by Cat Connor
Every night I wondered what he was looking for.
Was he checking the time?
Was he expecting something?
I rolled over, picked up my phone and noted the time. Three-thirty in the morning, as usual.
With a sigh, I flopped onto my back, the phone still in my hand. Staring at the ceiling in the dark did not help. The pictures stayed.
Mitch drifting but not asleep.
I closed my eyes. Still there.
I gave it a minute and just watched.
The big difference between viewing Mitch and seeing images at a crime scene or during a case was the level of darkness and fear.
There was no fear or darkness associated with images of Mitch. Nothing bad was happening or going to happen. I scrolled through my contacts until I found his number. Okay so not a bad thing? But something was going on, something that woke us during the night.
What?
Why?
How didn’t concern me. It didn’t concern me because it was the very tip of an ever-expanding ice-burg. Best not to start down that track. How did I hear songs? How did I hear dead people? How I smell scents no one else could?
Three-forty. My index finger tapped the green phone icon. The wait seemed excruciatingly long. Meanwhile his picture was there on my screen smiling and in my mind I saw him fumbling his phone, half-asleep and disheveled in the best possible way.
“Hello.” Groggy. Sleepy. Warm. His voice changed a little more awake. “El?”
“Hi.” I wanted to apologize for waking him up but I wasn’t sorry. “Sleepy?”
“It’s late,” he stated. “I was asleep.” A smile edged into his voice. “What’s up?”
“Me.”
“You’re funny in the middle of the night, huh?”
His hand reached out and turned the lamp on. How did I know that?
“You weren’t asleep. You were drifting. As long as we’re both awake … fancy a visitor?”
“You’re coming over?”
The image in my mind changed.
I could see the smile spread across his face. I expected surprise not a smile.
To be honest I didn’t expect to be able to see him at all. But I could. There he was lying propped on his left elbow, phone in his right hand, smiling. Shirtless, the bedding resting across his hips. A warm yellow light from the lamp bathed him in a soft glow. Something very odd was going on. Odd even for me. I was seeing him in real time?
“What’s with the smile?”
I heard his voice falter and saw his expression change to confusion then back to the familiar smile.
“You, you make me smile.” He laughed lightly. “How’d you know?”
“Same way I know you’re leaning on your left elbow and holding the phone in your right hand, and have the lamp on. And that every night you wake at three-thirty and check your phone.”
A frown creased his forehead. He reached over the side of the bed and picked up a book.
“What’d I just do?” he asked.
“Picked up a book,” I replied. The image settled. I could see the title. “How to be a supernatural lover by Sherron Mayes.”
Really? He did this?
“Yes. That’s the book,” Mitch said, a smile floated in his voice.
“Do you think this is what the author intended that book to be used for?” I asked, watching him thumb through the pages and chew his lip at the same time. “Waking me up every night for a week?”
Waking me up was one thing, but being able to see him like I could.
That was fascinating.
“Maybe not. But who knew it would work?”
Mitch put the book on the bed next to him and lay back, one hand behind his head. Relaxed. Comfortable. Smiling. Being able to see everything he did wasn’t just fascinating it was disconcerting and yet not. Complicated. “You coming over?” he asked.
“Yeah and you can explain the book and this waking me up thing you’ve got going here.”
“You all right?” His voice was laced with amusement.
“I think so.” Or completely insane, could go either way. “See you soon.”
I hung up, rolled out of bed and hit the shower. Five minutes later, I was in my car heading to Mitch. Music loud. Thoughts halted. Images still right there.
As I walked to the front door of his house, I knew he was walking down the hallway to the door. I saw him so clearly it was like looking through a glass door and not the solid wooden door in front of me. His lean muscular body, shirtless, wearing jeans, belt open, top button undone, bare feet. My heart pounded.
I didn’t knock. I paused. The door opened. The image from my mind stood in front of me, this time he was real. With a slight shake of his head like he didn’t quite believe I was there, he smiled.
“Come on in,” Mitch said not moving from the doorway.
I couldn’t step around him.
“You’re blocking the door,” I whispered as my voice failed me.
“Got a plan?”
Hell yeah I had a plan. No, I really didn’t.
“You could move?” Faced with the living breathing image that resided in my head, all bets were off. My brain was going places without me. I needed to catch up.
“Or?”
I took one-step; it brought me within three inches of him. My eyes wandered down his body to his open belt and back up. Mitch’s blue eyes filled with amusement. My right hand slipped around his neck, my left was flat against his chest. My lips barely touched his when his arm snaked around my waist and pulled me closer. Three steps forward and the door closed behind me. His fingers slid inside the waistband of my jeans, the button released.
“Can’t believe it took you a week to get here,” he whispered.
The End.
10. Starting All Over Again
Mitch’s mom hugged me hello. We walked into the house arm in arm. That’s how it was my whole life when I was with Joan. Easy. Relaxed. Part of me wondered if things would change now it was me and Mitch. Now I wasn’t just Simon’s daughter. The aroma of chicken roasting filled the air. I pushed the crazy thoughts aside, everything felt right.
