dots

by Angie M. Brashears

  dots

  By

  Angie M. Brashears

  “We’re all just a bunch of dots…in search of a line.”

  For all my patients that lost the battle, and those still fighting, this one’s for you.

  dots

  Copyright © 2016 by Angie M. Brashears

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Book Cover Design and Interior Formatting by Jessica Hildreth

  Editing by the amazing Eagle F. @ Aquila Editing

  www.aquilaediting.com

  This book would not have been possible without the love and support of my everything friend, my husband, Jimmy. I love you more!

  Forward

  …A simple act of kindness. That’s how this story came to be. A person, who didn’t really need too, took a chance on me. Gave me a seat to the show, and for that I am grateful. Thank you. Glorya, you’ll never know what your simple act of kindness means to me. I hope this book makes you cry your eyes out.

  When people ask if I’m crazy, donating half the proceeds of my book to Glorya’s charity of choice. I just smile. They don’t get it, but I do.

  Karma. What comes around, goes around. It all evens out in the end. Plus, I’m a sucker for a sufferer, that’s why I’ve been a nurse for twenty-four years. Every patient I touch, is like family to me.

  It’s not about money, ego, any of that. I just want everyone to read my book. Hell, I give away more stuff than I sell.

  I just want to connect with my readers, deep down inside…and touch their heart.

  Since this book is about connections and friendship, more than anything, I’d like to tell you a story. About my book friend. Just as Chloe has a friend for every occasion, so do I.

  Last year, 2015, my friend invited me to a book signing. The big one. Night of Corruption. From the minute I walked in, I was flabbergasted.

  See, I didn’t know anything about this world. Sure I read. Everything I could get my hands on. But I’m an ER nurse, didn’t know about signings, swag. None of it.

  I was just there to see Pepper. As in Winters. I loved her books, read them over and over, and I was hoping I could throw her in my trunk. Nothing heavy, just a backyard BBQ, and a dip in the pool with me and my dogs. Then I’d get her back, in one piece…good as new. I love Pepper.

  As I walked into the room, loving the pulse of excitement, the thrill of being a fan, I realized. This is something I want to be a part of.

  I’d always felt right at home in the emergency room, and that same feeling? Of belonging, having a purpose…it filled me up in that room. Full of smiling strangers.

  You didn’t bring a pen? Here. Take mine.

  I was crazy. Hyped up on goodwill and fun.

  I made every mistake in the book. Asked an author to sign the wrong book. Then proceeded to knock over her carefully arranged display.

  Which, when I turned to help pick it up, my big butt knocked over her banner. I was a friggin mess.

  Raine Miller tried to swag me, with a kind smile. I didn’t know the swag protocol yet, so I said the piece she was holding was beautiful and continued browsing. I didn’t understand the puzzled look on her face until my backseat friend pinched my fat roll hard! and hissed in my ear. “If Raine Miller’s giving you something, you take it! Noted.

  Sorry Raine, I was a virgin. I love you too. You’re the epitome of author to me. What I hope to be when I grow up. Full of class and grace. Right up there with Pepper and Stephen King in my book.

  I still have the steakhouse receipt you signed to me. But I owe you, not the other way around.

  See, if one of these events were different, this story would never have happened.

  And it’s my heart. The best thing I’ve ever written. As you read these words, remember, they almost didn’t happen.

  If Thayra, my book friend had laughed, when I said, “Pepper’s in town. I’m going to buy tickets at the box office this afternoon and go see her.” I didn’t realize tickets had been sold out for months. Thought I could just stroll up, snag a ticket and walk right in. But she didn’t. What she said next, “I’ve got an extra ticket, I’ll take you.” Set my writing career in motion, and I didn’t even know it yet.

  If one of the fans would have looked at me funny, when I needed a pen. No dots.

  If Pepper had my seen my sweaty, crazed face, streaming with tears and called security, as I screamed, “Pepper! Pepper! I love you! Remember me! I sent you the letter!”

