"Not good," I state. "It's kind of a wait and see type of situation."
"Oh, I'm really sorry about that, honey," she says, taking a step forward and draping her arm around me.
Suddenly all of the emotions that I've been bottling up and keeping to myself rush to the surface.
I push myself away and I try to keep the tears from streaming down my face, and when that's not possible, I wipe them as quickly as I can, looking away.
“It’s my mom,” I whisper.
She gives me a moment, not saying a word.
"You're going to be all right,” she says when I look up at her. "It's in God's hands now, whatever happens."
"Yeah, I guess. I just wish that there were something I could do."
"You're thinking about her. You're sending her good vibes, positive energy. That's all you can do, but don't kick yourself over anything. Your mom knows how much you love her and how worried you are."
When the woman walks away, I see the scar on the back of her head going from the nape of her neck, all the way to the top. I want to ask her about it, but I already know as much as I perhaps should. She had some sort of surgery and seems to be in recovery.
Looking through the books again, I choose seven titles that I hope will let me think about something other than my own issues: a few heart-pounding thrillers, two suspense novels about marriage issues and lies and secrets, and a couple of dark romances.
"That will be $7.50," she says, pounding into the ancient cash register.
When a little receipt prints out, she hands it to me. I hand her the cash, and she offers a bag, but I decline. I have a whole stash of them at the hotel that I don't know what to do with.
I walk all the way back to the hotel, enjoying the slightly warmer air. The clouds are hanging low now, filtering the sunset, creating bright yellow and gold hues over the horizon.
I wanted to go see more of this place. It looks beautiful, full of nature and wilderness and people that are a lot nicer than they are back home. But, of course, I can't do that. My life is tied to the hospital now.
Holding onto the books, I reach into my pocket to retrieve the door key. It all becomes rather precarious when the books start to shift. I lift up my foot to try to keep them in place with my knee. Just as I push the door key into the slot and it dings green, the books come tumbling to the floor.
"Shit," I mumble to myself.
"Can I help you with that?"
A familiar voice sends shivers up my spine.
No, it can't be him, I say to myself. No, don't even think that.
I turn around slowly, my eyes going all the way, starting from his gray slim-cut suit. The white button down shirt is tucked into his belt, and he's not wearing a tie.
I'm afraid to meet his eyes. I look at his strong jawline and the slightly parted lips and I know exactly who it is.
"Dante?" I ask. "What are you doing here?"
"I was in town for business, so I thought I would say hi."
He kneels down to pick up my books.
My heart starts to thump out of my chest.
“But why are you here?" I ask him while he holds my book collection in his hands, waiting for me to open the door.
I hesitate.
"Look, if you want me to leave, just tell me. But I was worried about you. I thought that you'd want someone to talk to during this difficult time."
“So, you just showed up?"
He nods. "Was that wrong?"
"I don't know."
I shake my head, blood thumping through my brain, and I can practically hear it slosh around.
“Here, let me just drop these off for you, and I can go."
I open the door, and we walk into the dark one-bedroom apartment hotel with a small college-sized refrigerator in the corner and a small microwave on top.
I flip on the light because the one window with heavy curtains doesn't provide enough of it.
There's a durable but rather uncomfortable couch right near the front door, and I ask him if he wants anything to drink.
"What do you have?" he asks, plopping the books onto the reddish brown wooden table that has been serving as both a dining room and an office. "You've got quite a haul here. Going to be busy."
I nod, walking over to the kitchenette and grabbing two glasses, filling them with water.
"This is all I have.” I hand one to him.
"You know, I thought that you'd be more of a Kindle kind of reader."
"I am," I say, shifting my weight from one foot to another, realizing that I'm still wearing my boots and my coat. "I just saw the thrift store and haven't read a paperback in a while."
"Well, they look interesting,” Dante says, going through the book covers.
Suddenly, I have a flashback to being a kid.
I used to devour Sweet Valley High books, borrowing them from the library. But every time that my dad saw the covers, he just made fun of me, saying that they were stupid, pointless, girly trash.
After that, I would hide them in my backpack. I would always hide them under more important books that were supposedly a better representation of me as a person. But the truth is that he was the one who was an asshole.
There are no right or wrong books; they’re just right or wrong novels for you. There are no such things as guilty pleasures; there are just pleasures. It’s okay to like anything you like and no one should tell you otherwise.
The truth is that people who make fun of popular books and the writers who write them are the ones who've never written a book themselves and don’t know how hard it is to write one.
I wait for Dante, the serious corporate Master of the Universe type, to tell me that romance novels are stupid. But he surprises me.
“I’ve read these two and I think you’ll like them. They’re really good. As far as this one goes, let me know how it is. It seems really hot.”
He smiles at the corner of his lips, holding the romance.
"You know, you're full of surprises," I say to him after a long pause.
"I am?" he asks.
"Yeah. I mean, if I hadn't called some other guy back a million times, I don't think he'd be sitting here talking to me about books."
