Intensive Caring

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Intensive Caring Page 6

by Bobby Hutchinson


  “Home, boss? It’s getting kinda late.”

  Nelson looked out the car window. He hadn’t even noticed they were entering the city again, and even here, in an area usually congested with traffic, the streets were almost deserted.

  The clock on the limo’s console read 1:22 a.m., and he felt guilty and selfish. Charlie wouldn’t complain; she was an employee, a professional, and he’d made it plain there would be no regular working hours. She’d go on driving all night should he demand it, but Nelson knew she had to be tired.

  The day had been a long one for both of them; she’d come to St. Joe’s that morning to pick him up; she’d helped him get settled in his apartment; she’d gotten him ready for his date with Portia.

  “Home, Charlie.” It would likely be another hour at least before either of them got to bed, considering the complex routine necessary to prepare him for the simplest things. He wasn’t looking forward to it, although he knew from the competent and matter-of-fact way Charlie had helped him get ready for his date tonight that he’d made a good choice in hiring her.

  Tomorrow the special equipment he’d ordered would arrive—weights and bars and a treadmill for later on—and he’d begin physiotherapy with a vengeance. The promise of an explosive sexual liaison with Portia was the incentive he’d use to push himself when exhaustion threatened.

  He’d call her in the morning, at the hospital. He still didn’t have her private phone number, although he did have her address. Getting her home number if he wanted to wouldn’t be difficult. He had contacts who’d locate it for him quickly enough.

  But he wanted her to give it to him freely. He wanted to take her out again soon, maybe for lunch in the next couple of days. Did ER doctors do lunch? He didn’t know, but he’d find out.

  He’d send her flowers in the morning.

  No, not flowers a second time. Way too predictable, too ordinary. Boring. She was an exceptional woman; she deserved something unique.

  He’d think of a truly original gift, one that would make that soft mouth of hers crook into a smile, those deep-set dreamy gray eyes light up with delight.

  Besides, dreaming up a surprise for her would give him something to do when he woke up sweating in the lonely small hours before dawn.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “COURIER ENVELOPE FOR YOU, Doc Bailey,” the desk clerk announced. “It came a few minutes ago. I signed for it. You were busy with that drug overdose.”

  “Thanks, Jimmy.” The morning had been hectic. She hadn’t slept much the night before. Obviously dating when she had to work the next day wasn’t a very smart move, especially when the man was Nelson Gregory. Well, it wouldn’t happen again.

  Now, who would be sending her something by courier, and why? Portia tore open the envelope.

  Two tickets and a single sheet of folded paper fell out.

  Mystified, Portia looked at the tickets first. They were for a nightclub called Flashbacks.

  “Flashbacks? You ever heard of Flashbacks, Jimmy?”

  “Hey, yeah, it’s this vintage dance hall on the east end of Broadway, one of the best places in the city to go and shake a leg. They have live bands and a fab dance floor. It’s suspended on springs or something. It’s a real classy joint.” He eyed the tickets. “You win a contest, Doc?”

  “Not that I know of.” Portia opened the note.

  For a lady who loves to dance—a rain check and a promise from a guy who plans to someday soon waltz the night away with you in my arms. Thanks for a memorable evening. I’ll be in touch long before the dancing begins—say, at lunchtime tomorrow? I’ll call you.

  Nelson

  She reread it and felt a mixture of pleasure and irritation. Why did he have to be so damn creative? And thoughtful, as well, remembering her offhand comment about liking to dance. Why did he have to make sticking to her decision not to see him again doubly hard?

  She ought to give the tickets to Jimmy, because she certainly wouldn’t be using them. But she couldn’t quite do it. Instead, she folded them inside the note and stuck them in the pocket of her chinos.

  To not acknowledge his gift was rude, but she told herself it was the wisest move. And she’d make sure she was too busy to come to the phone should he call. He’d lose interest in her quickly enough. There was probably a whole battalion of women eager to keep him company. She ignored the tiny stab of jealousy that idea brought.

