Gray
By Rachel Karns
Copyright 2011 Rachel Karns
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For Erik
Isolation was meant to heal him. And it did. He was happy, or at least at peace, doing what he felt he was born to do in the wild. For the last three years, Peter Delano was a stranger to everyone he met, and that felt safe. Life consisted of only himself and the wolves and an occasional short stay in Wallace.
Wallace was an unrealistically antiquated mining town nestled at the base of the protruding Silver Mountains. Not quite a ghost town but nearly abandoned, just the way he liked it. He kept an apartment here, just to shower, collect mail, restock supply, and to store the one modern convenience that necessitated his work: his laptop. All his time in the mountains was not in vain. He was working via a government grant, tracking the reintroduction of gray wolves in the North Idaho Panhandle, studying their pack mentality in the Silver Valley, their migration patterns through the Clearwater National Forest, their feeding habits and potential and already-realized hazards. It was a risky move to bring back a predator. Can nature be controlled, calculated, predicted? His job was to determine that and to report statistical data on a quarterly basis to the Idaho Fish and Game. The government left him alone with his wolves, paid for what he called his base-camp apartment, paid all his bills, and his frugality was his bonus. He wasn’t going to be a burden on anyone.
Three years have passed since he last had any meaningful contact with another human being. Maya, the one he trusted with everything, the beautiful Maya whom he envisioned growing old with, left him nearly three years ago to the day. She loved the wolves and supported his research, yet she was social. Love wasn’t enough--for her.
Maya met a pilot online, by accident she swore. In her attempt to feel connected, she joined a social network which led her back to some old friends and their acquaintances. Realizing how much more exciting everyone else’s lives seemed, she kissed Peter goodbye, pleaded for forgiveness, and caught the first flight to Chicago, free of charge as she met her online “friend” at the terminal, dressed in pressed blue and white. Peter hated the laptop for its role in tearing them apart and would have loved to throw it off a cliff. Yet the laptop was his avenue to communicate his research to the IFG, and it was the avenue in which a new woman came into his life.
Eco-singles was a site meant for nature-loving singles, but he found it to be a general meat market of phonies who had a superficial passion for nature. He was just browsing--well, truthfully, he was hoping to find Maya’s profile, hoping that she was miserable and too embarrassed to admit her mistake of leaving him. She wasn’t there. Peter found himself quickly addicted, searching for Maya, and along the way found himself following the posts of another woman, possibly half as cynical as he was, and their banter was a distraction, if not slightly entertaining. Their jabs back and forth began a six-month fencing match. She wanted to meet him. After months of flirty pessimism, she called his bluff. “I think you’re scared.” His ego got the better of him, and he agreed to meet her at Beverly's Lounge for drinks and live music, three towns away. If it didn’t work out, there would be no chance of running into her in Wallace.
Just off the mountain, his clothes were disgusting. No time to hit the laundromat. He would have to settle for the only clean pair of jeans he owned and a brown, musty tee shirt he found in the bottom of his single dresser. Brute would cover that--and a shower--and a shave. He looked like a mountain man, not bothering with personal hygiene when he was in the mountains. Peter stared at his scrappy visage in the mirror. Nothing like scaring a woman on a first date than realizing she’s been conversing with the Unabomber. Maybe he would keep the beard; the date would most certainly end quickly. He knew the date was destined for failure, because she wasn’t Maya. Cynicism was seeping in, again. Of course he would shave, if he had any shaving cream. Or soap. Geez, he was completely hopeless.
Peter grabbed five dollars out of the cash can he stored in the kitchen cupboard and stuffed it in his filthy, tattered pants pocket. He left his apartment unlocked, quickly walking down to the Wallace Five & Dime in search of soap and shaving cream. The most he could give her would be the effort to smell clean, unlike his wet, wooly socks. That’s about all he could promise.
Distracted with fighting his inner urge to stay home and avoid feelings that he had worked so hard to suppress, along with realizing that it was three minutes before six o’clock, when the Five & Dime closed, he bolted into the two-lane street. There’s no such thing as traffic in Wallace, usually.
No screech was heard on Cedar Street, because the driver of the car traveling that night didn’t have time to consider braking in time. Shattered glass, mangled metal, blood, lots of blood. The only proof that the driver attempted to avoid hitting the pedestrian was the shattered asphalt bench that he swerved into, with shredded rubber leading to it. Ironically, the car dented the plaque that used to hang on the bench, reading In Memory of so and so.
I first heard about the accident on the drive home from the airport. The top-of-the-hour news announced on the radio:
“They are calling him John Doe. A man in Wallace was struck by a pizza delivery driver and has been in a coma since Saturday night. Authorities at Kootenai Medical Center say the man had no identification on him and has not been reported missing locally. If anyone has any information leading to John Doe’s identity, please contact Kootenai County authorities. Charges are not being filed against the pizza delivery driver, who suffered a broken arm.”
That was all it took, one radio blurb to introduce me to John Doe. Who was he? Where was his family? Why had they not discovered his absence yet?
I parked my car in a small gravel lot behind Whitaker Jewelry, the store my family has owned and operated for three generations. I bypassed the shop, eyeing a display piece in the window case that needed better placement, making a mental note to rearrange it first thing; however, not before my morning ritual of orange juice and a scone at Dickson’s Coffee next door.
“Good morning, Henry,” I smiled maturely.
Henry, the owner and barista, handed me a bottled juice and scone without question. “Banana-nut wheat germ.”
I held my gut.
“Fiber,” he patted his chest. Henry survived a very public heart attack last year, in this very spot, and has since eliminated the doughnuts from the menu.
I handed him four dollars. He leaned forward and whispered, “Your dad let me in on the secret. If you need anything at all, I’m a wall away.” It was comforting to know that although I was totally alone, someone was aware of me, unlike poor John Doe.
