Never the Bride (22 page)

I don’t know if I expected to see a butler or a mousy wife or what, but there he stands, dressed down in a cotton shirt and bermuda shorts. That familiar, thin, twitchy mustache is the first thing I notice on his face. My gaze roams to his eyes, still encircled by wire-frame glasses.

“Yes?”

“Hello. Dr. Montrose?”

“How can I help you?” He pushes the little dog behind him, using a gentle foot.

“I’m sorry to bother you. I’m, um…I’m a former patient.”

I’m expecting this—eyes widen, face grows concerned—but nevertheless, trying to be helpful.

I blurt out, “I’m not dangerous or anything.” I try a laugh but I’m sounding so insidious. “I’m not carrying a gun or anything.” That helps. Yeah. My apprenticeship as a raging lunatic is complete. I hold out my hand, and he sort of flinches. “Jessie Stone. Do you remember me?”

His eyes narrow as he studies me. “Yes. Yes, I do remember you. You look…a little different.”

“Oh! The hair!” I cackle. Why can’t I find the right laugh here? “I’m just experimenting a little with my look. Nothing to be alarmed about. Plus, it has been a couple or three decades. I’m all grown up.”

“Um, that’s what I meant. You’re older. What are you doing here?”

“I was wondering if I could have a few moments of your time. I realize you’re very busy.” Though he doesn’t look it. He looks fully retired, which I’d read about in the newspaper a few years ago.

“Um…”

“Dr. Montrose, you had such a profound effect on my life. I was just hoping you could share some of your knowledge with me on a particular topic.”

His demeanor shifts. “Oh. Well, that’s kind of you to say. Please, come in.”

Huh. That was easy. Flattery does get you places. Yeah, he had an effect on me all right, but I’ll leave it at that.

“What a beautiful home,” I say.

He smiles for the first time. “Thank you. My wife was responsible for all this,” he says, waving his hand around.

I reach down to pet the little dog who is vying for attention. I don’t know why, but I was sort of expecting, if Montrose had a dog at all, it would a Chihuahua or a pug or something. This little thing looks like it just arrived from the pound. “Cute dog.”

“Thanks. Since retiring, I’ve been adopting mutts from the pound and rehabilitating them.”

“Ah.” Not far from what he used to do, I guess.

“Why don’t we go to the deck? I was just finishing some breakfast.”

“Sure.”

I follow him through his house, glimpsing at the décor. Very modern. The living room looks like it all came from some art-museum shop in New York. I’m more of a soft-cushions-and-warm-colors kind of person myself. Then I notice the artwork. All over the house, in black frames, are children’s drawings.

His patients. My eyes dart from frame to frame, wondering if one of mine hangs in here.

He opens the door to the deck. I step out and marvel at the view. His home sits high on the hill, and below are lots of other extravagant homes. It does have a king-of-the-world feel to it.

A wrought-iron table with an umbrella sits in the middle of the deck. His plate of french toast is half empty. “Please, have a seat. Can I get you anything?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine. Sorry to interrupt your breakfast.”

“Not at all.”

I watch as he struggles to pull out his own chair. His hands are shaky, and I notice for the first time the gray at his temples. He’s old now. Lines crisscross his face. His ears look like they’ve grown an inch on either side. Brown spots cover his forehead. But that mustache, as clean and sleek as ever.

“So, Jessie, it is good to see you. I think about you often. Wonder how you and your sister are getting along. Your parents’ death was so tragic.”

“We’re doing fine. Brooklyn has grown into a fine young woman. We live together and own a business.”

“Oh? What kind of business?”

“We help men set up the perfect marriage proposal.”

“Hmm. Sounds interesting.”

Hmm. He used to always say that when something surprised him but he didn’t want to let on that it did.

“So,” he says, taking a bite of his breakfast and wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin, “what brings you by, Jessie?”

I’d decided not to rehearse what to say. No matter what kind of delivery it came in, this was going to sound weird. “Well…as you remember, I saw you as a child.”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember what my problem was?”

“I do. You had an imaginary friend.”

I smile. “Sounds so innocent.”

“It was.”

“It was? Then why did I have to come see you?”

