Speak From The Heart: a small town romance Page 10

  I hold him, and he embraces me back, one hand splayed across my spine and the other at the base of my neck.

  “It’s all my fault,” he mutters. For some reason, this upsets me as much as if he’d said we shouldn’t have been kissing.

  “It’s not your fault,” I say, pulling back from him, but he isn’t letting me leave his arms. My hands come to his shoulders, pressing at them as he growls.

  “Don’t push me away.”

  There’s no point in pulling him forward.

  I don’t see a place with him. He doesn’t see a place for me.

  You’d suffocate here. Is that what happened to him?

  He told me he was where he’s supposed to be. Where am I meant to be?

  I can’t think about these things right now.

  “I need to check on Nana,” I say, reminiscent of the words I said earlier when he was on top of me, kissing me, reaching for something more from me.

  He releases me and then waves out a hand, and I step forward to head back to the waiting room for word on Nana.

  + + +

  I wait until morning to call Grace and explain everything. The kisses. The fall.

  “You had a notebook moment.” Grace sighs after admonishing me for not telling her sooner about the rain kiss.

  “Notebook?”

  “Yeah, the movie, The Notebook. Kissing in the rain.” Her voice sounds dreamy, and I roll my eyes. This is not the time for such things. “It’s so romantic.”

  “Nicholas Sparks might disagree. He hates to be considered a romance author,” I say, my voice flat. “He’ll argue that story was a love story. Spoiler alert—the wife dies in the end.” It’s sad on several levels. The wife passes after years with Alzheimer’s. Is this my fate? Is this Nana’s? Will she regress until she doesn’t recognize me anymore? How will I handle this?

  “It’s a modern day fairy tale,” Grace continues, and I sigh. “Angst. Frustration. Sexual tension.”

  “Grace. Focus. Nana,” I snap. We need to discuss what’s next. The doctors confirm Nana broke her hip, several ribs, and her right arm. She’s brittle, I recall thinking when they listed her injuries. Unfortunately, they also added that with her advanced age, surgery wasn’t the best option. I needed to prepare for extensive rehab at a facility. A counselor came to the room to discuss further options, telling me that because of what I’d told them regarding Nana’s confusion and lack of memory, they believed she might not recover to the point she could return to her house.

  “What if she—”

  “Don’t say it.” Grace cuts me off, her voice sharper than moments ago when she teased me about Jess. “Just . . . take it one day at a time. Remember that she’s lived a good life and done what she wanted to do. And take each day as it comes.”

  Grace is correct in many ways. Nana has lived a good life. She worked as an advice columnist during a time when women hardly worked outside the home, and she held that career for almost thirty years. Times change, she told me when the newspaper association cut the column. Her position allowed her to work from home and mail in her articles. Then she faxed them and eventually emailed, which was still in its infancy at the time.

  Will I still be working at City’s Edge in another twenty years? The thought makes me shiver. I’m nowhere near the accomplishments of my grandmother. By my age, she’d had a marriage, a child, and a thriving career. What do I have off that list?

  I push away the hollowness in my chest and eventually end the call with Grace. Next, I contact my boss. I’ll need another week, at least. It’s a Sunday, so he isn’t at the office, and I decide to contact human resources instead of leaving him a message. I’m within my rights to take another week. It’s not ideal, and I understand that as I have stories pending and appointments to make, but someone else can fill in for me. It’s what the newspaper has done for years when other people take the time they need or the vacations they deserve. Not to mention, I can’t deal with my boss’s disappointment.

  As I re-enter Nana’s room, I note she’s awake.

  “She’s been asking about you,” a nurse tells me. She’s just checked Nana’s vitals, which seems to be a continual process.

  “Nana,” I whisper, my voice cracking on her name. “How are you feeling?”

  “The radio,” she says, her voice raspy from disuse. “Where is the radio?”

  “I’m getting it fixed, Nana. Remember? When you go home, it will be waiting for you.” I swallow at the lies I tell. I have no idea when the radio will be repaired or if Nana will be returning to her beloved house.

