by Tina Martin
“Maybe he heard what you said.”
“How could he have heard me? He’s high on morphine and whatever else they doped him up with.” I’m struggling, trying to get my hand out of Montgomery’s grasp, but it’s to no avail. “Major, he won’t let me go. He probably thinks it’s my neck. Oww!”
Major laughs. “You think my brother, a hospital patient who survived a horrific car crash, is trying to choke you out?”
“Stop laughing and do something, Major?”
He chuckles. “What do you want me to do? I don’t have any butter or baby oil.” He laughs more.
“Pull his arm or something.”
He still finds this amusing. Meanwhile, I’m losing blood circulation in my hand.
Major finally comes around and tries to free me but even he can’t break the grip.
“Come on, Major. You didn’t eat your Wheaties this morning?”
“Hush, girl. Nobody eats Wheaties anymore.”
He’s steadily pulling. Ain’t nothing happening. Nothing moving.
“At what point did he grab you like this?” Major asks.
“When I said I was quitting.”
“Then take it back.”
“What?”
“Take it back. Tell him you’re not quitting. And mean it.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah, I’m serious. Tell him.”
“Okay. I won’t quit. Montgomery, I won’t quit. I promise.”
And what do you know…
He slowly releases the grip on my hand. I massage life back into my wrist and fingers.
“Does that mean he heard me?”
“Yeah, or he has a very active subconscious mind that’s not affected by the medication. That’s my brother. He never ceases to amaze me.”
“Good morning,” Sylvia says as she enters the room holding a cup of coffee.
I’m still rubbing my hand. “Hi, Sylvia.”
“Mornin’, Ma. You should’ve been here like five minutes sooner. You would’ve seen Monty grab Cherish.”
“What?”
Major grins.
“Don’t pay Major any mind. Monty—I mean Montgomery didn’t grab me. He’s been just like this—sleeping. Soundly.”
“I wish he would open his eyes. If I can just see his eyes, I know he’ll be okay,” Sylvia says.
“Just talk to him,” Major says. “Apparently, he can hear you. Ain’t that right, Cherish?”
I narrow my eyes at him.
“Something tells me he’ll be awake soon,” Major adds.
Sylvia sits down. Sips coffee. She asks Major, “How are things at the office?”
“Everybody’s wondering if or when Monty’s coming back.”
“One step at a time,” she says. “It’s going to take a while for him to heal.”
I offer Sylvia my seat – the one next to Montgomery’s bed, but she insists I stay here. I take hold of his hand again, rubbing the pad of my thumbs around his impressive knuckles. He could obliterate someone with them. “How did he do last night?” I ask Sylvia.
“He was just like this. Sleep and out of it. The nurses were in and out checking on him.”
I look at him again. It makes me sad that a man so strong, so powerful is lying here helpless. I don’t feel any kind of hate for him. I don’t have it in my heart to reciprocate his bad behavior. Like Sylvia, I too will feel better when I see those eyes of his. When I know he’s out of the woods. I want to see him back to himself again, even if he’s the same mean, disgruntled version. Some of him is better than none at this point. I’ll take whatever I can get.
Chapter Fourteen
Monty
I’m groggy and I feel like I’ve been pressed by a steamroller, but I crack my eyes open to a slither, startled by the light in the room. I close them back and wait a moment. My head is killing me.
“You have to make the decision to be strong,” I hear someone say. It’s then I realize whoever’s talking to me is holding my hand.
I crack my eyes open a little. It’s blurry. I can’t make out a face – just a figure.
“And if you can’t do it for yourself, do it for the people who love you. And people do love your mean butt. Your mother, Major—”
I open my eyes all the way to see this person – this woman talking to me. It’s Cherish. She’s not looking at me. She’s looking at my hand. She’s talking to my hand. I roll my eyes to the left and the right. No one else is in the room with me. It’s just her. I’m in a hospital. I’m not dead. The last thing I remember is flipping my car on the highway. I thought that was it for me.
I close my eyes again and listen to her talk.
“If my mother loved me half as much as your mother loved you, I’d be grateful. But my mother—that’s a different story. Yours—you two live under the same roof. Well, I don’t know if I can actually say that since the house is so massive and everybody has their own wing, but she lives there and you don’t eat with her. You only talk to her about business, Montgomery. There’s more to life than business deals. That’s all you do. Business, and maybe that’s why you’re so pissed off all the time. Why you’re so frustrated, and then you push that frustration off on other people.”
She massages my hand and continues, “You could be so much more if you allowed your personality—the part of yourself you keep hidden—to shine through. So much more.”
I open my eyes again. She’s still staring at my hand. She has no idea I’m awake.
To get her attention, I squeeze her hand.
She frowns, looks at me and gasps. Her eyes grow big like she’s been caught. She stares. Then she frowns. Looks scared
“Montgomery—I mean, Mr. St. Claire?”
I ease the tension on her hand now that I have her attention.
“I should go get a nurse,” she says. “Or your mother. Yes, I should go get your mother. She had to step out to take a phone call. Let me go get her.”
