I take the folded towel from the rack mounted on the wall. I clear the skirt side of the sizable tub to have a stand on the matted region of the floor and dry myself.
I dress in fresh clothes – jeans, tee, and tennis shoes – to make the four-mile commute and settle in the armchair near her – inside her room, located on the gravest floor of the hospital. I sigh an audible breath, hoping to compose my embarrassed feelings. The tormenting shame intensifies so much that it discourages me to where I can no longer look at her face. If she could just see how broken I am without my backbone here to unparalyze me!
“You deserve better than me, a man you can count on to take care of you during situations like this. Haven’t really heard from Bryce since I showed him around the house. Don’t know if you can hear me or not, but if you can, I love you – have ever since fourth grade. Knew then I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. I guess we won’t have the chance to see it happen, though, because tomorrow, at midnight, they’re gonna let you breathe on your own,” I say, putting a sugarcoat on things, but the thought of what can happen from there reduces me to tears. It overwhelms my emotions so much that I storm out into the hall for an elongated breath of frigid air, which numbs me to the stomach, plows me past an edge I had no idea even existed inside.
Of all places to be, after commuting the streets of downtown Chicago, of all places, the commuting ends with me holding my face down into the steering wheel, broken, embarrassed, tearful, with my automobile parked a football field’s distance from the edge of a cliff. The chances of me being able to bear along in life without her here slimmed to none when I phoned Bryce and was informed by him that interests flatlined when he revealed the listing price. A hundred yards or so from the end of my life, I lift my face to bear ahead. I set my mind. I slam the automatic transmission into drive, and I floor the accelerator. The tires screech against the unpaved road, the solid dirt surface made from native material, and the automobile jumps to a speed above seventy miles per hour.
What’s the use in existing if she’s not going to exist with me? I know tragedies happen for a purpose. But what purpose could there be in having me be bereaved without my light here to brighten my mornings? I hope not joy or peace or jubilance. How can a man move forward in life with no backbone? The answer is simple. It’s impossible. I’d be a shell. I’d be a vegetable. I’d be a dead man walking. Therefore, I choose not to. I’m done. I’m done bucking disgrace. I’m done bucking heartbreak. And I, indisputably, am done living a miserable life.
An unexpected call vibrates through the smartphone, in the front passenger seat, that cellular insurance issued as my replacement. I gander my sight at the lighted screen for a brief time, slamming the brakes at the full name being displayed by the service that identifies callers. The tires jerk as they grip the unpaved road of the outer road miles from Chicago, the front tires inches short of the cliff. I take the smartphone from the passenger seat to connect with the caller.
“Hello?” I hope this call breathes life into me.
“Gabriel. It’s Bryce. Calling with news. I don’t know how to quite put it into words. After I got off the phone with you earlier, an elderly couple approached me in the middle of my lunch at a restaurant, saying they’re looking to purchase a home. Asked me if I could arrange a tour. And I did. Not one including your home but I did. So I go to show ’em four homes based on what they told me they were looking for, and we found a match. We get back to my office to sign the paperwork, and out of nowhere, the gentleman says this isn’t the one, with a pen in his hand about to give his signature. His wife had already signed hers. Then she agrees with him, goes on to say ‘There’s one in particular you haven’t shown us that we’d like to see.’ I’m sitting there thinking to myself, what’s going on? How’d they know that? So I show ’em the home. Yours. You’ll never believe what happened. You’ll never believe who was there sitting waiting on me when I walked into the lobby, when I arrived back at the office. Not even half an hour later.
I free an exhale.
“Said they’d some kind revelation or something, I don’t know. If it’s true, and they aren’t lying, and God’s into the real estate business, I hope He’s not a monopoly. If He is, we’re all in trouble,” he says, joshing fun of the situation. “Jokes aside, Gabriel. Congratulations!”
I’m relieved. I’m ashamed of myself for letting adversity coerce me. There must be a purpose. Only He knows what exists at the bottom of the cliff I was set drive off: a boulder, a river, an expansion of trees or wildlife. I have no clue but am thankful He intervened. Had I gone ahead of time and not stopped for a moment to contemplate, it would have been too late. The smartphone would’ve been ringing with my automobile in flight to be wrecked and possibly blown into a fireball of flames and dark toxic rises of smoke.
