by Marie Landry
With my hand stroking his hard length, I lie back on the bed, bringing him with me. He braces his weight over me, and with our eyes locked I guide him to my center. He eases inside me, his features tense as he watches my face for signals. A breath whooshes out of me when he’s all the way in. He releases a shaky exhale of his own. My hands clutch at his back, pulling him closer at the same time as my hips lift, urging him to move.
I wasn’t sure how much closer sex could or would bring us since we’ve done everything else together. But having Kieran inside me, my body moving in rhythm with his, the room silent except for the sounds of our lovemaking, I feel more connected to him than ever. Exchanging our first ‘I love yous’ today and now taking our physical relationship to the next level has cemented everything I feel for him.
Tingles race over my skin and heat coils in my belly. I run my nails down Kieran’s back, loving the way he shivers under my touch. My greedy hands grip his hips before shifting lower to grab his ass, feeling the muscles bunch with each thrust. He growls when I give him a little squeeze, picking up his pace and pushing me closer and closer to the edge. My vision blurs and darkens around the edges as the pleasure builds to its climax. My eyelids slam shut, head thrown back as I ride the wave of sensations coursing through me. With a final few pumps of his hips, Kieran goes rigid above me. I open my eyes in time to watch his face as he comes.
His bleary eyes look stunned for a moment. He swoops in to kiss me, and I can feel his arms shaking from exertion where they’re braced on either side of me. When they finally give out, he rolls to the side, managing to scoop me up and bring me with him.
“Smooth,” I say, hooking one leg over his hip and pressing myself against him.
His heaving chest vibrates with silent laughter. He cups my face, kissing me hard before flopping back to catch his breath. “God, Meredith.” That’s all he manages to say. I don’t think I’d be able to come up with anything more eloquent in this moment either. “I love you,” he says, turning his head just enough to meet my eyes.
Okay, I was wrong. That pretty much sums it all up.
*****
I awaken the next morning to weak sunlight illuminating the bedroom. Kieran’s and my naked bodies are as tangled as the sheets. After our first round of lovemaking, we discovered the ensuite has a luxurious rainfall shower, which we put to good use before making dinner together. We had a lazy evening curled up on the couch, talking about countless different subjects before falling back into bed.
Carefully freeing my arm from where it’s pinned under Kieran’s against his chest, I stretch as much as I can without jostling the bed. I ache all over, but it’s the good, ‘I just had an amazing night of marathon sex’ kind of ache. I return my hand to Kieran’s chest, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart along with the rise and fall of his chest. The faint light takes me back to last evening and the way the golden sun illuminated Kieran as he moved over me, muscles tense and face strained with concentration.
His features are relaxed now, long lashes brushing his cheeks. He’s so beautiful. And he’s all mine. The thought makes my chest tighten. I tell myself the sensation comes from a combination of surprise and gratitude, but I can’t ignore the annoying, niggling doubts that whisper under the happiness.
What if he’s too good to be true? What if this—us, together—is too good to be true? Can we be truly happy if I’m not giving him my all? It’s not that I don’t want to, but part of me is still numb, broken. Can I love him the way he deserves to be loved if I can’t fully feel? What if…what if the way I’ve felt these last few months is more than situational depression or Seasonal Affective Disorder? What if the part of me that’s broken can’t ever be healed? Things have been getting better these last few weeks, but what if I never feel like my true self again?
Kieran has been my anchor. The calm in my stormy brain. But what if things never get fully better and I depend on him too much to keep me grounded? What if he gets tired of my merry-go-round of emotions and wants off?
A warm hand covers mine where it lays on Kieran’s chest. I jolt, realizing I’ve been staring off into space as my mind whirred at a million miles an hour. My eyes meet Kieran’s and he gives me a sleepy smile.
“You’re thinking so loud you woke me up,” he murmurs, angling his body toward mine.
I study his face. Gorgeous blue eyes, soft lips that are quick to smile. His dark hair is even more disheveled than usual after a night of me running my hands through it and tugging it. A curly lock has flopped over his forehead, giving him the boyish appearance that always tugs on my heart. I reach up and wind the strands around my finger.
