A New Kind of Bliss

by Bettye Griffin

  The Norman practice was located in what was laughingly referred to as “the plaza,” a rather upscale euphemism for the town center that was downtown Euliss. The plaza consisted of a pharmacy, a liquor store, an outdoor newsstand, four banks, maybe three pizzerias, an electronics store that offered a layaway plan (naturally), a furniture store where the furniture’s drawers were guaranteed to stick, a music store, a deli, a fish market, a cheap shoe store, and about eight discount stores. If you wanted jewelry or clothing or decent shoes or good furniture you had to go to the mall in the white section of town.

  I arrived for my interview promptly at ten minutes of two. The patients in the waiting room were typical of a busy family practice, ranging from screaming babies, exasperated-looking young mothers, an obviously ill youngster whose whining was interrupted only by coughing fits, and a few elderly folks. The one thing that jumped out at me was that they were all black and Latino.

  I found myself unable to conceal my shock when I was ushered into an office and greeted by none other than Wiley Norman himself.

  “Dr. Norman,” I said, surprise in my voice. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Uh, are you still practicing?” I tried to keep the incredulity out of my voice, but the man was a contemporary of my mother. He had to be at least seventy-five years old. The only thing more ridiculous would be if he still used the suffix of “Junior.”

  He chuckled, a wheezy sound that itself sounded old. “Oh, I just come in a few days a month to see some of my longtime patients. My sons are good doctors, mind you, but some of the old-timers don’t feel comfortable with anyone so young.”

  Having the old man in the office sure made for a hell of a lot of Dr. Normans, but his reasons did make sense. After all, the man’s specialty was family medicine. His age wouldn’t deter him from accurately diagnosing and treating everyday maladies. It wasn’t like he used scalpels or other sharp instruments that could be dangerous in a less-than-steady hand.

  “I’m so sorry to hear about your father, Emily,” he said.

  “Thank you. We appreciated you and Mrs. Norman stopping by the funeral home to pay your respects.”

  “And are you returning to Euliss?”

  I began to relax. This seemed more like a conversation with an old friend than a job interview. “It’s a rather uncertain set of circumstances. My brother and sister both live out of town. My mother is bound to have a hard time adjusting to life without my father. I decided to come back for an extended period of time to help her out.” I wouldn’t have been so honest about the possibility of not remaining in Euliss had I been talking to some anonymous hospital administrator—okay, I would have flat out lied—but I couldn’t do that to Dr. Norman, who had been giving me checkups all through my school years. “I’m licensed to work in both New York and Indiana,” I volunteered. “I’m going to make my condo in Indianapolis a short-term rental unit for business travelers. But I can’t give you a guarantee that I’ll be staying in New York indefinitely. I might be here six months. I might be here three years. Or I might not ever leave.” That last sentence, for pure dramatic effect, came out with some difficulty. Stuck in Euliss for the rest of my life? Not a chance. Fortunately, Dr. Norman didn’t seem to notice.

  “I see,” he said, nodding. “Well, it just so happens that Gina, our P.A., is having second thoughts about coming back to work after her baby is born. We can’t guarantee her that her job will be available for her after the required maximum time for the Family Leave Act, but this might benefit both of you. It’s not generally known, but…”

  I recognized that to mean, In other words, don’t go blabbing this all over town.

  “…we do plan to open a second office on Woodlawn Avenue.”

  The main drag stretched from the Bronx all the way to White Plains. Most of the shopping, restaurants, and multiplexes in the area were located along that fifteen-mile stretch of road. There would always be a need for a medical office in the plaza, which could be accessed easily by patients without cars. But Woodlawn Avenue would give the Norman practice more visibility.

  I began to feel hopeful.

  “I’m going to call in my sons. You can tell all of us about your work experience.”

