Learning to Live Again

by Marie Kinneer

  But her eyes betrayed her. They kept searching the parking lot on her trek to the hospital entrance. “Why would he come? Just because he went to the room last night? I mean, seriously, why would he come?” She whispered to herself then shook her head to clear it of its nonsensical ramblings. She was waiting for the elevator to take her to Peter’s floor when she saw him. She had to suppress an impulse to throw her arms around him. Instead she managed to say, “Hello, Sam. I’m so glad you could come,” as if he’d come to a birthday party she’d invited him to.

  Sam’s face broke out in a sheepish grin. “Had a strange dream last night. Thought you might need some help.”

  He had a dream! The elevator ride whipped her tummy to butter. What is it about this man that has my mind in such a spin?

  The closed drapes steeped the room in shades of blue shadows. Peter slept. Another boy, with legs hung in an apparatus above his head, watched the TV on the wall across the room. Margie smiled at him. “What did you do this time. Edgar?”

  “Motorcross. I made the jump but the bike didn’t. They tell me I landed on my feet. Too bad. I don’t get hurt when I land on my head.” His grin was wide. “What happened to Pete? Looks like he had a fight with a baseball bat.”

  Margie turned away from Edgar and watched Peter’s face from under a curious rise of an eyebrow. “You’re faking sleep! Are you in pain and afraid you’re going to cry? We won’t tease you.” While she talked, Margie set her face just above his. She could feel his breath. Closer and their eyelashes would brush. She’d always done this with him. The Truth Act. As a matter of fact, it was a three year old Peter that started this game of extracting truth. “Peter!” Her voice was insistent.

  Peter’s eyelids fluttered. “Come on, Mom. Let me sleep. I was asleep.” His eyelids crinkled in an attempt stay shut tight.

  “You were not.” She sat on the bed, let her face drop to his, feather dusted his nose with her own, and kissed him perfunctorily.

  He pulled a fist to his nose and rubbed. “Ow,” he yelped with a jerk, then flattened his hand and wiped at his mouth. “Cut it out, Mom.” With hands on her shoulders, he pushed her body upward to a sitting position, relieving himself of the intimacy of her. He was embarrassed, she saw, and felt a twinge of loss. He was growing up. Hannah had been telling her that, but she wouldn’t see it. Yet, here it was. Undeniable.

  ******

  Sam watched. The relationship between mother and son, the closeness, the effortless physical contact, was a mystery to him. Close friends, close siblings even, but not mother and son. Margie extracted too much from the boy. She treated him as an equal. Sam felt pain in the boy’s eyes, pain that had nothing to do with his physical condition. Allison insisted that this Peter Pan of a girl was thirty years old. Watching her now, he almost didn’t believe it. His ex, Karen, was a young thirty-seven. The two were light years apart.

  If Karen was a woman, Margie was a little girl. The girl was obviously the mother of this boy. It was just that she was so … what? Soft? Vulnerable? That was it. And funny cute. Her hair, for one thing. And her ears, the way they stuck out of her hair. She even dressed like a teenager. And wasn’t she skinny? She had no boobs, no hips, slim thighs. Sam’s breathing rhythm somersaulted. There was nothing about this girl that should cause his heart to race. But there it was, his heart in his throat as he watched her with her son.

  Peter’s eyes lit on him. Sam could feel the weight. “Mr. Gear?” The boy’s voice was a whisper. “Am I going to jail or something?”

  “Beats me, kid. What do you think you’d be going to jail for?”

  “You a NARC?”

  “Yeah, I am. Now what have you got to say for yourself.”

  “Nothin’. Absolutely nothing.”

  The boy’s eyes took on sheen. Communication shut down. Sam derided himself for his lack of compassion and skill. Sam wasn’t a NARC. He didn’t have an excuse for pretending that he was, except that he wanted to help this kid.

  “What’s going on here?” Margie shot Sam an anxious look.

  “Ask him who beat him up and why.” Why weren’t the questions obvious to the mother? Or did she already know the answers?

  “You said you fell.” This to Peter. “Hit your head on the stump, the old chestnut. You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Peter?”

  “My head hit the stump, Mom, that’s no lie. When am I getting out of here?”