“You okay, love?”
I release the curl, watching it bounce back into place. Kieran catches my hand before I drop it and tucks our joined hands under his chin. He loves me; there’s no doubt about that. And I don’t doubt the intensity of my own feelings for him. He came out of nowhere and things moved so fast, and now I can’t imagine my life without him. Don’t want to imagine my life without him. So I’m going to do what I can to be the best version of myself. For him, but most importantly, for myself. I’ll do whatever it takes to reclaim the person I was, only better because now I know what a bright future I have ahead of me.
“I’m better than okay,” I answer finally, leaning in to seal my lips to his.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
After breakfast and a leisurely stroll around the neighborhood, I drop Kieran off at the Queen’s campus for his lecture, and promise to meet him back at the house later this afternoon.
He climbs from the car slowly and hesitates with the passenger door open. I watch as he starts to close the door, pauses, then moves to close it again before pulling it back open. I’m about to ask him what’s up when he ducks his head into the car. “Do you want me to go with you?”
“To Birch Hill?” I ask, taken aback.
“Mm, yeah. I can go with you if you need me to. Or want me to. You know, emotional support.”
His earnest tone and the way his eyebrows have dipped down into a V make my heart squeeze. I want to throw off my seatbelt and lunge across the car to pull him into a kiss. I resist the urge, clutching the steering wheel instead. “I love you for offering, but I’ll be okay. I’ve met with Mr. Lattimer before, so it’s no big deal.”
“Still.” He fidgets with the strap of his messenger bag. “Being there…where your mum is…”
My hands tighten on the steering wheel. “I’ll be okay,” I repeat, trying to infuse my voice with confidence. I’m not actually feeling all that confident, but I don’t want Kieran missing his lecture. I’ve been to Birch Hill before without visiting my mom. Is it difficult knowing she’s there and I can’t see her? Hell yes; it’s excruciating. But I made her a promise. And besides, I’m doing better these last few weeks. I can handle it. “I’m good,” I say, since Kieran is still hovering in the doorway looking uncertain.
He kneels on the seat and leans in to give me another kiss. “Call me if you need me.”
Knowing Kieran is just a phone call away and we’ll be together again in a few hours gives me a boost as I drive toward the edge of the city. Birch Hill is an enormous old two-story building that was once home to the Prices, a rich family originally from England. When Mr. Price’s wife was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, he decided he wanted their home turned into a long-term care facility for people suffering from the same disease. He wanted the place to feel warm and homey, unlike the cold, stark institutions he and his wife toured when she was first diagnosed.
That was what drew Mom to Birch Hill. She said she’d be fine in a regular nursing home and joked it wasn’t like she’d know the difference anyway, but since she could afford a place like Birch Hill, she might as well be surrounded by beauty in her final years. The thought makes a lump form in my throat.
When I arrive at Birch Hill, I have some time before my meeting with Mr. Lattimer, so I park in the lot and head toward the backyard. This place really is beautiful; the
property is lined with towering trees, and the expansive yard is scattered with tables and chairs, designated areas for things like lawn bowling for the residents, and a gazebo. That’s where I head now since no one is around.
I sit on one of the padded benches inside and take a deep breath. My heart is racing and my stomach feels like it’s been invaded by an army of angry wasps. I tuck my sweaty, shaky palms under my thighs and close my eyes, trying to control my breathing. I’ve only ever felt this way once before—the day Mom moved into Birch Hill—and it led to a full-blown panic attack. Thank god Hugh was with me because I thought I was having a heart attack. He was quick to pull me aside and talk me through it as my vision blurred and darkened at the edges, and my veins filled with fire, even though I was covered in cold sweat.
I hop up from the bench and pace around in a tight circle. I can’t have a panic attack. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. I was fine a few minutes ago and this came out of nowhere. Now I’m sucking in air so fast it’s making my head spin. I stop in the middle of the gazebo as Hugh’s soothing voice whispers through my mind, telling me to breathe. Clenching my fists, I try with all my might to inhale slowly and keep control of my breath on the release. I do that over and over again, shaky breath after shaky breath until I’m no longer gasping as if I just ran a mile.