  Different story entirely, Right?

  If the author that I insulted by handing her the wrong book, and wrecking her table, hadn’t laughed and given my embarrassed ass a free book? I would have been mortified, wouldn’t have wanted to show my face anywhere near a book signing again.

  If my legit friend, Glorya, had gotten fed up with my yelling, crying and blubbering at the sight of Pepper? I was ridiculous. And maybe banned me from her signing, for stalking?

  No Chloe, no Mason.

  If my book friend would have kept her ticket to herself….

  All simple acts of kindness, I don’t know if anyone even remembers…. but I do.

  Every dot lined up for me that day…I got connected.

  The best advice I ever got about writing?

  Teach yourself to write a good story, and give a lot of free shit away. -Pepper Winters

  New release to benefit Avon Walk to end breast cancer. Each book bought after October 2, 2016 will have a dollar donated to the charity. E-book or hardcover. Join the fight today.

  https://www.amazon.com/Angie-M.-Brashears/e/B01A9A2MYM

  Chloe

  I sit quietly like I was told. Using the provided headphones as earplugs. Wishing there was a provided remote to turn the volume up. I try to focus on something, anything, to help me sit still. It took three pokes to get this IV, and I’m not looking for a fourth. So I will myself, beg myself, to sit still for one more hour and let this poison get into my system.

  Chemo, my fourth and final cycle. If it didn’t do its job by now, then it never will. My cancer’s not a candidate for further treatment. Not a candidate, that’s what they said. Like my tumor’s running for president.

  I look up at the chemo bag, covered in a light resistant pouch. So unstable, it can’t be exposed to the light of day. The nurse had explained how the light makes it ineffective, less powerful, so it has to be covered. The only thought I had in my head, then and now, is if it’s so weak that simple light will make it ineffective, what’s going to happen when it comes into contact with my big, bad cancer cells?

  I can’t pull my eyes away from the drip. As I watch, it seems to slow down, the space between each drop getting longer and longer till… Ugh, I hate this. I start moving. I hate sitting still. I look down at my shoes, pink Converse with paint splatters—unintentional but fashionable—and feel the itch to just run. Fuck it. Pull the damn line out of my arm, holler “PEACE!” at my shocked nurse, and limp it out of here. I sigh and look back at the clock. A minute has passed. I’ve died and gone to hell.

  I look to Em, but she’s no use. She’s on her phone, and even though I can’t hear her, I know something went wrong with her case, the one that was supposed to be a lock. Court stuff. Her lips are moving, she’s tapping her heel, and she looks frustrated. But not with me. I guess court didn’t go as she’d hoped. She hangs up, pulls a file from her leather shoulder bag, and searches for her reading glasses.

  “Not even twenty-fi
ve and already needing granny glasses. Here.” I lean over and take them off of her head.

  She shakes her head. “I swear, if my head wasn’t bolted on…”

  “I know the feeling.”

  “Chloe, I’m sorry but I’m going to have to…” She motions with her phone, and I nod and shoo her out of the room.

  “Go. Do what you need to. I’ll just be here, getting pickled.” I grin and turn back towards the silent TV.

  I feel bad for keeping her with me. If I wasn’t so selfish, I’d send her on her way. To the office, maybe to court—if anyone could salvage that case, she could. But she’s my chemo buddy. And I am shellfish. Today I’m going to need her shoulder to lean on more than ever. After chemo, my oncologist would like a word to discuss prognosis, and that’s something I’m not willing to do alone.

  I’ve done their chemo, radiation, everything that’s been asked of me.

  But the lump on my hip isn’t getting any smaller. I don’t need a prognosis to tell me that, or how I can barely draw anymore. Last year I would’ve been sketching while I waited, making the time fly by. Six months ago even.

  I don’t want to think about that. This is chemo! I should be thinking of my cancer cells getting zapped. My healthy cells waging a holy war at this very moment...like the guys arguing on the TV.