  I felt pretty good when I left the office. My interview had gone well. The two younger Dr. Normans conveyed a polite but distant demeanor, in direct contrast to their father’s warmth, which I read as “don’t think that just because Dad knows your family the job is yours.” I, of course, played it professional, sounding knowledgeable, not smiling too much, trying to convey by my body language that they didn’t intimidate me.

  I had an interview scheduled at Euliss General after my return from Indianapolis, and I had a feeling that I’d be able to pick which position I wanted. The benefits would probably be better at the hospital, but I’d have more freedom at the family practice. Then there was the consideration of money. Instinct told me that the only ones who did well in a family business were members of the family.

  “Emily!”

  Startled to hear my name, I stopped my stride and glanced around the waiting room for a familiar face. Something vaguely familiar about the pretty dark-skinned sister who sat comforting a cranky-looking little boy. Especially around the eyes…

  She smiled knowingly. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

  I took a few halting steps in her direction. “Marsha?”

  “Yes, it’s me. How are you, Emily? I didn’t think you still lived in Euliss.”

  “I don’t. I mean, I haven’t been living here, but I’m coming back.”

  “I heard about your father. I’m terribly sorry.”

  I took a seat in the vinyl-upholstered chair next to her. “Thank you.” I realized I was staring, but I couldn’t help it. “Marsha, you look fabulous.”

  She chuckled. “Thanks. I’ve made a few changes since high school.”

  I’ll say. I’d known Marsha Cox since grammar school, but the chic woman sitting opposite me bore little resemblance to the child who stood five seven by the time she was ten years old and wore her mother’s too big clothes to school and also pinned on her falls. I’ll never forget the day Marsha and Tracy Turner got into a fight in sixth grade and Tracy pulled off Marsha’s fake ponytail. Tracy had always been a mean bitch. My heart hurt for Marsha that day in the playground. She’d been so embarrassed, and naturally the kids watching thought it was the funniest thing they’d seen since Sammy Davis Jr. kissed Archie Bunker on All in the Family. I remember leading her away while I glared at Tracy.

  Marsha, an only child, lived with her mother in a tenement on Dellwood Avenue that had since been torn down. I went over there with her a couple of times, and it was just awful, all musty smelling and creaky. They didn’t even have their own bathroom; they had to share a hall bath with other tenants on the floor. To me, nothing says “poor” more vividly than two things: One is a street address that ends with “and a half,” as in “15-1/2 Garver Street,” which suggests to me that the residents were too poor to afford a whole apartment. The other is having to share a bathroom with your neighbors. I can’t think of anything less sanitary. My ex-husband, bless his sloppy heart, couldn’t even manage to hit the target half the time when he relieved himself. Whenever, in a moment of weakness, I found myself missing him in the period immediately following our separation, I would console myself with the thought that I would never again have to wipe up the floor behind him…or the seat, depending on whether or not he felt like lifting it up.

  And what if you really had to go and Mr. Henderson from down the hall was in there, complete with newspaper and a fresh cigar? But it was probably all Mrs. Cox could afford. Marsha’s mother worked as a cocktail waitress and couldn’t have made much money, and in hindsight I realized that Marsha’s thin frame might have had less to do with nature and more to do with not getting enough to eat. I knew from Marsha that her father had skipped out long ago. I don’t know where he went, but wherever it was, I’ll bet his ass didn’t have to share a bathroo
m, like the family he’d abandoned.

  “I love your hair,” I told her now. Gone were the short strands that were barely long enough to smooth down close to her head so she could pin on one of her mother’s hair-pieces. Marsha now wore her hair in a stylish bob even with her chin on the left and with her earlobe on the right. Its texture was so straight it looked as shiny as patent leather, but a few strands of gray that the light hit told me it was all hers and not a weave.

  “Thanks.” She patted it with a hand I noticed had polished oval nails of uniform length and rings on both her index and ring fingers.

  “Is this your son?”

  “Yes. This is Cameron. He’s not feeling so hot today, so I figured I’d bring him in to see Dr. Norman, now that I’m back in Euliss.”

