Monty

by Tina Martin

  “Sit down.”

  “What do you want, Montgomery?”

  “You want to talk. Let’s talk.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Why do you call your mother, Sylvia?”

  “You mean besides the fact that it’s her name?”

  “It’s disrespectful to call your mother anything besides, mother or some variation of it. Like mom or momma. Ma is even acceptable.”

  “Sylvia Hawthorne is my foster mother.”

  “And?”

  “Keywords being foster mother. Do you know anything about the foster care system, Cherish?”

  She shakes her head. “No. Not much.”

  “Kids go into foster care when they don’t have nowhere else to go. I have no idea who my birth parents were. I vaguely remember them. They’re both dead but I don’t know them. All I know is they didn’t want me and Major so we ended up belonging to the state before being placed with Sylvia and Caspian Hawthorne – the rich billionaires who couldn’t have children. They were filthy rich when they fostered us. But not once, not once, did they file any papers to actually adopt us as their own. To give us their last name. Why do you think my name remains St. Claire while hers is Hawthorne? You know what that tells me? It tells me she didn’t want me.”

  “You keep saying she. What about your father? Did you feel the same way about him?”

  “I used to until he took me under his wing.”

  “Well, I think you should cut your mother some slack the same way you did with your father. He could’ve adopted you, too.”

  “Could have but you and I both know decisions like that usually falls under the mother’s umbrella.”

  “Have you spoken to her about it?”

  “No. What’s the use? I’m a grown man now.”

  “A grown man who’s bitter and angry at the world for how he was raised. A grown man who feels rejected and betrayed by his birth parents and his foster parents. Is that why you act the way you do? You feel like you have something to prove? The more you assert yourself, the more you feel like you’re somebody?”

  I’m impressed. She knows me better than I thought she did. I’m impressed by her listening ability and how I can see her seeking understanding. It’s in her eyes.

  “And you know what the worst part of it is?”

  “What?”

  “I know for a fact I had an older brother who went to another foster home. I have no idea who he is, what his name is and—” I take a minute. “I’m afraid to go looking because I’m scared of what I might find.”

  “How do you know about an older brother?”

  “Because I remember him. I remember talking to him. I was a child, but I remember.”

  “Okay. Tell me what I can do to help.”

  “I don’t know. I really have no idea.”

  “Sleep on it and let me know in the morning.”

  “Okay,” I tell her, although I’m not sure if I’ll be in the mood to continue this conversation in the morning. Most likely not.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cherish

  My nerves are all to pieces. I cannot believe I spoke to Montgomery that way. I can’t believe Montgomery St. Claire is at my house! I’m glad he couldn’t hear my heart jack-hammering in my chest when I changed his bandage and put the ointment on his face. I’m also glad he’s opening up to me. I’m slowly beginning to understand why he’s the way he is. He has baggage, but don’t we all.

  In the morning, I drive to the pharmacy to pick up Montgomery’s prescription. While I’m in Concord, I stop by the estate. He won’t survive without being connected to work, so I get his laptop – the one he keeps in the black Hermès briefcase. I also pack a week’s worth of clothes – all business-casual stuff because the man doesn’t own a pair of jeans. I take his phone charger and anything else I think he might need.

  Before I leave, I go to the east wing to talk to Sylvia. She called me last night. Probably wanted to know if I knew where Montgomery was. She’s in her office with her head down – looks like she’s taking a mental break. She has a head full of thick, gray hair that’s pinned like a French roll. I’m sure Montgomery is responsible for most of those grays.

  I tap my knuckles against the wooden door three times and say, “Hi, Sylvia.”

  “Cherish! Montgomery left last night and—”

  “He’s fine, Sylvia,” I say to calm her down. She’s one panic attack away from a stroke. “He’s at my house.”

  “He is?”

  “Yes. He drove there—probably gonna be there for a few days because I refuse to let him drive back here until he’s well enough.”

  “Oh—thank goodness. I was so worried. Please take care of him.”

  “Don’t worry. I just picked up his pain meds and I’m headed back now. He was still resting when I left, so I’m sure he’ll be ready for lunch by the time I get there.”

  “Will you please keep me informed about how he’s doing?”

  “I will. Don’t worry, Sylvia.”

  “I know he’s in good hands with you, but I still worry.”

  “Well, I promise I will call or text you and I will take care of him to the best of my ability.”

  “Thank you,” she says, then smiles warmly. She stands and comes around the desk to give me a hug, squeezing me in her arms. I can feel her appreciation through her touch that gives me a new perspective where Montgomery is concerned. If I tell myself I’m helping him for Sylvia’s sake, maybe I won’t be quick to give up so easily when he gets on my nerves.

  * * *

  I unload my car when I’m back home. I have a lot of his things. His clothes, shoes, his favorite robe, the laptop and other items – like that Dolce & Gabanna The One cologne and aftershave that smells so good, it almost makes him edible. I have a Rolex. His hairbrush. Toothbrush. Some of his fancy Egyptian towels. I’m sure my small, colorful, scratchy ones are not up to par with his standards.

