Monica Jackson - Merry Christmas, Baby

by Merry Christmas, Baby

  Merry Christmas, Baby

  By Monica Jackson

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDONAMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURGSTOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRIDPRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  Contents

  Her First

  His Second

  Her Third

  His Fourth

  Her Fifth

  His Sixth

  Her Seventh

  His Eighth

  Her Last

  Her First

  “They said they were sending out a new physical therapist today,” my mother said.

  I looked across the kitchen table at Mama sitting in her wheelchair. “What happened to Melissa?”

  “She broke her fool leg skiing.” Mama rolled her eyes.

  “That’s too bad. I know she’s going to hate being off her feet. She’s so active.”

  “Humph. Silly heifer strapped sticks of wood to her feet to slide down a mountain in ice-cold snow, and for what?”

  I hid my smile behind my cup of coffee. Mama was working herself up to rare form this morning.

  “For what, girl?”

  “I don’t know, Mama.”

  “To climb back up the cold-ass, snowy mountain and slide down it again. It’s insane, I tell you. Back in the day, black folk had more sense.”

  “Times change.”

  “And not for the better,” Mama grumbled. “Lord knows what sort of fool I’m going to get up in here to replace Melissa.”

  “I’m sure whoever they send will be fine.” At least I hope they’ll be fine once Mama gets done with them.

  Mama had been staying with me ever since she’d had her stroke. I wished Mama would have sold the house in Eskridge and come to Atlanta sooner. But Mom was stubborn.

  Damned if I live off my children. Besides, y’all get on my last nerve, she’d say.

  Mama was a mess. Like she thought she didn’t get on my last nerve, too.

  “What day are you off work this week?”

  “I’m off next Friday.”

  “I can never tell when you’re coming or going. I see why there’s a nursing shortage if they put all of y’all through this hoo-ha.”

  “My schedule is regular, Mama. I work every other weekend and I have every other Monday and Friday off.”

  “How are people supposed to keep track of what’s every and what’s other?”

  “It’s on the calendar on the refrigerator.”

  “Humph. There’s a sale at JC Penney this weekend. I have some Christmas shopping I have to finish. I wanted you to go and get me some things.”

  “Why not have May do it?”

  “May is one of the ones I need to shop for. Besides, I never see you since you hired that other part-time aide.”

  I had to guard my off days. Otherwise, I know Mama’d drive me stir crazy. I needed time to escape to my room, read a book, get on the computer or simply get away from the house.

  “We see each other all the time. I got the other aide so I could have a bit of breathing space.”

  “A waste of money is what I call it.”

  “Do you want more coffee, Mama?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “I’m going to shower and dress.”

  “Hurry up, I need you to help me to the bathroom soon.”

  A few minutes later I was in the shower, warm water sluicing over my skin. I wished it could wash the fatigue out of my bones, too.

  I didn’t know how I was going to get in everything I needed to do. I needed groceries and I had Christmas shopping to do. The season was closing in on me, and I didn’t feel even a little bit festive.

  There was no way I could get anything done before I had to be at work at 3:00 p.m. I’d been working second shift ever since I graduated from nursing school.

  But now I wished I worked day shift. It felt as if I put in a full shift at home before I went to work and put in another. I was up early every morning to get my mother up, get her dressed and feed her breakfast. I got up at least twice during the night to turn her so she didn’t get bedsores.

  But despite everything, I appreciated the opportunity to pay back the love. Mama got up more than twice a night for me, once upon a time. She’d woken early to feed me breakfast and get me dressed for years.

  My brother helped supplement Mama’s limited income and paid for the nurse’s aides, but he had a growing family and he lived in California, so the physical help he was able to give was limited.

  “Sharyn!”

  Ah—Mama bellowed. I turned off the water and hurried out of the shower. “You all right?”

  “I need to go to the bathroom now.”

  I pulled a robe over my damp body and hurried to take care of my mother.

  I’d just gotten Mama settled into the wheelchair when the doorbell rang.

  “Let the new girl in. I can’t wait to see what kind of fool they sent me this time.”

  I pitied the physical therapist, whoever he or she was, that had to work with my mother. Mama was always cantankerous at best, but she was impossible now that she was wheelchair and home bound.

  I pulled my robe a bit tighter and wished I’d had time to get dressed before the new therapist had arrived.

  But when I opened the door, instead of the therapist, a handsome white man stood on the doorstep. He didn’t look the salesman type, but I supposed the better ones didn’t. He looked like a movie star, all sun-streaked hair, blinding white teeth and expensive everything. “Can I help you?” I asked.

  “My name is Nick Cohen. I’m here to see Betty Silvers.”

  “She isn’t interested.” I wondered what he was selling. What kind of door-to-door salesman could afford a slammin’ suit like he was sporting?

  “What?”

  “She isn’t interested in anything you have to sell. Thank you.”

  I started to push the door shut, but to my astonishment, he blocked it with his foot.

  “Take your foot out of my door!”

  “I think Mrs. Silvers is interested in what I have to offer.”

  “Take your foot out of my door before I knock it out.”

  Was I gonna have to call 911 on this fool? I’d heard of persistent salesmen, but dang.