  I directed my next statement toward Cameron. “I’m sorry you aren’t feeling well,” I said, rubbing his arm. “I’m sure Dr. Norman will give you something that will make you bounce right back.”

  “Thank you,” he mumbled politely.

  “So you left Euliss, too,” I said to Marsha. “Where’d you go?”

  “I wasn’t far. I lived in New Jersey. I came back and moved in with my mother when my husband died.”

  “Oh, Marsha, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” Marsha seemed too young to be a widow, but I quickly realized that we weren’t too young for anything anymore, even to die ourselves.

  “Thanks. I’ve been back for two months.”

  The sliding frosted-glass window opened like a miniature shower door. “Cameron Hendricks,” a woman called.

  I quickly grabbed the notepad I always keep in my purse. “Marsha, we have to get together. Please give me your number, and I’ll give you mine.”

  “Sure.” She waited until I pulled the pen out of the loop that held it in place, and then she recited a number. “That’s my cell phone. It’s easiest to catch me on that.”

  “Okay.” I took it down, then flipped a page and scribbled my mother’s number. “This is mine. I have to make a quick trip to Indianapolis, but I’ll be back the week after next. Let’s plan to have lunch or even dinner together, okay?”

  “Bet.”

  She stood next to Cameron, and we hugged briefly before I left and she disappeared into the inner office.

  I walked back to my car with a spring in my step. Not only had the interview gone well, but I’d run into an old friend in the waiting room. Surely that was an omen.

  I saw nothing but good things in my future.

  Chapter 8

  I flew home on Tuesday to meet face-to-face with the property management service I’d chosen and to prepare my condo for rental. After speaking with the property manager, I’d come to the conclusion that it would be best if I made it a furnished rental. People relocated to Indy all the time, and businesses were always looking for furnished units for short-term rentals. This would mean that I could probably get back into my place the moment I was ready to come back and continue with my life.

  The agent I worked with expressed admiration for my reasons for giving up my home. “Maybe one day one of my kids will do what you’re doing for their mother and me,” he’d remarked.

  I was relieved at not having to move out my belongings, but I took the property manager’s advice and rented a small storage unit to place my personal things, like my small collection of LPs, my large collection of CDs, and my photos, as well as clothing I couldn’t bring with me to Mom’s, given her limited storage space. I spent a few hours packing those up and driving them over to the storage place. I gave myself another day to take care of any loose ends, like making a key for the property manager, putting in a change of address at the post office, and stopping in at my bank, after which I would return to my condo and get to bed early. I’d promised the property manager I would leave my place ready for a renter, and that meant clean sheets and no dishes in the sink. As soon as I arose I would change the bed linens and freshen up the place before hitting the road for the long drive to New York.

  I was about to load a box of clothes into my car to take to the post office when my cell phone rang, with its familiar theme from Bonanza. A quick glance at the caller ID window revealed Aaron’s cell number, which made me smile. He’d called two or three times a day, every day, since I’d been gone. The insecure part of me feared he would move on to someone else—like Tanis, who would know from her mother that I’d flown home—the minute my plane took off, especially since his schedule didn’t allow him to drive me to the airport. My niece took me to catch my plane, since my mother wouldn’t consider driving anywhere within the five boroughs of New York City. Aaron apologized profusely for not being able to take me himself, and my last night in town he took me to the Ruth Chris’s Steak House in Tarrytown.

  “I wish you were back already, Emily,” he confessed.

  “That’s sweet. But we’ll be together again before you know it.”

  “Speaking of that, I had an idea I’d like your opinion on.”

  Immediately I started to feel squeamish. It always made me a little nervous when people asked me for my opinion. Often they were trying to justify something they knew damn well was wrong, or they wanted to be told that a too tight suit looked great on them. Either way, they were not going to like my answer, and then they’d end up getting mad at me. “And what’s that?” I asked, my voice pitched low with caution.