“How soon can—”
“Be there in the minute.” I know the question before Bryce can ask.
“Great! See you then.”
Half an hour later I steer into a space alongside a main street of a downtown business district to exit my automobile and make an entrance into a renowned establishment. Before I can approach the prime-aged receptionist in the lobby to ask for her to inform him about me, I spot Bryce standing in a sitting area speaking with a seated elderly couple. The thinly-carpeted public room that opens to respective offices accommodates its guests with corner tables full of real estate magazines, a help-yourself refreshment stand which consists of coffees and teas and juices and muffins and bagels, masterpiece works of painted art situated on certain walls. I approach them, the elderly couple rising from their seats, to be introduced to me by Bryce. I acknowledge the two of them – Mr. Archibald Maitland and his wife Henrietta – with handshakes; I shake his with a look in his eyes and firm grip and hers with a gentler grasp of the hand. Mrs. Maitland emphasizes how beautiful she and her husband found our home, the fact the living room and the bedrooms and bathrooms and the kitchen fit their tastes perfectly.
Bryce leads us to his office for a sit-and-talk about the particulars. I have the guest chair to the left, Mr. and Mrs. Maitland have the two to the right, and he heads around behind the desk for his inside an office we had had to take an elevator nine floors up to get to.
I raise an index finger. “I’d like to say something, if that’s alright?”
Neither of them objects.
“Considering the circumstances with my better half, you know. Between the situation at the hospital and work, I haven’t been able to find the time to move anything just yet. Quite frankly, I was kind of hoping I could maybe donate everything to you, Mr. and Mrs. Maitland, leave everything there because all I need are clothes and a few other possessions.” I am unsure if the couple will take me up on the offer, apprehensive about their right to decline.
Mr. and Mrs. Maitland share brief looks with one another, in composed disbelief of sorts.
“We’d love to have it.” Although more of a shock to her, the charitable gesture thrills her and her husband both. “As stated earlier, we enjoyed touring your home, everything you did with the place, so much that it felt so much like home even with your belongings there. It was revelational. We’d be more than happy to accept all you’re willing to give. More time for us to spend together rather than out like headless chickens shopping,” she says, embracing Mr. Maitland with a hold of his hand and a broad smile. “Quite certain my husband agrees.” The level of respect she holds for him is obvious.
“Since you’re so kind, an additional fifty thousand off,” I say, their faces gratified. “I mean, it’s the least I can do since you’re helping me out. Just need to pack me a bag of belongings and the place’ll be all yours, in an hour.”
After each of them in the office has understanding of my situation, Bryce has us give our signatures on the contract he composed for legal purposes. I sign as the person selling. Mr. and Mrs. Maitland sign as the individuals making the purchase. And Bryce Blanchard inks in his signature as the agent who made it all possib
le. Mr. Maitland hands me the suitcase – which they brought along – of nine hundred thousand dollars, cash. I return fifty thousand to him and his mannerable wife. I extend an additional seventy-five thousand dollars to Bryce for his help; he respectfully and politely refuses it. I shake their hands, thanking them for their time, and each of them sees me off with words of encouragement about my girlfriend Jennifer. I take the same elevator back down from the real estate agency, which has its own entire floor of a skyscraper, to return to my automobile and go catch the bank before their business hours end for the day. After making the eight-hundred-thousand-dollar deposit, I head home to pack – a couple of outfits, underwear, socks, deodorant, soap, and the jewelry-boxed engagement ring – into a medium-sized duffle bag, still afraid of looking in the direction of the bed in our master bedroom. Well, what used to be our master bedroom.
I distance myself from the front door, thinking of the memories she and I created under our first roof together as better halves. Kisses. Hugs. Dinners. Movies. Disagreements. I smile about the unconditional moments in my mind, admiring the fine exterior a final time. Good times, bad times, times that revealed imperfections in our relationship as well as the ones that revealed the deep feelings we have at heart for one another.
