Beyond I Do

by Jennifer Slattery

  Chris swallowed. Matilda looked at him, but he averted his gaze.

  He stepped closer to his mother and placed his hand on hers. “Have you seen the birds yet. I know how you like to watch them fly.” He rotated her chair, careful not to jolt her, while Matilda opened the blinds. Outside, the vibrant pinks and purples that once filled the sky had faded to a pale blue. Cotton-ball clouds hovered above the city skyline.

  While they admired the horizon, Matilda resumed her singing and began to pack their mother’s things. Ten minutes later, she held a filled tote.

  Chris clutched his mother’s hands again and looked into her eyes. “Would you like to go on a trip? It’s such a beautiful day.” He held his breath.

  The room went silent as his mother looked from face to face. Chris fought to keep his muscles relaxed and his gaze warm and steady, although his pulse quickened.

  Please, Lord, let her come willingly.

  “Is your father coming?”

  “No. It’ll just be us today.

  She smiled and nodded. “Yes, that sounds lovely. A mommy-and-kids day. We haven’t had one of those in quite some time.”

  Chris continued to pray as they led her down the hall and into the crisp morning air. His stomach flopped when his mother stopped in the center of the sidewalk, the muscles in her arm tightening beneath his hand. But then she giggled, pointing out a bushy-tailed cat hiding beneath a pickup.

  “Here, kitty, kitty.” She leaned forward and extended her hand, wobbling on her feet.

  Chris secured his grip and placed his free hand on the small of her bony back.

  A chilled breeze swept over them and his mother shivered.

  He pulled her closer to shield her from the wind. “Let’s get you out of the cold.”

  Matilda waited at her car, holding the back door open. “Mind driving? I’d like to sit with Mom.”

  Chris took her keys. “Not at all.”

  Exhaust streamed from the muffler and heat poured from the interior, drawing their mother like a stray to a heated barn. Soft, classical music drifted from the speakers.

  Sliding across the leather seat, she inhaled. “What a lovely smell. Like flowers. Just like spring flowers.” She leaned against the headrest.

  Matilda eased the door closed then rounded the car and poked her head into the opposite door. “Mind if I sit here?”

  “By all means. You must be new to our group. I’m Mrs. Langley. And you are?”

  Tears glistened in Matilda’s eyes. “Matilda.”

  Once they were settled, Chris got in the driver’s seat and cranked the engine. Fifteen minutes later, they pulled up to a single-story structure Chris hoped would soon be his mother’s new home.

  Chris parked the car and got out. Waiting on the sidewalk, he shoved his hands in his pockets, eyes trained on his mother. His tense shoulders relaxed when she exited the car with a smile.

  “Where are we?”

  “Mother, I want you to meet someone. A sweet Christian couple.” Matilda looped her arm through their mother’s and guided her up the walk. Sarah and Donald Lovington, the facility owners, met them at the door dressed in jeans and T-shirts. Their eyes sparkled when they looked at Chris’s mom.

  “Welcome.” Sarah stepped aside. A candle burned on a white pine accent table, filling the air with the scent of spice cake.

  Inside, an elderly man and woman relaxed in recliners, newspapers spread on their laps. Ferns draped across end tables and books lined numerous shelves. A worn leather Bible with slips of paper poking from the pages lay on the coffee table.

  Matilda led their mom inside.

  She stood with her hands laced in front of her and examined the quaint surroundings. Her gaze landed on the Bible. “What passage are we studying today?”

  Sarah came to her side and extended her hand. “I’m Sarah Lovington. You must be Mrs. Langley.”

  Chris’s mom smiled. “You must be the study leader. And this must be your husband.” She frowned. “My husband appears to be running late.” She checked her watchless wrist.

  “Would you like a tour?” Sarah touched their mom’s elbow and looked at her husband. “Could you ask Laurie to bring some coffee to Mrs. Langley’s room?”

  Chris’s mom straightened, looking from one face to the next. “My room? What room? What is she talking about?”