“Six-week cruise? Up the canal?” Henry whistled, as if impressed.
“Spain to Amsterdam. Don’t think about it. It’s sickening, really--wine, Europe, the canals--it’s just wrong.” I grabbed my drink and significantly heavy pastry bag and turned toward the door. “My heart thanks you.”
“Among other things,” Henry winked.
With my hands full, I keyed into Whitaker Jewelry. I flipped on the lights and nearly tripped over the newspaper that had been dropped through the front door mail slot. Rolled up and wrapped in plastic, I tossed the North Idaho Press on top of the glass counter, with my juice and scone, and immediately keyed into the window display case. The placement was backwards, with the newest engagement setting in the back corner and cuff links stealing center stage. I rearranged the jewelry and heard the front-door bell jingle.
Julie walked in, her tall figure somewhat drooping as she just hovered near the door.
“I already said goodbye,” I said, trying to stave off a smile.
“I came back for another load of essentials for the dorm, and when I drove down Sherman, my car automatically pulled over. I had no control, I swear,” she said.
Julie spotted the ring in my hand. “Is this the newest one?” She slid it on her finger, twisting it in the light. Julie was the only person outside my family who knew that I design jewelry under the pen name Lenora, a secret my dad insisted on when I was twelve. “What’s his name?”
“No name,” I admitted. All my pieces have a name, known only to me, my family and Julie. “I was thinking of ‘Leaf,’ short for ‘Leaving.’”
“I’m not the one who betrayed our agreement,” Julie pointed out.
We were fifteen when we made the college pact. “A lot changes in three years,” I reminded her.
“Well, running sucks without you.”
“I hate pain,” I said.
“You know you’ll miss it, the pain and all.” Julie put her arms around me and hugged me one last time. “I’m only an hour and a half away.”
“I know. I was there two weeks ago moving you in.”
“I expect you at the finish line of my first race,” she said. I nodded and took the ring back from her.
“I’ve got to go before I get all weird again.” Julie turned out the door. I saw her Volkswagen bug loaded with clothes, shoes, her favorite stuffed teddy bear, and a large colorful floor lamp roped to the top of the roof. She sped off, honking.
It was supposed to be the best six weeks of my life, with Mom and Dad gone and at eighteen, all the freedom in the world. I had known for months of their trans-European cruise, as Dad had prepped me with every detail on running the shop without him. Dad has been the owner and Mom and I have been the sole employees my entire life. Dad had been meaning to retire at sixty-five, two years ago, and yet had no one to offer the family business to, no one who desired to take it on, besides my under-aged self.
Now that I am finally of age, Dad has considered the possibility of retirement. Their cruise was a test run for me. I am the exact opposite of my half-sister Dawn. Dawn is the byproduct of my father’s childhood marriage that lasted two years. Dad was young, just nineteen, when he married his first wife who ran away two years after their marriage, leaving eighteen-month-old Dawn with him. Single and still a kid himself, he raised her the best he could. Dawn’s one and only child from marriage number two, Donny, is the closest thing I have to a sibling, although I wouldn’t call us close.
For some, life presents second chances. At forty-eight, Dad met Mom at his thirtieth high-school reunion and found the soul mate he never had. They married within six weeks. To the total shock and dismay of everyone, I was born nine months later. They say I was the miracle child and another second chance for Dad. He promised to raise his second daughter right, and discovered the key was spending as much time with me as possible. Working at the shop made it easy to get the time in. Since I can remember, I’ve watched Dad pour hot silver and gold into premade wax molds that he ordered from a catalogue. I inquisitively studied the discarded wax that he threw out after every piece. Dad tolerated my piddling around the back studio, and at eleven I reshaped the wax into a Father’s Day tie pin that Dad had thought would turn out to be a childhood art experiment, but revealed to him a true talent in me. He displayed the pin in the window case titled Father’s Fusion and sold forty-three that week to locals. From then on, Dad allowed me to create special holiday pieces and designs of the month, a hobby that came very naturally to me.
I realized that my tinkering was more than a hobby when I received my first request for a one-of-a-kind engagement ring. A semi-pro golfer who was staying at the Coeur d’Alene Resort and enjoying the unique Coeur d’Alene greens came by the shop and requested a ring to be made in the shape of a golf tee with a golf ball diamond on top, apparently for his European-model girlfriend. Money was no object. His one request was that no other ring be made like it. I quickly sketched the design on paper, and once my sketch and his ideas found common ground, he made a fifty percent deposit, and added a thousand-dollar tip for allowing him to keep the original mold. The ring was astonishing, and his girlfriend wore the ring in her latest magazine spread. The ring was noticed, and Whitaker Jewelry gained national attention. Queries came in furiously about the designer. Mom and Dad insisted that a plain childhood was better than celebrity, and if I wanted any chance at normalcy, I must create a private designer name, a nom de plum of sorts. I chose Lenora for no other reason than I liked the way the name rolled off my tongue, and I loved making cursive Ls. Designs by Lenora single-handedly saved the shop, Dad once said. Lenora received several personal inquiries, which I enjoyed responding to. The outdated store became a couture tourist stop, and I was a simple counter girl by day, designer by night. I didn’t mind the obscurity, really. I like keeping secrets.
With the income I made, Dad insisted on putting most of it into a savings account for college, and yet I told him the money needed to go to the shop’s upkeep. The carpet was old, the glass displays were original, and the security was lacking. After a break-in a year ago, Dad finally agreed to having the place updated and secured, hiring my cousin Donny and his friends to do the wiring.
I can talk to Dad about everything, and talk him into anything. That is why I convinced him to let me turn the upstairs storage of Whitaker Jewelry into my own studio loft. It was abandoned as an apartment sixty years ago, but with my vision and persistence, it was easily renovated into my personal abode. I’m not sure what I liked better, the cozy cramped quarters above the store, or the idea that I was replicating a really old novel. Sometimes I read by candlelight, providing ethereal ambiance that I imagined the Bronte sisters wrote their masterpieces amidst. I loved my drab little loft and didn’t have any regret about not going to college. I’m perfectly content with all I have, and even accepting of what I lack.