My vision clears and the buzzing in my ears fades, replaced by nearby birdsong and the distant drone of a lawnmower. Now that the adrenaline has drained, my limbs feel heavy and my legs are wobbly. I sit back down, continuing to inhale and exhale slowly, focusing on the chirping birds and not on my still-racing heart.
The sound of voices draws me to my feet once more, and I peek out the doorway of the gazebo. Two women in colorful scrubs are leading a group of seniors to a circle of chairs in the shade. I scan their faces for my mom, but don’t see her. When everyone is sitting, one of the nurses starts playing upbeat music on her phone, and she walks around the circle while the other nurse leads a series of simple seated exercises.
The sight of half a dozen elderly people following along to what looks like a game of Simon Says finally makes me smile. I slip from the gazebo and make my way toward the front of the building. Inside the cool, brightly-lit entrance hall, I pause again, allowing my eyes to adjust as I take a few more deep breaths. I’m still a bit jittery from the after-effects of the adrenaline rush, but my meeting is in less than five minutes so I don’t have time to collect myself further.
I make my way to the back section of the first floor where the administrative offices are. The entire upstairs is patient rooms, while the first level has only one wing of patient rooms, along with a kitchen, a massive dining room, and various smaller rooms for activities.
I wave hello to Mr. Lattimer’s assistant, who’s talking on the phone while typing furiously on his computer. I’m only sitting for a minute before he tells me Mr. Lattimer will see me now, and walks with me to his office door.
“Miss Cormier, how nice to see you again,” Mr. Lattimer says, rising from his chair and coming around his desk to shake my hand. My nerves ebb as his large, warm hand wraps around mine; I’d almost forgotten what a genial teddy bear of a man he is and how that was another part of what made Mom decide this was the place for her.
“Nice to see you too, Mr. Lattimer.” I take the seat he indicates and we exchange a few moments of chitchat about the weather, my life in Bellevue, and my drive to Kingston. The small talk continues to put me at ease, but I’m grateful and relieved when we finally get to my reason for being here.
“Now. Meredith.” Mr. Lattimer leans forward in his seat, pulling a file folder toward him. “I know you call regularly to check in on your mother, but I want to assure you she’s doing well here. She seems comfortable and settled, and physically she’s in good health. As you know, we have a team of dedicated and well-trained staff who are continually assessing our patients’ needs and curating their care based on their personal needs.”
I nod. That was another reason Mom chose this place. It’s not the typical institution where everyone is treated the same, regardless of how advanced their Alzheimer’s is. Birch Hill provides innovative patient-based care that’s almost unheard of elsewhere. It’s what sets this place apart. It’s also what makes it so damn expensive.
“I’m glad to hear she’s doing so well,” I tell him. “Knowing she’s being looked after by people who really care makes it easier for me to…to…”
Sympathy flashes over Mr. Lattimer’s features. “It’s okay, Meredith. Your mother isn’t the only one who has asked family to stay away. This disease is vicious and heartless. It rips away every last shred of who a person used to be and leaves them unrecognizable. Because of that, we make it our mission to ensure our patients receive the best, most compassionate care.”
I swallow hard. “That’s the exact reason I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her here.”
He nods slowly and flips open the folder in front of him. “And we want to help with that. Believe me, I understand how upset you were when the embezzlement scandal came to light. Your mom wasn’t the only one affected, and we’ve been doing everything in our power to ensure the patients who were receiving the same funding can remain at Birch Hill.” He pulls a few sheets of paper from the folder and slides them across the desk. “I know you’ve been doing your own research these last couple of months, and so have we. A few new funding options have recently become available, one through the government, and one through a private foundation. I thought you might like to apply.”
Relief surges through me as I pluck the papers from the desk. The legal jargon and vast number of boxes to be filled out make all the words swim together on the page, but I know I can depend on Kieran and my friends to help me fill them out. These could be the answer to all my desperate prayers. “Thank you so much, Mr. Lattimer. Like I said, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my mom here.”
