by Lauren Brown
“I saw. Was that your boss out there with the gray hair?”
“Yes.” She rolled her eyes. “That’s Anne. A customer complemented the painting when they walked in this morning, so she didn’t take it down.”
“Good thing. Don’t most art stores have art on display?”
“She only wants her art on display. But, I like her, I do. It’s hard for art majors to get jobs in this small town. I’m thankful for her.”
“Are you an art major at ETSU?”
“Yep. Actually”—she moved a piece of hair out of her face with the back of her hand—“I want to paint for children hospitals.”
“That’s nice.” My hand began trembling the more we spoke. Seeing that I was struggling, she took the brush from hand.
“Like this,” she said as she mixed two paints together and made swift movements on my paper. Before I could say anything else, a lady raised her hand.
“You’re doing great, John. Impressionism is hard, but it’s my favorite.” She winked then patted my shoulder, sending warmth to my toes. The guy next to me resumed where he had left off in his therapy session. But I tuned him out with each mark on my paper and watched Hope. She was laughing and helping people around the room. She had this way about her, this weightless feeling as she talked and moved. It felt as if I could catch a breath I didn’t know I had been holding each time I looked at her. I fell in love with her that afternoon and wanted nothing more than to see her again.
After an hour had passed and people began complimenting one another on their final pieces, she asked from the front of the room if there were any final questions.
When no one answered, she started to dismiss the class. My heart was pounding as I stood from my chair.
“Yes, John? Do you have a question?”
I swallowed. What I was about to do was, like Beau had said, out of the ordinary for me, but I was certain if I asked in front of everyone she would have no option to tell me no. And I couldn’t stand for her to tell me no.
All eyes were on me as I cleared my throat.
“May I take you to dinner this weekend?”
Chapter 3
Mid-July 1993
When Hope agreed to dinner with me that day in April, she didn’t know the person she was going to fall in love with—I didn’t even know who I was. But that’s young love. Not knowing is a part of the process in finding our ultimate purpose in life.
We went to an inexpensive, Italian restaurant for our first date and it was wonderful. I’d give anything to go back to that night in the candlelight, high on cheap wine and her beauty when money was a worry but it didn’t matter because she was there.
We talked for hours that night and, due to the wine or perhaps divine intervention, she agreed to a second date. And then a third. And so on until we were seeing each other practically every day. She would sit in my apartment, and when she wasn’t working on her portfolio, she would test me for hours on board exam material. She was quirky, relaxed, and if it wasn’t for her, I might not have passed my exam. Beau took a liking to her too as he didn’t have to do much textbook reading while she quizzed us. April passed into May, then June and, before I knew it, it was July and I was a third year medical student sitting in a review lecture to prepare us for clinical rotations.
I sat with Beau and another classmate, who was also named John, listening to our pharmacology professor clarify which drugs to give to a breast cancer patient. By this time, I felt like I already knew everything about cancer. I had read up on it through those years my mother had battled melanoma. She was the type who had pushed me to do well in school but wanted me to live a little too. Had she known about my love for Hope, she probably would have insisted that I skip lecture for one day to propose. She had always believed that life was too short to live it locked away and that no amount of money or prestige could ever give time back to us. Sure those things could fluff our days, but that was all they could do. She had been thrilled when I’d told her I was considering medicine just before my senior graduation, but she had warned me to not get too involved with money because it was always dirty, no matter how well it was handled.
“And what role, John Livingston, do you think the RGF growth factor is going to play in the new Trastuzumab drug?”
I jumped at the sudden sound of my name. My thoughts had wandered yet again. “Trastuzumab,” I stated, “is going to block the RGF growth factor, sir, slowing down the rate of progression of the breast cancer.”
“Very good, Mr. Livingston.”
“Nice save. I thought you were asleep,” Beau said as he nudged me with his elbow before returning to his romance novel under the table.
The professor’s words slowly became a drumming sound in the background, and I drifted again.
I tapped Beau when the professor turned to the board, and wrote on his paper, Where should I take Hope to dinner this weekend? He held up his finger while he marked the page in his novel and then wrote underneath my question, B-B-Q?
“Seriously?” I whispered.
He recoiled, stung by my response. “Asshole. How about you eat that.”
“Really,” I said just above a whisper, “I’m running out of places to take her.” The professor turned around to see who was whispering then resumed teaching.
“And I do? You take all my dates,” Beau whispered.
“You’re being dramatic.”
“Hanson! Is that you?” the professor yelled into the board as he wrote.
“Uh, no, sir,” Beau lied.
“Whispering won’t fly during your pediatric rotations next week, Hanson.”
Beau mocked the professor then resumed his conversation with me. He wrote a long question, Why don’t you take her to Chattanooga since we have a long weekend before rotations begin?
Hmmm. I was about to shrug off his suggestion, but the professor began reviewing how to insert a catheter, which reminded me I was the unfortunate one elected to begin with obstetrics rotations Monday. I would need a weekend to mentally prepare. Plus, Chattanooga was the perfect place to tell Hope I loved her.
