by H.H. Fowler
“Oh my God, Doreen!” Tara yelled while she gripped her forehead in pain. “That was totally unnecessary.”
“It should have killed you!” Doreen marched around Tara and made her way into the open area. She took one look around Wynton’s place and immediately decided that something was out of whack. She wedged her hands deeply into her sides and murdered Tara with her eyes. “Where is my son? And what in God’s name is that unpleasant scent?”
“Don’t I get an apology? My head feels as if it’s been split open –”
“You are one disgusting looking child,” Doreen spat, swatting Tara’s words to the floor as if they were dirt beneath her shoes. “Such a horrible face for a woman. You won’t get a thing from me except a swift kick in your flat backside!”
Tara willed her tears to stay in place – she, however, was too stunned to cry anyway. The things that Doreen said were enough to make a person commit suicide.
“Don’t just stand there, looking like some flesh-eating disease.” Doreen’s glare became even more murderous – if that were possible. “Go and get my son!”
“No, Doreen. I will not let you come in here and boss me around like that.” Tara tried to match Doreen’s glare, but she knew her expression would not move Doreen one inch. “Call me all the names you want. You are not as important to Wynton as you think. All you’re doing is making the situation worse by showing up here. Don’t you have your little church meetings to attend? Well, never mind that, as miserable as you are, I doubt anyone wants you around, anyway.”
Doreen wrinkled her nose in disgust, cutting through Tara’s emotional rant. “Did you just have sex with my son?”
Tara’s stare flew a mile beyond disbelief. “That’s none of your business, Doreen! How rude –”
“Don’t lie to me, you dreadful duck. You’re walking around in Wynton’s shirt as if you’ve moved in.”
“Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re saying the things you say…”
Doreen grabbed Tara’s fingers and smelled them. “Unrighteousness!” She drew back and slapped Tara’s hairstyle back into place. “You have corrupted my good son.”
Tara held her cheeks and screamed at Doreen, “Get out of here before I –”
“Before you what? Kill me? You have no respect for your elders.”
Doreen attempted to land another slap, but Tara caught her hand and tossed it to the side. “Enough, Doreen, enough! I am not your child!”
“I will tell you when it is enough, and that will be when you’re long gone out of my son’s life!”
Doreen reached for Tara, and with all of her fifty-five-year-old strength, ripped Wynton’s shirt far enough to reveal Tara’s breasts. That began round one of the hair-pulling wrestling match. Both women lost their balance and plunged into the sofa. Their cat-like cries brought Wynton pelting out of his bedroom, dripping water from head to toe. The only thing that covered his nakedness was a big white towel he’d wrapped tightly around his waist. He wasted no time in trying to part the women.
“Break it up, you two, break it up!” Doreen’s strength for her age was incredible. So much so that Wynton found it almost impossible to weaken the grip she’d latched around Tara’s throat. “Mother, you’re going to kill her! Take your hands off of her…”
Doreen ground her teeth and fought to keep her weight on Tara. “Let her die, Wynton. You will be better off without her.”
“No, I won’t!” Wynton’s muscles kicked into play, and with one swoop he hoisted Doreen into the air and lifted her to a safe distance. He waited a minute for her to calm down before he went off on her. “Mother, I am ashamed of you! This is so below you. I don’t even know what to say…” He paused and looked at the way his coffee table had been kicked over, so shaken that his entire body shook with disbelief. “Look at this mess! How the devil did you get in here anyway?”
“Didn’t you hear the buzzing?” Tara said hoarsely. She’d slipped to the floor, and had been trying to bring her breathing back to normal rhythm. “That was her. When I opened the door, she pushed it into my face and then attacked me…” Tara rubbed her forehead and felt a huge lump swelling up. She groaned, “Oh God, Wynton, I didn’t sign up for this.”
“It was self-defense,” Doreen said. “And I’m sticking with that.”