A jewelry store is one of the most romantic places to work, but the least likely place to meet anyone available, for obvious reasons. The men in my life are, well, truthfully, those I read about. And if they are really impressive, I’ll name a ring after them. My father always told me that if a guy’s worth anything, he will do whatever it takes to win you. Maybe his thinking was a bit old-fashioned, but I knew that it would happen this way for me. No singles' groups or chat rooms. I would hold out if I had to, until I was forty-eight, like my mother, to let the right one find me.
In the meantime, I put all my energy into Whitaker Jewelry, managing the store and moonlighting as Lenora. I was thrilled that Dad had finally set a date to hand over the reigns, and the title to the business, on his sixty-eighth birthday next year. Mom deserved to live her golden years with him, enjoying all the things that small business owners never get the chance to do, like travel. I should mention that all of my talent didn’t just appear out of nowhere; my mom is a talented painter. She can capture warmth through her acrylics that nearly radiate heat. I’ve grown up with her vivid canvases on every wall of our home. That is the only place her work is displayed. After marrying Dad, she never pursued her art as anything but a hobby.
And that is why I suspect that my refusal to go to college was such a sore subject between Mom and myself. Both my parents had not attended, and Mom felt like her opportunities in art were stifled by a lack of marketing skills which college could have provided. She feels that there is never such a thing as a wasted education. I finally convinced Mom that managing a family-run business didn’t require four years of an education at some institution, but an apprenticeship in person. So, as this summer neared an end and it was clear I wasn’t going to budge, Mom started to accept that I wasn’t college-bound. I transitioned into my new life by working with Dad full time.
After bidding them bon voyage, and sending off Julie again, I was finally alone. Alone to be me, free from any assignments, homework, monotonous tasks that had no point but to claim mastery of grammar, mathematics, or scientific theory. I was free to be one hundred percent me. I soaked up the last sunny days of August in the shop devouring novels when foot traffic was slow, and creating a new Lenora one-of-a-kind at night. I cooked for myself using exotic oils and spices, and enjoyed the freedom of space and time. And, I developed a daily fascination with John Doe. The hospital PR department released daily solicitations for information regarding his identity to the news, in the paper, and on the radio. This stranger invaded my every thought, stole my attention and quickly became a private obsession. Day after day, I would key into the shop, set down my juice and scone, and immediately tear open the newspaper. Had he awakened? Did his family find him? Any employers report him missing? How could anybody be so unnoticed in this world? I would say little prayers in my heart for him, prayers that he would heal and be found. After about ten minutes of drifting, I would force myself to shut the paper and move on.
***************
Nothing was too different about this particular Monday morning, except for two things: Mom and Dad had been gone for a week now, and it was my nineteenth birthday. Nineteen is an insignificant year, I decided. Not quite considered adult by society’s standards, and nothing really special to claim. People start a career or a degree. It’s an in-between age. I didn’t feel any different, except for that private, magical feeling I held every year on my birthday. Although I had started to feel very grown up by moving out of my parents’ home and into the loft this summer, today was going to be the true test of adult maturity, being alone. Most adults I know avoid acknowledging their birthdays, so I would do the same. No birthday breakfast this year with Mom. Just a four-mile morning jog around Tubbs Hill, as I do every morning.
Tubbs Hill is an endearing local landmark in Coeur d’Alene. Jetting out into the water, this 120-acre forested, public-owned property sits next to the Coeur d’Alene Resort, with dirt trails winding away from all civilization in a two-mile loop showcasing the lake, the mountains, the beautiful white pines and the native shrubbery. It’s also a killer trail run. I run the loop two times every morning, rain or shine.
This particular morning, the lake was glass reflecting red and green foliage, the perfect birthday gift in itself. I hate racing; however, I love running. I love the crisp air in my lungs, the tension in my toes pushing up each rocky incline. I love the mud streaks that paint themselves on my calves. I love the physical strain on my body. Above all, I love the escape--the feverish thoughts and feelings, the conversations in my head, the dreaming. The morning run was the first of many rituals that I had christened my new adult life with.
After my run and shower, I routinely exit the loft down the back stairs, which dumps into a two-car gravel parking lot and the block’s dumpster. I could come down the loft stairs and make a quick right to open the attached rear door to Whitaker Jewelry, but entering the front of the store felt like entering work, not just an extension of my apartment. To me, they were two different buildings.
Continuing with my morning ritual, I made my way to Dickson’s Coffee, ordering my daily OJ, along with a molasses-pumpkin scone. I keyed myself into the shop, disarming the store. Like an obsessed fan, I grabbed the morning paper, ripped off the plastic, shuffled to the back of the local section, and scanned for his story. More wolf tags offered… Public urged to attend levy vote today… Local Ironman prepares for Kona… I flipped the page and kept scanning, until I found it squeezed between ads for financial counseling: John Doe needs your help.
The front bell jingled, and a young couple sheepishly strolled in. Monday morning engagement traffic, I thought to myself. The young couple couldn’t hide it if they tried. I hid my breakfast and newspaper behind the counter.
I could read a person like a fortuneteller reads the thickness of your wallet, and the young couple hesitantly entering the store was an easy read. “I’m guessing a ‘Congratulations’ is in order.”
He was a tall kid, probably my age, and much too young to be engaged, I thought. “I had planned to come see you before I proposed. I’m sure you’ve heard that one before,” he smiled bashfully.
“Sometimes,” I answered. “But now she can get what she wants, right?” I was already sizing up the couple, making judgments that would help with the sale. They were an impulsive pair, I assessed.