  “It was a gift for John.”

  My eyes close at the reminder of my grandparents’ love for each other. I vaguely remember this story. In the tradition of marriage gifts, something made of wood was the proper present for a fifth wedding anniversary. My grandmother gave my grandfather the wood-encased radio, telling him she hoped they’d still have it when they celebrated year twenty-seven, signified by music. Grandpa gave her a porch swing. Not the same one Jess and I sat on, as the original only withstood the elements for so long, but still, a wood slat porch swing was his gift.

  So we could listen to the music on the front porch.

  I don’t know why the memory comes back to me, but I hear my grandfather’s voice in my head. I miss him. I miss my mother. I miss Grace.

  My eyes leak at the thought I’m going to miss Nana.

  I don’t know how we’ll make it one day at a time, as Grace suggests.

  Later in the day, Jess comes to the hospital with an overnight bag he says Sue Carpenter packed for me. He also brings me a handful of daisies.

  “I cut them from her garden. I thought it might brighten up the place a bit.”

  My eyes fill with liquid again. Jess reaches for my upper arm and rubs at my bare skin, which has been chilled by the air conditioning in the room. “Why don’t you take a shower? I’ll sit with her.”

  Nana has already fallen back into her morphine-induced sleep. She needs lots of rest to ensure recovery, the doctors told me. Her body is older, but she can heal. It will just take some time, which I suddenly don’t feel is on my side.

  I shouldn’t leave Nana, but I do need a minute to walk away. I enter a visitor’s shower room and once undressed, simply stand underneath the spray, allowing the tears to mix with the water pouring over me.

  What am I going to do?

  How am I going to do this?

  Finally, the tears stop, but I still don’t have answers. I dry myself, change into fresh clothes, and return to Nana’s room.

  “She hasn’t moved,” Jess says, sitting next to her bed, hands steepled under his chin as if in prayer. He looks up at me. “When was the last time you ate?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I know, but you still need to eat.” He stands and circles the end of her bed. “I’ll go down to the cafeteria to get you something.” His hand comes to my arm again and rubs as though he’s afraid to touch me, afraid to offer me more.

  That might be because you pushed him away last night, Emily.

  I did, frightened I’d crumple before him. Today, I feel a little stronger physically. My head is the weak part. So many thoughts. So many concerns.

  Surprising me, Jess steps closer and leans in to press a kiss to my temple. “Let me help.”

  I close my eyes for another second. How would it be to let him in, lean on him, ask for the help I feel I desperately need?

  “I have this,” I say, though I don’t really believe myself.

  “Of course you do, because you’re efficient,” he quietly teases. “But I can be efficient, too. I juggle a lot of balls at one time, Emily. I know how to do this.”

  The inner child in me should make a joke about the use of his balls, but I don’t.

  “What I need is her radio repaired. She’s been asking me about it. It’s . . . special to her, and I just need it fixed.”

  Jess looks at me, those intense denim eyes questioning what I’ve said, but eventually,
he nods. “I’m working on it.”

  “Work faster,” I quietly retort, twisting my lips in frustration, and he surprises me with a weak smile.

  “So pushy,” he says, before he kisses my temple again and disappears into the hall.

  When Jess returns, we don’t say much to each other at first as we sit in seats on the side of Nana’s bed. Eventually, I ask him about Katie, and he tells me she’s with his sister Tricia. After watching me use videos with Katie, Tricia was reminded of a teacher friend who had a student a few years ago who worked with a picture system for communication.

  “I should thank you for being pushy,” he teases, and I stare at him. “You’re right, I am stubborn. In worrying about Katie’s emotions, I didn’t take into account there are ways to help her communicate better. I didn’t want her to feel like it was her fault somehow, that she wasn’t speaking because of something she did. And didn’t want devices and tools to feel restrictive, preventing her from eventually opening up like the doctors predicted.” He sighs in frustration. “So thank you for giving me the push I needed to take this step. Katie’s obviously very open to learning something new.”

