Never the Bride

by Rene Gutteridge

  “Do you love Me?”

  I’m caught off guard for the ninetieth time in this conversation.

  “I didn’t know that was a requirement for this.”

  “It’s one of those commandment thingies.”

  That’s funny but I don’t show it because once He gets me laughing, I have a hard time standing my ground. “Do You think this is funny?”

  “I’d say amusing.”

  “Glad I could entertain You.”

  God lies back on the foot of the bed and looks up at the ceiling. “You want to know what I think?”

  I pull a pillow onto my lap. “I bet You’re going to tell me no matter what.”

  He turns His head to look at me. “I give wisdom only when it’s wanted. Do you want it?”

  Okay see? That’s what I mean. It’s a trick question because if I say no, then I sound like a know-it-all, but if I say yes, I have to listen to something that will undoubtedly sway my opinion. I sigh. “All right, fine.”

  “I created marriage, so you could say I’m promarriage.” He looks back at the ceiling. “But it’s very hard. Not for the weak of heart.”

  “I’m not weak.” My words came out sounding more like a question even though I meant them to be a bold statement.

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  Another thing He didn’t say, I suddenly realize, is that He wanted me to spend the evening comforting a heartbroken man. He wanted me to go the Laundromat—away from Clay. “I think I know what You’re saying.”

  He looks at me expectantly.

  “You’re saying You don’t want me with Clay.” The words are delivered through a soft whisper, all I can manage right at the moment.

  He doesn’t answer, but I can see it in His eyes.

  I flop down beside God on the bed. “But You won’t show up with the right guy either.”

  He holds my hand. “I love you.”

  “That’s all You have to say?” I start bawling. Is He never going to give me what I want? I don’t want God’s crazy love; I want a real, live, every-one-can-see-him kind of man. Of course He knows what I’m thinking, but He doesn’t let go of my hand. But I am frustrated, lonely, hurt—and I take my hand away and turn my back to Him. “Please leave.”

  He sits up. “You really want Me to leave?”

  I throw up a hand in exasperation. “No! I want You to fix this!” I sit up. “I want You to do so many things You just won’t do! I want You, just for once, not to tell me to wait!”

  I reach over, pull back my covers, and pull them over myself. I feel His hand on my foot. I slide it away. I hope He’s getting the message.

  After a few minutes, the air gets hot and I can’t stand it any longer. I peel the covers back.

  I’m alone.

  Except, the purple pen is back on my nightstand.

  I have no idea what time of morning it is when I drag myself downstairs, with my robe undone and my teeth regrettably fuzzy due to my inability to get myself out of bed last night to attend to dental obligations.

  If I were a smoker, I’d be smoking chocolate right now.

  I flip the kitchen light on and swing open the fridge when I hear a noise behind me. It’s not actually a noise. It’s a voice. “Good morning.”

  I whip around. “Blake? Malia? Uh…Nicole?” My eyes dart back and forth between them all.

  Brooklyn comes around the corner looking very guilty. “Hey, Jess. Good morning. I fixed eggs.” She’s holding a plate of eggs.

  I look at the stove. Sure enough, a pan. A glass of orange juice is poured. I hadn’t even noticed it when I walked in.

  “What’s going on?” I notice I’m the only one in pajamas. I close my robe and squeeze it tightly like it might moonlight as a girdle.

  Brooklyn sets the plate on the counter in front of me. “Thought you might like some breakfast.” Brooklyn smiles. Everyone else smiles on cue too.

  “What is this?” I shove the plate away. “And I don’t mean the eggs.”

  “Honey, Brooklyn invited us all over,” says Malia. “Thought you might want to talk about it.”

  “You know how much we all care for you,” Nicole says, reaching out for my hand, which I yank away.

  “Look,” Blake says casually, “I know this is unimaginably embarrassing for you, but we all love you.”