  Sam didn’t know where it came from, this feeling of compassion for a strange, fourteen-year-old boy. But his heart stuck in his throat, and he had a hard time swallowing. The kid’s head probably did hit the stump. But what or who made him fall? That kid in the drug store? Someone did; Sam was sure.

  Sam’s attention was on the mother. He watched her shoulders quiver, her hand run through the short crop of her hair. She gave Sam a meaningful if fleeting look. “I think you’re being released this morning, but I haven’t talked to your doctor yet. You get some rest, Petey. I’ll come back after I find Dr. Pharr. Okay?”

  “I love you, Mom,” was all he said before his heavy lidded eyes closed.

  Margie turned on Sam as soon as the room door was closed behind them. “What do you know I don’t?”

  Sam held up his hands as if threatened. “Only what I see as obvious. The kid’s had the crap beaten out of him,” Sam said, watching the fire in her eyes.

  “You don’t believe he fell? You have this prescription thing in your craw and you’re just sure Peter is dispensing drugs like some pusher. Right?” Her voice was reaching hysteria.

  “Maybe he won’t play along. Maybe that’s why he’s in the hospital.” Sam spoke gently, hoping she’d listen to his words.

  Margie was quiet then. She took a deep breath in, pressed her hands to her forehead, exhaled and said, “What do I do now?”

  It was the tremble in her voice that got to him. He’s your son, lady, Sam knew he should say, but didn’t. “Don’t be afraid to ask him questions. Tell him you’re suspicious. Maybe he’ll open up.”

  “I have. He’s been on edge lately and short with me. He’s blamed school work or peer pressure.” The girl shuddered, rubbed her eyes, ran a hand through her hair again. “I chose to believe it’s growing up pains.” She squared her shoulders, straightened her back, and exhaled a deep sigh. “I’ve got to get hold of Martin so I can take Peter home. It’s already late to start the beef stock for tonight’s special…”

  “Martin?”

  “Dr. Pharr, Petey’s doctor.

  “This Dr. Pharr. How well do you know him?”

  “What? Oh, he’s a customer, eats lunch most every Thursday at the diner. I went to a movie with him once. Last year. He’s a resident here.”

  Sam could feel her watching him. He couldn’t tell her why he asked; he wasn’t sure himself. He smiled at the tiled floor in front of them. “Just curious.”

  They walked toward the sound of “Dr. Kiley, OR” to the nurse’s station where Margie learned that Dr. Pharr had ordered an encephalogram which was scheduled for two o’clock. The attendant suggested she call after four in the afternoon.

  They returned to Peter’s room but found him and his roommate sleeping. Margie dug in her purse for something to write a note on. Settling for the back of a bank deposit slip she pulled from her checkbook, she promised to phone Peter later.

  They said little on the trip to the parking lot; Sam wanted to know more about Martin Pharr, but he wasn’t going to ask. So the doctor took her to a movie. And…?

  He watched her leave. What was it about this girl that tore at his heart? He had all he could do to mend his own life. He sure didn’t need someone else’s to worry about.

  CHAPTER VII

  Peter woke up to a “Home Improvement” rerun. He loved the program with a father and mother who really seemed to love one another. The three sons were the neatest part. They belonged to a real family. They were taken care of by their folks. Mostly, he liked the dad. He was into cars, tools, guy stuff. God, what he’d give to have
a dad like that. Or a dad, period. Peter thought about Sam Gear. The thought of the man made him shudder. What was he doing with his mom at the hospital? Sam was some kind of know-it-all, tough guy. He sure didn’t need Gear snooping around in his affairs. Peter was going to tell those flatlanders, the Michelson boys, that Gear was a narc. Maybe that would get them off his case. Not that he, Peter, believed it for a minute. That Gear guy had an air about him, though, that was for sure. The Michelson brothers might just buy it.

  Peter hated to admit it. There was something decisive, something strong about the guy. He was a football player, a jock, Hannah said. Aspirations Peter could only dream about, but never realize. For one thing, athletic endeavors took time. Practice, lots of it. Peter had to work. Bottom line: Peter barely had time to do his homework and make passing grades without athletics. To tell the truth, Peter hated guys like Sam Gear. Old guys who knew everything, or thought they did. Who could do everything and spent their time making sure everyone else fit into a box. As for himself, he’d never fit anywhere. Now, that was a sure thing.

