Drawing in a breath for courage, I looked to both sides of the street and then finally exited. I stepped up three short steps, bag in hand, and froze at the door. The urge to knock swelled, but I did nothing. Instead, I checked and rechecked my watch. It was 3:00 in the afternoon. I’d been home an hour, and only made it as far as the porch? This was crazy! Disgusted with my lack of nerve, I reached out but before I could knock, the door jerked open.
To this day, I like to think that Heather had been watching for my return. I never asked her, and looking back I wish I would have, but when we came face to face that morning only awkwardness greeted me. The serious look on her face sank my heart deeper into despair. I couldn’t speak, but as it turned out I didn't have too. Heather broke the spell first.
“He’s not with you?” She glanced around.
I shook my head as I passed her, dropping my bag by the phone on my way to the kitchen. Heather followed, watching in silence as I went straight for the cabinet and the few bottles of alcohol I actually owned.
“You’ve giving up on baking?” Her words sounded with a hint of disappointment.
“If we’re going to do this, one of us might need a drink.” I said, while grabbing the martini shaker that Heather had given me last Christmas.
When I turned back, her yielding eyes made me pause. I didn’t even know how to make a martini. There was never a need to learn because I always had Heather. And as the thought of living without her settled, my frown deepened. Automatically, Heather reached out her hand and with a sly smile she took the shaker from my grasp. With a gentle pat on the shoulder, she offered me a seat at my own table, and I sat down with a heavy sigh.
“So, are we celebrating or mourning our friendship?” Heather asked while tending to the ingredients she knew by heart.
“Neither.”
“We’ll call it a “peace” drink, then?”
“Sounds ok to me,” I said, and just like that it was over.
Friendships that last a life time don’t need many words to heal. There was no need for a bunch of “why’s” or “how comes”. While I knew Heather regretted her decision to keep Steve from me, Heather knew I still loved her. These were sentiments, truths, that didn’t need to be spoken. In the end, all that’s left is the ritual of making up. It’s a respected formality. And weather friends want to admit it or not, the trend for how to handle such a delicate matter is set early on.
“What does it say about us, that all our squabbles are settled over booze?” I rarely drank, but I never bucked the system, and in fact it was greatly anticipated.
“It says that we’re brilliant, of course. And while everyone else is busy fighting we’re moving on… drunk.” She said with a firm nod.
Holding two drinks in her hand, Heather took a seat. She slid mine across the table, and as always, I waited for her customary first taste. And when her eyes narrowed over the potency, I didn’t bother to hold back my snicker. I just let it go, relief found in the freedom of laughter. For a brief moment it felt like old times. I wanted life to pause, allow me the time to soak it all in, but as usual it just moves on. Funny how life has a way of skipping ahead, with or without you, I thought as I sipped timidly, bracing for the question that I knew was bound to come.
“So was prince charming waiting for you at the cabin?” Heather lifted her glass, but she never got another taste.
Chapter 24
Pesky headaches, everybody gets them. Don’t they? Whether its stress or a cold, or even seasonal allergies. But who thinks to run to the doctor for every little twinge? I didn’t. So imagine my surprise when I found myself sitting at the doctor’s office three weeks later staring at a cat scan. Sure I see the “damage”, I think. Though, at a second glance, it very well could have been an ink blot for all I knew.
Then the big words start. There’s no avoiding them really, and because I have no idea what they’re talking about, my mind wanders. I start to question whether I need a dictionary, and then consider if asking for one now would be rude. Probably, just nod and smile, I tell myself. Something is bound to sink in, and if it doesn’t, call the nurses desk later. They’re used to lost people like me.
All of this and more was running through my head as I heard the words Post Concussion Syndrome, or PCS. It was a pretty fancy word for a mild case of amnesia, I thought. But then I’m certainly not a doctor. As it was, I was literally just putting the pieces together while they were explaining my condition in detail. Talk about last minute shock!
“Have you experienced erratic or aggressive behavior?” The very young, too young, doctor asked.
I just stared at him.
“Have you found your senses heightened, say your hearing or your sense of smell?”
I grinned. Elvis does smell good at great distances, but I was sure he didn’t want to hear about that, I internally chuckled. Focus Sam!
“You may have found yourself easily aroused.”
He had my attention.
“Sexual intercourse would have been very optimal at this time, very heightened, scientifically speaking of course.”
Blink-blink-blink.
They told me the symptoms can often stay dormant for months, even years after an accident, and that I was lucky. I didn’t feel lucky. The mood swings and headaches, all warning signs of PCS, almost alienated me from everyone I cared about. Not to mention I almost lost my life. All that, and I didn’t even get to experience the good stuff, scientifically speaking! If that was good fortune, I’d pass on luck.
When I left the hospital that day, I felt like half a person. It was too much information too fast. And the only improvement was that I, at least, understood why I no longer recognized myself. Yet that didn’t turn out to be as wonderful as I had imagined either. For instance, I couldn’t work, and flying was an important part of my life. It was not just what I did, but who I was. And without the daily routine of airports and hotels, I was lost. Who was this woman who was home by six every night and asleep in her own bed by ten? Home-body was not in my dictionary.