  I set the bags on the couch then walk to the bedroom to look for him. He’s still lying there in the same position as when I left. I get closer to make sure he’s still breathing and when I confirm he is (thank God) I touch his face and whisper, “Monty.”

  His eyes open and I promise it’s no different than seeing the sun after a few days of rain. It nearly takes my breath away. Why does he have to be so fine? Why does he have to have this kind of effect on me?

  I find a way to keep it together or at least enough to talk.

  “Good morning,” I tell him.

  He’s groggy. He touches his chest. My guess is the pain is bad this morning.

  “Sit up a lil’ bit so you can take some pain pills,” I tell him. “I’ll go get some water.”

  I rush to the kitchen, get a glass of water and then come back with the pills. “Monty, can you sit up?”

  He moves a little. Grimaces. He’s not talkative. Doesn’t even look lively like he did last night. The way he’s behaving today has me worried.

  I give him the pills. Two of them. He tosses them in his mouth and then I hand him the glass. He drinks, hands the glass back to me.

  “Do you want something to eat?”

  “No,” he says softly, lying down again. He closes his eyes. I’m worried. I promised Sylvia I’d take care of him and I don’t know how well I’m doing at the moment.

  “Monty, I think I should take you back to the hospital.”

  “No…not going back there,” he mumbles.

  “I think you should. What if something is going on that I can’t see. You’re out of it right now—so different than yesterday.”

  “Just let me rest. Please.”

  “But—”

  “Please.”

  I sigh. “Okay. I’m going to check your bandages,” I tell him but he doesn’t respond. I proceed with the one on his chest. I remove the old bandage and round up everything I need to make a new one. I don’t have a wash pail, so I find a big bowl in the kitchen and fill it with warm water. I clean the area on his chest and redo his bandage. I w
ash his face and apply more Neosporin to his scars. I get a dry towel, spread it across his ribcage, then plug in the heating pad and lay it across the towel. Heat should help to soothe the pain and relax him.

  This version of him continues for the rest of the week. He’s weak and all he wants to do is sleep, so I continue taking care of him. He doesn’t want to eat so I pretty much have to force him to eat a few spoonfuls of chicken broth. I help him travel back and forth to the bathroom. I redo his bandages. Keep his scars clean. I’ve become his full-time nurse, and I don’t mind it. I like taking care of him but I like it even more to feel needed. He knows he needs me. I doubt if he’d trust anyone else to do this – not even a professional nurse.

  I’ve also been keeping Sylvia up-to-date. Every night she calls, sounding almost out of breath as if Montgomery is on his deathbed. I let her know he’s fine. That his body needs this rest. He’s a strong man, yes, but even strong men need time to heal. Truth be told, I’m more worried about his mental healing than his physical one. The body was made to survive. It knows how to heal itself. The mind, on the other hand, that’s a different story. The mind doesn’t have that same repairing ability. When the mind is damaged, you can’t apply Neosporin to make the damage less noticeable. You have to do things that require mental ability and it’s hard to heal something broken with something broken. It’s like trying to mend a fractured arm with a broken cast – it just won’t work.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Monty

  I’ve been lying here for so long, I feel like I’m glued to this bed. I glance around. I’m still at Cherish’s house. I have no clue what day of the week it is. That’s how in-and-out I’ve been.

  I take my phone from the nightstand, pull up the calendar to see that it’s Saturday. How did a whole week go by so fast?

  At least I’m better today. Still sore, but better. I turn off the heating pad that’s on me and remove the towel to make my way to the bathroom. I look at myself in the mirror. I haven’t shaved since the accident. My beard is getting thicker. Even the hair on my head is longer than I like it. But that’s the least of my worries.

  I wash my face. The scars are healing fast thanks to Cherish and her applying that ointment every night, but I’m still not back to my old self.

  I walk to the kitchen thinking I’d find Cherish there since I smelled food but she’s not. And she’s not in the living room, but the front door is open. I walk there and stand at the screen door where I can see her in the front yard, working in a bed of flowers. It’s 7:22 a.m. and she’s outside working in flowers…

  “Good morning,” I say loud enough to where I’m certain she can hear me.

  She glances up at me. “Well, well, well, the dead has arisen.” She walks over to the porch with a little shovel in her gloved hand. I’m somewhat glad to see she’s actually wearing gloves. “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  “How do you feel this morning?” she asks.

  It crosses my mind to ask if she’s inquiring about my well-being just because or if he actually cares about how I am and how I feel. I say, “I feel like I just came out of hibernation.”

  She smiles, leaves her gardening tools outside and steps inside with me. She looks at my chest. My legs. My face. After her visual inspection to make sure I’m okay, she asks again, “How do you feel?”

  I shrug. “I’m not a hundred percent, but I can move around without feeling like I’m about to topple over so that’s an improvement.”

  “No vertigo? No dizziness?”

  “No.”

  “Any soreness?”

  “A little, but not to the point where I need medication—at least not at the moment.”

  “Good. Then let’s eat some breakfast.”

  “You cooked?”