  Sam Gear. The best part of that guy was his name. Gear. Sounded a heck of alot better than Merryhill. Peter Gear. Peter tried it on for size. You could be anything with a name like: Peter Gear. He put his hand in front of his mouth to cover a chuckle that bubbled up. Peter Gear. Sounded like a P.I., dangerous and wonderful. He didn’t know how his mother was going to feel about it, but as soon as he was old enough he was changing his name.

  Peter Gear. Never again would he think of himself as Peter Merryhill. Merryhill. What kind of name was that for a guy anyway? A wus, that’s what. A dweeb with a capital D-W-E-E-B.

  “What are you grinning about, Merryhill?” his roomate asked him.

  “Uh, nothing, man.” Now, if he’d said, “Gear, what are you grinning about?” Peter might have had an answer.

  ******

  Sam didn’t like the feelings boiling up inside him. He’d come to Vermont to let go. Or at least learn how to do just that, and only that. Dr. Bearlik’s orders. He wasn’t letting go now. Sorting out his feelings was a joke. How could he sort out that which was irrational, and impossible?

  This episode with Peter, Margie’s son, was overtaking his life, or at least, his thoughts. He thought of little else. The boy was being coerced. Beaten. Sam was sure even though he had no clear-cut evidence. A voice in his head asked him if this Peter thing was going to earn him the DX500 Project directorship. “No,” he answered to himself aloud, “but it could earn me a rip-roaring ulcer.” And worse. He could fall in love with a mother and a son. Sam made up his mind and he meant absolutely, this time, to wipe his hands of the whole incident and the people involved. They had their problems before he arrived on the scene, and he certainly had his. And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking or caring.

  ******

  Margie pulled a package of ox tails from the freezer. After thawing them in the microwave, she seared them in the pressure cooker with diced onion and bacon drippings. To that she added fresh celery leaves and ribs, carrots, green pepper, bay leaf, parsley, basil, tomato juice, water, salt and peppercorns. After cooking at fifteen pounds pressure for as many minutes she reduced pressure, strained, cooled and put the remaining liquid in the freezer. An hour later she pulled the stock out. The broth was ready to clarify as the suet had risen to a thick ring covering a brown consommé. Margie skimmed off the layer of fat, added dry sherry and Grandma Gear’s beef stock was ready for use.

  Margie rifled through her recipe cards, withdrew one and began to read. She had found her niche when she undertook the cook position at the Railroad Car Diner. For the very first time in her life she had direction, a clear cut role in life, a defined part she could play in the finite scheme of everyday living. She never entertained thoughts of what she might rather do, might have a calling for, or a talent in. She had found a safe haven for herself and her son. They wanted not for food, shelter, or caring neighbors. She tried never to look backward or too far into the future. She found that living one day at a time was enough to handle. If sometimes the night seemed unbearably long and lonely, the day was always full and usually measurably rewarding. Sometimes she had to remind herself of her blessings, but that was because of her own failing and not that of fate. Margie considered herself blessed. She prayed for the unfortunate, never herself.

  “Earth to Margie, come in Margie. Hello! Is anybody home?” Margie looked up from the recipe card and stared at Hannah leaning against the doorway.

  “Where are you?” Hannah didn’t wait for an answer. “He’s going to be all right, you know. But Eddie Polanski isn’t buying the accident, ‘I fell down’ story, by the way. Our good sheriff was leaving Peter’s room when I got there. I cornered him in the hall, and I’m here to tell you, he’s pretty suspicious.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Not in so many words. He can’t say, you know. But he’s suspicious, all right. Asked me a bunch of questions.”

  “What questions?” Margie was listening now.

  “He just asked me about Peter’s friends, if I knew who he hung around with. You know, stuff like that.”

  “No, I don’t know. Why is the sheriff’s department getting involved?”

  “Why? That’s what we pay them for.” Hannah screwed up her mouth. “Your son’s in the hospital, beaten to a pulp. You’re asking me why the sheriff is asking questions?” Hannah squinted, raising her cheeks and compressing her forehead. “Are you okay, Margie?” The bell on the entrance door forced Hannah from the kitchen saving Margie a reply.

