by B. A. Beers
They had plenty of time; he didn’t need to rush it. He wanted to bring back the girl he had spoken to in the bathroom — to hear more about her life that didn’t involve the things hidden in the cedar chests. He needed a distraction for her mind . . . like working on his sore back. But, what? he wondered. What did she like to do besides cleaning and painting? He had no clue.
‘Ask her,’ Pat’s voice offered.
Smiling, Mark nodded. “Sami? What do you do for fun?” he asked.
Slowly, Sami brought her eyes to him, but they remained unfocused. “Fun?” she responded.
“Yes,” he replied. “How do you occupy your time? I see no TV or radio.”
“I paint.”
“I don’t mean at your home in the valley, I mean here in the cabin. You shared that you would sit with your father on the porch, but what did you do during the winter?”
A slow smile appeared on her face. “We would bake, play games, do puzzles, read. . .,” her voice faded.
“Games?” Mark questioned.
“Yes,” Sami replied. “Card games, board games.”
“Where are they?” Mark asked, getting to his feet.
“You want to play a game?” Sami asked, dazed.
“Sure,” Mark stated. “Games, popcorn. Great way to spend a snowy afternoon.”
“You don’t want to just talk?” she asked, confused.
“Nah, we have plenty of time for talking later. Now, where are those games? Bet I can win any game you throw at me,” he boasted.
“I doubt it,” Sami challenged, looking up at him.
“I accept your challenge,” Mark said, holding out his hand to assist her to her feet.
“They are my games and my rules,” she smiled, taking his hand.
“We will see,” Mark replied. “Want to make a wager?”
On her feet, Sami squared her shoulders and asked, “What type of wager? Money?”
“No, let’s make it more personal,” he offered, looking at her intently.
“Dr. Stevens!” Sami exclaimed, taken back.
Mark chuckled. “It is Mark, and you have a dirty mind,” he responded.
Sami blushed under his gaze. “I do not,” she countered.
“Right, I will remember that,” Mark stated, smiling. “What I had in mind was wagering on your treatment.”
“In what way?” Sami asked, curious.
“When I win . . ., “ Mark began.
“That is, if you win,” Sami interrupted.
“Okay,” Mark agreed. “If I win, you will readily cooperate in every aspect of my treatment plan for you. No questions asked.”
Sami pressed her lips together tightly and glared at him without responding.
Witnessing her concentration, Mark winked at her and added, “Remember, you don’t have a dirty mind.”
Sami’s features softened as a soft laugh escaped her. “And, when I win?” she asked.
“Not going to happen,” Mark announced.
“Come on,” Sami directed. “What are you offering? No treatment program. You will exit my life and allow me to . . . “
“Finish it, Sami,” Mark ordered, watching her closely and wanting her to voice her thoughts.
Sami remained silent as she debated her options of words. Observing the unfocused look in her eyes, Mark clearly saw she was having trouble deciding on what she would say. The doctor in him was thrilled at the sight of her hesitation; it meant part of her knew she needed his help. She was displaying a willingness to let down her guard. However, the first step in the process was admitting the need, and she had yet to cross that point. His admittance into her life was due to her ‘watchdog’, not her belief that she needed help. Come on, Sami, he silently pleaded.
Sami’s eyes focused on him. “I am waiting,” she stated.
Puzzled, Mark asked, “What?”
“What is in it for me?” she questioned.
Wow. Total avoidance. I didn’t see that coming, Mark thought, keeping his face frozen in a smile to cover his thoughts. “I’ll allow you a ‘catch word’,” he answered.
“Catch word?” Sami asked, tilting her head.
“Yes. A word that will tell me you wish for me to back off,” Mark offered.
“What word?” she inquired.
“Any word you like,” he responded.
“So, when I win, this magic word will allow me to tell you I’ve had enough?” Sami stated, seeking affirmation.
“No, it is not a ‘get out of jail free’ card,” Mark replied. “It is a word which tells me you are not ready to open that door yet.”
“That doesn’t seem to be a very good prize for winning,” she stated.
“You are wrong there,” Mark stated knowingly. “This is a onetime offer.”
Sami saw Mark’s intense gaze. “Just what type of plan do you have in mind?” she asked.
“One that should motivate you to win this ‘catch word’,” he responded.
“That sounds ominous,” she retorted.
“It is not a threat; it is a fact.”
Seeing his set features, Sami offered her right hand to him. “Well, Dr. Stevens, you have yourself a deal,” she confirmed.
“Hot damn,” Mark cried, taking her hand and shaking it. “It is Mark.”
Shaking her head, Sami replied, “Not for the duration of the games. I am in it to win, loser.”
“Loser?” Mark questioned.
“Yep, that is my ‘catch word’. Get used to it,” Sami stated, releasing his hand and skirting around him. “To the table.”
Mark smiled as he caught Grandma Jo’s look at him. “Popcorn?” he requested.
“Right away,” she replied, placing aside her needles and getting to her feet. “Want fudge, too?”
