by Carla Damron
So damn easy.
She drew a breath deep enough to reach her toes. No.
She lifted the bag, tilted it, and watched the pills plop into the current. She thought, perhaps, recovery was this: bearing the unbearable moment. The relief overwhelmed her. A little stronger than her regret.
When her cell phone rang it wasn’t Jesse. “Is this Sandy Albright?” the voice was familiar.
“Yes.”
“I’m Lillian Owens. You’ve been a tough lady to track down.”
“Has something happened to Becca?”
“No. She’s okay. Though of course, she has a long road ahead of her.”
“Then why—”
“My nurse is going out on maternity leave. I was wondering if you’d be interested in filling in for her.”
Sandy gripped the phone, dumbfounded. Dr. Owens continued: “My private practice is small. Me, an RN, a nutritionist and a part-time psychologist. We stay busy as hell. So many women—and some men too, we’re finding out—have eating disorders. We’ll never run out of clients.”
“I suppose not.”
“It would be temp work, though it might become permanent. This is Nancy’s third kid, I half expect her to decide to stay home. So if you like us, and we find you to be a good fit, then it could be a permanent job.”
“You remember the part where I said I’m an addict, right?”
“Yep. And I heard you say you were in recovery. That still true?”
Sandy looked down at the water. “Yes.”
“I’m in recovery, too. Not from drugs, but from anorexia when I was a teen. Having walked that road helps me in my work. I think your recovery helped Becca.”
Sandy thought of a thousand reasons to say no. A thousand reasons why she’d be the worst person on planet earth to do this kind of nursing.
“I’ll expect you to be honest with me if you have a slip,” Dr. Owens said. “You have to work your program like I work mine. And it might help that we don’t keep much of a pharmacy. So. . . .”
“Nothing to tempt me,” Sandy filled in. “Can I give it some thought?”
“Sure. But call me no later than tomorrow, okay?” Dr. Owens clicked off.
Sandy stared at the phone, disbelieving. Could she do that kind of work? It would challenge and exhaust her, but there were a lot of Beccas out there and what if she could help a few?
“I thought I was hallucinating when I got your text.” It was Jesse’s baritone voice. She turned around to find him a few safe feet away, in his leather jacket and garnet Carolina scarf.
“I wasn’t sure you’d want to meet me. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.”
He didn’t answer, but came to stand beside her and stared out at the river.
“I think I quit my job,” she said.
He glanced at her and then turned back to the water. “Okay.”
“They accused me of stealing drugs. I didn’t do it, but they treated me like scum. Did the urine sample thing, searched me, my locker, and my purse. It was so humiliating.” Bile crawled up her throat at the memory. “I bought some pills. Almost used, but didn’t.”
“You still have them?”
“Fed them to the river.”
“Good.”
A mockingbird sailed by, landing on a branch hanging over the river. It let out a series of high-pitched screeches, pissed off at the world. It sounded a little like Marie Hempshall.
“So what now?” Jesse asked.
Was he asking about her job? Or their relationship? Either way, the answer was the same. “I’m not sure.”
“Guess you can let Sean support you for a while.”
She laughed at that. “Yeah that’ll work.”
“You’ve hated that job for a while.”
“I hated my life for a while,” she corrected. A shadow swept over his face; she realized she’d hurt him. “Most of my life, anyway. But the job sucking me dry hasn’t helped.”
“You’re a great nurse. I’m not just saying that. I’ve heard the cardiac crew say it. And they’re stingy with compliments.”
“That’s nice to hear, I guess.”
The mockingbird altered its cry to a gentle trilling warble, perhaps mimicking the river on a quieter day. One lived near the hospital that could imitate a siren.
“Did you resign from the hospital?” he asked.
“Not officially. Why? I should crawl back?”
He flashed a dimpled grin. “I was thinking more along the lines of doing it with flare. Maybe you could write ‘I quit’ on that beautiful rear of yours and moon Marie H.”
She laughed. “Maybe I could spell it out in urine sample cups glued to Marie’s desk.”