  “I can easily take a day off Friday. I thought it would be nice if I flew out to Indy and helped you drive your car back. You were planning on driving back on Saturday, weren’t you?”

  I was. I hesitated only because I hadn’t expected such a generous gesture on his part. Aaron wasn’t looking to have his ego stroked; he wanted to help me out. My heart filled with gratitude. The man was a physician with a busy and important practice, yet he was willing to take off from work for a boring drive across three and a half states. “I think that’s a wonderful idea, Aaron. Are you sure you’re not putting yourself out too much?”

  “Not at all. My mother-in-law is here and can watch the kids. I’ll have my secretary make my reservation and shuffle around a few appointments, and I’ll be good to go. As long as I’m back by Monday, everything will be fine.”

  “I’m flattered that you want to help me,” I said honestly.

  “I guess I want to make sure you really do come back. I hate the idea of you being so far away from me.”

  “I’m definitely coming back. And now, thanks to you, I have something to look forward to.”

  After we said good-bye I smiled as I hung up the phone, and I suspected he did the same.

  I stuffed as many clothes and shoes as I could into two tall dish cartons and took them with me to the post office, where I would ship them to my mother’s apartment via parcel post. I left behind anything I felt I could absolutely, positively do without while I was in transition, knowing full well that the first thing I’d need for a special occasion would probably be something I’d left behind. I’d have to help Mom clean out Pop’s closet when I got back, a task I wasn’t anticipating happily. But even as I hoisted the cartons up onto the counter I wondered if there’d be enough room for it all in what was a very small closet.

  Tonight I was to be the guest of honor at a farewell dinner hosted by my three closest friends, all of whom were shocked by my decision to return to Euliss. Sometimes I couldn’t believe how quickly my life had changed, myself. Just a few weeks ago my friends and I went to a cookout on Memorial Day, and the Fourth of July would find me living in Euliss again. On my mother’s sofa.

  But at least I had Aaron. I couldn’t wait to see him.

  First thing in the morning, with a slight headache from the mango margaritas I’d consumed and feeling a little teary at the thought of leaving my friends in Indy, I washed all the bed linens and remade the bed, dusted and vacuumed the four rooms and the hall, mopped the floors of the kitchen and bathrooms, and polished the mirrors and TV screens. The management company would send in a cleaning service to spruce up the unit before re
ntal, but I’d promised to do my part. Even though I knew I was making the best move for my unique situation, it felt a little weird, thinking about a stranger sleeping in my bed or putting his or her feet up on my coffee table. I felt very proprietary about my house, my most valuable asset. I even hummed the Diana Ross tune “It’s My House” as I worked, a strangely upbeat song for my mood. I was leaving behind good friends who cared about me, plus the comfortable home I’d created, to sleep on my mother’s sofa bed for the next few months.

  If it weren’t for Aaron, I’d probably throw myself across my bed and sob.

  At eleven o’clock, after checking with the airline to make sure the flight from New York was on schedule, I headed out to the airport to meet his plane, my weekend bag sitting on the backseat and my desktop computer on the floor in front of it.

  I started circling the drive outside the baggage claim carousels ten minutes after his flight landed. As I slowly drove through the second time I saw him sail out the doors, looking crisp and handsome in tan khakis and a short-sleeved collared cotton shirt. Pink plaid shirts aren’t for every man, but Aaron pulled it off magnificently. He looked as refreshing as a bowl of raspberry sherbet…and just as tasty, I thought wickedly. Trying not to drool, I got out of the car and honked the horn so he’d see me.

  As I watched him approach, his bedroom eyes hidden by aviator sunglasses, I suddenly realized that we wouldn’t get to New York tonight. The only way to complete that seven-hundred-plus-mile, twelve-hour drive would be if we got on the road at dawn, but it was nearly noon. By eight-thirty it would start to get dark. We’d have to stop somewhere for the night.