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Martin, Revisited
Chapter One
THE ENGLISH ROSE
Copyright 2016 - 2020 Christina M. Guerrero
INTERMEDIATE DRAFT
PROLOGUE, FIRST SECTION - Martin - Thoughts while falling asleep. Which led to a short story. Which led to a novel.
CHAPTER ONE - The English Rose - Martin in love.
CHAPTER TWO - The Mooch Message - You may think words don't matter. But they do.
CHAPTER THREE - Congratulations - Time to celebrate. Or is it?
CHAPTER FOUR - The Heart Of Man - Who we are.
INTERLUDE NUMBER ONE - Turning A Writing Project Into A Novel - A few things to consider
CHAPTER FIVE - The Dead Thing - The green spaceship theory.
CHAPTER SIX - TBD
CHAPTER SEVEN - TBD
CHAPTER EIGHT part one - Their Children, Again - Life as a child.
CHAPTER EIGHT part two - Their Children, Once More - Growing up.
CHAPTER ELEVEN- A Scent Of Roses - Pondering infinity.
IN PROGRESS
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - The Spirit Of A Good Man - Don't underestimate people. You'd be surprised what they're capable of.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - G-Rated Swear Words - What pays the bills is not easy.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - His Place Full Of Space - What makes a place a home.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Hallelujah - In search of the truth.
CHAPTER NINETEEN - Recovery - The body, soul, and spirit need time to recover from injustice.
CHAPTER UNKNOWN - A Bit Of Heaven - The holidays are difficult for some.
CHAPTER UNKNOWN - Who's The Hero? - Looking for hope.
CHAPTER UNKNOWN - Zombie Caleb And The Holidays - Dealing with flashbacks.
CHAPTER UNKNOWN - The Mystery Of Spasiba - Are babies paying attention?
Draft Three:
Nothing, yet.
DISCLAIMER
Except for the first section of the prologue and the interludes, this is a work of fiction.
The rest is either a product of the author's imagination, or used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to real persons, places, things, or events is coincidental and unintentional.
It all started with his checkbook when he opened it that day.
Nope, not enough there.
“Abra-cadabra,” he said.
He waited.
Nope, the balance had not increased. He needed it to, because of the rent hike that would start in two months.
He thought about the status of affordable studio apartments in New York City. He could barely afford this one. The landlord would be raising the rent to a laughably unaffordable level. Martin did not want to pay the new rate. He had haggled with the dude, but could only get the price reduced by a mere fifty dollars.
Martin considered his choices again: pay the laughable rate, share a place with someone, find a cheaper apartment which so far was impossible, or be homeless.
He decided to be homeless. He had a contract guaranteeing more money in two months, and he would get another cheap apartment when the new assignment began.
Martin’s phone dinged. He checked it: a message from Mom. She checked on him every two weeks or so. She was a free, unique spirit and never greeted him with the same words. Today’s message was a series of Russian letters that he sounded out: “Bleek Blib.”
“What?” he said. “You’re so weird, mom.”
He smiled. He thought once again about asking if he could stay with her for a while. But he did not want to do that yet. He wanted to be rent-free for a while. She had told him and the other kids that if they needed a place to stay, they were welcome to live with her under the following conditions: one fee-free month, and then would be expected to contribute to the property taxes, utilities and food.
But he did not want to discuss this with her. He wanted to do this his way.
When the last day of his current lease arrived, he handed in his key and walked out the door. His belongings were in a cheap storage space nearby, and he carried only a medium-sized bag.
He was looking forward to this adventure.
* * * * *
Once outside, he went to work and relished the thought of the unknown afterwards.
He had been planning this for eighteen years, back to the day at age five, when he first understood he would have to find a way to live on his own, despite having cerebral palsy. He was able to move with crutches, which he preferred. His mind and speech were mostly clear except for occasional instances when he needed to take extra time to express himself. He had enjoyed and graduated from grade school, junior high, high school and college with few problems except a few falls when he was not being careful. People had been about the same throughout his life: most were kind; some were not.
Life had been mostly fine.
Mostly.
Except for an incident at age five ... and for frequent puzzling treatment from his older siblings Hayley, Garance, and Christopher. His other siblings, also older, were kind to him. He was growing weary of ‘Hagcee,’ as he thought of them, and often wondered what it would be like if he had never been born -- or if he simply cut off all contact with them. The second thought always made him smile.
Which he did now as the work day ended.
