Sweetness (The Sweetest Thing #1)

by Sierra Hill

  Sweetness

  Book One

  The Sweetest Thing Series

  by

  Sierra Hill

  Copyright © 2016 Sierra Hill

  Published by Ten28 Publishing

  Cover Design: RBA Designs

  Photography: K. Keeton Designs

  Models: Nathan Weller and Kerrigan Brianne

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 1535382929

  ISBN-13: 978-1535382922

  Be soft.

  Do not let the world make you hard.

  Do not let pain make you hate.

  Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness.

  Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place.

  - Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

  I'm still running away

  Won't play your hide and seek game.

  I was spinning free

  with a little sweet and simple numbing me.

  What a dizzy dance

  This sweetness will not be concerned with me.

  No the sweetness will not be concerned with me.

  - Jimmy Eats World, Sweetness

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chapter 1

  Ainsley

  It’s a dry heat, my ass.

  That’s all I’ve heard from the moment I moved to Phoenix seven months ago, on yet another one of my mother’s crazy-ass, hasty whims. Granted, moving from Idaho to Arizona in the dead of winter wasn’t the worst idea my mother’s ever had. But damn, it’s hot.

  A balmy, seventy-two degrees certainly beats Boise single digits during the dreary months of January and February. What twenty-one-year-old female doesn’t prefer to hang out by the pool in a bikini versus schlepping through snow-covered parking lots and walkways, bundled up in an old hand-me-down parka that has more holes in it than buttons?

  Not this girl.

  Unfortunately, I haven’t had the chance to sip spiked lemonade on a lounge chair, because as it so happens, I have responsibilities. Things that prevent me from ever knowing such luxuries of downtime. Or the joys of shopping for fun. Or the possibilities of dating boys. Yeah, I’m not bitter. Not a bit.

  I sigh wistfully, adjusting the strap of my messenger bag over my shoulder and step out of the air-conditioned bus, where I’m immediately blasted with a heat so intense it feels like my lungs have been ripped from my body and thrown across a Pampered Chef baking stone to bake at four-hundred and twenty degrees.

  Holy balls, Batman. It’s hot out.

  As I trek down the street, the light weight material of my bright pink medical uniform immediately transforms into an unbearable prison cell of cursed confinement. Small pools of perspiration cling to my breasts, turning my durable sports bra into a sponge, hosting ringlets of sweat in its cotton material. So much for the claim that it “wicks away wetness”. Stupid false advertising. Apparently, the manufacturer did not do their product testing in the middle of summer in the hottest place on the map.

  Thank goodness the grueling nine-hour shift I have ahead of me is indoors in an air conditioned house, where I won’t be stuck in sticky, sweaty clothes. I love my new job and am so thankful to have found it so soon after obtaining my certification.

  Passing a variety of people on the suburban sidewalk - some young boys skateboarding and a young mother pushing a stroller with a sleeping child - I smile to myself at the thought of where my life is at this moment. It might be hotter than Hades, but things have recently turned out really good - better than I could have ever expected.

  Good is not how it’s always been for me. To say I’m a testament to the resilience factor is no understatement. My life has been one thing after another, enough drama to fill a high school year-book. If you’d witnessed the hell my sister and I have been through during our short lives, you might understand my skepticism. It hasn’t always been sunny skies for us.

  Here in Phoenix, away from the mess of a life that once was mine, the sun shines bright three-hundred-sixty-five days, and my mother is actually happy and doing well for the first time in years. I had my doubts at first, for obvious reasons, and knew from experience that it wouldn’t last long. It never does. Living with someone with mental illness is a rollercoaster after eating a shitload of cotton candy and sweets. You get the sugar rush and experience the joy and thrill of the fun. And then you go through a dip – fast and furious – and your stomach drops out. The sick feeling rises in your throat. You scream and yell, scared out of your mind and frightened that you’re going to lose it all over the person in front of you.

  But at least this time I’ve reached the ‘Must Be This Tall to Ride’ measurement, and have plans in place for the future in the event it all comes crashing down.

  I’ve worked hard so I can stand on my own two feet. To support me and my sister with something more than just a minimum wage job.

  This time, I’ll be able to manage on my own, without being dragged from one town to the next by a woman who thought moving was an answer to everything. This time, I can plant roots to stay behind when she decides there is something bigger and better elsewhere. My mother seems to think a new place will, by some miracle, change our lives. She’s an unrealistic optimist in that respect. But I know better, so as soon as we settled into our new apartment, I’d enrolled and was accepted into the Medical Training Institute. And I had soon become a Certified Nursing Assistant.

  I’d been slowly adding to my savings throughout high school, whenever I had a little extra from my part-time jobs, wisely setting aside money so I could enroll in school when the time came. It was baby steps in the long-term goal of someday becoming a Registered Nurse. Nursing school was the end goal – the whole enchilada. With the CNA, I was able to get a job where I could work in the field and earn enough money to attend nursing school.

