read yet another article about the current recession to Daddy. According to the news, times were so tough that many young people were unable to find work of any kind, even at fast food chains.

  Still, I have to do something. In the kitchen, there’s a drawer about two down from the sink. Right now, it is shut tight. But I can still hear the creditors yelling about what’s hidden inside. And I know it will be opened again when the mail comes this afternoon. Mommy will toss more unopened envelopes with angry red “UNPAID” and “DELINQUENT” stamps on top. I feel guilty because I have been too busy getting an education to be of much help. I attended Beaumont on a dramatically reduced tuition because my father was part of the staff. But even after Daddy’s medical severance ran out and I had to switch over to a full scholarship, my parents insisted I finish my schooling at Beaumont instead of dropping out to h
elp my mom keep up with the bills.

  “You use that laptop the school gave you to look for some work,” Mommy instructs me as she drops a kiss on Daddy’s left temple which is now tilted at a semi-permanent angle.

  “I will—” I start to answer.

  But I am interrupted by the ringing of our house phone.

  Mommy’s head and mine rise at the shrill sound of the landline. Bill collector, we both think without having to say it. Usually, they do not call on Saturday mornings. But as we have discovered in the last three years, creditors do not live by a strict set of rules.

  “I’ll get it,” I offer.

  “No, this is adult business,” my mother answers. And like a soldier on latrine duty, she squares her shoulder and goes over to the kitchen wall to pick up the beige handset.

  “Hello, this is the Pinnock residence,” she says to the person on the other end.

  But then her face slackens with surprise before she asks, “And tell me, who is this calling, wanting to speak to my daughter?”

  Hmm, I think. It must be someone from one of the jobs I’ve applied for. But I was sure I only gave out my cell number—

  Suddenly, my current train of thought completely derails because something very important has dawned on me. In a flash of memory, I recall dropping the purse Prin loaned me like a sack of bricks, as if it didn’t hold two of my most important possessions: my wallet and my phone. In my defense, I dropped it to save the rich boy I honestly thought was about to jump. But the bad thing is, I do not remember picking it back up. Which means…

  “Holt? Holt, who?” my mother demands to know from the person on the other end of the line, as if to confirm my sudden realization.

  I rush over to my mother and take the handset from her as politely as I can, considering every nerve in my body wants to snatch it.

  “Mommy, you’ve got to get to work,” I say before she can protest.

  “Who is that boy?” Mommy demands. Loudly. So loudly.

  And I find out that contrary to what I told myself last night, I am not done with lying. I cover the phone’s mouth piece and whisper, “This is about a job. Mommy, please!”

  Then without waiting for her answer, I uncover the mouthpiece and throw a bucket full of false bravado into my voice to say, “Sorry about that. Yes, this is Sylvia Pinnock.”

  I cannot decide whether to feel guilty or relieved when Mommy immediately backs down with an abject look of apology.

  “You left something at my place, Jamaica,” the voice on the other end of the line says. It sounds much smoother but a little hoarser, hungover with a tight Connecticut jaw.

  “Yes, I applied for your daycare job yesterday. Please, call me Sylvie,” I say as I watch my mother grab her purse from the linoleum table and head for the door.

  “Sylvie? You like that better than Sylvia…or Jamaica?”

  “Yes, I have been babysitting since I was twelve. I also provided after school care on an as-needed basis for younger students and the children of the staff at Beaumont Academy,” I answer in a rush. But as soon as I hear the door close behind my mother, I cut the act.

  “You cannot be calling me here!” I hiss to Holt in a whisper, praying my father cannot hear me in the living room.

  “Your mom’s strict, huh?”

  I do not want to talk with this boy about my parents. Also, proving ALS has not removed the ability to keep an eye on his daughter, an electronic whir sounds in the other room and moments later, Daddy appears in the kitchen doorway. Ugh, I should have transferred him to the recliner before I took care of the breakfast dishes.

  “Yes, that’s right, I live with my parents,” I say into the phone, switching back to my most professional tone. But it is difficult to keep my voice from trembling.

  “I’m assuming she doesn’t know you were at my place last night.” Holt sounds more amused than confused by my continued act.

  “Yes, that is correct.” I eye our kitchen floor. It is checkered like the one in his skyscraper, but worn and dingy rather than shiny and immaculate.

  “So, Sylvie, how’re you going to get your purse if you can’t even admit you’re talking to a guy on the phone?”

  Good question. I think on it and come back with, “Maybe you can send the rest of the paperwork in the mail? If not, I could come down to Yale to fill out the rest of the application on Monday.”

  “I see…those are your terms. You want me to find you a job at one of the Yale daycares in order to see you again?” His voice is a bit more serious now, as if a businessman has taken the place of the strung-out guy I met last night.