Mark looked over at Sami and saw the Scrabble board being placed on the table. “Yes, fudge, also. Looks like I will need brain food. Let the game begin,” he shouted.
***
Settling into the game, Mark realized by the third round that his offhanded bet had backfired on him. His attempt to engage her in conversation failed as she ordered him to remain silent so she could concentrate on winning. She was taking the game very serious. Mark was tempted to tell her that he had already won — not the game, but her acceptance of his treatment. His plan was to allow her to win. Providing her with a false sense of control was his goal. With that goal reached, he was ready to move on. The moving on would have to wait until this game was completed. Smiling, he sat back against the hardwood rail of the chair’s back and immediately groaned loudly as his face took on a painful grimace.
“What is it?’ Sami asked. “Are you deliberately distracting me?”
“No, ma’am,” Mark uttered softly. “My back. I forgot.”
“Me, too,” she acknowledged, getting to her feet and racing to the couch for a throw pillow. Returning with the pillow, she gently positioned it between his back and the hard chair. “Better?”
Reluctantly, Mark pressed his sore back into the pillow. “Yes,” he admitted. “It will be interesting trying to sleep tonight.”
“Position a pillow behind you. That should help you,” Sami offered, taking her seat.
“You sound experienced,” Mark stated.
Sami shook her head. “Not with welts, but sunburns, yes,” she informed him.
“Remind me later,” he requested.
Nodding, she asked, “Where was I?”
Mark laughed. “In the process of beating me,” he replied.
“Yes, yes,” she said, focusing on her tiles.
Mark looked at his tiles and groaned at the seven vowels on his tile rack. “What’s the house rule on drawing all vowels?” he asked.
An evil smile crossed Sami’s face. “Live with it, buddy. Play the tiles you picked.”
“Where is that brain food?” he called out to Grandma Jo.
“Coming,” she answered from the kitchen.
By the fifth round, Grandma Jo appeared with the snacks and pos
itioned herself next to Mark and watched the game.
As Mark’s sugar level increased from the sweet, sugary fudge, he became playful. Sami had taken the lead early and he was sitting with a seven-letter word ending in ‘s’. Viewing the board, he saw two, good, open positions — one with no extra points and the other was on a triple-word box. He knew taking the board position of higher point value would outdistance him from Sami’s score. His male pride was telling him to ‘wax’ her, but he fought the urge and took the option with the minimum points. He caught Grandma Jo’s intake of air and quickly kicked her under the table before she could verbalize her thought.
Her jump from the impact of his foot alarmed Sami. “What is it? Are you okay?” Sami asked sincerely.
Grandma Jo looked at Mark and placed her hand on her breast. “Yes, fine, dear. It is just an air bubble,” she explained.
Mark winked at Grandma Jo and counted his points. “Twenty for the word, plus fifty for all seven letters. That is seventy,” he announced.
“What?” Sami cried, looking at his word. She counted it for herself. “Yes, you are right.” She wrote the total and tallied the numbers. “I am still ahead of you by fifteen.”
“Game is not over yet,” Mark replied, drawing seven tiles from the almost-empty bag. Positioning the tiles, he laughed.
“Now what?” Sami asked.
“Might as well concede now,” he answered.
“Why? Do you have another seven-letter word?” Sami asked meekly.
“Don’t I wish,” he cried, tipping his tile rack to show all vowels again. “I am the farmer in the dell. . .e, i, e, i, o.”
“I win?” Sami cried. Seeing his head nod affirmatively, she yelled, “Loser!”
***
SIX
Mark moaned as he shifted his position on the bed. At Sami’s suggestion, he had placed a pillow behind his back to ease his discomfort, but the idea was not working. It seemed to him that the pillow was radiating heat, causing a trickle of sweat to roll down his temple. Grabbing the pillow, he flipped it to the other side and hugged it to his chest. The flexing of the skin on his back by his movement resulted in another moan. His pain reminded him of a bad sunburn. The welts had started to throb. He was tempted to remove the T-shirt he had worn to bed to allow the circulating air from the furnace vent to fan the injury, but removing the shirt would be too painful. Grunting, he leaned into the pillow in his arms and tried to think of something else to occupy his thoughts. Sami, his subconscious mind called.
“Yes,” he muttered softly, turning his thoughts to the activities of the day. So much had transpired: the Clarks’ visit; the discovery of Sami’s twin, Rosemarie; the icy plunge in the freezing lake; and the marathon of Scrabble. Each event provided him clues in his quest to mend Sami.
Sami’s parting words still echoed in his mind. ‘Night, Loser’, she had called, before shutting her bedroom door across the hall. He found himself wondering about her selected ‘catch word’. It was meant as a signal, but it cut him like a knife. You are being too sensitive, he admonished himself. Blowing air through his lips, he wished she had chosen any other word in the English language — one that didn’t make him cringe when he heard it. It was done now; no way to stop it.
