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

by Ashley Logan

  "Wait here, baby. I need to find her medicine before we go."

  "She keeps it in her room," he calls after me as I head for the medicine kit in the kitchen. Spinning on my heel, I race back past Ry and up the stairs.

  Why would she keep it in her room? To keep it a secret from me?

  Scared half to death about what I'm going to find, I search her room. She always kept her secrets in the drawer next to her bed. When I was a teenager, I found where she kept the key. She used to keep tiny bottles of liquor in there. I drank a few myself once, refilling them with water, because I thought I was smarter than her.

  Blinking back tears, I feel behind her dresser for the key. It's not there, because it's lying on the ground next to her bed, along with a spilled bottle of DHC - the kind of pain medication that's a popular choice for cancer patients.

  Scanning the label from her doctor, I shake my head. Pulling out the drawer that actually isn't locked, I grab at the other bottles. The fucking drawer is almost full. There's everything from sedatives to anti-convulsants. Pills for nausea, more for pain. Enough to hide her symptoms for how long? How long?

  Grabbing a bottle at random, I rush back downstairs, scooping Ry into my arms as I rush out the door to the ambulance.

  Explaining my discoveries, and my suspicions en route to the hospital, we're greeted with more information when we arrive.

  Brain tumor. Astrocytoma. Invasive. Inoperable. Old news. End stages for months now. Surprising she's lasted this long.

  Admission paperwork. Legal documentation. Advance directives.

  Apparently my mother does not consent to surgery. Or resuscitation. Or any fucking thing that might give her a little more time. She's had enough.

  She's had enough and I didn't even know she was sick.

  I knew she was acting strangely. Why didn't I cotton on? I work on a damn neuro ward, for crying out loud!

  "Mom? I'm hungry."

  Looking down at Ry as he tugs on my hand, I nod. "Okay."

  I start walking and somehow manage to find a food kiosk. Letting Ry choose whatever he wants, I pay at the counter and follow him to a nearby seat.

  "You want some of my fries?" he asks, taking a sip of his juice.

  I look at his proffered sleeve of fries and shake my head. "You got fries for breakfast?"

  "You said anything," he replies with a shrug. "Is Granny going to be okay?"

  "I don't know, baby. She's really sick."

  "Oh." Lowering his fries, he sets them aside. "Is she going to die?"

  Taking a deep breath, I look upward to keep the tears at bay. I'm not going to lie to my son.

  "I don't know. Maybe."

  "She's not even old," he says, irritably.

  "No," I agree, pulling him into my lap and hugging him. "But she's been sick for a long time. Since before you were born," I add, realizing now that it may have had something to do with her lack of argument when I turned up on her doorstep with an undeniably pregnant belly. I had been so sure she'd turn me away.

  Maybe she saw it as an opportunity to mend the rift between us before she passed. Only I've spent as much time as I could avoiding her.

  I avoided her so much, I didn't even see the glaringly obvious. Her fall, her poor recovery. Even Brad had mentioned her mobility getting worse lately. What was I doing?

  Consciously minimizing any interaction with her; always hoping to avoid her all together. Hiding in my room. Sneaking around trying to recapture the freedom of my youth.

  Wiping at my eyes, I sniff as I rock Ry on my lap.

  "Should we go back and sit with Granny?"

  "Yeah. We should. You okay? You didn't eat your fries."

  "I'm not really hungry anymore."

  "Me neither. We'll eat later, okay?"

  "Okay."

  Sliding off my lap, Ry slips his hand into mine and we start back to the ward. All I can think of is being a little older than Ry, and Mom taking my hand as we arrived at church for the first time after my father left. I have never been ambushed by a memory in such a way, but it opens my eyes wide to how much I've had them shut.

  Back then I could feel the eyes on us; hear the whispers about his whereabouts. Words I didn't understand, like adulterous and infidelity. My mother's grip had tightened just enough to remind me that she was there.

  "Hold your head high, Anastacia. There is nothing you can do, but hold your head high and carry on."

