by Beth Aldrich
Ahead, dead, smelly fish washed up on the shore interrupt our walk; I gently tug at Barney’s leash, reminding him to leave it. He agrees, with some hesitation, and we continue northbound on our trek. Further past the foul odor, I inhale a cleansing breath through my nose, feeling the rigidity release from my upper back and neck as I exhale through my mouth, gently pressing out a resounding ahhh. I realize how taut and stress-filled my body has become these last few days.
After a few peaceful moments, I can no longer ignore the gnawing feeling in my stomach, so we stop to take a little treat break. I unzip the plastic bag stashed in my pocket and toss my companion a freeze-dried lamb treat while I enjoy a small piece of a mint chocolate Balance Bar. Leaning against a large, moss-covered rock, I look back across the beach and realize just how far we’ve walked. The path ahead is filled with jagged, slippery rocks and slimy, seaweed-covered sand. Opting to avoid bringing home a gunky, sandy mess, we turn around to head back to where we started.
Out of nowhere, Barney pulls on the leash and begins growling. Tugging gently, I tell him to sit. I survey the beach, looking back and forth, up and down. There are no dogs, people, or small animals anywhere that I can see. Wondering what could have spooked him, a shiver passes through me. I resume our walk, a bit slower now—calculating our next move, should I have to run for it. My house is about six blocks away from the beach entrance and we are about five blocks from there. There is no way I can run over a mile with a dog and baby in tow.
I hold Barney with one hand as I casually reach with my other hand to locate my left pocket—the one that contains my pepper spray. I unzip it and slide my hand inside to gently flip the toggle to the “on” position. I partially re-zip my pocket to keep my weapon accessible, if needed. With the hairs on my arm sticking straight up, I walk nonchalantly, darting my eyes from side to side. All clear. Betsy, don’t let your mind play tricks on you.
Nothing spooks Barney for the remainder of our walk along the beach, and we make it back to the entrance leading up to the sidewalk unharmed. Letting down my guard and the recurring strain in my neck and shoulders, I kneel to scratch my pal’s head and ears. It’s now 6:15 a.m., according to my Fitbit. We are on track to walk nearly four thousand steps this morning. Not bad for the start of the day.
A twinge in my chest alerts me to Barney, who is fixated on a spot down the beach. He’s driving forward nonstop and won’t give in to my tugs to stay.
I glance over to the rock where he’s looking, trembling and hoping he only sees another dog or maybe even a seagull.
Not taking any chances, afraid that whoever is over there will pick up on the fact that I am aware of them, I don’t look up; instead, I slowly stand then pivot on my toes. “Heel,” I whisper, and we dart up the hill, stride for stride, to the main road. Looking over my right shoulder and through the thick trees, I can’t spot anyone following us, but I continue to run-walk across the intersection and down my street—just four more blocks.
Breathing is difficult because my air passages are being squeezed from the pounding pulses of the racing blood through my veins. Not wanting to stop and catch my breath, I forge onward, unable to believe this can be happening again. Just like ten years ago. I’m surprised at my endurance.
“Come on, Barney, Mom has to get home. I don’t want to see that bad man.”
This phrase seems to get through to my dog because now he’s running much faster than usual. I imagine him saying as he shoots his worried eyes up to me as he continues to run, That bad man kills birds.
“Yes, he does, Barney.”
He’s scary, Mom. Let’s go.
I continue to see no sign of my stalker on the street we’re on—and we’re just two blocks from home.
WOOOOF! Arooof!
Ahead and to the left I finally see the man, masked and dressed in black, forging through the yard between my house and Misty’s—no more than fifty feet from my entrance. I realize he must’ve run down the alley as we ran down the street. He really knows this neighborhood, that’s for sure.
“Misty!” I scream as if my life and heart depends on it. I pull my pepper spray from my pocket, hold it up, and take a shooting stance. Barney is growling and barking furiously. The masked man stops dead in his tracks, looks left, then right. The sound of metal sliding on wood comes from our screen door as Misty opens it, spooking him. He darts back between the houses, through the yard, and disappears into the alley.