“You’re Maggie, right?” he said out of the blue. “Trig, Mr. Hammond. You were a junior, my senior year.” I couldn’t place him, and it was a bit awkward. “Chris Steenberg,” he said. “I sat in the back corner by the window.”
“Oh, right. I thought you looked familiar.” To be fair, my junior year was a blur. I spent every waking moment either on the track or in the shop, designing as Lenora.
“This is Elena. We met at the University of Montana.” Elena was petite with sharp-sculpted eyebrows.
Elena offered her hand, “Nice to meet you.” I accepted the cordiality, shaking her pencil-thin fingers, while I studied her for just a moment. I had nearly mastered the art of picking out the perfect engagement setting on the first try, another talent, my dad had insisted. If I could take ten seconds to get in the head of the bride-to-be, I could find a match.
I glanced from Elena to the case, walking slowly down the displays looking, searching for her first pick. “So, you just got engaged last night?” I asked, while searching for her match.
“It was perfect,” the polished brunette said. “He did so great.”
If anything in the world seems insincere, it was a woman who critiqued her own proposal, as if she were judging a figure-skating performance. She needed the story. The WOW factor mattered to her. I knew this type of woman and gave them five years at tops. I also knew that this woman needed a show ring, not a practical ring, not to even mention the poor guy’s budget, but a ring that forced the world to notice her.
“Asscher cut, platinum, high setting,” I mumbled to myself. “Rhett, you’re the one.” I pulled a shimmering, square-cut setting out from the glass and held the box for approval.
”Oh, my,” Elena gushed. “Can I?”
I slid the ring out of the box and handed it to Chris. “Go for it.”
The young man took a breath, and gently slid the ring on Elena’s finger. The diamond immediately fell over on her tiny finger. She held the ring in place, with the huge diamond on top. “I’m going to cry,” she said. Like clockwork, she held her hand out, examined it in all directions to catch the sunlight, and knew that she could never part from it. There were tears in her eyes, no kidding.
“We’ll size it for you,” I assured her.
“Its perfect, exactly what I would have chosen. I don’t need to try on anything else.” I watched as Chris Steenberg clinched his jaw, maybe in anxiety, maybe in the dizzying material decisions facing him, a foretaste of the years to come.
I sized her finger, writing down size 5 ¼ on an invoice.
“I’m glad you like it.” I admired their love, even if I knew it was doomed. Rhett was doomed too, the moment he met Scarlet in Gone with the Wind. He would fight for her feverishly, until he had the strength to walk away.
“Will I be able to afford a honeymoon?” Chris said, hinting sincerity.
I had learned long ago never to talk about money directly. “If you wouldn’t mind stepping back here, I’ll just have you fill out the paperwork.” He followed me to the register while Elena scoured the glass case, often examining the dazzling ring on her left finger.
I spoke in a low tone to Chris, almost in a whisper. “This is a Lenora original, making the setting two thousand, but the flawless stone is where the real damage comes in. We can reset the setting with an imperfect stone. We do it all the time.” I had a way of helping men save face, which somehow made me an even more natural saleswoman.
“Imperfect stone?” he questioned.
“This stone is flawless grade, which basically means they have no blemishes under ten time’s magnification. We can reset it with a SI1, which is an imperfect stone, but unless she’s a diamond grader, she’ll never notice. Same size, same cut. That will shave off two thousand. If you want any lesser grade, you’ll have to go to the mall.”
Looking at his fiancé admiring her hand, “I don’t think she cares about the grade, just as long as it’s big. You have payment plans?”
“Of course, I can have it resized and reset by Friday. At that time I will need a deposit of $1,000.”
“Forgive me for asking, but the diamonds are from . . .” Chris looked at his feet. “I don’t want to make an impulsive choice. I’ve heard stories, and it would be nice knowing the origin,” Chris said.
I looked at Chris Steenberg, astonished at his question. Most people don’t care where their diamonds come from or how they get them.
“All of our diamonds are laser registered from our supplier in Canada. Your purchase is a clean one,” I assured him. Dad had decided to deal only with Canada, to subdue his hurting conscience, after discovering his past business had included several blood diamonds. It’s never too late to make good changes, he would tell me.
“The laser registration number will be on your final receipt, and we’ll keep one here on file too. Don’t hesitate to come in and get the setting checked for looseness, or the stone cleaned, or when you’re ready to add an anniversary band,” I mentioned, while handing him a receipt.
He looked completely overwhelmed. Elena looked completely in love. I held the box out and she contrived sadness when returning the ring. “I’ll call when it’s ready. Again, congratulations.”
I wondered how this woman snagged this guy. He was really thoughtful. Why didn’t I notice him in high school? I often talk in my head. Remember, he chose her. What does that say about him? I had a tendency to judge love, to size up couples and wonder what their attraction stemmed from. In cases like this, it seemed so mismatched, to see a man love a woman, and then notice that she’s in love with the attention that accompanies love. She has a Rhett, and she doesn’t even know it.
The moment the couple left, I dove for the paper that I had tossed under the counter, and ripped through page after page, scanning. There it was, second page of the local section, next to a colored ad of fried bacon and eggs atop a scramble of potatoes:
John Doe Needs Your Help
The man Kootenai Medical Center is calling John Doe who was struck by a car nine days ago in downtown Wallace is still in a medically-induced coma at KMC while doctors monitor swelling of the brain. The man, presumed to be in his twenties, had no identification on him, and witnesses say he jetted out into oncoming traffic without warning. Medical personnel have handed jurisdiction over to Kootenai County authorities in hopes that local or even national missing person’s reports will fit John Doe’s description. So far, no claims have been filed. If you have any information leading to John Doe’s identity, please call local authorities.
I spent the next hour glaring into the magnification glass removing the Rhett stone with pliers, thinking about this man. Who was he? Where were his parents, his family, or even his friends? The saddest, most tragic thought was hard for me to imagine: How could someone fight for their life all alone?