  I follow the cord from the wall and pull up the remote like I caught a fish. I turn up the volume, tired of staring at a bunch of grown men huffing and puffing over who’s right, without sound.

  First of all, it’s not a fair fight. The screen’s split into four boxes, filled with three religious leaders and one guy who looks like he’s swallowed a chicken bone. It’s three against chicken bone. He swallows. I watch his Adam’s apple bob. I want to hear what’s got everyone in such an uproar, playing ‘whoever shouts the loudest wins.’

  “As I said.” He looks like a cardboard cutout. “I personally never filed for a tax exempt status. I don’t file taxes…”

  Victorious, the reporter, a wily older man, grins and cuts him off. “So you admit you don’t pay taxes?” Scratch that, four against one.

  His expression is thunderous as he tries to correct the reporter, but is sideswiped by one of the boxes—this one wearing a collar. “A porn site will never be tax exempt. Not as long as the church has anything to do with it. Sexual bucket list, humph!”

  The one being bullied turns to the priest, blond hair falling over one eye. This guy looks like he just jumped off his sailboat to have this debate. A typical rich jerk who buys his way out of problems yet can’t even pay his 1%. Of course.

  I can’t be a witness to this any longer. I pull the buds out and accidentally elbow the call button. Shit. I wait for my nurse to get here so I can apologize…well, since she’s already up. “I’ve gotta pee. I can’t hold it, sorry. I don’t want to mess up…” I just hold my arm out, stiff like a board, and she helps me up from the chemo chair. It’s only three feet to the bathroom, but me and IVs don’t mix. I’m not taking any chances.

  “How’s the nausea?” she asks through the crack in the door. It won’t shut as my IV poles in the way.

  “Fine. Man, for a chemo center they sure didn’t consider the IV pole when they built this bathroom. Jeez, can it get any cozier in here?”

  As I’m washing my hands I hear her say, “Oh my God. Just shut up!”

  I peer through the crack, wondering if my nurse was offended by my bathroom comments, ready to apologize, when I see her holding the remote. She looks away from the TV and hurries over to help me back to the bed.

  “Oh sorry, hon, I’ve just been watching this all morning on everyone’s TV, and I’m ready to put tape over their mouths. They won’t let him get a word in edgewise. I swear, I have half a mind to…” She trails off and guides me back to the chair.

  I glance at the TV. “Oh, the rich asshole that doesn’t want to pay his fair share of taxes?”

  She looks at me funny, troubled maybe, before she plugs my IV back into the outlet. She doesn’t say a word, just smiles and hands me the remote.

  Now, I know her, have been here three other times, and most times she never shuts up. She talks through the IV starts, hums when she walks, even chews gum when she has nothing to say. Her lips never stop. And right now, she’s squeezing them so tight, I know. “What?”

  She just shakes her head.

  “Courtney, tell me!”

  She’s shaking her head again, but her lips are opening. “I shouldn’t. If you want to believe everything the media says, who am I to tell you any different? They’ve got an assorted pack of clergy up there, all on the other side. Three guys against one.”

  I hold up the appropriate four fingers to correct her.

  She nods. “I don’t blame you. Who am I to go against the word of all of these experts?”

  I can’t stand it! “Will you just tell me already?”

  She sits in Em’s vacated chair after giving a quick look around at the two other patients. Content that they’re busy with their chemo friends, she hits mute on the remote and says, “That’s Mason Dixon. I took care of his mother when she passed, back when I worked on the cancer ward at the main hospital. And I will tell you, from personal experience that he is the nicest, most generous person I ever met. His family fed the nurses every day, and he never left, not till the end.

  “Plus, his Gram, a personal friend of mine, just adores him. You can’t be all bad if you’ve got a sweet little old lady in your corner.” She smiles as she straightens my little area.

  I stare at the screen, trying to see what she sees. I don’t see it. If anything, he looks bored as everyone on the screen erupts around him.

