LOVER COME BACK_An Unbelievable But True Love Story

by Scott Hildreth

  There was no crowning. No peek of a head. No sight of hair.

  Our daughter simply emerged.

  The doctor lifted the baby for Jess to see. “Meet your baby girl.”

  “Charlee,” Jess said in an exhaustive breath. “Her name’s Charlee.”

  The doctor handed Jess our daughter. While our mothers peered over my shoulder and admired their granddaughter, I thanked God for trusting us with the gift of a healthy child.

  Jessica’s eyes met mine. We didn’t speak. I doubt either of us could have. We simply shared a moment as she held our newborn daughter against her chest.

  While the doctor stitched Jessica’s perineal tear, I cleared my throat. “Put an extra stitch in that, would ya, Doc?”

  “Scott!” Jessica snapped. “Stop it.”

  “When is it, exactly, that he sleeps?” the doctor asked with a laugh.

  When the doctor finished her work, she stepped to Jessica’s left side. “I need to get her cleaned up and weighed.”

  “Before you take her, Doc,” I said. “I need something.”

  The doctor looked up.

  I clenched my fist and extended my arm over Jessica and the baby. The doctor looked at my hand and then at Jess.

  Jess grinned.

  The doctor met my gaze, smiled, and then pounded her knuckles to mine.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  With Landon and Lily trailing close behind, I carried the pies and Jessica carried our baby. Thanksgiving was once again upon us. In the year that had passed since the dessert debacle, Jessica mastered the art of baking the pecan-laden pies.

  When we walked through the door, my father straightened his posture. “Scott’s got the soup, and Jess has my granddaughter.”

  “It’s not soup this time,” Jess said.

  He waved his hand in my direction. “I don’t give a shit about that,” he said. “I need to see Charlee.”

  Jess took the sleeping baby from the car seat and carried her to my father. After laying her in his waiting arms, she took a step back.

  He scowled at her. “Go sit down. This isn’t my first rodeo, you know.”

  He held her in his arms, rocking back and forth in the recliner that had all but become his home. He gazed at her with admiring eyes. A smile formed on his weathered face.

  “A long time ago, in San Diego, California, your daddy was born,” he said. “He was half your size. He was born three months early. He only weighed three pounds and three ounces. They told us he wasn’t going to live. Ended up he was a fighter, just like his daddy.”

  He looked at Jess and grinned. “She’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  The big kids arrived after dinner. The two boys ate a second meal, complaining the one they had previously wasn’t quite enough to satisfy their appetites. While Erin held the baby and talked with Jess, the boys and I went outside and enjoyed the late fall sunshine.

  Landon and Derek wandered into the center of the large yard and began playing catch.

  Alec stood at my side, seeming reluctant to join them. After a few moments, he broke the silence.

  “You ready to do this all over again?”

  “Fatherhood?” I asked.

  With his eyes still fixed on Landon and Derek, he nodded. “Raising kids again.”

  “I’m pretty excited about it, really,” I said.

  He looked at me, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t seem upset, nor was his face wearing an odd look. He did, however, seem willing to listen. I saw it as an opportunity. An opportunity I needed to take advantage of.

  “You know, Son, I did what I did because I had to, not because I wanted to. I did my best to teach you and your brother right from wrong. To run toward the smoke and flames instead of running away from it. To help those incapable of helping themselves. To stand up when everyone else is afraid to. That old man in the recliner taught me the same thing. His father taught him. Your great-grandfather fought his way out of the trenches in World War I in a battle that may have played a part in changing that war. Imagine if he hadn’t. What’s right doesn’t become wrong when the risk associated with standing up for it is great. I stood up for what was right. In doing so, I took the risk of losing my family and my freedom. I lost. When I lost, I lost you. I regret losing you, but I don’t regret standing up.”

  I paused, exhaled a breath through my teeth, and looked at him. “I hope that makes sense.”

  He gave a sharp nod. “I’m proud of you, Pop.”