The phone rang, breaking my silent quandary. “Happy birthday, Darling!” It was the familiar voice of my mother, static and far away.
“Mom!”
My mother raved about their nautical adventures, which landed them currently in Northern Spain. “I missed our breakfast, Mags. Dad and I are having a toast in your honor right now. Cariñena. a beautiful, red Spanish wine.” She sounded a bit too happy. “Don’t tell me you are spending your birthday in the shop?”
“It is Monday, Mom. I’m here every Monday.”
“A shut-in on your birthday. I feel guilty that we didn’t bring you with us.”
“First, I would not want to be part of your anniversary cruise. Eww! And second, don’t knock the loft.” I am much more like Dad in this respect. I love small places and my daily predictable routine.
“Oh for goodness sakes, Mags, I’m going to have your father fire you when we get back if you don’t get out a little more. I worry about you, all alone.”
“What are you talking about? I’m surrounded by lots of beautiful men,” I slid Elena’s ring on my finger, admiring it. “Besides, I’m too good for you to fire. I just sold Rhett.”
“The Asscher?”
“Yep. With an SI1 though.”
“Darling, I’ve got to go. Dad sends his love. Why don’t you call Donny?”
“Bye, Mom.” I kissed her through the phone, and hung up. The thought of spending my birthday with Donny was depressing. Dawn’s son Donny is technically my nephew, but being five months my senior, for all intents and purposes, we established ourselves as cousins early on. You wouldn’t know he is older. I have spent my fair share parenting him these past four years: picking him up from overnight parties before Dad had to, restocking his school lunch credit since his lunch allowance never made it into the right hands, and single-handedly accomplishing graduation for him by reworking his senior project at the eleventh hour so that he could earn a D+. Dawn acts more like a buddy than a mother, and he hasn’t overcome his innate love for all things loud, dangerous, and illegal. If you don’t find him working at the Ski & Skate Shop, or hunting, motocrossing, or snowboarding, you could put sure money that he’s lounging in his 800-square-foot rental life-lined to his video game of the year. Never alone, he has an entourage of gaming addicts who have wired his place for every upgrade, surround sound, subwoofers, digital this or that. You can get dizzy just stepping in his house, and you certainly risk hearing loss. I don’t get the draw, but apparently it acts as a siren to every techno male who hears the call.
Donny and his computer-genius pal Victor put their technical skills to some use by wiring the jewelry store with alarms and cameras during the shop’s remodel. Dad thought maybe Donny was ready to step-it-up, be a man, and embrace responsible living. Dad even offered to give Donny a job, but told him he expected him to arrive to work clean and sober every morning. Donny declined the offer.
I have nearly reached the end of my compassion for Donny, so spending the beginning of my true adult life with someone who lives off the backs of others did not appeal to me.
I set the Rhett down, sans its diamond, to resize it later today. I deposited the flawless diamond into a velvet receptacle and secured it in our safe in the back. I knew I wasn’t focused enough to do my best work, since John Doe was still knocking on my brain. I attempted to distract myself by spot-checking each jewelry piece under the glass. Louie L’Amour is rough, jagged, and rustic. Jay Gatsby is jazz-age, sweeping curves, flaunting yet tragic. Gilbert Blythe is country sweet and harmless. Rhett Butler is impressive, antique, Southern charm. Out of all my designs, I like Atticus Finch the most, an understated band of diamonds which shouts simplicity and strength. Each setting unique, these are my romantic leads, the men in my life that each represent qualities I consider a must: chivalry, faithfulness, courage, tenderness, optimism.
It was with these men that I had planned to spend my nineteenth birthday. I had no idea what was really in store.
I dreamed my way through the day, resetting and sizing the engagement ring, Rhett. My stomach reminded me that it was closing time, demanding attention. I never did finish reading the morning paper, so I shoved the North Idaho Press into my purse to finish at home. I exited from the front, as usual, locking up behind me after setting the alarm.
Couples strolled down Sherman Avenue, hand in hand. A group of junior high girls in beach-wear and flip flops huddled together, giggling and scanning for familiar faces. There seemed to be at least an hour of sunlight left, and I hesitated to shut myself in the loft for the night. Having the secret of my birthday locked up in the loft lacked adventure. I’d surprise my mom and take her advice. I’d go out to dinner on my birthday. At that, I walked down Sherman Avenue and crossed the street.
Chinese Gardens, nestled across the street from the sleepy Song Bird Theatre and adjacent to a tattoo parlor, has been my favorite hole-in-the-wall restaurant since I can remember. I sat in the red vinyl booth alongside the window and ordered egg drop soup, along with chow mein and my favorite, sweet-and-sour chicken.
Condensation settled on the corners of the window, and I sat watching the passers-by. Across the street, on an old water-stained park bench, an attractive young couple sat down, the kind that look good together--the kind that look like a pair. The girl was crying. I made up the back story in my head: They’d just had a fight over something catastrophic, like another woman, and they were at the peak of their decision to stick together or walk away forever. Gently, the young man put his arm around her and began to stroke her back. He said nothing. She sobbed, and he sat somber, placing the other hand on her knee. No, this wasn’t about another woman. This was fear. She was sick, or he was sick. Words covered guilt. The silence between the two of them determined a more tender, unanswerable sadness. Maybe she lost a parent, or a child--maybe their first unborn child?
Whatever grief they were facing, I oddly envied them. He communicated everything through the stroke of his hand. How lucky she was to have him, another soul, to be a support in her need. I stirred my soup aimlessly as the chow mein and chicken arrived, and with the warm smile of my waitress telling me to “Enjoy,” I felt more alone than ever before. My throat began to swell. A dry hotness ran down my neck. Don’t cry. This is stupid.