  Really? Because it’s a really, for sure. I look back at the man of the hour, who looks not only bored, but put out. He’s even, oh my Lord, he’s checking his phone…on national TV. The robot on the screen does not match Courtney’s description.

  “That bathroom you were just complaining about? Built by none other than his truly.” She looks towards the TV with a genuine smile. “He donated a bunch of money in her name to have it built, The Abigail Dixon Chemotherapy Center. Sound like an evading scoundrel to you? Someone who’s trying to keep all of his money to himself?”

  “Well, he did build the bathrooms too small,” I grumble, but even I know my argument holds no weight.

  “He never even knew his accountants were trying to get a tax exempt status for his website, which isn’t a porn site, by the way. It’s a… ‘sexual bucket list.’ At least, that’s what he called it. Or tried to, about twenty times already, but they just kept talking over him. He uses every dollar he makes to fund cancer research, a cause close to his heart.” I see pity on her face as she watches her golden boy get blasted.

  “It’s a sad state of affairs when a good guy like that gets dragged through the mud for public entertainment. Most of America will think the same thing you did. That he’s just some rich asshole trying to get outta paying his fair share. But I will tell you one thing. The truth is quiet, sometimes doesn’t even make a sound. It’s the lies that are the real noise-makers.”

  “What?” I laugh out loud.

  On that cryptic note, she starts humming as she unhooks me from the tubing and flushes and caps my IV. “Free!” She checks her watch. “For…thirty minutes.” Do me a favor while you’re waiting, will you? Go down and grab a soda and check out the bulletin board, see if you can’t find something interesting. Meet me back here for your post posts, madam.” She winks and walks over to the nurse’s station.

  I head to the lobby, in search of my chemo buddy. Em’s on her phone, yelling about evidence, so I turn the other way, heading for 7 Up and some of Courtney’s enlightenment.

  Halfway through my soda, I feel a tap on my shoulder. “It’s time,” she says. I snap a picture of the notice before she leads me back to my comfortable chair—which has a wonderful massage feature—to watch a big screen. One of five big screens, actually. There’s always the nicest nurses here, and I re
ally feel like a narrow-minded fool.

  “Tell me about him,” I say as Courtney starts my rescue drug. Not much of a rescue, I hope. After chemo, there should be no survivors.

  “I can’t say a whole lot, patient confidentiality and all, but I will tell you he loved his momma. He takes care of his Gram. And he helps out a lot of last wishers, as he calls them. People at the end of the line with no one to turn to. He wants to be someone they can turn to. That’s what that notice is all about.

  “But you won’t hear about that on the Spin Show, no you won’t. Why? Because it goes against the picture they’ve already painted of him, for us, the American viewers. No, we’ve tried. Sent email’s and letters right to the station.

  “A bunch of us who know his grandmother meet once a week for a soggy stack breakfast—don’t ask.

  “Once all this started up, this smear campaign, we sent an email. You don’t hear about that, do you? Patients that he’s helped have already stepped forward. Where are they? Where’s their square on Mason’s side of the screen? You won’t see it, and you know why? Nobody wants to see a bunch of nurses and sick patients taking up the fight for a porn site.

  “I’m not telling you how to think, Chloe. I’m just telling you to do your own research and make up your own mind.

  “It’s about the bigger picture—air quotes. This is their chance to take down the porn machine. Another example of good versus evil. If they can get one, they can get them all. Doesn’t matter if he’s innocent, that face right there, they’ll say, “That’s the face of evil.”

  I look up at him, trying to see beyond the tan, the blue eyes, the smirk, and I feel guilty. He looks like he’s counting the seconds till he can bolt. I’m as bad as the evangelicals on the screen. I saw a pretty smile, super white teeth, and thought, lock him up!

  He doesn’t even attempt to defend himself, just winds his hand—get it all out. Behind the smart aleck attitude, I see…worry.