"I can leave," Dante says, pointing to the door. "I mean, you pretty much told me to fuck off in not so many words, and maybe I should have listened.”
"No, I'd like you to stay. I got some Denny’s,” I say after thinking about it for a moment.
"I don't want to eat your dinner."
"I got two orders," I say, taking off my jacket and hanging it on the hook near the front door.
"You did?" he asks.
I nod. "I didn't want to order more in a few hours or in the morning when I got hungry, so I figured I'd just get another order and warm it up."
"Well, if you don't mind, I'd love to join you."
Dante takes off his jacket, hanging it next to mine. He slips out of his dress shoes and places them neatly next to my boots.
"Thank you for coming," I say and start to unpack the food.
34
Jacqueline
Dante and I have a pleasant dinner over eggs, hash browns, and pancakes. The food got cold so I warmed it up in the microwave. It shouldn’t taste great, but eating it here with him makes it the most delicious thing in the world.
We talk about nothing and everything. I tell him about Dartmouth and Allison, wanting to be a journalist, and my current status of unemployment and lack of prospects.
He tells me about his overbearing mother and University of Maine, and how much of a disappointment it was that he didn't go to Yale like his brother.
"So did you not think that you were going to get in?" I ask, trying to be as tactful as possible.
"No, I was certain I would."
"Oh, well, isn't that cocky of you.” I smile.
He tosses his hair from one side to another.
"No, I'm certain I would get in because my grandfather bought them a building and wrote it into the agree
ment that the trust would pay for the upkeep in perpetuity as long as all of his descendants get to go there."
"Oh, wow.” I raise an eyebrow.
”Yeah, so I didn't even apply."
“Why did you choose Maine?"
"I love it there. It's beautiful, wild. People are not so pretentious."
"I can't imagine that your mom was very pleased with that decision,” I say, slathering my pancake in a generous amount of maple syrup.
"No, she wasn't, but we go through these hot and cold periods where we talk, don't talk. She's not the easiest person to have a relationship with."
When I find out that Dante got sent to boarding school at age seven, my heart goes out to him. He doesn't shy away from telling me how much he was hurt and how scared he was, and I immediately realize that he's a lot different from any other man than I have ever met.
We talk late into the night and we laugh. We talk about our favorite movies and books and shows, and we fall asleep a few times on top of the sheets.
The second time I doze off, I rouse a few minutes later and I see Dante deep asleep. His face is relaxed, eyes closed, body limp, and I watch him sleep for a little bit and wonder why he's suddenly in my life.
I've put up so many guardrails and so many obstacles, and now I wonder if maybe I did that just so that I could find him. His starched white shirt is now hopelessly wrinkled, and he lies on his side, propping his head up with his elbow, using it like a pillow.
My mouth feels parched, so I sit up on my side of the bed. I pour myself a glass of water very quietly from the tap, not wanting to make much noise.
Instead of being exhausted, I am energized. I pick up a book, the first one on top, the dark romantic suspense set in a house in the woods. I begin to read. Two chapters in, and I'm pretty certain I won't be able to sleep, but then the next thing I know is that I open my eyes and it's morning. The shades are still drawn, but a little bit of bright sunshine is peeking in from underneath.
Dante's sitting at the table in the corner, typing quietly into his laptop, the blue screen illuminating his face.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I wake you?" he asks.
I shake my head no. The book lies open flat with the spine bent next to me.
"Saw that you made quite a dent into that one. What do you think?"
"It was so scary at first. I wasn't sure if I'd be able to get through it," I say, stretching my arms as I sit up in bed.
"Thanks for letting me stay over.” He smiles.
"Sure.” I nod.
I look at the time. In another hour, I can go see my mom.
"Last night was really nice," I say, walking over to him.
He grabs my hand and pulls me closer for a kiss, but I push him away. "No, I can't."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I misread things," he says.
I laugh. "No, I'm just ... I haven't brushed my teeth yet."
He smiles, grabs my hand, and presses his lips to mine. I don't want to open my mouth, but my body seems to take over.
His hand snakes its way underneath my T-shirt, and my nipples immediately get hard to the touch.
Suddenly, my desperate need for a shower doesn’t seem to matter anymore.
Dante kisses me harder and harder. His hands pull me closer to him. He tugs on my hair just slightly.
My whole body explodes in anticipation.
I'm dressed in a ratty T-shirt and a loose pair of pajama bottoms that somehow fall off of me with one quick tug.
He grabs my butt cheeks, squeezing tightly. I reach for his crumpled shirt and I struggle with the buttons, running my fingers up and down his hard stomach. I feel each one of the muscles flex, his tan olive skin in stark contrast to my own.
He lowers me onto the bed and pulls down my panties, tossing them onto the floor. He makes his way up my inner thighs, and I open my legs for him, arch my back, and close my eyes.
He rubs me a little, kissing just around my thighs and my belly button, but not quite going all the way. When I've had enough of the teasing, I reach down and grab onto his large cock, rubbing it hard in my hands.
