It All Comes Back to You

by Beth Duke

I spent a snotty, phlegm-y week writing Violet’s story. I missed her every day, and wondered what she’d have said about Rick O’Shea.

  Returning to work saved me. I was grateful to be focused on something other than writing about Violet’s glorious love life and pondering my own, dismal one. I had missed my patients, who greeted me with kindergarteners’ enthusiasm.

  Kait was happy to see me, too. We were mired in incident reports and trying to figure out why Mrs. Meyers kept hearing a cat in her room in the middle of each night. She’d risen to feed it and fallen twice. Her alarm did no good, as it only went off after it was too late. Her face was covered in bruises. No amount of reassurance could convince her there was no cat, and the bedrails didn’t slow her down at all.

  Kait and I stood in her room.

  “Mrs. Meyers,” I began, “we’ve checked everywhere and there is no cat. Maybe you’re hearing one outside the building.”

  “It’s not outside,” she said stubbornly. “My hearing is very good and I’m telling you, the cat is in my room. I can’t just ignore it.”

  “Do you hear it in the daytime?”

  “Not usually. It’s only in the middle of the night. You have to find it. I know it needs food.”

  Kait made a big show of looking under the bed and in the closet. “There is no cat, Mrs. Meyers.”

  “But it meows very loudly. It’s hiding from you. Cats are good at that.”

  Kait sighed and left me to deal with an increasingly agitated Ruth Meyers.

  “Did you look in the bathroom?” she asked. She shared a small toilet and shower with Mrs. Harrigan in the next room. “Go search in there.” She turned her gaze to the door.

  I did. I swept the shower curtain aside. I opened the cabinet under the sink. I swung open the door on Mrs. Harrigan’s side, and discovered the key to our feline mystery. The spring was old, and creaked a loud, wailing meow sound when the door moved.

  “Guess what, Mrs. Meyers?” I patted her bony leg under the blanket. “I know what you’re hearing, and it does sound exactly like a cat. We need to fix Mrs. Harrigan’s door and you won’t hear it again.”

  “There’s no cat?” She was crestfallen.

  “No, ma’am. Just a silly door imitating one very well. I’ll call maintenance and you won’t hear it any more.” I made a mental note: Mrs. Harrigan is going to the bathroom in the middle of the night. A lot.

  “Can I get a cat?”

  “No, Mrs. Meyers, we can’t have cats in here. Too many people are allergic.”

  “I hate this place.” She closed her eyes and sank into the pillows. “We need cats.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Meyers. We do our best.” I closed her door and decided to pick up a stuffed animal at Target for Mrs. Meyers soon. I smiled and went to tell Kait what I’d found before we had to start wound care rounds, every nurse’s least favorite part of the day

  Our first stop was poor Mr. Ridley, who was covered in bedsores and required more ointment than we could ever supply. We tried to be gentle but he cried silently as Kait and I tended to him. We noted charts and examined lacerations, looking for signs of infection in each patient.

  Kait returned from her break and announced, “There’s a good-looking man in uniform here to see you.” She nodded toward the lobby and took the gauze I was using on Mr. Herman from my hand. “Go. I’ve got this.”

  I couldn’t believe Rick would show up at Fairfield Springs unannounced. Though I was impressed (and more than a little intimidated) by his heroism, the thought he had a beautiful ex-wife and two children made my stomach hurt. I’d put off calling him for a week, then decided too much time had passed and abandoned the idea altogether. By the time my nose stopped running I’d gained six pounds and lost my nerve. I dashed in the ladies’ room to check my hair and swiped a mystery stain from my scrubs, cursing the fluorescent lighting.

  The man in the lobby was not good-looking, and considerably shorter than Rick O’Shea. He wore a drab brown sheriff’s deputy windbreaker and khakis. “Veronica Johnson?” he asked, his expression flat and bored.

  “Yes, that’s me,” I said.

  “This is for you.” He handed me an envelope and waved. “Have a good day.”

