by Reiss Susan
"I brought you some toast. It’s not a good idea to take pills on an empty stomach."
I smiled at him with real gratitude. "That's a good idea. I think I need to take two pills this morning.”
He took a step toward me. “I thought you were down to one…” His voice trailed off. “Okay, you know what’s best.”
He shook two pills out of the bottle and I downed them with the entire glass of water. He stoked the fire and we watched the flames in comfortable silence while I nibbled the toast and sipped coffee.
Finally, when the stabbing pain subsided to an impressive ache, I felt I could breathe and talk normally again. I knew it was time to say something.
I took a deep breath and began. “About last night, TJ. I was—”
He cut me off. “Emma, you don’t have to say a thing. Any normal person meeting new people would want to look her best, not leaning on old crutches. I get it.”
I sat up a little straighter. “Yes, but I—”
He overrode me again. “How you handle your rehabilitation is up to you. I’m not the one you have to convince. It’s okay. Are you starting to feel any better now?” He asked with a strong dose of compassion.
“Yes, thank you.”
“I’m glad you’re all right,” he said. “You don’t think you did any real damage, do you?”
I glanced away. “I really won’t know until I get up. The pain is down to a dull roar now and it doesn’t feel like anything’s seriously wrong. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to sit here for a while.”
“That’s a good idea. Rest is what you need.”
“You know,” I began tentatively. “What I did last night was not crazy,”
He shot me a look of total disbelief.
"How am I supposed to find out if I don't push the limit?" My argument sounded weak even to my ears. One glance at the expression on his face proved it wasn't flying with him either. "Okay, I pushed the limit," I said in a soft voice. "I don't want to quarrel with you. TJ, I'm sorry. What I did was wrong. I'm not as strong as I thought. I'm grateful you were here to help me last night and this morning."
“Well, if that was an apology, it’s accepted and you’re welcome. One other thing, you might think about canceling your P.T. appointment for today and take it easy unless…” he added quickly. “You want them to check out your leg.”
“No, I don’t think that’s necessary, but I’ll talk with them. Maybe you could give me the phone before you leave. You do have to leave, don’t you?”
He nodded slowly. "Yes, I do. I have a couple of appointments this morning. Maria is due a little later so she can help you."
“That’s fine.” I held out my empty mug. “As long as I can get a refill before you go.”
He responded with a big grin and was off.
I heard him rummaging around in the kitchen, but I didn't care. The full dose of painkillers had lifted me onto a soft cloud. I put my head back to enjoy the relief.
I must have drifted off again, because the next thing I knew, there was a tray sitting on the table next to me, filled with plates of scrambled eggs, Canadian bacon, fresh toast with orange marmalade, and another mug of coffee. My mouth started to water. I didn't realize how hungry I was. While reaching for the fork, I stopped when I noticed the other thing sitting on the tray. It was a crudely shaped daisy with petals made of clay, painted pink and white, stuck on a toothpick firmly planted in a tiny flowerpot. I couldn’t stop the tears filling my eyes as a memory came flooding back.
TJ came over and knelt next to me, his face filled with worry. “Hey, hey. I didn’t mean to make you cry. Of course, my cooking isn’t the greatest, but you haven’t even tasted it. No fair crying till you give my breakfast a chance.”
When he didn't get a laugh in response, he dropped the comedy and rubbed my arm gently. "Is the pain bad? I can call the doctor or an ambulance. Tell me what to do," he suggested with a deepening Southern accent that showed his concern.
I bit my lip, trying to get control again. I felt terrible letting my grief for Uncle Jack bubble to the surface in front of TJ.
I caught him looking at the tray intently then he snapped his fingers. “I get it! You don’t like the flower. My mother always says a breakfast tray is better with a flower. I didn’t want to waste time looking for a fresh one while the eggs got cold. I found this one in a cupboard. But really, Emma, I think crying about it is a bit extreme.”
TJ had the perfect antidote for my tears: laughter.
I burbled my response. "No, no, the flower is perfect. When I was little, I made it for Uncle Jack. He loved daisies. I wanted him to have one every morning, even in the winter."
He nodded slowly and looked away. I had to remember that I wasn't the only one who had lost a special friend.
Quickly, I added, “I’m so glad you put it on the tray. It brought back a wonderful memory. Thank you.”
He cleared his throat and said in a husky voice, “Maybe I should quit while I’m ahead and take the tray away before you try the eggs and bacon.”
I made a grab for the tray. "Don't you dare," I said emphatically. "This is my breakfast and nobody is taking it away, not even you, sir!"
He stood up and saluted. “Yes, ma’am!”
He looked at his watch. "If you're okay, I need to get moving. I have just enough time to get back to my house to shower and change."
Suddenly, it hit me. “You were here all night?”
He shrugged. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. It seemed like the right thing to do.”
I covered my face with my hands in embarrassment. “I am so sorry. I never meant to impose on you like that.”