He moans a little in my ear and helps me push down his pants and his boxer briefs. When our bodies are pressed to one another, he kisses me again and again.
This feels different from how it felt at the club. There was all that mystery and uncertainty, but this feels good and comfortable in the best sense.
"Do you have anything?" I whisper into his ear.
"Yeah, in my bag."
He reaches over the bed and grabs it off the side of the chair. I continue to kiss him, licking his abs and then going further and further south, grabbing his butt cheeks with my hands, and then my phone goes off.
I usually keep the sound off, but the hospital told me that they will get in touch in case of any emergency. Grabbing it off the nightstand, I answer immediately.
"Your mother's condition is getting worse. We'd like you to come in,” the nurse says on the other end.
Her voice is professional and courteous and sounds like the kiss of death.
35
Jacqueline
When we get to the hospital, Dante holds my hand as Dr. Ellis meets with us in front of my mom's room.
"The pneumonia has become quite severe," she says. "She will need to show a positive change within the first two weeks, otherwise there'll be nothing that we can do for her."
My heart sinks, but Dante pulses his hand to show his support.
"We just turned her on her stomach, oxygen saturation is just at 87, but that was just when she was turned,” Dr. Ellis continues to rattle off information that I can barely process let alone understand. “She still has to get into the flow of being turned onto her stomach. She needed a little bit more sedation during turning, but there has been no growth seen in the blood cultures. Our goal is to try to manage to get her blood sugar to a healthier level. In this past week as you know, she needed a lot of extra sedation medication, but luckily, none this morning."
"So why did you call me now?" I ask.
"She had a scary setback just an hour ago with the pulse ox dropping dangerously low when we went to turn her on her back. We need to see this aggressive viral form of pneumonia start clearing out of her lungs, to see a more positive sign of her being able to get through this. When we called, things were looking grim. I thought that maybe we would lose her, but she's stable now, still critical, of course."
"No, thank you for calling me," I say. "I needed to be here."
"Visiting hours aren't officially open, but of course you can stay. I'm sorry to have you worry, but ..."
"No, I need all the updates. Please, whenever, it doesn't matter what time of day or night."
"Of course."
After Dr. Ellis leaves, I take a few steps away and I lean against the wall and stare out at the exit sign in the distance, the harsh fluorescent lights blinding me just a little bit until my eyes adjust.
"I'm really sorry, Jacqueline,” Dante says.
I see him holding my hand as I dissociate from my body. Our fingers are intertwined but not really. My hand belongs to someone else.
I'm glad that he doesn't say that she's going to be okay or make more promises that he cannot keep. I’m also glad that he’s here.
Some time passes and I find myself in front of a vending machine. Dante is there. He asks me what I want, but I can't choose.
I don't want anything, and I can't imagine what any of the stuff inside tastes like.
I just stare at him and wait for him to make the decision: pretzels, and M&M's, and Lay's potato chips. There's another machine with healthier options right next to this one with apples, yogurts, and bananas in various slots.
Without me having to ask, Dante walks over and buys a Granny Smith, handing it to me.
"Do you want this instead?” he asks.
My mouth starts to water and I nod. He wipes the apple on his shirt. When I bite into it, the juices flow, overwhelming my senses.
For a second I feel just
a tiny bit better and that's enough for now. We spend the whole day in the hospital, followed by another.
He's there when I get the updates and he celebrates the little victories, the pulse ox staying stable at 90, dipping down to 89 and then going back up to 91 once in a while.
I hold her hand.
I tell Mom how much I love her and how much I want her to come back to me. The nurses check on her every hour. The last two times, they don’t have any problems turning her back onto her stomach with the stats remaining good, pulse ox stable at 90.
They take her off the machine. The FIO2 is at 80%, but that's just helping to give her the extra oxygen that she needs right now. Her blood sugar has come down to the mid hundreds and I feel a small relief about the stability of her condition.
Right now it looks like she might make it, but there's still a long way to go. A whole field of mines to avoid.
And through it all, Dante stays. He cancels a work trip and he puts in a lot of hours on his laptop, sneaking it in whenever I'm resting or watching Netflix or reading.
The days all blend into one and Friday comes sooner than I think it will.
"Shit," I mumble to myself.
"What? What's wrong?"
"I forgot I have to pay,” I say when I see the note on the door of the hotel room.
We walk over to the office where a dissatisfied older gentleman with a TV blaring in the background tells me that I owe another $400 if I want to extend my stay.
I hesitate.
I know that one of my credit cards is overdrawn and I don't have the cash for this.
Dante pulls me aside and asks, "Do you want to stay in a more comfortable place?"
I shrug. "I don't know. I mean, this place is fine.”
“I’m going to cover it.”
"No, I can't ask you to do that.” I shake my head.
“Don’t worry about it. My only request is can we stay in a little bit of a nicer spot?”
Mom's condition seems to stabilize. The next day, there is no news. Just updates about higher than normal oxygen levels and a normal blood pressure.
Dark Intentions, #1 Page 15