Claim 2: Volume Two (6 page)

“You’re right.  I’ll see you tomorrow and maybe this weekend we can talk?”

“Whenever you’re ready, Lo.  All ya gotta do is say the word.”

Exiting the car, he doesn’t drive away until I’m inside and the door closed behind me.  I want to believe him, I really do.  It seems so far fetched, though.  Does stuff like that happen in real life?  I’d love to think it was just in the movies, that bad guys like that don’t really exist, but my gut screams otherwise.  If he is being honest, how can I hate him for doing something so honorable.  Regardless of how much pain I went through, I had Cleo to lean on.  He went through that mess alone, all because he didn’t want to drag me through the mud with him.

He sacrificed his happiness for my safety. 

Stepping into the kitchen, I pull down an industrial sized bottle of aspirin, swallowing a couple with a large swig of water.  Jordan was right yet again.  I do need to be alone and think about all of this new information.  I have a lot of important decisions to make and there’s more than just me and Jordan involved. 

Washing the makeup off my face and using the restroom, I change into an oversized sleep shirt and nestle in bed.  Feeling the need to give Nolan a heads up about my situation, I grab my phone and before I plug it in for the night and open my text messages.

Surprisingly, I have a waiting text from Nolan.  He had practice with his band earlier and I didn’t expect to hear from him.  Suppressing the giddy feeling I still get when I see his name, I open the message, read it and my stomach drops.

Chapter Nine

Nolan

For the last few days, the band and I have been working on a few new songs.  We’re all really into country, but for some reason some older rock songs have been really intriguing.  Maybe it has something to do with the way Loren looked when I sang She Talks to Angels that first night.  Whatever the reason, the guys are actually open to the idea of switching things around.

Preparing for a regular night at the hole in the wall we usually play is nerve wracking enough.  Add in knowing that there might be someone coming to see us that’s in it for more than background noise while they chug down a few beers, it’s downright daunting. 

Loren didn’t tell me exactly who it was or how I’d know it was them, only she thinks our sound might be good for some kind of viral marketing ad that she’s been working on for the past few days.  None of that makes any sense to me.  I’d be happy playing for free beers all night, yet the fact she has so much faith in us—me—it’s intoxicating. 

Pulling the vibrating phone from my pocket, I glance up at the clock realizing it’s too soon for the concert to be over.  Panic hits me thinking she might need me and I’m so far away.  But it’s not Loren.  It’s a number that I haven’t seen flash across my screen in quite a long time.  A number I never thought would call me ever again.

Shoving the phone back in my pocket, I go about the rest of my tasks and help the guys pack up their stuff for the night.  With plans made for another rehearsal tomorrow evening, we part ways.  The moment I’m alone in my truck, I stare at the number on the screen for a few moments, wondering if it was an accidental dial or did someone really want to speak with me.

After three years of not hearing a peep from Wendy or her family, tonight of all nights is the one they choose to reach out to me.  Not that we ended on a bad note, we just ended.  And now, out of the blue, a missed call from her mother on my caller ID.  The only thing I can think is something’s happened.  Something bad.

“Hello.  Nolan,” Margie, Wendy’s mother answers, panic evident in her voice.

“Mrs. Clarke, how is everything?  It’s been a while.”  I try to remain collected, but the churning in my gut speaks volumes. 

“It’s Wendy,” she whispers, an audible gasp after she speaks her daughter’s name.

“Tell me.”  It has to be terrible for the family to reach out to me of all people.  Wendy and I were high school sweethearts.  When I was eighteen, it was her I thought I wanted for the rest of my life, but unfortunately people change and so do the things they want.  I discovered that a little late for Wendy’s family, though.  She understood of course.  She was wonderful like that.  Wendy knew that she deserved to get out as much as she put in, and me sticking with her out of obligation wasn’t going to give her that.  I sensed it was the same on her end as well.  So, amicably, we divorced and went our separate ways.

No fighting.  No settlement.  Just done.  We both were okay with it.

Her family.  Not even a little okay with our decision.  The Clarke’s were a good, solid Catholic family, firmly believing that once people are married, they stay that way until death do them part.  I was never forgiven, and I suspect they held it over Wendy’s head too.

“Margie, you need to tell me what’s goin’ on.  You’re making me nervous.”  Margie softly sobs on the other end of the line, trying to disguise the sadness when she finally speaks.

“Wendy needs you, son,” she starts, the façade cracking with every word.  “It’s not good, Nolan.  It’s not good at all.  Can you come?”

“Of course.  Tonight or tomorrow?”

“As soon as you can.  Thank you, Nolan.  She’ll appreciate it as well.”  I want to ask what the hurry is, but I can’t make myself do it.  The sooner I know, the more real it will become. 

*****

The drive to Wendy’s takes a little over an hour, which I drive in complete silence, which is completely out of the ordinary for me.  Usually, on long trips the radio blares, yet for whatever reason, I know this isn’t a time to be joyfully singing along with the radio.  I need to be alone with my thoughts, which are almost as daunting as my imagination, thinking over every scenario that could be wrong.

Walking up the steps to the house I know so well—known another life ago—Wendy’s mom meets me at the door, tightly wrapping her arms around my neck and pulling me in for a hug.  “Oh, Nolan, I knew you would come.  Thank you so much.  Please, come in,” she says, ushering me inside. 

“Nolan,” Wendy’s father’s voice booms from the den, nodding in my direction, not bothering to get out of his chair.  Not that I expect him to, but it would be nice since I drove all this way with nothing more than a request to come. 

