Crave

by Margaret McHeyzer

  “I’m sorry, sir, but only family is permitted to go back into emergency. You’re more than welcome to wait and when they arrive I can ask them to come and see you.”

  I grunt at the triage nurse, roll my eyes and go slump in an uncomfortable chair in the fairly quiet waiting room.

  As I sit in the antiseptic-smelling high-traffic area, I can’t help but let my mind roll back to a time when hospitals were as routine to me as brushing my teeth.

  The sounds, the smells, the feelings – all of them come flooding back to me.

  “I’ll be alright,” Eva would say as she looked up from beneath her thick lashes and smiled at me. “It’s a necessary evil to make me better, to make me stronger. We’ll get through it.” Eva’s fingers would tighten around mine, as she’d lay her head on my shoulder.

  I’d cradle her, and kiss her forehead, whispering how proud I was of her for her strength, and her ability to embrace the positive. I’d drink her confidence up, her pure capability to remain so focussed on becoming better and stronger. Not just for her, but for me, and the possibilities of our future.

  Eva’s lips were always warm and inviting, begging to be kissed and cherished. She’d offer that perfect, pink suppleness to me, and I’d always be distracted by the flawless shape of them before I’d worship them and her. She always wanted more kisses when she was getting treatment. She wanted me to hold her and tell her everything was going to be okay.

  But nothing was okay.

  Nothing was perfect.

  Except the few years we had together.

  “Are you here to see my mummy?” I hear a little girl ask as she taps my shoulder, breaking me out of my memories of Eva.

  Looking to my right, a little brown-haired girl with sleepy eyes and holding a teddy, has asked the question.

  “I don’t know who you are,” I say as I lean away from the child.

  “Are you here to see my mummy? I heard the nurse tell Nanna you were waiting for my mummy.”

  I look over to where the child has pointed, and there’s an older lady with full grey hair talking to the triage nurse.

  My eyes leave the older lady and go back to the little girl standing beside me. I can’t help but study her features. She has the same nose and eye shape as Holly, and she’s quite brisk in the way she talks. What child would approach an adult and ask them anything?

  “You’re the man Mummy talks to Nanna about.”

  I feel my eyebrows knit together and my shoulders come up in a defensive reflex. “What do you mean?” I ask as I straighten in the uncomfortable chair.

  “Mummy said you’re not very nice, but you look okay to me.”

  I can’t help it, a laugh rips through me. “Maybe your mummy is right.”

  “Nah, I think you’re okay.”

  “Emma,” the older lady calls to her.

  “I gotta go. Nanna’s calling me.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you later.”

  Emma turns and walks to her grandmother. The older lady eyes me up, then down. There’s a scowl on her face, as her narrowed eyes take me in and she makes her assessment of me.

  Slowly she walks toward me, her granddaughter safely tucked under her arm, her face hard. “You’re Pierre?” she asks when she is standing a few feet from where I’m sitting.

  I stand and offer her my hand to shake. “Oui, madame.”

  She looks at my offered hand and tucks Emma further into her side. “You’re the man causing my daughter-in-law all the problems at work?”

  Daughter-in-law? She’s married.

  I kissed a married woman?

  Putain de merde!

  That kiss, the incredible kiss I got lost in, the soft kiss I wanted to last forever, the all-consuming kiss like I used to give to Eva.

  “I am…” Sorry doesn’t seem to be enough. “I am…” A shiver runs down my body, a shroud of darkness falling over me as my throat begins to tighten. “My sincere apologies,” I say as I take a step away from her.

  “Pierre,” she says, as her hand whips out to rest on my shoulder.

  “Non, non, non. I will leave now that you are here.” I take another step away, turn and flee, escaping from the situation, from Holly’s daughter’s beautiful big brown eyes, and from the judgement of a woman whose daughter-in-law I kissed.

  “Pierre,” I hear her shout after me.

  But the judgement I fear most is not in the innocent eyes of the people around me, it’s what I hold inside of me.

  I’ve disappointed everyone.

