When You're Expecting Something Else

by Lowe, Whisper

  “Marta!” Fred called now. “Jared wants to know where his cell phone is. I can’t find it around here.” Marta rushed to Jared’s bedside and dismissed Fred to supervise the rest of the moving. It was all his stuff still left in the truck anyway.

  “Hi sweetie,” she said, brushing her hand against Jared’s cheek. “Nice to see you awake.” More and more she liked to use terms of endearment, sweetie, honey, or darling, when she greeted Jared. “I think your phone may have gotten lost in the accident. Remember, you had the car accident. Is there somebody you’d like me to call for you?”

  Jared struggled to remember. Who should he call? He knew he liked to keep his phone nearby, but he still felt puzzled about so many things. “Pappy,” he finally said.

  Marta remembered how Jared always greeted his grandfather by walking into the hospital room and calling out, “Hey, Pappy, I’m here. Wake up, you got work to do.” Of course Grandfather Wise never responded. He’d been in a coma since the day he’d gone to live there.

  “Your Pappy’s still in the coma, Jared,” Marta said, her eyes meeting his with empathy and compassion. “He’s still at San Francisco Geriatric Center. Do you remember about that?”

  As usual, when he couldn’t quite remember, Jared closed his eyes. Marta pulled the bedside chair up close and rubbed his good shoulder. She’d read in the admission paperwork when Grandfather had first come to the geriatric center that he’d tripped and fallen while taking his daily walk. That was four years ago.

  “Remember, Jared, Pappy fell down and bumped his head. He fell over a curb and knocked himself out for a few minutes. Then he got up and walked home. Remember, he put some frozen peas on his bump, and then slept in his easy chair. He never woke up again.” She deliberately spoke to him as if speaking to a child.

  “That’s right. Pappy hit his head,” Jared mumbled, his eyes still closed. “Pappy, wake up. You got work to do…” His voice lacked energy, but the words were right. He sounded like a lost, forlorn little waif.

  “That’s right, Jared. You’re starting to remember now. Good job,” Marta praised. Then she pulled the cover up and kissed Jared on the forehead, much like a mother might do. “You sleep now. I’m going to go and see if the movers are finished yet. I’ll check back in on you, and bring your medicine in a little while.”

  Jared nodded but didn’t open his eyes. Instead he thought about Pappy. Vague black and white images stirred in his brain…he, a little boy crying… Pappy lifting him high on his shoulder…he, too big to be carried. He was a five-year-older and supposed to be a big boy.

  “It’s okay to cry today,” Pappy said. “I’m crying, too. See.” Then Pappy wailed at the top of his lungs like he was three or four years old, surprising young Jared. “Cry with me, Jared,” Pappy had said, while tears cascaded down his old, weathered face. “Come on, Jared. You and me have something to cry about today. Help me. Cry with me. It’s our work for today.”

  The memories turned from black and white to colored. Pappy wore a green shirt. Jared remembered the feel of the shirt against his bare legs while Pappy had held him in his arms. He remembered wearing blue shorts that day.

  Hesitantly, the young boy ventured to wail like Pappy. Then before he knew it, slippery tears shined on his face, too. He knew they were slippery because Pappy rubbed his face to his own, mixing and mingling tears, and their faces slid back and forth on each other’s. “Louder, Jared,” Pappy said, until Jared wailed as loud as he could, until he was hic-cupping and gulping.

  It was the day young Jared’s parents had died, and he’d gone to live at Pappy’s house.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Anne tells me that wine is not about drinking, but about tasting. We are having so much fun laughing and talking at the Purple Grape Wine Bar in downtown San Jose that I’m on the verge of hysteria. “Just a little more left.” Anne pours the last of the bottle between our two glasses.

  After a couple hours, our tasting has definitely turned into drinking. At least it’s educated drinking. I’ll go home with a full-bodied vocabulary, using words like aroma, bouquet, tannin and texture to describe my evening. Yes, I’m drunk and so is Anne. Rather than feeling crude or vulgar, I feel artsy and chic.

  I tell her all about Alex and Sandy. I want to just forget the whole broken engagement, but how can I? It’s my life. I have to own it. For the first time, though, I’m not crying. Mostly, I’m laughing. Anne is really funny. She’s easy to talk to, and she’s so free. I really like having her as my friend.

  “People like those two just aren’t worth your energy,” Anne says. “If you weren’t so hell-bent on having kids, I’d say just have fun with the dating. But, if you want kids, you’re right, you have to make hay while the sun shines.”

  I laugh again. “Make hay? Where do you come from, a farm?”

  “Okay, I guess I should have said, make love whenever you can, and without protection,” she laughs with me. “You don’t have to get married to have a child anymore. Here in the San Jose area, there are so many men to sleep around with; you won’t have any trouble finding one. Or two, or three… like, Sal…” Her voice slurs just a smidgen. I’m sure mine does, too. I’m really not used to drinking so much.

  “Alex doesn’t drink. We never drank wine, or anything when we went out. Some of our friends wanted us to have an open bar at the wedding, but Alex nixed that idea,” I say, and then add an explanation. “I think because he’s a doctor, he likes to stay in control, and alcohol makes him feel too loose.”