  Get real, Bailey, she admonished herself. One date doesn’t make a relationship, and you know what kind of guy he is. You’ve obviously been without a man in your life for too long. She vowed to accept the first invitation that came her way—as long as Nelson Gregory didn’t proffer it.

  BUT FOR THE NEXT FOUR DAYS, the only invitations she received were from him.

  First, it was lunch. She politely refused.

  Next came a suggestion that they share a picnic in the park. After that he proposed, of all things, attending a lecture by the Dalai Lama at the university.

  Nelson was nothing if not creative, and he instinctively knew what would interest her. She felt more than a twinge of regret turning that one down. The Dalai Lama was a person she greatly admired, and she would have loved to hear him speak. She thought of going alone, but she decided against it. What if she met Nelson there? She’d feel horribly embarrassed.

  The next invitation made her furious, because if anyone else in the Western world had suggested a Leonard Cohen concert at Queen Elizabeth Theatre, she’d have agreed instantly. Lenny was one of her favorite poets. But she stuck grimly to her principles.

  On three consecutive days, Nelson made four appearances at the desk in the ER, asking to see her, and each time Portia had Jimmy relay the message that she was far too busy to see anyone. But each time, as well, she had to struggle with herself. Nelson was like a magnet, and it was all she could do to resist.

  When her days off came, it was an enormous relief. Fortunately, they fell on a weekend. For several weeks Juliet had been hounding Portia for a sleep-over. The bakery where her sister worked closed at five on Saturday, so Portia called and said she’d pick Juliet up after work. They’d spend Saturday evening and Sunday together.

  Juliet was waiting on the street outside the bakery. When she saw Portia’s car coming, she dropped the overnight bag she was holding and waved both arms over her head, bouncing up and down, her plump pretty face wreathed in smiles.

  “Portia, I been waiting so long.” She climbed in and wrapped her arms around Portia’s neck in an exuberant hug, giving her a smacking kiss on the lips. “I love you, Portia.”

  “I love you, too.” Portia grinned at her sister. “But don’t hand me that line about waiting all day. It’s only 5:05. You must have just gotten off work.”

  Juliet giggled. “I did just get off work. But it seemed like a long time. Are we going out for dinner? Can we go to that Chinese place with the smorg? Please, pretty please, Portia?”

  “Your wish is my command, mademoiselle.” Portia studied her sister before she pulled the car into traffic. “You got your hair cut, Jules. I like it shorter, it suits you.”

  “I did get my hair cut. I got it cut last Wednesday.” Juliet patted her head and clasped her hands, twisting them in a figure eight against her chest and then away, a gesture that could signal either acute distress or extreme pleasure. “Stuart came with me to the hairdressing place and he watched them cut my hair. He says he likes my hair short. He says it’s like petting a puppy, all nice and soft.” Juliet giggled. “I really love Stuart, Portia. And he loves me back. He says it all the time.”

  Like Juliet, Stuart Mays was mentally challenged. He’d been working at the bakery for four months, and he and Juliet were dating. Portia had met him several times, and although she was protective of Juliet, she also recognized her sister’s right to an independent life and a relationship with someone she cared for. Juliet had confided some time ago that she and Stuart were having sex.

  “You’re taking those birth control pills, right, Jules? And y
ou remember what I said about you and Stuart using condoms, as well?”

  “’Course I remember. I’m not stupid, you know, Portia. I’m just challenged.” She then proceeded to repeat word for word the lecture that Portia had given her innumerable times. “It’s important to use condoms because of STD’s—that’s sexually transmitted diseases—and I have to be responsible about sexual activity….”

  “Okay, honey, okay. I’m sorry for nagging. It’s just that I want you to be safe.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” Juliet stated firmly. “That’s what Mrs. Cousins always says.”

  Mrs. Cousins was the housemother at Harmony House, the group home where Juliet lived, and Portia was more familiar than she wanted to be with all her aphorisms, because Juliet repeated them constantly.

  “How’s everybody at the house?” Juliet was one of four residents.

