The Nurse's Not-So-Secret Scandal Read online

  He simply lay there, nestled within her, twirling his fingers in her hair.

  After a while he said, “I don’t want to move. Ever.”

  Neither did Roxie. “No reason to.” She cuddled him close. Perfectly content.

  “I must be crushing you.”

  “I’m made of sturdy stuff.” At least on the outside. Inside? Not so much.

  Roxie’s cell phone rang from the kitchen. She didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to deal with Johnny or the hospital. But it could be Mami. Was it too much to ask for a few minutes to enjoy some postcoital bliss? For a few peaceful, undisturbed minutes where the outside world, her problems and responsibilities didn’t intrude? “I, uh, need…”

  Fig lifted off of her and rolled to the side. “Go.”

  Roxie ran to the kitchen. “Hello,” she said into the phone without looking at the display.

  “Where are you?” Victoria asked, sounding frantic. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Everything happened so fast. Then it was too late.”

  “I am always there for you,” Victoria said quietly. “No matter the time. We’re friends.”

  Maybe Roxie didn’t want her “friend” witnessing yet another of her screwups. “Fig was with me.”

  Victoria said nothing.

  “How did you find out?” Roxie asked.

  “Haven’t you seen the newspaper?”

  “¡Coño!” Roxie closed her eyes and leaned against the wall. Now everyone would know. “It happened at midnight. How did it make the paper?”

  “I don’t know but there are pictures.” She paused as if considering what to say next. She settled on, “And an interview with the fire marshal. Roxie, I had no idea. What can I do to help?”

  “There’s nothing you can do. Nothing anyone can do. I’ve got to go.”

  “Wait,” Victoria said. “I visited your mom. It occurred to me in all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never met her.”

  Because Mami didn’t like strangers and rarely left the house except to go to the doctor or church. “How is she?” Roxie asked, feeling guilty that while she was enjoying herself with Fig, her mother was lying alone in a hospital bed.

  “She’s stable. No reports of chest pain through the night. But she’s hypertensive and anxious. She’s asking for you.”

  “I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  “She wants you to bring her glasses,” Victoria said. “She said you keep a spare pair in your room.”

  Because Mami kept misplacing her pair in the mess. “I will.” Roxie hesitated. “Thanks.” And she disconnected the call.

  “Everything okay?” Fig asked, handing her a navy bathrobe.

  “Mami’s asking for me. I’ve got to go. Would you drop me at my house so I can pick up my car?” And sneak in to get some clothes and Mami’s glasses.

  Fig offered her another tee and a pair of sweatpants. They left five minutes later.

  What Roxie saw when Fig pulled up to park across the street from her house was reminiscent of the newsfeed from coverage of a natural disaster. Debris littered her yard to the point there was barely any visible grass. Bags and boxes and piles of Mami’s “treasures” in all their broken, stained, waterlogged splendor tossed out for all to see. And there were plenty of lookers, their faces a mix of awe and revulsion.

  Roxie hung her head. She should have done more, pushed harder, been more assertive in getting Mami to accept therapy—even though she’d made it clear she did not want or need it. Roxie should have snuck out to a Dumpster under cover of darkness and gotten rid of the bags as fast as Mami took them in. But even though it didn’t look like Mami could possibly know what she had and where, she did. And when she wanted something in particular, she went looking for it. Heaven help Roxie if she didn’t find it.

  No one but a daughter forced to assume the caregiver role of her mentally ill mother could possibly understand the delicate balance necessary to keep the peace or how truly difficult it was to assert any type of authority over the woman who raised you. Over the years, during many a heated argument, Mami had threatened to kick Roxie out of “her” house.

  Then who would have taken care of her? So Roxie’d resigned herself to doing the little Mami allowed her. It wasn’t near enough.

  Fig put his hand on her thigh. “I’ll come in with you.”

  “No. I don’t need you to come with me,” Roxie said, taking a deep breath and bolstering up her courage. She opened the car door and climbed out.