  “Love me.” I snort. Loudly. It vibrates all the way up my nasal passage. “Really. That seems to be the common theme around here. Everyone loves Jessie Stone, but nobody’s willing to do anything about it.”

  Malia tilts her head to the side. “That’s not true. We’re all here for you.”

  “Because, no doubt, Brooklyn has convinced you that I’m crazy.”

  “It happens to the best of us,” Nicole says. “When I had my third child, I locked myself in the bathroom and cried an entire Sunday.”

  Brooklyn steps toward me. “They’ve got great medications these days.”

  “Okay,” I say, backing up with my hands out in front of me. “You all need to leave. This is ridiculous. I’m not talking about this.”

  “But see,” says Brooklyn, stepping closer, “that’s the problem. You are talking about it. To imaginary people. That’s why we’re worried.”

  “Go home! All of you!”

  Blake suddenly stands. I’m backed against the refrigerator but he keeps walking toward me. Now he’s close. Real close. He smells like mint and chocolate. I want to know why, but now doesn’t seem like a good time to ask because frankly, he looks like he’s about to kiss me.

  “Jessie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re into me.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re into me.”

  I glance behind him at Malia, who is nodding enthusiastically.

  “Uh. No. No, I’m not. Why would you say—”

  “You’re into me. But you’re chasing Clay. Why?”

  I lunge for the eggs and gobble them up, throwing back the orange juice and chugging it in three gulps. “Look, I’m eating. That’s what you want, right?”

  “Why are you chasing Clay?” Blake asks again, moving in closer. The others step closer too.

  I try to back away, “We’re here to talk about God! Me and God! And how He’s interfering with my life! Right?” I ask. “Right?”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t leave the house anymore,” Brooklyn says.

  “That’s harsh,” Malia says. “She’s just confused, that’s all.”

  “I’m voting for the antidepressant,” Nicole says, raising a hand.

  I look at Blake. He looks at me. Our eyes meet and I am so regretting not brushing my teeth. And then, to my shock, I feel the urge to recite poetry, which is odd, because though I love to write poetry, I never, ever recite it out loud. At least not since third grade when I read a poem to Billy Stuber and my fourth most embarrassing moment was etched in stone. I take a deep breath, like I’m on a stage or something, and begin a poem called “Love Unseen” that I wrote in my blog a couple of nights before.

  “We’re all searching for that special love,

  Is love that hard to find?

  Or should we wake the one we know

  So he won’t be so blind?

  I know I see who you could be

  But your heart won’t make the room.

  You’re searching for a beginning blossom—

  While I’m the flower already in bloom.

  I could be someone that you’re kissing.

  I have style, beauty and grace.

  You don’t even know what you’re missing,

  And I’m right in front of your face.”

  I stare hard at Blake. He stares back.

  “Jessie?”

  “What?” I snap at Brooklyn. She’s behind me now, shaking my shoulder.

  “Jessie?”

  “What? What?” I move her hand away from me.

  “Jessie? Wake up!”

  My eyes fly open and I sit up, clutching my heart. I swear I have egg taste in my
mouth.

  “Jessie? You okay?”

  My eyes snap upward. Brooklyn is standing over me, her face strained with concern.

  “You were having a nightmare. Except it’s morning. So maybe it’s a morningmare?”

  “Oh.” I catch my breath. “It was just a dream.”

  “What were you dreaming about?”

  “Killer eggs.” I throw back the covers and spot the pen next to my bed. So that wasn’t a dream. I wish it had been.

  “I came in to wake you up. You overslept. I’ve got to get to the store.” Brooklyn is already dressed. “I’ll get everything started. Take your time, okay?”

  I raise an eyebrow. Why is she being so nice to me?

  “I’ll be there in a snap. I can get ready fast.”

  Brooklyn walks to my door, then turns. “Jess?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Who were you talking to?”

  “Huh?”

  “Last night. I heard you. You sounded mad at someone.”

  I blush. “It was nobody.”