  “You can do whatever you want now, Connie. Alex has no say over you. You can drink, or sleep around, or swear, or even stay straight-laced,” Anne says, taking a sip of merlot with purple lips, and pointing a professorial finger at me, the whole effect making me to feel like a stupid child.

  I think about Pinocchio, the story of the wooden puppet who lets the naughty boys influence him to smoke. It makes me laugh, thinking that I can even smoke if I want. If I feel like a stupid child, then Anne is a like a naughty one. I want to be influenced by her. When I tell her, she laughs.

  “I don’t think you should take up smoking, just sex,” she says.

  She’s serious about wanting to meet Sal, so I write down his handle, the name he goes by on datesforall.com. In exchange she writes down the handle of three guys she thinks are too straight-laced, guys she thinks I might like, but I refuse to take the paper. “I think I want to meet guys somewhere in between,” I explain, and I really mean it. I promise myself that in the morning I’m going to think about everything she’s said; in the morning when my head is clear.

  Emptying her glass of its final sip, Anne announces that she has to work in the morning, a twelve- hour shift. We’re both a bit wobbly when we stand, and I’m glad we walked downtown from my apartment. It seemed like a long walk coming, but Anne insisted. I’m glad now because the fresh air feels wonderful and neither of us has any right behind the wheel of any car.

  We walk in silence, the heels of our shoes clickity-clacking on the sidewalk, a cadence to feed my thoughts. I shiver ever so slightly in the cool night air as I remember the feeling of being in love, how familiar Alex felt to me, and how right I always felt walking with him, my smaller hand tucked securely into the gentle pressure of his grasp. I breathe deeply, taking in the coolness, breathing out the breath of purple wine. The street light glows lighting our way, and sadness settles, but not too deep, as I swing my arms, my hands free of Alex’s touch.

  When we get to my apartment where Anne’s Toyota is parked, she says she’s refreshed and clear-headed, safe to drive home. Hearing it makes me think about my parents and their car accident, and then about Jared.

  “Have you heard anything more about how Jared is doing since he’s been discharged?” I ask.

  “He just went home the other day, but Dr. Matthews has already made a couple home visit. He said he thinks Jared is getting good nursing care and he expects him to make faster progress in his own home,” she replies.

  “Good
news. You know, I still have Isabella, his cat,” I say, wondering if I should try to visit Jared at his home this soon after his discharge. Then I decide to delay thinking about it until morning when my head is clear.

  When morning arrives, Isabella sits as dead weight on my chest, purring. My head feels clogged from drinking so much wine the night before. I vow that I’m going to pay closer attention to alcohol consumption in the future. One glass of wine will do me just fine. “I’m a weakling, Isabella,” I say, pushing her off.

  I still have another week to go before I start my new job. I feel restless and bored, think about looking for new hits on my dating profile, but I’m not ready to meet any new guys, yet. Instead, I decide to take a hike. I used to enjoy hiking in Connecticut before I met Alex. Then Alex said he didn’t like being outdoors. That fact, coupled with great California weather, makes the idea of hiking seem really worthwhile. I Google bay area hiking trails and hit the jackpot, finding a whole list of local trails to explore.

  An hour later, I’m clearing my head at a county park that has a working farm associated with it. A mile in, following a mostly flat trail, I arrive at a shingled red building where a farmer in overalls swings a pitchfork to stack loose, golden hay. I stifle a laugh remembering how Anne told me to make hay while the sun shines. Last night I might have wondered if the farmer was single or married, but, fortunately, I’m sober now.

  I see a brown and white cow grazing in a grassy field, three black and white goats romping and butting heads behind the slats of a wooden pen, and ten baby piglets suckling on a mother pig stretched out in the mud behind the squares of a wire fence. Chickens wander freely, clucking and pecking in the dirt. Mothers push babies in strollers on a paved path. Pre-school children chatter to the goats and point to the piglets. Older children ride bicycles. Hikers and joggers are everywhere. It’s Wednesday. Don’t people work in Silicon Valley? I’m awed by this new lifestyle. The sky is bright blue with wispy white clouds. A slight breeze rustles through the leaves of a sweet scented bay tree. The surrounding air carries the aroma of spaghetti sauce.

  I walk past the farm to an area where wild turkeys strut in an empty field bordered by a woodland forest. Birds flit and sing from one large oak tree to another. I walk across a wobbling, wooden footbridge above a bubbling creek onto a single-track trail, the dirt path moist and graded. I marvel at the pristine trail, free of litter, and well maintained without jutting tree roots. I’m used to weather worn trails from back east. Once, as a teenager, I hiked and camped a few days on the Appalachian Trail with my father, starting in Dalton, Massachusetts. The trail was rutted with rocks and roots threatening to trip me up nearly every other step. Burnt wood and charred cans that served as pots littered the sides of the trails. There’s nothing like that here.