He’s holding up a forkful of french toast, and his hand is shaking. “Not all children have imaginary friends, and in some instances, it can be a sign of a serious mental illness. Your parents were just being cautious, as they should’ve been.”

“I always felt like a freak for having that boy follow me around.”

Dr. Montrose finally takes a bite and chews slowly before answering. “That was part of why you were in therapy. You had to understand how other people were going to perceive your imaginary friend.”

“Like I was crazy.”

His fork reaches the french toast again. “But we solved the problem, remember?”

I nod. “I think so. I mean, I don’t remember exactly when he left, but I know that he eventually did.”

“You were a bright young girl, and I knew eventually logic would help you understand that he was going to have to go.”

“I did like him.”

Dr. Montrose smiles. “Yes. Those are always the hardest cases.”

“Was I one of your hardest?”

He seems to be giving this some thought, his fork poised in the air again. “It’s hard to recall. But you were definitely one of my successful cases.”

“You must’ve seen a lot of kids through the years.”

“Yes. Many. But it’s not often I get to see them all grown up.” He winks at me. “It’s very nice to see you and to know that you’re okay.” His expression falls. “There were so many I couldn’t help. I still regret that.” His fork and uneaten bite lowers to just above his plate.

“I’m sure you did the best you could.”

“Yes, well. So, tell me why you are here.” The fork finally finds his mouth. I claw at my neck like a poison ivy rash has just popped up. There is no other way to say it, no mincing of words that will make this sound any better at all, so I just say it. “God’s been visiting me.”

Here it comes. The expression. The one that I would imagine psychologists try to never have, but the one that Dr. Montrose couldn’t seem to keep hidden. Morbid surprise. He finishes chewing and slowly pushes his plate back, dropping his napkin over what remains. “What you mean, Jessie, is that you’ve been rethinking spirituality?”

“No. I mean that He is coming to visit me.”

“Could you explain further?” His fingers twitch like he’s in desperate need of a pen and pad.

I try so hard to sound normal. “Well, it all started with Him appearing to me. He wanted to talk about my love life. Now, I know this sounds strange, but He’s really obsessed with me getting the right guy.”

“So what you’re saying is that God is—”

“Writing my love story. With my own purple pen. It’s very symbolic. God is like that. He loves to use things that mean something.”

“And when you say appear,’ do you mean in the clouds? Or with a loud, booming voice? How does that work?”

“He just appears as a man. A good-looking one at that.”

“And when He appears, what does He say?”

“He has a lot to say. And don’t get me wrong. I was skeptical at first. I mean, until He disappeared into a wall, I was pretty convinced I was being Punk’d.”

“Is He…here now?”

I glance around. “I don’t think so. It’s hard to know, though. Sometimes I can feel Him around but I don’t see Him.”

“I see.”

I feel like a stupid little kid again, but I force myself to take charge and consider all options. “I know this sounds crazy. Believe me. But I mean, it could happen, right?”

“I think you know what I’m going to say.”

I lean forward and engage the doctor. “Do you believe in God?”

“I don’t know if that’s relevant,” he says carefully.

“Just play along.”

He does his little head-nodding thing. “Yes. I do.”

“If He’s real, He could do this—appear to a human being. Right? I mean, He’s appeared to people before.”

The doctor pauses a moment, then says, “Why you?”

“What?”

“Why do you think that God appeared to you, specifically?”

I see his point. I sit all the way back in my chair and look around the doctors beautiful backyard. “I don’t really know,” I finally say. “But He has. For some reason, He loves me and He wants me to have a love story.” I laugh a little. “Sometimes I kind of get the feeling He wants to be in it. Does that sound weird?”

“What do you think?”

“I hate that question, and I hated it when I was nine too.”

“I’m just trying to get you to think through all this.” He does a little gesture in the air, like that will help.

“Believe me, I have.”

The doctor crosses his fingers on the table. “Has God asked you other questions, perhaps the state of your eternal soul?”

See, this is helping. The guy is thinking of things I hadn’t. “No. I mean, He’s just very caring. He seems to care deeply for me, but He doesn’t have to say it. I sense it. You know what I mean?”

“That’s the problem, Jessie. Nobody’s going to know what you mean. This is unusual.”

“Like UFO-sighting unusual?”