  THE BUS DRIVES OFF and Ry's hand slips into mine. The small gesture is enough to spur me forward and I cross the street in the direction of home. My mother's house. Somehow it feels both incredibly attractive and terribly repellent. The front door opens as we approach and I stop short on the front path.

  "Oh thank God!" Wheeling out to meet us, Brad takes us in and his relief at our arrival shrivels instantly. "What's happened?"

  My mouth doesn't work. Correction: it opens and closes, but no words come out. Conversational flow has been cinched at my throat in an aching grip.

  Ry looks up at me and then to Brad. "Granny's sick. We got to ride in her ambulance."

  Rolling closer at a snail's pace, Brad's eyes survey my face. He swallows visibly. Nods. Wheels to the side a little further.

  "That would explain why the door was still open when I came by to see why nobody was answering the phones," he says calmly, addressing Ry and not me. "It must be getting pretty close to your bedtime, bud. Have you eaten?"

  Ry shrugs. "Not really. A few fries for breakfast. We weren't very hungry at the hospital, but I am now."

  Brad's concerned eyes return to me. "Long day, huh? Head on into the kitchen and I'll fix you something while I make your mom a hot drink."

  Ry drops my hand and heads inside on the promise of actually being provided for. I need to snap out of my funk and take better care of him. He needs me.

  "I can do it." It comes out as if I'm annoyed that Brad's trying to help. It shouldn't bother me, but I can feel a heated anger building inside me. "I'm his mom. I can take care of him!"

  My voice is back. In force. I shouldn't be yelling, but volume control seems to be beyond me presently.

  Brad takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. Wheeling back towards the door, he jumps his wheels up the front steps.

  "Did you hear me?" I cry, storming after him.

  "Yeah, I heard. You can take care of Ry. I know you're a good mom, Stace."

  "Then why are you still here?"

  "Because someone needs to take care of you," he says with a shrug. "I'll make him a sandwich while you go run his bath. Maybe you should consider one too. Or a shower. It'll help you feel better."

  "I'm not going to feel better, Brad. My mother is dying. She had a secret fucking brain tumor and now it's possible that she'll never wake up. She came to my room in the night for help and I wasn't there. I wasn't there, Brad."

  He blanches at my tone.

  "It's not your fault, Stace."

  "Then who's is it? Yours? I was with you. Is it God's fault? That hardly seems fair when she was his biggest fucking fan!"

  Storming past him, I run up the stairs, picking up all of the things I'd dropped or knocked over in my rush this morning. Making my way into my mother's room, I toss all of her medication back into the drawer and lock it tight in case Ry should think they're candy.

  When I get down to the kitchen, Ry is at the table munching on a sandwich with a glass of milk in front of him. Also at the table, keeping him company, is Brad. He has a glass of milk too. It's like a before and after commercial for healthy bones and growing up big and strong.

  It's the cutest fucking kitchen in the world.

  Groaning, I turn around and stomp back upstairs to run the bath.

  It feels wrong to hide upstairs because I know Brad can't follow me there - not easily anyway. He could if he wanted to, I suppose.

  Trying to keep thoughts of Mom's frail body lying unaided on my bedroom floor at bay, I force myself into the nightly routine. Remaking Ry's bed after the morning's
rush, I lay out his pajamas and two stories. Pulling his curtains, I switch on the bedside lamp and remember that I turned on the bath.

  Rushing back to the bathroom to find water all over the floor as the bath overflows, I rush to turn off the faucet, slip on the tiles and end up in a wet heap on the floor. Thankfully, I don't hurt myself too badly, and scrambling for the faucet, I shut the water off.

  Slumping against the bath as the water seeps into my clothes, I survey the mess around me and then look up as the door opens.

  "I heard a thud." Brad's hand slips from the knob as he takes in the state of the room, and me.

  I can hear Ry bounding up the stairs in the distance and fear strikes through me at the idea of him seeing me like this. Wiping my cheeks, I try to stand, but my feet skid on the slippery tile and I land on my ass again.

  The door closes.

