Jenkins and the Naughty Nurse: A Beyond Series Off-shoot

by Ashley Logan

  "Wait, wait, wait." Bruno signals me to slow down with his hands as well as his words. "Take us back to this romantic fucking dinner you talked about. What happened? You burned it?"

  "No. It was shitty hospital lasagna and she loved it. It wasn't the food." Taking a deep breath, I pull my beer onto my lap and run my thumbs up the label.

  "Men who peel at their beer labels are sexually frustrated," Bruno whispers out the side of his mouth towards Damon.

  Leaning my head to one side, I meet his eyes. "Oh yeah? How many labels did you peel off in the six years your dick was broken?"

  Narrowing his eyes at me, Bruno takes a long pull on his beer. When he lowers it, he again speaks out the side of his mouth towards Damon. "I don't think that's the problem."

  "No shit. It's not the problem. I purposely met her at work so we had to talk instead of shagging. So anyway, the first warning sign I got was a few weeks ago. She kind of had a minor freak out that maybe her mom liked me."

  "And that's a bad thing, because the mom is crazy. Got it. Continue," Damon says, saving me from explaining that further.

  "Right. Except, that I think part of the freak out was also because her mom happens to believe that I might be Ry's dad. Stace hasn't corrected her, because then she'd have to admit that she knows who Ry's father is, which would bring more trouble than it's worth-"

  "Because Sodermann's the dad and he's a jerk. Correct?"

  "Major jerk. She says he's tried to blackmail her to sleep with him. I believe it after seeing him in action tonight."

  "You saw him tonight, knowing that and didn't punch him?" Damon asks, checking in with Bruno to see if he's heard correctly. Bruno lifts one shoulder.

  "Told you he's grown."

  Groaning at them, I shake my head and take a sip of my beer. It's times like these that I wish I could pace. Stalking around Damon's living room would feel so good about now.

  "None of that matters. He doesn't matter. She's not going to jump into bed with him, because that means she'd have to revoke all her power. Not going to happen. For some reason, she won't tell him to outright fuck off, but she's not stupid. You're focusing on the wrong shit."

  "Well point us in the direction of the right shit, knob-end. Quit wasting time and get to the point."

  Scowling at Damon, I take another drink and set it back on the table still half-full.

  "She started thinking about me being Ry's dad," I say quietly.

  "That's a bad thing?" Bruno asks, looking at me strangely. "I've seen you with the kid and you're actually kind of great with him. And you talk about him a lot. Probably more than real dads talk about their kids."

  Frowning, I shrug. "I like him."

  "So you think she's... hung up on your past?"

  "At first I did, but when I thought about it, none of that has been an issue for her at all. I think she's scared that I seem like I'd be a good dad."

  Damon's eyes stay on me as he slowly finishes his beer.

  "You've lost me," he says finally. "Jackson thinks you'd be great. I think you'd be great. Stacey's mom thinks you'd be great. Stace herself thinks you'd be great. What am I missing?"

  "She doesn't want great." Pushing the beer away, I clasp my hands in my lap and shrug. "I tested her. I told her today that I was looking at renting a three bedroom place and that she was welcome to either move in, or use it as a stepping stone before finding her own place if she wanted to get out of her mom's."

  "You asked her to move in with you? After like a month and a half of brief hook ups?"

  Sighing, I shake my head. "It's not like that between us, shithead. It's not a casual thing. There's something there, but she clamps down on it whenever something serious comes to the fore. I know she wants it, but she won't let herself."

  "Why not?" Damon asks, leaning in. "I mean, what are your thoughts on it?"

  "I think she doesn't want great, because she doesn't want to know what she's missing when it ends."

  "Why would it end?" Bruno asks, opening another beer. "You're clearly nuts about her. You're talking about acting as the kid's dad without even the slightest signs of not wanting to be, and you say she's into you too."

  "I think because every man she's ever had faith in has screwed her over. Starting with her dad, and ending with Sodermann. I think she's scared of becoming reliant on me, only to one day find that I've left her in a pickle too."