“Exactly.”

I put my elbows on my knees and clasp my hands together, staring down at the deck wood under my feet.

“Have you been hearing voices?” he asks gently. “Seeing others, besides God?”

“No.”

“And nobody else around you is seeing God, is that right?”

“Right. Wait! No, that’s not true. Twice someone else has seen Him.”

This gets a little reaction. “Oh? Who?”

“A pastor and a date.”

“A date.”

“Yes. A former boyfriend I’m seeing again.”

“Uh-huh. Interesting. I can see the pastor, perhaps, but an ex-boyfriend?”

“Look. You don’t know God. He’s very protective. He’s kind of…jealous.”

Dr. Montrose sits a little straighter. “I do know Him. I go to church every Sunday.”

“Oh.”

Here Dr. Montrose loses his “I’ll save all the lost puppies” look and gets a bit defensive. “I’ve gone to church since I was a small child, and never once has God spoken to me. He’s certainly never appeared to me or to anyone else I know.” He adjusts his glasses to look at me better. “You think you’re the exception to that rule?”

It stings. No, in fact. I’ve never thought I was the exception to any rule. Ever. Until God made me feel…exceptional.

“Jessie, you must use some logic here. You must ask yourself why God chose to appear
to you.”

I look up at the doctor. “What you’re saying is that I’m nothing special.”

“Now…don’t read into what I’m saying as something personal,” he says in that practiced, predictably kind tone.

“But that’s what you’re saying, right? That if I understood that
God wouldn’t just appear to a nobody like me, maybe this would all seem like nonsense.”

The doctor doesn’t appear to be a bit flustered, which means the answer to my question is yes. He calmly reaches down and pets his little dog. “Jessie, you came to me, seeking help. People come to their wits’ end. They finally decide they need help after things get too hard. Isn’t that what happened to you? If you didn’t doubt this, why are you here?”

I stare at the deck. “You know, I never questioned that my imaginary friend was weird. It wasn’t until someone pointed it out to me that I became self-conscious.”

“Sometimes that’s what we need to help us get out of something we’re not able to get out of ourselves.”

“What do you think is wrong with me?” I can’t help my shaky voice.

He does sound very sincere. “Jessie, I think you’ve been through a lot in your life and this is a coping mechanism. Perhaps you’re lonely, you miss your parents, you’re trying to make sense of it all.”

I lean back in my chair, trying to hold back the tears. “It’s just that He was so nice. And funny.” I look up toward heaven, falling into old habits of randomly talking to God, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, aggravating as all get out”—I quickly look back at Dr. Montrose—“but somehow it seemed like He was annoying me for my good. It wasn’t all cupcakes and daisies—He wasn’t into doing it my way. At all. In any part of it. He’s really into His own plan. But we had some good times together.”

“Good times together. Hmm.” Dr. Montrose is peering at me like
I’m a petri dish. “Yes, well, wouldn’t we all want a God like that?” Silence passes between us. “My wife died of cancer four years ago.”

I sit up straight. He’s never told me anything personal before. I never really considered that he had a life of his own. “I’m so sorry.”

The doctor nods. “Do you know how many prayers I prayed? Night after night. All day long. I wept and wept. I cried out. I…begged.” His hand goes to his mouth like he’s just said something mildly inappropriate. “But she still died.” He picks the dog up with shaky hands and holds it in his lap. “So yes, Jessie, I suppose we all would want a God who laughs and plays and writes love stories for us. We all want that. But what we want and what is real isn’t the same thing.”

“But—”

“If God wants to write your love story, then surely He would want to save the life of a dear woman like Margaret. Don’t you think?”

I nod, unable to look him in the eye.

He pets the dog in silence. “You’re a smart girl,” the doctor finally says. “I always knew that about you. You must apply logic to this situation, and that’s when you’ll understand the truth.”

I’d agree with him in theory, but I remember God too well—the way He smelled and the sound of His voice and the touch of His hand. “But, what about faith? Where does that come in?”

The doctor smiles. “Have faith in yourself, Jessie. You’ve overcome this once. You can overcome it again.” He puts the dog down. “Do you have a piece of paper? A pen?”

“I, uh…yes, I think so.” I dig through my purse. “Here.”