Beyond I Do

by Jennifer Slattery

  Candy ran her hands down her torso and along her hips. “Inches?”

  He certainly didn’t need to hear her measurements. “Never mind. I’ll get you the catalog then let you pick.” Assuming she’d actually select an appropriate size. What was with this girl anyway?

  Footsteps clicked on the stained concrete and Ainsley emerged from the back hall wearing a pressed uniform and a radiant smile. “You know, this place really brightens my day.” She planted her hands on her hips and surveyed the tables in front of her. “So, where do you want me?”

  He checked his watch. With Ainsley here, perhaps he could leave for a few hours. “My mom’s getting blood work done today, and I’d really like to be there. I’m hoping to keep her calm enough to prevent them from strapping her down.”

  “Oh, Chris, I’m so sorry.” Her eyes softened. “I’d offer to come with you, but I know that’d only make things worse.”

  And he’d love to have her there, if only for mental support, but he couldn’t leave Candy in charge. Besides, strangers would only add to his mother’s agitation.

  “I appreciate the offer. If you’ll excuse me.” He dashed into his back office and grabbed his winter gear, pulling it on as he walked. With a smile and a wave, he rushed out into the bitter cold.

  Pressed against the cold brick wall, his homeless friend, Albert, huddled beside a large, cloth bag. Chris turned up his collar against the wind and squatted until their eyes met. “Missed you this morning. Worried something might have happened.”

  Albert shook his head, his charcoal eyes darting right to left. “Nope.”

  “You want to come inside, get a cup of coffee? Have a bite to eat?”

  Albert leaned sideways and peered into the glass window, then settled back against the brick, rocking. “No. No. No. People rancid running falling, pouring coffee on my head. On my head. On my head. Hot, boiling, steaming. Be careful, Albert. Burn my tongue. Be careful, Albert.”

  “Would you like me to bring a cup to you?” He spoke slowly to give Albert time to make sense of his words.

  Albert nodded and talked through chattering teeth, one sentence merging with the next. “Hot coffee, warm coffee, steaming from the cup. Be careful not to burn your tongue. It’s hot, Albert, hot coffee. Steaming from the cup of plastic foam. They make cups from plastic foam. Who’s they? You know who’s they, but they won’t find you here. How do you know? I know. You don’t know. I know. They won’t find you here.”

  Chris hurried inside and returned a moment later with a bag of pastries and a steaming latte made from vitamin D milk.

  Albert’s eyes brightened and his rocking slowed. “Be careful. It’s hot. Don’t burn your tongue. Don’t burn your tongue.” He brought the cup to his lips, his chattering ceasing as the steam fogged his face.

  “It’s OK. You can take a drink. I added a few ice cubes.”

  Chris waited a moment longer, asking God to watch over and protect Albert, before hurrying down the street toward his neighborhood and his ice-covered pickup.

  Thirty minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of Shady Lane Assisted Living and surveyed the row of vehicles on either side of him. Matilda’s car was parked three stalls down. She was probably pretty stressed. She couldn’t handle these appointments, which usually resulted in their mother being pinned down by at least three nurses, eyes flooded with fear, as the doctor searched for a vein in her heavily wrinkled arm.

  Lord, keep things amiable today, for Mother’s sake.

  Inside, warmth swept over him from large vents in the ceiling. Men and women dressed in their finest, hair neatly combed and faces scrubbed free of food residue, dotted the lobby. Nursing staff hurried between them.

  An attendant in crisp scrubs rolled a woman with thinning hair in front of the television. As soon as the doctors left everything would return to normal and these seemingly well-cared-for folks would be shoved in their rooms, forgotten between the assembly-line rounds.

  Take out dentures. Check. Pull off day clothes and slap on nightwear. Check. Toss in bed then move to the next resident. Check. At least some of the staff took their time, offering a kind word or hand squeeze between rotations. Truth be told, Heather was the only one he had a problem with, but her biting words sliced deep enough to undo every dash of compassion the rest of the staff sprinkled. Unfortunately, although her words left countless wounded in her wake, nothing she did proved illegal or worthy of dismissal. But one of these days her short temper would get the best of her and seal her fate.