We overcame, we smiled, we laughed, we mourned, we matured so much that it’s difficult to turn my back and just walk away like the home has no meaning. But it’s what needs to be done to make sure my light has a chance to bring herself back to life. It’s what needs to be done for her to be given the chance to determine if returning to this life is best. It doesn’t matter how much sacrifice is called for. It’s not about having or not having. It’s about remaining true to the love of my life, without conditions or limitations having a place in my heart. It’s about honoring the vow I gave to always be there, even if it means sacrificing my life, my pride, my money, the clothes off my back, and whatever remains to my name. I don’t care about me or whatever afflictions need to be borne. Jennifer Haden is all that matters; it’s been that way since fourth grade. I understand it may seem silly, or unbelievable, or even implausible or far-fetched, but I fell in love with her when I was ten years old.
Having left behind the keys to Jen’s automobile on the entry table, I pop the trunk with the control panel of mine to store the duffle bag. Eyeing the home, I go climb behind the wheel. I crank up my automobile. Taking in a deep breath, I reverse into the middle of the residential street to steer away. Tears leak from my eyes as our memories continue striking chords with me. Our once-upon-a-time life there now is in the past.
*
I drop the duffle bag on the floor of my executive office with a wraparound view that can only be seen through from this side of the windows. I take a load off on the loveseat, my nerves and my ears soothed by the silence that roams through the dim workspace. It’s not the place I prefer. But it’s a place I can put myself down until Dr. Jamison and the staff make a determination about Jen’s health.
It’s a shame they still haven’t figured out what’s wrong with her. I understand all diagnoses are different, but there’s no excuse for not having a slim idea to begin with. I’ve never come across a medical practitioner who didn’t get a thrill from labor that could make him or her the initial person to accomplish a breakthrough, until now, excluding Dr. Jamison and the sacrificial investments of time she manages in regards to my girlfriend. I’m not worried about her and whether she’s doing all she can; I know she is. It’s the other practitioners she’s depending on to help her get to the bottom of Jen’s unknown. Who are those practitioners? What are their motives for working in medicine? Do they sincerely care about patients and their relatives, or are they in it for salaries and bonuses? Neither of them came while I was there visiting to express condolences or at least pop in to make known their labor. It’s not my battle to bring to light those practitioners who defraud blue collar people out of hundreds, thousands, and sometimes millions of uncalled-for dollars. Too much fills my plate for me to be anguishing about them, when I need to remain positive for Jen. In due time, their harvest lurks.
I scrunch my nose at the surprise of a musty stench. I have a smell of my breath; it’s not the breath. I duck my nose in for a smell inside my tee. I need to be showered. Yawning, I stand from the loveseat to grab the washcloth and towel, boxer briefs, charcoal sleeping pants, and a black tank from my duffle bag to step into the nearest hall restroom. The coast of the eight p.m. hall is abandoned because employees, including maintenance workers, housekeepers, and assistants have long been gone to be with their families at home. It’s just me. I check the stalls to be sure I am alone. I step towards the new-fashioned counter with multiple faucets and sinks to select a pair. I have a moment to examine the reflection of the man in the mirror, my buzzed hair, my bearding face, my strong physique, and think of how favored I am to have made it this far. Planning to use soap from the dispenser as suds to sink-bathe before bed, I take hold of my tee and begin disrobing.
Four
I wake from a good night of rest to smear my underarms with deodorant, making sure I groom appropriately this morning, because, lately, I have been pushing aside my needs for hers. As a man should, if he’s in love with a woman he feels incomplete without. I brush my teeth in the public restroom. I return to the office to slip into one of the casual outfits I packed into the duffle bag: jeans and tee. I head into the lounge, a domain I made with employees in mind.
Early on I decided that I was going to be the kind of chief executive officer to give as much as possible without taking from the good-natured people laboring to make Jen Juice a renowned corporation; it was the reason I excluded vending machines, the reason all refreshments available – the organic bags of potato chips lined neatly along the sleek countertop, the endless supply of natural juices, bottled waters, wholegrain breads, and deli meats in the refrigerator – are free. Through giving back to assure them of a noble experience here, I want them to feel and understand how much I appreciate their blue-collar efforts and the fact that this corporation would nonexistent without them.