  “It was Clay wasn’t it?” She looks sympathetic.

  I don’t answer.

  “I’ll see you at the shop, okay? And seriously, take some time.”

  nineteen

  I check the address twice. This is it. The house stands smaller in this luxury neighborhood. It’s flat-roofed, with modern stucco design, seventies color, and lots of windows facing the street. Bushes are trimmed to perfect box shapes.

  I don’t turn into the large circle driveway yet. My Beemer idles in front of the house as I wonder just how crazy I really am. First, I’m crazy for showing up here. But the reason I’m here is to find out if I’m crazy. So welcome to my black hole.

  I let my foot off the brake. I don’t even touch the accelerator but coast into his driveway like a sleuth. I turn the car off and pull the emergency brake. I’d hate to accidentally roll onto this grass, which looks like it costs more than my car.

  I’ve pulled myself together nicely this morning. I learned early on, even as a little girl, you don’t want to look disheveled when you’re visiting a head doctor. They read every part of your body language. Everything means something in their world. One bad hair day and they’re certain you’re going to jump off a bridge.

  I am seriously doubting myself, even as I emerge from my car. The gentle wind in the hills blows through my hair, and for a moment I think I feel Him behind me. I glance backward but there’s nobody.

  From inside the house, a dog is barking as I head to the front door, which is tall enough to let Goliath through. I press the doorbell and squeeze my eyes shut. This is such a ridiculous thing to do.

  The doorbell chimes out something by Beethoven. The dog is becoming frantic. So am I.

  The door opens.

  I don’t know if I expected to see a butler or a mousy wife or what, but there he stands, dressed down in a cotton shirt and bermuda shorts. That familiar, thin, twitchy mustache is the first thing I notice on his face. My gaze roams to his eyes, still encircled by wire-frame glasses.

  “Yes?”

  “Hello. Dr. Montrose?”

  “How can I help you?” He pushes the little dog behind him, using a gentle foot.

  “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m, um…I’m a former patient.”

  I’m expecting this—eyes widen, face grows concerned—but nevertheless, trying to be helpful.

  I blurt out, “I’m not dangerous or anything.” I try a laugh but I’m sounding so insidious. “I’m not carrying a gun or anything.” That helps. Yeah. My apprenticeship as a raging lunatic is complete. I hold out my hand, and he sort of flinches. “Jessie Stone. Do you remember me?”

  His eyes narrow as he studies me. “Yes. Yes, I do remember you. You look…a little different.”

  “Oh! The hair!” I cackle. Why can’t I find the right laugh here? “I’m just experimenting a little with my look. Nothing to be alarmed about. Plus, it has been a couple or three decades. I’m all grown up.”

  “Um, that’s what I meant. You’re older. What are you doing here?”

  “I was wondering if I could have a few moments of your time. I realize you’re very busy.” Though he doesn’t look it. He looks fully retired, which I’d read about in the newspaper a few years ago.

  “Um…”

  “Dr. Montrose, you had such a profound effect on my life. I was just hoping you could share some of your knowledge with me on a particular topic.”

  His demeanor shifts. “Oh. Well, that’s kind of you to say. Please, come in.”

  Huh. That was easy. Flattery does get you places. Yeah, he had an effect on me all right, but I’ll leave it at that.

  “What a beautiful home,” I say.

  He smiles for the first time. “Thank you. My wife was responsible for all this,” he says, waving his hand around.

  I reach down to pet the little dog who is vying for attention. I don’t know why, but I was sort of expecting, if Montrose had a dog at all, it would a Chihuahua or a pug or something. This little thing looks like it just arrived from the pound. “Cute dog.”

  “Thanks. Since retiring, I’ve been adopting mutts from the pound and rehabilitating them.”

  “Ah.” Not far from what he used to do, I guess.

  “Why don’t we go to the deck? I was just finishing some breakfast.”

  “Sure.”