  "Do you plan to leave her in a pickle?"

  "No, but she can't naturally trust that, and I can't really blame her for assuming I would. I don't exactly have the best track record."

  "What happened after you dropped the 'move in with me' bombshell? How did you leave the discussion?"

  Leaning my head back, I stare at the ceiling.

  "I pretty much told her that I understood why she wouldn't want me, but that I'd be there if she needed me. And I asked her if I could keep seeing Ry."

  Damon sets his beer on the table and leans back in his chair with a vague smile on his lips. "Ballsy move."

  "Thank you!"

  "So that's the plan? Let her go easy, show her how supportive you are and keep up the connection with Ry to prove that you're not into abandonment?"

  "Pretty much."

  Damon nods. "Well I like it. Jackson?"

  Bruno is still staring at me. "I didn't even know you had that much forward thought inside of you."

  "Bitch, if you tell me one more time how much I've grown, I will maim you. I'm not some suicidal basket-case anymore. I have a solid grip on sanity, and direction now."

  "And hope," Damon adds. "You also hope that she'll come around."

  Damon's words make me nervous. Rubbing my elbow, I shrug. "Yeah. At this stage. Fuck, dude. What if she doesn't come around?"

  "You tell us," Damon says, completely serious.

  Taking a deep breath, I exhale roughly and shake my head. "I'll be fucked up, I guess. I love this girl, man." Groaning, I lower my face into my hands. "It took nearly six years to get over Mandy and now I know that I didn't even love her! I tried to top myself three times! What the fuck am I going to do if Stace never takes me back?"

  "You stick with your plan I guess," Damon offers as I look at him through my fingers. "You wait it out, no matter how long it takes. She's definitely not going to trust a guy that turns suicidal on her, is she? What hope does she have that he'd stick around to be supportive? You take care of your ass so damn well that the darkness doesn't have a chance to creep back in, or you've failed. You got it?"

  "Yeah." Sitting up, I rub my face and take a few breaths.

  "You going to fail her?"

  "Never."

  "Good. Now drink up. This shit was intense."

  Shaking my head, I roll back from the table. "Actually, I think I'll call it a night."

  "You said we were having beer," Bruno protests. "You've only had half a bottle."

  "Yeah. It was enough. I'm not thirsty anymore." Rolling to the door, I give them a wave. "Thanks for the chat. I've got some shit to think about, so I'm heading home. Catch ya at work big guy," I call to Bruno. "And I'll see you Sunday No-Handsky."

  "Only she's allowed to call me that!" Damon calls after me.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  STACE

  When Friday night comes, I can't rush home fast enough. I get in the door and unusually, Mom isn't even waiting for me. Hanging up my sweater, I head to the kitchen to find her.

  Sitting at the table sipping her decaf coffee, she looks up from her newspaper as I come in.

  "How was work?" she asks, as if it were the most normal question in the world. As if she asks me that every night when I come home instead of accusing me of some atrocity. I look to the chair she's gesturing for me to sit down in, and slowly pull it out.

  Just as slowly, I lower myself into it, wary of some trap.

  "It was okay. Nobody died, so that was good. How was your evening?"

  "Interesting."

  Hands safely hidden under the table, I wring them together. "
How so?"

  "Ryan had painting with Mr. Jenkins this afternoon, as you know."

  Swallowing hard, I try to keep my face neutral as I nod.

  "When Ryan was asked what subject he'd like to paint, he decided on you," Mom says, sipping her coffee. "I get to see all of this, because I don't leave them alone together for very long. The man is practically a stranger, but he's well-mannered and he's very good with Ryan. They talk almost as equals."

  For a moment, I feel like I'm waiting for a negative reference; perhaps the correlation between the mental age of Brad being comparable to that of a five year old; but it doesn't come.

  "I was quite surprised by some of the chatter between them," she continues. "It seems that Ryan believes Mr. Jenkins to be rather fond of you, and whilst not denying this, Mr. Jenkins expressed that he was not so sure that the feeling was reciprocated so it wasn't important. He informed young Ryan that it is a woman's right to like who she pleases, and not his role to tell you who you might like."