I smiled and scribbled back, That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all year.
Hope was thrilled to be going to Chattanooga. She hadn’t been since her cousin had completed an internship there. She was also eager to meet the only family of mine that remained. I had told her pieces of my past, of my mother’s death and my father’s retirement, but I had kept my father’s drinking and his affair with his receptionist in my mother’s last living year a secret. It would be years before I would find the courage to tell her. I was determined to fall even more in love with her that weekend, not dwell in the past.
We left late in the afternoon after my last class. The drive to Chattanooga was usually a boring one, but having Hope beside me made it much more enjoyable. It was as if she was a time travel machine, taking me straight to my past, but paradoxically, straight to my future. I looked to my passenger seat. She had fallen asleep with her mouth slightly ajar after talking for the first two hours about her vacations with family, the time she and her sister Sarah were accidentally left at a rest stop in Jacksonville, and her favorite grandmother Patricia. It’s funny how love makes you remember the fine details. You’d think I wouldn’t remember, especially after everything that’s happened, but they’re ingrained, better ingrained than any disease I ever learned about in school.
Driving to Chattanooga, I thought about my father’s reaction when I’d told him I was bringing Hope. He was surprised I was bringing a girl to town, but rather than elaborating on it, he persisted in asking me to bring money to help him cover his electric bill. He had concluded our brief conversation with, “And, if you don’t mind, son, try to be quiet when you get here. I’ve been having some trouble sleeping lately.”
After several hours of traffic, we pulled into the driveway of my father’s new home. It was much smaller than our old home. A hard pit formed in my stomach as I studied the small condo.
I gently sho
ok Hope’s arm to wake her.
“Are we here?” She jumped.
“Yes. It’s late.”
She yawned, stretched, and then climbed out of the truck.
We pulled out our luggage and rolled it to the front porch. Walking in, I was overtaken with heartache. The walls lacked our history. It didn’t have the same living room I used to watch Chicago Cubs games in or open Christmas gifts and, in a way, I was disappointed that Hope couldn’t see or feel those same memories.
“This house is beautiful.”
“Thanks. My dad moved here in April. Actually, I helped him move out of our old home on the day that I first met you. And”—I looked around the house—“it seems as if he sold a lot of the furniture.” I sighed.
She brushed off the negativity. “I can’t wait to meet your father.” She glanced around the living room. “Where should I sleep?”
This was the awkward question I had been waiting for. My cheeks grew warm.
“Let me figure that out. One second.”
I hadn’t been sure if there was a guest bed. I made my way down the dark hall, turning on a lamp as I passed a wooden console table. I noticed a solitary silver frame housing a picture of my mother and me. I looked at it briefly before walking into the guest bedroom.
“Hope,” I whispered down the hall, “this is your room.”
I watched her pick up her bag and make her way down the hall only to stop at the picture.
“Oh, is this your mother and you?” she asked, brushing the frame with her fingertips.
“Yes, that was when she picked me up from camp one summer.”
“She was beautiful! And your hair was…thicker.”
“Hey. Not nice.”
She smiled at the portrait one last time then walked in and set her bag on the bed. Even though this wasn’t the house I had snuck out of so often or the bed I had dreamed of girls in, it was still exciting seeing a beautiful girl in my dad’s house. It still brought out that craving for adventure to sneak down to her room and crawl in bed with her. The sudden excitement put my disappointment at ease.
“Goodnight, John. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“Night,” I whispered as I closed her door. I retrieved my bags and walked upstairs. My father’s room was upstairs to the left, so I assumed mine was across the hall. I made my way to what looked like my bedroom with some of my high school and college memorabilia lining a few shelves, but I didn’t see a bed. I rubbed the back of my neck then searched the hall closets for blankets. I made a pallet on the floor and lay stiff-backed staring at the ceiling.
Resting there in the stark quiet, I reminisced on my old, childhood room. It had been an old study that my mother had converted to a bedroom. There was a reading loft filled with schoolbooks I didn’t use and pellet guns and other memorabilia; stuff that had been important to me. In elementary school my room had been a place of imagination. My friends would ask to come to my house and we would play pirates or cops and robbers. But as time went on, I had grown tired of the room. The pictures on the wall and the childhood trophies hadn’t changed in years. After my mom began her chemotherapy, I spent more time outside. But, nevertheless, our old home had still been important. It was something I thought would always remain once my mother passed. I never imagined my father moving.
I awoke in the morning to muffled voices downstairs. I retraced my steps to the kitchen. Hope was sitting cross-legged at the kitchen island drinking coffee with my father. They looked in my direction as I entered the room.
“Hey, son!” He walked over and gave me a seemingly genuine hug in his suit. “I’ve just been talking to Hope about her father. I know him.”
“Oh really?” I raised my eyebrows before making my way around him to the coffee.
Hope chimed in, “Your dad was Curtis Young’s lawyer.”
“Curtis Young?”
“Remember the man who robbed Caldwell banks in Knoxville several years back?” my father asked.
I nodded while I poured a cup of coffee.