Deflated, I fall to my knees and hug my savior. My confidence is chipped away as I slide my pink weapon back into my pocket.
“Barney, you saved me.”
His tail wagging, my dog gives me sloppy, wet kisses that fill my cheeks and chin. I welcome them. He knows what he did.
Misty, dressed in sweat-stained workout shorts and a thin T-shirt, wraps her sweater around her shivering arms and exposed legs. She runs over to me. I’m gasping for air.
“What happened, Betsy?” she shrieks. “Why were you screaming?”
“The stalker… the stalker was following me back from the beach. He must’ve noticed that Barney and I spotted him so he slid over to the alley—” I’m slowly catching my breath, “—to our house. He came between our yards and was heading straight for us. I should’ve let Barney loose to get him, but I didn’t want my dog to get hurt. I held up my pepper spray and I think he heard the door open, so he must’ve gotten scared off.”
Misty stands, transfixed, as red flushes her cheeks. “That bastard. How dare he come through our yard! He should thank his lucky stars, because next time, I will shoot his butt, you can be sure of that.” She helps me up. “Let’s get you inside, so you can get your kiddos ready for school while I call the police. I’ll let them know that you are okay and don’t want the kids to be upset with them coming over to talk to you right now, so I’ll handle the report. If they still want to speak with you, I’ll call you, but let me handle it. Just relax and get the boys up for school. Are you okay right now?”
“Yes, I’m okay. He didn’t touch me, just scared the crap out of me.” I put a hand on my stomach. “The baby’s doing flips. I’ll wake the boys and get them ready for school.” I give her an extra-long hug and look down at my dog. “Come on, Barn, let’s get in the house.” To Misty, I say, “I’ll see you after drop-off. And thank you.”
“Sounds good. And lock your doors. Once the coward sees the cops pull up to my place, he won’t be within a thousand yards of here, rest assured. That S.O.B.”
Barney enjoys it when I towel-dry his fur, like a massage; and after the beach incident, both of us could use some tension relief. I find such joy simply petting his rich, chocolaty fur and little white bootie paws—they’re so regal. We could have named him Boots, but that would’ve been too ironic.
Trying to put aside the events that took place this morning, I focus on the peaceful parts of our beach walk, like the gorgeous view and feeling of serenity I had, if only for a few minutes. How dare that bully try to ruin that for us! I put him out of my mind and get down to business. “Are you ready to eat, big guy?”
Barney’s wagging and smiling at me as he chuff-chuffs, yes, in agreement. Human words can’t describe the relationship dogs have with their food.
I set down his big, blue bowl, which is now brimming with kibble and lamb patty, beside his clear water bowl, which I’ve topped off for an after-breakfast swig. I decide to leave the first-floor shutters closed, and double-check the locks on the patio door, front entrance, and side door, then trot upstairs to take a quick shower before the boys wake up.
Kyle and Morgan love my breakfasts. I usually make a lot of food so I can give them a chance to try different things. This is a great way to form a little chef’s palette, and it helps me forget that I’m missing my career in the kitchen. I start by slicing fruit, then arrange the pieces by color on a glass plate, adding a side of yogurt, topped with honey and cinnamon for dipping, to ensure they’ll try to eat some of the fruit. Ordinarily, I make homemade pancakes, but today, with
lack of time, I pop two mini bagels into the toaster oven.
Fresh-squeezed orange juice is easy to make in a jiff and is always worth the effort. My boys love the little bits of pulp that rise to the top of the glass, which they poke at gleefully with their tongues. I whip that up, then grab two precooked hard-boiled eggs from the refrigerator, crack and roll them on the counter, peel the remaining bits of shell from the firm egg white, and slice them in half to present to my diners. Kyle likes to sprinkle pepper and salt on his; Morgan likes his plain. Kyle seems to have the palate of a chef; Morgan, not so much.
After our hearty feast, I am beginning to feel balanced again. This morning was not pretty, but thankfully I’ve got a smart, thoughtful neighbor on my side.
“Let’s go, kiddos, time for school,” I announce.
“Mommy, do you like the outfit that I picked out for school?” Kyle asks.