  Sadly, probably at the expense of yet another resident, maybe even his mother.

  Rounding the corner, his stomach did a 360 at the sight of Matilda standing outside their mother’s doorway, rubbing the back of her neck. As he approached, his mother’s agitated voice, seeping through the thin walls, ignited a fight-or-flight response.

  “They kick you out?”

  She shook her head. “They’re trying to get her ready.”

  “Why? The doctor can’t give shots if she stays in her nightgown?” He threw open the door, a knife stabbing into his chest as he beheld his mother trembling in the center of the room, nurses on either side holding her arms.

  “Chris! Who are these people? Tell them to leave. Make them leave me alone! Why won’t they just leave me alone?”

  He looked from one face to the next before locking eyes with Heather. “I’ll take care of this.”

  “But Mr. Langley, we can’t let you—”

  “Out.”

  She stared at him with wide eyes. His mother clutched her hair, torso caved inward, and inched backward until she ran into the wall.

  Chris’s muscles quivered. He pointed to the door. “Now!”

  The nurses scurried out and Matilda hurried in, her face blanched. “Chris, you can’t order the nursing staff around like that. They’re only trying to do their job.”

  “Are they?” A series of fresh bruises splotched his mother’s arms. “What do you call this?” Breathing deep in an effort to calm himself, he turned to his mother and softened his voice to a near whisper. “Everything’s fine, Mom. You’re OK. Everything’s OK. Let me help you.” He checked the clock and searched his mind for soothing words, but nothing came. The doctor would be here in less than fifteen minutes with a needle.

  Lord, I could use some help here.

  Stepping closer, he started to sing softly, as his mother used to sing to him. “Jesus loves you, this I know, for the Bible tells me so. May His love ease your fears, may He keep you through the years.” As he sang, her quivering eased until it stopped completely. Placing an arm across her shoulder, he pulled her close and continued singing. She nestled against him and buried her face into his chest.

  “Where’s your father, Chris? I need your father. Please, tell him to come get me. Why won’t he take me home?”

  “Sh. Everything’s fine.” He rubbed her back, tears stinging his eyes.

  Three hours later, shot administered and his mother sufficiently calmed, he and Matilda stood outside the main entrance, flecks of snow swirling around them.

  Chris faced Matilda head on. “Now do you see why I want her moved? Why she can’t stay here?”

  “And you think another home will do a better job? She’s agitated, paranoid, and combative. The staff is doing the best that they can.”

  “It’s not good enough. Did you see those bruises on her arm? They’re too rough with her.”

  “She could have gotten those any number of ways. She bruises easily, you know that.”

  “So they should be extra gentle with her.”

  Matilda shook her head. “We’ve had this conversation before, and frankly, I don’t have the energy to rehash it now. Honestly, I believe they’re doing the best they can, all things considered.”

  “Fat lot of good it does them. From where I sit, their ‘best’ only made her more agitated. I calmed her down in less than five minutes.”

  “That’s because she recognized you. This time.”

&nbs
p; “Dad would never have stood for this, you know that.”

  “Really? How do you know what Dad would or wouldn’t have done? From what I remember, you weren’t around much.”

  Chapter 39

  insley hugged her knees and rested her chin upon them. Her last paycheck from Voltex lay on the coffee table, promising one more month of rent. When Chris hired her, they never discussed salary, but she doubted making lattes, tips included, would cut it. But at least she hadn’t had to dip into her savings yet.

  She smiled as an image of Mrs. Jeffreys’s rosy face came to mind and the five- to ten-dollar bills she dropped in the tip jar. Not that Ainsley expected charity, but the generosity behind the gesture touched her deeply.

  But even that well would run dry eventually, which meant she needed to find another job soon.

  And spend less time with Chris.

