Someone to Watch Over Me (5 page)

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Authors: Michelle Stimpson

BOOK: Someone to Watch Over Me
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Ray-Ray?
Everyone in Bayford had a nickname. Bubba, Pookie, Peaches. I had to ask, “Who's Ray-Ray?”
“My baby son,” she practically screamed. “Has the city erased your memory?”
I put two and two together. “So DeAndre is your grandson?”
“That's usually how family trees work.”
I had to know. “Why is Aunt Dottie taking care of someone else's child?”
Joenetta gave a nasty laugh. “Hmph, that's the same question I asked when
you
came to Bayford.”
I didn't have a comeback for that one. As much as I believed parents should take care of their own children, I didn't have an excuse for why my own mother had quit the job.
Joenetta clicked her teeth. “So, you gonna send some money or what?”
“Is there anything
Aunt Dottie
needs?”
“I already told you all the stuff she needs around here. You don't trust me? Why don't you come see for yourself.”
No, I certainly didn't trust Joenetta. I didn't trust her take on Aunt Dottie's medical condition, the financials, or this little DeAndre situation. I needed to lay my own eyes on Aunt Dottie, hug her, look into her face and assess her health for myself so I could sleep in peace at night knowing she was okay.
The only way I could rest was to call Joenetta's bluff. “I'll be there as soon as I can.”
Chapter 6
I
couldn't believe I was actually calling in to tell Preston I needed to take off a few more days to go visit my ailing aunt. “No worries, Tori. Family first,” he assured me. “We've got things under control here.”
This was the first time I'd ever heard his “family first” philosophy. Since when did NetMarketing Resolutions become a family-friendly company? Not that I would know, since I'd never called in due to my child's fever or my mother-in-law's surgery. Never had to take off the afternoon for my niece's awards assembly. But when I thought about it, Preston always encouraged people to take off or do whatever they needed to do for family's sake. I was probably due some family-related off days, come to think of it. Maybe this would even give the folk at NetMarketing Results a chance to see what a truly valuable team player I was. Preston had said my clients were asking about me. Always a good sign.
Kevin came home from one of his sports nights with the fellas and found me packing. “Where are you going?”
“I'm going to Bayford. My Aunt Dottie had a stroke. I need to check on her,” I stated coldly while stuffing wrinkle-free fabrics into my largest suitcase.
“Bayford?”
“Yes.” I stopped to look at him. His face was contorted, but not with worry. More like annoyance.
“Who's Aunt Dottie?”
“Aunt Dottie Lester. The Lesters? I have family there, remember? People who actually care about me.” I couldn't resist. The no-card, no-flower issue still grated me.
He shook his head. “So what are you trying to say?”
“I'm just saying . . . I can't depend on you for everything, obviously.”
Shock skittled across his face. “Oh my gosh! I'm like the most dependable person on the face of the planet. I pay almost every bill in this condo, I do everything you ask me to do. What's the problem?”
I sighed. Kevin was right. He was dependable. But high credit score aside, when I needed him to be there for me, he wasn't. “Kevin, you have your life. Your work, your friends, and people in your corner who would drop everything if you had a sudden health scare.”
“Babe, I would have come if I could have.” He walked around the bed and stood. “It's physically impossible to be in Houston and Chicago at the same time. You know that, right?”
“Yes, I know.” He had his point, but he wasn't getting mine and I didn't know how to explain it to him because I think sometimes you have to experience a certain predicament to understand where a person is coming from. “I don't expect you to feel me on this. I just need you to work with me, okay?” I tiptoed to kiss his lips.
He reciprocated, one hand spider-walking down my backside. In the past, I might have fallen for his version of foreplay, but given the circumstances, this felt more like groping than caressing.
“What am I supposed to do with myself while you're gone?”
I pushed him away. “The same things you've been doing since I came home from the hospital, I guess. Go to your friends' places. Watch sports. Carry on with your same bachelor's lifestyle.”
“Is this about getting married?” He was so clueless.
Packing resumed. “No. It's about being committed.”
“Isn't that the same thing as marriage?”
“Yes and no. I mean, are you committed to me?” I stopped for a moment to read him.
He stumbled through a few expressions—uncertainty and dismay to be exact. “Yeah, I mean, I love you. We've been together all this time.”
“That's not what I asked you.”
“What's your definition of committed?” Kevin crossed his arms.
“Committed means when I need you, you're there without me asking. You'll drop everything to help me. And when I'm in the hospital, you send flowers.” Maybe that last part wasn't quite in Webster's book, but it was definitely in mine.
“Since when have you ever wanted me to send
flowers
?”
“I'm not sure when I decided I liked flowers. Kevin, it's not about the flowers. I just needed to know that somebody cared about me, all right? Is that too much to ask?” Unexpected tears formed in my eyes and fell quickly.
Kevin hugged me again. “Don't freak out, Tori, dang. I'm sorry. You worry too much. I do care about you. I didn't know you wanted flowers. I mean, we're not a touchy-feely couple.” He was right. In fact, I rather prided myself on the notion that I wasn't the “needy” type. Where Kevin despised obesity, I could not stand needy, whiny, high-drama people who expected the world to stop because they'd gotten a flat tire or missed a flight.
“We're touchy-feely when we have sex,” I suggested, my words muffled by his shirt pressed against my lips.
He leaned down a bit, grabbed my thighs from behind and hoisted me up onto his waist. “You kind of have to touch and feel in order to participate.” His hungry gaze met mine now. “I'm sorry for whatever I did or didn't do, okay?”
I wanted to coax more love talk out of him, but there was no use twisting his arm. He simply didn't get it. “Okay,” I said, settling for his sincere apology.
Kisses followed, along with our usual sexual routine. My body went through the motions, but no matter how hard I tried to focus (and believe me, I tried) I couldn't make my head get into the game.
Kevin was somewhat distracted by my unresponsiveness. “Do you want to do this or what?” he asked breathlessly at one point.
“I'm sorry. My mind is on other things.”
I don't suppose any man has ever stopped himself in the act on account of a woman's wandering mind. Kevin was no exception.
 
