One Wild Night

by A. L. Jackson

  "You must be Frances," she whispers and pulls her glasses off her face, tucking them into the tight graying curls on top of her head. She rests the towel on her shoulder and smiles at me.

  "I am." I walk over to her and hold out my hand.

  She takes it graciously and shakes. "I've heard a lot about you. I'm Judy, the home nurse Mr. Ryan hired."

  I nod and smile tightly. Cole's father, Stephen Ryan, was a considerate neighbor, always looking out for my mom, Faith, and me. He'd do odds and ends around the house without ever being asked, simply because he was a nice guy. We'd wake up on Saturday mornings and he'd be painting the porch or in the spring, Mom’s garden would suddenly be tilled. He’d just show up and do things that he knew needed to get done. He’d make Cole mow the lawn, and he always took care of mom’s car when something was wrong, never expecting anything in return. It doesn’t surprise me that he arranged to have a nurse here for Mom, either.

  “That was very kind of him,” I tell Judy. As the “organizer” in me takes over, I start listing off what we need to do next. “I’d like to transfer payment over to me,” I tell her as she stands, listening to me. “Mr. Ryan is very generous to have paid for your services up until now, and I’m sure they were costly—and probably more than he could afford.” Judy raises her eyebrows and purses her lips in confusion, but I’m not about to tell her that Stephen Ryan isn’t wealthy. “And I’m going to need to keep you around until I understand what I’m dealing with. I’m going to need your professional opinion on whether this is something she can recover from, or if I’m going to need to transfer her to a larger town where she can receive better medical care and placed in a care home if needed.”

  She shakes her head and reaches for my arm. “Slow down, Frances.” She offers me a tight smile, and I exhale softly. “Let’s go to the kitchen and sit down. Let me bring you up to speed on what’s happening.” She tugs at my arm and leads me toward the kitchen. The first thing I notice is the old linoleum floor that once was white has now yellowed and begun to wear in the high traffic areas.

  The small round wood table I used to eat every meal at still has the burgundy fabric placemats in front of each of the four chairs, with a napkin holder and salt and pepper shakers sitting in the center of the table.

  The appliances are old but still look to be in good condition, and the old Formica counter tops are faded and stained from years of use. Mom and I would use every square inch of countertop in this tiny kitchen as she taught me how to cook and bake. Those were some of my fondest memories with her.

  “Sit down,” Judy urges, pointing to the kitchen table as she pulls a mug from the kitchen cupboard and fills it with coffee. She sets it in front of me and pulls a sugar bowl from the other counter, placing it in the middle of the table before she sits down and picks up her own mug of coffee. With a quick sip, she wraps her hands around the mug, lacing her fingers together as if to keep her hands warm.

  “Your mom has a long road ahead of her,” she says quietly. “But I’ve seen so many people overcome this. A stroke can permanently debilitate her, but sometimes, many times actually, with the right medical care and therapy, I’ve seen people return to fully functioning adults. Only time will tell." She sits back in the wood chair and it creaks underneath her small frame.

  "The doctors are extremely optimistic, Frances. You should be, too." She smiles at me.

  I sip from my coffee as I feel a lump begin to form in my throat as I think about how scared my mom must have been having no one here.

  "So, what we know," she says, taking a deep breath. "The stroke was on the right side of her brain. The right side affects the left side of your body. She has some paralysis on the left side of her body, including her face. Her speech is impaired, but it's still very good all things considered. You'll notice a slur, but you'll still be able to understand everything she says. She also has some memory loss. How significant?" she shrugs, "we're not sure yet. That's why we're glad you're here. Once you can begin to speak with her, we'll be able to determine what she remembers and what she doesn't. We'll need you to help us gauge her memory loss so we can understand the severity of that."

  I nod, knowingly, feeling slightly overwhelmed by what I've just been told.

  With a deep sigh, Judy continues, "We're going to want her to rest for a few more days and not push anything. Next week we'll begin physical, occupational, and speech therapy. All of them have been arranged for in-home treatment. Mr. Ryan took care of all that."