A tension in my innermost soul emerged, to defy this haunting loneliness on my birthday. I looked out the window and saw the couple had left. With a quick scan, I spotted them down one block, arm in arm, walking. I stared in numbness, feeling abandoned at the scene. The room buzzed as couples, families, even single diners seemed to enjoy their meals. I watched the double doors of the kitchen swing open, and the chef was dropping crab rangoon into hot oil. The waitress was bustling through the kitchen with teacups and a large pot of green tea balanced on an overloaded tray, somehow managing a safe delivery. I finished my soup and boxed the rest. I wasn’t that hungry after all. As I reached in my purse to pull out my wallet, the morning paper spilled out onto the floor. I picked it up, my eye catching on that familiar headline: "John Doe Needs Your Help."
Looking back, it’s irrational what made me decide to visit him that night, rather inexcusable for how I managed to visit him. But for a nineteen-year-old girl, it wasn’t irrational at all. All I knew was that something in me was pulling me to him, calling me to help. And it felt right. I can’t make all wrongs in this world right, but I could make a difference. John Doe would not die alone.
I walked into the entrance of the hospital with only one thing on my mind, to comfort John Doe. I wasn’t sure how the process of seeing a visitor worked. The last time I had been here was nineteen years to the day. I was a lucky kid, with two insanely protective parents. I approached the visitor’s counter and was greeted by a triage receptionist. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m here to see John Doe.”
She stared at me a moment. Her eyes widened, as if she just registered what I said. “Oh. Great. I just need you to register. Family will have special extended visiting hours, of course. I’ll let his doctors know you’re here.” She pushed paperwork over the counter and picked up the phone.
“I’m not family,” I interrupt.
A look of disappointment shattered her enthusiasm, as she hung up the phone. “The NEURO/ICU is only for family. Are you a reporter?” The accusation stirred a defensive need in me to not be turned away. “Our PR department sends a press update every night.”
Without warning, an earthquake of a lie erupted from within, the words spewing like hot lava. “Yet! I’m not family, yet. I’m his fiancé.”
They say you can’t stop a wave once it’s started. The tsunami was on its way. “Fiancé?” The receptionist hesitated, returning to her apologetic smile. “Let me call the doctor.” The double doors buzzed open.
I was immediately met by a nurse who looked more like a surgeon, covered in blue masks and scrubs, who led me to the Intensive Care Unit. I trailed behind, realizing I had just crossed a line that was not mine to cross.
***************
Mira was a mid-thirty neuro nurse who hated her job, and it showed. Being around so much sadness just sort of rubs off on you, she shared with me once. Mira showed me to John Doe’s room. She took his chart off the door, pausing before entering. “You’ve been briefed of his condition?”
“No.” I could hardly speak.
Mira looked tired, but empathetic. “I’ll get Dr. James to brief you on his prognosis.”
“Can I just sit with him for now?” I definitely didn’t want to know too much.
“All right, just know he’s roughed up a bit--a lot.” She led me to his bedside.
I quietly tiptoed behind her and immediately looked for his face. All I could see was his black eyelashes. He was completely wrapped in gauze, mummified. At the base of his neck was the yellow staining of iodine. His body lay still, leaving only the melodic symphony of machines breathing for him, ventilating oxygen into his lungs through a tube inserted in his throat. I saw bloodied scabs on his neck, in his ears, and on his hand, which was resting on the sheet. I felt nauseated; a wave of heat stemming from my stomach flowed up to my neck and down my legs.
“I’ll leave you for a minute,” Mira whispered. She left the room, but I could feel her stare on my back for longer than a moment.
I stood close to John Doe, not daring to touch him in his fragile state. My heart was racing, as I was face to face with the man I had been reading about, thinking about, praying for. Feeling like a voyeur in my silence, I felt it oddly appropriate to introduce myself. “Hi. I’m Maggie. Margaret. Margaret Claire. I don’t generally do this sort of thing.” I felt silly, trying to rationalize my visit. He was feeble and fragile, the machines doing all the work for him. “I hope you’re not too scared. They tell me you’re in good hands.” I stopped, realizing the futility of having a one-sided conversation with a man whom I’m not acquainted with. Yet, somehow the bandages created a barrier, a way for me to continue talking to the mummified man. “I want to tell you a secret: Today’s my birthday. I’m all alone. Sort of makes us a pair, huh?”
The last comment sat with me a little heavy. I was being absurd. My loneliness was self-induced, unlike his. I needed to leave. Get up and leave right now. Don’t wait until the doctor comes. Leave now. They can call me later if they need to, and I can tell them that it was the wrong guy. I stood up and walked toward the door, and just before leaving, added, “Good luck to you, John Doe. I’m rooting for you.” As I turned toward the door I heard a faint cough, almost a choke.
A pace away from the door, I turned to look at him. His chest jolted. The tsunami is approaching land. Get to high ground, now. His chest raised high, slowly deflated. A riptide. I’m being pulled in. I floated back to him, put my hand on his chest, and gently began rubbing his shoulder. Words evaded me. My hand followed his shoulder down his arm, until my hand landed in his. I held his hand. Could he be squeezing it? Or maybe the tension in my body was moving to my fingers.
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” whispered a low, fatherly voice from behind. “I’m Dr. James.” He was wearing a lanyard with the clearance badge identifying Carl James, KMC neurosurgeon. “I’m picking up some activities on the monitor that I want to check. It would be best if you stepped outside for just a moment.” Dr. James got busy to work, testing breathing tubes and charting numbers.
I backed out, to find Mira approaching with a rolling registration computer.
“I’ve got just a few questions that I need to get started, and then another nurse may take over. I’m off in ten minutes,” she said. “First of all, and most curious to us all, is his name.”
