Summer's Passing (6 page)

"I'm good," they said at the exact same time, which caused both to smile. I left while the nurse was still in a good mood. 

Beckie will be coming home with me
, I thought as I walked the corridor. What had I gotten myself into?

Beckie spent two more nights in the hospital, which meant I did too. Beckie had become a habit I couldn't break. I needed to be near her as often as possible. The Port Grace Hospital had now become my home away from the home, which was not even my real home. It's a wonder I wasn't lost; or maybe I was.

We said goodbye to the Port Grace Hospital on a warm and sunny June morning. Doctor Reynolds left instructions for a licensed therapist to come to the beach house three days a week for two-hour sessions. To say Beckie didn't care for the idea would have been an understatement, but Reynolds wouldn't take no for an answer. It's that or a
facility
. He said it in such a way that the word ‘prison’ might have easily been substituted.

With those details out of the way, and with congenial goodbyes to the nursing staff, we were on our way, wheelchair and crutches in the trunk, an obviously uncomfortable Beckie in the passenger seat. 

"I'll get you settled in, and then I'll get clothing and stuff from the pier house," I said as I drove.

"Thanks for saving me from the
facility
," she said, her head back, eyes shut.

"I've already received a couple of thank you texts from the therapists there," I added.

She smiled before a bump in the road turned it into a grimace.

"Sorry," I said.

Beckie kept her eyes closed until I pulled into my driveway.

"Nice
facility
you've got here," she said.

I parked the car. "Wheelchair or crutches?" I asked her.

"Arms," she replied.

I opened the front door wide, then retrieved my patient, carrying her up the steps and over the threshold.

"Does this mean we're married?" Beckie asked in a slightly over-medicated manner.

"Technically, yes," I answered.

"Good," she said, and held me tighter.

I carried her into the spare bedroom and lowered her onto the clean sheets.

Her grip grew tighter. "And what's this?"

"Your bedroom," I said.

"And where are you sleeping?" Her grip tightened more.

"Across the hall," I replied.

She pointed that way. "Then that's my bedroom."

I'll admit to not being in the best of shape. At this point, I just wanted to put her someplace. I carried her into my room. "Ah, a double bed. That's more like it."

I placed her gently on the bed before she decided on a house tour and maybe a good look at the beach.

"I thought you might have wanted some privacy," I said by way of explanation, rubbing my arms all the while.

"You're forgiven, this time." She looked at me, rubbing away, and smiled. "I'm thinking you're the one who needs the therapy, Monroe," she said. "Maybe you should check in at the
facility
for a few days."

"Then what would you use for transportation?" I shot back.

"Good point. I'll think about it while you go get my things. If you'd be kind enough to fetch me the plastic bag from the car, I'll get you the gate and house key."

I made sure she was comfortable before I left. I put the house phone within reach, in case she needed to call, or in case I got lost. Her written directions weren't the best. If I ended up at the
facility
, she'd have hell to pay.

Once I was certain she had settled in, I left her with a kiss on her forehead. I’d thought her to be asleep, but she said, "Be careful."

As it turned out, Beckie's directions were right on the money. It took me less than fifteen minutes to get there.

The pier started not far from where the driveway ended. It sat on wooden pilings, a good twelve feet above the sand and surf at its highest point. I couldn't help but wonder, as I stared at it, what might happen during a particularly ferocious storm. Wouldn't the waves breach the pier and possibly the house on top of it? Maybe the Gulf of Mexico never became that angry. The pier, and the house at its end, did show some signs of age. Even though Beckie had said it swayed from time to time, I couldn't help but imagine the pounding it had taken over the years.

A rusty padlock strained against the two chains it held together; each fastened to the wooden railings on either side of the entrance to the pier. A sign attached to the chain read, PRIVATE PROPERTY-NO TRESPASSING.
Not much of a deterrent
, I thought as I let myself in.

As I walked the pier, I looked around me. The feeling of seclusion lay heavy in the air. The few houses on the beach were scattered far apart, and none were that close by. Why two girls would want to live in this desolate rickety place was beyond me. Beckie mentioned that they paid little rent. No wonder.

I unlocked and opened the door. The place was dark inside, in spite of the sun, and smelled like a musty attic. Strangely enough, the layout of the inside was similar to the beach house, but slightly smaller. I turned on the overhead light and opened the blinds covering the windows. I went to Beckie's room on the right and was surprised at its neatness. A made bed, no clothes lying around, and this after she told me the place was a mess.

I reached in my pocket and pulled out the instructions on what to bring home. I found her suitcase in the closet, opened it on the bed, and started piling stuff in, starting with the drawers of clothing in a nearby chest and then moving to the closet, all the time remembering Beckie's
do not dwell on the underwear
order. 

The closet was nearly bare, a couple pairs of shoes, some dresses, and a jacket. It looked like the suitcase would hold everything except the few stuffed animals strewn about. Those I could put in a trash bag.