  It was a subpoena from William Ratliff, attorney at law. I recognized the name from the endless commercials on the Birmingham channels, all of which insisted William was “for the people.” By this, he meant he’d be happy to sue anyone over anything for the possibility of a juicy settlement. I’d always thought of him as “BillRat.” BillRat wanted to question me about the circumstances surrounding Violet’s death. I took a deep breath and went to Donna’s office.

  “I got one too,” she said, barely glancing up at me. “Frankly, Ronni, I have no damned idea what to tell him.”

  “It’s better that way, Donna,” I replied. “I’ll be the one to explain. You just show up and tell him you weren’t here, nor were you aware of the situation.”

  She leaned her forehead into her palm and scratched her hairline with long red nails. I’d known Donna long enough to know what came next.

  “Ronni, my career is on the line here. You do realize the man was married, do you not?”

  I nodded, “Yes, I do. His family’s not involved in the suit, though, are they?”

  “No, they want to forget Fairfield Springs and the whole mess it represents in their lives. His wife and son told me this place ‘sickens’ them. They don’t want a lawsuit and they don’t want money.” She paused to close her eyes and sigh, exhaling her frustration. “They’d simply like for us to disappear, and I can’t say I blame them. Their husband and father was admitted here in a fragile condition. Losing him like that...”

  “Donna, there is so much more to this story,” I interrupted. “Violet was in love with him, and he with her.”

  “You’re delusional, Ronni. He was a devoted family man. His wife said dementia led him to believe he’d known Violet in a past life or something.”

  “Then she’s the delusional one. I’m sorry, Donna, but the truth is the truth.” I placed my palms on her desk and leaned forward to look her in the eyes. “Violet wanted me to wait until they were both gone, then tell the world their story. That’s what I intend to do.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m writing a book based on Violet’s life.”

  “No you’re not. Not with information you gained by working here. There are confidentiality issues, Ronni.” She glared at me. “Get back to work and forget your book idea if you want to keep your job.”

  I fought back tears. Donna could be moody, but had never spoken to me harshly. I closed her door and went back to trying to concentrate on my patients. I’d become immersed in Violet’s teenaged world over the past week and written thousands of words. I couldn’t stop thinking about the chapters I’d finished and those waiting for me. No matter what Donna said or thought, I would not stop. The book had taken on a life of its own, waking me with ideas to be jotted down each morning.

  By the time five o’clock arrived I was more than ready to leave Fairfield Springs. I said goodbye to Kait in the parking lot and spotted Ruby, still sporting her sad dent. I needed to get her to the body shop soon. There was a folded slip of official-looking yellow paper under the windshield wiper. This was perfect—a subpoena and a traffic citation in one day. I unfolded it carefully.

  Dear Ronni,

  I couldn’t help but notice how many times you haven’t called me. I’m still hoping for that rib dinner. Hell, I’ll eat some prissy kind of chicken if I have to. I’d really like to see you.

  Rick

  My hands started to shake, my knees felt like jelly, and I smiled bigger than I had in years. I drove home watching for highway patrol cars, at least fifteen miles per hour over the speed limit.

  eight

  VIOLET

  Violet’s diary reflected more sadness than joy through the rest of senior year. Graduation was two weeks off. She’d barely managed to pass Biology and
Algebra, but would be crossing the stage with her classmates. When she consulted her mirror—and she did often—an eighteen-year-old woman returned her gaze.

  Johnny had not returned to school. His parents hired a series of tutors to ensure he’d graduate. It was rumored he’d accept his diploma in a wheelchair.

  Violet hadn’t heard a word from him. The one time she worked up the nerve to ask the operator to ring the Perkins’ number, his father said Johnny was not accepting calls.

  She attended the Spring Formal, resplendent in pink and without an escort. The boys at Anniston High seemed to be demonstrating their respect for Johnny by leaving her alone. She rarely saw Sam; their class schedules didn’t correspond and he worked immediately after the school day ended.

  Chet Wilson mailed a postcard from Birmingham; it featured the Vulcan statue on Red Mountain and he’d painstakingly printed, “I miss you. Love, Chet.”

  When the Hour Glass was distributed, she’d turned its pages to find she and Johnny had been named “Best Looking.” The yearbook featured too many photos of Johnny on the basketball court to number. Pictures of the two of them at Homecoming, walking through the halls and eating lunch together were scattered throughout. Violet couldn’t look through it without tears.