  Fig did the same. “I want to.”

  “You one of those gawkers who can’t stay away from a catastrophe?”

  He ignored her and simply walked around the car to stand next to her. “There’s the fire marshal,” he pointed out.

  “Oh goodie. One of my favorite people.” Favorite as in top-five people she’d love to go a few rounds with in a no-holds-barred matchup.

  “I’m going to talk to him.” Fig took her hand and led her across the street.

  At the edge of the driveway Roxie removed her hand from his. “I’ll wait here.” As soon as Fig had the fire marshal distracted, she slipped into the house, not wanting him to see the magnitude of her mother’s hoarding or to know the extent of Roxie’s failure to get control of the situation, failure as a daughter responsible for the care of her mother.

  Despite the open windows, the pungent smell of smoke and char lingered. All the clutter from the entryway, kitchen and hallway was gone. Just like that. Simply and easily removed. While she’d spent years unsuccessfully trying to coax Mami to allow her to do it.

  It felt odd to see the expanse of linoleum, had been years since she could walk through her house unencumbered. Roxie refused to look at the kitchen, the focal point of the blaze. She didn’t want to know the extent of the damage. Not yet. Instead she walked down the hallway without having to turn to the side to squeeze past the two dollhouses and piles of towels and children’s books that’d been stacked hip high prior to the fire. Mami’s room looked the same. Untouched. Horrific. Shameful.

  “It’s hard to believe she actually lives in there,” Fig said, standing close, looking over her shoulder.

  “I asked you not to come with me. Do I need to call Victoria to have her ask you in order for you to listen?”

  “By my recollection, you didn’t ask, you ordered. I don’t respond well to being told what to do,” Fig said. “Where do you sleep?”

  Since she needed to get Mami’s glasses and change her clothes anyway, Roxie slid past him, took the key from her pocket and unlocked her door.

  “You have a dead bolt on your bedroom door?” he asked. Incredulous.

  The lock was the only reason her room remained immaculate, exactly the way she’d left it.

  “I’m trying to understand,” Fig said, his words tight, “how you can let a house get this overrun with…stuff without making any attempt to clean it.”

  Without making an attempt to clean it? Roxie went rigid. She cleaned it every single day. The bathroom and the kitchen, the pathways and hallway. She argued with Mami, every single day, to get her to part with her things, to let Roxie sort through the piles and throw away what wasn’t worth saving. But Mami would cry and yell and clutch her heart. No one could possibly understand how hard she’d tried, day after day, year after year, to clean this house that had become the absolute bane of her existence.

  “And how a daughter can allow her mother to live in such filth while she lives in this beautiful room,” he added.

  “Allow? You think I allow my mother to live in filth? That I have any control over what she does and how she lives?”

  “The fire marshal said he’s seen this before. He knows of a therapist.” He held a business card out to Roxie. “Maybe she can help.”

&
nbsp; “Me? You think I need therapy? My God.” This was not to be believed. “You think this mess is my doing? You think I’m the hoarder? That I’m the reason we live like this? Get out,” she screamed. “Get the hell out of my house.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE fire marshal had painted a grim picture of Roxie, using words like neglect, abuse and Adult Protective Services. Fig refused to believe the jaded man’s claims. Roxie was too kind and caring. But people never suspected his mother was capable of what she’d done, either. So for a few seconds, when Fig experienced the sharp contrast of Roxie’s beautiful room in relation to the rest of the house, Fig allowed doubt to creep in, considered the possibility maybe he’d misjudged her. Unchecked, an accompanying rage at a person in power mistreating someone dependent upon them overtook his good sense and he’d lashed out.

  But the look in her eyes confirmed what he should have known.

  He’d made a terrible mistake.

