I slip my feet back into the shoes I removed. I lift myself from sitting on the furniture to admire Jen – her flawlessly symmetrical face – while inching near her to caress a palm over her cool hand.
I never thought a woman could mean so much to a man until she became mine. It stands as the finest morning of my twenty-four years.
I bring into mind the remembrance as if she and I stood near the secured lockers in that unfilled tenth grade hall with thin carpet yesterday. An apprehensive mind nearabout embarrassed me as I was failing to get past the glow of her flawless complexion. After half a moment of just standing in awe of her straight smile, with her speaking to me to break my daze, the words “Would you like to go out sometime?” stumbled from my lips. She took a moment, one that seemed like an hour, and just when I assumed she was about to shake her head, a smiled appeared and she accepted and said “Yes, I would love to.” I’d admired her ever since she introduced herself to me in fourth grade, during recess. I was happier for her than I was for myself because she’d been through so much in life.
A number of anguishes from her childhood haunt her to this day. She mentions snippets here and there but without elaborating. Each time she tries to open up to me about what happened, she breaks down to the point where she jerks and trembles and cries for me to put my arms around her and tells me not to let go until the memories of her past finish their attacks. I understand it takes an inch at time with matters like that. She knows I do. I think her father had something to do with it because each time anyone mentions his name or a random thought of him or his face pops into her mind, she either suffers tormenting dreams or spends half the night weeping at the thoughts of the way he sexually abused her and her mother. I pray. I hope. I seek professional help as a means to help me better be there for her. Her hurts are my hurts. Her cries are my cries. Whenever she experiences trouble falling asleep, it troubles me. Sometimes, it spirals me into being so far irate that I step outside to let breaths of fresh air calm my nerves. He should be ashamed of himself for how he put hands on them. The devastation his addiction left behind for her to deal with in her heart makes me want to go shovel him up from beneath the ground and crush whatever remains of him in his casket. But I manage to survive, somehow. I’d rather be affected and there for her when she needs to be wrapped in my arms than rattled and behind bars in no position to be her strength for when she nears her low points.
*
The amber taxicab cruises away, after its loquacious driver commutes me home. I stand in the driveway with reflections of women in emergency technician uniforms hustling out the front door to load Jen into the back of the ambulance forming a nightmare in the space between my ears. I see myself initiating and alarming the security system and locking up to ride along in the room for laboring workers – performing resuscitations on patients – to maintain weak pulses until the emergency transportation arrives at the hospital.
The more I attempt to detach from the memories, the more I picture her strapped to the gurney with deathly and shuttered eyes as a fair-skinned woman in her thirties with ponytailed hair holds an oral-nasal mask firmly over Jen’s nose and mouth. I felt defenseless in the back of the ambulance, afraid of unpinning my eyes from the inertness about her, from a seat by the side of the locked-wheeled gurney. An emotional impotence dominated me while I anguished at the thought of life without her – fumbling words of encouragement as if certain all would be alright when I was horrified beyond what my mind could comprehend.
I step inside. I retrieve hold of the portable computer from the low coffee table of the modern living room she decorated to balance its base flat on the nearest armrest of the sofa as I ease my backside down for an impermanent place along the couch. I contemplate going to fetch the power adapter from the bedroom but am not sure if facing the bedroom that reminds me of her jerking and her eyes rolling back into her head stands to be the cause of a more devastating trauma than the one I suffered a moment ago in the driveway. A half-charged battery exists for the web browsing that needs to be done. I glue my attention to the monitor as the home page for the open-source web browser loads instantly upon the screen. I peruse our online banking accounts, pondering in advance – in case the coma carries past the one-month timeframe compensated for.
I believe in my heart she will triumph over her state of prolonged unconsciousness but have to prepare as if her chances stand shorter than none at all. I have yet to notice any progressions whatsoever. Decisions must be made instead of sitting on the hope horse waiting for what ifs and buts to ambush me from the blindside, deprive me of my dearest Jen. I have too much depending on this for me to sit in wait and let things happen. Passiveness need not be allowed. I must examine and determine a plan that will make the dollars amongst our checking and savings accounts equal the two-hundred-and-forty-thousand-dollar amount paid.
I have twenty-seven million in a retirement account – which cannot be touched unless I sell the business or present notarized documentation that validates my retirement. I want to retire from corporate business before the age of thirty so I can enjoy life and simply experience it with her, handle the utilities and insurance policies in advance for a decade and just live and smile and love the woman who was created for me.
Our home happens to be worth…
Quickly I grab the cordless landline from its main base unit on the corner table. I retrieve the plump phonebook and bring it to my lap. I flip. I skim. I pinpoint numbers that apply. I phone here. I phone there. I phone around until I get hold of someone who meets my need.
The gentleman agrees to be here in half an hour.
I put the cordless landline back where I grabbed it from. I stand from the couch to return the laptop as found. I catch me a quick bite in the kitchen. I jump in the shower – in a guest bedroom at the end of the upstairs hall. I feel my nude body backwards through the fastened door of our bedroom to my side of our closet, large enough to walk around in. I dare not look at the bed out of fear of the unfathomable flashbacks it may cause. I select boxer briefs from a designated compartment, a pair of my nice jeans, a casual short-sleeved cotton shirt with a collar and several buttons at the neck, a pair of casual shoes from my limited choices organized below on the carpet. I make my exit avoiding the piece of furniture that would bring me to my knees if I see it – I’m fine as long as my eyes make it from the bedroom without seeing it.