The peaceful water that the riptide had dragged me to way out in the ocean went from silent to a rumbling roar. The tsunami was here. I was dizzy, weak, and confused by my desire to ride the wave. The force picked me up and smashed me onto the sand, relentless. What is his name? John Doe. I had called him this in the week of conversing with him in my mind. John Doe. J.D., J.D., J.D. Off the cuff, I forged, “J-ackson D-arren."
“Jackson Darren.” Mira typed it in.
“Jack,” I offered.
“Birthdate?”
Quick math . . . mid-twenties . . . “February 7, nineteen eighty . . . six.”
“Address and phone?”
“He lives with me. We live together.” Now I was out of my mind. I have no idea what had overtaken me, except the adrenaline rush of playing the game. Just tell the truth and run. Run now, the rational side of my conscience told me, but an even stronger instinct wouldn’t allow it. John Doe has a family, someone to hold his hand in silence for the first time. I gave Mira the address and phone to Whitaker Jewelry.
“Contact information for his parents or living relatives?”
“They are all back East.”
“We still need to know living relatives, since you technically aren’t family yet.”
“Deceased.” I was grabbing at straws. “His parents are deceased. He’s got some relatives back East, but I’ve never met them. I don’t even have contact info.”
“Any siblings?”
“No.” The nurse is looking at me; she’s figuring out I’m a scam.
“Off the record, can I ask you one question?” Mira took her hands off the keyboard and twiddled her fingers.
Guilty, but let me explain, I wanted to confess, but the tsunami was back for a second strike.
“Why did it take you so long to get here? He--Jack--has needed you, and it’s been a week. Where were you?” Mira looked me in the eyes, and I could see her heartbreak, the same heartbreak I had felt when reading John Doe’s story. I concluded then, at this moment, that I represented hope, and family, not only to John Doe but to all the staff who have carried the burden of being his surrogate family. My presence was an obvious release to many who have worked around the clock to extend his life.
The room was spinning. I was in too deep. Why do all tragic characters come to an end? I envisioned Scarlet and Rhett yelling at each other; Jay Gatsby and Daisy confessing their affair to her husband; Jane Eyre running away from Mr. Rochester; Sophie and Nathan in their final demise, and I suddenly burst out, “We had a fight, and I told him to leave.” I couldn’t believe I was playing the part. Even more, I was feeling the part, trembling, drowning in dizzying lies, and believing them.
Mira uncharacteristically embraced me. And that is all I remember, except that Mira’s arms cut into my underarms, twisting my shoulder while helping to break the fall.
Seconds or minutes passed, I’m not sure exactly. I could hear hushed voices talking over me. “I was just asking her questions and she appeared extremely overwhelmed . . . MIA because of a domestic altercation,” Mira was briefing those standing nearby.
“No more questions for now.” Dr. James was still here, as I saw him when I first opened my eyes. He was very handsome; gray peppered his dark hair, adding to his natural warmth. “Maggie,” he put his hand on my shoulder, offering compassion, “this is a very emotional and traumatic experience for family, for loved ones. I am going to do my best to make sure that Jack is safe. We want you to make sure that you are okay. The nurses have some support services for you that you should consider. We’re all in this together.”
I sensed a longing on Mira’s face as she looked at the doctor, a look I couldn’t quite place, but one of sadness and adoration all at the same time. Mira had pain under her tough exterior, and with that demeanor she kneeled toward me and whispered to Dr. James, “I’ve got it from here.” Dr. James exchanged a controlled glance at Mira, then stood up and walked away. A shift in the nurse’s mood toward me, a new loyalty to me, bonded us in that moment. She offered to walk me to my car. I didn’t need protecting. I knew what I needed; I needed to get out of here, get to dry land.
Mira wouldn’t take no for an answer. I told her I could find my car just fine, but she walked me to the parking lot anyway. As I fumbled for my keys, I cordially thanked her for her concern. She wasn’t going to allow me to escape so easily.
“Look, I’ve been working in the neuro unit for nine years now, and I know the reality of these cases. It’s tough on everybody, not just the patient. You do have someone to go home to, someone who can stay with you tonight?”
“Yes,” I lied.
Mira handed me a folder filled with brochures on grieving, trauma, and even one on loss and recovery. I accepted them, although I knew I would never read them.
“Mira, can I ask you one thing?”
“Anything.”
“Is he going to die? What I mean is, were you--the hospital--Dr. James--just keeping him alive so that he could die after family arrived--after I arrived?”
Mira took a moment before answering, as if planning her words carefully. “It is really comforting, to all of us, to see you here. The reality is his injuries are very serious. We do the best we can to support life. And we’ll keep doing the best we can.”
She was dodging my question, which in turn answered it. Of course they were happy to see me. Now they could take the burden of responsibility off of themselves and allow me to carry it, allow me to make those life-or-death decisions.
I got in the car, knowing the only thing I could do was escape. I needed to clear my head, find the solace of a warm bath, a comforting book, and the privacy of my loft. I could muster the courage to figure this out once I got to my safe abode.
It was a short drive from the hospital to Sherman Avenue, but raining nonetheless. A warm summer storm was always a highlight for me, but I couldn’t celebrate it tonight. As regretful as I was for deceiving the hospital staff and bringing false hope to an entire hospital community, there was something in me that didn’t want to let him go. I felt a spark inside, a connection to this stranger. My short little visit provided a reason to leave my fantasy world of heroes and heroines behind and start living for John Doe, or Jack, as I would now call him. I would rather believe that his exhale, his short burst of energy, was his way of bidding me to stay, instead of just showing some activity on the monitor, as the doctor phrased it.
I keyed myself in the back door and made it up the fifteen wooden steps to my loft. I threw on the lights and jumped back five paces, hitting my head on the wall as four grown men jumped out at me.
“Surprise!” shouted the four intruders. My heart stopped momentarily until shooting streams of adrenaline jumpstarted it again. I immediately identified my cousin Donny.
“Donny!” I rubbed my head where I knocked into the wall.