  Beyond her anger he saw hurt and disappointment, a deep sadness, and if Fig wasn’t mistaken, there was a bit of hysteria there, too. Good thing they weren’t standing in the kitchen, where death by—insert sharp object here—would have been a distinct possibility. “Calm down,” he said, using his most placating tone. “I didn’t mean…”

  “You want calm?” Roxie yelled, slamming open her closet door to expose two rows of neatly hung clothing on equally spaced hangers. Pants with the pants. Shirts with the shirts. All sorted by color. “Well, you’re not going to find it here,” she continued. “You won’t find anything here because this house is an abso-frigging-lute disaster area.” She yanked a pair of pants off of a hanger. “And of course this mess is all my fault because I’m a hoarder. The fire marshal thinks it. You think it. After the article in the newspaper—which I have yet to see for myself—I bet the entire town thinks it.” She bent down to pick up a pair of bright orange flip-flops from the neat rows of shoes on the closet floor. Sneakers with sneakers. Sandals with sandals. And so on.

  “I didn’t say…”

  “You want calm?” she screamed again. “Then stay away from me because I am chock-full of crazy.” She pulled on a drawer so hard it flew out of the dresser. She dumped its contents on the bed, sorted through what turned out to be dozens of pairs of skimpy panties and plucked out a zebra-striped thong.

  Then, right there in front of him, she pushed down the sweatpants and boxers he’d loaned her, stepped out and handed them to him.

  “I’m a loon. A hoarder. I live like this because I like it. I neglect and abuse my mother. Because that’s just the type of low-life, uncaring daughter I am.” She untangled her thong then jammed one foot followed by the other into the leg openings. “Oh,” she added. “Let us not forget—” she yanked up the panties “—I’m a porn star. And a drug dealer. Come on, Fig. What else? What other terrible things can we come up with?”

  Her upset seared the outer walls of his heart. But at the same time he knew Roxie needed this release, this chance to purge the bad. She’d feel better when it was over. How he’d fare remained to be seen.

  She pulled on her pants. “Slut. Alcoholic.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Illegitimate—because my papi denies I’m his. And why the hell are you still here?” she yelled. “Oh.” She whipped the T-shirt she’d borrowed over her head and threw it at him. “You have your clothes. Now go.”

  She had beautiful, smooth, tan skin and pert, rounded breasts. The inner curve of the left one bore his love bite. He smiled at the memory of putting it there.

  “What’s so funny? You enjoying the show?” She hauled out another drawer and dumped its contents on the bed. Bras this time. In an impressive array of colors and patterns. She sorted through until she found the one that matched the panties and slipped it on.

  “I hate this house.” She snapped an orange-and-white-striped shirt off of a hanger. “I hate this town.” She pulled it over her head. “And I hate you.” She glared at him.

  “I’m sorry…” Fig tried.

  “Agreed.” She moved to the mirror and ran a pick through her hair. “Now take your sorry self someplace else.”

  “Roxie, I shouldn’t have…” he added.

  “I shouldn’t have, either.” She ran an eyeliner pencil under each eye and applied some clear lip gloss. “But I’ve learned my lesson.” She grabbed a pair of eyeglasses and a set of keys from the top of her dresser and stepped toward the door.

  Fig stopped her. “Wait.” She stood defiant, looking away from him. “I didn’t say you were a hoarder,” he said calmly. “I don’t believe you’re a slut or an alcoholic or an abusive/neglectful daughter. And I know you’re not a drug dealer or a porn star.”

  He noted the tiniest hint of softening in her posture.

  “I didn’t say you need therapy, but from the condition of this house, someone does. I was only trying to help.”

  “The last thing I need is some judgmental, do-gooder pity. I don’t need or want your help. And I don’t need or want you.” She pulled away and darted for the door. “Goodbye, Fig.”

  “Roxie. Wait,” Fig called out and went after her.

  She halted.

  Not because he’d called her.

  She stood completely still, staring into the charred remains of her kitchen. The entire room would need to be gutted and rebuilt.

  Fig walked up beside her.