  Matilda rubbed her back. “Isn’t this a lovely place, Mom? Listen.” She paused and their mom angled her head. Soft music poured from hidden speakers. “Do you remember when Aunt Jane used to sing that hymn to us?” She started to hum.

  “Ah, yes. I do.” Their mother joined in.

  They led her down a picture-lined hallway half a step behind Sarah.

  They stopped in front of a rose-colored room with thick, beige carpet and lace curtains. A floral quilt adorned a queensized bed and stuffed animals filled a corner shelf. An opened Bible lay beneath a pink reading lamp. The faint scent of vanilla and lavender drifted from decorative air fresheners tucked in the ceiling corners.

  A soft knock rapped on the opened door, and a young woman with a bright smile that extended to her eyes entered carrying a tray of coffee, porcelain mugs, and a saucer of sugar.

  An hour later, after kissing their mother good-bye, Chris and his sister gathered on the sidewalk outside.

  Matilda pulled her gloves from her purse. “You were right, Chris. This is going to be a wonderful place for Mom. Very calm and loving.”

  Chris smiled. Thank You, Father.

  Chapter 47

  ichard checked his phone for the tenth time that day. Ainsley still hadn’t returned his calls. It didn’t make any sense. He knew she was no longer seeing that Langley character. He’d watched them at the café: her scowling face, his slumped shoulders. He’d even followed her some, wondering if she’d started seeing someone else. But no. She went to work, the shelter, ran her normal errands. Although there was that guy from New Life Records.

  He rubbed his face, his hands scraping against newly grown stubble. That poor, confused woman. Though she needed him desperately, and yet, she continued to spurn him, the very one who could help her most.

  His phone chimed, and he started, hope stirring in his heart. A glance at the screen soured his mood. Eric.

  He answered. “I’m here.”

  “You’re late.”

  Richard hit Call End and slipped the phone in his front pocket. Stepping out of the car, he scanned the near vacant lot and frowned. He checked his watch—4:05. Either his readers were even later than he, or this endeavor would be a waste of time. Where was this place anyway? The meeting area Eric had scheduled was nothing more than a vacant storefront in a failing strip mall. The only businesses that appeared even remotely successful were a seedy liquor store and a tiny Chinese restaurant.

  He grabbed his books from the trunk and crossed the lot. A rusted bell above the door dinged as he pushed his way into a square room bordered by wood paneling.

  Eric hurried to meet him, then stopped and stared at Richard. “What happened to you?”

  Richard ran his hands through his hair. It felt greasy. “And good afternoon to you too.” After grabbing his notes from the top, he shoved his books at Eric. His jaw tensed as his gaze swept the room. The ceiling was made of drop-down plastic foam, a handful of which was missing, revealing insulation.

  Maybe a dozen men, most wearing button-up shirts and slacks, three in thick, square glasses, occupied the tables placed throughout the room. They looked to be in their late teens or early twenties. College freshmen, most likely. Eric said he’d invited the university’s psychology club. As if college students had money for extracurricular book purchases.

  None of them held cameras. Scowling, Richard turned to Eric. “Where’s the press? You did invite them, didn’t you?”

  “They’re not coming.” His entire countenance went slack, as if devoid of energy. Clearly, the man lacked the enthusiasm necessary to fulfill his job requirements. “I’m afraid they don’t consider you
r book newsworthy. You reviews are . . . lacking. Your sales to this point are dismal, and arriving late to scheduled events isn’t helping.” He shook his head, his expression showing more pity than frustration.

  A pity that soured Richard’s stomach and was completely unfounded. “Yes, well, perhaps if you scheduled events worthy of my time, I would offer more of it.” Lifting his chin, he swept an arm to indicate his surroundings. “Where did you find this place? Craigslist?” He gave a snide laugh.

  Eric rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to speak, but Richard raised a hand.

  “Surely you would agree, now is not the time to discuss your job performance.”

  Turning his back to his publicist, he looked for a podium. Of course there wasn’t one.

