by Beth Aldrich
Focus, Betsy, I remember thinking, my face flushed. You have a meal to prepare this evening and you need the right spice combination. But instead I just sat there, fantasizing about him wrapping those strong arms around my waist, pulling me close for a gentle kiss on my…
“Excuse me,” he said quietly, interrupting my daydream.
“Um, yes?” God, he was cute.
“Can I ask you a quick question?” he asked, as he leaned on the edge of the table. Boy, I wished I were that table.
Caught off guard, I mustered, “Oh, uh, sure. What is it?”
He caught me off guard again when he asked if I would have dinner with him. I eagerly accepted. He continued by saying, “Great, I’m new in town and am kind of tired eating dinner with my cocker spaniel, Benny. Don’t get me wrong, he’s great company, but he’s lacking in verbal skills,” he said. “I moved back here from San Francisco and would love to get reacquainted with the Windy City with a personal tour guide. I used to attend Northwestern.”
He was cute and smooth, I told myself, but I worried that I might be a targeted bimbo or weekly challenge for this guy. At that point in my life, I didn’t want another bad relationship, but I did love the idea that he had a dog. I wondered if Benny liked women who cooked delicious food and offered the leftovers to any lucky dogs that happened to be hanging around?
I didn’t know at the time I was getting ready for my last first date, and the first with my future husband.
I remember how happy and infatuated we were back then. The sun was shining. We were young. I was so skinny.
Interrupting my musings, I silently hear Steven finally respond.
Betsy? I’m here.
“I’m right here, honey.” I try to speak softly to avoid alerting the hospital staff. I don’t have time to explain how my unconscious husband is communicating without words.
Truck.
“Truck? Was your car hit by a truck?” Searching for answers, I stand over his bed looking down at the man I love, blinking away the tears, fighting against the sobs that are getting caught in my throat. I see the man I’ve created my home and family with, the man who is supposed to be with me forever, protecting me from the cruel world—from the stalker. He once vowed no other man would harm me like the attacker years ago. I need him now.
He seems so small and helpless at this moment, his muscular build not as predominant. I, on the other hand, am trying to be the strong one. Super Betsy! I’m dealing with the stress of the mystery pink slips and calls, Morgan’s broken arm, and the pregnancy. Some unknown force seems to be working through my psyche at this moment. I feel almost superhuman, even though I’m a sobbing wreck from time to time. I’m starting to find an inner strength I never knew existed. I’ve heard stories about mothers who’ve lifted cars after their children had gotten stuck under them. I’m not so sure about lifting a car in my condition, but I do feel galvanized to act against the man who’s threatening me and my family. I must remember to add Get myself a superhero cape to my to-do list.
Motionless, Steven breathes in, out, in, out. Anyone watching us would never imagine that he is silently communicating with me, like this.
Yes, it was a truck. It came from out of nowhere. In this state, Betsy, I don’t feel any pain, but when I look down at us, I see myself and know that in my physical form, I must be very uncomfortable.
My inner thoughts are razor-focused on Steven, rather than broadcasting them out loud to the ICU and the hallways beyond. I rest in my hard-as-a-rock chair again, close my eyes, block out the world, and imagine my words so I can clearly respond. I’m so glad that in this state, you don’t feel any pain. But when you wake up, I kinda think you’ll feel differently.
That’s my Betsy! Always cracking jokes—very funny.
I’m not trying to be funny, though. I’m trying to be realistic. What are we going to face when you wake up? Will you be paralyzed? Internal injuries? That’s what I’m thinking. But most importantly, I want you to wake up.
It’s not time. I must wait…
Wait for what?
Silence.
Oh, for God’s sake, Steven. I don’t like playing twenty questions. Why can’t you just make this easy on me and fill me in from A to Z? I have been through a living hell the past few days while you’ve been gallivanting around San Francisco—and by the way, I have my suspicions about all the extracurricular activities that may or may not have been going on.
There, I said it. I continue. I don’t mean to sound mean or uncaring, but this whole situation has me so upset… I just don’t trust you anymore, Steven. There have been way too many incidents with unanswered questions, and Misty says… Oh, forget it. I need to go.
It’s okay, honey, you need to process this and get through the pain. I’ll be here for as long as I can. Good night.
Silence.
It’s difficult to have a conversation, much less an argument, with your comatose husband. It doesn’t have as much kick as when you scream it and get it off your chest when he’s awake. On the other hand, the words flow quickly and you say much more than you intended.
Feeling like I didn’t get as many answers as I was hoping for, only more questions, I hesitate before I leave Steven’s room. I’m hoping for one more transmission to express my regret for getting upset with him, but it’s really no use. It’s almost 8:15 p.m. and visiting hours will be over soon. Plus, I should get home to see my sweet little boys. What am I going to tell them?
As I walk in the side door of my house, I check my fear, anxiety, and recent revelations about Steven at the door. I want to come in thankful to my parents, snuggle-kiss the boys, and say hello to Barney.
“Mommy!” the boys cheer.
“I’m glad to see you have your pajamas and slippers on. Have you read your bedtime story yet?”