Work. That was another thing. His work contracts stated that he was not allowed to discuss work. Ever. In any way. In fact, he and his co-workers were encouraged to insinuate that they were not employed. Lately, there were bonuses being handed out to the employee who had the best explanation or answer to “What do you do for a living?” Martin’s friend Carter had won the last prize.
Martin felt a strange emotion as he watched his friend and co-worker, Carter. The emotion was something he had felt only for his mother and father -- rest in peace -- and his siblings when they were all younger and getting along well. He decided the emotion was platonic love. He waited as Carter joined him near the exit of the building where they were working.
Carter also had cerebral palsy, and also used crutches. He was independent, and handled most things on his own. He had filed for emancipation from his wealthy family at age fifteen, and Martin thought this was completely bad-ass. The dude had been making it on his own for nine years now. He was doing well.
“So you got the prize, “ Martin said.
“Yeeeesss,” Carter said. He had moderate difficulty speaking; but moved better than Martin did. Carter also had incredible upper body strength, with plenty of muscles. “Mayyy ... maybe youuu’ll get it neeext tiiime.”
“I hope so. I like your evasive answer: ‘Would you repeat the question please?’ And how they just gave up.”
While they laughed at length, Martin considered asking Carter for help. But it felt wrong. Carter never said, so, but he appeared to treasure his privacy. He did not say much about why he filed for emancipation. Martin had done a bit of research, but always stopped, feeling sick to his stomach. There were times when he wanted to know the whole story, and times when he was fine with not knowing.
“Aaare you okayyy?” Carter said. He studied Martin in an unusually perceptive way.
Gotta work on that poker face, Martin thought. “Yes. Just thinking about many things. Well, I better go. I have a lot to do tonight. Walk with you to the exit?”
They said goodnight at the main door, and Martin went to the bus stop.
* * * * *
His heart pounded as he got off a few streets later. He had been planning this since the incident at age five.
Back then, on the day of the incident, he had slipped on something in the kitchen. Rather than call for help, which had always seemed wrong, even at a young age, he moved to his hands and knees as well as he could.
Just as he was about to reach for the handle of a low cupboard, he felt hands shove him.
He fell onto his stomach ... hard.
Someone laughed. He could not tell who; they all sounded the same, and could imitate each other very well.
A quick look around revealed ... no one. One of the doorways to the kitchen was not far from his feet; perhaps they had run fast.
Just as he reached for the cupboard, he was shoved again. This time, he was hit in the head lightly. Then there was laughter again.
He was about to call for help when he saw his father’s feet in the other doorway.
A bit of pride and a stubborn sense of survival made him try again. His father would not always be around to help. Or his mother, for that matter. Some of his siblings had already proven, by this incident, that they were no longer on his side.
The hands were there again, shoving even harder this time. He fell flat on his face and chest with a thud and a grunt. He felt something shift in the back of his neck, and pain crackled somewhere in his chest.
He waited for a bit. He looked and saw that his father’s feet had moved.
A terrible thought occurred to him: what if Dad does it now?
Just then: “Hi, Daddy!” That would be Christopher.
Silence.
Martin imagined the look on Caleb’s face. The man could express disgust without moving a muscle.
Martin awkwardly shifted so he could see the doorway that was near his feet.
Christopher was standing there, and Caleb was holding onto one of his arms.
Caleb said, “Watch how he does this. Because some day, if you live long enough, you’re going to be an old man. And there may be no one there to see you fall. And this is what you’re going to have to do to get help.”
Martin wearily moved back to his hands and knees. He reached for the cabinet handle and grabbed it. He took one of his crutches and put it in that hand. He stood, with great effort, and grabbed the other crutch with his other hand. He looked at his father, and felt tears in his eyes. He suddenly felt wetness on his upper lip; he reached up, touched, and looked. There was blood emerging from his nose.
Caleb said, “Christopher, did I just see you shove Martin down and laugh at him?”
After an awkward silence Christopher said, “Yes.”
“And did I see Garance do the same?”
Christopher was silent.
Caleb shouted, “Garance! Hayley!”
They came running.
He said, “Line up, right here, in front of the sink. Martin, face these lost souls with me.”
Martin moved wearily to his father’s side. The gentleman (Martin secretly called him that) grabbed a napkin, wiped Martin’s nose, and handed over a clean napkin. “Hold that there, and put your head back for a bit.”
“Yes, sir.”