  “Vicky got in trouble because she told Mrs. Cousins a big lie. She said she was going to the drugstore to get sanitary supplies, but instead she went to the video place. She has this big thing for the guy who works there, and Mrs. Cousins found out because Louis saw Vicky and he told, and then Vicky said she forgot…she wanted a video…and Mrs. Cousins says liars have to have a good memory and honesty is the best policy, and I gotta talk to you about something really urgent, Portia. Okay?”

  Portia was maneuvering through rush-hour traffic. “Can it wait until later on tonight, Jules? We’re almost at the restaurant now.”

  “Okay, I guess so. Okay. Don’t forget, though. It’s urgent.”

  “I’ll remember, I promise.”

  Dinner was predictable. The staff knew Portia and Juliet from numerous previous visits, and they made a fuss over them, seating them at Juliet’s favorite table, a padded banquette upholstered in burgundy plush. Watching her sister laugh and joke with the waitress, witnessing her exuberant enjoyment of the simple meal, reminded Portia as it always did that Juliet’s gift was her ability to be entirely in the moment, utterly absorbed by whatever was happening now.

  She herself had felt that way having dinner with Nelson, Portia remembered with a pang. For that little space of time, she hadn’t thought beyond the moment, and it had been restful and pleasant.

  The ritual of jasmine tea and fortune cookies finally over, Portia drove home. The evening was cool, and she turned on the gas fireplace and then helped Juliet make them hot chocolate and popcorn, another favorite ritual whenever the sisters got together.

  When they were settled on pillows in front of the fire, Portia said, “Okay, now tell me what’s so urgent, Jules.” Urgent was currently one of her sister’s favorite words. It usually meant she was having some problem with one of the other residents at the group home.

  “Me and Stuart wanna get married.”

  “Wow, that’s a big decision.” Portia had given a great deal of thought to such an eventuality. Juliet’s mental capacities were limited, but her emotional needs were the same as anyone else’s. Portia figured it likely that Stuart wasn’t as adept at the particularities of living as was her sister—he was twenty-seven and had always lived at home with aging parents who didn’t seem to expect much of him—but he likely had strengths Juliet lacked.

  If the two of them wanted to marry, Portia didn’t have any objections. They’d need a great deal of support, however, from the community and their relatives. “We’ll have to talk about it, but if that’s truly what you both want, then that’s what you should do.”

  “I know it’s what we should do. We really, really want to. But Stuart’s mother and father won’t let him,” Juliet burst out. “They don’t want him to get married to me,” Juliet said, her voice rising and her hot chocolate spilling down the front of her pink Mickey Mouse sweatshirt as she grew more agitated. “His mother doesn’t like me. She thinks I’m a bad girl ’cause I told her I like it when Stuart makes love to me.”

  Portia sighed. Juliet had always had difficulty figuring out what was socially acceptable as a topic of conversation and what wasn’t.

  “Just how did you happen to talk with Stuart’s mother about liking sex with her son?”

  “Well, I went there to pick Stuart up when we were going to a movie. It was Charlie’s Angels. O-o-oh, Portia, it was so good. It’s about these three women—”

  “You can tell me about the movie after, Jules. What happened when you went to Stuart’s house?”

  Juliet frowned and took a moment to collect her thoughts. “Well, the movie place was close to his house, so I went to get him, and Mrs. Mays said Stuart had to come right home afterward and I said no, we were going to my place, and she asked was Mrs. Cousins there, and I said no, and she said Stuart couldn’t come then because we shouldn’t be alone and unsupervised, and I said we had to be alone to make love, and she got mad and said I was a—it was a really bad word, the b word.”

  Agitated now, Juliet got to her feet.

  “And then I said I liked making love to Stuart and we’re both adults over twenty-one and you said that we could make our own decisions about how we use our bodies, and I told her what you said about being responsible and using condoms, and I said I always carry them in my purse, and I showed her—I keep them in my purse all the time just like you told me to do—and then she said Stuart couldn’t go out with me anymore, but he ran past her out the door and she hollered at us, and we both ran fast and then he was scared to go home—”

  “Sit down, honey. You’re spilling chocolate all over the place.” Portia blew out a breath. “So was that when you decided to get married?”