  “I did—made some shrimp and grits with biscuits. I figured you’d be hungry today after eating nothing but chicken broth all week.”

  She pulls out a chair at the table and helps me sit. It’s still uncomfortable to sit in a chair but I grin and bear it.

  Cherish grabs a bowl, walks over to the stove and fills it with grits. It’s still hot. I see steam coming from the pot. She then takes the lid from a pan and adds grits to the bowl. She brings it over to me along with two biscuits on a saucer.

  “Thank you.”

  She pauses. Looks at me. “You’re welcome.”

  She sits down with her food and then says, “There’s a lot I need to catch you up on.”

  “Like what?” I ask, then taste the food. It’s so good, I try not to eat it so fast.

  “Earlier this week, I went to your house to get you some clothes. I talked to your mother. Told her where you were. She was worried sick.”

  I keep on eating. “What else?”

  “I also brought your laptop in case you wanted to do some work. I wasn’t sure how long you’d planned on staying.”

  “Are you kicking me out?”

  “No. You can stay as long as you like, Monty.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “Um…what else…let’s see…oh! Your secretary called. She wanted to know when you were going to be back. Said you had some big meetings coming up this week.”

  “They’ll have to be rescheduled. I’ll inform her about that.”

  “She sounded like she was in distress.”

  “Hannah’s always like that.”

  “Oh. Okay, then that’s all the updates I have for you.”

  I finish the grits and right away, she asks if I want more. Once I confirm, she takes my bowl, goes to the stove and fills it again. Brings it to me.

  When she sits, I look at her to catch her eyes before I say, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she says, shying away from my gaze.

  That’s when I decide to ask her, “What kind of man do you think I am, Cherry?”

  She chuckles. “Where did that come from?”

  “Just answer it.”

  “Uh—I cant. I don’t know how to.”

  “Do you think I’m a good person?”

  “Yes, I do, but you—um…you know what…maybe we shouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “We should. Please. Tell me. Don’t hold anything back. Just be honest.”

  “I don’t know if you can handle my honesty.”

  “There’s nothing I can’t handle. Try me.”

  “Okay. I think you’re a good person, but you try so hard to make people believe you’re not. I think you believe that if people are scared of you, they respect you.”

  “The man I am is the man my father groomed me to be.”

  “Your foster father,” she says to clarify.

  “Yes. He left a billion-dollar corporation to me. This is who I have to be to run that company. To make sure the company stays profitable. To carry on my father’s legacy.”

  “That’s good and all, but, who are you outside of the company? Like what do you do for fun?”

  “I make money.”

  She laughs. “That’s not fun.”

  “It is for me.” I eat more then tell her, “I swim. That’s fun.”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t think it is—at least not anymore.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “You used to take laps in the pool every Friday afternoon. If the weather was good you’d be on the outside pool. If it was raining, or cold, you’d use the indoor pool. A few months ago, you stopped.”

  I stir the grits around then look up at her. “You watch me like a hawk, don’t you?”

  “Yep. I pretty much know everything you do on a daily basis. I just don’t know why you do them. So, why’d you stop?”

  “I guess I just got tired of it. I’m taking a break from it.”

  “I see. You’re taking a break from the only thing you supposedly do for fun.”

  Silence falls between us, mostly because she has me backed into a corner with her assessment.

  She finishes her breakfast, then says, “I’ll probably go out lat
er.”

  “Go out where?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but I’ve been cooped up in this house all week.”

  “My fault, huh?”

  “I’m not complaining. I’m just saying. It’s a beautiful day. I want to do something.”

  “Then I’m coming with you.”

  “You can’t come with me, Monty.”

  “I can. You just don’t want me to.”

  “That’s not it at all. Why are you trying to make me feel guilty?”

  “Why are you trying to make me feel bad for taking up all of your precious time?”

  She smiles. That beautiful smile. It takes my breath and makes me clench my jaw at the same time. No woman has ever made me skip a breath.

  “Are you okay?” she asks, always attentive to my needs.

  “Yeah. I’m fine.” I take a sip of water and say, “We could do something fun here.”

  “Like what?”

  I shrug.

  She grins, but when she knows I’m serious about my suggestion, she wipes the smile off her face and says, “Okay…um, let’s plan on watching a movie later and I’m picking the movie. You down?”

  “Yeah. I’m down.”

  “You say that now…”

  “No, really. I’m looking forward to it.”

  She offers up an inquisitive gaze like she doesn’t believe me.

  My phone rings. It’s Major. I answer, “Hello.”

  “Yo, what’s up, Monty…heard you moved out.”

  “I didn’t move out. I’m just staying with Cherish for a while.”

  “Ay, lighten up, bro—I’m just teasing. Anyway, how are you feeling?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Let me speak to Cherish for a minute,” he says.

  “No,” I respond. What does he have to talk to Cherish about? “I’ll call you later, man,” I tell him, then hang up.

  “Everything okay?” Cherish asks.

  “Yeah.” I get up slowly, holding the edge of the table for support. “I’m going to go lie down for a while.”