Even with his head tilted, Martin could tell that Christopher, Garance and Hayley looked like they were sucking on lemons.
Caleb said, “Tell me what you all did.”
Silence.
Caleb said, “Since you’re too chicken, I’ll tell you. Hayley, this morning, bright and early, thinking that she did not have enough to do, decided to assign Christopher and Garance the task of shoving Martin down and running.”
Hayley’s mouth popped open.
Caleb continued, “Christopher and Garance, eager to please their older sister, did as requested.” He gestured to Martin, who moved forward a bit.
Caleb pulled up Martin’s shirt and said, “Look at these red marks. They will turn into bruises. Look at his bloody lip and his bloody nose. This is assault and battery, ladies and gentleman. If you were older, Martin could take you to court. He would win. He will chose your punishment.”
Christopher smiled briefly. Garance’s and Hayley’s eyes got bright, but their faces remained neutral.
“Is something funny, Chris?” Caleb said, in his you’re-about-to-get-a-spanking voice.
Christopher’s face went still. “No, sir.”
Caleb said, “Martin?”
Martin said, “I want them to visit the jail and talk to the prisoners there.”
Caleb said, “Never thought about that. We’ll do it. You heard the man. You all get ready and let’s go.”
* * * * *
They had gone to the jail with Caleb, and they had been leered at, and whistled at, and even threatened until a guard intervened. They had talked to a juvenile who had been incarcerated for assault and battery of his younger twin brothers. The boy said, “There are many ways to express your emotions. Hitting your siblings is not one of them. Your brother may be very upset now, so give him time to feel better. I was battered and abused and hurt by someone else. I’ll leave it at that. But that made me think it was okay to do it. It’s not ... unless your life is in danger, and even then you still have other options. I don’t think your brother is endangering your life. So be good older brothers and sisters, okay? You don’t want to be in here. It’s not easy and it’s not comfortable. You don’t have much freedom here.”
When they returned home, there was a family meeting.
They sat in the den, and Caleb started, “We’ve changed our minds about the punishment.”
Martin watched with interest.
Caleb said, “Deliberately causing any type of pain or injury to someone else is a crime, including emotional injuries so you sad souls need to also watch your words. You appear to have been shaken up a bit by your visit to the jail, and you apologized to Martin.” He nodded at Mother. Her nickname was Heather; Martin wondered, once again, why. She did not look like the stuff that grew upon the moors. He did not quite understand Caleb’s nickname, but had decided a while ago to just humor them and use them when necessary.
She said, “You will not be allowed to be alone with Martin for a month. If you find yourself in that situation, call for one of us, or for the babysitter. If this happens again, you will have to go to jail.”
Christopher said, “I don’t want to go there.”
Caleb said sharply, “Then show some respect for other people.”
Christopher looked away.
* * * * *
Now, on the lower west side of Manhattan, Martin looked around.
He had been planning this since that day. Back then, they were living in England, and had done so for part of the year for many years. He had picked his run-away spot in London during several trips there. When they lived in Manhattan, he had done the same.
Once, while on the bus, he had noticed a couple of buildings that were rather close together, and a doorway that was off the alley between them. He had gone exploring and found a huge deep doorway, with an old store’s windows on either side, boarded up. A few weeks ago he arranged to move a big box and a sleeping bag into the doorway, and had been checking on them frequently: they had not been disturbed.
A recreational facility nearby would suffice for exercise and showers. There was a comfortable privately-owned cafe around the corner that he hoped to eat at regularly, if his income remained steady.
He looked around again. It was getting dark. It was early summertime, and the air was warm.
With a sigh of pleasure, he slipped into the doorway and sat there for a moment. This would be home unless he was asked to leave.
He smiled.
Then he got to work personalizing the big box. He lightly insulated it with sky blue contact paper. He made a flap where his head would be while sleeping, so he could look up. He did the same on the left side, because he preferred more space in the doorway on that side. He fixed the end so it would take a few minutes to open from the outside, should he be disturbed.
He examined his work, then went inside with his crutches and bag and got comfortable.
For a moment, he relished the relative silence: the ambient noise of city life was there, humming, along with a distant ambulance alarm and horns honking. Somebody called to Sally to hurry up, and someone -- presumably Sally -- responded with an obscene list of words.
He smiled and then abruptly fell asleep.
* * * * *
When he woke up, he stretched.