  I clear my throat in hopes that the agitation that I feel growing doesn't come across. "Mr. Ryan, as wonderful of a neighbor that's he's been, really shouldn't be making appointments and decisions on behalf of my mother. I'd like all medical decisions to be made by me." I rub my eyes in exhaustion. All of this is overwhelming and I just want to cry.

  Judy reaches across the table and rests her hand on top of mine. "We tried," she says quietly. "Mr. Ryan said he left you multiple messages on your voice mail at work. That was the only number we could locate for you until he got someone to hack the password on your mother's cell phone and we were able to retrieve your mobile number." She looks at me sympathetically. "Her password was one of the things she couldn't remember." Her eyes fall to her mug of coffee. "Mr. Ryan insisted on not contacting Faith. He said something about her being through enough…" Her voice trails off, and I cringe as I think of that little red notification on my office phone that has been blinking for the past three days.

  "I was at trial," I respond, lost in thought. "I assumed it was reporters and I ignored the voice messages." I shake my head as tears flood my tired eyes and I finally allow my emotions to get the better of me.

  "Don't," Judy shushes me. "Don't beat yourself up. You're here now, and this is when we really need you."

  I nod and wipe the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand as I try to compose myself.

  "Let's get you to bed so you can rest,” she suggests. “I'll walk you through all the fine details in the morning when you get up."

  I don't argue with Judy. Instead I quietly get up from the kitchen table and retrieve my suitcase. I pad lightly down the worn hard wood floors to my childhood bedroom at the end of the hallway. I pause before entering and stare at the old door's white paint, chipping off in little slivers. The glass doorknob feels smaller in my hand than it used to as I twist it and open the door. My hand searches the wall, flipping the light switch on when I find it. A dull yellow light casts a low glow in the small room, just enough to see that nothing has been touched since I left over ten years ago.

  My heart stills at the sight of the posters on the wall and the pictures still propped perfectly in their frames on my dresser. The same bedspread is still spread across the mattress I slept on as far back as I can remember, and my bookshelf is still covered in books I’d read throughout my childhood.

  I drop my suitcase on the floor at the foot of my bed and peel the covers back. The old white sheets are now yellowed, but they smell freshly washed. Mom always washed our bedding weekly, a habit, it appears, she continues to keep up even though I'm no longer here.

  I don't bother to undress; I simply crawl into bed and lay my head on the old, flat pillows, letting sleep overtake me before I even have time to close my eyes.

  ***

  I wake with a start when I hear my cell phone ringing. Scrambling to the end of the bed, I grab it from the top of the suitcase where I tossed it last night. Six twenty-seven shines brightly on the screen just under Ted's name. I tap the answer button, but before I even have a chance to speak, Ted is barking at me.

  "Jesus Christ, Frances, I've been worried sick about you. You didn't even text me to let me know you made it." The agitation in his voice is palpable.

  I close my eyes and toss myself back onto my pillow, holding the phone away from my ear as he chastises me for my lack of consideration.

  "Sorry," I mumble and cover my eyes with my forearm to block the bright early morning light. "It was just so late, and…"
I pause.

  "You sound like shit. Get some rest and fill me in later—maybe actually call me this time," he snaps, disconnecting the call. I stare at the screen as his name disappears and wonder what the heck just happened. I've known Ted for six years, and he's barely raised his voice to me, ever.

  I see Faith's text message from five hours ago, telling me she's on the redeye flight home and will be here in the morning, which should be anytime now. Flipping the switch on the side of the phone to silence it, I roll over, covering my head with throw pillow. I've only been asleep a few hours and I know I'll need a few more before I'm able to fully function.

  Sleep doesn't come to me, though. I toss and turn in my lumpy old bed, wondering if my mom is awake, so I can see her and update Faith when she arrives. My stomach twists and I'm not sure if it's nervousness or hunger, but I finally push myself out of bed. The house is quiet as I make my way down the hall and through the living room where I find Judy sitting at the kitchen table where I left her just hours ago.