  Despite feeling both desperate to hear more, and achingly hollow inside at hearing this much, I raise my eyebrows in feigned interest and say nothing.

  "Ryan asked if he could tell you, much to Mr. Jenkins and my amusement," she says with the ghost of a smile. "Mr. Jenkins of course repeated that it was your business alone to decide, and that it was best not to pry or nag."

  I still don't know what she's expecting of me.

  "Is this you prying or nagging?" I ask quietly. While concerned my words will be considered insolent, I'd feel much more comfortable with the reappearance of the harsh and scowling mother I recognize than this unsettlingly more pleasant version.

  "Neither," she says. "I just wanted to inform you. In case you were unaware that a seemingly decent man obviously cares deeply for both you and your son."

  "I'm aware."

  "I suspected you were," she says, sipping her coffee. "It just surprised me that you hadn't acted on it in any way." Her hand gestures from my head downward. "Given your previous rush to become over-familiar with the male species, and how highly you spoke of the man, I would've thought you might be pregnant again already."

  And there it is.

  "Perhaps I am."

  Her eyes widen and I can't help but laugh.

  "Oh, mother. When will it end? You really think I'm that bad? You've probably had more sex than me in the last five years. Don't think I don't read between the lines when you speak of Barry down at the church office!"

  Shoving my chair back, I take her empty cup and rinse it before putting it in the dishwasher.

  "You think I can't learn from my mistakes?" I ask, turning back to her. "I can. I don't need you to constantly remind me not to fuck useless, selfish men. I already know. I don't need them. And while I'm very grateful for all your support over the years, I don't even need you. I've stayed because I can see that you love Ryan, and I want him to know that kind of love. The kind that isn't perfect, but doesn't ever stop, no matter how hard things get - the way you love me, and the way I love you."

  Standing up, Mom takes a step towards me. Before I can comprehend it, her arms are around me. I can't remember the last time my mother hugged me. It's so foreign it's uncomfortable. Alien even. My mother has been abducted and replaced with this... human?

  A new set of fears enters my mind and I struggle to be released. As soon as I'm free, I hold the back of my hand to her head, and reach for her pulse.

  "What are you doing?" she says, laughing as she pulls away. Laughing!

  "Oh, God. Mom. Have you been having headaches? Fever? Chills? Blurred vision? Anything out of the ordinary?"

  "Are you going to ask for a stool sample next?" she asks, fending off my attempts to try for her pulse again. She continues to squirm away and I reach for her head instead, trying to keep it still so I can check her pupils. She closes her eyes deliberately and peels away my hands.

  "I thought you were joking at first, but now you're just pissing me off."

  "Oh fuck! You just said pissing! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

  Her face returns to its familiar scowl and some of my worries ease. "Now don't go using that terrible language. It's not fit for a young lady."

  Half laughing, half crying, I just stare at her. "Mom, I don't want to alarm you, but you're acting very uncharacteristically and I have concerns for your brain."

  Razzing her lips at me, her waves me off. "You've been working in Neurosurgery too long. I'm trying to give you a hug and you think I'm having a brain hemorrhage," she says with a sigh. "You pretty much just told me that all men are evil, but that your horrible old mother is capable of both loving and being loved. I felt like you needed a hug. I haven't dared give you one since you reluctantly returned home five minutes before giving birth regarding me as if I was your only choice, but also the devil incarnate. I get my cuddle quota through Ryan, but I think maybe you might be down a few. Shall we sit back down, now that we know we both love each other? Since I've clearly not gone soft in the head."

  Sitting down again slowly, I don't take my eyes off her. "I'm not entirely convinced you haven't."

  "Oh pish. Let's go back to this Mr. Jenkins business."

  "I don't really want to."

  "Because you told him to back off and leave you alone?"

  Folding my arms around myself I look away. "Maybe."

  "And why would you do that? He is the exact mix of vulnerable yet masculine hero that you have always spouted about as your ideal man."