  “No, it was after that. We went to the movies and then we went to my place and then we made love and then Stuart’s mother kept phoning and phoning, but I didn’t answer, and then when he went home she was like real, real mad at him, and she said he couldn’t see me anymore, but we work at the same place so she can’t stop us, can she?”

  “Okay, hon, okay. Take a deep breath. I get the picture. I just want to know the reasons for you and Stuart to get married. See, if you love each other and want to be together and know that you’re right for each other, that’s one thing. But if you’re getting married because Stuart’s afraid of his mother, that’s entirely different. That’s not so good.”

  Juliet had been sitting, but now she bolted to her feet, spilling still more chocolate. She moved around the room, waving her arms. “We’re in love, Portia. We really, really, really love each other and we want to live together in the same place and have our own television and our own bed that’s big enough for both of us and then we could make love whenever we want. But Stuart’s too scared to tell his mother about us getting married.”

  “What does Stuart’s father say about this?”

  “His father only says what his mother tells him to. She’s a real ball buster. Remember you told me what that was when the man said it in that movie. It doesn’t really mean the girl busts—”

  “Yeah, I remember.” Portia had to smile. Her sister had a knack for using rude expressions in the right context.

  “So we decided that I’ll have to get pregnant. Then they’ll have to let Stuart marry me.” Juliet’s voice was loud, her tone defiant.

  “Pregnant?” Portia was dumbfounded. She’d been about to take a sip of her chocolate, but she put the cup down with a thump. “Jules, hold on here. That’s not a good idea at all.”

  “I just knew you’d say that.” Juliet threw herself onto the sofa and burst into loud sobs, holding a pillow over her face.

  “Juliet, you know we talked about this lots of times.” Portia got up and went over to her, rubbing her shoulders and offering tissues. “Babies are a huge responsibility.”

  Juliet wouldn’t be comforted. Her wails grew louder and more desperate.

  “Look, it’s late at night and this is something we should talk over when we’re not tired,” Portia finally said. “Let’s run you a bubble bath. I’ve got some of that green stuff you like from the Body Shop. And I promise that tomorrow we’ll talk more about this, okay?”
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  It took much promising on Portia’s part, but at last Juliet agreed to put off any further discussion until the next day.

  Portia ran a bath the way she had when Juliet was younger, then washed her sister’s back with a soft sponge and shampooed her hair. She held a huge bath sheet ready for her when she got out of the tub.

  Juliet’s figure was rounded, her skin as soft as a child’s. She was a pretty, sensual woman. As Portia watched her pull on her Barbie pajamas and climb into bed, she thought as she did so often how tragic it was that Juliet’s body should be totally functional and her mind not.

  “’Night ’night, sleep tight.” Portia drew the duvet up and tucked it around Juliet.

  “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” Juliet yawned widely. “I love you, Portia.”

  Portia’s eyes filled with tears. She leaned down and kissed the woman who would always be her little sister. “And I love you, Jules.”

  Back in the living room, Portia wearily cleaned up the chocolate mess and poured herself a glass of white wine. She turned on soft music and sank down in front of the fire, her mind troubled.

  She tried to figure out what to say to Juliet the following day, what arguments might have meaning for her. There had to be a way to dissuade her from deliberately getting pregnant. If that happened, all too probably Juliet would end up a single parent. It was highly unlikely that Stuart would suddenly find enough self-confidence to move out of his parents’ house.

  There was also the question of whether the baby would have normal intelligence. Portia had researched this issue, and the medical consensus was that in most cases where the mother and father were mentally challenged from birth, the child might well be borderline or below. The consequences could be tragic for everyone.

  And it shouldn’t be entirely her problem, either, Portia mused with a surge of old resentment and anger. Juliet’s father, the jerk, had abandoned all responsibility when he learned that his daughter was handicapped, but Juliet did have a mother who ought to be involved in situations like this.

 

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