  Hearing him say that made me much prouder of him than he ever could have been of me. Sadly, he day turned into night, with Charlee being the point of interest for all who were in attendance. When it came time for everyone to leave, hugs were given.

  Once again, Alec somehow managed to forget Jess.

  With a wave of his hand as he backed out of the door. At the last moment, he acknowledged her. “See you at Christmas, Jess.”

  With Charlee cradled in her arms, she waved in return. “See you at Christmas.”

  I could have easily either asked Alec to hug Jess or I could have demanded it, playing the I’m your father, and you’re my son, therefore you’ll do as I say card.

  Alec may not have always agreed with the decisions I made as a father, but he respected me. Respect is a two-way street. In the biker world, there’s belief. To get respect, it must be given.

  I was respecting Alec’s decision. In time, all I could do was hope that he’d see the love Jess and I had for one another. In seeing it, I further hoped he’d realize she was an asset in my life, and in turn, in his.

  No differently than his sister had.

  As he drove away, I gave a mental nod. With it, came respect.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  We enjoyed Christmas morning that year in our new home, and then celebrated it again at my parent’s home. Afterward, we drove to St. Louis, and had a late Christmas with Jess’ family. A New Year’s party followed, and then we came home.

  I grew a year older one day but didn’t celebrate the occasion. I signed a contract with Harlequin Romance to produce a three-book series and turned the first book in for publication. Lily attended a private Christian school, while Landon attended his magnet school, which focused on technology.

  Then, on one February day, the phone rang.

  Surprised to see my mother calling early on a Saturday from her cell phone, I answered.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Well, not really. There’s been an accident.”

  “Everyone alright?”

  “Your father was making breakfast, and he dropped an egg,” she said.

  She seemed fairly calm, but then again, she was always calm.

  “Want me to come clean it up?” I asked.

  “I already did. He uhhm. Your father got mad when he dropped it. He went to kick it across the floor. His foot got mixed up in the yolk, and he slipped on the tile. You know how that kitchen floor is when it’s wet.”

  My father’s temper was no different than his father’s temper. I inherited it from him, and Alec inherited it from me. Attempting to kick an egg across the kitchen floor seemed par for the course.

  “Is he okay?” I asked.

  “He’s in the hospital, and he wants you to come get him out. They won’t let him leave.”

  “How long’s he been there?”

  “Since yesterday.”

  “Why didn’t you call?”

  “You know how your father is. He’s stubborn. He didn’t want me to.”

  “What, exactly, is wrong with him?”

  She sighed. “He’s got a broken knee cap, a broken ankle, and a broken wrist. The knee is on one leg, and the ankle is on the other. He’s going to be in a wheelchair.”

  “Fuck,” I shouted. “Which hospital?”

  “Susan B. Anthony.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Don’t speed.”

  “Be there in fifteen.”

  It was a thirty-minute drive at
eighty miles an hour, which was the speed that could be driven on the highways in Kansas. In the BMW M5 that replaced my Craigslist SUV, it took fifteen.

  In fifteen minutes I parked at the entrance of the hospital and stomped through the doors.

  “You can’t park there unless you’re picking up a patient,” the receptionist said.

  “I’m picking up David Hildreth,” I said. “Where is he?”

  She studied the monitor for a moment, and then looked up. “One forty-six.”

  I didn’t need to rely on room numbers to guide me to him, I could hear the sound of his voice when I entered the corridor.

  “My Son’s taking me out of this son-of-a-bitch, and I’m going home.”

  “Mister Hildreth, you aren’t capable of operating a wheelchair,” a voice said. “Furthermore, your heart cannot handle the stress associated with getting in and out—”

  I stepped through the doorway.

  “See,” he said. “I told you. He’s here to get me.”

  The doctor looked at me. “His kneecap is in four pieces. Once the swelling goes down, we’ll perform the operation to repair it. His ulna is cracked, his collarbone is broken, his wrist is broken, and his ankle is broken. He’s immobile. I’m sorry.”