“Self-defense? Mother, you had my girlfriend pinned into the sofa! I can’t believe you’re standing there proud of what you’ve done. What has Tara ever done to you for you to hate her this much?” Wynton ran a nervous hand through his wet hair, feeling as if he were out of options about what to do with the ongoing feud between Tara and his mother. He would be surprised if Tara even stayed with him after this. “I can’t even take a bloody shower in peace…”
“Well, you won’t need to tell me to leave,” Doreen said to her son, her voice as poised as one speaking the Queen’s English. She straightened her jacket and wiped her lips clean. “I’ll save you the trouble. My work is done for today…”
Wynton’s grey eyes became fierce at his mother’s impertinence. “Next time you show up here like this,” he told her, “I will have you arrested. And you know I don’t mince my words. Either you accept that Tara is going to be my wife, or we’re through. It’s as simple as that.”
Doreen smiled patiently, as if her son was going through a little immature phrase. She kissed him on the cheeks and then whispered in his ear, “Wynton, my dear boy, not even God Himself can bring a separation between us. Just remember, mommy loves you, darling.”
Wynton sat down next to Tara after his mother had walked through the door. He had no words to console her, so he resorted to the one thing he knew how to do exceptionally well. He leaned over Tara and began to plant soft kisses from behind her ear lobes to the nape of her neck. But to his surprise, Tara pushed him away and jumped to her feet.
“What is wrong with you?” she snapped, her eyes now awash in tears. “Sex is not going to fix this! Don’t you see this huge contusion on my forehead? I’m in pain – physical and emotional pain!”
“I don’t want sex –”
“Yeah, of course not, Wynton!” Tara rolled her eyes and walked off, but before she completely disappeared into the spare bath, she turned and added in a stern voice, “Deal with your mother, Wynton. If not, I am out of here! And I mean it this time.”
God gave us memories that we might have roses in December.
- J.M. Barrie
Chapter Ten
Battery Park City – New York
August nights in New York sometimes took Jasmine back to her wild teenage years, which had been laced with much rebellion and self-gratification. Where she stood, on the sun deck of her two-bedroom flat at 22 River Terrace, the views of the city at night starkly mirrored certain spots of her hometown in Brandon, Florida – places where her father had left his mark as a real estate developer. Her father was a fanatic for tall buildings, and in the early years of his career, he’d ‘mimicked’ several architectural designs in New York, with his first being that of the Tribeca Bridge Tower – a twenty-six-story, rental building, that had made its presence known among other magnificent high-rise designs.
With competitive features of the Tribeca Bridge Tower, the red brick building at 22 River Terrace boasted windowed gourmet kitchens, complete with stainless steel whirlpool appliances and granite countertops. It had a twenty-four hour attended lobby and valet service. A fitness center, a package room, and a bicycle room – amenities that Jasmine rarely took advantage of. Her taste over the years had veered away from the extravagant lifestyle. Even though she could have afforded a larger place, the square footage of her apartment was a little less than eight hundred feet. Jasmine did not think she needed any more space than that. Being a single woman and all, a larger space would have only reminded her of how alone she felt at times.
She would often work from home and would labor over her clients’ contracts for hours – combing through the ‘fine print’ with a meticulous eye. Unbeknownst to her, it had even
tually given her an edge over her competition, in that she tended to settle negotiations between sellers and buyers in less time. Although Jasmine knew her late nights had become more of an excuse to ‘bat’ away her depression, her clients saw it as a commendable trait. She was part of the reason why the Benton’s name was esteemed in the higher echelons of real estate. Mr. Boston – one of her most distressing clients – had left with a smile after having dinner last evening at Merchants River House.