  I follow him through his house, glimpsing at the décor. Very modern. The living room looks like it all came from some art-museum shop in New York. I’m more of a soft-cushions-and-warm-colors kind of person myself. Then I notice the artwork. All over the house, in black frames, are children’s drawings.

  His patients. My eyes dart from frame to frame, wondering if one of mine hangs in here.

  He opens the door to the deck. I step out and marvel at the view. His home sits high on the hill, and below are lots of other extravagant homes. It does have a king-of-the-world feel to it.

  A wrought-iron table with an umbrella sits in the middle of the deck. His plate of french toast is half empty. “Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine. Sorry to interrupt your breakfast.”

  “Not at all.”

  I watch as he struggles to pull out his own chair. His hands are shaky, and I notice for the first time the gray at his temples. He’s old now. Lines crisscross his face. His ears look like they’ve grown an inch on either side. Brown spots cover his forehead. But that mustache, as clean and sleek as ever.

  “So, Jessie, it is good to see you. I think about you often. Wonder how you and your sister are getting along. Your parents’ death was so tragic.”

  “We’re doing fine. Brooklyn has grown into a fine young woman. We live together and own a business.”

  “Oh? What kind of business?”

  “We help men set up the perfect marriage proposal.”

  “Hmm. Sounds interesting.”

  Hmm. He used to always say that when something surprised him but he didn’t want to let on that it did.

  “So,” he says, taking a bite of his breakfast and wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin, “what brings you by, Jessie?”

  I’d decided not to rehearse what to say. No matter what kind of delivery it came in, this was going to sound weird. “Well…as you remember, I saw you as a child.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember what my problem was?”

  “I do. You had an imaginary friend.”

  I smile. “Sounds so innocent.”

  “It was.”

  “It was? Then why did I have to come see you?”

  He’s holding up a forkful of french toast, and his hand is shaking. “Not all children have imaginary friends, and in some instances, it can be a sign of a serious mental illness. Your parents were just being cautious, as they should’ve been.”

  “I always felt like a freak for having that boy follow me around.”

  Dr. Montrose finally takes a bite and chews slowly before answering
. “That was part of why you were in therapy. You had to understand how other people were going to perceive your imaginary friend.”

  “Like I was crazy.”

  His fork reaches the french toast again. “But we solved the problem, remember?”

  I nod. “I think so. I mean, I don’t remember exactly when he left, but I know that he eventually did.”

  “You were a bright young girl, and I knew eventually logic would help you understand that he was going to have to go.”

  “I did like him.”

  Dr. Montrose smiles. “Yes. Those are always the hardest cases.”

  “Was I one of your hardest?”

  He seems to be giving this some thought, his fork poised in the air again. “It’s hard to recall. But you were definitely one of my successful cases.”

  “You must’ve seen a lot of kids through the years.”

  “Yes. Many. But it’s not often I get to see them all grown up.” He winks at me. “It’s very nice to see you and to know that you’re okay.” His expression falls. “There were so many I couldn’t help. I still regret that.” His fork and uneaten bite lowers to just above his plate.

  “I’m sure you did the best you could.”

  “Yes, well. So, tell me why you are here.” The fork finally finds his mouth. I claw at my neck like a poison ivy rash has just popped up. There is no other way to say it, no mincing of words that will make this sound any better at all, so I just say it. “God’s been visiting me.”

  Here it comes. The expression. The one that I would imagine psychologists try to never have, but the one that Dr. Montrose couldn’t seem to keep hidden. Morbid surprise. He finishes chewing and slowly pushes his plate back, dropping his napkin over what remains. “What you mean, Jessie, is that you’ve been rethinking spirituality?”

  “No. I mean that He is coming to visit me.”

  “Could you explain further?” His fingers twitch like he’s in desperate need of a pen and pad.

  I try so hard to sound normal. “Well, it all started with Him appearing to me. He wanted to talk about my love life. Now, I know this sounds strange, but He’s really obsessed with me getting the right guy.”