by Arlene James
“You liked the birch bark tea.”
Morgan liked anything his lovely, feverishly domestic wife invented.
“Bri loves the stuff,” Morgan said in his own defense.
Morgan’s thirteen-month-old daughter Brigitte, named for Brooks’s late wife, had a cast-iron stomach, a hearty constitution and a wonderfully cheerful disposition. Brooks adored her, and would have even if Morgan and Lyla hadn’t named her after his Brigitte. He sipped the cranberry punch and found it palatable.
Bri came into the wood-paneled room perched on her mother’s slim hip. After her cancer, Lyla Simone had barely had enough hair to cover her head, but now her light reddish brown hair had grown to chin length, sleekly framing her oval face with its big, gray eyes. Nearly two decades his wife’s senior, Morgan’s nut-brown hair showed specks of silver, and he had the distinctive cinnamon brown Chatam eyes, as well as the Chatam cleft chin. Bri’s thin, pale blond hair and bright blue eyes contrasted with the coloring of both of her parents, but then Bri was adopted, the biological child of a teenager whom Lyla had rescued from an abusive relationship.
The thought struck Brooks that Bri looked more like Eva Belle Russell than Morgan and Lyla. Just the thought of his difficult patient irritated him.
“I’m sorry I missed dinner,” he told Lyla, pushing away thoughts of Eva.
Chuckling, Lyla bent and placed a plate on the coffee table between the comfy leather sofa where he sat and the overstuffed armchair where her husband lounged. “No worries. Bri and I went ahead and ate. Now you and Morgan can enjoy yourselves.” She handed Bri to her father, and left the library.
“God bless that woman,” Brooks said with heartfelt gratitude, helping himself to a thick ham and cheese sandwich.
“Your mommy is a wonder,” Morgan told his daughter in a silly voice. “Uncle Brooks is a jealous man.”
“Green with envy,” Brooks admitted, biting into the sandwich. The time had been when it was the other way around, but Brooks was happy to see his friend happy now, and he loved Lyla and Bri for being the agents of that happiness. He prayed that Morgan’s happiness would last many, many years longer than his own had.
Lyla returned to take up her daughter again and cart her off to bed. Bri roused but didn’t protest, a child so well loved that she felt no reason to fear. This, too, made Brooks smile. As soon as mother and daughter left the room, however, he frowned, knowing that he had to speak of a subject he’d rather not broach.
“I have imposed upon your aunts again.”
Morgan sat up straight in his chair and leaned forward. “Oh? How so? Another celebrity patient?”
The last “celebrity patient” had been the goalie for a professional Fort Worth hockey team injured in an accident and needing to recuperate away from the limelight. He was now Morgan’s brother-in-law.
“Just the opposite, I’m afraid,” Brooks admitted. “This one is something of an itinerant, too broke to eat, let alone provide shelter for herself until she’s healed, so...”
“So it’s the aunties to the rescue once again.”
“What would we do without them?” Brooks asked.
“I shudder to think.”
“Just thought I should let you know,” Brooks said, realizing the time had come to go. Lyla would be waiting for her husband to join her.
He got up from the sofa and reached for his overcoat. Morgan didn’t try to stop him. He rose, too, and walked around the coffee table, sliding his hands into the pockets of his slacks.
“What’s her name?” he asked. “This itinerant patient of yours.”
“Eva Belle Russell.”
They walked together out of the library and across the terra cotta tile floor of the expansive living room of Morgan’s graceful 1928 house.
“Older lady?” he mused. “Eva Belle.”
“Not particularly,” Brooks hedged.
“No? How old is she then?” Morgan wanted to know.
Brooks shrugged into his coat. “Oh, mid-thirties.”
“Really?” Morgan tilted his head. “What does she look like?”
Brooks fiddled with his collar. “Tall, thin.”
They reached the small foyer and went down the two steps to the arched front door.
“Blonde, brunette, redhead?” Morgan ventured dryly.
Brooks sighed. “She has blond hair.”
“Long? Short?”