Then he felt something on his face. He reached and frowned. It was some type of paper or card. It was difficult to see the words. He opened the flap a bit and.
It was a gift card to Dean and DeLuca for fifty dollars.
He stored it in the box, then got out.
It was Saturday. He had time for breakfast, then a short shift at work.
He decided to skip a shower today. He hoped what an ex-girlfriend had said was still true -- that his body scent smelled like butterscotch. He combed his hair, changed his shirt, then packed up and went onto the sidewalk. He went to the corner and turned left, then crossed the street to his right.
Outside the cafe he enjoyed the scents of coffee and butter and burgers.
He went inside and looked around. There were tables to his left, stretching ahead, and tables to his right. Directly in front was the cashier and cooking area.
A lovely woman appeared out of nowhere and said, “Table for one, then?”
He stared, intrigued by her English accent.
She stared back. She had pale skin, dark brown hair tied back, and a pretty voice.
He said, “Yes, please.”
“Would you care for this section?” She gestured to his right.
“That would be fine.” He went over and sat, and she gave him a menu.
“Something to drink?” She suggested.
“Orange juice, please.”
“Coming right up.”
As he looked over the menu, and later ate and paid and left, he tried not to stare, but failed. She was looking at him differently than anyone else ever had: like she was a bit confused and wondering where she had seen him before.
He would definitely be returning.
* * * * *
Later, in the doorway, he was about to fall asleep when a man’s voice said, “Yo! Dude in the box!”
Martin pretended not to hear and snuggled further into the sleeping bag.
“Yo! Dude.” Someone thumped the box.
Martin swore silently then opened the upper flap, sat up, looked out and said, “May I help you?”
A tall thin black man said, “Where’s the girl?”
“What girl?”
“The girl. The one lives in there.”
Martin frowned again. He had heard rustling in there a few times, but did not check it out, believing it might be mice or rats.
“I don’t know.”
“You new here.”
“Yes. I hope it’s okay.”
“It’s okay with me. Don’t know about anyone else. Sorry for bothering you.” The figure walked away rapidly.
* * * * *
When Martin woke up on Sunday, he realized he had not taken enough clothes out of storage for the week. He stretched, prepared for a trek, got on the bus and went to storage, got what he needed, went to the Y and exercised and showered, went to the library to get some reading and studying done, then went home to his doorway and had peanut butter sandwiches and juice for dinner.
After a while he went to the door and knocked.
No answer.
He tried the doorknob, turned it, and opened the door a bit.
A child’s voice said, “If you come in here, I will kill you.”
Martin said, “Okay. Sorry.”
He shut the door.
After walking up and down the alley, to become familiar with it, he sat and read for a while. When the sun went down, he went down with it, thinking that he would not have minded living in pre-historic times and doing this very thing in a cave.
* * * * *
He was dreaming about the English waitress -- trying to explain some weird thing to her -- when he was aware of the world beyond the dream.
“Yo, dude in the box.”
Martin woke up and whispered, “Somebody just beat me up.” He opened the flap and said, “Hey.”
“Where’s the girl? She back yet?”
“I think so. You want me to give her a message?”
“You tell her Beebee came by.”
Martin said, “Okay.”
“You got it? Beebee.”
“Okay.”
He waited until the alley was clear, then wrote this down quickly, crawled out, crawled to the door, put the note in the mail slot, and went back to bed.
In the morning he woke. As he reminisced about his dreams, he saw a note hanging down from the flap.
He took it and opened it.
In the girl’s writing was, “It’s BIBI, not Beebee. And that gift card was from me. It’s legitimate. I don’t like that store. You stay out there and I’ll stay in here. Maybe in a different life we will see each other face to face.”
Martin smiled, then laughed. When he had a moment, he went to the store and indeed the card was legit. He bought fancy peanut butter and energy bars and water, and stored them in the doorway with a note: “Okay to take some. Leave what you think is fair.” Nobody took anything, and he ate well for a long time on the card.
* * * * *
One day, back at the cafe, he pretended to be unmoved by the waitress as she fussed over him. She was curvy and pale and smelled like some sort of flower.
He took his time choosing. He took his time eating. When it was time to pay, she put the bill down and he said, “What kind of perfume is that?”
She went still, then said, “Cherry blossom.”
“It’s nice.”
“Where in England are you from?”
It was Martin’s turn to go still. He wanted to be careful. He wanted no problems, other then the usual amount, while he was homeless.