  Oy! What silly schoolgirl reasoning, and yet, she suspected her feelings for her him were more than a passing crush. When he looked into her eyes, it felt like he could see in the depths of the soul—even more than that, like somehow their hearts longed to be united. It was an emotion she’d never felt before, and she didn’t quite know how to deal with it. Her first instinct was to quit her job and run, but her budget prevented it.

  Her doorbell rang. Glancing at the clock, she smoothed her hair and crossed the living room, mentally sifting between three possible visitors: her mom, Chris, or Richard.

  More than likely, Richard, coming with more psychobabble on why their breakup was caused by her unresolved issues. Uh-huh. She was the one with issues. Right.

  “Oh!” Wide-eyed, she stared at Richard’s mother.

  Her gaze swept Ainsley’s frame and her face puckered. “You look well.”

  “Why thank you.” I think. “Uh . . . would you like to come in?” She stepped aside to allow Mrs. Hollis in.

  “I stopped by the other day with soup and crackers, but you were out.”

  Uh, OK . . .Thank you.” Did Richard put her up to this? She almost laughed. “Here’s some soup. Do you like it? Enough to go through with the wedding?” “What can I do for you, Mrs. Hollis?”

  “Richard said you were ill, so I—”

  “He what?”

  “He said you were ill. You were ill, weren’t you?”

  “Not in the last year, no.” And to think, Richard accused her of being irrational. Seriously, what was this about?

  “Then tell me, Ainsley,” she crossed her arms, “why you neglected to come to your formal engagement dinner?”

  Ainsley blinked. “Why? Surely he told you . . . She let out a whoosh of air. “I’m sorry you had to hear this from me, but your son and I are no longer engaged.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Ainsley guided her to the couch, explaining, as gently as she could, what had happened.

  “But why would Richard . . . ?” Her face hardened. She rose, clutching her purse to her chest. “Apparently my son and I need to talk. Have a good day.”

  Ainsley followed her to the door, unable to find an appropriate parting phrase. Somehow, “Great to see you,” didn’t seem right.

  Chris cruised through the aisles of Big Savings in search of quality toys at bulk prices. “Jingle Bells” played from overhead speakers, adding a bounce to his step. He paused in front of a Matchbox Car display, multiplying the price times four then adding the total to the toys already in his cart. Logically, the kids at the shelter needed more practical gifts like gloves, socks, and underwear, but he couldn’t bring himself to buy those things. Besides, logic and Christmas didn’t belong in the same sentence, and every child deserved something fun in their stockings.

  Did those kids even have stockings? Sighing, he pulled out his wallet and sifted through the cash tucked inside. A long list of upcoming expenses ran through his mind. At least business at the café appeared to be picking up.

  Give and you will be given, with good measure, right? Lord, I’m taking You on Your word here, because I would love to see each one of those little faces light up when I hand them a stocking full of goodies. And candy.

  Richard massaged his temples, his mother’s sharp voice grating in his ears. “I didn’t feel it worth mentioning.” He moved to the couch and dropped into it.

  His mother hovered in the middle of the room, back rod straight, clutching her purse. “Not worth mentioning? Ainsley tells you it’s over, and you don’t think it’s worth mentioning? You’d rather I learn of this after a formal announcement is made to all of your father’s colleagues?”

  “You know her history, Mother. Surely you expected a moment’s hesitation to arise.”

  “A moment’s hesitation doesn’t last for weeks, son.”

  “It’s difficult to put a timetable on these sorts of things, but I know her. She’ll come around.”

  “I don’t think so. She’s made up her mind. I could tell. We need to tell your father.”

  Richard stiffened. “There’s no need for that. Not yet. Give her time. She just lost her job—”

  “Whatever for?” Her lips pressed together. “I’m concerned, Richard. If Ainsley is as irresponsible as she appears, then I’d rather you find someone else to carry on the Hollis family name.”

  “She’s not unstable, just confused. Surely you felt as much when Father asked you to marry him?”