I groom myself in the mirror of the bathroom I used earlier. I go for a seat on the sofa to use television as a means to pass time. But before I can go into the living room to fetch the remote control, the knuckles of a clenched hand strike at the front door. I answer. I welcome the prime-aged gentleman – whom I spoke with over the phone – through the door with a straight look into his eyes and a firm handshake. I lead him on a cordial tour of the place: the living room, the kitchen, each of the upstairs bedrooms – but I remain in the hall for the master one. It appears as it was when I entered to candlelight and petals in a heart on the carpet surrounding the foundation of the bed. I let him have a look while I speak aloud about its features. Other than the master bedroom the place impresses with the spotlessness Jen mopped and vacuumed and swept it into. He sees the enormous backyard with the lush lawn and lofty fence which upholds privacy. After the showing comes to a close, I lead him back to the front door, speaking on the particulars I believe will reel people into becoming interested.
“I appreciate the tour. The nicest living room and bedrooms I’ve seen in my eight years of realtoring homes.” He steps out onto the doorstep to face me. “As for the asking price, I’d say one point five million. How much did it cost to build, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Seven hundred thousand.”
“Oh.”
“Surprised?”
“Expected it to be more.”
“It could’ve. In fact, it should’ve cost more. We determined the contract-everything-ourselves route was best, cutting out the middle man. Purchased the land. Hired contractors. Nothing el
se to it after that except interior decorating, which happened to be all her.” I unbind the spare key from my set of keys to hand it over to the gentleman. “In case you need to give a tour when I’m not here. If you’ve someone who believes one point five is too steep, I’d be more than willing to negotiate.”
“I’ll be sure to relay the message.” He has an earnest demeanor about handling business. “In the meantime, I’ll be working up a contract. Looking forward to getting back to you within a month with someone ready to make you one point five million dollars richer.”
“Sounds like a deal. Thanks for making the trip, Bryce.”
“No problem,” he says, shaking my firm hand, and he steps to enter his Mitsubishi sedan.
After watching it reverse out of the driveway, cruise down the street, I arm the alarm system. I exit the front door to lock up. I climb behind the wheel of my automobile. Jen’s car is parked a distance from the face of the right garage door. I press the start-engine button to steer myself back to the hospital and break the news about putting the home up for sale – in order to rake in the remaining amount needed to be able to handle the following month’s hospital bill. I drag the chair closer to the bed. I lay my palm over her sheeted dorsum. Taking the remote control from the bedside table to power on the high definition screen and catch an episode on television, I, a yawn catching me by surprise, minimize the volume for the sake of the woman I am here to see. I slouch my weight at the right arm of the chair to rest my eyes and doze off for a nap.
When I wake up, the fact a mountain of paperwork still needs to be handled and shipped to the renowned marketing firm I made the decision to partner with to commercialize Jen Juice strikes me from the posterior of my mind. I shoot to my headquarters for a seat behind my exclusive office desk to complete the documents that need to be filled with details, signatures, and faxed in before midnight tonight. I had Jen primp my tremendous space, which overlooks traffic moving at a snail’s pace and bound and determined sidewalkers of afternoon Chicago, with an enormous loveseat with memory cushions and angled arms, a sizable brand-name television mounted on the wall, and a printer and fax machine station that includes a document shredder. From the masterpiece painting fixed on the wall to the thin light-colored carpet laid over the solid floor, my light truly outdid herself for my respective workspace.
Normally I submit paperwork weeks in advance in order to give either the firm or merchandisers a chance to familiarize themselves with the details – in case an error exists on my behalf or a misunderstanding on theirs. That way, concerns can be resolved and deadlines can be met. But considering the severity of me and my girlfriend Jennifer’s circumstances, I just haven’t had time to handle business as normal because remaining near and uplifting her name has become more to me than any attainment or dollar I could earn from branding organic juices. Accomplished success means nothing without someone to share the harvest of your labor with. And she’s that for me – the life partner I enjoy halving my worth for.
“Knock, knock.”
I raise my sight from the paperwork I am completing with a dark ballpoint pen to notice Romulus, a recent Harvard graduate and dark-hued chief operating officer of Jen Juice for three years and counting.
“Rome, my main man,” I say as he enters from standing in the doorway to have a seat on the dark wood guest chair positioned on the other side of my desk.
“How you holding up, boss?” He speaks straight to the person in me. “Thought I’d come to check on you – see how you’re making it – you know, considering the circumstances with your soon-to-be. Me and Candace’re uplifting you in prayer. You and Jen both.”
I take a moment to gather myself from the emotions his mentioning my girlfriend stirred. I breathe oxygen into my lungs, hoping it raises me from an endless rock bottom of heartbreak and loneliness to the sound mind he knows me to operate from. Hope fails me.
