by Jewel E. Ann
Oliver: No comment. Go Girl? And there will be something firm for you in the stacks when I get home, but it won’t be a NO.
Me: Home.
Oliver: …
I’m not sure what his ellipsis means. I unlock the door and start to say Rosenberg’s name when my breath catches in my lungs and my words are stolen. The whole lower level is filled with bouquets of white and “crimson” roses. And before I can even move, I hear the click of a camera.
“Alex!” She grins and takes more pictures of me.
“Did you—”
“No, no … I’m just capturing the moment. It’s all Oliver.”
Setting my bag down, I pull one of the roses from a vase and smell it.
Click. Click. Click.
“How did you get in here?”
“I have a key and I keep it under our entry planter with ours. Oliver suggested it. I understand why I needed the key, but his suggestion to keep it under our planter is weird.”
I grin. Alex hasn’t heard that story yet.
My phone vibrates. It’s Oliver and he’s sent me a picture with a message.
Oliver: My new screen shot for my phone.
The picture is of me smelling the rose. The one Alex just took.
“You’re sending pictures to Oliver?”
She snaps a few more of me. “Yep. That’s what I’ve been hired to do.”
Me: Why are you having Alex paparazzi my every move?
Oliver: Missing your touch is almost unbearable. Missing everything else too, would kill me. Love you.
Me: Tears … love you more!
Oliver: Nice try, but not possible. Call me later when you’re alone.
Me: O … kay?!
“How were your classes? Any cute guys?” Alex flops back on the couch and twirls her hair around her finger.
“Last I heard, you’re engaged and I’m …” I gesture to the embarrassingly romantic display of roses surrounding us.
“I didn’t ask if you scored us dates for the weekend, I asked if there were any cute guys in your class. You know … on the likely chance that the lecture gets boring, you can strip the hot guy sitting in front of you with your eyes and dirty mind.”
I toss the rose I grabbed earlier at her. “For starters, there is no one sitting in front of me. I have to sit in the front row for my recorder to pick up everything clearly. And you’ve seen Oli, he’s…” I sigh “…perfect.”
“I love that your definition of perfect is a guy much older than you with a tainted past and a wife in the looney bin.”
“I feel bad for her.” I sit on the floor next to Alex with my legs crisscrossed. “Does that make me crazy?”
“You feel bad because of what she did or where she’s at?”
“Both. She didn’t choose to lose her sanity. Can you imagine what it would be like to not have control over your thoughts or to not be able to distinguish reality from illusions? She’s sick, really sick and …”
“Oliver left her?”
I nod. “The problem is even if I can’t imagine it, I understand why she did what she did. I also understand why Oliver despises her so much, but it makes me wonder where couples draw that line. I mean … when you and Sean get married will you vow to love each other through sickness and health?”
“No, absolutely not. Our vows are going to be more like the reading of a hypothetical prenup. ‘I promise to love you in times of acute, non-antibiotic resistant illness and health as long as you don’t try to pass it off as a beer gut and man boobs.’ His will be similar except instead of beer gut and man boobs it will read saggy tits and bingo wings.”
“AKA, you too are in love with a damaged man who loves you something fierce?”
“Basically.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Insanity
Oliver
I never imagined returning to Portland. Then again, I never imagined moving back to Boston. When Caroline and I moved here, I fell in love with everything: the people, the view, the mountains, and the less-than-two-hour drive to the beautiful Pacific coast. We had a great house, I had a promising job, and we were getting ready to start our family—our future.
Now the view isn’t so spectacular, and I think I prefer Boston Harbor to the Pacific coastal beaches. The city feels too congested, and I don’t recognize the people. Since I’ve met Vivian, everything outside of her blindingly beautiful aura seems dull and boring.
I went to see Caroline today. Mental hospitals have to be the epitome of boring. If a patient’s not truly insane going in, they will be before too long. It’s fairly quiet except for the occasional outburst that’s dealt with by quick hands and a syringe filled with a magical sleep-it-off-until-you’re-ready-to-knock-this-shit-off potion. Every activity is planned with military regimen. There’s a short window of visiting hours, especially for Caroline, and so today there weren’t any breakthroughs, at least while I was there. She was heavily sedated, coming in and out of sleep for the first half hour. Then they brought in her dinner with plastic silverware, customary for suicidal patients. She didn’t eat and she didn’t speak—not one word. I didn’t say anything either. I went to show her I’m here, but my presence didn’t seem to encourage her. I left feeling angry and regretting this trip after only one day.
An hour ago, a nurse called and said Caroline ate all her dinner after I left when the nurse told her I’d come back tomorrow, but only if she ate. Apparently, she hasn’t eaten in three days, so now I’m the saintly miracle worker. Fucking fabulous. Whatever, eat, taper off your meds, admit you fucked up, and face the consequences. Then accept we’re over and let me get the hell away from you.
