Don't Cry Now Part 33

"And then what?"

"Then we'll wait a day or two for the results, and we'll go from there. In the meantime, I'm going to give you a prescription for some antibiotics that I want you to start taking right away."

"I thought antibiotics wouldn't help."

"They won't help if the infection is viral. If it isn't viral, you could start to feel better as early as tomorrow. At any rate, it's worth a shot. Are you allergic to penicillin?"

"Not that I know of."

He scribbled something on a piece of paper. "Okay. Then let's try these. Take two immediately, then one every six hours after that. You can take them with food or without, it doesn't matter. If you're not feeling any better in a couple of days, we'll know that whatever is making you feel this way is viral. But hopefully, these will do the trick. At any rate, I'll call you with the test results as soon as they come in. Call me if you don't hear from me by Friday. Now go get me that urine sample."

Bonnie did as she was told, then returned to the doctor's office to let him draw blood. He filled four vials. "That's a lot of blood," she told him, surprised by how dark her blood looked in the small bottles. "Are you testing for AIDS?"

"Should I be?" he asked.

"Isn't it standard?"

"No, it's not." His eyes narrowed, peered deeply into hers. "Should I be testing for AIDS, Mrs. Wheeler?"

There was a long pause. "I don't know," Bonnie answered finally. What was she thinking?

"Have you taken any intravenous drugs in the last decade?"

"No, of course not."

"Have you had any blood transfusions?"

"No."

"Have you engaged in any high-risk s.e.xual activities?"

Bonnie pictured herself tied to her bed, her legs wrapped around her husband's shoulders. "What do you mean exactly?" she stammered.

"a.n.a.l intercourse, multiple partners, s.e.x with someone who's infected," he rhymed off with disconcerting nonchalance. "Are you in a monogamous relationship, Mrs. Wheeler?"

"I've never been unfaithful to my husband," Bonnie answered.

"And your husband?"

"I don't know," she admitted, after a pause. Dear G.o.d, what was she saying?

"Then why don't we do the test? That way, you won't have to worry." Dr. Kline patted her hand, then squeezed her trembling fingers.

Bonnie nodded, watching as he drew one final vial of blood from her vein. How could she have told the doctor she wasn't sure whether or not she was in a monogamous relationship? Could she really believe that Rod was having an affair? Did she trust her husband so little? If so, why had she insisted he go off with Marla? Why was she anxiously waiting his return? Was she turning into one of those women she'd always felt vaguely sorry for, the kind who stood by her man, no matter what indignities he threw her way? The kind who buried her frustrations and disappointments so deep, it made her literally sick?

Like her mother.

Bonnie thanked Dr. Kline for his time, got dressed, then found a nearby drugstore and filled the prescription, finding a water fountain and taking two pills right away, as directed. Ever the good girl, she thought ruefully, returning to her car, sitting behind the wheel, not moving.

Where to now? she wondered, in no hurry to return home. She could go to school, she thought, but what was the point? They'd already hired a subst.i.tute for today, and besides, the day was half over. She could go shopping, but she wasn't really in the mood. Nor was she up for walking, reading, exercising, or even a movie, simple pleasures she'd taken for granted a few short weeks ago.

Maybe the antibiotics would work. Maybe by tomorrow, she'd start to feel better. Or maybe they wouldn't work. Maybe nothing would work because nothing was the matter. Not with her body anyway. Maybe she wouldn't start to feel better until-until what? Until she dealt with her long-repressed feelings of hostility toward her family of origin?

Give me a break, she thought, starting the car, pulling away from the curb. So much psychobabble, so much mumbo-jumbo. Two hundred dollars for a piece of advice any first-year psychology student would have given her for the sheer pleasure of hearing himself talk. What a waste. And what lousy advice. What possible good could come from confronting her father? He'd never understand. She doubted he'd even listen.

You're not doing it for him, Dr. Greenspoon had said.

"I'm not doing it at all," Bonnie said out loud, stepping on the accelerator, turning up the radio full volume, letting the Rolling Stones block out all traces of conscious thought.

It was almost an hour later when she pulled up in front of the house at 422 Maple Road in Easton. "Now what?" she asked her reflection in the rearview mirror. "What are you doing here? You drove all the way out here against your better judgment, and just what is it you think you're going to accomplish? Is your father going to apologize? Is that what you want? Is he going to explain? As if you'd believe anything he said. Why are you here?" she asked again.

You're here to take control of your life, her reflection answered silently, as Bonnie pushed open the car door, her feet unsteady as they felt for the ground. You're here so that you can reclaim your future, and the only way you can do that is by confronting your past.

Joan's death had thrown her into a kind of limbo, reintroduced her to a family she'd tried to leave behind. Now they were standing in front of her, blocking her path, not allowing her to move forward with her life. All she had to do was confront them, say her piece and leave. She never had to see them again. It was simple, she told herself, wobbling up the front path, trying to organize all the things she wanted to say, her thoughts scattering as soon as her hand touched the doork.n.o.b.

The door opened and Steve Lonergan stood before her, wearing dark blue pants and a blue-and-red-checked shirt, his broad face void of all expression, his eyes reflecting neither surprise nor curiosity. He stepped back to let her come in. Wordlessly, Bonnie stepped over the threshold, hearing the door close behind her, like a prison gate clanging shut.

"Who's here, Steve?" Adeline Lonergan stepped out of the kitchen into the front hall. She was wearing an old-fashioned ap.r.o.n over a bright yellow dress. "Oh," she said, stopping as soon as she saw Bonnie. "My goodness, Bonnie. I almost didn't recognize you. What have you done to your hair?"

"I'm sorry, Adeline, would you mind if I had a few minutes alone with my father? Please?" Bonnie asked, temporarily blinded by the whiteness of the walls.