He smiles, leaning in and folding his hands on the desktop. “And we’ll do whatever we can to help.” His eyes sweep over my face; his intense study makes me feel as if I’m under a microscope. “Are you doing okay, Meredith? I know how hard this already was for you, and now with the added stress of the funding…are you taking care of yourself?”
For some reason, his question makes me want to laugh. I press my lips together to hold it in because I’m afraid it would be one of those hysterical laughs that turn into an even more hysterical sob. “I’m trying to. Let’s just say it’s been a long few months.”
The way he’s searching my face makes me wonder what he sees. Have I aged since he last saw me? Do I look as drained as I feel after my panic attack? “Do you have a support system at home?”
I think of Kieran. My anchor. Of my friends, who would do anything for me, but who I’ve kept at arm’s length when it comes to what I’ve been dealing with. Before I can answer, Mr. Lattimer leans forward a bit more and says gently, “Maybe a professional? Someone who’s trained to deal with the vast, complicated emotions you must be experiencing. A grief counselor even?”
My mouth opens and my lips move, but no words come out. I know he’s trying to help, and I also know he’s speaking from experience; he told me when we first met that his own mother had suffered from Alzheimer’s, and what a toll it had taken on his entire family. But I don’t want to talk about this. Being here is hard enough without exposing my wounded heart and talking about the ‘vast, complicated emotions’, as he so aptly put it.
“I’m learning to adjust to my new normal,” I say finally, attempting a smile.
He returns it with a smile that’s no more convincing than mine likely is. He nods in understanding, though, and sits back in his chair. “Well. Please know my door is always open if you want to talk or if you need help.”
“I appreciate that. And everything else you’re doing.”
When I leave Mr. Lattimer’s office a few minutes later, funding forms clutched in my hand, I’m not sure if I feel better or worse. If I’m honest, what I feel like doing is fin
ding a nearby bed and crawling into it for a week. Since that’s not an option, I head to the elevator and ride it to the second floor, where I make my way to the nurse’s station. I talk to the head nurse, and like Mr. Lattimer did, she tells me how well Mom is doing.
When she gets called away by another nurse, my feet feel rooted to the floor. My stomach is in knots and my heart is racing again. Mom is down the hall. Just feet away. Every fiber of me aches to see her, even though I know she’s not the same person. But because I know that, because I know she wouldn’t recognize me, would it really be so bad? I could pretend to be someone who works here, pretend she’s not the woman who raised me. Go in with no hopes or expectations of her recognizing me. I could do that, right? If it meant seeing her for a minute, just to see with my own eyes she’s doing as well as Mr. Lattimer and the nurse said?
I’m halfway down the hall before I even realize I made the conscious decision to go. I cast a quick glance around for the nurse, but the only person in the hallway is a white-haired woman in a wheelchair who’s singing quietly to herself. The staff couldn’t technically stop me from seeing my mom, although I have a feeling they’d try.
The door to Mom’s room is open. I smile when I see how it’s flooded with sunshine. She must love that. Taking a deep breath, I step inside the room. She’s sitting in a wheelchair in front of the huge window that overlooks the back of the property. Her wide windowsill is covered with the knick knacks and framed pictures she brought from home. My heart stutters when I see a vase of fresh daffodils to one side.
As I approach the wheelchair, I realize she’s cradling something in her arms and murmuring to herself. “Mo—Celeste?” I say quietly, hoping not to startle her. She raises her head slowly, her eyes taking a few seconds to focus on me. For a minute, I think I’ve entered the wrong room until I realize the gray-haired lady in front of me is, in fact, my mom. Her face has lines that weren’t there before and it’s fuller, as is the rest of her. I suppose that’s from being wheelchair bound, and maybe from some of the medications she’s on. The nurse told me a few months ago that Mom’s legs kept giving out while she was walking, and after a particularly nasty fall they decided a wheelchair would be the best thing for her.