I feel ashamed at the notion of prayer. The last prayer I prayed happened so long ago that my mind cannot seem to remember. How can I expect a healing hand to cure her through an unknown that medical practitioners have yet to crack when I – as a man – haven’t held myself grounded in attending sermons or looking to particular scriptures for guidance?
“We appreciate that – you and your wife praying for us.”
“A great man once told me.” He gives a brief pause. “‘This company is more than just a troop of businessmen and businesswomen laboring together for the same goal. It’s more like a family of brothers and sisters working as one body to keep up the family name. Jen Juice.’ That’s the best I’ve ever heard a founder and chief executive officer describe the nature of any corporation, especially to an embryonic college graduate who at that time was uncertain about whether to leap into the workforce or remain in school to further himself in education. The most shameful part about it all is I don’t remember telling him how thankful I was for taking a chance on me when he could’ve employed someone more qualified.” Romulus means his words through a straight look.
“Helping is what life is about.”
“If I’m fortunate enough to found and be the head of my own corporation some day, I’ve a chamber of natures to pull from. Thanks to you. It would be something to accomplish half of what you’ve done in four years’ time, change as many lives, inspire as many people as you have. Maybe when you become ambidextrous with it all, you can pass it down to me,” he says, joshing, reintroducing me to the smile that happened on my face when I stepped through the front door to see Jen standing there to welcome me home.
I remember when I flew Romulus from Boston to interview for the position a fundraiser colleague of mine recommended him for during a charity event at Harvard University, held for disadvantaged children. He entered my office dressed slimly in a sharp suit and tie. His ego was gone before my assistant instructed him in and eased the door shut to let us be to ourselves. He carried himself as if he were not entitled – even though he’d graduated from a renowned university. He was adamant and of humbled personality, although uncertainty hovered over him about leaving behind a chance to shoot for his doctorate. I thought for sure he would choose education. I would’ve understood if he had because of his want to transcend beyond a masters degree. After having him flown back to Boston to let there be a month for my offer to be weighed, he returned nineteen mornings later ready to accept and get to work.
“Well, boss,” he says, rising from the guest chair. “I saw your door open. Didn’t know if it was housekeeping or maintenance or you. I just wanted to pop in, speak to you to let you know we’re praying for the both of you. I’ll let you go back to your paperwork. If I don’t see you again before heading out for the day, no matter how turbulent your circumstances become, don’t let them discourage you. Stand grounded in faith and He’ll work everything out.” He leaves me – with words to think about – to make the walk back to his office to tend to unfinished work, I suppose.
I reengage myself to the paperwork in front of me. When all is done I head home – I want to go be with her at the hospital, but Dr. Jamison suggested I come here to rest because she along with a team of renowned medical practitioners will spend the night running thorough evaluations on Jen – to crash on the couch at around nine p.m. to gaze fixedly and intently at the ceiling and let my thoughts wander without conscious direction.
Hospital visitations and sittings of handling paperwork in my respective workspace hurries time – days, weeks – until I wake one morning with two days before the month ends. Still not an interested update of news from Bryce.
I understand realtoring is a gradual process that requires patience, diligence. I understand. Except our situation has no room for either. Our situation demands action. An impatient voice between my ears presses me to pick up the phone and burn his hindpart with words. What mission would speaking badly to him, when he has invested in helping me, accomplish other than plunging me farther away from the chances of me coming up with the thousands of dollars needed. Two more days and the
next two hundred and forty thousand will be due, and before I know it the two days will fall to one. One day before Dr. Jamison and I meet to talk about the plan for next month. One before I have to see them pull the plug on the ventilator helping my girlfriend breathe her life. One until my light is turned out forever. That is if nothing comes from Bryce. Jen and I charitably pledged two-fourths of all income deposited into our accounts monthly to healthier school lunches for children ages one to thirteen, one-fourth to my retirement account, leaving three hundred thousand dollars per calendar year for us together as one to live on. Jen remains home to tend to here.
I dread making an appearance at the hospital with the money needed not reflecting in our account because of what can be done – by Dr. Jamison in particular – if the burden becomes known. Her determination can scar my life at the pull of a plug. Dr. Jamison impresses charitable heart, but she also has herself and her husband to care for. She can’t afford to lose her job for us. If she were to wedge herself between the hospital and their almighty dollar, that’s what will happen – she’d be terminated quicker than a thought through her mind.
I rise from my seat on the couch to a late morning sun shining perfect-temperatured rays through the enormous horizontal window blinds used to disconnect from the world, so we can become engaged to an intimate degree without our privacy being peeped in on by a Tom. I hang my head. My reason to smile lies inertly in a hospital bed with her illness continuing to be an unknown to the medical minds behind her tests. I go for a long shower in the guest bedroom to let the water from the showerhead pour down on me, my pity so severe that I let my circumstances deprive my willpower to retrieve the washcloth near me to bathe myself. Why be with a held-high head when I deserve not to be with one? I stand inch-close to failing the greatest person to ever happen to me. Embarrassment domineers me with force. How will I face Jen like this – with emotions shredding me? How will I persuade Dr. Jamison and them to afford me more time to come up with thousands of dollars?
My Bridge To Forever Page 3