The anger I have inside is brutal. For a while I thought it was fading, but seeing her today I realized it was just time and distance buffering my raw emotions. I didn’t recognize her and not just because she looks horrid from the meds, lack of sun, and ripping out half of her own hair. It was her eyes. There’s no life in them. It’s as if her body is a vessel with a heartbeat, but her soul is gone. I think that’s what happens when you take someone’s life. Maybe that’s what happens before you take their life. Everything good in you has to leave, and then you’re nothing but a human machine acting without emotion. At best, she’ll get rehabilitated enough to not want to kill herself or anyone else, but I don’t believe she’ll ever be able to love or have genuine emotions for another human ever again.
*
I’m staying in Doug and Lily’s walkout basement. One of the reasons I agreed to stay here is because there’s a separate kitchen and bathroom so I can avoid them for the most part. They, of course, were elated about the nurse’s call and offered one too many I-told-you-so looks for my taste. So now I’m waiting with impatient frustration for Vivian to call me. I’m already having withdrawals from her and I need to hear her soft voice filled with sexy seduction that makes me hard every time she says the words Oli or babe.
Me: Are you alone yet?
I wait a few minutes and just as I’m ready to send another message my phone chimes.
“You’re killing me.”
“Miss you too, babe.”
And … I’m hard.
“So how was your first day?”
“Amazing. Except I pressed pause instead of play on my recorder during my math class.”
“You recorded a math class?”
“No. Aren’t you listening? I tried to, but I didn’t get it recorded.”
I chuckle. “That’s what I meant. You tried to record a math class?”
“Yes, Alex! I record all my classes,” she says with mock annoyance.
“When do you have time to listen to them all again?”
“Duh … while I’m sleeping.”
“What are you wearing?”
“What?”
“You had an amazing day, you’ve reconfirmed your nerd girl status, enough pleasantries, now what are you wearing?”
“Your T-shirt.”
“Hmm … in the back of the closet are m
y dress shirts. Put one on then pull your hair up, get your black framed glasses and then bring your laptop to your bed and we’ll Skype.”
“Why—”
“Just do it.”
“Um … okay.”
I slip off my pants and shirt and lie back on my bed. A few minutes later her live picture appears on my screen. With one look I’m hard as a brick and I can tell this won’t last long.
Her grin is bright and huge. “I want to kiss the screen.”
“Me too. Unbutton the shirt.”
She scoots her computer off her lap onto the bed between her spread legs. Perfect! Her lips part and her tongue eases out to wet them as she works the last button. Alluring eyes look up at the screen through sexy glasses and a few strands of her hair hang down from the messy pile on top of her head. “Like this?”
I slide my hand down my briefs and fist my erection. Her eyes follow my hand then she looks back up in wide-eyed surprise.
“Let me see your breasts.”
She glances back down at the screen. I slide the front of my briefs down so she has a better view. I can see her breaths coming quicker, almost feel her nipples hardening, and I can definitely taste the slick sweetness between her legs. Vivian pulls the sides of my shirt back with slight hesitation until her perky breasts with pebbled nipples are fully exposed.
I swallow and wet my lips while my hand slides along my erection. “Vivian, how do you like me to touch you?”
She drops her chin to her chest and stares at herself. Then bright emeralds peer at me over black frames. I have to slow down my hand. The vision before me is college professor porn.
Vivian moves her hand to her stomach then eases it up to her breast like she’s touching herself for the first time. She looks down and squeezes it while drawing her thumb down over her nipple. Okay, I thought this was a good idea, but I was wrong. I want to crawl through the screen and devour her. This sucks … really, really sucks.
Her other hand does the same thing and when I see her eyelids close and fight to open again, I squeeze my hand and moan in both agony and pleasure. She bends her knees and spreads her legs wide.
My hand speeds up.
“See anything you like, Mr. Konrad?”
“Fuck, Vivian!”
“I miss your lips here.” She slides her hand down her stomach and between her legs. “Mmm …” She moans and closes her eyes.
I’m so close.
“And I miss your tongue here.” She presses two fingers to her clitoris and moves them in slow circles. “Oh, Oli …” Each word is a drawn-out pant.
I slow down again and try to hold off, but it’s killing me. I close my eyes to let the tension ease a bit, but her soft pants and whimpers don’t allow much of a reprieve.
“Oli, don’t stop.”
I open my eyes to Vivian with one hand on her breast squeezing and tugging at her nipple and her other hand still low on her stomach. Her two fingers are alternately pulsing in rapid succession.
“Ol-Oli … oh God … Oliver!” she yells my name as her head falls back and her knees collapse together.
It only takes a couple more pumps before I release—stomach muscles tensing, teeth digging into my lower lip.
God, I love technology even if I hate missing her.
*
The days have blurred into weeks and I’m starting to wonder if time exists. Is anything changing or am I stuck in limbo where Vivian is busy with school and working a few hours a week at The Green Pot while I’m trying, with little success, to get Caroline to … what? That’s just it. I don’t have a damn clue. She may never get better. I think Doug and Lily are grasping for something that’s just an illusion—wishful thinking, but not reality.
I need to work, but not just for the money. I need to feel like I’m making a contribution and doing something more than watching Caroline eat dinner every night while chanting she loves me. Yes, that’s the new development. She loves me. It’s ridiculous, unbelievable, but mostly pathetic. Since I’ve been here those are the only three words she’s said to me. I think it’s the meds, but who knows and who really cares? Not me.
