Hooked Page 12

  By lunch, she still hadn’t come in and there were no phone messages or emails to explain her absence. I called Nancy down in Human Resources.

  “Nancy Waters, how can I help you?” she asked.

  “Hi Nancy, this is Will Stone. I was wondering if you had gotten any information about Cate Maverick’s absence today. I was concerned about her,” I added, because I didn’t want to get her in trouble.

  “Yes. She rearranged her schedule with the approval of the Director. She will be working ten-hour days now and has off each Wednesday.”

  “Why? Is something wrong? Why wasn’t I told about this?” I asked, a little too grumpily. I wasn’t the supervisor Cat reported to directly, but she still reported to me for a few projects. We still worked together. Didn’t that deserve the courtesy of letting me know her schedule had changed? And more importantly, why had her schedule changed? Why did she need a day off every week? Was she avoiding me or was there something else going on?

  It killed me that she couldn’t trust me with the information. But, I had to remind myself she’d never trusted me with much personal information even when I first met her. I hadn’t known her real name, her job, or anything about her family. Was there a reason she tried to keep so many secrets? Maybe I was better off that things had worked out this way. Maybe my personal life was better without Cat in it. I knew for a fact my professional life was difficult enough with Cate Maverick in it. I was telling myself lies, but I did my best to believe them since there was very little chance I’d find the answers to any of my questions.

  “I’m sorry,” Nancy said. “I don’t know the reason, I was just given the approved paperwork by Ms. Maverick. It was her responsibility to notify you. Are you sure she didn’t tell you?”

  “I’ve checked my phone messages and email. There’s nothing.”

  “What about interoffice mail?”

  I frowned. Interoffice mail? Did people even use that anymore?

  “I’ll check, Nancy. Thank you.”

  I hung up the phone and rifled through the correspondence—interoffice and regular mail—that had been dropped off just before lunch. Sure enough, there was an envelope with Cat’s handwriting on it addressed to William Stone. I opened the battered, yellow envelope. Inside was a note from Cat informing me that she would be absent on Wednesdays for the foreseeable future but would be into the office an hour early and staying an hour late on the other days so that she would still be working a forty hour work week. There was no explanation, but she had included a copy of the requisite form with Gerald Manning’s signature giving her permission to change her schedule. She’d also included an update of her projects, what she had finished so far, her due dates, and what she planned to work on for the remainder of the week.

  There was nothing to complain about. She’d followed the rules and was keeping up with her workload. The only problem was that I was annoyed that I wasn’t in the know from the start.

  I picked up my phone and called Gerald Manning.

  “Hey, Will, what can I do for you?” he asked.

  “I just got copies of the work schedule change for Cate Maverick.”

  “Yes, I spoke with her last week. She has some personal issues and needed to have Wednesdays off. Since she’s always been a stellar employee, I approved the request. Is there a problem?”

  “No,” I lied. “I’m just concerned. Is everything okay?”

  “I can’t tell you the reason she needs the time off. It’s confidential. I’m sorry.”

  “Right. I just want to make sure she’s okay.”

  Gerald was silent for a moment. “Maybe you should ask her.”

  “I will.” Or rather, I would. If she’d talk to me.

  ***

  Thursday morning I arrived early and sat in Cat’s office to wait for her. When she came through the door, she kicked it shut behind her, struggling to balance a cup of coffee and a stack of papers. She was wearing a vintage black dress with white polka dots and her vivid red hair was slicked up in curls. The rows of silver studs along her ears and the curves of tattoos peeking out of the sleeves of her dress were the only hints of her usual Venice Beach style.

  She wearily set her coffee, papers, and messenger bag on her desk and sat in the chair, leaning forward to rest her head in her hands. She still hadn’t noticed me. When her body started to shake and I could hear sobs coming from between her fingers, I immediately felt guilty because I knew I was witnessing something I shouldn’t. Or at least something she wouldn’t want me to see.