Following the wholegrain bagel spread with organic cream cheese, and bottled water, for breakfast, I get back to the office to bring myself up to date with paperwork I pushed aside to tend to much more significant matters. When I read and familiarize myself with the details and give signatures and initials on the documents, I head out. Passing through the fine lobby on the main floor, out of the elevator, from the nineteenth level of one of the more distinguished skyscrapers, not the same one that houses the real estate firm that helped sell our home, I approach the receptionist counter with respectful manners to visit with a sweet and thoughtful African-American lady in her forties.
“You making it alright this morning, Mrs. Donahue?” I say, the Roman-numeral clock up on the wall behind her workspace in the elegant lobby ticking its way to a quarter past seven.
“Good morning. You’re here early this morning, aren’t you?” Her natural hair compliments her dark golden face as well as the professional attire she wears.
“Hard work and faith, right?”
“You can lose everything without it,” she says, with a perfect smile.
“How’s the son? Heard he scored forty-five against the nation’s number one recruit.”
“Yep, showed out. Boy knows he can shoot that ball. Got offers from nineteen different schools and he ain’t nothing but in ninth grade. Six of ’em were there the other night.”
I smile, proud of her son. “Grades?”
“Straight As.”
“That’s what I like to hear. Be sure to tell him I said stay on top of ’em because—”
“Basketball’s an option. Not a promise.”
“Exactly! Well, let me get on. Nice speaking with you, Mrs. Donahue.”
“You too, darling.”
I step from the lobby to go climb behind the wheel of my automobile, steer through the congested downtown streets for the hospital to lay a gentle peck on the cheek of, sit b
edside, and spend time with Jen, her condition still as it was when I walked through that door, saw her in a hospital bed for the time.
“Morning.” I acknowledge her with the audible pressures of the ventilator and stable electrocardiogram beeping as her response. “Don’t know where to begin with how much I miss you. Your smile, your laugh, your voice, your presence, your cooking, especially the way you would be so joyful when you were in the kitchen cooking for me. Remember the time,” I say, flashing a delicate sign of cheer, “I thought I could cook better than you. Darn near burned down the house. Thankfully, you were there to save the evening, me, you, the house, the stove, with that fire extinguisher. I was too busy panicking, like a chicken with its head cut off, stumbling around for something to put out a fire the size of a wok. I couldn’t find anything. Couldn’t find a dishrag, couldn’t find an oven mitt, couldn’t find anything and didn’t think to grab a cup from the cabinet to fill it with water. Didn’t even know we had a fire extinguisher until you busted into the kitchen like Ghostbusters.” I attempt to contain myself but can’t keep from getting a laugh, my first since the seizure hospitalized her; Dr. Jamison takes herself through the cracked door to have a stand next to me, to hand over the receipt for the check I handed her in the hall.
“There was this gentleman who went on a cruise with his wife,” she says with her attention spacing into a zone. “They were celebrating fifty-five years of marriage; they were on the deck one night when a storm struck, and a mountainous wave stole her into the water, leaving him there, cemented in shock, heartbreak, catastrophe. He wanted to go in after her but a man grabbed him and told him no, that everything would be alright, that he just needed to trust and believe. Still, the gentleman insisted on going in after his wife, so much that he begged and pleaded and bribed for the man holding him back from the rail to let him go. He tried jerking, and elbowing, and snatching to get free. But the grasp of the man holding him was far too powerful for him to overthrow. The final night of the cruise passes, and the passengers are to unboard the ship back to shore, him without his wife of fifty-five years. And while doing so, sadly, mourning deep inside of himself, he can’t keep from hearing the voice of the man who kept him from jumping in. ‘Believe’. ‘Trust me’. ‘Believe’. ‘Trust me’. The gentleman arrives home to a quiet and lonely house, hoping she’d be there, but she’s not. Again the voice of the man comes to him in his heart, saying, ‘Come to me. Come be at my home. The love you need lives in my house.’ Three days goes by with him crying until he can cry no more, the voice of the man still in his heart, saying, ‘Trust me. Believe. Come be at my home. The love you need lives in my house.’ So the gentleman finally decides to get up, out of his pity, on a Sunday it was for church. And when he arrives, guess who’s there waiting in the front pew for him – she’d been there for days?”
My Bridge To Forever Page 4