  “You misunderstood.”

  Misunderstood what? Did he think he was talking to a child?

  “I have an appointment with your grandmother. I’m going to be doing her therapy.”

  Oops.

  “Betty Silvers is my mother,” I said, contrite. “You don’t look like a therapist.” That was an understatement. “How are you going to do therapy in a suit like that?”

  I knew suits, and that one cost more than a dime.

  “Would you like to see my badge?”

  “Please.”

  He dug out his wallet and handed me a card. His hands weren’t Hollywood though. They were the hands of a man who worked—rough and callused, although clean—rather than the suit-wearing fancy-model dude he looked.

  “I’m sorry, I should have been wearing this badge, but I hurried here from a meeting,” he said.

  I glanced at the picture and the logo of the therapy company. Yep, he apparently worked there and he had initials after his name. He was a certified physical therapist.

  “Maybe we should reschedule this appointment anyway.” With another therapist. Mama wasn’t about to let some white man with salon-scissored hair and a thousand-dollar suit lay a hand on her.

  “That’s not possible. I’m here to provide the therapy Mrs. Silvers’s rehabilitation doctor ordered.” He cleared his throat. “Are you going to let me in?”

  All righty, then. I t
ried to save him. I stood aside.

  “Let me introduce you to my mother.” Lord help the man.

  I led him inside. All of a sudden I was acutely aware of my nakedness under the bathrobe, the rough terry cloth rubbing against my skin.

  “Who is this?” Mama demanded as soon as we entered the den. “My therapist is supposed to be here now.”

  “This is the therapist, Mama. Nick Cohen, this is my mother, Betty Silvers.”

  Mother didn’t say a word but studied him from the top of his light brown, sun-streaked hair and blue eyes, down his expensive-as-hell Savile Row suit, to the tips of his Barker blacks.

  “What the hell is this white man doing in our house, Sharyn?” Mama finally said.

  Nick Cohen flinched.

  “He’s here for your therapy, Mama,” I repeated.

  “The hell he is. What fool is going to come to bend and sweat with some old lady wearing that getup? You thought you was going to a party, boy?”

  I noticed Nick Cohen’s cheeks pinkening up nicely.

  “No, ma’am.”

  So Nick Cohen wasn’t dumb. That was the only right answer, as far as Mama was concerned.

  “Well, then what’s wrong witcha, boy?”

  “Nothing that I’m aware of, Mrs. Silvers.”

  “Humph. Well, it’s your suit that’s gonna get ruined, fool. I leak. Sometimes us old ladies do. Anytime, anywhere, any orifice might start leaking, just like that. Leak, leak, leak, all over the place. Can you deal with that, boy?”

  His eyes widened. “If I must, ma’am.”

  I tried not to grin and scored him a point.

  She chuckled. “He’s not too bad. Take off that jacket. Do you want Sharyn to get you a pair of her sweatpants and a T-shirt? They’ll stretch. He’s a tall one, isn’t he, Sharyn? Look at those muscles.”

  I’d been looking. He must work out. Tall, well built and fine was a nice combo anyway you wrapped it.

  “No, I’ll be all right,” he said as he swept off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Yessiree, he was as fine as wine. I turned to leave.

  “Where are you going?” Mama asked.

  “I need to get dressed.”

  “You’re not going to leave me alone with this strange man. He could be a rapist or something.”

  I tried not to giggle at the strangled noise that emanated from Nick Cohen’s direction.

  “A rapist? Mama, please.”

  “You get over here and help this man.”

  “Really, I don’t—”

  “Shh. Be quiet, girl. First rule of the Silvers household—never interrupt Mrs. Betty Silvers. You got that? Under no circumstances mess up my train of thought, because once it’s lost, I might not be able to find it again. Now, as I was sayin’, go and get me my gait belt hanging on the back of the bedroom door.”

  There was no point in arguing with Mama in this mood. I went.

  Nick was perusing Mama’s chart when I returned with the belt a moment later.

  “Put down that chart, boy,” Mama ordered. “I know my own routine. First we walk to the bedroom and then we take a little rest while you bring us hot, sweet tea and cinnamon toast. You have enough sense to make cinnamon toast?”

  “I believe so,” he said.

  “Good. Next time you’ll get a chance to make it. Now, where’s that gait belt, Sharyn?”

  Fifteen minutes later I decided Nick Cohen really knew what he was doing. He expertly supported Mama so she was safe and felt secure, but she still did a good deal of work.

  He was much better than Melissa, who coddled Mama too much. By the time Mama reached the bed, she was breathing hard.

  “Sharyn, come over here and help me lie down.”

  “I’d also like to observe your transfer technique,” Nick said.

  He must have no idea that I was an RN and that heaving heavy patients around by myself was my bread and butter. I was small, around a hundred and ten pounds and short, while my mother weighed at least two hundred pounds. I forgave him because at first everybody thought I was going to have trouble.

  I locked the wheelchair brakes, braced my knees against Mama’s and flexed my hips. With one easy motion I leaned over and pivoted Mama around to the bed.

  He cleared his throat.