I took the dresses, still on their hangers, and dropped them on the bed. The idea occurred to me that perhaps I should carry the dresses separately, since my house lacked an ironing board. I zipped up the suitcase and grabbed the dresses. As I did, I noticed something previously unseen. One dress in the pile looked vaguely familiar. I separated it from the others and lifted it in front of me: a white summer dress with flowers adorning the material. I imagined it blowing in the wind on a dark summer night, draped around a girl with dark hair whose face remained hidden in the shadows.

There was a loud knock on the door and I jumped in spite of myself.

"Who's in there?" A male voice yelled.

I held my ground, took a deep breath and answered back. "A friend of a girl who lives here."

"Which one?" the voice asked.

Though the words none of your business came to mind, I went with, "A girl named Beckie."

There was a long pause before the voice said, "I live up the beach a ways; walking my dog when I saw the chain on the ground. The girls always refasten it."

I grabbed the suitcase and the dresses and walked to the door. I had no sooner opened it than a dog the size of a large rat began an annoying high-pitched yelping.

"Quiet, Bruno," the man said before extending his hand. "The name's Sellers, Frank Sellers."

"Doug Monroe." I shook his hand.

It was around this time he noticed the suitcase and dresses by the door. "What's this, then? Somebody moving out?"

"Beckie was in an automobile accident. I'm taking care of her for a while."

"An accident? Is she alright?" 

The dog continued to yelp. His owner ignored him. Me, I was ready to see if Bruno knew how to swim.

"She's battered and bruised; a broken leg, some stitches," I said.

Sellers shook his head. "Nice girl, Beckie, nice girl. What about the other one? April, is it?"

"She went to live with her boyfriend in Pennsylvania. Listen I hate to rush away but I've got to get back to Beckie." I picked up the suitcase and the dresses. "It was nice to meet you, sir."

His mind seemed preoccupied with other things. "Gonna miss those girls," he mumbled as he turned away. "Oh, there is one other thing. Tell Beckie some fella has been hanging out around here the last couple of nights. Been watching him through my binoculars."

"What exactly do you mean, hanging around?" I asked.

Sellers pointed to the beginning of the pier. "He just stands there by the chains and watches the house. Don't know why. You'd think with no lights on he'd guess that no one was home, but he watches anyhow. Could be a drifter, maybe. We get 'em down here every so often, looking for a place to crash for a night or two. "

I lowered the suitcase to the boards. "What's this guy look like?" 

"Too far away to tell. Had a notion to approach him, but thought it a bad idea."

"Probably right," I added. "What time do you see him?"

"After dark, nine or so."

"How long does he stay?"

"I'm not sure. I go to bed around that time." 

I picked the suitcase back up. "Okay, thanks for telling me." Truthfully, I didn't think much of it at the time. My thoughts still dwelled on the flowery summer dress.

Bruno kept looking back and yelping the entire trip down the pier. The dog must have read my thoughts about my desire to give him a likely short-lived swimming lesson in the gulf, not that it stopped him from making a racket.

I decided to come back another day for the stuffed animals. I needed to get back to Beckie.

She was sleeping when I arrived and I crept about as quietly as I could. She needed her rest. I grabbed a beer from the fridge and headed to the serenity of the back porch.

I leaned back into the cushions of the wicker chair and propped my feet on the porch railing. I nursed the beer and watched the small gulf waves lap the sand. A breeze, that could have originated somewhere in the jungles of Mexico, brushed against my face. I closed my eyes and let it have its way with me.

Rachel woke with a start, the room, black as coal, spun around her. She felt as if she'd been found by a whirlwind, and now it had her in its grasp. Worse yet, she felt the presence of someone watching her, someone outside of the whirlwind's grip.

She closed her eyes and gripped the cross at her neck. She began to pray, the only prayer she knew, told to her by her mother many years ago.

As she prayed, the room began to steady itself. She felt a calmness settle around her, and when she opened her eyes, Morgan stared down at her.

"Perhaps I should have warned you of your medicine's side effects," he said.

"Did you feel it too? The spinning?" Rachel asked him.

Morgan rested a hand on her shoulder. "The night forest is not the friendly creature the day forest is. At night, the forest angers easily and often. I should have told you not to chew the bark after the sun sets. It is a daytime medication."

"And the man watching me?" Rachel asked.

"Can you describe him?" 

"He blended with the night. His face was too dark to see," she said.

Morgan thought before he spoke. "I'll be in the next room and I'm a light sleeper. If your man of mystery should present himself once more, please let me know."

Morgan went to leave, but Rachel took his hand. "Stay with me tonight," she said. "Protect me from faceless men and whirlwinds."

He hesitated for a moment because she held the cross, and he knew it would protect her, but he lay next to her in spite of it. Such were his feelings for the girl of the forest.

A voice was calling me from far away; calling me away from the dark and back into the sunlight.

"Doug, are you there?"

"Here," I said softly, and then, "I'm coming," loud enough for Beckie to hear.

"Sorry, I dozed off on the porch," I said at the bedroom door.

She waved me off. "No problem. I wasn't sure if you were back yet. Here, help me sit up."

I lifted her and propped another pillow behind her. "How are you feeling?" I asked her.

"Better, after the nap. So, did you get my stuff?"

I sat on the bed next to her. The tropical breeze from the Mexican jungles had found the room's open window, ruffling its sheer white curtains.