Perturbed beyond reason, he rose up on his elbows and punched the feather pillow to readjust it. His actions resulted in releasing the aroma buried deep within the feathers; it smelled like Sami. His mind recalled the words written by her deceased husband, JW, in the letter he had written to her on their honeymoon.
‘Honey, I could smell you. I know it is you. Somehow the breeze is carrying your scent to me. I am finding it difficult to control your power over my body. I physically ache to have you in my arms.’
Mark sighed. JW was right; her scent was powerful. He buried his face into the pillow and inhaled deeply. It was intoxicating. Feeling his body respond to the scent, Mark pushed up from the pillow and bit his lower lip. “This is wrong,” he whispered angrily. Stop it, Mark, his mind called. Go to sleep.
In frustration, Mark rolled forcefully onto his back. The contact of his tender back to the unyielding mattress brought tears to his eyes. This is ridiculous, he thought, sitting up on the edge of the bed and shaking due to the needle-like pain running across his back. Sleep is impossible. Spotting his recorder on the night stand, he decided that since he could not sleep, he would record the case update now instead of in the morning. Donning his sweatpants, he picked up the recorder and walked to the living room, assisted on this path by the faint illumination provided by the nightlight in the hallway.
He needed to focus on Sami, the patient, not Sami, the woman. He had to put on his doctor’s cap. He hoped that updating his records would clearly define his role in this situation. Right now, the lines were blurred. Stepping in front of the banked embers of the fire, he grabbed the nearby poker and stirred the embers. Seeing them spark to life, he located a smallish log in the wood box and tossed it on the fire. He knew the log would last only a short time, but he was hopeful that by the time the log became ashes, he would have completed his update.
Switching on the recorder, he began, “Sunday night. No clue what time, but it is late . . .,” he started. He stood before the fire and recounted the events of the past few days, knowing his words were being captured as he heard the whirling sound of the recorder. The more he talked, the more he found himself relaxing. He shared not only the facts, but also his personal thoughts. It was exactly what the doctor needed. Hearing the tape end, he stopped and looked around as if awakened from a trance. He had not moved during the dissertation. Spotting the ashes of the log, he had placed on the embers, he felt as spent as the log.
Shaking his head, he looked at the recorder in his hand. He couldn’t recall what he had just spoken. Tempted to rewind it to listen to what he had captured, he decided to let it go. Opening the recorder, he withdrew the tape and placed it in the pocket of his sweatpants, instinctively knowing that the words were not meant for others’ ears. Placing the recorder on the mantel, he banked the embers of the fire and walked to the bay window which overlooked the clearing to the lake.
Drawing back the drapes covering the window, he involuntarily shivered. The snowstorm had passed and the heavy clouds were gone. The crystal-clear air provided a breathtaking view of the starry night sky, and the sight humbled him. Without the city lights to fight through, the sky was loaded with twinkling stars; they looked like diamonds in the night sky. Even the full moon seemed to sparkle tonight as it shone down on the new blanket of snow. Its reflection off the white surface provided Mark with enough light to see the snow-laden tree branches. The scene was so peaceful. His breath fogged the glass before him and he backed away, dropping the drape back into place to keep the cold from entering the cabin. He shuddered at the recall of his icy dip earlier, and was thankful that it happened when it did instead of now. Walking, dripping wet, from the lake to the cabin on this deep-cold, cloudless night would surely have threatened his health if not his life. Subconsciously crossing his arms across his chest, he rubbed his hands on his upper arms as he moved back to his room.
Nearing his room, he heard the soft whimper of Molly coming through the closed bedroom door at the end of the hall. “You have got to be kidding,” Mark whispered to the door. “Go back to bed.” His voice caused Molly to whimper louder. “Great,” he whispered, stepping to the door and opening it. Molly shot passed him on her bandaged feet. Leaving the door ajar, Mark turned to see Molly’s eerily reflective eyes in the nightlight.
Looking down at his bare feet, he frowned. “You better make this quick,” he spoke softly, moving down to her. “To the kitchen. We both need something on our feet. Where are those useless shoes?”
***
Rounding the corner followed closely by Molly, Mark flipped the light switch to activate the track lighting which hung off the cross beams above them. The lights illuminated not only the kitchen, but the dining table. Seeing the Scrabble board still positioned on th
e table, Mark laughed. Shaking his head, he entered the kitchen, recalling the afternoon and evenings games. After the completion of their ‘wager’ game, Grandma Jo had added her word talent and had soundly beaten them. The competition was so thick, one could feel it in the air around the table. Dinner did not even interrupt their game as cold chicken was consumed while they continued to play.
Mark’s mind replayed their lively conversation while he secured the baggies on Molly’s paws using some of the yarn from Grandma Jo’s abundant supply. He couldn’t believe he had shared so much about himself — from his delinquent juvenile behavior, which had introduced him to Jon, to his schooling sponsored by Jon, and even the life and death experience of his beloved wife. Grandma Jo also shared the tragedy of her son’s life and her loneliness after the passing of her husband.