  “No, that is not necessary,” I answer quickly, alarmed he jumped to that conclusion—or even thought I was negotiating to see him again. “Like I said, I can come on Monday to fill out the rest of the paperwork. It is no problem. If you leave it with your assistant downstairs, I will pick it up.”

  “Fine. Cool,” he answers. “See you Monday, Sylvie.”

  “Yes, I will see you then?” I answer, my voice going up on a question because I am still not sure he understands my code.

  But instead of reassurances, I hear a click followed by the dial tone.

  Strange—not to mention inconvenient. But I focus on getting Daddy into the recliner. Then I take my position in the folding chair beside him and open my laptop to begin applying to the few daycare and high school diploma-only jobs I can find on Craigslist. I try not to think about how I’m going to get back down to New Haven on Monday. The $11 in my wallet is all the money I have in the world until I find a job…

  My father’s gnarled hand suddenly covers mine and that’s when I realize I’ve stopped typing. I must have been staring at the screen for minutes on end.

  I glance over to find his bent head angled toward me, regarding me with concerned eyes.

  “I’m fine, Daddy. Do not worry. I just want to find a job.”

  He throws me an expression between a grimace and a smile and I say, “I know this is in God’s hands and there’s nothing more I can do, but I want to help. And I’m angry it is so hard for young people to find jobs right now, because I have this powerful need do something. Like, anything, you know?”

  He gives me another fleeting expression, more grimace than smile this time, and I get it. I do. “Story of your life,” I answer with another wave of guilt for whining about how hard it is to find work when he has to fight hard every day just to swallow. And soon, he won’t even be able to do that.

  During the last doctor’s visit, we were told he had a month or two, tops, before he needs to be fitted with a breathing tube and IV.

  “Sorry,” I say. Then I turn back to see what he’s been watching on TV… the French Open. Despite having won the second set and put the first point on the board in her third set, Venus Williams is struggling a full three points behind her Serbian competitor. It is not looking good for Daddy’s favorite tennis player.

  “Maybe her sister will beat her later,” I say, when Venus loses the match with a shot that fails to make it over the net.

  Daddy waggles his chin in a way I know means he is too disappointed to watch the next match. I pick up the remote and start flipping through the piddly collection of channels we get with our old rabbit ears antenna. Mommy refuses to pay any money toward the devil box, which she only got to keep Daddy company when he could no longer walk on his own. But before I can get through the small rotation, the kitchen phone rings again.

  And this time I am almost certain it is not a bill collector. I pick up the phone with even more trepidation, wondering how I am going to get Holt Calson to stop calling me here.

  “You cannot be calling me here,” I whisper as soon as I pick up.

  “Oh, I’m sorry! Is this a bad number?” a female voice asks. “It’s the one we were given. But if there is a better number, I can call you on that one.”

  It’s definitely not Holt. Nor is it a bill collector. Even the most chipper of creditors have an edge to their voices when they call. “I am talk
ing to Sylvie Pinnock, right?” she asks.

  “Yes, this is she,” I answer, quickly resetting my tone to polite. “Who may I ask is calling?”

  “This is Beth Standwin. I’m calling from the Sunny Horizons Childcare Center to see if you’re available to begin work with us as a caregiver on Monday.”

  I hear her words but I do not understand them because I have never even heard of Sunny Horizons. “You are offering me a job at your daycare?”

  “Yes,” she answers. “The hours are from 9 to 5 and you would be floating between the various rooms at the facility. It will be similar to what you did at…” I hear a few clicks on her keyboard and she comes back with, “The Beaumont Academy’s afterschool program.”

  Yes, that had been my job exactly, but how does she know this? Unfortunately, I can’t ask with my father in the next room so instead, I say, “You’ve already checked my references?”

  “Well, no…” The woman clears her throat. “But you came highly recommended to us by a donor whose family has been very generous to our institution.”

  And that’s when the penny drops. “You are located at Yale?” I ask her.

  “Yes, on the West Campus. Are you familiar with it? We’ve only just opened.”

  “I can become familiar by Monday,” I say hesitantly, even as the catch that is Holt Calson hovers in the back of my mind.

  “Super!” Beth answers. Then she tells me about my salary. And this time, it’s not the back of my mind that catches, but my breath. The figure she quotes is nearly double the state’s minimum wage, and a full five dollars more than what my mother makes an hour cleaning houses.

  I manage to thank Beth for the opportunity and tell her I am excited to start on Monday, but I am swimming in a sea of confusion on the inside.

  I do not understand how one rich boy can have the power to get me such a well-paid job in this economy. Moreover, I do not understand why he would do it for me.

  Then, before I have even five minutes to wonder about what has just happened, the doorbell rings.

  It is not my Aunt Judith who lives down the street and often finds reasons to check on me on Saturdays when I’m alone with my father. I know this even before I open the door because she is the sort to pound instead of knock and yell, “Sylvie, come let your auntie in!” before it would ever occur to her to make polite use of our bell.