He said, “I’m not, exactly. Grew up a few months a year near Hertfordshire. Spend most of my time here in America.”
“The accent rubbed off.”
He nodded. “And you?”
“Good old London.”
“And you’re here because?” Martin felt embarrassed. He could hear his father’s edgy tone of voice and attitude, which did not seem to impress anyone except his mother and his die-hard fans.
She hesitated again. “Lots of reasons. Can I get you anything else?”
“Uh. No. Thank you.”
He paid, then slowly walked to the door. Once there, he said again, “Thank you.”
She looked up from cleaning a table. “You’re welcome, then.”
* * * * *
He needed a few days to think about this. He worked, watching Carter, waiting for the man to do that thing ... somehow understanding things about Martin that had not been expressed.
But Carter was back to his own life: He was solemn sometimes, and sometimes cried without shedding tears, usually during breaks. Martin could hear the breathing and see the hitching of shoulders and chest. He would block Carter from others when this happened. There was never any discussion of this, but when Martin struggled with tremors and seizure activity, Carter would ask for just a few more minutes of break time, which was usually not a problem on the set. The production was a science fiction TV show that made no sense to them until they watched the episodes, and even then they had to take notes and watch the darn things over and over. Breaks were frequent, and many had come and gone due to boredom.
Martin loved the work, and Carter also seemed to enjoy it.
After work, Martin ate cheap dinners and returned to his box. So far, nothing appeared to be disturbed. He imagined this would not last long. He’d probably get warned about vagrancy, and then he’d have to make a decision about an apartment.
After three days of thinking, he returned to the cafe.
The waitress was serving a large dinner to a family. She nodded and smiled, then turned to the Martin.
“Just one this evening?” she said.
“Yes,” Martin said.
“Right this way.”
He sat and enjoyed everything about her. After perusing the menu he closed it.
She sauntered over and said, “And for this evening?”
“A bowl of chili, a small salad, and plain wheat bread.”
“Coming right up.”
Martin waited patiently until the place was mostly deserted. Then he asked her, “Would you be interested in meeting for coffee some time? And ... my name is Martin.”
She turned pink. “Why don’t we just meet here? How about ... Saturday morning. And I’m Rose.”
He considered his schedule. “That would work.”
* * * * *
That Saturday morning, he showed up with a white rose.
They talked easily for two hours, until she had to start working.
He reluctantly left, but he had work to do at the library. He finished an unauthorized biography of his father under a pseudonym radically different from his own name, and mailed the manuscript to the publisher, who wanted to get the book published as soon as possible, probably within a few weeks, while the gentleman was still in his fan’s minds. While crying, Martin had responded in an e-mail, “I would hope he’d be in their minds for a long time. He was a great song-writer, and a pretty good studio musician.”
He took a circuitous route to the box in the doorway, and went to sleep.
There was work on Sunday: just a few hours. They were filming on location in Brooklyn, and once there he saw that Carter had arrived sooner.
“Good morning,” Martin said.
“Maaartin. Good morning.”
“What’s up.”
“The usual.”
They had their neutral chats, which comforted Martin, and which seemed to be pleasing to Carter. They had known each other for about six years, and had been settling into their friendship. They were still a bit formal, yet could discuss most topics easily and without negativity.
They had a short day, and did the usual of protecting each other. At the end of the day, Martin thought about asking Carter for a bit of help, but then decided not to, and to handle this incident by himself. Perhaps if it happened again ....
* * * * *
At the cafe a few days later, for breakfast, Martin said to Rose, “I’m not a very good catch right now, but I’d still like to hang out with you.”
She said, “I’m not a very good catch either.”
“Should we share why?”
Rose studied him rather sweetly. “Depends. If you feel comfortable. If I feel comfortable.”
“I think so. I’m between residences right now. I refuse to live with anyone. I do have a job, though.”
She nodded. Appeared to think about this. “Okay. I’m quite ill. I may have only six months to live.”
Martin inhaled sharply. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m ... well. It’s cancer.”
He looked around. The owner and chef -- a cheerful man -- was whistling and baking.
Rose said, “He knows. He’s been very good to me.”
Martin stared, drinking her in. He had been too wild and crazy with sex once he turned eighteen, but had settled down after a few months. Now he wanted what his parents had: devotion, loyalty, physical attraction, and what appeared to be a deep unwavering love.
He felt these things for Rose, but felt unworthy of her. She was classy and sweet and dignified.