“Long.”
“Blue eyes?”
He considered pretending that he hadn’t noticed, but a doctor would have looked into his patient’s eyes. Instead, he chose a nonchalant tone. “Green hazelish.”
“Pretty, is she?” Morgan pressed, rocking back on his heels.
Brooks tamped down his irritation. Any attempt at prevarication would catch up with Brooks in short order. Might as well face the facts head on. “Stunning, if you must know.”
Morgan grinned. It was funny how a little domestic bliss made matchmakers of even the most stalwart former bachelors. Brooks shook his head grimly.
“Don’t get any ideas. She’s the very last woman on the face of the earth I’d get involved with.”
“And why is that?”
Brooks looked his friend in the eye and tossed aside his medical ethics. “She has a brain tumor.”
The nascent spark of hope there swiftly died. “Oh, hey, I’m sorry.”
“She’s not Brigitte,” Brooks said softly. “It’s not like that. Well, Eva is refusing treatment for some reason, but it’s not my problem, and it’s not going to be.”
“No, of course, it isn’t,” Morgan rushed to say. “No one would expect—”
“She’s just passing through,” Brooks broke in. “She’s not my problem.”
“That’s right,” Morgan agreed, frowning uncertainly.
Brooks nodded. “Well, I have a busy day tomorrow. Give Lyla my thanks, and kiss Bri good-night for me.”
“Sure,” Morgan said, opening the door, “but, Brooks...”
“Yeah?”
“You could kiss Bri good-night yourself.”
He could, but he wouldn’t. That was a dad’s job. Brooks clapped his friend on the upper arm as he slid through the door. “Sleep well.”
“You, too.”
Brooks flashed Morgan a wave as he hurried to his waiting car. He thought of the cold, dark house waiting for him, and as he drove away from Morgan’s warm, comfortable home, he tried not to feel sorry for himself. He’d had his time in the sun. He’d won the girl and made the most of what they’d been given. He had no regrets on that score. But now, sixteen years later, he could be forgiven for a touch of melancholy, couldn’t he?
It would pass. Somehow, he couldn’t help thinking that it would pass just as soon as Eva Russell left town. Somehow he knew he’d feel better again once she had gone on her way. Then things could get back to normal.
Why normal had recently begun to feel less than satisfactory, he did not know or want to.
* * *
The room, if it could be called that, was downright luxurious, from the thick, cream-colored carpet underfoot to the royal blue velvet sofa and chairs in the sitting area and the cream-painted wood paneling. The bed furniture looked to be Empire-style, unless Eva missed her guess. Whatever the period, it was the real deal—no reproductions here. Sky-blue velvet curtains trimmed in heavy gold cording and fringe adorned the windows, with white on cream in the bathroom, gold fittings and sea-green towels. Vases of vibrant coral roses shocked the senses and perfumed the air, their color picked up in the subtle paintings on the walls. Over the stately fireplace hung a thoroughly modern flat-screen television.
Magnolia Chatam invited Eva to run a hot bath in the jetted tub and went out to find an extra nightgown for her. Deciding to take her up on the offer, Eva gingerl
y pulled up her hair and piled it atop her head. The blood had been rinsed out of it when the wound had been cleansed, but it could use a good scrubbing. That, however, would have to wait until her stitches came out. She began to disrobe, removing her scarves one by one and folding them carefully. Who knew how long she would have to wear the things?
She was down to her leggings and turtleneck when Magnolia returned with a voluminous cotton gown and a flannel robe that might have been fashionable in the 1920s.
“So you’ve always tried to look hideous,” Eva surmised, realizing she’d spoken aloud only when she heard the other woman’s gasp. “Oh, I said that, didn’t I? Maybe I do need the speech police.” She folded the flannel robe against her and made a face. “Sorry.”
Magnolia rolled her eyes, but then a reluctant smile tugged at her pursed lips. “Convenient thing, this brain tumor of yours. I’ve often wished for an unassailable reason to speak my mind.”