  She looks twice at me before giving her head a little shake. "You really should get some more sleep," she says, turning back to her iPad and the book she's reading.

  I ignore her remark at my appearance. "What are you reading?"

  "Mary Higgins Clark. She's my favorite."

  "Mysteries, huh? And do I really look that bad?" I shuffle over to the coffee pot that has a freshly brewed pot just waiting for me.

  She glances at me out of the corner of her eyes. "Kind of," she murmurs.

  I laugh. I actually let out a loud laugh, and she begins to laugh along with me.

  "Thank you for your honesty," I tell her, pouring myself a mug of piping hot coffee. "I'm used to getting mere hours of sleep, though. After I catch a shower, I actually clean up quite nicely." I join her at the kitchen table, in the same spot I sat a couple of hours ago. "So, Judy, shoot it straight with me. What can I expect when I see her?"

  Judy sets her iPad down and looks up at me. “Like I mentioned before, her left side has paralysis. She moves slowly and struggles with her arm and leg. She also struggles to eat. We were cleared to bring her home from the hospital and to feed her, but," she emphasizes loudly, "we have to be very careful." She taps her pointer on the kitchen table. "She can choke very easily. We've been keeping her to softer types of foods to help with her ease of swallowing. There is a list on the counter." She gestures over her shoulder to a binder on the counter next to the refrigerator.

  “I think where you're going to struggle the most, Frances, is with her speech,” she continues. “She has, what we call, aphasia. She has trouble finding the correct words, or piecing together a sentence that makes sense. This is also extremely common after a stroke,” she reminds me. “A speech therapist will be coming to help with this. Your mom's case is relatively mild, which is good," she sighs. "With on-going therapy, this is something she can hopefully recover from."

  "Jesus," I mutter into my mug.

  "Patience, Frances." She squeezes my hand. "You're going to need patience. She's trying so hard, and when she gets frustrated, you have to be there to calm her down. I see this with every stroke patient I've worked with. They want to return to everything they were doing before, only their body and their brain won't allow that."

  I nod as I listen carefully.

  Judy glances up at the small round clock on the kitchen wall. "She usually wakes up about eight, so you have an hour before she'll be up. At nine, Melinda, the day nurse, will be arriving. I'll be back this evening, but I wanted to be here with you to help you get settled in with her."

  "How many nurses does she have?" I ask, wondering how many people have been helping mom.

  “There are two of us. We normally don't work overnight as once she's in bed she really doesn't need us, but for the next few weeks one of us will be here. And eventually, she'll probably only need us here for a short time during the days as she becomes more independent."

  I look over Judy's shoulder and into the living room. My eyes find the large framed picture of Faith and I that was taken when I was eleven and Faith was fifteen. My sad smile stares back at me, and I find myself momentarily lost in time, remembering that picture being taken not long after Mom moved us into this house.

  I stand up and clutch the mug of hot coffee in my hands. "Will you excuse me, Judy? I'm going to step outside and catch some fresh air before cleaning up."

  She seems a bit taken aback by my abrupt departure. "Of course. Take all the time you need. Your mom doesn't even know you're here. We didn't want to tell her in the event you couldn't make it."

  I pause in my tracks and furrow my brows in confusion.

  "I mean, Mr. Ryan said you're very busy," Judy adds quickly, as if it'll make me feel better.

  "It's fine, Judy. I am busy, but never too busy for my mom." I smile tightly at her as guilt fills me. Everyone knows I haven't been around for the better part of ten years, and sadly, they weren't even sure I was going to come back now that my mom needs me. The front door opens with a loud creak as I step out onto the old wooden porch. Barefoot, I walk carefully as to not get any splinters. Taking a seat on the top step, as I did for so many years, I set my coffee mug next to me and wrap my arms around my knees, pulling them close to me.

  Everything has changed so much with age, yet very little has changed at all. I turn my face to the sky and close my eyes, breathing in the morning air, pulling it deep into my lungs. Tears prick the back of my eyes as all my emotions bubble at the surface…my mom, the trial, Crescent Ridge, Cole Ryan, and everything I left behind.