“Come into the kitchen with me,” Joan said giving me a squeeze. “Mitch is running late.”
I got the memo. Something came up at work and he’d be late but not too late. Usually it was me running late. So this was new.
Joan’s kitchen filled me with joy. Warm, delicious smelling, comfortable. I sat at the kitchen table and watched her check on the cooking chicken.
“Anything I can do?”
“No, all taken care of. You can tell me about your day?” Joan replied, placing a bottle of pinot noir on the table and two glasses. She sat opposite me.
“Two glasses? Where’s Alan?” I asked realizing I hadn’t seen him when I arrived.
She smiled. “He’s over at your father’s. He’s been there all day. He’ll be in later.”
Joan poured the wine.
“How was your day?” I said sipping the red liquid and enjoying the sensation of warmth that followed.
“I had a lovely day.” Joan took a sip of her wine then placed the glass back on the table. “Tell me about your day.”
Images from my day flashed in my mind, I discounted the first four. They were not things that should be discussed before, during, or anywhere near a mealtime. The next image was Mitch smiling at me. That one would do nicely.
“Mitch and I went for a run at lunchtime. We ran along the river.” I sipped more wine. That wasn’t all we did at lunchtime. I knew there was a smile on my face and could feel Joan’s eyes on me.
“That sounds a nice way to spend a lunch break,” Joan said. Smiling she leaned on her elbows. “How often do you see each other?”
Her question threw me. It felt a little like a left-fielder. Daily. Sometimes twice a day. If we were both in town. If not, we talk every day. I bit my lip. We were almost living together. Perhaps I didn’t hear the question correctly. I was pretty sure Joan knew how m
uch time we spent together.
“Sorry what was the question?”
“How often do you see each other?”
“Often.” No need to elaborate.
“We were talking about you last night,” Joan said.
I knew they were. Mitch was at my house talking on the phone to his mom for over an hour. Sweet. I loved how close they were. Mitch and his mom. My Dad and me.
“Really?”
“You knew,” Joan said with a smile. “He adores you, Gabrielle.”
He’s either got taste or he’s insane. Maybe a bit of both? Gabrielle?
“Yes, I did know you two were talking last night.”
She nodded, smiled, sipped her wine and then spoke, “Does he stay over a lot?”
I felt my eyes widen. Not really wanting to take this conversational path but knowing I needed to answer her question.
“I suppose he does,” I replied. The floor could open up anytime now, I’d be quite happy to be swallowed before she asks anything else.
Joan sipped her wine and regarded me with inquisitive eyes. The look faded and was replaced with a softer expression, as if she thought better of following her curiosity.
“You make him very happy,” Joan said.
I felt tension leave my shoulders. “He makes me happy.”
“Do you know what we were talking about last night?”
“No.” That was the truth. I left him to his phone call and didn’t ask afterwards, beyond my usual questions about how his mom and dad were. Mitch told me we were invited to dinner tonight and that he’d said we’d be there. A smile edged over my lips. I liked that he was able to do that, because he knew my current schedule and he knew how much I loved being at his parents place.
“He’s going to ask you Gabrielle …” The look Joan gave me said she thought I knew what she was talking about.
My mind stalled. Ask me what?
I gave the thought a kick and it rolled over.
Oh, ask me.
I had an urge to look in the oven and see how big the bird was … just in case it wasn’t just us at dinner tonight. My eyes drifted down my shirt. Pleased I’d had time to go home for a shower and clean clothes. My heart pounded. Another sip of wine helped steady the sudden nerves. Surely she didn’t mean tonight. Maybe I got it wrong. Yeah. Wrong.
“Ask me?”
Joan’s eyes widened, she smiled in a knowing fashion. Panic surged through me. I took a big sip of wine.
“Ask you. What will you say?”
Time to play dense.
“Depends on the question …”
Joan sighed, smiled, and said, “To marry him.”
No mistaking what she said that time. Just like that, Joan changed in my eyes. She went from a loving caring mother and someone I’d always felt comfortable with to a potential mother-in-law. Bubbles of terror burst in my mind sprinkling everything that was good with bloodied confetti.
Images of my last mother-in-law crammed all available space in my head. Memories of Mac’s mother made me feel ill.
More terror bubbles exploded.
There she was, Beatrice Connelly, smoking up a storm, swearing and cursing at the world while a big cloud of evil encroached upon her fragile mental state.
More confetti fell as she made ginormous wooden bows to decorate the outside of the house at Christmas time; and overloaded the electrical circuits with a hundred strings of fairy lights.
She spread misery like a thick blanket smothering everything within her reach. She hollered about how useless her husband was and how Mac was just like him.
Rampaging through my mind casting aspersions upon my character. She told anyone who would listen how I was out to ruin her family. Me! She couldn’t understand how being near her family made me physically ill and how I didn’t want to ruin them, I didn’t want anything to do with them. Well apart from Bob and Mac.
Bob was still in my life and I was pretty sure Mac would always haunt me.