“Margie, what’s going on?” I ask.

“Come with me,” she whispers, taking my hand and leading me up the stairs.  She stops just outside Wendy’s bedroom door, placing her hand on the handle and looking back at me.  “I have a surprise for you, Wendy,” she coos, opening the door.

“What did you do, Mom?” Wendy’s familiar voice asks.  Stepping around Margie and into the room, I nearly hit the floor.

Machines.  So many machines.  A tube running from one of the machines directly into her arm.  Wendy’s once youthful, full body is gone.  In its place, a frail looking girl.  Dark circles around her eyes, head wrapped in a colorful scarf, the end wrapping around her shoulder.  Deeply cracked lips gasp when her lifeless eyes meet mine.

“Nolan?” she whispers, pushing the button on the side of the hospital bed, forcing the back to raise.  “What are you doing here?” she asks in disbelief.  The machine monitoring her heart rate accelerates, alerting the elderly woman I’ve never seen before.

The woman sets down the magazine she was reading and moves next to Wendy.  “How ya doin’ sweetie?  Need anything?” she asks, voice filled with compassion.

“Why did you bring him here, Mom?  God,” Wendy cries, turning her head toward the woman on her other side.  “I’m good, thank you.”  The woman goes back to her chair, picks up the magazine and as if nothing’s wrong, goes back to her reading.

“He had a right to know, Wendy,” Margie argues.

“Know what?” I ask.  Dammit, they need to stop talking about me like I’m not standing right fucking here, freaking out.  Someone needs to give me something to go on here.

“What the hell’s going on?” I ask again, this time to anyone who wants to answer my question.

“Nolan, you should go,” Wendy speaks up.  “You really don’t need to be here.  I’m fine.”  Faking a smile, she stares straight through me.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say you’re anything but fine.  So, for the love of God, fill me in.  Why are you hooked up to that shit?  Who is the lady in the corner?”

Glancing to the corner, an honest smile forms on Wendy’s lips, “That’s Debbie, my hospice nurse.  And the sweetest person to ever walk the face of the earth.”

“Hospice?” I ask and Margie walks out of the room, closing the door behind her.  I move to sit on the chair next to Wendy’s bed.  “People don’t get hospice unless they’re really sick, Wendy.  People that are fine don’t have bedside nurses in their home.”

Every terrifying fear I felt on the drive is nowhere as gut wrenching as the emotions flowing through me at this very moment.  I know people can be on hospice that aren’t going to die, but for the most part, everyone in my life that I’ve known to receive such specialized, private care is approaching the end of their life.  Hospice is more of a way to keep them comfortable until the end.

“I’m sick,” she whispers, fidgeting with the end of her scarf. 

“Oh, God,” I gasp as realization crashes around me.  She’s dying.  Cancer. 

“When?” I ask, choking down the sobs that threaten to explode from my chest.

“A few months back.  Doc found something strange during a routine pelvic exam.  He ran some tests and brought me back for even more tests.  A few more times of this, they told me I had cervical cancer but it had spread to my ovaries,” she states, emotionless … numb.

“My mom had cervical cancer, remember?  She had a hysterectomy and was all good.  Can’t they do the same for you?”

“I wish it were that simple.  It’s spread even further than my organs.  Nolan, it’s in my lymph nodes.  It’s not going away,” she says, painfully, gut wrenchingly numb.  She’s given up.

“What can I do?”  Resting my elbows on the edge of her bed, I take her hands in mine, bringing her knuckles to my lips, kissing them gently. 

“Just you being here is nice,” she sighs, resting her head on her pillow and closing her tired eyes.

When we got married, we said our vows in front of family, friends and most importantly God.  To this date, we’ve kept those promises.  We may have fallen out of love and gotten divorced, but I still care for her very deeply.  I promised on that day to be there for her whether we were rich or poor, better or worse, sick or healthy … until death do us part. 

This might be the last chance I have to keep any of those vows.  Being a man of my word, I have no other choice.  Pulling out my phone, I type out a text.

Me – We need to talk.

To be continued …

Be sure to follow me at one of the links on the next page for the release date of the final installment of the Claim Serials.

About the Author

Ashley Suzanne has been writing as long as she can remember. As a youngster, she was always creating stories and talking to her imaginary friends. Thankfully, her parents also carried this love of fiction, and helped her grow into the writer she is today.
Ashley is a bestselling author and spends equal amounts of time writing and reading. Being the true book whore she is, Ashley would rather dive into a good book before going out of her house. Giving up her career in Real Estate, Ashley has officially moved to hermit status.

When Ashley isn't coming up with her next story, you'll most likely find her on the couch with a kindle in her hand (probably watching some crappy reality show while , annoying her husband by telling him all about her new book boyfriend or spending quality time with her two gremlins ... Sorry, I mean adorable children.

OTHER WORKS BY ASHLEY SUZANNE

THE DESTINED SERIES
Mirage (book 1)
Inception (book 1.5)
Awakening (book 2)
Façade (book 3)
Epiphany (book 4)
Inescapable (book 5) – COMING SOON

RAVEN (stand alone)
CALLING CARD (stand alone)
RESTRICTED Part 1 (a 3 part serial co-authored with Pamela Ann)
CLAIM Volume 1
CLAIM Volume 2 (coming 12/23/14)
BREAKING NOAH (Coming 5/26/15 with Random House Publishing)

MOMENTS IN TIME – A short story charity anthology featuring Sapphire by Ashley Suzanne

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Ashley Suzanne is represented by Marisa Corvisiero with Corvisiero Literary Agency.