  I tried to get out of the chair and slip out of her office before she noticed I was there. The chair squeaked as I stood, betraying me, and she quickly wiped her eyes before lifting them. When she saw me, she stood and was poised behind the desk like a cornered animal.

  “Huck.” Her voice was choked and filled with emotion. “What are you doing here?”

  It was a relief to hear her call me by the name I’d given her the first night we met. I wondered if she even realized she’d used it.

  “I wanted to check and make sure everything was . . .” The word “okay” hung in the air unsaid because it was clear to both of us that everything was not okay. “Never mind. I’ll come back later.”

  I headed for the door and she turned away from me as her body started shaking again, tears streaming down her face as she covered her mouth with her fingers and attempted to keep the choked sounds from coming out. Instead of leaving like she probably wanted me to, and like I knew I should, I walked around the desk and reached for her. She let me take her into my arms and I just held her.

  It felt so right to touch her and I couldn’t believe she was allowing it. Strong Cate Maverick. Ms. Unafraid. The girl who seemed to fear nothing was falling to pieces in my arms and I had no idea why or how to make it better. But at the same time, I craved the satisfaction it gave me that for these few stolen moments, she was mine to comfort.

  Unsure of what she wanted from me, I settled for rubbing her back. A strong protective urge rose in my chest, but I knew better than to say anything. Cat was allowing me to console her, but I knew it was a moment that was fragile and precarious. For some unknown reason, she’d let me witness her pain. But if I spoke, or if I did the wrong thing, she’d shut me out just as quickly.

  It took a long time for her to finally calm down. One moment her forehead was against my jaw as her tears fell between us and the next, I felt the heat of her lips as they pressed into the skin above the collar of my shirt. It was unexpected, but I didn’t stop her. She gripped my tie in her hands and with an achingly slow gentle tug, she pulled my face toward hers, her lips tracing a path up my neck to my jaw as the last few tears slid down her cheeks. When she finally lifted her mouth away from my skin, my lips crashed into hers with a demanding force she didn’t resist.

  Her mouth and tongue moved against mine, confiding in me—telling me her problems and secrets. Without the words, I didn’t know the details, but I could feel her hopeless pain and my answer was to give her whatever she demanded, whatever she needed, anything she wanted. Her hands didn’t stray from my tie, all of her passion and heartache were focused in the dance between our lips and the wild breaths we shared.

  The tears continued to fall and I cradled her face in my hands, wiping the wetness away with my thumbs which only seemed to make her cry more. When she finally pulled away, it felt like someone had ripped the sun out of the sky and tossed it far into the night.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping at her cheeks with the palms of her hands as she backed away.

  “I’m not.”

  Cat bit her lip in what looked like an attempt to not cry again. Her eyes were a bright blue, shimmering with the deluge of tears she couldn’t seem to hold back.

  “What’s wrong, Cat?” I asked.

  She shrugged and closed her eyes. “Too much.”

  “Like what?”

  Cat gestured between us. “Us. We’re wrong. This is wrong, Huck.”

  At hearing her call me
Huck again, I wanted to punch my fist in the air in victory even though she’d also just called us “wrong.” There was a nagging need to correct her and tell her that we were right, that there was nothing wrong about us, about what we’d done when we first met, or about the kiss we’d just shared. But there was a spiral bound book in the desk in my office that agreed with her. As far as William Stone Media was concerned, what we’d just done was very wrong, no matter how right it felt.

  She turned and put her hands to her head. “Why did I do that?” she muttered. “I know better.”

  “Cat,” I said, reaching for her arm. She flinched when I touched her and whirled around to face me.

  “I’m sorry, Will. After everything I said the other day about you ruining me . . . and then I just attacked you like that.” Her eyes darted nervously around the office. “I could blame it on being caught off guard but to be honest, I wanted to do it.”

  When her eyes met mine, they were bloodshot from all of the crying, but that vulnerability only made me more desperate to reach for her and give her comfort.