Another image surfaced, Beatrice sat in her rocking chair on the front porch with a six-pack of Bud and her rifle, shooting squirrels. She picked them up by their tails and flung them into the woods behind the house. Dead squirrels hung like macabre Christmas decorations from the tree branches as the air filled with her crazy cackle. I knew my mind wasn’t done with the joys of Christmases past.
Rolls of wrapping paper dropped in front of me. The specific wrapping paper that we had to use each year and the screaming fit that ensued because she changed her mind once about the wrapping paper and didn’t tell anyone. Then I saw the seven Christmas hams Bob bought because she wasn’t happy with the shape of them.
I watched in horror as she hacked one of the hams to pieces with a large knife, then turned on Bob. Mac restrained her while Bob disarmed her. Sedation followed and a quiet afternoon ensued. A bottle of vodka sat on the counter in her kitchen. She drank vodka like water, a trait she passed on to her oldest son, Eddie the ‘tard. A shudder shot through me.
The mother-in-law from hell. I could hear her screeching at me down the phone about how it was my fault Carla committed suicide.
Yes, mother-in-laws invoked terror, much like mothers did.
Joan’s hand touched mine. I jumped. She laughed and gave my hand a warm squeeze.
“Gabrielle?”
I swallowed hard, and then took another sip of wine while I tried to convince myself Joan was the only mother who could call me Gabrielle without it sounding like a precursor to an interrogation. My mother favored water-boarding. Or at least that’s what it felt like, and it always began with my full name. I hadn’t heard my real name since her death, well, until Mitch said it once at Rosslyn Metro. He quickly accepted I preferred Ellie. Oddly, I’d never asked Joan to call me Ellie. I couldn’t understand that.
“Joan?”
“Are you all right?”
I nodded.
She smiled.
I smiled back. “I’m fine.”
At that moment, the backdoor opened and Mitch walked in. He kissed his mum’s cheek then leaned over the table and kissed me on the lips. Long, slow, warm, he was home. A hole opened in the air above the table, swirling black clouds sucked the images of Beatrice Connelly from the room then dissolved. Leaving the air laced with roasting chicken and a hint of Mitch’s cologne.
I breathed.
A chair scrapped on the floor. Joan busied herself at the counter.
Mitch slid into the chair next to me.
“Hi,” he said, smiling, and bumping me with his arm.
“Hi,” I replied, bumping him back.
He picked up my glass and took a mouthful of wine. “This is nice. Do I get a glass Mom?”
He handed me my glass and read the label on the bottle.
His mother set a glass in front of him, and rubbed his shoulder.
She didn’t hit him. She didn’t scream. She didn’t belittle him or accuse. She openly adored her son.
“How was your day?” she asked and actually wanted to know.
“Good. Busy,” Mitch smiled. “Tell me about your day?”
“Just the usual,” Joan replied. “Until Gabrielle arrived.” She walked behind me toward the refrigerator, pausing to give my shoulder a squeeze. “Lovely having you here early,” she said then carried on talking to Mitch while she moved to checked on the cooking process.
I watched them for a few moments and remembered why I loved being around Joan so much as a kid. She was the mom I always wanted.
Joan looked at me, she smiled and said, “Remember the question?”
I grinned. “I’d say yes.”
Confusion crossed Mitch’s face and made us laugh.
The End.
11. Bed of Roses.
“Today sucked and gave change,” I said to the old cat curled at the end of my bed. He didn’t care. I pulled my boots off and let them drop to the floor. My right shoulder ached. “Maybe I need to live in a warmer climate.” Weariness enveloped me like a blanket as my words collided with
the mirror on the wall and bounced into oblivion. A little green flashing light on my phone caught my eye. I picked the cell phone up from the bedside table, the screen woke, and the reason for the little green light became apparent.
A text: Now as you close your eyes, know I’ll be thinking about you. M.
I wanted to reply to Mitch but I didn’t know what to say. Felt like I should start with sorry. The day hadn’t gone to plan. Not my plan anyway. I’d missed our morning run. I’d missed our lunch. The case I was on caved in and caused utter chaos. Didn’t even have the chance to tell him I couldn’t make our run or lunch or even text to say hi. Every time I tried something or someone interrupted me. I read his text again.
“Why does he put up with me?” I mumbled to the cat.
Shrek meowed, twitched, and rolled over.
Not the answer I was looking for.
Mitch’s text was still on the screen when my phone rang.
An image attached to the caller flashed, the text disappeared.
Muscle memory kicked in. My finger swept across the phone.
“Conway, we have a lead,” Kurt said.
I hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Is it good?”
Fair question. This case was weird. Leads led to nothing. Minimal light shone through frosted windowpanes. Doors opened onto brick walls. We needed a wrecking ball to make any progress, and not the Miley Cyrus kind.
“Yes. You all right?”
“Uh huh. Where are you?”
“Almost at your place.”
It took much effort to stifle a sigh. The phone call confirmed my suspicions. The universe was conspiring against us. Maybe me and Mitch weren’t meant to be?
“See you soon.”
I hung up, dropped the phone on to my bed, and stood up. Sadness barreled headlong toward me causing me to do a quick sidestep. The sleep I needed would have to wait. The life I wanted faded into the night. So much for having a work/life balance.