  But most of all, I hate to think what Eva thinks of me and the despicable act I’ve committed.

  As I get into my car, the one thing I know will wash all those feelings away is a bottle.

  Chef Pierre: Chapter 11

  Holly

  “Mummy, can you wake up now?”

  My head’s swimming, clouded by heaviness as I try and focus on the sweetest voice I’ve ever heard. I’m trying to fight the veil encompassing my mind. I think I scream as loud as I can, trying to lift the blanket and let my little girl know I’m okay. But I remain silent and immobile.

  “Mummy, are you alright?” she asks as I feel her gentle, warm hand grasp mine.

  “Emma, I think we need to let Mummy rest. We’ll stay here with her, but you need to be quiet so she can get better,” Bronwyn softly whispers.

  NO! I try to scream, yell, to make as much noise as I can. I want Emma to keep talking to me, to pull my mind back to reality, to help me snap out of the fog that has a hold on me.

  “Mummy, I liked our picnic. When you wake up, can we have another one?”

  “Shhhh, Emma. You need to let Mumma sleep.”

  “I talked with that man you work with, too. He’s funny. I like him. I like the way he talks. That’s how they speak where they come from.”

  “Emma,” Bronwyn’s voice holds a tone of warning.

  “But I think he’s nice. Can he come with us to our next picnic? I think he’ll like the jumping pillow.”

  “Emma,” Bronwyn now bites toward her, clipped and short.

  “It’s okay, Nanna. Mummy likes it when I talk.”

  “She needs to rest.”

  “She doesn’t. She needs us here so she can wake up. I think she’s been waiting for us to get here. You should talk to her too, Nanna,” Emma innocently says. She’s not purposely trying to defy Bronwyn. It’s just in Emma’s nature to talk.

  “How about you talk to her for a few minutes, then I’ll take you to get a hot chocolate?”

  “Okay. Mummy, I think you should wake up now, because I want you to come home with us.” She grips my hand a little harder, but her voice is still so light and sweet.

  The light begins to disappear and Emma’s voice becomes muted. The cloak of darkness closes firmly over my consciousness and forcefully pulls me back to a place I don’t want to go.

  “Holly,” a thick French accent gently whispers. Warm fingers tangle around mine, and I can feel the heat of tender fingers stroking the skin on the back of my hand.

  “Merde! I did not want to talk to you like this. I waited outside the hospital in my car until I saw your little girl and your mother-in-law leave.” His French is tight and somewhat strangled.

  “Pierre,” I try and say, though it doesn’t sound like the noise is loud enough for him to hear.

  “Mon chéri, I am sorry. I should not have kissed you when I did. I should not have been aggressive with you, and taken your mouth like you belong to me, non. But you reminded me of a time I wish I could have again. A moment when I forgot all about my broken heart, and wanted to fight for more. Wanted to hold a beautiful femme and feel something more than the nothing which has been filling me for so long. Oui, you came into my kitchen and told me of the man, non, the beast, who dared put his hands on you, and it reminded me of a time with Eva.”

  I’m not sure what happens. Maybe the black drags me under, or maybe Pierre stops talking. Chills touch me, the warmth caressing my hand ceases.

  “Mummy
,” I hear again.

  This time though, I’m able to open my eyes. The room is dimly lit, a strong, overpowering antiseptic smell assaults my nose.

  I turn my head to the right and see the stand where a bag of clear liquid hangs, with a tube attached to it.

  “Mummy,” I hear again.

  When I slowly turn my head to the left, my little peanut is looking at me with the biggest, toothiest smile.

  “Emma,” I say, my voice guttural and my throat dry. I try and swallow, but the lack of moisture makes it more difficult.

  “You’re awake,” she exclaims, and launches herself at me. Emma’s little body collides with mine, and she’s hugging me tightly. “I knew you just needed me to talk to you so you’d wake up. I told Nanna, but she kept telling me to be quiet. I didn’t want to be quiet, Mummy. I love you.”

  I can’t help but hug her close to my body. Her hair smells like the floral conditioner she uses; her little body is pressed lovingly against mine.