  "I never spouted anything of the sort!" I argue. I have definitely never had that kind of conversation with my overly-conservative (until now), religiously strict mother.

  "Don't make me get your old diaries to prove it."

  "You read my diaries?" Outrage upon outrage. I give her a look that could kill.

  "Of course I read them. I woke up one day and you were gone. All I got was a note that said it was by choice, so don't worry about filing a missing person's report. You don't think I'd want to understand why you'd leave? The diaries were very helpful in revealing that I was a despicable person and solely responsible."

  Softening, I release the breath I've been holding. "You weren't solely to blame. I was a stupid hormonal teenager and I misinterpreted your rules as punishment when they were made to protect. At the time, I felt that you stood in the way of all the fun things I was never allowed to do, but now, thanks to your wielding my faults over my head for years on end, I know otherwise."

  "Well I still can't bear the idea of you being so free with your body that you couldn't know who Ryan's father is," she says, shaking her head as her hawk eyes scan me with disappointment again.

  Sighing, I rub my eyes and set my glasses back in place. "I know who his father is Mom."

  "You do?"

  "Yes. The wrong man. I didn't want him in Ry's life, so I left him off the paperwork."

  "So it isn't Mr. Jenkins?" she asks, sounding confused at her conclusion.

  "Why do you assume that?"

  "Because he seems like the right man," she says simply.

  "Mr. Jenkins isn't perfect."

  "Well nobody's perfect," she says, tapping her finger on the table. "I presume you're talking about his depression and things?"

  "You know about that?"

  "We talked about it briefly during a discussion around art therapy. I may know a few people who attend his church. Gossiping people," she adds with a sigh. "I can't say that I behaved much differently when your father left me, but I didn't have to deal with the loss of my livelihood and the ability to walk at the same time, so I imagine he was entitled to throw a tantrum or two."

  I'd not really thought about my mother being depressed. Crazy? Sure. I've thought she was crazy numerous times, but looking back now and thinking of the irritable moods and a home devoid of happiness, it seems so obvious.

  "Why didn't you get help?"

  "I did eventually. When I was brave enough to ask for it. Sadly, I'd already lost everyone I loved."

  "I
came back."

  "You did. But I haven't yet forgiven myself for driving you away. Sometimes I find myself saying things to upset you, but I don't mean to. It's as if I'm still trying to drive you away just to prove to myself that you'll stay or something. I don't understand it, and I've never been able to keep your company long enough to apologize, because you always run off. When you get over it, I don't want to bring it up again, but then I do and it drives you away again. I'm a hopeless case really, but I was hoping maybe that it isn't too late for you to make different choices. Oh, look at the time," she says, as if she hasn't said something profound and earth-shattering. "I'm off to bed. Goodnight dear." Kissing my head, she leaves the kitchen, calling back over her shoulder that the paintings are still drying in the garage.

  Several beats pass and the kitchen clock ticks them by more loudly than I care for. Every clock in this house is too fucking loud and there's one in practically every room. I don't even know why my mother needs so many. Maybe to deepen the impact of my prison sentence. And what the hell just happened?

  I'm having difficulty processing events since I came through the front door. I remember being in a rush to find out if Brad had kept his painting date with Ryan, and to grab any snippet of information that would indicate Brad's state of mind if he had. I wanted to know if he was okay, or if he seemed different somehow. Did he show any signs of his mood lowering, and was it because he was missing me?

  But I didn't get a snippet of information about Brad. I got a truckload of extremely surprising candor to think through and I'm still trying to find my way around it.

  Scraping my chair back, I put it carefully in place and then stand at the sink, drinking several glasses of water as I stare out the window into the black night. I need a plan to deal with the confusion inside me. It's silly to be staring out a window into the night, of course. I can't see a thing out there, least of all the answers to the millions of questions running through my head.

  As I move away, I'm drawn to my own reflection. The pale glow of the pendant light behind me is illuminated over my head, reminding me of a caricature with a bright idea. I smile at the irony of it, because I don't have a single one, let alone enough ideas to form a plan to fix my life.