Her doctor is going to adjust her meds and get her back in therapy now that she’s showing improvement and isn’t suicidal any more. I’m not a doctor, but where he’s “seeing improvement” is beyond me. Improvement would be moving past her half-ass suicide attempts and just getting the job done. There’s no need for her to be using up air that other people could make better use of. Obviously the monster in me is still alive.
Visiting Sturgeon, Wallace, and Faye, the law firm I used to work at, was not on my Portland to-do list. Unfortunately, plans have changed. Valerie Wallace is due with twins next month and the other partners and myself were planning on absorbing her work load while she takes maternity leave. I’m sure my leaving has made the load that much heavier for Sturgeon and Faye.
“Oh my gosh! Oliver!” Samantha, the receptionist, calls as I walk into their office. She waddles in her tight skirt and heels to give me a hug. She turned fifty this past spring, but between her time in the tanning bed and years of smoking she doesn’t look a day over seventy.
“Hey there, Samantha.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I was hoping to talk with Brice. Does he still mark off an extra half hour after lunch for a nap?”
“Oh, honey … you know that’s just hearsay.”
I laugh. “No, it’s I’ve seen, not hearsay. I’ve walked into his office on more than one occasion and seen him hunched over, drooling on his tie.”
“Well, Cindy said he has sleep apnea so I’m sure he’s just exhausted by one.”
I glance at my watch. “So are you stalling or are you going to let me sneak in on him?”
She shoos me toward the hall. “Have at it, but if he asks, I wasn’t at my desk when you arrived.”
“Deal.”
Brice Sturgeon is third-generation law school. His grandfather practiced until he was eighty-two, but his dad took early retirement at sixty-three after a triple bypass. Brice and his twin sister, Valerie Wallace, took over the family practice seven years ago and brought their friend from UCLA law school, Mitchell Faye, in with them.
“Knock, knock, wipe your drool and stash your porn.”
“Oliver Konrad, what the hell are you doing in town?” Brice shoves his half-eaten sandwich back in its sack, stands while wiping his mouth, and offers his hand.
I shake his hand and take a seat opposite him. “Wish I could say sightseeing, but unfortunately that’s not the case.”
I look around his office. “You found another Ivy League sucker like myself to come work for you?”
Brice, Valerie, and Mitchell never tried to hide the fact that they hired me based on my Harvard degree. Brice said my diploma would look good on the wall and lend confidence to potential new clients. I just needed a job and an established client base. We were a good match at the time.
“Nah, preppy boys like yourself don’t like to navigate off the East Coast. Most of your breed are just a bunch of mama’s boys with a trust fund.”
“Well I haven’t been notified about mine. That’s why I’m here.”
“Oh?”
“I’m in town for a while. Unfortunately, I think it’s going to be longer than I originally expected. Caroline’s parents want me to stay here until she gets … better, of sorts.”
“Better? You do realize—”
I hold up my hand. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m fully aware of her chances of ever getting out of there or having anything resembling a normal life. I’m doing this for Doug and Lily and … I guess my own closure or something.” I rub my hands over my face. “I don’t know.”
“So you need a job?”
“Not a job. I’m not staying. Just work. I need something to keep me from going crazy myself and some income until my magic trust fund becomes available wouldn’t be bad either.”
Brice grins and tosses a whole stack of files on the de
sk in front of me. “Have at it. Valerie’s here maybe two hours a day before she has to go home and elevate her swollen feet. As you know, she has a lot of female clients that would bend over backwards to work with you—figuratively and literally.”
I grab one of the files and open it. “I’ll start on these next Monday if that works. I need to go back home and pack up my stuffy suits and shiny shoes.”
“Yeah, I heard a rumor you’ve been helping your brother plant shit.”
I stand. “Yes, that’s his business tagline. ‘We plant shit.’”
Brice pulls out his sandwich and props his feet up on the desk.
“Looking forward to it, preppy.”
I shake my head. “See you Monday.”
*
As expected my news isn’t going over well with Doug and Lily.
“You can’t leave. She’s just started to come around again,” Lily says.
“It’s just for the weekend. I’ll tell her I’m leaving for two days and that I’ll be back.”
I start down the stairs, tired of having this argument with them.
“She won’t understand,” Doug calls after me.
“Then she probably won’t notice that I’m gone for two flipping days!”
Every day I wonder what I’m doing. I found out after Caroline was admitted that Lily has struggled with depression most of her adult life and even takes medication for it. The genetic factor was there. That would have been helpful to know when I married my pregnant wife. So naturally Lily is extra sensitive about … everything. I not only have to baby step my way around Caroline, I have to with Lily as well. I hope I can accomplish whatever the hell it is I’m supposed to be accomplishing here and get out before I lose it with one or the other.
I contemplate calling my parents and letting them know I’ll be coming home this weekend, but I want to surprise Vivian, and to be honest, my mom is not to be trusted. A poor trait for a psychiatrist, but I think in her professional life she abides by her oath and keeps information in strict confidentiality. Maybe I should hire her and tell her my childhood secrets, then I could sue her for breach of confidentiality every time she tells Vivian about the weak bladder I had as a child.