“Well, what do you say we make sure it doesn’t happen again?” He moved crutches and a walker within my reach. “I found it in the coat closet. Maybe it will give you more support until you feel ready to go back to the crutches.” I started to say something, but he wouldn’t let me. “You’ll be doing it for my sake, not yours.” He pointed at the deep ruby red upholstered club chair. “That chair from your apartment looks good, but it’s not that comfortable for sleeping.”
I laughed. My emotions were riding a roller coaster. "Okay, I promise." I held up my hand. "I'll be a good girl. At least until you come back." I giggled. It felt good to laugh.
TJ settled me in with a thermos of coffee, the telephone, my laptop, and a couple of library research books. I wanted to ask him to look for a letter from Daniel, but I wasn't ready to field any questions about Daniel's identity or the nature of our correspondence.
"Maybe you can do some writing this morning," TJ said as he went to the door. "Maria will be here soon. I'll check on you later to see how you're doing."
I wanted to see if Daniel had written overnight, but I wasn’t ready to tempt fate by trying to walk. The fall had frightened me right down to my core. No, I’d wait until Maria arrived. It would be safer to have someone in the house.
Someone, not just Daniel.
Soon, Maria was bustling around, peppering me with questions about why I was ensconced on the sofa. Finally, she gave up. She was fussing around enough already. After another round of pills, I felt strong enough to sneak down the hall to retrieve the latest letter from Daniel and a piece of origami paper, in case I needed to consider things. Back in the living room, I found a fresh mug of hot coffee. Maria was an angel. I settled back to read Daniel's letter.
Dear Emma,
I do not wish to distress you with the specific events that caused your father's anguish. You must know that he did not leave the hearth he shared with you with a clear conscience. He said it was a matter of principle. I hope that this is sufficient to salve the sadness I know you must feel at the absence of your father.
I have something to ask you that I hope does not offend you. Is it possible that you might think of me as more than your Dear Sir? I know my silence has brought you pain. I would not have wanted that in the whole world.
I hope you know that the situation was out of my
control. If you will forgive the silence, might you consider calling me again by my Christian name?
If I see the words, Dear Daniel, at the opening of your next letter, great calm will settle on my troubled heart. If it is beyond your ability to write those words, I will understand. Our connection through these letters shall be enough.
Please forgive my rudeness and insensitivity. All I have talked about is myself.
How are you? If you have a need, know that your possessions are safe and ready for your use. Where there are money and valuables, it is possible to buy safety and freedom. The secret is safe with us. We would never reveal the location to others of that which can keep you safe.
Please tell me how you fare.
Yours most sincerely,
Daniel
I wished I'd had the foresight to bring the inkwell, my steel-nib pen, and paper with me into the living room. How romantic it would be to sit in front of the fireplace and write a response to Daniel's letter. Perhaps it's what his Emma would have done.
“Miss Emma…” Maria’s sudden appearance startled me. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you. I thought you’d hear me coming down the hallway. My husband says I sound like an elephant when I walk around the house. You must be thinking deep thoughts.”
I tried to disguise the fact that Daniel's letter that had fluttered to the floor.
She walked around the sofa and gave me a funny look. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
She was a little too inquisitive. If I didn’t get her out of the living room, she would bug me about the letter. “I was doing some research. Did you need something?”
Maria pursed her lips. “I guess you writers have to do some strange things to get inspired.”
“Yes, we do. Is there something I can do for you before I go back to work?”
“I wanted to let you know that your dinner is in the kitchen. You only have to heat it. I made it super simple for you tonight. Be sure to take it slow so we don't have any more mishaps." She smiled at me and walked out of the room with a wave goodbye.
How did she know? I’d have to remember it wasn’t so easy hiding things from Maria.
I waited until I heard the door close and her car engine start. Convinced I wouldn’t be disturbed, I made my way back to the writing den and composed my response to Daniel.
Dear Daniel,
Thank you for inquiring after my health and well-being. I am comfortable and safe here at Waterwood, where I have always been and always hope to be. But I am sad to report that I am lonely and fearful for the well-being of those I care about.
No news increases my worry.
Please, I pray, tell me what happened after you left Waterwood with my father. The news of your expedition cannot be worse than not knowing.
Yours with great esteem,
Emma
While waiting for the ink to dry, I thought about the two men who’d left the one place they loved, heading into the horrors of war. With the benefit of history’s hindsight, I knew that more than 620,000 men died in the Civil War, along with more than one million casualties. From my reading, I’d learned that bullets and bayonets were not the only dangers that took men’s lives. Disease struck a brutal blow. Men marched shoulder to shoulder and slept in unventilated tents. Their camps were breeding grounds for germs they could not fight. I resolved to look for the grave of Emma’s father if I visited the Waterwood cemetery again.