  Frowning, he turned to face his . . . guests. “Thank you for coming. As you are probably aware, I am Dr. Richard Hollis, author of The Schizophrenic Next Door, a book that discusses neuropathology and its effects on society.” He went on to explain the diagnostic criteria of the illness, briefly describing the four main types. From there, he talked about reasons individuals don’t seek a diagnosis, have delayed diagnoses, or are misdiagnosed, and how this affected their treatment plan. “As I’m sure you’re aware, there is a stigma attached to mental illness. This inevitably leads to shame, which in turn can make one reluctant to seek help. Obviously, denial is another factor.”

  His mind drifted to Ainsley, and he soon began analyzing her behaviors. Though she held no neuropathology, much of her behaviors were caused by emotional wounds and barriers, and of course, a great deal of denial. And now she intended to make her career in music? Surely she had more sense than that. Did she plan to spend the rest of her life singing in coffee shops and at church socials? It was quite disconcerting. He had been the only stabilizing factor in her life, and now that their relationship was severed.

  “Mr. Hollis?”

  Richard’s focus jerked back to the men in front of him, all of whom were staring at him. “Excuse me.” He cleared his throat and fumbled with his notes. “Where was I?”

  “You were discussing the comorbidities and differential diagnoses of schizophrenia.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Ten minutes later, he concluded with a short reading. Though he had plenty more material, and quite fascinating at that, to share, he felt it a waste of time, considering his audience, to do so.

  He folded his speech outline and tucked it in his pocket. “Any questions?”

  Hands shot up, and he exchanged glances with Eric who shrugged, motioning for him to continue. He sighed and pointed to a kid with jet-black hair that was so straight, it jetted from his scalp like porcupine quills. One question led to ten which led to a debate on the value and dangers of electroconvulsive therapy in modern psychology.

  Richard forced a cough. He shot Eric a scowl and made a deliberate act of checking his watch. This engagement proved pointless. The group in front of him continued to engage in their fruitless debate, so Richard coughed again, more forceful this time.

  “I appreciate you coming.” The talking ceased and all eyes turned to him. “Should you wish to purchase an autographed copy of my book, I will be signing at that table.” He pointed to the far wall where a stack of books and promotional material had been arranged.

  When the men made no effort to rise, but rather, returned to their childish arguments, he exhaled and kneaded his forehead. Crossing the room, he breathed deep, slow and steady, in an effort to calm himself.

  He held Eric’s gaze. “If I were less charitable, I would fire you.”

  Eric didn’t flinch. “That would imply a paid arrangement.”

  Richard stared at him, his hands fisting with such intensity, a cramp shot from his thumb to his elbow. “Mrs. Ellis mailed you a check last week.”

  “Which was returned for insufficient funds.”

  Richard blinked, halted as he processed his publicist’s words. “Ridiculous.” Then, with a huff, he grabbed a stack of books and began signing. He would leave these with Eric, should any of the guests ever conclude their discussion and choose to purchase one. “Clearly there’s been an error. You should get that straightened out.”

  “I’m concerned, Richard.” Eric moved in front of him, as if commanding his attention. He could command all he wanted. Richard was done with this absurd conversation.

  “What’s become of you?” Eric’s breath expelled, flooding Richard’s nostrils with the stench of stale coffee and onions. “You’re losing it.” He softened his voice. “This is because of Ainsley, isn’t it?”

  Richard’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. Muscles tense and free hand fisted, he returned to signing, stacking each book in turn. As he rose to leave, his phone rang. He yanked it from his front pocket and stared at the number on the screen. Mrs. Ellis. Why was she calling on a Saturday?

  He stabbed his finger on the Answer icon. “Yes?”

  She responded by calling him a very unpleasant name, one quite uncharacteristic for his normally mild-mannered secretary. “I knew this would happen, the moment you asked me to begin canceling appointments and referring your clients elsewhere.”

  Sensing Eric’s unwavering stare, Richard turned his shoulder to the man and switched the phone to his other ear. “Calm down and tell me what this is about.”

  “My paycheck bounced, which caused me to bounce numerous checks I’d written.”

  “Bounced?” Richard’s mouth went dry. How had this happened? “Your bank must have made a mistake.” Surely his accountant would’ve mentioned this. Although he had called on more than one occasion, urging Richard to call him back, which he fully intended to do. But somehow, it had slipped his mind.