  Two months after Johnny was released from the hospital, she accepted a Friday night date with Hugh Parker, a lineman for the Bulldogs destined for a life of hard work in his father’s auto repair shop. Hugh was a gentle giant, a fumbling mess of a clay-stained man-boy off the football field. Conversation was limited to sports and cars; Violet struggled not to yawn all night. He held her clumsily after a showing of The Treasure of the Sierra Madre at the Calhoun Theater, trying to steal an awkward kiss. When Hugh suggested a stop at their classmate Jerry Payne’s party, she jumped at the chance to socialize with her friends.

  Hugh immediately set out to fetch beer for the two of them. The first person she recognized in the Paynes’ darkened living room was Sam Davidson. He was sitting with Deborah but spotted Violet across the small crowd of slow dancers and made his way to her side.

  “I heard you were going out with Hugh. He’s a nice guy.”

  Violet nodded. “Not as nice as you. Much smarter, though,” she teased, smiling across the room and waving her fingers at an obviously distracted Hugh, laughing with a fellow football player. He either didn’t see her or chose to ignore her. She rolled her eyes and clasped them shut, wishing she’d stayed home. “Have you seen Johnny?”

  “No. I tried, but his dad answered the door and sent me away. You?”

  “I called him but he won’t talk to me, either.” Violet scanned the room for her girlfriends, finding none. She wondered if her mother might pick her up from the party. It was a long walk home.

  Sam wore an amused expression. “So, I didn’t get a chance to tell you, but my dad summoned me to his office regarding twelve handbags I’d priced below wholesale.”

  “The ones I did?” Violet was appalled.

  Sam laughed. “The very ones. I told him I’d been in a hurry that day.”

  “I am so sorry.”

  “You owe me thirty-six dollars,” Sam added. “You can cancel the debt by going to Atlanta with me next Friday. We have the day off school, so my father is sending me to a clothing factory as his emissary.”

  “What about Deborah?” Violet glanced in her direction and found Deborah engrossed in conversation with Hugh, apparently sipping her own missing beer.

  “Deborah doesn’t have to know. There’s wine on the back porch. Care to join me?”

  “Yes, I’d like that.”

  The moon peeked at them behind a wispy cloud. Sam poured wine into a juice glass for Violet. She felt his fingers draw across hers slowly and deliberately as he placed it in her hand, trailing tiny electric tingles. She looked up at him, surprised.

  Sam was not looking at her. He leaned forward across the porch rail; the sky had his attention. “I wish I could get a shot of those stars with my camera,” he said. “It’s beautiful tonight.”

  “You and that camera. You did a great job for the yearbook, Sam.”

  “Did you happen to notice who appears in more photos than anyone else?” he asked. He turned back to Violet and poured his own wine. He clinked his glass to hers with a map of lights reflected in his eyes. “Here’s to my favorite subject.”

  “If you mean me, that’s very sweet. You took way too many of me.” Violet was shy and confused around a boy for the first time in her life. It was a feeling as foreign as if she’d awakened atop a sand dune or iceberg. She put a hand on his arm. “We should probably get back inside. Deborah and Hugh will think we’re up to something out here.” She tried to sound make it sound light and funny.

  Sam grinned. “Have a sip of wine. We are up to something.”

  “What is that?”

  “We are working out details of our secret trip to Atlanta. After my factory visit, the day is ours. There’s a lot we could do and see.”

  “I don’t know if I can get away, Sam. Mama makes me clean our house every time I’m out of school.” Violet stared at her beloved platform sandals and winced. “These heels are killing me.”

  “Take ‘em off. I’ll carry them.”

  “Carry them where?”

  “To the other side of that tree.” He pointed to a massive oak, its canopy covering a third of Jerry Payne’s back yard.

  Violet slipped her shoes of agony off, darting a look into the kitchen window to see if anyone might be watching. In one swift move, Sam dangled her sandals from his left hand, cradled his juice glass next to them, inserted a large stolen lawn chair cushion under his left arm and grabbed Violet’s free hand with his right.

  She giggled. “That’s quite a talent.”