“Happy Birthday, M.C.”
Still holding my head, I mumbled, “Mom call you?”
“Have a little faith in me, Cuz’,” Donny bragged.
His best friend Wyn spilled the beans, “She wired him one hundred bucks.” Wyn smirked at me, before adding, “How’s it going, Whitaker?”
I was surprised to see Wyn in town. Last I heard he was in Fairbanks, Alaska, playing amateur ball for the Goldpanners.
“You gave in for a hundred bucks? Donny, your time is worth more than that,” I scoffed.
Donny glared at Wyn. “I got you a cake, Mags. Everyone needs a cake on their birthday. That’s what you’ve always preached.”
“Homemade or store-bought?” I quizzed, to see if Donny really did take note.
He looked at Wyn, busted again. “What kind of cake did I make her, Wyn?”
“You made her lemon chiffon, Donny. Remember squeezing the fresh lemon juice and zesting the peel?”
“Zest isn’t a verb. You grate the peel to remove the zest. Please tell me you bought the cake. Who knows what could be in there if it was made at your house.”
“Our house,” Wyn corrected. “I moved in last week.”
“I thought you were up North.” Wyn was sporting blue Dickies and his very own name badge on a grease-monkey shirt.
“I found a job here. It works.” His grimy hands told the story.
“Quick Lube,” Donny cracked himself up. “I just want to say it all day. The goddamn Quick Lube.” The two other unfamiliar men looked bored out of their minds until now, one redhead and the other dishwater blond.
“Do they have any openings?” the redhead asked, then busted his gut, along with the others.
Ignoring his crudeness, Wyn answered, “You have to be able to pass a test.”
I didn’t exactly like how these strangers made themselves at home on my couch. “Did Donny pay you guys too?”
“Name’s Red.”
“Fitting. I will tell Mom and Dad that we had a wonderful visit, and thanks for the party. You guys can go. I’ve got a lot on my mind.” I gave Donny a glance that made it clear he was to leave.
The blond finally spoke. “Tequila, anyone?” He held up a bottle of some cheap, amber liquid.
“Nope,” I cut him off.
From the kitchen came a very familiar voice that made my heart jump. “No one is leaving before a toast!” It was Julie, holding up a shot glass. Behind her trailed yet another stranger, a tall, leggy man with a handsome olive complexion.
“Julie!” I stood frozen, as the one person I truly wanted to see was now here, in my loft.
“You know I wouldn’t miss your birthday!” she said. Julie had the personality of a fuzzy kitten and an energetic kangaroo. As hyper as she appeared, she had proven to be the most loyal and trustworthy confidante anyone could ask for in a friend. “Corbin, I want you to meet Maggie, my friend, the reclusive artist,” and aside to him she added, “who should be running with us.” She then introduced, “Maggie, this is Corbin. He’s a teammate and, well, my ride.” I noted the sparkle in her eye.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Maggie. You run the jewelry store?” Corbin asked formally.
“You’re standing on it.”
Donny was helping himself to my music collection and pulled out the one and only artist that we share a common interest in: Janis Joplin. He turned the bass up and filled my loft with her throaty tunes.
Amidst all the chaos of the last ten minutes, I was nearly able to subdue the confusion in my head concerning John Doe. If anyone could help make sense of my infraction, Julie could. All I needed was to get the four unwelcomed guests out of my loft.
Donny finished pouring the shots and passed around glasses, “A toast to the birthday girl.” Suddenly, an innocent drink didn’t seem to be the worst thing I had done tonight, and if it was the precipitator to making this party move on and move out, I was more than willing.
Julie began, “To a remarkable friend, Margaret Claire, on your nineteenth birthday. Nineteen. . .” She paused to think of something witty to say about nineteen. “Okay, nineteen is kind of lame.” Julie continued with artificial regality, “May remarkable things encounter you; may you find peace, love and joy this year; and for all the good men in this world’s sake, may you put down your books, lock up the store, venture away from Whitaker Jewelry and have one last teen-aged adventure.”
“Adventure!” Donny said, as his unknown guests added a “Booyah!” Wyn discreetly set aside his drink.
“Cheers,” I was last to join, and sipped the shot down slowly, trying to hide the dry cough in the back of my throat.
The blond poured another shot into my glass the moment it parted from my lips. “Who are you?” Then, to Donny aloud, “Who is he?” I was trying my best to be cordial, regardless if doing shots was completely opposite my common practice.
“You know Victor. We wired this place during the remodel.”
“Right. I really shouldn’t be--Cheers.” I pulled back my head to allow the tequila to slide down my throat as quickly as possible, hoping that maybe this time a faster gulp would diffuse the urge to spew it all back out. The rush instantly hit me, so I figured I had better say this quickly: “Even though you broke into my loft and invaded my space, Donny, Wyn, and you two,” I couldn’t remember the strangers’ names, “thanks for showing up. Julie, Corbin, thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Julie obviously hadn’t wasted time in college learning the ropes. She was encouraging a third round.
I watched in disbelief. “Is this what you’ve learned in college?” I asked. Victor was pouring another in my glass as I contemplated the glowing liquid. “I can’t”--and I dumped the drink back down my throat, --“drink another sip! I’m done.” That one went to my head, quickly. My vision was fogging, and disorientation was fast approaching.
“Not into it, Wyn?” Julie asked, snuggling in the arms of Corbin, who had also passed on the drinks.
“Something like that.”
Red pulled out a Baggie of dried leaves. “Cannabis, anyone? You wouldn’t mind if we enjoyed this party, would you, Mr. Quick Lube?”
“That’s more than I can handle,” I glared at Donny. I had never ventured past a half glass of wine at holiday meals and had no desire to try anything that required lighting or shooting. I mostly kept my opinions to myself but was confident that the numbing qualities of his pastime contributed to Donny’s absolute lack of motivation.