  Margie bit her lower lip; the ball of her right foot began to tap absently, on beat with the jukebox. “I’m fine,” she told Hannah, who wasn’t there to hear, while pulling down the stainless steel tub she used to mix up biscuits. She wheeled out the plastic trash can, filled with self-rising flour, from under the worktable, and dumped heaping scoopfuls into the tub filling it by half. She measured white, distilled vinegar, added it to whole milk, and poured the curdled mass into the well of dry ingredients. Forgot the shortening. Damn! She would have to use oil; wouldn’t be able to roll the dough. Drop biscuits tonight. Margie continued scrambling the mixture like mad, getting as much whip and tumble as possible out of each turn of the spoon. Biscuits were temperamental — tough with too much handling.

  During this routine which had become as second nature as brushing her teeth, she couldn’t stop seeing him in her mind. Her concentration, her energies, should be focused on her son, she told herself. But there he was, Sam Gear, demanding her attention.

  With the well seasoned tin sheets filled with mounded spoonfuls of biscuit dough, Margie allowed herself a moment to recount the incident and the ramifications. Of one thing she was sure. If the authorities were brought in and illegal disbursement of drugs even suspected, Peter would not only lose his job, he would be placed in juvenile detention. Margie made up her mind right then that she’d get the truth from Peter without anyone else’s help or knowledge. That included Eddie Polanski and Sam Gear.

  ******

  Sam sauntered in, looked around. The diner was empty save for one male on a stool at the counter hunched over a coffee mug.

  “Hey,” he said to Hannah at the grill, and sat at the counter on the seat closest to the opening to the kitchen.

  “Good morning, Sam.” She answered, not willing to take up the strange “Hey” greeting.

  “Is Margie here?”

  “Yeah. As a matter of fact.” Hannah sounded as if Margie’s presence wasn’t an occurrence one could depend upon.

  “I have to talk to her. Can you help me?”

  Hannah melted visibly. “She’s real busy just now, but I’ll ask.”

  “I’d be much obliged.”

  Hannah scurried through the kitchen door, clucking. “Margie, Sam Gear is out front asking to talk to you.”

  “I can’t talk to Sam Gear or anyone else right now.” Margie told her, leaving no room for argument.

  Hannah watched the younger woman�
�s hands fly in one direction and then another as she prepared meals that might or might not be ordered that evening. The air was electric. Hannah fought the instant reply that jumped to the forefront of her tongue. She’d try diplomacy.

  “I know how you are about this place, and about your being all kinds of responsible when it comes to your employer. But, honey, that’s Sam Gear out there, not the everyday fare we get around here. He’s the someone you stop whatever you’re doing for, make yourself as presentable as possible, and be available. All ears, all eyes, all heart. Whatever it takes, whatever he wants.” Hannah stopped for breath, pushed an errant strand of hair behind her ear, and stared at her young friend as if concentration would elicit a positive response.

  “Hannah, shhhh.” Margie whispered, eyes darting around the room as if scanning for eavesdroppers.

  Hannah straightened her back, stretching her frame to its full five feet. “By golly, girl, if you don’t want him, there’s plenty will.”

  “Somehow, I don’t believe his asking to talk to me can be construed as an offering. Really, Hannah.”

  “Well, why don’t I just tell him he can come back here and talk while you work? He made it sound important.” Hannah shifted from one foot to the other. “Maybe it’s something to do with Peter.”

  “Hmm.” Margie seemed to mull that over while measuring milk for the bread pudding she’d just assembled in the sheet cake pan. “We’ll both lose our jobs if we start bringing folks back here. I’ll come out front. Give me a minute here.”

  “Make it quick.”

  ******

  “She’ll be just a minute, Sam. How about a cup of coffee?”

  Hannah wiped off the counter in front of him, leaving Sam a strong whiff of bleach, then turned around to the coffee urn and poured him a cup. “It’s on me,” she said, and smiled.

  Sam watched her straighten her apron and run her palms over her round stomach between the coffee pouring and setting the cup in front of him. So self-conscious, he thought.