  I almost dropped Mama when I realized my robe had fallen open and the entire curve of my breast was visible. Mortified, I tightened the belt to my robe before I moved around the bed adjusting my mother’s position. Mama closed her eyes and finally fell blessedly silent.

  “Nice…nice technique. The way you moved really saved your back muscles and spine,” Nick said, his voice husky.

  I darted a glance at him. He was leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets.

  “If I didn’t know what I was doing, I’d probably be in a wheelchair myself. I work med-surg at St. Margaret’s Hospital. Speaking of, I better get dressed for work.”

  “Show him where he needs to make the cinnamon toast and tea,” Mama said without opening her eyes.

  I met his gaze and a wave of sexual awareness passed between us. Our gazes lingered too long, filling me with a warm, wet needing.

  Nick’s eyes were narrowed, his cheeks flushed, his hands deep in his pockets, hiding the arousal I knew without a doubt was present. Oh, Lord. He must think I exposed myself to every man who came into this house. That I was stuck in here caring for my invalid mother, desperate for some…

  “The kitchen is that way,” I said. “I have to get dressed.”

  I turned and fled.

  His Second

  When she opened the door, I wanted to peel back that sweet little white robe she was wearing and do her up against the wall, no words said, no questions asked or answered.

  I couldn’t remember any woman ever affecting me as much.

  I’d been with plenty of beautiful women and I had no fetishes for any certain type of women. But something about this woman moved me like no other.

  The feeling only intensified when she wouldn’t let me in. The impish smile that had crossed her face only made me want her more.

  Was it her delicate beauty or the difference of her glorious milk-chocolate silky skin and wet shoulder-length hair curling in tight, inky, coiled springs? Or was it her outspoken charm, the quick intelligence stamped on her features or the impish grin that crossed her face? Or maybe it was the more traditional appeal of huge doe eyes fringed with incredible velvet lashes and her kissable red Christmas-bow lips.

  I was there that morning because there wasn’t one therapist who’d agree to visit “the Dragon,” as they referred to Betty Silvers, other than Melissa. When the office had called me to inform me of that fact, I’d rushed to the Silvers home from a meeting.

  Right now wasn’t the time to lose my most lucrative case to one of my competing agencies. It wouldn’t look good at all since I was trying to sell my business I’d built from scratch to one of them. It was essential that I appeared a threat. Otherwise they’d be more hesitant to shell out the bucks to buy me out.

  So I’d needed to handle this one myself. Then I could decide how to best present the problem patient to one of my better therapists. Betty Silvers might be difficult, but a difficult patient was something a good therapist should be expected to handle, right?

  Wrong.

  I was ready to wring that old lady’s chicken neck within the hour.

  I’d resolved to give Melissa a raise and a bonus and was trying to figure out some way she could conduct a therapy session on crutches, because the woman must be a saint to put up with Betty Silvers. If she called me “boy” one more time—

  “Help me to the bathroom again, boy.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Silvers.” The woman must have a bladder the size of a pea.

  I helped her and waited outside the door, thinking about Sharyn.

  “Boy! Boy, do you hear me?”

  “I can hear just fine.”

  “Don’t you get smart-mouthed with me, boy. Go to my daughter’s room and get
me a book from her bookcase, second shelf from the top, Love’s Fevered Passion. I’m gonna be a while in here. Hurry up now.”

  Dear Lord.

  Sharyn’s room was neat, decorated with bright, sunny colors. It had a Caribbean feel to it, as if she’d rather be at the beach than in chilly Atlanta. She liked techie toys as much as I did. Electronics were scattered all over the room. Her walls were lined with bookshelves, and they were all crammed full of books. She had very eclectic reading tastes.

  Then my gaze was drawn to the flickering computer screen. In her rush to leave, she’d left it on. Her screen saver was a lazy fish that flowed over her desktop, not really obscuring it. She’d been in a chat room?

  I had to force myself to look away from the computer.

  Second shelf of which bookcase? I looked over all the second shelves from the top, but I could find no Love’s Fevered Passion. I hoped Sin’s Blazing Fury would do.

  On the cover, a man clutched a woman who was bent backward over his arm at her waist. He seemed to be sniffing her navel, his face contorted as if he smelled something awful.

  The woman seemed dreadfully uncomfortable, arched back in a bow, her unnaturally red hair brushing the heels of her feet. Maybe she was dead. There was a tiny horse in the background and a misty caped figure with a sword.

  I guess it was horror novel instead of the porn opus Mrs. Silvers had wanted to read—I couldn’t help an involuntary shudder at the thought—but it would have to do.

  I hurried back before Mrs. Silvers had another stroke.

  She snatched the book out of my hand. Thank the Lord that Sin’s Blazing Fury seemed to work as well for her as Love’s Fevered Passion.

  “It took you long enough. Now get out of here. I’ll call you when I’m done. It’ll be a while.”

  “I need to leave, Mrs. Silvers. I have another appointment. Can I call your daughter—”

  “You don’t need to do a thing in this life but stay white, die and do what I tell you. You best be here when I need you to get me off this toilet if my daughter isn’t back. You know I can’t be left alone.”

  I could see why this case billed so high. Extended daily visits at special-care rates indeed. And we probably didn’t charge enough.