I’ve seen Vivi twice since her accident, but she hasn’t seen me yet. She was drugged and out of it both times I was there. This morning she was transferred to a different hospital, in Santa Rosa. A hospital with a psychiatric ward. Which makes a bit more sense now than it did right after her accident.
I’m leaving for Santa Rosa soon, and I keep checking the time. Vivi’s mom thought I should wait till the afternoon to visit. So Vivi has some time to get situated in the new place. I’d rather keep myself busy in the meantime.
There’s a ring of sweat around my T-shirt collar as I power wash the hell out of the patio’s concrete floor. It’s not a pretty task. Let’s just say birds flying overhead have created graffiti in a few spots. The spray is so powerful that it feels as if it could do damage. Instead, it blasts them clean. It’s useful stress relief, as it turns out. I actually wish I had more stuff to power wash.
Vivi’s mom has been at the hospital most of the time. She did leave to give me Vivi’s house keys so I can take care of Sylvia. We sat on the front stoop because she didn’t seem to want to come in.
“Viv has bipolar disorder,” her mom said. “She said I could tell you.”
I failed to move or speak for at least a minute. She gave me this sad, gentle look during the uncomfortably long silence. It was a lot to take in. I mean, I thought “bipolar” meant, like, really moody. Which I guess Vivi is. I just . . . I didn’t know where to start.
“I only knew about her arm,” I said eventually. “I mean, the scar. Is that even the same thing?”
“Part of it.” Carrie turned to look at me, watching my reaction. “I thought it was depression last year—we all did. We got her on meds after that. And it was depression, but that’s just not all it was.”
“So they didn’t work?”
“They worked for the depression. She was happy again, sewing and painting. I caught her drinking, smoking pot, taking my credit card, sneaking out. But I thought it was teenager stuff. Acting up. A sign that she was definitely okay. I had no idea they were symptoms until it got really bad. Then we got her help. And different medicine. There’s a lot I didn’t know.” She turned her gaze to the ground. “There’s a lot I still don’t know.”
Her mom was clearly torn between wanting to be honest with me and wanting to protect Vivi’s privacy. I told her that it’s okay, that Vivi can tell me more when she’s ready. Really, I needed some time to Google it.
Now I’ve read a lot. Irritability, sexual behavior, disjointed thought and speech patterns. Bipolar I, bipolar II, mixed, rapid cycling, cyclothymic. They seem pretty clearly defined, in separate boxes with definitions. But I honestly can’t even guess which one Vivi has.
I sat in front of the computer, head in my hands. She’s been different the past week. Should I have known? Did I take advantage of her, without knowing it? I absolutely didn’t mean to. Will she feel different about me now? I know it’s not about me, but I’m the only person I’m in charge of. And I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do next.
So I let the restaurant consume me.
The new menu debuts in three days, and we’re having a party to celebrate. It’s not fancy or anything—just a celebration for all the people who have helped us with changes.
So many people have chipped in. Felix and I ripped up the remaining carpets in the dining room, and our sous chef refinished the hardwood floors. Silas painted over the red walls with fresh white. That’s what we need. Simplicity. The local florist sold us these things called “bud vases” for practically no money. Bekah stuffed them with wildflowers. Harvey Berman, our town electrician, switched out some outdated brass light fixtures with modern ones. He didn’t even charge us for labor—only the parts. The whole kitchen staff collaborated on the new recipes, and Ellie designed the menus. The printing place gave us a huge discount.
And the reason everyone gave for helping us? My dad. I’ve heard it over and over again this week. When I thank people, they say things like, “It was my pleasure. Your dad was a good man.” I start to say, “You didn’t have to—” and they cut me off by telling me about my dad. About how he was Verona Cove. How they miss seeing him around. Mr. Hodgson told me that his wife was on bed rest for the last two months of her pregnancy. My dad delivered meals to them without being asked. “He always said they were ‘leftovers,’ ” Mr. Hodgson told me, chuckling a bit. “But they were always warm and always her favorite meals, so somehow I doubt that.”
Their son is ten now. I never knew. I accepted the long wooden planter the Hodgsons brought by for the patio. Mrs. Hodsgon built it herself, and Mr. Hodgson filled it with bushels of basil and cilantro and parsley and mint.
After the patio floor is clean, I water the planter. It takes me a second to notice someone waiting in the alleyway.
Ellie looks hesitant. I don’t blame her. I’m sure I look like someone who’s dangerously close to being unhinged. Welcome to Jonahville.
“Hey,” she says. “Just wanted to let you know that Mr. Thomas is almost done installing the letters out front. Thought you might want to see.”
“I do—thanks.” Mr. Thomas has enjoyed our renovation more than anyone. He hasn’t been able to stay inside his hardware store next door. He’s over here every day, lending us supplies and jumping in to help.
The letters were a special find, and we needed an expert to get them onto the brick front of the restaurant. Silas went to an antique place a few cities over where they specialize in old architectural stuff from building demolitions and estate sales. He took Isaac with him, and they brought home letters to spell out BISTRO. They’re all wrought iron, some of them a bit rusted.
Out front, Isaac and Bekah are standing with Silas and Felix. Isaac actually chose to spend his morning cleaning—baseboards, bathrooms. Bekah tore lettuce and mixed salad dressing with the prep cooks. The universe feels very disturbed.
