Letters in Time

by Reiss Susan

  “I – I’m comfortable.” I could hear the lie behind my words. I hoped he couldn’t.

  “In the beginning, you were tense. You watched how I did everything. You must have almost bitten your tongue off to keep from telling me what to do.”

  “I did not. I think you’re a fine driver.”

  “And the other day?” he asked. “Are you gonna tell me that you weren’t nervous?”

  Driving made me nervous, period. It didn’t matter who was behind the wheel. I was used to being independent. Now, I was at everyone’s mercy. I could feel resentment bubbling up and tried to tamp it down. Why was he pushing this point?

  “All right, I’ll admit I was a little nervous, but—”

  “A little?!”

  That did it. I erupted. “OKAY! I was a nervous wreck. Those ladies back there think it must be terrific to be driven around by a stunningly handsome chauffeur. No, don’t get any ideas. I’m just voicing what they were saying. I don’t even want to think about what was going through their minds.”

  “Emma, maybe—"

  “I don’t need to be treated that way. There’s nothing to envy about my situation.” I stared out the windshield, my eyes boring holes into the darkness. “I don’t need people in my life who think they know everything about everything. Why should I want to spend time with a simpering group of wannabees out here, so far from civilization?” I shifted my gaze to the passenger window. There wasn’t anything to see in the dark, only the reflection of my face staring back at me.

  I straightened up. "No, coming here was a mistake. I thought I could do it without Uncle Jack, but I was wrong. I need to go home, home to Philadelphia."

  TJ cleared his throat. “That’s going to be tricky since you won’t have a home to go to for another few months.”

  I’d forgotten that a stranger was living in my apartment. I peeked at TJ out of the corner of my eye. If he showed any sign that this was funny, I didn’t know what I would do. But he looked straight at the road, his face not betraying whatever he was thinking.

  “I-I can, I-I have…” I stopped. I was stuttering. I began again. “I can stay with friends. I can go to a hotel if I have to.”

  He shot me a look of surprise. “For months?!”

  “Eyes on the road, please. One bad accident in my life is enough.”

  He shifted his eyes back to the road. “But you’re comfortable here.”

  I folded my arms and didn’t answer. There was no way I would let his down-home logic crack my resolve.

  He ignored my defiance. "Seems to me you should stay where you feel settled. After all, you'll have to deal with the same thing in Philadelphia that you're facing here. Won't do any good to run away."

  I turned my head slowly to look at him. “What? That makes no sense.”

  “Yes, it does,” he insisted. “There are mirrors in Philly, too. Maybe it’s time for you to face yourself and accept who you are.”

  My breath caught before the words came out in a flood. “Your arrogance knows no bounds. Who do you think you are?” It was time for me to set this man straight. “I’ll tell you who you are.” I turned toward him as far as the seat belt would allow. “You’re just a man with a big education who has come to this community, ready to tell people what they should do and how. Sure, you probably know plants and soil, but that doesn’t make you an expert about people. You have big equipment—combines and planters and who knows what else. You roll over other people’s land, believing you’re doing some good. Well, let me tell you that being hired to spread seeds or harvest crops doesn't allow you to roll over people's lives." I shifted around and folded my arms. "You have no right and no say in my life."

  Ghost growled as TJ steered to the side of the road and slammed the truck's brakes. We sat staring silently out the window. I tried to catch my breath. Part of me cringed as I waited for the explosion. He’d probably call Mr. Saffire tomorrow and quit. I’d gone too far, but I didn’t care.

  TJ shifted the truck into park and looked at me. His hazel-green eyes drilled straight into mine and quietly said, “You want to know what I think? I think the way you get over your fear of driving, maybe the way to get you over your fear of anything, is to get mad, really mad. If that helps, get good and mad. Doesn't matter to me."

  I looked down at my hands clenched in my lap but didn’t say a word.

  After a few moments, he drew in a deep breath and said quietly, “You’re right.” He gave a curt nod and repeated, “You’re right. I’ll take you home.”