Her professional life seemed to be flying high, but it was not enough to banish her desire for more out of life. Twelve Years, Jasmine thought, as she cast her longing eyes toward the calm of the Hudson River. The words of her mind rumbled for answers:
God, didn’t You promise to meet my uttermost needs? Why am I still feeling this pain? This depression? I am grateful for all that You have already done for me, but, Lord, I am not content. I am twenty-eight years-old and by now I thought that I would have had a family of my own. Had I stayed in Florida maybe my baby would have lived. Maybe Wynton and I would have ended up together as husband and wife…I don’t know. It was such a long time ago, but I can’t help but wonder how my life would have turned out if my father hadn’t forced me to come to this place…
Jasmine was about to settle into another round of questions when the shrill of her phone suddenly broke the silence. It was ten minutes to midnight. She was tempted to simply let it ring, but it was not in her to ignore something that could turn out to be urgent. At this hour, she would hope the call was important. She stepped inside and pulled the sliding door shut. A red Persian rug that was in the hallway massaged her feet as she walked over it toward her bedroom. She would have answered the phone in the living room, but she had plans to take a shower and turn in for the night. She snatched up the phone and wedged it against her ear.
The first thing that Jasmine heard coming through the receiver was quiet whimpering, almost as if the person struggled to maintain composure. However, the familiarity of the tone did not escape her. “Daddy?”
“Yes, honey…” Karl inhaled deeply at the sound of his daughter’s voice, because he knew that what he was about to tell her would shatter her world to pieces. “How are you, Jasmine?”
“I was doing fine until I heard your snuffles – and that is not like you.”
“I see you’re still keeping those late hours –”
“Don’t beat around the bush, Daddy. Why are you calling me so late?”
Karl inhaled again and then said in a protective tone, “This is so hard to tell you, Pumpkins. I wish I was there with you…”
“Just tell me, Daddy,” Jasmine prompted. “What is it?”
“It’s Sharon…she’s, um…” It sounded as if a frog had suddenly jammed itself in Karl’s throat. Clearing it, he added in a stronger voice, “Honey, I know that your mother loved you very much…”
Jasmine gripped the phone in panic. “Am I missing something? What’s wrong with my mother?”
“I really didn’t see this one coming –”
“Oh God, Daddy, please, quit it! Just tell me what’s wrong.”
“Sharon didn’t make it, honey,” Karl finally said. “I tried calling you –”
“Didn’t make what? I know she has been trying to get that new position at the hospital. I’m assuming she didn’t make the cut?”
“Your mother has died, Jasmine,” Karl clarified as gently as he could, adding softly, “She passed away thirty minutes ago…”
She passed thirty minutes ago…Jasmine felt the walls moving toward her at top speed, making her feel as if she’d been thrown into a dark trunk. She had just spoken to her mother less than thirty-six hours ago. It was impossible for her father to be telling the truth. Her mother could not have been that sick. Nevertheless, whether Jasmine believed it or not, she lost all strength and dropped to the carpet in a heap.
“Jasmine…” Karl’s message was cut short by the painful shrills of his daughter. “Jasmine, honey…talk to me…”
Karl’s voice faded in the background as Jasmine’s cries spiraled out of control. In a fetal position, her body shook uncontrollably. How could this be? Her mother was dead? Sharon had been there for her daughter all these years – helping to restore Jasmine back to wholeness. To accept a loss at this level was simply unfathomable. There, on the carpet, Jasmine remained, bewildered as to how she was going to overcome what she thought to be the worst pain in the world.
****
Karl could not listen to his daughter’s cries without being in New York to comfort her. So, after several failed attempts at trying to get his daughter to respond to him, he disconnected from the line. He dropped his head between his knees and allowed his tears to roll silently. It did not matter who saw him – slouched against the wall outside of Sharon’s hospital room in his workout clothing.
He should have been sharing his daughter’s grief; however, he was completely overcome with guilt. It was his fault that his wife of nearly thirty years had succumbed to her sickness. He knew she’d been sick for a while, but had not taken her condition ‘seriously’. Sharon craved his attention and he had always felt that she would have done anything to get it. Even to the point of pretending to be sick.
When Sharon collapsed in Karl’s arms, he hadn’t any idea that Sharon would have deteriorated so quickly. He thought that she would have revived, but minutes later, Sharon’s body convulsed, and she went into a coma. By the time the ambulance came to their residence, Sharon’s blood pressure had dropped significantly. Karl could barely feel a pulse, which he knew was a dangerous sign that Sharon’s life was slowly ebbing away. The doctor had told Karl that it would take a miracle for his wife to make it through the night. The doctor had been right. Sharon was declared clinically dead at 11:22 p.m.
