Don’t You Forget About Me
Suzanne Jenkins
Don’t You Forget About Me
by Suzanne Jenkins
Don’t You Forget About Me. Copyright © 2013 by
Suzanne Jenkins. All rights reserved.
Created in digital format in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations in blog posts and articles and in reviews.
Don’t You Forget About Me is complete and total work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
For information on the Greektown trilogy, the Pam of Babylon series, and other works by author Suzanne Jenkins, please refer to the ‘Also by…’ section at the end of this novel.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Also by Suzanne Jenkins
HEART, we will forget him!
You and I, to-night!
You may forget the warmth he gave,
I will forget the light.
When you have done, pray tell me,
That I my thoughts may dim;
Haste! lest while you're lagging,
I may remember him!
—Emily Dickinson
Chapter 1
When Jack Smith had a heart attack on a train bound for Long Island, he was more surprised than anyone else was. It was true; he’d had a premonition that he was going to die soon. His attorney told Jack’s wife he didn’t think he’d live much longer. His lifestyle was catching up with him. A major change that might redeem a few of his past mistakes was in order. However, a heart attack would cut short his good intentions. The doctor had warned him about his cholesterol; he needed to exercise and watch his diet, and for the past year, he’d been compliant. But it was too late. A rich man’s lifestyle and maniacal stress, or the will of God would do him in after all, and not his misdeeds.
In seconds after his head hit the floor, he was aware of his brother, Bill, taking his wallet. They had been arguing when the syncope hit him, taking him down. Jack’s vision was limited to exactly what was in front of his eyes. Fascinated, he thought, Blinder vision! I’ll Google the phenomenon when I get home. As he lay on the filth of the subway train, Jack saw Bill’s face, red-eyed and scared to death, leaning in sideways to grope around in his brother’s jacket. It was the same look he wore as a youngster when summoned to his father’s lair. Jack wanted to yell out to him not to be afraid: I won’t let that bastard hurt you anymore! They were no longer children, however, and now Jack was unable to talk.
Bill stepped out of Jack’s field of vision. Within seconds, another passenger found Jack and summoned help. Floating in and out of consciousness, Jack was often aware of what was happening to him as the paramedics tended to him and got him off the train and into an ambulance. It was so frustrating that he couldn’t respond, and in his mind, he was screaming, Call Pam! The words repeated in a loop until they became a sort of mantra that brought Jack peace and took his mind off the searing pain in his jaw and the invasive, intrusive acts of his helpers.
In his next awareness of consciousness, during a brief moment when he saw the side of a woman’s face bending over him, he was able to say the words that had filled his brain for the past several hours.
“Call my wife, Pam.”
The young woman, a nurse, repeated the name. “Pam?”
“My wife, Pam Smith.” And he clearly spoke their telephone number at the beach. He closed his eyes and saw Pam’s lovely face, but then he took his last breath and died.
~ ~ ~
Weeks later, Pam Smith woke up early, confused. What day is it? Rolling over to look at Jack’s side of the bed, she realized that he hadn’t slept there. The sheet and blanket were pulled up tightly, with the pillows stacked and undisturbed. Isn’t it Saturday morning? He should be lying here beside me. She leaned on her elbow and stretched to see if she could see him in the bathroom or hear water running. Nothing. Looking back toward the window, she saw the pink early morning light of the sun’s rays illuminating the sand, the water calm to the horizon. It would be another beautiful day at the beach. She reached for the clock. Her eyes weren’t focusing this morning. This was ridiculous; she had to find her glasses to read the clock. It was only five. Why would he be up and out already? Is he fishing today or meeting someone for an early golf game? She got up and went into the bathroom. It was empty. Looking up at her reflection in the mirror, she remembered. Jack was dead.
He didn’t come home last night because he wasn’t alive. She stared at the stranger staring back at her. Her reflection shocked her; she’d been avoiding looking at herself because the physical changes from losing weight were so dramatic, they had to have happened over a course of weeks and not overnight. Pain showed in her face. Jowls replaced her once tight jawline; deep marionette lines had appeared on either side of her mouth. Her neck was wrinkled. Always proud of her shapely figure, she was now as flat-chested as a ten-year-old boy. Tired of the self-examination, she left the bathroom close to tears.
She put on a robe and walked out to the kitchen. Standing in the center of the large, light-filled space, she turned to look out the windows at the Atlantic Ocean, hoping to find that special peace the house usually provided. Not today. It was a sterile, empty shell. For the first time in weeks, she began to cry. Pam’s head dropped to her chest, and she allowed the tears to come. She was lonely. But it wasn’t only that she missed Jack. He had hurt her so deeply by the things she had discovered about him that she was numb. Very fleeting moments of pain would magnify with enough intensity to penetrate the vacuum she was in. And it was only then that she would cry. It never lasted long. Just a couple of seconds, a few tears on her cheek.