  “I love you too, Peanut,” I manage to say. It feels nice. To have the most important person in my arms, and to know I’m okay and can hold her and tell her how much I love her.

  As Emma and I lay together, the door swings open and Bronwyn comes in, holding a take-away cup.

  “Holly, sweetheart, how are you feeling?” she asks as soon as she assess the room and notices I’m awake.

  I take a few seconds to get my head around it all, and realise my head is actually thumping from a dull pain. I lift my right hand, and notice I have a cannula. When I bring my hand to my forehead, I wince in pain, but can feel a small bandage.

  “How many days have I been in here?” I ask as I gingerly run my hand over my bruised and bandaged forehead.

  Bronwyn presses the buzzer then sits on the right side of me, where there’s an empty chair.

  “It’s just after five in the afternoon. You came in early this morning. Do you remember what happened?”

  “Unfortunately.” I pause for a moment, stroking Emma’s hair as she snuggles closer to me. “Where’s Pierre?” I ask looking at Bronwyn.

  “He’s funny. I like him, Mummy.”

  I look down at Emma, who’s now sitting up on the bed and is holding my hand. “How do you know?”

  “He was in the waiting room when Nanna and I came here. I talked to him. Can he come on a picnic with us?”

  “I’m not sure about that, Peanut. He may not want to come, and it may not be a good idea.”

  “But I think he wants to, so why can’t we just ask him?” Emma says, her big chocolate eyes gazing at me. Her innocence is beautiful, so warming and childlike. Exactly how she is.

  “We’ll see,” I answer as I look to Bronwyn for some help.

  Just as Bronwyn stands, the door opens and a nurse in uniform comes in.

  “I’m Rebecca and I’m your nurse tonight. How are you feeling, Mrs. Walker?” she asks as she goes to the foot of the bed and lifts the observation chart out of its holder.

  “I’m alright.”

  Bronwyn walks around to the other side and holds her hand out for Emma to hop off the bed.

  “Any dizziness, headaches, nausea? The doctor will be in soon to check you over.”

  “Just a headache, and a pain in my forehead.”

  “There was a nasty cut on your forehead, but it didn’t need to be stitched, just glued together.”

  I nod at her, and she smiles warmly at me. Rebecca is young and pretty, but calm and caring too.

  “Do you need anything while I’m here? Would you like me to help you use the bathroom?”

  “No I’m okay. But I could do with something to drink.”

  “As soon as the doctor comes in and gives the go-ahead, I’ll bring you some water and some food.”

  “Thank you,” I say and look toward her, then Bronwyn.

  “Hey, Emma, how are you doing?” she asks my daughter.

  Emma’s eyes light up and she beams a huge smile at the nurse. It’s obvious Emma’s been chatting with her too.

  “I’m good, but I’m bored.”

  “Maybe I can take you and see if I can find you some pencils and paper?” Rebecca looks at me, waiting to see if I’ll give her my permission.

  With a small nod and a smile, and Emma excitedly talking rapidly, Rebecca leads her out of the room.

  When the door closes, I turn to Bronwyn. “Why was Pierre here?”

  “How do you know he was here?”

  “He came into the room, he was talking to me.”

  “What? He did?” she asks. Her eyebrows knit tightly together in a frown and her lips curve downward.

  “What happened?” I say as I sit up in bed.

  Bronwyn walks back around and sits in the chair to my right. “When Angus called me at home, he said he got our number through your emergency contact form at work. Anyway, when we got here, Emma saw a man sitting in the waiting area, covered in blood and asked him if he was here to see you.”

  “She did?” I smile, knowing her brazen personality is exactly like mine.

  “She did. She told him he’s not as mean as you say he is.”

  “Oh my goodness. Please tell me she didn’t.” I feel my cheeks pink up as I lower my eyes.

  “She did. When I went to talk to him, he barely stayed for a moment before he fled. I’ve never seen a man move so fast,” Bronwyn chuckles.

  “He came in here, and was talking to me. I don’t remember all of it, but he did say something about being sorry he kissed me.”