  Because he’d run into one of Ainsley’s church friends shortly thereafter and had learned of her record signing. This led to an afternoon of Internet searching in the hopes of finding out if she’d been scheduled to sing anywhere. So he could find a way to talk with her in person, to reason with her, to help her see—

  “Did you hear me?” Mrs. Ellis’s voice rose, snapping him back. “I expect you to pay the bounced check fees. I will also be writing a letter to each business affected, explaining, in detail, what has happened.”

  His stomach recoiled, sending a rush of bile up his throat. “That is completely unnec—”

  The line went dead, the deafening silence broken only by the throbbing in his skull.

  “Let Ainsley go, man.” Eric moved into Richard’s line of vision. “Your obsession for her is destroying you. In your effort to control her, you’ve allowed her to control you.”

  He lurched to his feet. “This conversation is done.” He slid the few books he’d autographed across the table and shoved the rest, along with his crumpled notes, in the box. “Good day. Call me when you have a profitable event scheduled.”

  “This is it, Richard. This is the best I can do for you. At some point you’re going to have to accept the fact that this book is a complete dud. Perhaps it’s time you cut your losses and move on. That’s what I plan to do.” He pulled a slip of paper from his inside blazer pocket and set it on the table. “I am resigning as your publicist. Effective immediately.”

  His words hit like an elbow to the gut, leaving Richard speechless. Rotating on wooden legs, he left, stalking across the parking lot in rhythmic yet rapid steps. His pulse pounded in his ears, the rush of adrenaline heady. By the time he reached his car, beads of sweat had accumulated along his forehead and upper lip.

  “You’re losing it. . . . She’s destroying you. . . . Controlling you.”

  He yanked open his car door, thrust his books onto the passenger seat, and sank behind the wheel. Eric’s words replayed like a relentless tornado siren, merging with Mrs. Ellis’s threats. His reputation would be destroyed.

  Tears, hot and furious, rushed to the surface as he stared back at the dive Eric had chosen for his book launch. Everything—everything!—had rested on this book. His practice, his finances, his self-respect. And he�
�d failed. More than failed, he’d destroyed his relationship with Ainsley and lost control.

  He stared at his reflection in the rearview mirror. His stubbled chin and sunken eyes shadowed by the deep purple of sleep deprivation.

  “You’re losing it. Let her go.”

  In truth, he’d never really loved her. Rather, he’d loved the idea of her. Of having a doting and supportive wife, one who would admire him, listen to him. Honor and respect him. But in his effort to gain that, he’d shattered every ounce of respect he’d worked ceaselessly to acquire.

  Falling forward, he pressed his forehead against the steering wheel and sobbed.

  Chapter 48

  insley cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder and pulled a bag of rice from the cupboard. “I’m fine, really. It’s not a big deal.” Her sheet music lay on the counter, sent by Mr. Wharton. She hoped to have it mastered by the end of the week.

  “Yeah, no biggie,” Gina said. “You’re only talking about quitting your job, buying out of your lease, and finding a new place to live. All signs that your heart’s been shattered.”

  “We didn’t date long enough for that.” But the ache in her chest belied her words.

  She measured a cup of rice into a pan of boiling water and pulled a wooden spoon from a drawer and stirred.

  “Too bad emotions rarely run according to our timetables, huh?”

  “Ha, ha. Real funny, Gina.”

  “Do you think you misjudged him? I mean, you said he was in college, right? Surely he’s changed since then, as have we all, thank goodness.”

  Ainsley glanced through her window toward Chris’s house, fighting memories of his boyish smile and deep laugh. “It doesn’t matter. I’m too messed up to be in a relationship.” Her voice cracked. “How can my heart ache for someone I barely know?”

  “You two spent a lot of time together.”

  Ainsley’s phone beeped. She glanced at the unfamiliar number flashing on the screen. Hopefully one of the business owners she’d left her application with called for an interview. “Listen, Gina, can I get back to you later? I’ve got another call coming in.”