“Grandma and Grandpa let us watch a cartoon while we waited for you to come home so you could read to us,” Kyle reports.
Kyle is a couple of inches taller than his younger brother and rail thin in a sporty sort of way, especially compared to Morgan’s more solid body type—thanks to weekly karate classes. I can thank “aunt” Misty for introducing him to martial arts, which have really helped bolster his confidence. I remember the first time he saw her practicing drills—he was instantly enamored and wanted to find out more. Like love at first sight, Morgan couldn’t get enough of the jumping, kicking, and learning the respect and dignity of such a time-honored sport—focusing on mind, body, and spirit to discover his little champion within. I should join him just in case I need to kick my way out of an attack, sometime soon.
Reunited with my tan leather chair, I let the throw pillows envelop me in a long-awaited hug. I must have inherited my mom’s fascination with pillows—as if there was any doubt. Looking around my family room and attached kitchen, I feel relieved that Mom took the liberty of tidying up. Sometimes it’s hard to keep the house clean with kids and a dog running around all day, but one of the things we love about our Craftsman style home is the open layout that leads to the patio and yard. A yard we use to entertain, play, and even cook. We love that the barbeque is situated close to the door so we can grill throughout the cold Midwestern winters. The enclosed yard boasts two mature maple trees bordering the patio, both of which offer shade on sunny days and the boxwood bushes that line the cedar fence on the property’s west side give the yard a manicured look. Many squirrels call those lush, green bushes their playground regardless of Barney’s daily protest-and-chase runs. My yard really does give my home a protective feeling, but these days no trees or bushes can shield a stalker’s eyes.
Taking their positions on either side of my lap and the baby bump, my two love bugs cozy in to listen as I read aloud from The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein. When I was a little girl, Mom would read this or one of his other great books, like The Missing Piece, for hours. We’d cuddle up on the couch, perfectly adorned with color-coordinating pillows, and enjoy epic story time marathons. I never wanted them to end, and
to this day I savor story time because I know there will be a time when they won’t want to sit on my lap or read a book with me. If cultural history serves me correctly, hopefully they will come back to Shel and our other favorite authors when they become parents themselves—but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
“Okay, kiddos, story time is over,” I finally say. “Let’s go upstairs and brush our teeth and hop into bed. We have a big day tomorrow.” Or at least I have a big day tomorrow, talking to dogs, unborn babies, and my comatose husband… but who’s keeping track, and by the way, who is it that’s trying to kill me again?
As I try to figure out how to explain today’s events to my parents, I nibble at the little pink hangnail and cuticle of my thumb—a nervous habit I’ve had since I was in grade school. Mom’s anxiety often displays itself in bouts of cleaning, which she’s doing right now. Today it’s the magazines on the nearby coffee table. We’ve already established that we’re going to wait for Dad to come back from walking Barney before I get into the latest installment of “Betsy’s crazy life.”
I’m glad Dad brought a flashlight for their walk, just in case he stumbles upon a skunk during the excursion—or worse. I wait anxiously for him to return. I know it’s time to face the music and release this pent-up anxiety, to be more productive and clearheaded about possible clues related to this stalker. Like a big red balloon filled with too much water, I imagine myself bursting into a million little crimson pieces, water everywhere.
“Mom, I know you’re worried about Steven and the stalker, and I promise I’ll tell you everything I can about that, but I really need to process it all with a living, coherent human being.” No offense to my furry best friend and comatose husband, but I need my mom right now.
Although she’s excited about the idea of a granddaughter, my mom is distracting herself from the idea that her daughter is communicating with her husband in a coma—or maybe her nerves are about the stalker—or both. Now she’s taking out the window cleaner and scrubbing Barney’s nose prints from the knee-level surface of the patio door glass while we wait for Dad to come back with the dog.
Finally, Barney runs in and jumps up on my knees, noses my hand, and then attempts to lick my cheek with his long, pink tongue. I’ve always had a sweet spot for my boy and his kisses, and now I need them more than ever to help stabilize my nerves.
Mom is watching me from the corner of her eye as she quietly returns the window cleaner to its home beneath the sink and then pivots to score two points in the trash can with a balled-up piece of paper towel. She raises both arms, fists clenched, mouthing, “Yes!” and walks toward the kitchen table.
The Anderson clan seems to operate on the theory of sitting down to discuss problems. Then, once armed with solutions, we tackle them head on. Ever since I was in grade school, I remember my parents taking this approach, and though my sister and I loathed the idea at the time, we always ended up prevailing in whatever challenge we were faced with. This team concept was something my dad picked up along the way through his career as a television executive. These roundtable discussions we’ve had over the past couple of days have really helped me cope with the reality that someone could possibly be trying to kill me. Like a pregame pep talk, I feed on “Coach Dad’s” strategy and Mom’s support and know our plan of action will keep me safe.
Dad throws Barney a good boy treat, then walks over to the refrigerator and grabs the lemonade to pour himself a glass before we start our discussion.
“Ladies, does anyone want something to drink?”
“No, thanks, Dad.”
“Honey, grab me some water, then come sit down so Betsy can start our meeting.”