“Always has to be an up side,” Eva said. “That’s what I told my ex when I caught him in bed with another woman.”
Magnolia drew back, obviously horrified. “Oh, my. What possible ‘up side’ could there be to that?”
Eva almost said, “No custody battle.” Instead she quipped, “The prenup was nullified, for one thing.”
Magnolia blinked. “Well, I guess that was something.”
“Would’ve been if he hadn’t blown everything on bad investments,” Eva told her offhandedly. “Anyway, thanks for the nightclothes. Doc says we’ll get my own things from the van tomorrow.”
“The, ah, robe was my father’s,” Magnolia confessed.
“Yeah?” Eva held up the striped flannel garment and really looked at it.
“I often wear his things,” Magnola said, lifting her chin. “I hate waste, and they suit me far better than silks and bows.”
Eva smiled at the older woman. “Okay. I can get with that.” She glanced at the nightgown and said, “I don’t suppose you have any of his pajamas, do you?”
Magnolia chuckled. “I’ll fetch you a pair.”
“You’re a peach,” Eva told her. “Just leave them on the bed. I’m getting in that tub.”
“Fine,” Magnolia agreed. “I’ve had the kitchen send up a tray for you. You’ll find it in the dumbwaiter out on the landing when you’re ready for it.”
“You’re kidding,” Eva gushed. “That’s super! Thanks.” She wrinkled her nose and asked, “Tea?”
“Apple cider,” Magnolia assured her.
Eva threw back her head in grateful glee, then grabbed it as a sharp pain burned her scalp. “That’s wonderful. I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
Her hostess stilled, hands folded. “That, my dear, is something we need to discuss.”
Eva heaved out a deep breath. “Look,” she said, letting her hands fall to her sides, “I’ve heard it all before. Christ on the cross. God is love, answering our prayers, if we’re good little girls. It’s all malarkey.”
Magnolia shook her wizened head. “Oh, child, what has happened to make you think such things?”
“Hmm, let’s see.” Eva ticked off the issues on her fingers. “A father I never knew. A mother and a sister who both died of cancer. A lying cheat of a husband. Oh, and a tumor in my head slowly killing me. Let’s see, did I forget the aunt who took a strap to my backside every time I turned around then gave our food money to the church? Yeah, give me some more of that.”
Magnolia looked positively stricken. For a moment, Eva thought the old woman might cry, but then she blinked, stiffened her already straight spine and said, “I blame your mother for your brain tumor.”
Eva literally reeled backward. “What?”
“I blame her for your terrible taste in men.”
Gaping, Eva sputtered, “H-how dare you!”
“I could even blame her for your sister’s cancer. It’s often hereditary, after all.”
Blazingly angry, Eva fisted her hands, a vein throbbing painfully in her head. “That’s not fair! You take that back!”
“But you blame God for the failures of His children and the problems of a fallen world,” Magnolia pointed out, shrugging.
Eva’s eyes narrowed, and some of her anger waned as she caught on to Magnolia’s game. “That’s different,” Eva grated out. “My mother was human. God is all-powerful.”
“Is He?” Magnolia returned. “All-powerful but stupid, I take it.”
“Of course not. I never said that. Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“Then, cruel.”
“Yes!” she crowed triumphantly. “Absolutely.”
“Cruel enough to let Himself be crucified to pay the sin debt for the whole of humanity,” Magnolia said. “Cruel enough to give that same humanity the free will to reject His sacrifice.” She clucked her tongue. “You have a funny definition of cruel, Ms. Russell. I suspect your definition of cruel is simply not getting what you want when and how you want it.”
Eva was still grasping for a reply when the door closed behind her hostess. She was still standing there several moments later, clutching that old flannel robe, when the thought occurred that Magnolia Chatam didn’t need the excuse of a brain tumor to speak her mind, and as hard as she tried to be angry about that, Eva couldn’t help admiring the old girl.