  “I wish this house and everything in it had burned to the ground last night,” she said quietly.

  “Maybe, while your mom’s in the hospital, we can bring in Dumpsters and get rid of everything,” Fig suggested.

  She glared at him. “If it was as easy as bringing in Dumpsters and throwing everything out, don’t you think I’d have done that by now? You really don’t think much of me, do you?” She turned toward the door.

  Fig reached for her arm. Again. “Please,” he said. “Help me to understand. When did it start? How did it get this bad?”

  Roxie let out a breath and looked down at the floor. “Apparently it started after Mami’s husband—my alleged papi—left her, before I was born. She refused to get rid of his stuff and continued to buy him clothes and presents, anticipating his return. Growing up, it was like he still lived here. His slippers rested on the floor in front of his recliner—” she pointed into the mounds of junk in the far corner of what may have been a family room at one time “—which is over there somewhere.” She laughed. “For all I know they’re probably still there.” She paused. “His favorite coffee mug—from the manufacturer of his favorite bowling ball—sat next to the coffeepot. His winter coat hung in the closet. Come to think of it, that’s probably still there, too.”

  “She was trying to hold on to her life before he’d left,” Fig surmised.

  “She paid more attention to the past than she did to the present. Which is why my brothers got out of here first chance they got.”

  “Leaving you behind.”

  She nodded. “Then Mami started doing the same for each of them. Buying things—with money she didn’t have—in an attempt to entice them home to visit.”

  Which was why Roxie wound up sleeping with a grocer for food. Fig’s initial reaction was the woman needed some sense pounded into her. But he knew, from experience, the complex challenge of dealing with a mentally ill mother.

  “When she’d spent down all her savings and the money she’d gotten from refinancing the mortgage on the house, she started asking for donations of clothing, housewares and children’s toys from the church.”

  “How old were you when your brothers left home?”

  “The youngest one moved out when I was ten. That’s when stuff really started to pile up. I tried—” she sniffed “—to stop her. To throw things out. But I was a kid and she can get mean and aggressive.”

  Fig put his arm
around her shoulders and directed her back to her bedroom, the only place clean enough for them to sit down. “Tell me why the fire marshal thinks you’re the hoarder.”

  Roxie shrugged. “When he came to the house after the first fire…”

  “The first fire?”

  Roxie nodded. “Mami’s been getting more forgetful. A week ago she burned her lunch, which is why I removed the knobs from the stove. It was more smoke than anything.” She waved it off. “Anyway, Mami refused to speak to him. She wouldn’t leave her room. She just sat there, looking down at her feet, fidgeting, rocking.” She looked up at him. “She does that when she gets stressed. Mami doesn’t like strangers in her home.”

  They entered Roxie’s room.

  “Mami started rubbing her chest in the way she does when her angina is coming on. I did what I had to do to get the men to leave. I took responsibility and said I’d clean out the house.”

  Roxie sat on her bed, lifted one of her drawers onto her lap and started to fill it with her bras. “He gave me two weeks.”

  Two weeks? It’d take at least a dozen people working day and night to clean out the house in two weeks. No wonder she’d been preoccupied at work. Fig sat next to her, lifted the other drawer onto his lap and said, “Let me help you.”

  Roxie smirked. “Can’t pass up an opportunity to paw at my panties, can you?”

  Fig smiled. “Guilty.” He got to work. “Why do you stay?” he asked, knowing the answer.

  Roxie shrugged. “She’s my mom. She has her problems, but deep down I know she loves me. And I love her.”

  He understood completely.

  “When I graduated high school I thought about leaving, like my brothers had. But then who would have shopped and cooked and cleaned up around here? I know it doesn’t look like I do anything, but I keep the kitchen counter clear so I have room to prepare our meals. I keep the refrigerator clean and do the dishes. I maintain the paths so Mami doesn’t trip and fall and I keep the clutter out of the bathroom. It takes a lot more time and effort than you’d think.”