Other Side of the Wall

by Jennifer Peel

  Other Side of the Wall

  By Jennifer Peel

  © 2014 by Jennifer Peel. All Rights reserved.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader or share it through the Kindle lending feature. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy through Amazon Kindle. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  To my husband, who is great at deconstructing walls and even better at never building them in the first place.

  Table of Contents

  Mending Wall

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Mending Wall

  Something there is that doesn't love a wall,

  That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,

  And spills the upper boulders in the sun;

  And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.

  The work of hunters is another thing:

  I have come after them and made repair

  Where they have left not one stone on a stone,

  But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,

  To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,

  No one has seen them made or heard them made,

  But at spring mending-time we find them there.

  I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;

  And on a day we meet to walk the line

  And set the wall between us once again.

  We keep the wall between us as we go.

  To each the boulders that have fallen to each.

  And some are loaves and some so nearly balls

  We have to use a spell to make them balance:

  "Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"

  We wear our fingers rough with handling them.

  Oh, just another kind of out-door game,

  One on a side. It comes to little more:

  There where it is we do not need the wall:

  He is all pine and I am apple orchard.

  My apple trees will never get across

  And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.

  He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors."

  Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder

  If I could put a notion in his head:

  "Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it

  Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.

  Before I built a wall I'd ask to know

  What I was walling in or walling out,

  And to whom I was like to give offence.

  Something there is that doesn't love a wall,

  That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him,

  But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather

  He said it for himself. I see him there

  Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top

  In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.

  He moves in darkness as it seems to me,

  Not of woods only and the shade of trees.

  He will not go behind his father's saying,

  And he likes having thought of it so well

  He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."

  Robert Frost

  Prologue

  There once were two couples, neighbors in fact, but like most neighbors today, hardly a word was spoken in passing. What they knew of each other mostly consisted of what was inadvertently heard through the wall that divided their townhomes.

  The Langstons and the Russos had more in common than they both knew. Both couples were newly married and terribly unhappy, each for different reasons of course. Scott and Jenna Langston were facing an incurable disease and Ava and Peter Russo were plagued with heartache and betrayal.

  Too often, Scott could hear Ava crying through the wall. He wondered what would make such a beautiful woman so sad, but he had enough of his own problems, he couldn’t worry about what was happening on the other side of the wall. On occasion, Ava could hear Scott’s pleas for his wife to be well. She wanted to offer help and comfort, but she was too physically and emotionally exhausted to reach out across the wall.

  Eventually, Ava’s crying ceased and her name changed. Scott’s pleas went quiet as they went unanswered. Now, instead of two couples, there were two very lonely heartbroken individuals divided by a wall, each trying to deal with the hand they had been dealt.

  Chapter 1

  Just do it, I thought to myself. I didn’t know why this was so difficult for me, it didn’t used to be. It was the neighborly thing to do, after all, and a month had already passed. It wasn’t like I could pretend I didn’t know what had happened. I could still see the look of anguish on his face as they rushed his wife into the ER, just as I was about to leave my shift. Probably just a few minutes earlier and I would have been her nurse. It sounds so terrible, but I’m so glad I wasn’t. Losing a patient was something I would never get used to, but for it to have been my neighbor would have only made it worse.

  It’s not like I knew her. I had only seen her a handful of times, but even then I could tell she was ill. I felt guilty for not being a better neighbor, but in my defense, it’s hard to be neighborly when your own life is crumbling around you. And, admittedly, I was embarrassed to associate with them. I’m sure they had heard the arguments and the crying. And, of course, when I threw Peter out, he didn’t take it well. Scott, my neighbor, came out and had words with him because he was disturbing the whole neighborhood, especially Scott’s sick wife, with his begging for forgiveness and another chance, and with his declarations of undying love for me (yeah right).

  It still felt like yesterday, even though it was almost a year ago when I packed up all his things and placed them on the front porch and changed the locks. I still remember Scott coming home and seeing the pile of boxes and suitcases.

  “Getting rid of some junk, huh?” he inquired.

  “You could say that.”

  I still remember the odd, but kind, look he gave me. Scott had always looked at me kindly whenever we came across each other, which wasn’t often. Again, I’m sure he pieced together the drama that happened on our side of the wall. He probably felt sorry for me.

  Unfortunately, I felt sorry for myself too often. But never as sorry as I felt for marrying Peter almost two years ago and letting him convince me to move away from my home, and all I knew, to this land of cold and snow, unending traffic jams, and noise. I hated living just outside of Chicago, but I was too stubborn and too embarrassed to go home.

