Grace

 

  My dad built this house for my mom in Los Feliz nearly twelve years ago, just as I was starting med school. He made his living building houses, so he lived for architecture the way most people live for sunshine or a good glass of wine. It was his happy place. He loved being so close to breathtaking Frank Lloyd Wright designs, and Mom loved that it was close enough to everything without being in the middle of it all. She got to enjoy its gorgeous view of the Los Angeles hillside for eight healthy years before the cancer took her. Two years later, after my dad’s third heart attack, I left my apartment in Glendale and moved in with him. There are still traces of my mother in every room, from the floral window treatments to the inspirational artwork. Her cookbooks still lay on the countertops in the kitchen and her favorite novels still fill the shelves against the wall. Even though he rarely gets out of bed these days to see those memories for himself, my father wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Our lot sits in the back of the community, on the north side, against the hills. From my back patio, up on the hill amidst lush green trees and terra cotta rooftops, you can see the dome of the Griffith Observatory. There’s a peaceful serenity here that I’ve vowed not to take for granted. It’s not Brentwood or Holmby Hills, but it’s nothing like the more dangerous neighborhoods where I work. In a city where life moves at a pace of ninety miles per minute, Los Feliz is a diamond amongst stones. Nestled in its cozy perfection, I can walk out on the back patio in my pajamas and admire the view around me without worry of watchful eyes or step out my front door and greet my lifelong neighbors with a comfortable smile. Over the years, Annette, the widow next door, has been known to graciously cook my father dinner when I have to take a night shift. And she always seems to know just the right time to show up at our door with a plate full of homemade cookies and a hot cup of coffee. I glance at the digital clock on the stove. It’s 10:30 at night. She’s probably not awake.

  I cradle Lucas’ head against my stomach, rubbing his hair and doing my best to calm him. My body instinctively rocks side to side as I hum and shush him. His heaving sobs weaken to short hitches of breath, and I feel him relax in my care. Natalie. I have to check on my sister.

  “Why don’t we get you something to drink? Are you hungry?” I say after what seems like days of silence. He nods his head but doesn’t pull away from me. I take a step back and squat down, so we’re eye to eye. I pray my smile hides my fear. “Okay then. You sit here,” I nod my head, indicating the white slip-covered sofa behind us, “And I’ll go make you a sandwich.” He smiles back. It’s weak, but it beats the faraway look of hopelessness I was greeted with just minutes ago. “Peanut butter and jelly?” I don’t have to ask. I know PB&J is his favorite. I’ve made it for him a dozen times before. But I want him to engage, to feel safe. Familiar. Home. His smile grows, and he nods again. “Good. I’ll be right back,” I assure him, because right now the thing he needs most is something he can be sure of.

 

  I grab my phone from the charger and dial, praying Annette is still awake. The soft, rhythmic sound of my father breathing is a welcome relief when I peek my head in his room. At least I don’t have to worry about him for the time being. Five minutes later, I’m dressed in jeans and a shirt, and she’s at the front door with a book, a blanket, and a warm smile. “You’re an angel,” I tell her, as I wrap her in a hug.

  She tucks a stray hair behind my ear then looks over my shoulder at Lucas, who is engrossed in all things Disney as he chews his sandwich. His eyes never leave the television screen as he brings it up for another bite. Annette looks back at me, her eyes full of sympathy.

  “And you’re one of the strongest women I know,” she tells me, with the affection of a lifelong friend. “Go. Do what you have to do. I’ll hold down the fort.” Her dark brown eyes sparkle as she shoos me away with her hands.

  I grab my keys and purse, then give Lucas a kiss on the forehead. “Annette is going to sit with you and Gramps for a few while I go take care of something, okay?”

  His big blue eyes find mine, full of pain and wonder. “You’re going to check on my mom, aren’t you?”

  It’s not like I thought by not saying where I was going, he wouldn’t be able to guess. Kids are intuitive. I’d hoped to get out of here without bringing back visions of his unconscious mother, but I guess when you see something like that, it’s kind of hard to forget.

  “Yes, Pumpkin. I am. I’m a doctor, remember? So, if she needs care, I can help her.” I can’t. Deep down I know it. She needs more than I’m able to give.

  His eyes search mine for weakness, and I fight to keep it hidden. He has to believe I’m strong enough to fight for his mom when she’s not able to fight for herself. “Okay,” he says, finally. I breathe a smile, thankful I passed his unspoken test.