"There's nothing we have to say to each other that Adeline can't hear," her father said stubbornly, hands folding across his chest, like Mr. Clean, Bonnie thought, trying to reduce him to manageable size.

"That's all right, Steve. I have things to do. You talk to your daughter. I'll be in the kitchen, if you need anything."

Father and daughter said nothing.

"Why don't the two of you go into the living room?" Adeline ventured. "I think you'll be more comfortable there. Would either of you like something to drink?" she continued when no one moved.

Steve Lonergan shook his head, walked slowly into the living room.

"Nothing for me, thank you," Bonnie concurred, following after him. Why had she come? What did she hope to accomplish? What in G.o.d's name was she planning to say?

"I understand you saw your brother," her father said, facing her in the middle of the room.

Bonnie turned away, pretending to study the interior, but the abundance of soft greens, whites, and yellows was too much for her brain to absorb, and she reluctantly brought her gaze back to her father. "Yes, he dropped over unexpectedly." And uninvited, she almost added, but didn't.

"He treated you to some of his famous spaghetti sauce, did he?"

"Infamous is the word I believe he used."

"Whatever it is, it's d.a.m.n good."

"Yes, it was," Bonnie agreed. Except that I've been sick ever since, she added silently.

"He says that my granddaughter is a regular little doll."

"Yes, she is."

"I don't suppose you have any pictures of her," her father said, then looked to the window as if he hadn't spoken at all.

Bonnie hesitated, reluctant to share even this much of her child with her father. "Actually, I do have a couple of pictures in my purse," she relented, fishing inside her beige leather handbag and pulling out a small red leather case, holding it toward her father. He took the case immediately, pulling out a pair of reading gla.s.ses from the front pocket of his shirt and balancing them across the bridge of his nose. "The picture on the left is when she was four months old," Bonnie explained. "The one on the right was taken last year. She's changed a lot since then. Her hair's longer. Her face is a bit thinner."

"Looks like her mother," Steve Lonergan said.

Bonnie quickly returned the photographs to her purse, dropped her hands to her sides. "Actually, everyone says she looks more like Rod."

"And how is your husband?"

"He's well. He's in Florida right now, at a convention."

"Left you to look after his kids, did he?"

Bonnie looked at the floor, her brown shoes sinking into the pale green broadloom. Like quicksand, she thought, wondering how long she could keep her head above ground. "I didn't come here to talk about Rod," she said.

"Why did you come?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted after a pause. "There were some things I felt needed to be said."

"Say them," her father directed.

"It's not that easy."

"You've had over three years to prepare."

Bonnie took a deep breath, tried to speak, couldn't.

"What are you doing here, Bonnie?" her father asked simply.

"What are you doing here?" Bonnie snapped in return, pouncing on his question. "What right do you have to be in this house? How dare you come back here! How dare you make a mockery of my mother's memory!" Bonnie stepped back, stunned by the ferocity of her outburst.

"You think that's what I'm doing?"

"I think you have no business being here. You hated this house. You couldn't wait to leave it."

"I always loved this place," he corrected her, "although I hated that d.a.m.ned floral wallpaper, I'll admit that. But after your mother and I agreed to a divorce...."

"You walked out. You gave her no choice."

"She never really liked this house, you know. I had to talk her into moving out here. She preferred the city. But she insisted on keeping the house as part of the terms of our divorce, probably to spite me more than anything."

"Probably to keep from disrupting the family any more than necessary," Bonnie said. "Maybe she felt we'd gone through enough changes."

"Maybe. Guess we'll never know now." Steve Lonergan paused, swallowed, looked toward the window. "At any rate, after she died and left the place to Nick, he asked me if I was interested in buying it from him. He needed the cash more than he needed a big house, and Adeline and I agreed to help him out."

"Everyone's always trying to help out old Nick." Bonnie shook her head in amazement.

"Maybe he's not as strong as you are, Bonnie."

"And the meek shall inherit the earth," Bonnie said, noting the presence of the Bible still on the coffee table.

"Who is it you're really angry at, Bonnie?" her father asked.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not the one who died and left the house to your brother," her father reminded her.

Bonnie started pacing between the sofa and the wing chair. "If you're trying to tell me the person I'm really angry at is my mother, you're absolutely wrong. I know who I'm angry at. He's standing right in front of me."

"Why are you angry?"

"Why?" Bonnie parroted.

"Why?" he repeated.

"Why do you think?" Bonnie yelled. "You walked out on your family."

"I walked out on an intolerable situation."

"Intolerable for whom? It wasn't my mother who was out every night gallivanting around."

"No, your mother was home in bed every night."

"She was sick."

"She was always sick, d.a.m.nit."

"Are you blaming her?"

"No. I'm just saying that I couldn't live that way any longer." He brushed his hand along the top of his scalp. "I'm not trying to make excuses for myself, Bonnie. I know I took the coward's way out. But if you could try to understand for a few minutes what it was like for me. I was still a relatively young man. There were things I wanted to do. Your mother never wanted to go anywhere. She never wanted to do anything. She had no interest in making friends, or traveling, or even making love."

"She was sick," Bonnie repeated.

"So was I," her father shot back. "Sick of living that way, of feeling like my life was already over, of sleeping every night beside someone who recoiled whenever I tried to touch her. Bonnie, you were a child then, I didn't expect you to understand. But you're an adult now. I was hoping you'd have a little compa.s.sion."

"Where was your compa.s.sion?"

"I tried, Bonnie. I tried for years."

"Then you walked out. She was never the same after you left."

"She was exactly the same and you know it."

"You walked out and you never came back."

"It was what she wanted."

"She didn't know what she wanted. She was sick...."