She gets up, leaves the room in a hurry.
My mother steps in shortly thereafter, eyes bubbling with tears.
“Oh, Monty,” she says throwing her arms around me. I thought I was going to lose you.” She’s crying. Her tears wet my face. “How do you feel?” she asks.
I want to respond to her, but I’m too weak and drugged to talk. My eyes are drifting. It’s a struggle to keep them open.
A nurse comes in figuring it’s a good time to check my vitals and level of pain while I’m awake. She asks me to rate my pain – ten being the highest. I’m not in a lot of pain thanks to whatever they have me on, so I rate it a five. She asks me if I want some soup for dinner. My eyes roll over to the clock on the wall. It’s six o’clock.
I don’t respond. I just want to lie here, go back to sleep and wake up when I’m myself again. When I’m not broken, lying in bed waiting for people to take care of me. So, that’s what I do. I lie here.
Somebody must’ve told her to bring soup because it arrives around seven. Mother attempts to feed it to me. I move her hand away.
“Son, don’t you want to get out of here?”
What kind of question is that? Of course, I want to get out of here. Who likes hospitals?
“Eat just a little bit.”
“No,” I say barely above a whisper.
“Don’t be stubborn, Montgomery.”
She takes another spoonful and offers it to me. I close my eyes. Defiant. I’ll eat when I’m ready to eat.
“I heard my boy was back,” Major says as he steps into the room.
I open my eyes to see my brother. I’ve never been happier to see him than I am at this moment.
“How you feeling, man?” he asks.
I don’t feel like talking so I give him a thumbs up.
“You need to tell him to eat this soup,” Mother says.
“Ma, he just woke up. Maybe he doesn’t want no soup or anything else just yet.”
And I don’t eat soup. I have no appetite.
* * *
That
all changes, three days later. I’m still on pain medication but not enough to make me want to anything besides sleep. This morning, I feel more alert and hungry. And I don’t want this crap they’re serving up in this hospital.
“I can go get you something, son.”
“No. Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “In fact, why don’t you go back to work? I’m fine. They’re talking about discharging me tomorrow.”
“I’m not going back to work until you’re out of here.”
“I don’t need you here!” I snap before I know it.
She frowns. Looks disappointed. She grabs her purse. “You’re still the same. You’ll never change will you?”
“I’m—I’m sorry,” I tell her.
She looks at me as if my words haven’t registered with her yet. Those aren’t words I use often. I’m sure it’s taking her some time to process them.
I sigh heavily. I’m tired of being in this hospital. I feel like, if I can get back into my regular routine, I’ll heal faster. Being here makes time move slow. Makes me feel like I’m wasting my time. Makes me angry. I’m hungry and tired of lying down.
“Good morning,” Cherish says as she comes into the room holding a bag.
She looks at me as if she expects me to say something. She hasn’t been here in three days. I don’t say a word. All I do is look at her. The last time she was here, my vision was blurry. Today, I can see her clearly. See that she’s not wearing a scarf on her head to hide her braids and she doesn’t have on an apron. She’s wearing a touch of makeup. Her lips are painted pink with gloss. Her braids frames her face, hangs down past her shoulders. She’s wearing a white dress with a yellow flower pattern. She looks like an angel.
“Is he talking today?” she asks my mother.
“Yeah. He—”
“Why don’t you talk to me and find out?” I ask her. I don’t need my mother answering for me.
She looks at me glances away and says, “Oh. I—I said good morning and you didn’t say anything in response, Mr. St. Claire.”
“Do I ever say good morning to you?”
She glances at my mother again.
“Sylvia, can you give us a minute, please?” I ask my mother. She gets up, walks out.
I return my attention to Cherish. “Where have you been?”
“What do you mean?” she asks, looking down at the floor.
“I haven’t seen you in three days.”
“I was at your house, doing my job.”
“Your job is to be my assistant.”
“That’s what I’m doing, Mont—Mr. St. Claire, but I can’t do my job if you won’t let me.”
“Your hair is down. I’ve never seen your hair down. You’re always wearing a scarf. And you’re dressed up.”
“I’m not dressed up,” she tells me, looking down at her outfit, her voice riddled with annoyance. “It’s a pretty day. I just wanted to wear a dress. What does it matter what I’m wearing?”
“Why don’t you look at me when you talk to me? Hunh? Is my face that messed up that you can’t look at me?” I ask her.
Being somewhat mobile now, I’ve been back and forth to the bathroom a few times. I’ve seen my face. The scars. It’s bad, but I didn’t think it was so bad that the girl can’t hold eye contact with me.
“Come here,” I tell her.
She frowns but walks closer to the bed.
“Why can’t you look at me?” I ask her again. She’s still not looking at me. Aggravates me to no end. She’s looking at the bed covers. Not at me. “Look at me, Cherish.”
“Mr. St. Claire, I—”
“Look at me!” I demand.