  And then it finally happened. My hard work paid off when I successfully passed my board certification exam and was hired almost immediately at Ethel Estates, the small, ten-patient adult living facility just a short bus ride from my apartment.

  My job is everything I could have ever hoped for. My boss, Deacon, and his wife Gail, who are the co-owners, are wonderful to me. I’ve never met a couple who showed so such genuine care and concern for their patients, their staff, and each other. They’ve given me flexibility in my hours because they know about Anika, my sister, as well as my studies and other job. Oh yeah. No rest for the weary. I have another part-time job at a café.

&
nbsp; Thankfully, Deacon and Gail have been more than accommodating. I’ve watched them over the last few months and I want what they have someday. If I ever end up in a long-term relationship, I want to emulate what I see every day between those two. They met in high school and after graduation he joined the military, both of them nurses. Now some twenty-five years later, Deacon is retired from the Army, and they’ve been running this place for a few years now.

  I smile gratefully, getting a strange look from a guy on the corner who is also waiting for the pedestrian light to change. In this very moment I couldn’t be happier. Well, I could be if I didn’t have pools of sweat cloistered in my cleavage. But we can’t have everything all the time, right?

  As I round the corner, just a half block down the street from the residential house, my phone pings with a text message alert. An instinctive bodily cringe slithers up my spine, something like a Pavlovian dog’s response, which drives me to worry over what the incoming message might reveal. It’s never anything good, in my book.

  I’ve always dreaded the sound of my phone notifications, because in the past it’s only meant one thing – trouble with a capital T. It meant that either my sister was left at home, scared and alone, without any adult supervision because my mother went on one of her typical binges. Or it was someone contacting me about said binge.

  Pulling the phone out of my bag, I take a deep breath and slip my cheap Wal-Mart sunglasses to the top of my head, peering down at the message. The sun is so bright I have to use my hand to shield the screen so I can see over the glare.

  Anika: Hey. Can I sleep over at Danielle’s tonight?

  Me: Where’s mom? Did you ask her?

  I look down during the pause in the conversation and step off the curb, veering into the driveway of the large, ranch-style home on a quiet cul-de-sac in the Mesa subdivision.

  Anika: She’s not here. I left her a vm, but no response yet.

  Me: Fine. Just make sure to leave a note on the table with her number in case mom wants to check in.

  Anika: Sweet. Love ya. TTYL.

  Me: Love ya back, A. See you tomorrow.

  A twinge of worry creeps in as I slide my phone back into the bag pouch, stuffing it in the mess at the bottom of the bag. Although I’m glad my sister has made a friend since moving to Phoenix, there’s still some residual guilt that I couldn’t stop yet another move. Over the last year or so, she’s become more and more withdrawn. She is naturally a shy girl, but it has caused me to worry about her ability to cope and interact socially. We’ve moved so much over the last ten years I know it hits her hard every single time.

  I love my sister more than life itself and would do – have done – anything to make sure she is happy and safe. Although there is a fairly sizeable age gap between us, we have a special bond. She in many ways is my best friend- my only friend - because we’ve only had each other to rely on over the years of constant moving around. But things have changed recently, and she’s definitely at that age where she’s turning into be a pretty willful and secretive teenager. And it kind of scares me.

  While I was never a rule breaker or acted out in any way as a teen, the truth is, Anika is a lot more like my mom then me, and shares the same wild and free tendencies. Which is yet another source of concern and keeps me up at night.

  I let out a sigh as I open the front door and step inside, letting go of that tension. I’m immediately assaulted with the scent I’ve become all too familiar with in the last few months – that of pungent household cleaner, urine, and old people smell. I know that’s not a very kind thought and I would never voice it out loud, but come on, you know what I’m talking about. There’s just something about that smell. It’s not a BO, per se, or anything that makes you want to gag - like rancid trash, or dead fish – but it permeates their flesh in a cloak of odiferous stench.

  It also doesn’t help that patients have died in this home on more than one occasion. And believe me when I tell you that death has a smell. It reeks of anger. Heartbreak. Disease. Death is selfish because it takes the gentle part of a person’s soul, leaving the decaying flesh of the body behind.

  I’ve become familiar with this stench over the last two plus months that I’ve worked at Ethel’s. The sad smell reminds me of well-read book, when you flip through the pages of a novel that you’ve carried around with you for years. There are parts of that book that puts you in your happy place when you read your favorite passages. That’s what this smell does to me. It’s familiar and worn. Tattered and torn. And it feels like where I belong and where I can make a difference.

  And just like that, I’m comforted knowing that I am making some sort of difference in these well-lived lives. These seniors have so many stories to tell – and often do – about their biggest accomplishments, their saddest regrets, and their most cherished loves. I just hope that when I’m at this point someday in my life, I’ll experience the same generosity from others.