She held out her hands. “Martin, let’s just enjoy it. Life is short.”
* * * * *
He worked. He had neutral conversations with Carter. He lived in his box. He spent time with Rose.
Finally, after waiting until he felt comfortable, he went to her place, and time together was sweet.
He refused to move in. She asked nicely, but he still refused. He told her he wanted to be a man, not her toy. She thought that was hilarious. He smiled at her laughter.
But he remained in the doorway.
* * * * *
Much later, looking back, he would realize there were many days together. Not enough. But many. However, as he lived through them, they seemed such a short time. One moment they had met, and then ....
He left one morning and showered at the Y, went to Dean & DeLuca to get breakfast, and happily got on the bus to Rose’s apartment.
Once there, he knocked. No answer.
He tried over and over, and texted her. She had never offered a key, and he had never asked; now he felt stupid for not bringing it up.
He started crying and shaking, then called her landlord, who arrived promptly.
Inside, Rose was on the bed, apparently asleep.
But she was gone.
Martin held her, weeping, as the landlord called her parents in England.
* * * * *
He felt like a robot during the next few days: showing up for work, silently doing his thing as a background actor, blocking Carter from time to time, eating, leaving.
Back in the box that night, waiting for the funeral the next day. Everything might work out, and it did. He woke up, went to the funeral, wept loudly with her family, went to the Y, where he washed up.
And he was on the set as expected, thinking of an old show-business saying: “The show must go on.” It seemed heartless and cold, not inspiring.
He passed out while the camera was rolling. The director called “Cut.” Everyone gathered around and he felt embarrassed. He had never caused any trouble, and did not want to start now.
The nurse said, “You okay?”
“Yeah. Um. I’m ... just ... well. It’s been a busy week.”
“Have some juice. And stay hydrated. Your stats look okay.”
“Thank you. I’m really sorry.”
“Looks like, as usual, any delay is good.”
Martin looked around, grateful for the strange science fiction show. They were always tweaking the colors and the scenery. Filming did not start up again for thirty minutes. During that time, Carter looked sideways at Martin in a thoughtful manner but said nothing.
* * * * *
Martin came to in a coffee shop, crying in his mother’s arms, not sure how he had gotten from the TV studio to the seat near the window.
“She’s gone,” he said. “She’s gone, she’s gone,” he said over and over.
“Martin, please go home with me. Don’t worry about anything else. Please go with me.”
“She’s gone.”
He felt the seizure coming. He went blank for a moment, and she held him.
Then he was in a taxi, and they were approaching her place.
Inside, he wept nonstop as he sat on the couch. She had several assistants, and they came and went during the first few days, at times checking on him.
A doctor arrived and checked Martin and said, “You’ve been doing the right things. I can certainly write you an excuse to take off work, if you’d like. This is very close to the loss of your father. That’s a lot to handle, on top of your real estate issues. If the seizures increase in quantity or quality, you’ll need further evaluation. Please keep your scheduled appointments with your neurologist and other doctors, so they can help you maintain your quality of life.”
* * * * *
Martin wandered through a time of surreal activity for about a month.
After approximately thirty days he could finally string more than a few words together.
“Thank you,” he said to his mother as they had a big dinner. She ate like a truck driver, and he did too. “I can’t imagine handling something like that by myself.”
“You’re tough, Baby. I think you would have, if I hadn’t seen you in the coffee shop.”
“Yeah. It would have been difficult.”
They said together, “But not impossible.” One of their favorite sayings.
He said, “Well, if you want me to paint the rooms instead of paying for property taxes, I’m up for it. Just tell me what to do.”
“Okay. How about a verbal agreement?”
“Sounds good. And I’ll be on my computer a lot, taking care of a few things that are confidential. And as always, my day job is confidential.”
“Is it okay to tell others it’s confidential?”
“Yes. But if you can get out of answering the question, that would be cool too.”
* * * * *
He stayed for several months, which allowed him to save more money than he had hoped. As promised, he painted the rooms per her instructions. When he was finished, Heather wandered through the rooms, admiring his work. “It’s beautiful,” she said.
It was helpful to him to have stayed with her, but still somewhat disturbing. He hated associating even more loss and pain with a place where he had enjoyed his father’s last few days.
But that was life, he decided, as he hugged his mother on his last day there.
He said, “Thank you, mom. I’ll see you soon.”
“You’re welcome, Baby.”
TO BE CONTINUED
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