  A conversation commences beyond it and I strain to hear their muffled voices.

  "Looks like your mom beat you to the bath," Brad says in his deep voice. "I don't think you look that dirty anyway. You'll do for another day. How about you just go get in your pajamas?"

  "What about my teeth?"

  A pause.

  "How much candy did you eat today?"

  "None."

  "Well they probably won't fall out overnight," Brad says with authority. "Just scrub them extra well in the morning."

  "Really?" Ryan asks, apparently not fully believing his luck.

  "Sure. One night won't hurt, and I think your mom is in for a long soak. Which room is yours?"

  Their voices fade and I relax back into my puddle. Sniffing, I glance at the full bath. Shrugging out of my damp sweater, I reach down to pull the plug. Because I'd run the damn thing for Ry, the water isn't nearly hot enough for my liking.

  When it gets to a good level, I turn the hot water back on and use every available towel in the room to mop up the floor. An incident like this would never have gone under the radar before. Usually Mom would've been lurking nearby to remind me of my stupidity at flooding the bathroom, lecturing me on wasting hot water, and would then linger to harass me about using the good towels to mop up the floor. Had I accidentally let the bath run too long in the past, I would've kept it a secret from her if I possibly could have. Now I find myself missing the interaction. Horrid as it may have been, it was consistent and ordinary.

  Lying about a terminal illness until it pays an unexpected visit to claim you is neither consistent, nor ordinary.

  After staring at the pile of wet towels for too long, I shiver. My wet clothes have turned cold. Testing the bath, I find that too is beginning to lose its heat. I let more water go and add more hot, presuming I will actually get in it at some stage.

  Shivering again, I dry my hands on my clothes to little effect. I need a dry towel.

  Looking at the door as if the world beyond it is too difficult to enter, I turn off the hot water again. Building up my courage, I snatch off my glasses and wipe my eyes several times. It doesn't seem to stop the flow of tears. Avoiding the mirror, I inch closer to the door, counting down from ten in my head.

  At zero, I yank the door open to startle Brad on the other side. Lowering the hand raised in a knocking position, he offers me the towels he has in his lap.

  "You hauled your chair up here?"

  One of his broad shoulders lifts in response as sad eyes travel my person.

  "It helps me get around without dragging my ass through any puddles you make."

  A quiet laugh escapes me and I feel instantly guilty. I want to tell him off for making me laugh; for being here when I want to be alone.

  Ry enters my thoughts and I look down the hall to his door as the weight of the guilt intensifies. I'm not really alone.

  "He's already asleep," Brad says, offering the towels again. "Happened halfway through the second story. Must have been a hard day."

  "I can handle it."

  "I know," he says, lowering the towels back to his lap. "But if it's alright with you, I'd like to help."

  "Help with what? I might have to end what's left of my mother's life tomorrow. Will you help with that? Will you help me tell all of her friends down at church that she's lied to us all and that she won't be coming back to work, and she'll catch up with them all in heaven. Or hell. I honestly have no idea where she plans to go. I think she might have been very angry at God for all the shit she's been going through, so maybe she wouldn't go straight there. If she went south, I feel like Satan would want her shipped upstairs before too long for hassling him about all his wicked ways. Knowing her, she'd probably stick it out anyway, believing that she'd make him better eventually. Hopefully. I don't know. Am I better? I think I'm worse. Much, much worse. I'll go to hell for sure. She told me often enough where my love of instant gratification would get me. And my selfishness." I shake my head. "So, so selfish. She never even told me she had cancer. Didn't trust me. She shouldn't have. I didn't even see that she was sick. How could I not know? How could I not know?" I ask again, searching Brad's face for answers.

  All I see is sympathy and love that I don't deserve.

  Taking several breaths, I retreat into the bathroom and sit on the edge of the bath.

  Following me into the room slowly, Brad sets the dry towels on the vanity and edges closer.

  "If she didn't want you to know, that was her choice. It wasn't going to save her, and perhaps she didn't want you to try. You're not selfish. You would've tried to help her any way you could. You know that."