  I don't know if I'm strong enough to handle this—but right now, I don't have a choice.

  Chapter 3

  Cole

  I rub my eyes, sure that they're deceiving me…but they're not. My throat tightens as I look through the large picture window and across the street at beautiful Frankie sitting on those front porch steps. It's a sight I've seen a million times, yet this time is different—she's different.

  She's older and more mature. Her body is the same, yet she's a woman now and not the girl I remember. I knew every inch of her back then, and my body trembles in remembrance as I watch her, longing for her like I did all those years ago. The longing never really went away; I just buried it behind my job, the bottle, and endless women who could never hold a candle to Frankie.

  I lean against the wall and study her—taking her in. Her hair is longer now… she's ten years older, but she looks exactly like I envisioned her. She rocks back and forth slowly, her arms wrapped around her knees with her face tilted to the sky, just as she's always done, and my stomach twists at the sight. How I've longed to reach out to her over the years—to apologize to her, to explain to her, but some things are better left in the past, including us.

  The sound of her voice on the phone when I called was enough to send me on a bender. I spent the night at the garage, drowning my misery and regret in a fifth of Jim Beam, and even that didn't drown out the pain of my lies and how they hurt her—hurt me, and destroyed us.

  She sits on those damn lop-sided steps that I've been meaning to fix for months, but never did. I couldn't. Those were the steps that Frankie had built her dreams on, planned her life—a life I was supposed to be a part of, a life that I let go of—for her.

  I swallow hard against the lump in my throat as I remember her running her fingers through my hair as she'd tell me stories on those steps. There was nothing in the world I loved more than listening to her and having her run her fingers through my hair. To this day, no one is allowed to do that to me—touch me like that, that was Frankie's thing. It'll only ever be hers.

  I close my eyes and push back the memories to the little place that's too painful to visit. I made a decision all those years ago and while I've regretted it every day since then, I still know it was for the best.

  I push off the wall and walk down the hall to the bathroom, flipping on the shower and turning the water all the way to hot. I yank open the medicine cabinet and pull a bo
ttle of ibuprofen off the shelf, shaking two pills into the palm of my hand. Tossing them in my mouth, I fight to swallow them against the back of my dry throat. I'm hoping the pills and hot water will lessen my headache and bring some relief to my aching body before I have to face Frankie.

  ***

  Shoving my phone into my back pocket, I grab my car keys and jump into my aging Jeep Wrangler. I spent the better portion of two years after Frankie left restoring this thing. It was the perfect distraction and the only way to take out my frustration. I spent days and nights, for weeks and months, burying thoughts of Frankie while I restored it. She's now pristine.

  I drive down to the old auto shop, Ryan Auto Works, the garage my dad opened when I was a little boy. It's no longer the shop we use, but I keep tools and personal vehicles I'm working on here. I couldn't bear selling this building after Pops died. This was the first building I ever held a wrench in and where I learned how to change a tire. This shop was part of me, just like Frankie.

  The battered brick building has seen better days, the once vibrant red brick now faded from years of sun and weather. I lift the large metal garage door and it slides open, exposing the old Harley Davidson and the Ford Mustang I've recently purchased. When Pops died five years ago, I took over his auto shop business but also expanded to restoring vehicles—a hobby of mine.

  Three guys run the auto maintenance side, and my buddy Carter and I do the custom refurbishing. It's a long and tedious process to restore a vehicle back to like-new condition, one that can take years. In fact, I have a wait list up to two years to take on new projects. In the last couple of years, I've made connections through recommendations with a couple A-list actors in Hollywood. Their projects will take us the better half of the next two years to complete, with the other guys taking on the bulk of the other auto repair work. A custom job can run upward of a quarter of a million dollars, and we have no shortage of people willing to pay. Our wait list is insane, and while the lure of big money sits on that list, I pride myself on quality, not rushing through a job.