As empty and meaningless as she felt right then, she would begin her day. Routine was a lifesaver. I can bathe and brush my teeth. Then I can do my hair and makeup. Go to the kitchen and make coffee, go to the gym or not, come home and bathe again. Take a walk. Pull weeds. Eat. She would make those activities stretch into a day until she could safely go to bed.
Someone might call her, her children or her sisters. Or Jack’s former mistress, Sandra Benson. That would take some minutes away from the dreaded clock-watching. Life was stretching out ahead of her with no purpose, no meaning. There had to be a way she could find something to do that was worthwhile again. She went back into the lovely room she
had shared with her husband for almost thirty years, and as she attempted to put aside her grief for yet another day, she stopped and said out loud, “I hate you, Jack.”
~ ~ ~
I hope this guy doesn’t turn out to be a jerk, Marie Fabian thought as she drove upstate to spend the weekend at Jeff Babcock’s. They’d met on the beach in front of her sister Pam’s house back in June. To date they’d had coffee together twice, lunch three times and dinner every weekend for the past six weeks. When Jeff invited her to visit him for the weekend at his house in Rhinebeck, it seemed like a great idea to get out of the city and not go to Pam’s for a change. But now, as she navigated the Taconic Parkway in weekend traffic, she wasn’t so sure. Doubts floating through her mind eroded the excitement she had felt when she locked her apartment door that morning. Walking toward the garage to get her car, dragging her suitcase behind her, she’d caught herself whistling a little.
Now she was questioning her wisdom. What was I thinking? She barely knew the guy. He’d lived down the beach from Pam and her late husband, Jack, for twenty years, and she’d never seen him before. Or hadn’t noticed him. Someone else was taking all her attention. Now she was faced with the possibility that Jeff would want to sleep with her. They hadn’t discussed the sleeping arrangements; Marie assumed she would sleep alone. Do I want to sleep alone? she thought.
For a forty-five-year-old woman, Marie had little experience with dating in general and men in particular. Or, more accurately, more than one man. She was simply allowing things to happen with Jeff, not putting up too many boundaries but not getting overly involved too quickly, either. She was having difficulty figuring out his intensions. Although he pursued her, once they were finally together, he didn’t act very interested.
She turned the radio on to keep her mind thinking about something else. An old Don Henley song came on, and she belted out the chorus to “Boys of Summer”.
It had only been weeks since Jack Smith died, and she was already going away for the weekend with another man while singing the songs Jack used to sing to her. Could it be possible that she was over Jack already? She thought back to the first time she met Jeff. She’d fled the city, feigning illness or family emergency at work (she couldn’t remember which now), getting into her car and heading toward her sister’s house in Babylon. She went over the speed limit all the way, keeping up with traffic. As soon as she got there, she put on her bathing suit, grabbed a beach chair and a paperback, and went out to sit in the sun. It was a perfect beach day, the sand packed with other sunbathers. The area in front of Pam’s was already crowded, so she had to walk south a few yards to find an empty spot. She ended up in front of Jeff’s fabulous house. The oceanfront facade and landscaping appeared in the Sunday home section of the paper just about every summer.
Most all the sunbathers followed the sun’s path, moving their towels and chairs every thirty minutes or so as it traveled toward the west. But Marie liked facing the ocean. She would look up from her book periodically to stare at the water, hopefully spotting dolphins or boats way, way out. When Jack was alive, he always remembered to bring binoculars, and they would take turns examining the horizon for interesting finds.
Jack liked looking at people, too. He’d find lovers kissing under their umbrellas or suspicious movements underneath carefully placed towels. He was really a pervert, she thought to herself. Creepy. She relished being alone for the first time in her memory. She could nap without worrying if she drooled or snored, or mindlessly snack while she read her novel.
Jack could also be a tyrant. She remembered on one of their beach days together, when she was just twenty years old, falling asleep on a beach towel and waking up to find Jack staring at her body with his lips slightly pursed. She sat up self-consciously, hoping she hadn’t farted in her sleep.
“What’s wrong?” she asked him, quickly pulling her towel around her.
He was sitting next to her, scrutinizing her face and looking along the length of her.
“You’re thin, but you’re not in shape. You need to work out,” he said, nodding his head at her, and turned to look out at the ocean again.
Eager to please him in every way, she agreed, saying she would start going to the fitness center at school as soon as she got back to the city.
“Yeah, right,” he said sarcastically. Then more kindly, “You should ask your sister to give you some advice about a workout. Ask Pam. She’s in great shape,” he said with a devious smile. It was the first time Jack had ever held his wife, her sister Pam, up to Marie as an example. It would mark the beginning of years of humiliation and criticism he piled on, playing the sisters against each other in a battle that Pam knew nothing about.
Worried that he may be plotting to end their relationship, Marie would have done anything he asked to keep him happy and near her. “Okay, I’ll ask her. Maybe she’ll take me to the gym with her.”