Karl was known to keep his emotions in check, but he could not withstand the pressure that maybe he was responsible for Sharon’s death. He should have taken her actions seriously. Their marriage was not the best, but the least he could have done was to show Sharon a little more attention. Maybe things would have turned out differently.
“Mr. Benton?”
Karl raised his head from between his knees and leveled his gaze on a tall, lanky Easterner. His nametag read: Doctor Peter Abdul. As a nurse, Sharon had worked along with him up to the time of her death. His eyes told Karl that he was a man of great intelligence. “Yes,” Karl said hoarsely. “How can I help you?”
“Do you have a moment? I would like to speak with you.”
Karl did not miss the heavy accent. If they had been under different circumstances, he would have cracked a smile. “Of course,” he said, standing at the same time. He regarded the doctor for a second before adding in a concerned tone, “Should I follow you?”
“No need,” Peter said. “There isn’t anyone here at the moment. I just want to bring something to your attention.” Peter rested his hand on Karl’s shoulder briefly before continuing, “You know that your wife has worked along with my team for many, many years and I would consider it a poor act of care – if I don’t handle her death as if she had come from my own family.”
Karl kept his words wedged in his throat and tried to anticipate where the doctor was steering the conversation. Karl could tell that Sharon’s death had moved Peter emotionally and that he was struggling to maintain his composure. However, Karl could care less about the ‘bond’ the doctor had shared with his wife. The only thing that mattered to Karl was to wrap up Sharon’s burial plans as soon as possible.
“I had a conversation with the medical examiner,” Peter pressed on. “And we were very much concerned about Sharon’s symptoms, which we believe have led to her death. It is a widely held view that autopsies should be performed…”
Karl’s heart jumped at the mention of the word, “autopsies”. He barely heard anything else the doctor was saying to him. “Autopsy?” he repeated audibly. “Why would my wife be subjected to such a barbaric procedure?”
“Keep in mind, Mr. Benton,�
� Peter touched Karl’s shoulder again. “Having an autopsy performed isn’t always enforced, or sometimes even possible, but there are certain cases a medical examiner would ‘suggest’ that it be done. It is simply to determine the true cause of death. I just learned about Sharon’s symptoms some thirty-six hours before her demise. Rather sudden, don’t you agree? She had called me complaining–”
“She called you?” Karl glared at Peter suspiciously.
“Yes…” Peter paused, as if trying to discern Karl’s tone. “Was that a problem? She said that she could not reach you. Her condition sounded critical over the phone and I suggested that an ambulance be dispatched to her residence. But, of course, you know that your wife could be very stubborn. She refused my suggestion.”
“I was around, doctor,” Karl spat. “And Sharon did not seem as ‘critical’ as you have indicated. You think I don’t know my wife?”
“I was merely alluding to the fact that –”
“What’s the sense of discussing this now?” Karl interrupted. “My wife is dead. Cut me some slack, man!”
“Forgive me for my insensitivity,” Peter said, and then added with a tight smile, “but I’m afraid – in light of the unusual circumstance surrounding your wife’s death – we must request consent for an autopsy through the courts.”
Karl stepped closer to the doctor’s face, baring his teeth as if repulsed by the doctor’s audacity. Karl’s eyes were swollen red with tears, but Peter could not overlook the rage he saw blazing in them.
“Let’s just see how far you get with that silly idea,” Karl threatened. “My wife has written instructions to have her body cremated. Trust me, doctor; you don’t want to fight me on this. My name speaks for itself. Now, please excuse me as I go to say my final good byes to my dear wife.”
Peter did not move until Karl disappeared into Sharon’s room. He was left with an unsettling feeling in his stomach. The man’s actions toward his wife were completely unbelievable. Sharon, on the other hand, had always made it seem as if they had the best of marriages. Quite a contrast, Peter thought. Something is not making sense here. Why are you refusing to have an autopsy performed, Mr. Benton? Your wife died unexpectedly and you’re not the least bit interested in finding out the reason.