  “What do you want to do, Pop?”

  “Well,” he growled. “I didn’t have you drive your ass over here to gawk at me in the goddamned gown. Take me home, Son.”

  I looked at the doctor. “Sounds like we’re leaving.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t let you take him home.”

  “Is it against the law?” I asked.

  His pursed lips gave all the response I needed.

  “You can’t stop me, then,” I said.

  With the assistance of two nurses, I loaded my father in the front seat, and then placed his wheelchair in the trunk. After driving him home, I attempted to carry him up the stairs. At two hundred and thirty pounds – and with five broken bones – he was simply too much for me to carry alone.

  I set him at the bottom of the steps.

  He looked up at me. His eyes were filled with fear. It was the first time I’d seen him give an outward sign of fearing anything. To me, my father would always be the invincible Marine that raised me.

  “What are we going to do?” he asked.

  “Are you cold?”

  He coughed a laugh. “Not right now, but I might get that way about midnight, Son. It’s fucking February.”

  I was angry, disappointed in myself, and fearful for what the future held. His dry sense of humor extracted a laugh from me, nonetheless.

  “I’m calling an ambulance,” I said.

  “I’m not going back to the hospital,” he hissed. “Just leave me here.”

  “You stubborn prick,” I snapped back. “I’m not leaving you. When they get here, I’ll make them help me carry you in.”

  He grinned a fractured smile. “You’re not as dumb as you look.”

  An hour later, he was sitting in his chair. With his Kindle clutched in his hand, he looked around the room. “I think your work’s done here, Son. Go home to your wife and kids.”

  “What are you going to do when you have to go to the bathroom?” I asked.

  “I’ll figure something out.”

  I looked at my mother.

  She shrugged. “This is where he wants to be.”

  “I’m sitting right here, Anita. Don’t act like I can’t hear you.” He looked at me. “Go home, Son.”

  After some argument, I did just that.

  Two days later, the phone rang again.

  Chapter Sixty

  Sunday visits to see my parents now consisted of driving to an assisted living home. My father was scheduled to stay there until he could walk with a cane. The doctors explained that the severity of the trauma was such that it may be months before they could operate on his knee. They assured us until then, he was in good hands.

  For the following months, my mother spent her evenings and nights with him. Despite being in her seventies, she continued to work doing what she loved – managing a safe house for battered women. Leaving him was difficult for her when the time came, and she often stayed much later than she should. Being separated from him wasn’t easy. In the fifty-eight years that they’d been married, she’d spent every day with him without fail. From the day they met – when she was sixteen – he had been her everything.

  Her only man.

  Her only love.

  If anyone knew how to care for my father, she did.

  The phone rang late one evening, three months after my father was admitted to the home. I cringed when I realized who it was. My sister rarely called me. When she did, it was always about one of my parents. She lived in Houston, Texas, and visited quite frequently, but she had never been one to want to talk on the phone.

  Reluctantly, I answered.

  “Mom’s in the hospital,” she said.

  “Exhaustion?” I asked.

  “She wrecked her car.”

  “Fuck. Is she okay?”

  “The car flipped end over end, and then slid for a hundred yards. She was on the highway between Augusta and El Dorado. It’s bad. They’ve towed the car to Cook’s Salvage. I need you to go see if you can find her purse and house keys. Oh, and don’t tell dad. She’s pretty insistent on that.”

  “Jesus, Amy. Is she okay?”

  “By the grace of God. She was tossed out the window, and the car rolled over her, but somehow it missed her. They found it about a hundred yards from where they found her.”

  “Goddamn it. Is she at Susan B. Anthony?”

  “She is. Room 724.”

  “Thanks, Amy.”

  “Keep me in the loop.”

  “Will do.”