As if that wasn’t enough, there was always counseling sessions to look forward to. Round and round I’d go, chatting about my problems with a virtual stranger. The healing process was tedious and often painful. The doctor would sit across from me, head down and scribbling an endless string of notes. Often, I’d wonder if she was even listening, so, I’d talk about something off track. That didn't go well. Let's just say that by the time I discovered my error, I was practically drowning in my own embarrassment.
I never mentioned Elvis, but we spent a lot of time talking about Steve. Apparently, I was an anomaly in the fact that I’d had a singular memory lapse instead of, say, a whole time frame. Everybody was scratching their heads over the mystery, but I wasn’t surprised. I never did anything “normal”.
At first, I thought the sessions were a big waste of everyone’s time. I mean really, when did anything good come about when I did all the talking? It seemed hopeless. But I never missed an appointment, and before I knew it, I found myself discussing raw emotions like the loss of my mother and my relationship with my father. Nobody was more surprised than me to find I was shedding real grief. And after every appointment, I would walk out to my car feeling lighter, as if another brick had been removed from my shoulders, and I'd wonder how they’d managed it.
“So what did the doctor's have to say today?” Heather’s voice blared through the hands-free speakers of my car.
“Oh, you know just more ink blots and a lot of talking, that’s all.” I said.
“No really, what did they say?”
I smiled, touched by her concern. “If you really must know, I’ll tell you all about it when I get home. Will you be there?”
“Yup, just got home from a trip and I have nothing planned.”
“Good, I’ll see you in a few,” I said and ended the call.
A few weeks ago I’d asked Heather to move in, and I was never more relieved than when she agreed. While my body continued t
o heal, my dignity remained in shambles. Minus a few bruises, Steve hadn’t hurt me physically but psychologically my scars were deep. He had shattered my personal sense of safety, and before I knew it I'd become "that" woman, racing to switch on every light before entering a room. I would scrutinize every dark corner, checking and rechecking closets. And forget about going outside after dark. If I did, I ran not walked to my intended destination. The doctors told me this type of paranoia was normal, that it would pass, but I was tired of being afraid.
Daddy still didn’t know about Steve. He believed, without any help from me, that I was seeing a grief counselor. So far, my secret was safe. Life wasn’t simple, but it was manageable. The mornings started easily enough, a coffee in one hand and the bible in the other. I would read, always wondering if today was the day God would speak to me. Up till now he’d been quiet, but I was only mildly disappointed. My time would come.
Meanwhile, I stayed busy. My afternoons were spent at church with my father. I loved the way his face lit up whenever I walked through those doors, and it gave my spirit a jolt every time. My life was peaceful, but my heart was lonely. And while I had found uplifting ways to get through my days, the nights needed work.
It had been months since I’d seen my angel, but his memory was “everywhere”. Even strolling through a department store, his voice would suddenly float out in song. There was no escaping him nor did I really want to. Deep down, I guess, I hoped that God had someone for me to love, but if that man was years away, that was fine with me. There was a lot of “me” to work on.
***
February turned to March, March to April, and before I knew it Atlanta was in bloom. I loved spring. And on a warm day in May, I was cruising through my neighborhood unaware my life was about to change, again.
Pink rose buds bloomed and potted flowers hung in full glory from every porch. They were awe-inspiring and the spicy scent in the air lifted my spirits. It had been a good day — scratch that — a great day. I’d spent it driving around town with the convertible top down, enjoying the wind in my hair and the warm afternoon sun on my face.
And at just an hour before dusk, I turned one last corner and headed for home. I was to meet Heather and my father for diner. It seemed they’d planned a big festivity, a celebration of health they’d said, and dinner at my favorite local restaurant — Dalton’s — sounded great to me. Everyone was excited, including my father. He had even called Heather and invited her personally, which shocked us both. This wasn’t my daddy’s normal choice for dining ambiance — a faded brick, weathered old Blues bar — but with the best fried chicken this side of the Mason Dixon Line, I didn’t have to press him too hard.
I was ready in a jiff. Thankfully, the restaurant was only five minutes from my house, and I rolled into the parking lot right on time, leaving a cloud of dust in my wake. I was already thinking about my order as I parked.
The sun was low in an early evening sky, and a hint of humidity lingered, suggesting a storm was on its way. The air felt charged. It was the kind of night where one could easily imagine something exciting might happen.
Wearing a new periwinkle blue sundress, and a recent tan from an afternoon drive without sunscreen, I felt — dare I say it — confident. The feeling had been with me all day and I was steadily growing attached to it. While I waited, I was busily straightening the state of my hair when Heather’s red mustang pulled in. I cringed as I watched her hop the curb. Her freshly cut, spiky, blonde hair kept perfect form as she hit the brakes and slid to an almost instant stop next to me. Dust blew up over my roadster, and I was coughing and swiping at the dirt while Heather was laughing. I considered an unladylike hand gesture, but then thought twice when I noticed my father’s car parked close by. I scowled at her instead.
When Heather stepped out, she looked model-perfect in a slimming crimson dress with three inch heels. I had to hand it to her. She was wild, but she was truly beautiful.