  He lowers his head to face the floor.

  “Tricia contacted that friend of hers and she learned the picture program is something I can easily download for Katie on an iPad. With images, symbols, and even emojis, she’ll be able to express herself with the touch of a button.” His eyes remain on the floor at his feet as he chuckles. He’s an engineer. Something at the touch of a button is the very thing he might invent.

  “That’s wonderful, Jess.” I don’t want to reprimand him and remind him he should have listened to his sister in the first place.

  “She’s a good aunt,” he says of his youngest sibling.

  “That’s me. I’m the good aunt.”

  His head pops up. “You didn’t want kids?”

  “I did. I do. It’s just . . .” He knows I’m single, and it upsets me when he grins. “What?”

  “Nothing. You’re young. You have time.”

  “I don’t need time. I need a man.” The words rush forth, and Jess sits straighter, blinking at me. “Well, not a man exactly, just you know . . . for . . .” My face heats. I’m quite certain he understands the purpose of a man in procreation, and the last thing I need to be thinking about right now is procreating with any man, let alone him. Still, my mind does wander to the possibility. Our bodies were so close to one another the other night, moving in a way that left nothing to the imagination other than the deed itself.

  “Emily.” Jess’s voice breaks into my thoughts, and my blush deepens. His expression tells me he knows what I’m thinking, but he clarifies, “I asked you if you were done.” He nods at the Styrofoam container in my hand, holding the remains of a salad I haven’t really eaten.

  “You need sleep,” he says after disposing of the trash. I haven’t slept since coming to the hospital, which means it’s been over twenty-four hours. I’m not certain I can close my eyes because I’m afraid I’ll see Nana falling all over again. Jess returns to his chair and pats his lap.

  “What?” I choke on the word. The seat is some kind of lounger seat only found in hospitals, built for functionality more than comfort. It’s more than a plastic waiting room chair but not quite a Barclay lounger.

  “Sit on my lap. Rest on me.”

  “Jess, I—”

  “Don’t be stubborn. That’s my label.”

  “Well, you’re certainly being pushy. Isn’t that my label?” I tease as I rise from my seat and slip onto his lap. My feet dangle off to one side, but he tucks them up so my folded legs rest against his. My hip juts near his abs.

  “Don’t wiggle too much,” he mutters, a warning about the effect I might have on him. Then he wraps his arms around me and pulls me into his chest, forcing my head to his shoulder. “Just rest a bit.”

  I don’t think I’ll sleep like this, curled on his lap and listening to his heartbeat, but within minutes, I’m out.

  + + +

  Since the first message I listened to from my boss was both patronizing and lacking in sympathy, I ignore the rest of them. From now on, I’ll be speaking with HR directly. I’ve already been assured another week off is understandable due to my circumstances.

  For three days, I sit beside Nana.

  “Speak from your heart,” Nana says, startling me from a wave of random memories about her and of Grace and me as children at her home during summers long since passed. Those were more innocent times I hadn’t thought about for quite a while.

  “What, Nana?” Her voice is the clearest it’s been in days, but I don’t understand what she’s saying.

  “Speak from your heart, Emily. Tell it like it is. How you feel. What you want. It’s the only way to live.”

  I scoot the chair closer to her bed, taking up her cold, thin hand with mine. “Okay, Nana.” I don’t need to argue with her. She’s never been wrong in the advice she’s given. Her rules of etiquette shaped my life, though I’ve broken a few of them. One-night stands. Paid for dates to get out of them. Opening my own damn door when the man before me wasn’t a gentleman.

  “Live now, Emily. Not in the past where you can’t change anything. Not for the future when you don’t know where it leads. Now is your life, sweetheart. Live it.”

  Tears stream down my face once again, and I recall how my grandmother did just that. She lived her life. She fulfilled all her dreams with both family and career. True love and a work ethic. She believed in the greater good of people if they only treated one another with respect set forth through manners.