  “He kissed you?” Bronwyn shrills as her eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

  “Yeah, he did. Tonight…or I should say, last night – or whenever.” I try and grasp the time frame I’ve missed out on.

  A long moment of quiet stretches out between us.

  I’m trying to recall what Pierre said, and I’m not sure what Bronwyn is thinking, though she does have a devious curve to her lips.

  “What?” I ask as I try to read her expression.

  “You don’t find it slightly interesting that a man like Pierre kissed you, then beat the man who tried to assault you, fled when I tried to speak to him, and then snuck in here to be with you?”

  “I don’t know what to think. He was there to help me,” I trail off, not really wanting to talk to her about the kiss or how he called me Eva and said he loves me – ehh – loves her.

  “Why would he kiss you?” she challenges.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What’s his story?”

  “He called me Eva. I think she was his wife who passed away. But something happened when he kissed me.” I stop talking and focus on a half-torn poster on the far side of the room. How strange is this conversation I’m having with Bronwyn? She is my mother-in-law. She can’t want to hear this, and I’m not sure I’m entirely comfortable talking to her about it.

  But fact of the matter is, I don’t have any girlfriends to talk to. I’m thirty-five and have been with Stephen since I was twenty. Although I made him wait and work hard to get me, we still hung out with each other at every possible opportunity.

  Stephen went to university to study medicine. I worked several waitressing jobs and then progressed to work as a maître d’ in an inner-city, upper-class restaurant – though not a Michelin starred restaurant. I got busy and my old girlfriends and I grew apart.

  When I discovered I was pregnant with Emma, Stephen and I were already married and all our spare time was devoted to each other and Emma when she came along.

  It’s nobody’s fault; life just gets in the way.

  “I think that young man may have feelings for you. And I suspect he doesn’t know what to do with them or is even aware that he has them.”

  “Bronwyn,” I start saying, shaking my head at the ludicrous thought of Pierre being attracted to me. “He doesn’t.”

  “What happened when he kissed you?”

  “It was…” I’m not sure what to say. I’ve barely been able to catch my breath. It feels like it happened days ago, but
it happened late last night. “He kissed me. He dragged me into Angus’s office, and kissed me.”

  “How did it make you feel?” Bronwyn asks, remaining calm.

  “I don’t know,” I answer truthfully.

  “Like I said, that young man has got something for you.”

  “Impossible. He pulled me against his body, he kissed me, and afterward it was only anger that radiated from him,” I pause and again, shaking my head at the memory of how livid he was.

  “He’s French.”

  “So?”

  “They’re very passionate people.”

  “So?” I ask again.

  “Have you mistaken what you thought was anger for what it really is? Frantic passion?”

  I look at Bronwyn and keep shaking my head.

  “Wh…what? Passion?”

  “It’s time to move on with your life, Holly. Stephen would want you to be happy, and he’d want his little girl to have a strong man in her life, too. Stephen wouldn’t mind at all.”

  My eyes shoot to hers. I know what she’s saying, but this is too much. I can feel tears begin to form behind my eyelids, and a tight knot forms in my stomach. My pulse quickens. Not at the thought of Pierre, but the overwhelming thoughts of uncertainty that have been present every day since Stephen died.

  “I think it may be time for you to decide to move on. You need to be happy too.”

  “I can’t,” I whisper as my hands come up to my face to hide the tears.

  “Of course you can, Holly. We only have a moment on this earth. Don’t spend your moment looking backward at your past. It’s okay to love again. Move forward.”

  “I’m not ready for that.”

  “I think you are. It may not be with this man, this Pierre, but it doesn’t mean you should stop being a thirty-five year old woman, either.” Bronwyn moves to sit on the side of the narrow hospital bed, and engulfs me in a tight embrace.

  “It’s not the right time yet.”

  “We all have choices. And every choice is waiting to be made. Make the right choice, Holly, and let your walls down. Talk to Pierre. Maybe there’s something there, and maybe there isn’t. But don’t hide from him, or from yourself.”