  "But I'm a horrible daughter."

  "You are a loving daughter, who has given her the gift of sharing your son and your life with her while she was well enough to enjoy them. She talked about you all the time when I was around on Fridays. She's so proud of you, and loves you and Ry so very much."

  Reaching out tentatively, he brushes a tear from my cheek with his thumb.

  "She didn't say it to me."

  "I'm sorry that she missed that opportunity," he says softly, dipping his hand in the bath. "Are you planning to have this? It'll help."

  "I don't see how. A bath won't wash away my mother's brain tumor."

  "That does seem unlikely," he agrees, just as snidely. "It might warm you up enough to keep you from breaking your teeth though," he says as they start to chatter uncontrollably.

  Hugging myself my tightly, I cling to any warmth I can find within my body.

  "Okay," Brad says in a very calm and patient tone. "You're understandably upset, and overwhelmed and angry at everyone from almighty God, right down to the very neurons in your mom's brain. None of it was your choice and you were helpless to do anything about it. Let's just bring the focus back to things you can control. Like getting warm again. You could get out of these wet clothes for a start," he suggests, reaching out to rub my arms.

  "You don't need to help me," I snap, recoiling from his touch.

  "And you don't need to be so stubborn! If you won't let me help, then hurry up and get on with doing it yourself, because I'm not leaving this room until you either let me hug some warmth into you, or you get in the damn bath."

  Glowering at him, I pull off my damp t-shirt at throw it at his face. "I don't want your hugs!"

  "Fine! Throw the rest of your clothes at me and get in the damn water!" he cries, his exasperation muffled as he reaches up to remove the cloying shirt from his face.

  I feel a little bad as my cold wet jeans smack him in the face with a thud. The legs wrap around his head and before he can get them out of his way, I'm sitting in the bath with my back to him.

  Breathing hard, he throws my sopping clothes to the ground. His wheels squeak on the tiles as he turns and I cringe at the sound. Pausing at the door, his voice is calm again when he speaks.

  "Add some more hot water. If you don't come out in fifteen minutes, I'm coming in to check on you."

  With that, he wheels away, pulling the door closed behind him.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  BRAD

  When Stacey doe
sn't answer after my third time knocking on the door, I nudge it open. Still hunched in the same position, hugging her knees with her back towards me, I doubt she's moved at all.

  Rolling closer, I can see the tracks that tears have left down her face as she stares blankly at the wall. She doesn't respond when I quietly utter her name. The bath is turning cold again.

  Sighing, I turn the hot water back on and reach in to drain some of the cooler water.

  My activity draws her attention and her vacant stare comes to rest on me. The ache in my chest intensifies with the look in her eyes.

  "She's leaving me."

  I nod.

  Her gaze returns to the wall and releases a long shuddering breath.

  Turning off the faucet, I mix the water around her. Better.

  "I doubt that she wants to," I add, taking up the soft sponge from the corner of the bath and holding it underwater a while. "People don't tend to get brain cancer on purpose. It must have been hard to keep it a secret from you."

  "Not too hard. I did everything I could to avoid spending any time with her."

  "I don't know why it's harder to dislike someone after you learn they have cancer, but she was pretty cruel to you at times. No one would blame you for wanting to avoid that."

  "It was one of her symptoms. I should have known better."

  "Is there anything you could have done, had you known?" I ask, squeezing out the sponge and running it over her shoulders.

  Stace shrugs and rests her chin on her knees. "Be nicer to her. Spend more time with her."

  "Maybe she didn't feel deserving of that. People do strange things. All the time. Especially when their brains are being messed up by disease. I should know."

  Rolling her head to rest her cheek on her knee, Stace watches me a moment.

  "I remember," she says with a sniff and leans forward, granting me access to scrub lower on her back. "Do you ever feel like that now?"

  "I have more to live for than to die for," I reply with a small smile. "It just took me a while to see it."

  "She didn't see it. I wasn't enough to live for."

  "On the contrary. You were enough to help her last as long as she did. She was lucky to have you."