  We rode the rest of the way home in stony silence, the kind that makes you want to shiver from the cold. TJ stopped the truck at the front steps of the Cottage. I gathered my things and put my hand on the door handle.

  “Wait, Emma, let me—” he said, as he launched himself out of the cab.

  “I don’t need to wait for anyone,” I called out after him. “I can take care of myself.” I opened the door, took out the cane, and slid from the seat.

  “I guess you’ll have to, now that Jack is gone,” he breathed. He raced up the steps, unlocked the front door, and came back to me.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. It seemed everything he did irritated me. “You don’t have to walk me to the door. We’re not on a date.”

  "No, we're not," he said. "I thought I might help you up the steps and hold the storm door open while you made your way inside. This isn't Philadelphia, you know. I was raised a Southern gentleman and you’re trying to navigate with just a cane."

  I bit out the words as I reached for the railing. “Well, fine. You can stand there and watch me do this by myself.”

  It took everything I had to pull myself up each one of those steps. Pain was shooting down my leg and up my back. I worked hard to keep my face blank. My anger flared as I realized he was right. I needed help. But I wasn’t going to ask for it.

  I cleared my throat, hoping my voice would sound normal. “I guess I should thank you for bringing me home. You spared me from spending one more minute with that awful woman.”

  “Awful woman? Who are you talking about?” TJ asked, sounding a little defensive.

  “Why, Catherine, of course. She never stopped talking. And her gossipy comments. She should be a reporter for some celebrity magazine.”

  At the top of the steps, I dropped my cane. I didn't know whether to scream or cry when he picked it up and held it out to me. I wanted to stomp inside, slam the door, and lock out the whole world. Instead, I grabbed it and struggled the last few feet to the door.

  “Thank you again for your help,” I managed to say through clenched teeth. I felt like a bomb was about to go off inside me. The man was only trying to help. Only I didn’t want his help. I didn’t want anybody’s help.

  He must have sensed that I was about to snap and took a quick step back. “Good night, Emma.” He turned and danced down the steps back to his truck.

  I should have let it go, but I couldn’t. I called after him. “One more thing, TJ.”

  He turned. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Don’t go making decisions for me ever again.”

  "Excuse me?" He sounded lost.

  “You heard me. Don’t ask someone to come by to say hello. Don’t sign me up for any groups. Don’t do anything without asking.” I could hear the acid in my voice, could almost taste the bile in my mouth. “Especially some two-bit writing group.” His silent surprise allowed me to continue. “You’re not the boss of me, TJ. Nobody is. I’m the boss, only me. My ex-husband couldn’t control me and neither can you. Not you. Not those women. Not the doctors and all their minions.” I was screaming. “You don’t get to decide anything for me.”

  Proud of my declaration of freedom, I turned quickly, too quickly, and went down hard.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “If you looked in the dictionary this morning for the definition of the word hubris: excessive pride or self-confidence, you would find my picture.”

  —Emma’s Journal

  I lay sprawl
ed on the floor like a broken doll. White-hot pain flashed from my hip to my foot. Pain shot up my back. The throw rug for muddy feet by the door was my downfall. Above all, the humiliation was too much to bear. Tears burst through and wouldn't stop. I don't know how long I lay there soaking my top, the rug, and the floor with my tears.

  When the sobbing slowed, a handful of white tissues appeared in front of my face. TJ hadn't left. He hadn't run away. He'd gone to find the tissue box and came back to wait until I was ready to use them. He didn't say, poor baby. He gave me room to find my own way. I was grateful. And a little guilty. I hadn’t been the nicest person.

  I'd been taking out my frustration on other people since I'd arrived on the Eastern Shore. I didn't do that when I was in Philadelphia because, I now realized, I hadn't spent much time with people. Oh, I had friends. They'd come to the hospital and rehab, but I think they were relieved when I went home. They could focus on their own lives again. They teased me about watching daytime talk shows, reading, and eating bonbons. But this man who I'd verbally beaten black and blue handed me tissues without a word, and waited.