  I need to be better, I decide as I hold her hand.

  “I will, Nana. Live now. Got it,” I tease, while more tears flow over my cheeks and drip from my chin.

  How though, Nana? How do I do it?

  I thought I’d been living my best life by chasing a career and foregoing relationships, but none of it has gotten me anywhere.

  “You didn’t want children?” Jess asked.

  Yes, yes I did. I do. I want it all, only I’m no longer certain I’m on the right path to achieve it.

  How did you do it, Nana? I wonder once again, only I’ll never get answers to my unasked questions. Nana passes on that third evening, dispensing her wisdom and holding my hand.

  Rule 11

  Fingertips tell a story.

  [Jess]

  Between working at the repair shop, fielding calls from QuickFix, working with Katie, and visits to see Emily in the hospital, I’ve continued to tinker with the radio. The problem has been the reception. In our digital, satellite, and Wi-Fi age, how do I get the ancient device to connect to radio stations? Are there even programmers who play the oldies she desired?

  Then Elizabeth Parrish dies before I have the answers, and I feel as if I’ve disappointed Emily. She asked only one thing of me—to fix the radio for her grandmother.

  She looks shattered as I hover on the periphery of the funeral luncheon, and there is nothing I can do about it. How do you help someone you hardly know? Yet isn’t that what Emily did with Katie? She came up with the sign language suggestion and then sat with me to introduce the possibility to my daughter. Even though I’ve decided to use the electronic picture-communication program, it all sparked from Emily’s desire to help.

  She was a stranger to us only two weeks ago. Now, I’m not certain how I’ll let her go.

  I watch as Emily greets funeral attendees she doesn’t know but who know of her. Her grandmother was so proud of her, and I’ve learned I misjudged their relationship. While Emily hadn’t been physically involved in her grandmother’s life for the past few years, she’s been very present. People wish her well on her writing career and her big city life, but I notice she flinches every time someone mentions either. Is she not proud of herself? From the way the people here recall their conversations with Elizabeth, it seems as though Emily is quite successful, and it’s all a reminder she’s temporary. She’ll leave once she settles her grandmo
ther’s affairs, and for some reason, that unsettles me.

  Then what would you suggest?

  The question is a riddle to me. I have nothing. I live with my mother. I am a single father, and I work two jobs.

  I glance up to find her looking at me from across the room. Her eyes are empty, but I smile and wink.

  Maybe efficient and pushy are the wrong words to describe her. Maybe determined and strong are better adjectives. She’s holding her own among these well-wishers, but it’s wearing on her. As one set of decisions needing to be made disappears—regarding what she was going to do about her grandmother—a new set of decisions appears. What will she do with what remains? Will she sell that old house? Will she rent it? Will she ever come back to visit this place once she leaves?

  My shoulders fall at the possibility she’ll have no reason to return, and then I watch Sue Carpenter approach her, encouraging her to stop trying to pick up dishes and serve people. Yep, efficient. Emily nods as Sue takes a stack of teacups from her hands, and Emily steps into the Carpenter’s kitchen.

  I hate being in this house. I hate thinking of Gabe Carpenter, who is lingering somewhere around here. Out of respect for Joe, Gabe’s dad, I’ve never aired the dirty laundry about his son and my wife. Tom says I’m a fool for not skywriting it and exposing him for the cheat he is, but I don’t want to destroy another family just because Gabe destroyed mine.

  Then again, it was really Debbie who did the damage.

  When Emily doesn’t return after a few minutes, I go in search of her just as I’ve been doing the past couple of hours.

  “I sent her home for bit,” Sue tells me as she stands at her kitchen sink. She’s really taken care of everything today. The service. The luncheon. She was a good neighbor to Elizabeth, and she’s equally kind to Emily. The Carpenters are good people, despite their son.

  I kiss Sue’s cheek and watch her flush pink before I thank her for all she’s done today. Then I excuse myself. Once I’m at Elizabeth’s, I let myself in through the screened porch and then lock the door behind me.