“Well, Hope’s father was working at that location at the time. He was a valuable witness in the case. Never did talk to him directly, but still, what a small world.”
It was odd seeing my dad talk so much. Usually, our conversations were short and simple.
“That is wild,” I said, eyeing the whiskey bottle on the counter as I stirred sugar into my coffee.
“Well, it was nice talking to you, Hope. I have a long day ahead of me. I’ve been helping this new law firm in town establish their practice. Just volunteer work. Is a late dinner fine with you two?”
“Oh that’s great, no rush, right, John?” Hope tilted her head.
“Yeah, just before sunset.”
“You got it.” He grabbed his briefcase, the same briefcase he’d had for all his working years, and walked out the door.
“I’m surprised. He doesn’t usually talk that much,” I said before taking a sip of my coffee.
“That’s funny. He’s a lawyer, don’t they talk too much?”
“Well, I guess at the office he does. What magical powers do you possess?”
“The power of coffee I suppose.”
I smiled with an eagerness while taking her in, like a child viewing an exhibit at an aquarium for the very first time. Her hair was in a ponytail, and she was wearing glasses. She had chosen a plaid button-down and jeans, which unbeknownst to her, was perfect fishing attire.
“How long have you been awake?”
“Well, I woke up early, around six thirty, and made coffee, then your dad came in and started talking to me.”
I looked at the clock on the wall. It was 8:00 a.m. I hadn’t slept that late in months.
“So, what will we be doing today, Mr. Livingston?” She sat taller shimmying out her shoulders.
“Well, I think I have an idea.” I smirked.
“Should I change clothes?”
“No, you’re perfect. I just have to change and then we’ll go. I’ll meet you at the truck,” I shouted as I dashed up the stairs.
I packed my truck with tackle and two fishing rods. All we needed was some beer and worms. She climbed in, looked at the poles, and pieced it together.
“We’re going fishing?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, how fun! I haven’t been fishing in years, and I definitely haven’t caught anything since I was probably five. Even then, I’m sure it was Daddy who actually caught the fish.”
I climbed in and started the truck.
“I beg to differ. I’d say you already have a pretty good catch,” I said with a wink.
She’s smiled wide. “You’re right. I’d say he’s a keeper. Probably won’t be throwing him back.”
We drove about thirty minutes outside of downtown to a local lake called Harrison Bay. There were a few fishing spots along the bank, but I usually fished off a small wooden pier which projected out farther into the lake.
“That spot over there guarantees we’ll get a couple of bites of bream, maybe a bass.” I pointed to the pier as we drove in.
We parked and lugged all the gear to the far end of the pier. She sat down on its edge, swinging her feet while I attached a hook, a bobber, and a worm. She winced at the sight of me piercing the worm.
“She’s all yours,” I said as I handed her the pole.
“Okay, so how do I do this exactly?”
I chuckled and moved behind her, placing my hands on hers. I breathed in the remnants of her perfume and felt a flutter in my stomach. I moved her arms back with mine and helped her cast the line. It didn’t go far, but it would do.
“Just let the worm float in the water for some time. Give it a little tug every now and then.”
“Got it.”
I cast my line and sat beside her.
We sat in silence for a while. It felt like heaven. The cool morning fog was like the breath of a goddess on a cold day, twirling and encircling us on its path. There was only one other fisherman on the lake t
hat day some distance away on the bank. A few ducks went about their morning routine. It was peaceful, and I was relieved at the small break I was getting from studying.
Hope broke the silence, “What kind of doctor do you want to be?”
“That’s a good question. I’ve considered oncology, internal medicine, and maybe family medicine. It really all depends on my rotations. You know, whatever stands out and comes naturally to me.”
“Well, whatever field you choose, I think you’ll be great at it. You have a calming, even healing, personality.”
“Well, thank you. I’m flattered.” I put my hand over my heart.
“I’m serious. Ever since I met you, I’ve just been intrigued by your sense of ease and peace.”
I remember being surprised at the word “peace.”
“Well, ever since I met you,” I responded, “I’ve been intrigued by your smile. Maybe it’s your smile that brought out my peace.”
“Maybe…”
We sat again in silence with her head resting on my shoulder.
“I think I’ve got something!” she yelled in excitement as the line shot out across the water.
“I think you got a big one. You have to reel hard!”
She jumped to her feet, wide-eyed. She strained and pulled back on the pole with all her strength.
“You must have caught a bass, Hope!”
She tried to move her right foot in line with her left to better position herself, but in all the commotion, she tripped and fell into the water. The pole and fish escaped her grasp and propelled away from us across the lake.
“Hope!” I yelled. I was about to jump in the water for her when she came up laughing, spitting out mouthfuls of water.
I reached for her hand and pulled her out of the lake. Her wet hair clung to her face, her shirt to her chest. I stopped laughing and pulled her in close. I pushed her wet hair to the side and kissed her.
She hugged my waist while I whispered in her ear, “I think I got a good catch too.”
We attempted to catch a few more fish and laughed while replaying her fall into the lake. Afternoon was approaching when I started packing our one remaining fishing pole.