  “Dad’s had his meds and he should sleep through the night,” I inform Annette as I’m walking out the door. She nods and curls up in the oversized chair next to the sofa, pulling a fuzzy blanket over her lap. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  She waves her hands, dismissing the compliment as she opens the pages of her romance novel. The moment the door clicks behind me, the fear and dread I’ve been keeping at bay rushes over me like the winds of a hurricane. Emotions hold me hostage, nailing my feet to the ground. I don’t know if I can do this. A hundred visions of what I may walk in her house and find swim through my mind, and none of them are pleasant. Pull yourself together, Grace. Pick your feet up and move. Get in your car and drive. You have to do this. If not you, then who?

  No one. If not me, then no one.

  With eyes closed, I take in a deep breath and reclaim my emotions. Then, as her broken little boy sits on my sofa, eating peanut butter and watching innocent television shows, I head out toward Sunset Boulevard to Echo Park to find my sister.

 

***                     

 

 

   A man’s voice seeps through the crack in the half-open front door. I stop before moving further, straining to dissect the conversation, curious who Natalie could be talking to at this hour of the night. At the same time, I breathe a sigh of relief that she’s alive and awake. And not alone. His deep voice starts talking about discounts and safe driving, and I realize the voice is coming from her television.

  I place a palm flat against the door, slowly push it open and walk inside. I don’t know what I expected to find when I entered her home. A horrific display of overturned furniture and blood-spattered walls, I guess. Really, Grace? This isn’t a horror movie. It’s your sister for fuck sake. Other than the television being on with no audience, nothing is out of place. The burlap throw pillows are placed neatly in the corners of her Pottery Barn sectional sofa. Her kitchen sink is free of stacks of dirty dishes, and her white ceramic, owl shaped Scentsy warmer fills her home with the aroma of a freshly baked apple pie.

  On the outside, my sister is the perfect candidate for the PTA. She works for an established ophthalmologist, lives in a modern house in a decent neighborhood, and attends Lucas’ soccer games every Saturday morning. But behind the mask is an unhealthy addiction to antidepressants. After our mother died, I took on the responsibility of taking care of Dad, and Natalie completely disconnected from reality. She would sleep for days. When we did manage to get her out of bed, she was void, lifeless, and lethargic. A dim shade of gray, a soul trapped in the shadows. Her doctor started her on SSRIs. When Prozac didn’t do the trick, they moved her up to a tricyclic, which she quickly found worked much faster when she mixed it with Demerol. That’s when I knew she had a problem. Sometimes I think being a single mom and keeping up appearances in a city where appearances are everything is what fuels her need for an escape. When Natalie is on, she’s on like nobody’s business. But when her depression kicks in, and she falls off… Well, we end up here. With Lucas ringing our doorbell because she hasn’t bothered to come home, and me scouring the dark corners of night clubs until I find her.

  She’s right where I assume Lucas found her, sprawled across her bed on top of the dark gray comforter. Face down, arms flailing over one side, hair soaking wet from her son’s failed attempt at waking her, she’s like something straight off a tragic documentary. She didn’t even take her shoes off. Good God, Nat. What have you done to yourself? Don’t you even care what you’re doing to Lucas?

   I want to be angry with her. I am angry with her. She’s been given a precious gift most women fight their whole lives to receive and still end up without. And she treats it as an inconvenience, a reason to pity herself. I don’t even like to think about the countless arguments I’ve had with God over His poor judgement. The simple thought of it brings back a familiar pain in my stomach. A pain I’ll never forget as long as I live.

  Her wrist is limp as I take it between my fingers, checking for a pulse. All I can see is Lucas’ little face when I opened the front door and pulled him into my arms. He was so scared, yet so hopeful. Like he was counting on me to fix his mother. I’m not a superhero, little man. But, I want to be. I want to be his superhero. Someone needs to be. I press gently on her wrist. Thank God. I throw my head back, eyes closed, and heave the burst of air I’d been holding captive in my lungs. The faint thwump swishes beneath my fingertips. It’s there. Barely. Now what? I have to get her to a hospital. I don’t know what all she took or how much of it she had. I don’t know how long she’s been like this. An hour at least. Probably longer. All kinds of things could be going on inside her body right now. The drugs could be messing with her central nervous system. Or worse. Shit. I pull my phone from the back pocket of my baggy boyfriend jeans and start to dial 911, but quickly hit the home button and go to my contacts instead. Having an ambulance show up at her front door would attract unwanted attention and leave questions Natalie would be stuck answering every time she stepped outside to check her mail. No. That wouldn’t be good.

  “St. Anthony’s Hospital,” the cheerful female voice says after the third ring.

  “Dr. McCallister, please. This is Dr. Matthews.” I whisper a chant under my breath as the admissions clerk puts me on hold. Please be on call. Please be on call.

  “Toxicology, this is Dr. McCallister.” Thank you.

  “Karen, hi. It’s Grace. Listen, I need a favor…”

 

***