  I wiped my face and blew my nose. I used some of the tissues to soak up the droplets on the wooden floor. His empty hand reappeared and he took the soggy mess. It was time to get up. But I was afraid to move. I’d fallen a couple of times before, but this was the worst of all.

  Had I sprained my leg? What if I’d broken it? Fear engulfed me. Would I ever get better? Would I always be a cripple? Did I need an ambulance? What if the doctors wanted me in the hospital again? What if they need to operate?

  My eyes grew hot. Tears prickled my lids. Going to the hospital might lead to the worst operation of all: amputation. I couldn't go back to the hospital. If I started crying again, I was afraid I would never stop. I wanted to stay on the floor forever, but that couldn’t happen. I had to know what I’d done to myself. I had to move. If I could do that, maybe, just maybe I could get up.

  The handle of my cane appeared by my side. TJ had retrieved it and was holding it out to me. The anger surged again and I batted it away. “No!”

  “Then, let me help you,” he said softly.

  I felt his hands touch me. “Don’t!”

  He snatched them away. “What can I do?”

  "Leave me alone!" I bit my lip to force the tears and the angry words away. "Go away. I need to do this myself." My arrogance had caused this fall. It was my fault. It was up to me to fix it.

  “Sorry, can’t do that. My job here isn’t done until you’re up and off the floor. Now, tell me what you want me to do.” It was a statement spoken calmly and matter-of-factly. The only thing that gave away his deep concern was his heavy southern accent which only appeared when he was stressed or upset.

  "Nothing! I don't want you to do anything." I hadn't a clue what to do. Uncle Jack would have known how to take care of me. He could always tell if all I needed was a kiss, band-aid, and a get-on-with-it-girl for a skinned knee or a mad dash to the hospital when I'd fallen out of an apple tree and fractured my arm. But he was gone. I was on my own. I could imagine him shaking his head at me. I'd been making bad choices and now I'd caused this fall. I did this. Now, I have to fix it. “Leave me alone!”

  “’Fraid I can’t do that, Miss Emma.” His boots moved by me and up two steps of the stairway.

  When I looked up, he was sitting there with arms crossed over his chest, looking at me, waiting.

  “I told you to leave,” I tried to make it sound like a demand, but it came out like a whine.

  "Nope, that's not what you said. You told me to leave you alone." His tone was empty of emotion. I had nothing to push against. If he wanted to play semantics, so could I. "All right. Let me be clear. Go Away! Go Home!”

  “As I said, I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he stated flatly.

  Okay, I’d play his silly game. I was beginning to feel optimistic. The stabs of pain were easing. Maybe I would be okay. If I could lay here until my body was ready to cooperate, I might get out of this situation with some shred of dignity.

  With an equal lack of emotion, I asked, “Why can’t you just go away?”

  “I told you. I come from an old Southern family and my mama raised her son to be a Southern gentleman, or at least she tried. She wouldn’t think much of me if I walked away, leaving a lady on the floor, now, would she?”

  I heaved a sigh. “You aren’t going to leave, are you?’

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Even if I promise I’ll be fine?” I said, with a last shred of hope.

  “No, ma’am. I’m going nowhere until I know you’re fine, or at least as fine as you can be tonight.”

  “Fine. Suit yourself.” The words squeezed out between my clenched teeth. I looked around and carefully placed my hands to give myself the most leverage and began to move.

  “Whoa there,” he said, reaching for me. “Before you start flailing around, don’t you think we should consider the possibility that you did some real damage? Maybe we should call an ambulance so the experts can move you without hurting your body?”

  I looked up and wanted to stare holes into his head. Barely restraining my anger, I declared, “After what I’ve been through, I know what real damage feels like. Been there, done that.” I rubbed my leg gingerly. “I’ve only pulled some muscles that are still recovering from being immobilized in the cast. Nothing more.”