  Home, to the sun and beach and to where people loved and cared about me. Home, where all I could hear were the waves crashing against the shoreline in the morning or the squawk of the seagulls or my parents happy and loving voices. Home, where I left a job I loved and adored. Working at the Urgent Care in Orange Beach, Alabama was a nurse’s dream, at least this nurse’s dream. But I gave up my dream for Peter’s dream of being the next Frank Lloyd Wright. At the time I just thought I was trading up dreams, but being Peter’s supportive wife was more like borderline nightmarish.

  Oh well, I needed to quit dwelling on Peter. What wa
s done was done. I couldn’t erase the past no matter how much I wanted to. What I needed to do now was deliver this pan of roasted chicken and herb roasted vegetables. My mom called it comfort food. I wasn’t sure how comforting it would be in the wake of his wife passing away, but I felt like I needed to make the gesture. I needed to be the old Ava, except the old Ava wouldn’t have waited so long. But I was trying.

  It’s amazing how quickly a girl can lose herself. No, Ava, no more thinking about him. Just do it. Just take the few short steps to your neighbor’s house and offer your condolences and bring him dinner. Forget about yourself, even if it’s just for a moment. I took a deep breath and opened the front door and stepped out. I stood for a moment and looked to my right. His door was literally just a few feet away, but for some reason it seemed like at least a mile. I made it to the first step on my small porch, and I took another deep breath and silently laughed to myself. I was being an idiot. This wasn’t a life changing momentous occasion; it was dinner to a grieving neighbor. Or so I thought.

  Before I changed my mind, I walked over to his sidewalk and up his front porch—which looked exactly like mine, except mine had empty planter boxes on it. It was still too cold here in April to plant anything. Enough complaining, just ring the doorbell for crying out loud. I rang the doorbell and waited. Maybe he wasn’t home. After a minute, I decided all my fretting was for naught and I turned around to go home. I made it to the second step when I heard his door open.

  Somewhat embarrassedly, I turned around. “Oh, hi,” I said.

  He looked so somber standing there. He was wearing a white polo shirt that had the Shedd Aquarium symbol on it with a pair of jeans. I think I remember him being a marine biologist there. He was actually quite an attractive man. He had light brown hair, similar to mine, and he had light blue eyes surrounded by thick, long, dark eyelashes. It was almost as if his eyes reflected the clear blue sky. But his eyes looked troubled. Of course they would, he just lost his wife, and I knew he loved her. Sometimes I could still hear him cry for her. I wondered what it would be like to be loved like that. Anyway…

  He didn’t say anything right away. He looked at me weirdly. Maybe he was upset it took me so long to come over and offer my condolences. Either way, I did the only thing I could think of. I held up the warm pan of food. “I’m so sorry about your wife, I brought you dinner.”

  It sounded so stupid and insincere. I’m sorry your wife is dead, here’s chicken, because that makes it all better.

  He must have thought so too, because he still didn’t say anything.

  “Ok, well I’ll just leave this with you.” I handed the pan over with the hot pads so he wouldn’t burn himself. This caused him to come out of his stupor, but he kept staring at me.

  “Ava, thank you,” he said as he took the food out of my hands.

  “You’re welcome. I really am sorry.”

  He kindly smiled, and I turned and walked away. I made it to the last step when I heard his nervous voice call out. “Have you eaten yet?”

  I turned and smiled. “No, not yet.” I had been planning to when I got home. I had probably made enough to feed the block. That’s how we cooked in the south.

  “This is a lot for one person.” He paused, seeming unsure of himself. “Would you like to join me?”

  Hmmm. Would I? I didn’t know. I guess I could. I mean, we had been neighbors for almost two years. I barely even knew the guy, but maybe he needed someone to talk to. I’m sure he was lonely, and I felt rude saying no. “Ok, sure.”

  He smiled. I had never noticed before, but he had a really nice smile and perfect white teeth. He showed me into his house, which was just like mine, except his layout mirrored mine, and mine was quite a bit more decorated. It was still weird for me to say mine and not ours. Not that Peter made it much of a home, and technically he never owned it, my parents had until recently. Now it was just mine. I really needed to stop thinking about him. Believe it or not, I’m better than I used to be; the pain was down to a dull ache and I no longer wanted to cause him bodily harm. Baby steps.

  We walked back through the great room that was sparsely populated with furniture. It had one camel colored couch and a coffee table that sat in front of the fireplace. The formal dining room to the left of the great room was bare except for some boxes. He led me to the kitchen which was open to the great room; there he had two stools at the breakfast bar. He set the food on the counter and motioned for me to take a seat at one of the stools. While he grabbed plates and silverware, he asked me what I would like to drink; I said water would be great. To say we were both nervous and unsure would be an understatement. I don’t think either one of us knew what to say. I kept racking my brain, but I couldn’t think of anything. I looked around his house, hoping something would spark an idea, but what I mainly noticed were the pictures of him and his wife. She was pretty, but she looked ill in all of them, even in the large wedding photo that was above the fireplace. She was tall like her husband, but wafer thin and pale. I happened to notice a butterfly shaped rash on her face in the photo set on the counter near me.