  “I think . . .” She paused in thought, worrying her teeth over her bottom lip. “Maybe I should resign. I don’t know if I can do this.”

  Resign? I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t be the reason for her losing her job. I didn’t want to ruin her career.

  “No, it’s my fault. I’m the one that hugged you. Please don’t do anything rash. I promise I’ll keep my distance, Cat. You need the Legend Records account, I promised you that. And I need—I mean William Stone Media—needs you.”

  “Right. The company needs me,” she repeated, dejectedly. I didn’t understand the additional sadness that settled over her.

  “Don’t resign. I promise not to overstep my boundaries anymore.” I backed away toward the door. “But if you need anything, if you need to talk about anything, you know where I am.” I felt like I needed to give her a measure of safety since she was so worried about doing the wrong thing. I needed to give her space and a way of interacting with me that wouldn’t make her feel that she might jeopardize her career or reputation. “You can email or call me.”

  She nodded and I left her office, shutting the door behind me and giving her the solitude she preferred. She didn’t come back out for the rest of the day.

  I went back to Muscle Beach after work that night and again on Friday night, but Cat didn’t show. When I wasn’t working, I was in the gym, running the boardwalk, or swimming laps in the pool. One good thing about the condition of my confused heart—I’d be in the best shape of my life. The bad thing about my confused heart—it didn’t know what to do without Cat to focus on.

  — CAT —

  15. FLEETING

  Wednesday morning brought my mom’s second chemotherapy appointment. I’d been unprepared last week. I don’t know exactly what I’d expected, but that one day of being strong for my mom and living with her sickness had nearly destroyed me. When I saw Huck the next morning, I unraveled into his arms and selfishly took the comfort from him that I so desperately needed. And as good as it had felt, I knew it couldn’t happen again. To be with him was to flirt with disaster, emotionally and professionally. I needed to get my shit together and focus on my mom. That’s all that mattered right now, at least today. Wednesdays were all for her and her treatments.

  My mom was sitting in the padded chair where they’d taken her blood and done all of the basic health checkups: listened to her heart, checked her blood pressure, and the other things a normal doctor visit entailed. She was struggling to put on her suit jacket. Even though she wasn’t going to the Gallery today, she’d insisted on dressing as if she were going to work. I, on the other hand, was wearing one of my comfy weekend outfits.

  “How do you feel?” I asked her. She’d found a clump of hair on her pillow this morning. They’d warned us her hair might fall out and that it could start as early as a week after treatment began, but neither of us had imagined it being as traumatic as it actually was. It was a huge chunk and even though she was able to style her hair to cover it up, it was the first sign, at least for me, that she was really sick, that both her cancer—and her medicine—were destroying her body.

  And the worst part? All of this, everything she was going through, wouldn’t actually save her life. It would only make her sicker for longer. At least it had last Thursday. She’d spent most of the evening and the next day in the bathroom throwing up or doing other things that were just as unpleasant. She barely ate anything all week and she spent most of her time lying on the white couch in the pink living room, watching movies, napping, and keeping track of the hours until the next time she could take her pain medicine. She’d tried going back to work on Friday, but it’d been too much. The OxyContin she took for pain had made her dizzy. It was so bad that she had to get one of her employees to bring her home at lunch. I came home that evening to find her on the couch crying and watching the True Blood series that she’d downloaded from Netflix.

  The last four days had been a lot of the same, only she’d moved on to the Walking Dead series and then to Glee.

  “I’m fine,” my mom said. We were waiting in one of the exam rooms. They’d taken her blood and needed to do tests on it to make sure that her blood counts were safe enough to have treatment today. She wasn’t fine. She was dying. But I wasn’t going to point it out: both of us did such a good job of ignoring it most of the time.

  When the nurse came back in to tell us that we could go up to the oncology ward where patients received their chemotherapy, I shouldered my messenger bag and gave my arm to my mother so I could help her get to the elevator. It had only been a week and I felt like she’d aged ten years. She pretended she didn’t need my help, but she was leaning on my arm far more than she realized.