“Or we could hire one of those sky-writing planes. ‘F-you, Mercy General.’” He drew the letters in the air.
She turned back to the river. A stronger breeze nudged the tree limbs. The mockingbird complained. “I keep thinking about the things I’ve lost. My marriage. The child I miscarried.”
Jesse looked strange, his eyes wide and curious. He didn’t say anything.
“My sponsor thinks I’m finally grieving. That using drugs kept me from doing that for two years. Maybe she’s right.”
Jesse wiped at sweat that had collected on his top lip, and Sandy couldn’t figure out why he’d be perspiring in this cool weather.
“But maybe I am getting to the other side of it,” Sandy continued. “I used to not think that was possible.” She turned to look into his eyes. She had never laid herself so naked before him, but he needed to know the truth.
He didn’t say anything. Tears filled his eyes.
“Jesse?”
He held up a finger and cleared his throat. “You and me, we do this dance. We swoop into each other’s lives, then we swoop out. I thought I liked it that way, you know? Then you went to rehab, and there were weeks that stretched on and on with not seeing you, then I got scared to see you. I know I let you down. I let myself down.” He was stumbling over his words, so un-Jesse-like.
“But then I couldn’t not see you. When I went to your house, I half expected you to slam the door in my face.” His smile was nervous, uncertain. “You didn’t. But you have new rules. No drugs around you. I can’t even have the smell on me.”
Sandy stepped back, annoyed at Jesse and at herself. There were new rules, and she had to follow them or risk relapse. Risking relapse was risking everything.
“I can do it,” Jesse said. “I can follow the rules. But not if we’re doing the same dance. You keep me at arm’s length, Sandy. I get too close, you shut down. You hurry me out the door. We’ve played it real safe, doing the once-a-week thing, but it’s not enough for me.”
She glared at him, trying to figure out what he was saying. She was the one who kept things shallow? She was the one who kept the wall up? “I can’t believe you’re saying that. You’re the one who goes days and days without calling.”
“I’ve been doing what you wanted me to do, whether you admit it or not. You have not invited me into your life. Hell, this is only the second time you even mentioned your marriage or the child you lost. All I’m saying is, if we’re going to do this thing, I want—I need—more.”
She stumbled back from him, the truth ricocheting in her brain. She had held him at bay. She wanted nobody close. She had lived on her own little island, floating on oxy and valium, but it didn’t work anymore, and now she had this man who wanted into her world. What would he find there? Hell, she didn’t know how to answer that question for herself, much less for him.
“Getting ready to bolt, aren’t you?” He flicked a tongue over his lip and narrowed his eyes. “Always the easy way, isn’t it?”
“No. It’s not easy. It sucks, to be honest. And no, I’m not bolting. I’m standing still, here, with you.” She said it definitively. “If you want to try this Sandy-Jesse thing, then I’m in. But you need to know I’m one screwed up person. You get closer, you’re going to see that for yourself.”
He
smiled and came towards her, his arms snaking around her, his chin rubbing the top of her head. “I don’t think you are. You’re just a little prickly. That’s okay though. It keeps me on my toes.”
CHAPTER 29
Lena climbed down the steps to the back yard, sketchpad and drawing pencils gripped in her hand. The sun, angled mid-horizon, washed the yard with yellow light. She surveyed the garden, which had gone all to hell in the months since Mitch’s death, her gaze resting on the hydrangea bush by the fence. It had grown too tall, leggy stalks with blooms much darker than last year. Funny how they’d morphed from lilac to indigo.
Nothing stayed the same.
Becca was on her phone in the kitchen, the ice machine on the fridge groaning as it clunked ice into her glass. Was she talking to Kayla or Dylan? The sudden burst of laughter made her think Kayla. Dylan conversations had a quieter, private tone. Dylan visits to the house required fifteen extra minutes of dressing and grooming, with the occasional panicked “Have you seen my red jacket?” or “Can I wear your brown boots?” For these moments of normal teenage angst, Lena felt profoundly grateful.