“Yes, Kyle, you look dashing.” He’s dressed to impress someone today, with his khaki pants and navy polo shirt. Maybe Sasha?
I flip on the radio as we pull out of the garage. I look both ways, praying not to see the man with the black mask. “Dream On” by Aerosmith is playing on the radio. I’ve never really listened to this song until now, but as Steven Tyler’s trademark high, throaty voice sings about how acknowledging that death could be only a day away, I start to pay attention. The song is like a live-for-the-moment anthem, which I find ironically inspirational right now. Wondering which angel above sent this song to me today, I trust that I’m protected, pushing aside the worries that have been rocking me to my core.
Pulling up to school is always a bittersweet moment for me; I hate to see my sons leave, but I also welcome the handful of hours to get things done. Today consists of visits to Dr. Deller, Steven, and the police department, if they need me to come by and sign the statement from today’s beach incident.
“Bye, Mommy,” the boys sing out.
“Love you, boys! See you soon!”
“Mommy?” Kyle hesitates, turns on his heels and asks, “When is Daddy coming home? I miss him.”
I’ve been dreading this moment. “Soon, baby, soon. Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t we make a welcome home card after school, for when Daddy returns?”
“Okay, Mommy. Have a fun day.”
Pulling away from the carpool curb, I edge my car slowly along, stealing a last peek at my angel babies as I go to confront the day. The parents behind me toot their horn. Ordinarily I’d get testy with them and honk back, but today, I’m resolving to think and be positive.
Speaking of positive, I’ll call Misty and let her know I’m on the way.
Making this familiar car ride with Misty, my personal Secret Service agent, is kind of nice. There are days when I roll through the motions, feeling somewhat lonely, so to have a sidekick is a much-welcomed addition. My passenger is dressed like the typical suburban mom with a rich ex-husband. Her uniform consists of J. Crew khakis, blue suede Salvatore Ferragamo loafers, an olive-green Tory Burch tunic, and a Coach handbag that I know contains her water bottle, lipstick, and gun. She’s moving past her suburban persona and into the security guard role perfectly—but much better dressed.
“The police added the information to the report, but want you to stop by to finalize and sign it,” she says. “They’ll add it to the file. I asked them to patrol the neighborhood more this week. They agreed.”
“Thank you for handling that for me. I’ll swing by later. I don’t know how I would’ve explained the police coming by again to my sons. I’m certain they must suspect something.”
“As far as when we get to the appointment, do you want me to wait in the car and keep a lookout for any strange guys wearing a dark bomber jacket, boots, or even a mask?”
I nod. “Yeah, that would be great. I’ll be perfectly safe with Donna and the other patients in the waiting room.”
“Just keep an eye out, keep your pepper spray handy, and your phone accessible. I’ll text you if I see anything fishy.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
When we get to the doctor’s office, I exit my car from the driver’s side while Misty hops out of the passenger side and runs over to enter my open door. Walking away, I look back at her, and she shoots me a thumbs-up.
Keeping my wits about me, I walk, head high, shoulders back, straight through the doors of the doctor’s building. Upon entering the lobby, past the check-in desk (hospital security, at its best), I see Henry slowly pushing a broom, picking up scattered clumps of dust along his path. He casually catches my glance, nods, and moves along past the lobby couch. So far, so good—no masked man, unless Henry truly is the culprit. Right now, he looks harmless.
Just as the elevator doors are about to close, a hand slides in and pushes them open. Grabbing the railing behind me, I steady myself as Dr. Hildebrandt enters the elevator.
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Ryan,” he says. “How are you doing today?”
He looks dashing as always in his dark pants and jacket, which accentuates his dark hair. I find myself blushing when he speaks to me. Thank God, I opted to register as Dr. Deller’s patient instead of his; otherwise I’d be staring at my doctor in awe the entire time, and the last time I checked, that wasn’t ethical. When Dr. Deller was out, delivering a baby, Dr. Hildebrandt stepped in and covered my appointment. I was so tense, staring at those dark brown eyes and that pearly white smile. There’s no way I could ever have him examine me again. I wonder if he’s married? Betsy, stop it!
“Hi, how are you?” I manage.