Her eyes meet mine and something happens. Something I can’t explain. Spiritual, maybe. I don’t know but it nearly takes my breath away. This transcendent being, this woman – Cherish Stevens – standing before me is looking into my eyes but I feel like she has taken over my soul. She’s in my mind. In me. She has an ethereal glow about her that illuminates my body. For a second, not only does she see right through me. She becomes me and I am her. The spirits inside of our bodies meet and intertwine, co-join and as quickly as it happens, it ends.
I gasp like it’s my first experience with breathing. I’ve never felt anything like this. Never. I’ve never seen love as it’s own entity – as a noun and a verb coexisting in the depths of someone’s eyes. It’s what I see when I look at her. This girl loves me and I haven’t given her a reason to.
“Wow,” I utter beneath my breath.
She looks away briefly before looking at me again and starts talking.
“Just so you’re aware, I don’t see scars when I look at your face, Mr. St. Claire. I just see you. That’s what happens when you look at someone to see depth—what they are in the inside. It’s how I look at people. How I’ve always looked at people. I wasn’t here for the last three days because I was running errands for you, checking the mail, picking up stuff the workers needed. I—I’ve been on the fence about coming back to work for you, mostly because you being here is my fault,” she says with a shaky voice. Her eyes glisten with tears but none fall.
“It’s not your fault.”
“It is. If you weren’t coming to see me—if I hadn’t called off work that day—you wouldn’t be in this situation.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Whatever the case,” she says, taking a deep breath, “I think you should start looking for a new assistant.”
“I don’t want a new assistant. I want you, Cherish.”
She shakes her head. “You hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“You hate everyone.”
“I don’t hate you.”
I try to find words to defend myself from her comment, but none comes to mind. Her perception of me is what everyone else thinks of me. Hearing it from her shakes me – makes me realize most of the people who work for me probably felt like they’d be better off if I didn’t make it out of here.
“What’s in the bag?” I ask her.
She looks at the bag in her hand almost like she forgot she was holding it. “It’s soup. Your favorite. Chicken and rice.”
I’m not surprised she knows that since she knows everything about me.
She takes it out of the bag, removes the lid and hands it to me along with a spoon. Then she stands, get’s the table tray and rolls it over to me.
“Thank you,” I tell her.
She frowns. “Say—say what?”
“I said, thank you.”
“Oh. I heard you. I just—I thought—I thought I was hearing things, but you’re—welcome.”
I take a few spoonfuls.
She stands and says, “Anyway, I’ll let you eat.”
“Where are you going?”
“Back to work. I know you like to eat alone.”
“Stay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Besides, we need to talk.” I eat more. I’m so hungry, I’m scarfing this soup down. I tell her, “You said you wouldn’t quit.”
She looks surprised. “You heard me?”
“Yes. I heard you.”
“That’s why you squeezed my hand so tight?”
“Yes. You promised me you wouldn’t quit so why are you considering it?”
“Because I don’t know if I can work for you anymore, Mr. St. Claire. You need someone who can handle your personality.”
“What I need is for someone to be patient with me. Someone who knows what I need before I need it. That would be you in case you were wondering.”
“Half the time, I don’t even think you know what you need.”
“Then why don’t you help me figure that out, Cherish,” I say, dropping the plastic spoon in the empty paper bowl.
She instantly gets up, takes it away and trashes it.
“I’ll pay you whatever you want.”
“I don’t want your money, Mr. St. Claire.”
“Then what do you want, Ms. Stevens?”
&n
bsp; She thinks for a moment and replies, “I want your friendship.”
“You want me to be your friend.”
“Yes.”
I smirk. She would request some crap like that. “Alright. Fine.” I reach for her hand.
“What are you doing?”
“Let’s shake on it. Seal the deal. This is our verbal contract.”
“Okay.” She takes my hand, looks into my eyes again.
And the deal is sealed.
Chapter Fifteen
Cherish
Five days later, he’s home. I’ve spent a good deal of time with him in the hospital. I’ve witnessed his improvements. It’ll take weeks before his ribs are healed, but his bruises are slowly healing along with the scars on his face. The doctor says he’s supposed to stay in bed mostly, resting for at least two weeks, but Montgomery St. Claire doesn’t take directions very well.
I’m back doing my same routine, arriving at his house four in the morning on a Tuesday. I go upstairs to his room and expect to see him in bed but he’s in the shower, and apparently, he’s done since I hear the water shut off.
He steps out wrapped in a towel. His hair is dripping water.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“What does it look like I’m doing. I’m getting dressed.”
“For what?”
“For the day.”
“Mr. St. Claire—”
“Don’t call me that anymore! We’re friends now, remember?” he asks with a slight edge of attitude to his voice.
He’s agitated this morning. Frustrated by his limitations. He shouldn’t be up in the first place. I take his hand. He snatches it away.
“Montgomery—”
“Get out of my room,” he demands.
“No. You told me we were friends.”
“Get out of my room!”
I glare at him. This man is the king of mind games, but I didn’t wake up three-o’clock in the morning to play games with nobody. I was already on the verge of quitting. He’s making my decision so much easier.
“If I leave this room, I’m not coming back. Ever!”
“That would be your choice, now wouldn’t it?”