  “Well then, go ahead and get up,” he said with a trace of a self-satisfied smile.

  I repositioned my hands and started to tense my shoulder and arm muscles to pull myself up then I relaxed. His words about doing more damage were echoing in my mind. Plus, I knew what kind of pain would strike when I put those muscles to work. I was about to ask for his help when he opened his mouth and re-ignited my independent spirit.

  “Give up yet?” he asked.

  I looked at him quickly, searching for even the smallest hint of a smirk on his face. I thought I saw a ghost of one, but now it was gone.

  “Never!” I bellowed.

  "Okay, Tiger! What I meant to say was, are you ready to accept my offer of assistance so you can get up on your own, that is if you're sure we don't need medical help?"

  "I'm sure." I hoped I was right. "What I'm not sure about is what accepting your assistance is going to cost me."

  He shook his head in exasperation. “You don’t give up, do you? Just let me help you. Please.”

  The ticking of Uncle Jack’s grandfather clock filled the house. It was time to admit that I needed help. It was one more thing in a long list of things that was hard for me to do. “Okay, you can help me, but only this one time.”

  “That’s fair,” he said as he got up and positioned himself behind me. “Just this once.”

  “What are you doing back there? I can’t see you.”

  “Tell me if I hurt you.” He slipped his hands under my arms and I was up on my feet in one smooth, stable motion.

  I wasn’t actually on my feet since they barely touched the floor as he carried me to the living room sofa in front of the fireplace. Ever so gently, he placed me on the cushions in the corner to give me some support.

  “How did you know how to do that? You’re better than the orderlies in the hospital.”

  “Hours of practice for my place with the emergency services. Now, are you okay for the moment?”

  “Yeah,” I said, surprised that I was.

  “Okay, I’ll be right back.” He was on his way to the kitchen when he called out, “Where are your pain pills?”

  Within fifteen minutes, I was ensconced in front of a glowing fire, snuggled down with blankets and pillows from my bed and pills in my body.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I pulled a beer for myself. Jack always kept a supply in the fridge on the porch.” He popped the top with a gush.

  "You're making yourself comfortable? I'm okay now, and yes, I'll admit it, thanks to you. You don't have to stay."

  “Yes, I do, until those pills kick in and I know yo
u’re okay.”

  I’d learned my lesson. It would do no good to argue so I shut up and watched the fire until my eyes drooped.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “We (writers) have to continually be jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down.”

  — Kurt Vonnegut

  I thought I'd closed my eyes for only a minute, but when I opened them, sunlight streamed through the windows. I hid my face in the pillow, but even that small movement was a mistake. My muscles were reminding me of the fall I'd taken the night before and making me pay for my arrogant decision to use the cane. I needed a pain pill and I needed it now. I had to get to the kitchen. When I tried to sit up, waves of excruciating pain roared up and down my leg. The rest of my body shivered. I collapsed on the sofa again. Slowly, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee penetrated my pain-addled brain. I heard footsteps. I couldn't protect myself from a flea. Trying to be brave, I pried open one eyelid.

  “She’s alive.” TJ walked in carrying two steaming mugs. “I thought the smell of coffee might wake you up.” He put a mug down on the coffee table for me.

  I wanted to reach for it, but there was no way. “I feel awful.” I sounded pathetic.

  “I’m sure you do.”

  I wanted to cry. Being in the hospital certainly had the advantage of a nurse with medicine just a button away. Humiliation only added to the pain. I didn't want a lecture about my screwball attempt to rush my recovery. I had no choice. I needed the pills. He must have read my mind. He left the room and when he came back, he put the painkiller bottle on the table.

  “Can you take them with coffee or do you want a glass of water?” he asked.

  “Water would be great.”

  Had he come by to check on me this morning or stayed all night? He delivered a glass of water and helped me move into a sitting position.

  I plastered a fake grin with clenched teeth on my face. “Thank you.”