“You should be on a New York runway not here in an old dingy Atlanta bar getting ready to eat something devilishly fattening with a friend and her daddy.” I said, while we hugged.
“Could you share that with my date later?”
“Oh, I’m sure he’s already captivated by your charms.” I slipped my arm through Heather’s and we walked together to the front door.
“I’m starting to wonder. He hasn’t even made a move to kiss me,” she said despondently.
This was a new twist. I’d never heard Heather with anything less than a full cup of confidence. She really must care for this man, I mused. Though I hadn’t met him, I did recognize something different in her voice while she was on the phone last week. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but it was hard not to miss those three special words that ended the call.
“Love looks good on you, friend.” I stopped and turned to her, enjoying the flash of surprise in her deep brown eyes.
“Thank you.” She gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry I haven’t brought him around, but it never felt like the right time.”
“I understand. I’m happy for you.”
Her face blushed and then we hugged once more.
“I’d like to be happy for you one day.” She pulled back to look me square in the eyes.
“I’m just now comfortable with me again. I’m not sure I’m ready for men yet.” I muttered.
“Well, in time maybe that’ll change.”
“Maybe.”
We started walking again, and I could hear the commotion from inside as we approached Dalton’s entrance. As I opened the solid door, the mayhem of a business at full tilt overpowered the gentle spring evening. Dishes clanked and patrons hummed. I moved aside and allowed Heather to enter first.
“I love this place,” she said, and immediately pointed to the oversized slab of mahogany that made up the bar. It stretched the entire south wall of the room.
I chuckled, pulling my friend along.
“There he is.” I spotted my father right off.
He was sitting at a table with an ice tea in front of him and the bible by his side. He looked like a saint sitting amongst the damned. At first, I made a bee-line for him, and then I noticed the stranger sitting next to him. Nobody had mentioned someone “new” would be joining us for diner, I thought as I slowed my gate, understandably leery. But when Heather passed me, and approached the table with such ease, my worries began to fade.
From a safe distance, I watched with growing curiosity as my father, and the man with the sun bleached hair, stood and greeted Heather warmly. In turn, she hugged my father and then shook the stranger’s hand. It was odd, and I don't like odd, I thought, but unless I was going to strap on an apron and get to work, I couldn’t just stand in the middle of the room forever. And when all around me people began to shout out their drink orders, I decided I’d better get a move on.
As I approached the table, daddy's face sparked with happiness, and I quickly returned a wide smile.
“Hello baby girl,” he said, and practically jumped out of his seat to hug me. His embrace was firm, and anyone watching would think we hadn’t seen each other all week rather than just that afternoon.
When he leaned back to take a look at his daughter, his eyes fell disapprovingly to my neck line.
“You look lovely tonight, Samantha.” He said with a fatherly tone I recognized.
“Daddy stop, this is the fashion of today.” I grumbled.
“So you keep telling me,” he shook his head. “Samantha, do you remember Jim Anderson?”
Just the mere mention of his name, and the athletically built man all but leapt my way. His enthusiastic demeanor, and quick draw hand shake, made me flinch but I held my ground. He wasn’t very tall. Even with me wearing a pair of diminutive heeled sandals, I stood eye to eye with the stranger. That made him, 5’8”, maybe, but I guessed shorter. And while I was sizing him up, our eyes met, and a spark of familiarity flashed. His light hair mixed well with his tan face, I thought, but it was the glimmer in his gr
een-brown eyes, like that of a secret, that captivated me. Right away, I felt my cheeks blush.
“It’s been a long time Sammy, high school in fact.” He again extended me his hand.
Sammy? My eyebrows drew together. Jim. The name reached out, tantalizing me before it finally hit me.
“Jimmy!”
His smile widened, and this time when he held out his arms, I eased in. We hugged like distant friends should, firm but quick.
“Hello, Sammy girl.” He chuckled lightly.
Jimmy and I went way back, so far back it was no wonder I couldn’t remember. We had been best pals all through high school, a time so far removed from where I stood now it could have been someone else’s life. We were also an item for awhile, but to say it didn’t work out was an understatement. Jimmy was a wannabe musician with a wild side, and my father was another adult trying to hold him down. Needless to say, they clashed and Daddy won.
“I can’t believe this.” I said while examining a face that I hadn’t seen in more than ten years.
He was as handsome as I remembered, only with a few more years of maturity added in for good measure. In fact, the man standing before me was far more sophisticated than the teen I remembered, who rarely stepped out of his shorts and flip-flops, even in winter. Tonight Jimmy, or Jim as he called himself now, wore a lovely soft pinstriped blue suit with a stark white shirt and pink tie. He was a welcomed sight. And I love a man confident enough to wear pink.
“What’s up with the suit?” I kidded, enjoying the sight of him blushing. “I remember you best in a pair of wave breaker’s.”
We laughed.
“I still surf, but shorts aren’t approved daily attire in the church where I’m employed.”
Church? I turned to my father, who was standing close by with a smirk on his face. As was Heather, I suddenly realized.
Dream Angel : Heaven Waits Page 20