Holding back a snicker, I send some loving energy Mom’s way. I appreciate how serious she’s taking this threat, all the while maintaining our “family meeting” tradition.
“I know I’ve thrown a lot at you guys already today,” I say. I’m continuing my efforts to distract myself from the inevitable truth of my current circumstances. “And by the way, thank you for taking the boys to dinner.”
“Of course, Betsy,” Dad begins. “This stalker business—and now Steven—you shouldn’t have to handle this alone. We’re always here for you… even though I know technically we weren’t the other night, which reminds me, I’ve been wanting to thank you for giving us those tickets to the gala. Your mother and I really had a great time.”
“I’m glad.” I smile, happy that at least someone is having a good week. I welcome the brief diversion from our task, as it keeps me rooted in the reality that life will go on, regardless of this madman’s plot.
“Betsy, we really did love the evening, thank you for the generous gift. Candy and Carter were so kind to us. They asked all about you and the kids, of course, but I also made sure not to mention Steven or what’s been going on around here. I did tell them you’re missing your work, but that you’re not going to make any decisions about coming back until after the baby is born.”
My head shoots up as a twinge of interest sparks in my gut. “Really? Did they seem okay with that?”
“I think so. In fact, Candy pulled me aside and said they miss your special touches in the kitchen. They’re fine with Richard and Heidi because they’ve been there for years, but the new chef—Kelly, is it? Anyway, she’s just marginal at best—at least, that’s the way Candy put it.”
“Really?” I can already see myself swooping in to grab my old job back. I’ll focus on that one later. That’s going to be an argument with Steven, but I’ve never missed our arguments as much as I do now.
“Now, dear, let’s get down to business. Will you please tell us what is going on with Steven? Surely by now the doctors have given you more to go on, right?” She pauses, noticing the tears that have sprung to my eyes at the very thought of Steven. “Oh, honey, I know this is hard on you, but it’s also hard on us because we worry about you, Steven, and the boys. And right now, your father and I are putting up a front for them, and you know how much I hate fibbing.”
Really, Mom? “I know, and I’m sorry for making you do something that you don’t feel comfortable with, but we have to protect the boys.” I draw in a breath and continue. “On top of everything happening, while I was waiting in the car after my appointment, I remembered Morgan’s class party is tomorrow so I had to run over to the grocery store to get cupcakes.” Thinking of my youngest son puts a happy grin on my face. “Then once I got back over to the hospital, they claimed Steven’s brother had just left.” I pause to let that sink in.
“Huh? Steven doesn’t have a brother,” Dad says, blinking.
“I know, Dad. I lost it with the nurses. They were as surprised as I was, but not nearly as upset as I was. They agreed to limit his visitors immediate to family members only—with ID. I have to say, I can’t help but worry that this so-called brother is actually the envelope man who’s been stalking me, which might explain why I’ve been getting a sinking feeling, warning me.”
“But how in the world would some stalker know where Steven was?” My mom sits upright in her seat and clenches her teacup in both hands, like one of those stress balls.
“It’s clear he’s been following me around and researching things about my family. And if he’s been around me, I wouldn’t be surprised if he eavesdropped on conversations I’ve had, too.” I tremble when I think about some madman being only feet away from me at any time. “You never know, he could be watching us right now,” I whisper. “For all I know, he could have bugged my house.”
The three of us fall silent, instinctively looking up at the corners of the room, at the softly lit lamp next to the couch, then all around us. Where could a bug be hidden?
“So,” Mom says in her feigned chirpy voice, changing the conversation—going along with the fact that there might be a “bug” device in the house, “Tell me about Barney.”
Briefly smiling at her willingness to go along with my “bug” comment, I continue. “Well, that’s the thing. When I was upset after th
e hospital called me the other day, I swear he understood something bad had happened. Remember that time he warned me about Morgan getting stuck on the swing in the backyard? He was warning me about something important.” I know how crazy this sounds. I’m surprised they haven’t tried to convince me otherwise.
Barney, seated at my feet, shifts his gaze from the floor to my face and looks me directly in the eyes. As if he’s smiling, he responds, Garroof.
“See what I mean?” I stare at Mom and Dad as they almost drop their jaws into their respective drinks of choice. I think they’re starting to understand what’s going on between my furry friend and me, and how it’s related to my communication with my husband. “The same thing is happening with Steven. He’s able to communicate with me. Today he told me about his accident. His cab was hit by a truck.”
“Oh, no.” My mom gasps. “That’s probably why he’s unconscious.”
“Yes. He didn’t, however, know about the person who came into his room.”
“Okay, so where do we go from here?” Dad pauses, running his fingers first through his silver-blond hair, then drumming them vigorously on the table, apparently both thinking of an answer and waiting for one. I can tell Dad wants to help me solve this stalker problem. What father wouldn’t? But since we still have no idea who is doing this to me, we’re chasing our tails.
“My thought is, let’s just go about our business… I’ll call the hospital in the morning to see if there’s been any progress. And if I can get Steven’s subconscious to give me any additional information, I’ll fill you in.”
I start to feel the cold thawing inside as the stress tapers down simply from the act of discussing everything with my parents. Our seated table talks really help.