  When I saw my mother’s car, I all but collapsed. It looked like it had been hit by a speeding train. None of the windows were intact. The top was crushed. All four doors were crushed. The front, the back – everything – was crushed.

  How someone could live through such an accident was incomprehensible to me.

  A thirty-minute search aided by a flashlight produced the key. An hour later, my mother was at home nursing a concussion.

  That weekend, her face was plastered with extra makeup to hide her bruises. Luckily, my father was more interested in Charlee than anything else, and he didn’t notice.

  “She’s what? Eight months now?” he asked.

  “She will be in a few days.”

  “She’s going to be tall. Like Alec,” he said.

  “Every doctor’s visit, she’s off the charts,” I said. “One hundred percentile on height, and fifty on weight. Tall and skinny.”

  He smiled. “Just like her granddad used to be.”

  In his younger years, my father, like my sons, was an athlete. He played basketball and ran cross country. He grew up in Leon, Kansas, and my mother lived in El Dorado. He didn’t have a car at the time, and my mother wasn’t old enough to drive.

  It didn’t diminish his desire to see her. Nor did it prevent him from doing so.

  He’d lace up his Chuck Taylor’s, stretch his long legs, and then he’d run the thirteen miles that separated them. After their visits, he’d run home.

  I often told myself I’d write a romance novel based on their experiences as lovers. Their love for one another would act as an inspiration for anyone with a heart. Far more inspirational than the motorcycle club romance novels I’d been writing, that much I was sure of.

  “What’s the plan for the summer,” he asked Landon.

  “We’re going on vacation,” Landon replied.

  “Where?” my father asked.

  “Florida. For a whole month.”

  My father nodded. “I bet you’ll have a good time.”

  “We’re going to the beach.”

  My father’s eyes closed for a moment. When he opened them, he smiled. “Your dad used to love the beach. Tough dragging him away from it, that was for sure.”

  Landon looked at
me and grinned. “We’re going to surf.”

  My farther pointed at his knee. “Be careful.”

  “I will,” Landon assured him.

  A week later, I stood on the beach and gazed out at the Gulf of Mexico. With my toes in the sand and my mind deep in a dream, I closed my eyes. I dreamed of my childhood, and the magic the beach caused me to believe in.

  As a child, I struggled with the existence of God. Even then, my world was black and white. If I couldn’t see it, taste it, or touch it, it simply didn’t exist. One day, while playing along the area where the ocean met the land, I peered out at the vast blanket of water that stretched to the horizon.

  I gazed up at the sky.

  I tried to comprehend how it worked. What made it function. The waves. High tide. Low tide. It was unconceivable. As the Pacific Ocean’s waves crashed against my feet, I decided what was before me was nothing short of proof that God did, in fact, exist.

  The ocean’s waves were confirmation that He was alive.

  I convinced myself it was God breathing that caused them to wash ashore. As long as they continued, I was certain that He was watching over me. The closer I was to the waves that tickled my feet, the closer I was to God.

  The Gulf’s warm water covered my feet each time the tide pulsed.

  “What are you doing?” Jess asked.

  I didn’t respond.

  “Scott?”

  I raised my index finger.

  Then, I said a prayer.

  We left the beach that day and drove from Marco Island, Florida to Naples, a city a few miles north. The streets were lined with palms for as far as the eye could see. The median that separated the eastern and western traffic ways was landscaped with lush tropical plants and flowers.

  “This is beautiful,” Jess said.

  I agreed. “It’s unbelievable.”

  In my fifty-plus years on earth, I’d driven from one end of the United States to the other. I’d visited every body of water that touched its edges. I had never, however, seen anything as beautiful as the city we were driving through. Despite having prepaid for a condo on the island for a month, we decided to spend the remaining portion of our vacation in Naples.

  While Charlee slept, Jess and the kids swam in the hotel’s pool. I Googled Naples, to find out more of the paradise-like city. A quick check of the statistics revealed the odds of being the victim of a crime were less than one-one-thousandth of one-percent.