Her last appointment for the day had been at three, a restaurateur looking for a site to expand his small chain. She’d been pleased he could see the potential in the old dime store building on Taylor. Others, like Phillip, doubted that part of downtown would ever revitalize, but Lena felt it happening, like a baby bird about to hatch. Matching new tenants with building owners had become the most interesting part of her job. It allowed her to rescue something old and watch it become something new. Phillip accused her of over-romanticizing but she cared little about what he thought. He had his strengths, she had hers.
She flipped a few pages in her sketch pad—aborted efforts she should throw away—but stopped when she reached a drawing of the foxglove. She carried the pad to the edge of the yard where the foxglove plant had started to bloom again. She wasn’t sure if she should paint it, or uproot the thing and toss it in the trash. No, she shouldn’t blame the flower. It had been one of Mitch’s favorites.
She opened the case and selected a graphite pencil and a pressed charcoal crayon, the one from school that Royce had returned to her. She didn’t need color at this phase of the project. She plopped down on the ground, the grass thick and itchy, and studied the earlier sketch. Maybe if she tilted the stem a little to destabilize it, it would have more tension. For the background, maybe she’d add a pale charcoal tone to accentuate the arc of fuchsia blossoms. No, she wanted a closer perspective, to sketch every vein, to capture the spray of brown freckles within the drooping petals. This would add a dynamic the sketch had lacked. “Not static, but movement. Movement in the stillness of the painting,” Royce had instructed.
At the base of the plant was a clump of dark, moist soil that had given birth to the flower. Mitch had planted it a few years ago. He had dug into the earth, added compost and mulch, applied fertilizer at the right time. He’d watered and babied it and, when it bloomed that first time, brought Lena and Becca out to admire it.
She reached for the stone that hung from her neck: the one from Mitch’s pocket. She’d taken it to a jewelry artist, a woman she’d met in school. “It’s a pebble, nothing special,” Lena had stammered, “but it’s important.” When the artist called a week later, Lena wasn’t sure what to expect, but the necklace was perfect. Silver threads wrapped the stone; three faceted onyx beads clustered in the middle like eggs in a nest. One for each of their children, Lena had decided.
As she surveyed the sketch, she ran her thumb along the smooth edge of the stone, something she did a hundred times a day, and smiled.
Her Mitch.
“TEND THE GARDEN,” The Lord said.
The voice was an urgent whisper in Joe’s ear, louder than the truck dieseling down Gervais Street. Joe had been sure he’d never hear that voice again. He’d killed Cyphus. He’d broken the most important commandment, and the Lord knew it. Joe had lived with that cold truth for how many nights?
“Tend the garden.”
What garden? The graveyard? Joe glanced around his squat. No, this wasn’t what the Lord was talking about. He had to figure it out—maybe the Lord was giving him one more chance, despite what he’d done. A chance he did not deserve.
Rag Doll had gone to jail but dang if she didn’t hit the streets just a few months after. “I told them it was self-defense,” Rag Doll explained. “That Cyphus was such a sorry son of a bitch I think they were glad he was dead.”
“You gonna have a trial?” Joe had asked, because he couldn’t let her take it that far.
“Nope. They believed me. I can be right convincing when I need to be,” she had answered, and he knew it to be true.
“Joe,” the voice spoke again.
He had one chore to do before taking on the Lord’s assignment. The statue stood twice as tall as Joe, sleek white with an angel standing on top like a praying sentry. The brass plate that read “Mitchell Hastings” gleamed in the morning light. Joe pulled a napkin from his pocket and buffed the letters, even though there was no trace of dirt on them. Mr. Mitch’s resting place would shine clean as long as Joe was around.
Mr. Mitch’s name brought one garden to mind: a wide expanse of grass with scattered trees surrounded by all kinds of flowers. A tall fence nearly hidden by fluttery purple and pink blooms that Mr. Mitch had called hydrangeas. A cement area with long trails of vines and pale yellow lilies all around. Mr. Mitch took such pride in his yard, but months had passed. Who was tending to it now?
The Lord just told him who.