  “Did your wife have lupus?” I immediately regretted saying it. It was such a dumb thing to say, I’m sure he didn’t want to talk about it.

  He turned to look at me from the refrigerator.

  “I’m sorry. It’s really none of my business,” I said quickly.

  He looked at me thoughtfully. “It’s ok. As a matter of fact, she did. How did you know?”

  I picked up the picture on his counter. “I noticed the rash.”

  “I saw you at the hospital that day, are you a doctor?”

  I could see the pain in his eyes as he remembered that day. I felt horrible for him and I felt terrible I didn’t say anything to him that day. I shook my head. “No, I’m an APN.”

  He looked at me questioningly.

  “That means Advanced Practice Nurse. Basically it’s short for doing a doctor’s job, but not getting paid for it.”

  He laughed. I smiled. I liked his laugh. It was a nice, masculine laugh.

  “Do you mind me asking what happened, most people her age don’t die from lupus.”

  He set a glass of water in front of me. “Kidney failure,” he said quietly.

  Oh, that was a terribly painful way to go, but it was sometimes a side effect of the disease.

  I put my hand on his hand that still lay on the counter near my drink. “I really am sorry.”

  He looked at our hands and quickly moved his after giving me a disconcerted look. Then I really felt dumb. Why did I touch him? It was an innocent plutonic touch, but it seemed to freak him out a bit. I needed to keep my southern habits under control.

  Once the plates and silverware were set, he joined me at the counter. I took the lid off the roasting pan and dished the meal. I was still feeling uncomfortable and a little moronic, but oh well. The quicker we ate, the quicker I could leave. As I dished the food, he smiled kindly and said it smelled wonderful. I told him it was one of my mom’s favorite recipes.

  He asked where I was from.

  “Orange Beach.” I’m sure I had a dreamy look in my eye when I named my hometown.

  Surprisingly, he knew where Orange Beach was. Most people looked at me like I was crazy when I told them where I was from. For some reason, most people didn’t know Alabama had some of the best beaches in the country, ranking up there with Hawaiian beaches. He had actually been to Orange Beach and Dauphin Island, which is just few short miles off the coast, when he was going to school in Florida to become a marine biologist. I don’t know why, but it made me so happy to talk to someone who had been to my hometown, someone who actually loved it there.

  We talked happily for several minutes about the many wonders and attributes of my hometown. He had even been to some of my favorite restaurants. I found myself gushing about my home and my family. My parents, Susannah and Grant Elliot, were the best people ever, and they owned a huge real estate firm that covered Orange Beach and Mobile. And th
en there was my older brother, Tucker, who was my best friend. He followed in my parent’s footsteps, and someday he would take over as the real estate mogul of the southeast. My parents had wanted me to follow in their footsteps too, but I loved medicine, and I had always wanted to be a nurse. Although they were a little disappointed, they were very supportive of my career choice.

  I think I must have talked too much because Scott gave me a concerted look again.

  I put my hand over my mouth. “Sorry, I guess I just miss home.” And, boy, did I. I also missed having someone to talk to. Maybe not so much talk to, but having someone that actually listened.

  He grinned. “Please, by all means, continue.”

  I smiled back. “That’s ok. Tell me where you’re from?”

  “I’m from here.”

  “Oh.”

  He cocked his head. “Is that a problem?”

  I really needed to watch myself. It wasn’t a problem. It was just, Peter was from here and that was one of our problems; because, not only was he from here, but his obnoxious sisters and overbearing mother were here, too, and let’s just say they weren’t happy that Peter married a girl that wasn’t from around here. I was never good enough: I was the wrong religion, I was too thin, I didn’t cook right, I worked, and I talked funny… The list went on and on. And unfortunately, it didn’t take much for Peter to start to believe those things too.

  Scott kept looking for me to answer. I needed to quit getting wrapped up in my thoughts, especially when they involved my ex-husband.

  I tried to laugh it off. “Of course not.”

  But Scott seemed to be a pretty intuitive guy. “You don’t like it here?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Why don’t you go home?”

  I sighed. I would love nothing more than to go home, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t return after not being able to even stay married for two years. I knew people there would accept me with open arms, but I couldn’t stand the thought of being pitied and felt sorry for. When I returned, I wanted to feel whole and over the humiliation of my situation. I know it didn’t make sense, but honestly, my life hadn’t made sense for a while now. I hoped someday it would and that I would be able to see the reason for this particular journey. And then there was a matter of my pride. Peter always said I just couldn’t hack it because I hadn’t really had to live real life, that I was naïve and sheltered, and that I had had everything handed to me on a silver platter. I guess part of me was out to prove him wrong.