  “Basketball hands. Come on.”

  The soft grass felt wonderful under Violet’s feet. Sam threw the cushion to the ground on the far side of the tree. He plopped down on it and pulled Violet with him. “This is better,” he announced.

  “Better than what?” she smirked.

  “Better than making small talk with a roomful of people while waiting for you to get here. I suggested to Hugh you might want to come to the party tonight.”

  “I should have known.” Violet took a large swig of deliciously sweet wine. Sam reached over and took her glass, setting it next to his. “I don’t want you to have too much of this,” he explained.

  “Why not?” she pouted.

  “Because I want you to remember every detail of our first kiss.”

  She shook her head in exasperation. “Sam, you’re here with Deborah. You’ve been together for years. I have no intention of kissing you. Walking me into the darkness to make out was a big mistake.” Violet glared at him and stood, preparing to go back to the living room.

  He focused on a distant light atop a downtown building, one that glowed green if there had been no traffic fatalities within the past twenty-four hours. Sam felt like Violet’s kick to his heart should cause it to turn red at any moment.

  “Vi, I am not in love with Deborah. My parents are, and her parents are in love with me. She and I are more like a forced dating experiment.” He hugged his knees to his chest and rested his head, mumbling, “I’m not happy with her—never have been.” He looked up, eyes glittering moist, and reached for her hand. “Please sit back down, just for a few more minutes.”

  “Won’t she be looking for you?” Violet sighed and eased herself to his side.

  “I told her I needed to talk to you about Johnny, and we’d be gone for twenty or thirty minutes.”

  “Then talk to me about Johnny. Go ahead.”

  “I’m so sorry about all he’s been through, Violet. He’ll never be the same; none of us will. He was my best friend. But...”

  “Yes?”

  Sam pulled a clump of grass and scattered it, stalling.

  “What is it, Sam? But what?”

  “I have loved you, Violet Glenn, since sixth grade. I’ve stood in Johnny’s shado
w and watched you adore him, even when he didn’t deserve it. I’ve taken photograph after photograph of your face, none of which came close to capturing the beauty I see every time I look at you. Your smile is the first thing on my mind when I wake and the last before I sleep. Your laugh makes me want to sing with happiness.” He paused and laughed softly, eyes on the ground. “I know I sound like an idiot, or the most repulsive poet of all time. I had an early start with the wine.”

  Violet touched his cheek, surprised to find it damp with tears. She turned his face to hers with a finger. “Then kiss me.”

  Sam swept Violet’s hair back, tracing her jawline with his thumbs. His hands grasped the back of her head and tilted it to the stars. He leaned his forehead to hers and paused, breathing deeply. Then he pressed his lips to hers, offering nothing but a light, slow, wet caress of her mouth. He held her head in place a few more seconds and sucked her bottom lip gently before releasing her to fall back on his arm. He leaned away to look into her eyes and whispered, “Well?”

  Violet could not answer. The tiny electric tingles were now racing all through her body. She scrambled to her knees and threw her arms around his neck, offering the kiss Sam Davidson had been imagining for as long as he could remember, the one from her heart and soul.

  Minutes later, when they paused for breath, Sam asked, “Am I dreaming?”

  “Yes, you are. So am I. Don’t wake me up.”

  “Will you go with me to Atlanta?”

  “Only if you let me kiss you again sometime.” Violet nuzzled his neck and inhaled deeply behind Sam’s left ear. He smelled like a curious mixture of soap and of manly sweat—like the place she wanted to be forever. Like home was in Sam Davidson’s strong arms.

  “Hey,” Sam whispered. “We have to go back and rejoin the party.”

  “I know, but I want to stay right here.” Violet was dizzy with wine and her newfound feelings for Sam. She knew they had to walk into Jerry’s living room without looking like they’d discovered a pot of gold and three unicorns in the back yard. She smiled to herself and kissed Sam’s forehead lightly. The moonlight reflected traces of her pink lipstick there and on his mouth, so she swiped at them the best she could and laughed. “Let’s go,” she said, standing and extending her hand to him. “I’ll tell Hugh I’m not feeling well and ask him to drive me home.”