“I’m great. It’s a wonderful day.” As the elevator slides open at our floor, he says, “Looks like we’re here. After you.”
I can’t get out of that elevator fast enough. Unfortunately, I need to follow him into the office like a lovesick puppy. I’m surprised I haven’t wet my pants.
Donna is busying herself at the front desk, so I write my name on the sign-in sheet and make a beeline for a seat in the corner of the waiting area.
The usual flimsy magazines beckon my attention, but I have emails to check on my phone, so the Hollywood gossip will have to wait until next time.
But I find it hard to focus because of the events from this morning’s beach visit—I’m still reeling. I search the corners of my mind, trying to figure out where the man had been hiding when I was at the beach with Barney. Better yet, why is he after me? It just doesn’t make sense.
“Mrs. Ryan, good morning. Follow me. Here’s the plastic cup, you know the drill,” the nurse practitioner says.
I follow her through the hallway and back to the exam room. Donna passes by us, headed to the back room.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” the nurse says, letting me into one of the rooms.
As she steps out of the room, I see the janitor walk by. “That’s odd. He’s always working,” I whisper to myself. I guess he’s rotating through the building today. Henry is like a neighbor that you never talk to, but wave to every morning when you’re getting the newspaper.
Dr. Deller is running behind schedule today, so I turn my attention back to my emails. I notice an email from the Village Police Department and mark it as important, planning to read it when I leave the office. I don’t want to find out news about my stalker while sitting here naked from the waist down.
“Hello, Betsy. How are we feeling today?” Dr. Deller asks. Pulling the flimsy paper covering closer to my groin to avoid flashing the doctor, I hesitate, wondering whether I should share my morning incident with him. I reply, “Fine.”
I remind myself that my doctor has always been very good to me. He delivered both boys and helped me through some unhappy pregnancy experiences, so why would I ever suspect him of harming me or being connected to someone who would?
He’s always been very positive and proactive, in the limited conversations we’ve had in the past, aside from what we experienced at my house the other day. Doctors are human beings, too, even though we sometimes tend to forget that.
Why, then, do I get a sense that he’s
a part of my stalker situation? I can’t shake this feeling. Even though I just don’t see him injuring anyone, let alone me. On the contrary, I’d like to think he’d be the one trying to save me from peril.
The smell in the exam room is that typical antiseptic, hospital-like odor, which as of late is not a smell I’m keen on. I’m bombarded by it when I go to see Steven and whenever I have an appointment here. The fluorescent lights give me a headache, and their constant bzzz-hmmm is quite distracting. It would be nice to see a couple of end table lamps with soft bulbs; maybe even a little shag carpet to soften up the joint.
The doctor squirts the slimy gel on my belly and rubs the cold ultrasound probe to monitor the baby. He studies the screen and takes down some measurements and turns his gaze to meet mine.
“Well, my dear, you and baby are doing just fine. Growth is normal.”
“That’s good to hear,” I say, relieved. “Do you think the most recent spotting incident was just due to the stress?”
“Yes, I’m sure it was.” He nods. “Speaking of which, how is Steven? Any word?”
Taking a leap of faith and hoping my instincts are right, I answer honestly. “Truth be told, I’ve had a horrible day. I’m surprised that my blood pressure was somewhat normal and that the baby was doing okay.”
“What happened?”
“Well, no additional bad news about Steven today, but I did have a scary incident at home—that I don’t really want to talk about right now. It’s made me shaky all day.”
“I understand, Betsy. If you decide you want to discuss it, please let me know. My main concern is that you and the baby are healthy.”
I release a huge breath that was stressfully caught in my lungs, as I reply, “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”
Misty has been a rock for me the past few days; heck, she’s been a rock for me ever since I met her. Picking up my pace, I spot the car with my security guard neighbor seated behind the wheel. I raise my hand to wave at her; she waves back, but within an instant, her face changes. Her eyebrows raise and her jaw drops and she furiously flags me to come to the car. Instinctually, I take off waddle-running, not sure if I’m in danger or she has a crude joke to share with me. Reaching the door handle, I open the car door and fling myself in as she puts the car in gear and takes off.