But he ignored her, lying back down on the towel and closing his eyes, his forearm draped over his face, ensuring that he didn’t have to see her. She held her stomach in and stood up straighter the rest of the day, regretful that she had worn a two-piece suit. That evening she would find one of the provocative underwear catalogues Pam shopped from and buy a suit with a push-up bra and tummy-control panel. And that night, Jack would come to her bed, and she welcomed him, the insults at the beach already forgotten.
That day on the beach after Jack died was one of the first times that Marie felt like she was going to be all right, that she had hope for a normal future. As long as Jack was alive, she’d have been in bondage to him, even though he had stopped seeking her out. He had replaced Marie with Sandra.
She wasn’t thinking about Sandra when Jeff Babcock approached her. He was walking the beach with his dog, Fred. Fred took an instant liking to Marie and would not leave her, even though Jeff called for him over and over again. Finally giving up, Jeff reluctantly walked to Marie’s beach chair, collar and leash in hand.
“Sorry about this! Fred, you are bad! Bad dog!” Jeff was clearly embarrassed, but Marie was happy; she didn’t really mind the dog’s intrusion because his owner was so nice looking.
I wonder if he’s single, she thought. He wasn’t wearing a wedding band, but that didn’t mean anything anymore.
He knelt down in front of Marie and placed the collar around Fred’s neck. He held out his hand. “Jeff Babcock,” he said, smiling. He had perfect white teeth. A little too tan, considering it was only June, he must go to the tanning salon. He was wearing crisp white tennis shorts and a white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was pure white, but he didn’t look much older than Jack had been, not as fit, either. It was a relief. She let her stomach relax a little bit.
“Marie Fabian!” she said, taking his hand and shaking it. “I love dogs!” She pulled her feet in away from the licking dog. They talked for a while until Jeff excused himself; he had to get home to take a call.
Later that week, he asked Marie to accompany him to the retirement party of his former partner, meeting her in the city for a wonderful evening of dancing. She couldn’t remember when she’d had so much fun. At the end of the night, he said he had to get back to Babylon but wanted to see her the next time she was at Pam’s. He didn’t offer to see her home, putting her in a cab and paying the driver in advance. When they were together, it was nothing more than companionship. He did nothing for her chemistry. Pam told her that would come in time. Men had immediate desire for someone they were attracted to; for women, it came with admiration for a man.
“A man can be attracted to a bimbo who can’t construct a sentence; I’m right, don’t you think? A woman can think someone is handsome, but if he’s an asshole, she won’t be attracted to him, no matter how good looking he is.” She thought of Jack; there were exceptions to every rule.
Marie navigated the car through Albany. She was almost there. Having rarely been out of the city except for the weekly trips to Babylon, coming up here was a treat, and she wa
s determined to enjoy herself. She thought of Jeff and his mannerisms and posture, how different he was from Jack, thankfully. Where Jack had been tall and handsome, Jeff was average height and a little soft around the middle. And Jeff was soft-spoken and gentle. Jack had been a larger-than-life sarcastic who didn’t waste a minute or word in action or speech. Jeff was willing to sit back and allow time to pass without looking at his watch. Marie almost relaxed when she was with him. Could it be real? she thought. And then, again, repeated, Oh, I hope he’s not a jerk.
Chapter 2
Pam regrouped and began her day. She was home alone; her mother, who’d moved in after Jack died, was spending a week in Connecticut with Pam’s sister Susan. Nelda Fabian and Pam had worked out a casual routine where they could spend some time together every day without suffocating each other. They ate breakfast in the morning after Pam got home from the gym, sitting on the veranda and drinking coffee. Then Pam would continue her own agenda. She volunteered at the library every Wednesday, unless her children were home from college. She spent more and more time on her appearance, working out, going to the hairdresser twice a week, having manicures, pedicures, massages, and facials. She knew she was sublimating. After all, it had been less than two months since Jack had died.
Immediately after his death, the crimes Jack had committed were revealed, including infidelity with her sister Marie, an affair which had its conception in her abuse at age fifteen. He was also having an affair with his research assistant, resulting in a pregnancy that was discovered after his death. Against nature, the young woman, Sandra Benson, was becoming indispensable to Pam; in a few short weeks, she was a trusted confidante, a friend. So if getting her hair done too often was the most incriminating thing that could be said about Pam, so be it. She didn’t know what else to do with herself yet, but in time, she was hopeful that something would materialize.
Pam was seeing another man. He was just a friend, but he was still a man. They spoke on the phone, met for coffee at each other’s houses, walked the beach for exercise, and went out for dinner occasionally. She enjoyed his company for what it was—a diversion from the routine of her life without her husband. There wasn’t the edge, the tension that she’d had with Jack.
Don't You Forget About Me: Pam of Babylon Book #2 Page 1