He did the walk to Mr. Mitch’s house as fast as he could, cramming crackers into his mouth to fuel his steps. He hadn’t been over to Mr. Mitch’s house since he died. He’d seen the widow, though, going to church on Sundays with Miss Becca.
That tall woman, Miss Abby, had visited him in the graveyard, asking if he was okay, if he needed money, if he had a place to stay. He’d appreciated the kindness but didn’t much care for the prying. He was fine, he told her, and maybe he was, if the Lord had come back to him.
When he arrived at the brick house where Mr. Mitch’s family lived, he didn’t ring the bell but slipped through the gate into the back yard. Maybe he’d have the garden looking tidy like Mr. Mitch liked before anyone knew he’d come.
He could see why the Lord sent him. The vines by the cement area had grown into a thick woody tangle. The bright flowers by the fence didn’t have the luster they used to. The patch of lawn needed de-thatching and all the shrubs needed to be trimmed a good six inches. This would take several days but no matter, he had nothing but time. Time and the Lord’s instructions.
He started on the vines, tugging and chopping and thinning and working up a good, cool sweat as the sun rose higher in the sky. Before he tackled the shrubs, he needed to get the clippers from the tool shed, so Joe opened the door and stepped into the cluttered little room.
It saddened him to see the film of dust on Mr. Mitch’s tools. The neglected rakes hung on their racks; the shovels stood in the corner as though waiting for strong hands to put them to use. He snatched up a rag from the box Mr. Mitch kept under his table saw and went to work cleaning the tools and shelves. A broom behind the door took care of the floor and the thready cobwebs hanging from the lone light bulb. Once the shed looked tidier, he grabbed a pair of gloves and clippers and returned to the yard.
He was no longer alone. Mr. Mitch’s wife, Mrs. Hastings, sat at the table with the tall woman, Miss Abby. Each had a cup of coffee. Joe eased the tools back into the shed, closed the door, and tried to figure out how to sneak from the yard without being spotted.
“Joe? I thought that was you. Come say hi.” Miss Abby waved him over.
He wiped his hands on his britches and wished he could climb over the fence.
“Come on now. Don’t be shy.” Miss Abby had a way of speaking that made her hard to defy. Joe limped over, his gaze fixed on the gate.
“I see you’ve been hard at work,” Mrs.
Hastings said. “I appreciate it. I’ve let the yard go all to hell.”
“You’ve been plenty busy, Le-Le. But you’re right, we have to do something with this mess. Thank God Joe came by.”
“Uhm. I’ll be—”
“Having a cold glass of water.” Miss Abby stood and hurried up the steps. “I’ll be back in a second.”
The remnants of vines made an untidy heap close to the table. He shouldn’t have left the mess there; he scraped up the vines to take out to the street.
“Leave it there, Joe,” Mrs. Hastings said. A chain hung from her neck, and attached to it was a small glittery stone like the one he’d found in the park. The one he’d left on Mr. Pinckney’s headstone months ago, a thank you to the Lord for all he’d done.
“Just leave it for a moment,” Mrs. Hastings said.
He didn’t know what to do instead. He couldn’t leave, not with Miss Abby bringing him water, and he couldn’t work, because Mrs. Hastings didn’t want him to. He stared at a spot of purple paint on the cement, wondering how he’d clean it up.
Miss Abby returned with the water, which he drank in four long swallows. “I think he wants to get back to work,” Miss Abby said.
“Because we’ve left him such a mess,” Mrs. Hastings replied.
Joe nodded his thanks for the refreshment and returned to the shrubbery. He clipped tall, spindly branches, and uprooted wild grape vines woven between the azaleas, glad to see the small, bright green leaves of new growth deep in the shrub. He approached the hydrangea bush by the fence. It had grown too tall, a wild, unkempt thing, but to trim it would mean cutting the blossoms.
He heard a voice, an odd, light sound, like a chuckle. Not the Lord. Not the devil. He turned to find a little boy standing there, half as tall as the bush, with black hair cut straight across his forehead and skin the color of dried leaves. The child looked up at him with eyes as dark as nighttime.