  She perched on the edge of a recliner, hands cupped over her knees, and angled her head. A slight smile emerged. “Yes, I do. I wanted the exciting romance I saw all my friends experience, but then I grew up and realized marriage is much more than physical attraction or fluttering hearts. It’s a formal agreement to work together, as a team. The question I have for you is, do you really believe Ainsley to be your life partner?”

  “I do. And I am certain everything will right itself by the end of the month.”

  “Perhaps. But in case you’re wrong and her concerns run deeper, I think it’s best if we hold off on making any more arrangements. Although I do hope it’ll be resolved before August.”

  In order to meet the conditions of the trust, which affected more than his inheritance. “It will be; I assure you.”

  He showed his mother out then paced the living room. If only his grandfather were alive today, he’d tell him how ludicrous those conditions were. To think that Richard’s marriage, or lack thereof, could affect his family’s standing, potentially even cost his father his practice. Likely his grandfather received great satisfaction knowing his son, whom he deemed a colossal failure, would in turn raise another failure, thus sealing his fate.

  As if the old coot had room to talk, dying alone on a hospital bed with only a handful of people by his side, most of whom were paid to be there. Even then, with tubes stuck up his nose and lungs rasping for breath, he’d used every last opportunity to level both Richard and his father—to show them once again how worthless he thought they were.

  “I imagine the bulk of my estate will be going to the Audubon Society, but I welcome your attempts to prove me wrong.”

  And now Ainsley threatened to make good on Grandfather Hollis’s predictions. Richard’s jaw clenched, every muscle in his body tightening, as an image of Mr. Langley, her snake-charming neighbor, came to mind.

  Richard refused to admit defeat yet. He just needed to determine a logical course of action. Thinking, he tapped on his chin. He smiled as a plan took form—one guaranteed to send his little princess running back to his arms.

  He crossed the room, pulled open a filing cabinet, and sifted through old cases, mentally reviewing each one. Most were useless—a college professor who suffered a nervous breakdown, a middle-aged housewife looking for a doting ear. Two of them, however, offered potential. Holding his thumb as a place marker, he sat behind his office chair and turned on his desktop. Fifteen minutes later, refreshed by a large file of therapy notes, he grabbed the phone and dialed Lyle Wheeler’s number.

  A woman answered. “Wheelers’ residence. May I help you?”

  He leaned back in
his chair. “Good morning, Mrs. Wheeler. May I speak with your husband, please?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  He cleared his throat to suppress a chuckle. “Dr. Hollis from Hollis Psychiatrics.”

  Silence hung between them, and Richard’s smile widened as an image of Lyle’s wife, forehead creased in confusion, came to mind.

  “In regard to?”

  He twirled a pen in his fingers. “He will know, I am sure.”

  “Hold on.” The phone clanked against something hard, followed by the sound of muffled voices, what appeared to be footsteps, then a door closing.

  A moment later, Mr. Lyle came on. “Mr. Hollis, I’m surprised you’re calling me at home. You may remember, my wife had no knowledge of our visits, or . . . the situation.”

  “I remember. And how have things been, with your wife I mean?”

  “Fine.” His voice sharpened. “As I mentioned in my last appointment, now that the past is behind me, I’m determined to do everything I can to make our marriage work. Thanks to you, of course, and your impulse-control-behavior-modification approach.”

  “Then I’m sure you’re unwilling to allow anything from the past resurface that might create unnecessary marital tension?”

  “Are you asking if I continue to engage in risky behavior? Absolutely not. And if there’s nothing else, I really need to—”

  “I’ve been going through my notes from our therapy sessions, and it occurred to me how damaging it would be if anyone ever got ahold of them.”

  He waited for his words to take hold.

  “What are you saying?” Mr. Lyle’s voice dipped to a coarse whisper.

  “It appears, Mr. Wheeler, you and I can be of help to one another. Are you still working for Mega-tech Security?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent. Then you will have no problem locating the information I need.” He draped his ankle over his knee, explaining, in detail, what Mr. Wheeler needed to do in order to secure silence.