  Upstairs, we were given a reclining hospital chair behind a curtain with a smaller chair for me to sit in. There were other patients with chairs and curtains receiving their chemo treatments. Some had closed the curtains, some were alone, and some had come with several family members. The other patients were also in varying degrees of health and I saw my mom looking at each of them, mentally mapping out her own future. Before sitting down, I pulled the curtain closed so she couldn’t torment herself. She had an hour to sit here and get her chemo and that was an hour too long for her to compare herself to others.

  Soon, Sally, one of the nurses, was in our curtained area and preparing my mother for her second treatment of chemo.

  “How did you do last week, Anita?” she asked. I loved that the nurse used my mom’s first name instead of calling her Ms. Durand. The entire staff up in the chemo ward was so friendly and talented at putting us at ease.

  “Great,” my mom said. “No problems.” I narrowed my eyes at her. She hadn’t let me in to the oncologist appointment with her this morning and now I was curious just how truthful she’d been with the doctor.

  “That’s fantastic, Anita. I’m glad to hear that.” Sally inserted the needle in my mom’s arm and soon had the bag of drugs dripping through the tube.

  When Sally left, I moved my chair right next to my mom’s. “Why did you lie?”

  She leaned her head back into the cushion and closed her eyes as if she meant to take a nap. “What do you mean?”

  “Things were not great, Mom. You were throwing up and in pain. You’ve hardly eaten anything all week.”

  My mom huffed a small laugh. “That’s normal for chemo treatment, Cate. I’m not going to complain for no reason. I need this medicine. I’m doing this for you.”

  “What do you mean you’re doing this for me?”

  She shrugged. “It sounds stupid. But I guess I just want to avoid death as long as possible.”

  I swallowed. “Mom, I don’t want you to die, but I don’t want you to suffer either. You have to tell them the truth so they can give you the best mix of medicine to make you the most comfortable.”

  “The most important thing is that I put it off as long as I can.”

 
; “What?”

  “Leaving you an orphan.” She turned her head and stared at the curtain across from me as if it held all the answers she needed.

  Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. Could I even be considered an orphan? I was a grown woman, but her words still had the same meaning. It was the first time I’d really considered it. When my father died, I’d been sad, but he had never been around that often, so it hadn’t left me emotionally crippled. Not like I knew the loss of my mom would.

  She was right. When she died, I’d be an orphan. I don’t know why I didn’t realize it earlier. It had been her and me for so long, I’d never considered the day when it would just be me.

  The day when I’d be alone. At the age of twenty-four.

  She closed her eyes to sleep, and in response, I fell back on my strongest defense mechanism. Work. I pulled out my laptop, and lost myself in the controlled world of Legend Records, Fruithies, and the Hoffman account. I could always count on graphic design to do exactly what I wanted it to do—obey my wishes.

  ***

  After the chemo treatment, we went downstairs to the department where they did the radiation therapy. Today was the first day my mom was going to get that part of her treatment. The oncologist told us that according to the clinical trial treatment schedule, she’d get the chemo weekly and the external beam radiation treatment every other week. We sat in the waiting room for an hour with other patients in the clinical trial until it was her turn. My mother exchanged details with them asking how they were doing and what sort of cancer they had.

  There was a man named David who was around my mom’s age and he was being treated for liver cancer. A young woman named Julie was being treated for pancreatic cancer and an elderly woman name Beatrice had stomach cancer. David told us that even though they all had different types of cancer, they were in the same clinical trial for the same basic reasons—they all had cancers that were difficult to detect and often found late. Just knowing they were all in the same clinical trial as my mother, I knew one thing for certain about each and every one of them. No matter how healthy they looked right now, they’d probably been given the same prognosis as my mom. It was hard to contemplate that in a year, there was a good chance that none of these people, including my mom, would be alive.