She made sure that she was in the tub when Magnolia returned with the pajamas, and she stayed there until her skin puckered and pruned. Then, dressed in the Chatam sisters’ father’s nightclothes, she stuck her head out of the door to her room and made sure that the landing was deserted before she padded on bare feet to the dumbwaiter and fetched the tray laden with a steaming pot of apple cider, the most scrumptious muffins imaginable and a selection of cheeses and fruit.
Pigging out, she ate as much as she possibly could. After all, she assumed that there would be more where this came from, but after she left here, who knew when she’d eat again? She lay back on the bed, utterly replete, and contemplated her next move.
The medication she’d received earlier had relieved the pressure inside her skull and probably bought her some time. Otherwise, her language would still be messed up. It had frightened her to hear herself speaking gibberish again. She’d known it was a possibility, of course, but because she’d been getting dizzy and even blacking out, she’d assumed that she’d simply continue on that path until she just wouldn’t wake up one day. She supposed she’d have to find a way to fill her prescriptions again, at least until she found a permanent place to crash, but she could make that decision later. First she had to think about transportation—and decide whether or not to call Ricky.
She’d promised herself that she wouldn’t, not until she’d found a permanent place to let it end, but without the van, that place might be closer than she’d anticipated. She checked the time, saw that it was fairly late, and told herself to let it go another day, but somehow she found herself with her phone in hand, her thumbs punching in the familiar numbers.
Ricky himself answered on the second ring.
“Allenson residence.”
He wouldn’t know it was her because she’d blocked the number, but she imagined that she heard a hopeful tone in his voice.
“Hey, Ricky. How’s it going, big guy?”
“Mom! I knew it was you. I knew it.”
She tried not to choke up. “You sound good. How’s it going, hon?”
“When are you coming home?” he demanded, ignoring her question. “I hate it here. I want to go home.”
His complaints hit her like blows to her chest. She closed her eyes and fought to keep her tone light. “Ricky, your dad would be crushed to hear you say that.”
“I don’t care. I hate Tiffany. She treats me like a five-year-old.”
“That’s because she’s a mental five-year-old,” Eva muttered. Louder she said, “Give h
er a break, Ricky. She’s never been a mom, and she’s still learning.”
“You say that like she can learn. Mom, I want to go with you.”
Eva’s throat clogged, but she cleared it and said, “Son, you’re better off with your father now.”
“He’s never here! Neither of them are.”
Eva sat up. “They’re leaving you unsupervised?”
“No,” he admitted reluctantly. “Donita’s here.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, Eva slumped back onto the bed. Donita was the housekeeper that she and Rick, her ex, had employed before their marriage had ended so ingloriously. If Donita was there then Rick must have recouped some of his financial losses.
“That’s good,” Eva said. “That’s very good.” Donita was trustworthy and loyal. She would look after Ricky. She had kept in touch when Eva had struggled to keep a roof over their heads and study, too. “You do what Donita tells you,” Eva instructed, “and tell her that I said ‘Thanks.’ Will you do that?”
“I wish you’d just come home,” he whined.
“I know,” Eva told him. “I would if I could, son.”
“But why can’t you?” he asked.
“I just can’t. It’s best for you that I don’t.”
“Adults always say that when they just don’t want to explain,” he complained.
She chuckled, trying to sound carefree. “You think so, do you? Well, you’ll figure it out one of these days. You just remember that everything I do, I do to spare you misery. Okay?”
“Making me live with Tiffany isn’t sparing me misery,” he told her grumpily.
She laughed. It was either that or sob. “I love you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he groused, but then he muttered, “I love you, too.”
She could barely speak again after that. Managing to squeak out a “Good night,” she broke the connection, clutched the phone to her chest and wept until sleep at last overcame her.
* * *
“Poor girl,” Odelia opined, tears glistening in her eyes. She glanced longingly at the door that connected the sisters’ sitting room to the suite she shared with Kent. Strangely, marriage had somehow enlarged Odelia. She was no less scatterbrained or flamboyant—indeed, she seemed rather more so, as Kent encouraged her shamelessly—yet, she had somehow grown more confident and knowing.