  I place my bag down on the dining room table and take stock of what’s happening in the five-bedroom ranch-style house. Glenna, the day-time RN and house manager, is in the kitchen dolling out the prescribed meds for one of the live-ins. Clark Newsom, Mr. Ornery, as I prefer to call him, is over in one of the three recliner rockers with his feet up, a blanket over his lap, and the newspaper spread out before him. He’s mumbling something about the Cardinals, but I have no idea what that’s about. Clark is early-onset dementia, and also suffers from Type 1 diabetes.

  I don’t see Dimitri, John, Dwayne or Simon. They may be napping at this time of day or may be out on the back covered patio with Adriane, who I’ll be relieving shortly. They never mind it out in the heat, mainly because they are tough old men and aren’t afraid of a little heat.

  As I head down the hallway that connects the bedroom and baths, I trot by the room where my favorite patient resides. Mr. Simon Forsberg. With his snowy-white cap of full hair that most men would be jealous of, and his warm, generous smile, Simon is the grandfather I never had. The moment we met months before, I fell head-over-heels in love with the man. If I were only about fifty years older and he wasn’t still pining for his late wife Martha…well, then we would be a match made in heaven.

  When I peek through the cracked door, the room at first appears empty. The bed is neatly made and everything is in its place. However, just as I am about to move on toward the laundry room, where I’ll start some wash for the day, I hear a low grunt and then a loud thump.

  Pivoting on my heel, I quickly turn around and push the door open. My heart beats frantically in my chest when I see a body lying on the floor. No! Please don’t let this happen, I pray.

  Rushing over to his prone position, I find Mr. Forsberg lying on his side, his cane propped up against the wall out of his reach. A large photo box is open in front of him on the floor. Pictures, letters and other memorabilia are strewn across the carpet, as he appears to be trying to push himself back up to a sitting position.

  Rushing to his side, I bend down to reach for his elbow.

  “Mr. Forsberg,” I softy scold, trying to hide the alarm in my voice. “Here, let me help you. Are you all right?”

  Unlike other members of the household, Mr. Forsberg is perfectly capable in most situations and knows his own limitations. He’s never refused my help, accepting assistance when necessary. Although, come to think of it, this was the first time I’ve ever had to help him in any capacity. Even though he is nearing eighty-years-old, and has been walking with a cane after the stroke he suffered a year ago, the older man is in otherwise great shape.

  I carefully cradle his hips against mine, shoving my arms underneath his armpits and gently support and lift his body to an upright position. A whoosh of breath leaves his lungs – maybe more from frustration than exertion. He braces himself on his hands behind him and leans forward, his legs haphazardly stretched in front of him.

  Simon sighs heavily, rubbing a spot on his right hip which likely took the brunt of the fall.

  Uncertain if any
thing is seriously injured or if it’s just his pride that’s hurt, I try to lighten the mood. It’ll probably be necessary to conduct a medical exam to make sure nothing was broken in the fall.

  “Mr. Forsberg, you know I would’ve been your dance partner if you’d only just asked me. But no…you’re just too impatient when those toes of yours get to tapping, aren’t you? You just can’t help yourself, can you?” I jest, giving him the biggest, cheesiest grin I can muster so he knows I’m playing with him. Of course he knows I’m kidding, because I’ve never once caught Mr. Forsberg dancing. “That’s for lunatics and little girls,” I’d heard him say once before.

  The old man chuckles a throaty cackle, his wild, bushy eyebrows narrowing in toward his large bulbous nose in embarrassment.

  “Oh, if only that were true, my dear.” He raises his head and arm, gesturing that he wants help up to his chair next to his bedroom window.

  Once I know he’s comfortable, I do a quick once over, checking for any bones out of place, or need for an ambulance. As my hands move over his legs, hips, knees in a visual assessment, I take his arms in my hands, smoothing over the wrinkled and puckered skin of his elbows. I tilt my head up and gaze into his eyes dusty blue eyes. They are a cloudy haze, due to the gradual glaucoma settling into his vision, but still full of life and love.

  “Does anything hurt, Mr. Forsberg?”

  Again, another chuckle.

  “Nothing but my pride, Ainsley. Nothing but my pride.” He shifts back into the chair as I let him reclaim his personal space, scooting back on my knees to begin picking up the scattered pictures that have spilled out.

  I once saw a high school production of Hello, Dolly, so for some reason the open hatbox that lay on the floor brings back the images of a woman in her young teens, dancing around with a parasol and a bright floral hat. I can totally imagine Mr. Forsberg’s wife all prettied up, ready to be courted. I’m sure he was a very handsome man in his late teens, early twenties. Heck, he is handsome right now.