Mr. Thomas is perched on the ladder, using his leveling tool to make sure the “O” is straight. He calls down, “Look okay?”
“Looks good!” Felix yells.
When Mr. Thomas starts down the ladder, I can see the new letters clearly. The fonts don’t match, but they look great beneath the TONY’S letters. Ellie was right. Adding BISTRO gives a new feel, a casual sophistication. The antique letters are perfect because they’re not too perfect. That’s how my dad liked his restaurant and his recipes—inventive but classic. Real, never precious.
Silas drapes his arm over Isaac’s shoulders. “Those letters were a great find, bud.”
Isaac looks silly with pride.
“You did good,” Felix says quietly, squeezing my arm.
“Silas and Isaac found the letters.”
“I know,” he says. “I meant . . . all of this. It’s not so easy for a rigid old tree like me.”
“Tree?” I ask, surprised. Has Vivi been talking to him, too, about past lives?
Felix laughs. “Yeah. A rigid old tree like me—it snaps in a raging storm. The pliant tree bends in the rain and survives.”
We stand there for a few beats, and I’m frowning. Since I’m still not getting it, he claps me on the back before heading back to the kitchen. “You made us bend, Maní.”
I thank Mr. Thomas and help him carry his ladder back to his store. When I return to the outside of the restaurant, everyone’s gone back in, and it’s just me here.
But it’s not just me here. And that’s the point.
The sky is perfect blue on my way to see Vivi, and the long drive is good for me. My mind feels like an envelope that is too overstuffed to close. So I take some of the stuff out. I think about if my dad would like the restaurant changes, about how the party will go, about the things that might go wrong. I think about Vivi. About how hard the injuries and hospital stay must be for her. How I should be when I see her. If things will be different once she’s released.
None of these things feel good to think about. But it makes room in my brain.
I pause outside the hospital and take a few deep breaths. A lady at the front desk gives me a visitor’s badge. My hands shake a little as I buy some flowers at the gift shop. I should have thought of something clever. Something creative, like Vivi would have. I should have made her a black-cherry cobbler, like the first night she came over to my house. Should have, should have, should have. I’m sick of those words biting at my ankles no matter where I walk.
Once I’m outside her room, I can hear my own breathing. No other sound.
I step in. She’s propped up in bed, poking at a tray of globby preservatives that the hospital calls food. There’s a blue sling on her left arm. A bandage covers up part of her collarbone and sneaks under the hospital gown. Barefaced, she looks younger. I’m so relieved to see her moving around that I could drop to my knees in the doorway.
She glances up. I can see her lower lip trembling even from across the room.
“Jonah?” Her voice is shaky.
“Hey,” I say, stepping forward with a smile.
And Vivi, she recoils. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
I blink, frozen. Okay. Not what I expected. Stay calm. Does she blame me for what happened? The plastic wrap around the flowers makes a crinkling noise as I tense up.
Her eyes flood with tears. “I could have killed you, Jonah. That night—you were on the Vespa with me. You should be furious with me. You should have my face on a dartboard. You shouldn’t be here. What is wrong with you?”
It takes what feels like five full minutes for me to understand. She blames herself for this? I step closer to her. I just want to touch her hand, to feel that she’s real and okay and here. “Nothing is wrong with me. God, Viv—I’m not mad. How could I be mad at you? I’m so sorry about what happened and that you got hurt.”
Her eyes widen, almost wild. “I don’t need your pity! Why would you even come here? Why?!”
I open my mouth to say something, but she cuts me off before I can begin. Tears dribble down her cheeks. This is going so wrong. So wrong.
“Get out.” She hurls an empty plastic cup at me, and I dodge it. Good God. “I can’t stand to look at you. GET OUT GET OUT!”
She stabs at the red button by her side, and it’s only seconds before a nurse hurries in. I’m covered in a cold sweat.
“Make him leave!” Vivi sobs. “Make him leave, please.”
“C’mon, son,” the nurse says, motioning for me. I follow into the hallway because I don’t know what else to do. I’m shell-shocked, guilt-ridden. The nurse shuts the door behind us. The stupid flowers are in my hand, and I just don’t understand. The nurse looks so sad. “I hope you won’t take it personally. The first few days are so volatile.”
“It’s all right,” I mutter, more to myself than to her.
At the nurses’ station, I leave the flowers and tell the woman at the desk to thank everyone for taking care of Vivi.
Vivi’s words stick with me long after I break back out into the daylight. Why would you even come here? she asked me. Why?
Because I’ve been having a hard time since before the day we met. She never walked away from me because of it. Her feelings for me weren’t contingent on how easy or hard it was to be in my life. She doesn’t have to be sunny for me. That’s not how it works.
At home, my siblings know better than to speak to me while I stir ingredients. I pound the dough onto the counter, pressing the rolling pin too hard. I ball it up, flatten it again.
It turns out like a picture. I’m covered in flour as I put it in a box from the restaurant. I press too hard on the paper as I write the note.
Why? Because you once told me you aren’t afraid of the dark places. I’m not, either, Viv. You know that. If I were, I think we both know I would have bailed on my family months ago.
You also told me to ask what people need and listen. This is me asking. I’m listening. In the meantime, here’s a pie in case that’s what you need. That hospital food looked disgusting.
—Jonah