I remembered the gravestone carved with the name Emma. My name. Somehow, I had lived through that horrendous collision and I felt a responsibility not to waste a day wallowing in self-pity. But I kept postponing things. I told myself I couldn't do anything until I got out of the hospital, then I had to wait until I was released from the rehab facility. Now, I was carrying around not just a bum leg, but guilt. Sitting here in Uncle Jack’s Cottage staring out the window at the beautiful landscape was a waste of time. It helped that I’d declared I wanted to write a children’s book. The only problem was I didn’t know quite how to go about it. And, of course, I needed a story.
Thankful that I had a piece of origami paper, I prepared to fold. This time I knew which shape I needed: A Llama. It was not an animal associated with Japan but had become a symbol of persistence in a difficult situation and hard work. Examining my little llama, I realized I needed more practice. It had a lot in common with my project. If I was going to publish a book, I was going to have to study and get to work.
During this lecture to myself, I heard the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway. It didn't sound like TJ's truck. I craned my neck to see a car pulling up. I scrambled to stand up as best I could when I recognized the woman getting out of the car. What perfect timing. It was Maureen, the woman in the writing group, who had offered to help.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on.”
—Louis L’Amour
When the doorbell rang, I called out. "I'm coming!" hoping she'd hear me. I finally made it to the front door and yanked it open as she was getting into her car.
“Hello! I’m here!” I called out, waving madly.
“I didn’t think anyone was home,” she said as she closed her car door and made her way back to the front steps. “I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t wait for you to call me, that I came by unannounced.”
We settled in the living room. "I'm so glad you're here. I have a suspicion you might be able to help me."
She smiled. “I suspect I may be able to do that.”
I glanced down and saw my mug half full of coffee and realized with a start that I wasn't a good hostess. "I'm so sorry. I should offer you something to drink."
She laughed. “You mean you’re going to make fresh coffee and bake some cookies?” Her face fell when she saw the walker. “Weren’t you using a cane last night?”
I nodded. “Yes, my arrogant self was using a cane last night. When I got home, reality reminded me that I wasn’t ready. Please don’t ask for details. They’re ugly.”
She stood up. “What if I find the kitchen and see if there is any coffee left? One cup for me and a refill for you?”
“That would be terrific.” Maureen made everything feel calm and natural.
It wasn’t long before she returned and we settled in for a chat. Only, I had no idea what to say. It turned out I was worrying for nothing.
She folded her hands in her lap, her fingertips were elegantly manicured. The only telltale signs of age were little wrinkles at her wrists and crinkly lines at the corners of her blue eyes which sparkled with mischief.
“I am here today at the behest of your new writers group,” she began formally. “The members have decided that you need help fighting your writer’s block.”
“My what? I don’t have writer’s block. I haven’t even started writing yet so how could I have writer’s block.” I was spouting a weak position. “Forgive me, but who do these women think they are? Have any of them published, I mean with a real publishing house? I don’t think so.” I knew my reaction was extreme, but I couldn’t stop. “Who do they think they are, talking about me behind my back? They’re nothing but a group of old biddies who have nothing else to do than sit around, drink wine, and criticize other people. If they spent half as much time—"
Maureen held up her hands for me to stop. And when I did, she spoke in a soft voice. "I'm not going to waste time trying to change your mind. They do have a point, though a small one," she added quickly when she saw that I was about to argue with her. "I have more background than they do. I can tell that you are dealing with a bit of a block."
In deference to her polite attitude, I chose to drop the rant and speak in a civil tone. “Well, if I have writer’s block, I’ll fight my way through it, the same way I fought my way through things at the hospital and in rehab. After what I’ve been through, nothing is going to keep me down.”
Maureen sat quietly and listened. "That's fine. I understand you'
ve faced some difficult challenges recently. Probably, it was the sheer force of will that has gotten you to this point."
I relaxed and leaned back against the cushion. I felt confident I knew myself pretty well. That’s why her next words took me by surprise.
"But you might try a different tack with writing. Why should you use your energy fighting through a block, when all you need to do is go around it and keep working?" She shrugged. "It's so much easier that way."
My jaw dropped. “You never hear of people going around writer’s block. You always hear how they fight it valiantly or drown in a bottle of scotch.”
Maureen laughed as she folded her hands in her lap again. “Sadly, that’s what too many creative people do.”
I cocked my head to the side and began to wonder about this elegant woman sitting in my living room. “Maureen, how do you know so much about the creative process?”
She took a deep breath. "I've spent my life with creative people, just like you. They had hopes, dreams, and visions of success. They put in a lot of hard work to learn their particular craft. And many relied on me for guidance and support.” She looked down at her hands again. “I spent a lot of years guiding and nurturing a creative department of a major New York ad agency.”
Again, I was surprised and impressed. I realized this woman had broken ground or destroyed glass ceilings for the women of my generation. "That was very unusual back then. I mean…"
Maureen laughed and waved my gaffe away. “Don’t worry. I know I’m old. As they say, those were the days. I loved every minute of it. It was so much fun to work with such talented people and to manage the stuffed shirts, except I think today you call them suits.”