  A half-mile later, a wise old owl stares down at me, almost hidden behind the green leafy branches in a tall, still oak. Nearby, I see evidence left by woodpeckers, hundreds of holes pecked in gray bark, remnants of a dried up old tree pole without any limbs; a snag, looking like a human leg bone ravaged by osteoporosis.

  I follow a narrow, zigzagging trail uphill. I’m sweating and breathless when the trail levels out onto a ridge that overlooks rolling, verdant hills. In the distance I see a hawk circle and dive into the grassland and come up again with a small, brown mouse in its clutches. When I stop to catch my breath I see an empty bench under a shade tree, an invitation to sit.

  I don’t really know where I am, but I’m not really lost. I’ll just go back the way I came, down the hill, across the bridge, and through the farm. It’s been so therapeutic, this hiking. I pull a bottle of water and an apple out of my daypack and sip and munch while my brain sorts my thoughts. I pull out a notebook and pen; jot down some ideas, such as, change my datesforall.com profile to include hiking under my favorite activities. Then I add wine tasting to that same list. On another page I write my grocery list because my cupboards are bare.

  Then I turn a new page. I write baby??? The pen in my hand takes on an energy of its own. I see a list of thoughts, phrases and ideas come to life: Not without marriage, no artificial insemination, no sleeping around, no guys like Sal, no conception under influence of alcohol, okay to remain childless. Then, that same autonomous pen appears to review the list. It crosses out: No sleeping around, and okay to remain childless, and adds, remember STDs! That pen, mightier than my conscious thoughts.

  A little brown nose suddenly appears from the underground not far from where I’m sitting, a flurry of loose dirt preceding it. Twitching whiskers, followed by dark, darting eyes appear next. “Hey, you cutie,” I say to the gopher as it digs all the way out of the hole, “Watch out for the hawks.” Then I stuff my clutter into my daypack and retrace my steps back the way I came, feeling energized, organized, and rejuvenated.

  *****

  “My cat?” Jared pulled himself taller using his one good hand on the triangular trapeze bar positioned above his bed. “Isabella,” he called gently, peering around the foreign looking medical equipment altering his familiarity with his bedroom.

  Hearing the sounds from where she sat reading in her own room down the hall, Marta dropped her book and rushed to Jared not knowing what to expect. “What are you doing? Be careful, you don’t want to overdue it,” she said, surprised to see Jared looking so alert.

  “Where’s my cat?” Jared asked, his voice stronger and projecting deeper than Marta had heard before.

  “Oh, your friend the nurse, who was in the accident with you, she has your cat for now. Don’t worry,” she said, fluffing his pillows and guiding him back to a more relaxed position.

  “Who has Isabella?” Jared asked, puzzled.

  “The lady you were with, the nurse. She has your cat.” Marta said, stroking his face with cool fingers.

  Jared recoiled from her touch. “Don’t,” he said, pulling abruptly back, looking angry. He wasn’t sure what was making him feel so agitated with her, but somewhere deep in his gut, he felt the wrongness of her touch.

  “I want my cat here with me,” Jared said harsher than he intended, and then tried to soften his voice. “Where’s my phone? I need to make some calls.”

  “It’s okay, darling. You’ve forgotten because of the accident. Here, let me get your medicine. You mustn’t get too excited,” Marta said. She went to the prescription bottles arranged neatly on top of the dresser across the room.

  “I don’t want medicine. I want my cell phone. I have to make some calls. I have work to do. Get me my cell phone, please, and I want my cat!” Now he was yelling.

  “Here you go,” Marta pushed a pill into his mouth with a glass of water, a straw immediately following.

  Jared spit the pill out. “I don’t want a pill! I want my cell phone and my cat,” he said, his jaw clenched shut.

  “What’s going on?” Fred suddenly appeared.

  “Jared’s having an episode,” Marta said softly. “He’s agitated from his head injury. I need help to make him swallow this pill. Otherwise, I’ll have to give him an injection. You don’t want a shot do you, Jared?”

  “No,” Jared mumbled, feeling penitent. “I want my phone and my cat…”

  Fred reached behind Jared’s shoulders and used his strength to hold him upright, while Marta used a spoon to push the little blue pill back through his lips.

  “I’m sorry,” Jared said, realizing that he was being difficult when his caregivers were only trying to help.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bradley Lawton peeked in on his twin daughters as they knelt side by side in front of June’s single bed. The twin girls, June and Janet were dressed identically in yellow baby doll pajamas, each looking little an angel, their golden hair haloed around their heads. Kelly, his wife, knelt between the girls, guiding them in the nightly ritual of learning their prayers.

  “Sissy says her own words and not the ones from church,” Janet said, her blue eyes pleading with her mother for a chance to deviate from memorizing the boring Our Fathe
r.

  Kelly, a staunch, old-school Catholic wanted the girls to know at least three main prayers before they started kindergarten at the parochial school next year. So far, the girls weren’t particularly interested in learning rote prayers despite Kelly’s persistence. Bradley really didn’t care if the girls learned the prayers or not. He’d agreed to let them be raised in the church as a condition of being allowed to marry Kelly despite his lack of religious affiliation.