The three-and-a-half hour drive to Bayford did little to clarify life for me. I wondered how long I could continue the relationship with Kevin, or if I would even classify what we had as a bona fide romantic relationship. He really did love me in his own low-maintenance way, and I appreciated the space we both allowed each other. I didn't want a clingy boyfriend who didn't understand my dedication to work or who pressured me to cook and clean like I imagined most committed women did. Who was I kidding? I couldn't have my cake and eat it, too. Part of me wanted a friend who wouldn't place any demands on me. The other part wanted someone to be so close that our relationship warranted his presence at all hospital stays, company parties, and holidays.
I was turning into my own worst needy-chick nightmare.
The closer I got to Bayford, the fewer exits available on the highway. With my cell phone going in and out of consciousness, I started to get paranoid. A sense of total vulnerability settled over me and I began to note every gas station and Dairy Queen so if I had any type of car trouble, I'd have an idea of which direction I should walk. There was an eighteen-wheeler trailing me and a Honda Accord up ahead. The three of us had been together for at least fifteen miles, the Honda and I trading the lead a couple of times. I began to imagine that the diesel and the Honda were a tag team. The Honda would pour out some nails on the street so my tires would go flat. Then the diesel man would pull over and kidnap me. Since my cell phone was dead, I wouldn't be able to call for help. No one would know I was missing for several days. Why? Because no one cared enough to report me a missing person.
And then I'd be dead for so long before they found me, my body would have decomposed and they'd have to wait for forensic dental records to identify me. At my funeral, there'd be hardly anyone present to say good-bye.
I accelerated my cruise control by five more miles per hour. If anyone was trying to harm me, they'd have to catch me first.
Snap out of it, Tori! No one is going to kidnap you!
As I got off at the Bayford exit, I breathed easier. I don't know why I let myself get all worked up over the worst-case scenario. Habit, I guess. Maybe habit and watching a few too many crime reality shows.
My drive through town toward the hospital yielded some pleasant surprises. A Sonic drive-in, a Dollar General, even a billboard boasting a new housing development starting in the low hundreds, though I couldn't imagine why anyone would want to move to Bayford. Electricity poles lined the streets and scarcely needed four-way stop signs littered the intersections here and there. Even in the middle of the day, Bayford seemed sleepy compared to Houston, which didn't calm down until well after midnight—and only then for a few hours.
First stop in Bayford: Aunt Dottie's. Since I'd pass her house before nearing the county hospital, I wanted to drop my bag off and change into something other than my riding clothes. The Humble Trail street sign still leaned a little to the right. Every house on the street still looked exactly the same—color, fences, even down to the potted plants on the porches, it seemed. The houses sat on acre lots. Plenty of room for folks to mind their own business, though they rarely did.
The first time I rode down Humble Trail, nearly fifteen years earlier, I was terrified. Being dropped off at a step-relative's house in the middle of nowhere would scare anyone, let alone a pregnant teenager trying to make sense of what to do with her life after thoroughly ruining it.
Aunt Dottie's was the only brick house on Humble Trail. Actually, I think she owned the only brick house for several blocks, which made hers stand out, of course. The brown bricks with green trim amid an immaculate lawn spoke of the home owner's wealth. Back when I was living with Aunt Dottie and helping her run the store, people would always talk about how rich she was.
She'd say, “I'm just blessed.”
Sometimes they'd say something smart like, “I'm blessed, too, but not as blessed as you.”
And she'd reply, “Well, you might want to talk to the Lord and see what He wants you to do about it 'cause He doesn't play favorites.”
Then the person would swagger out of the store as though Aunt Dottie was just blowing hot air, but I know she wasn't. Aunt Dottie was the only person claiming to be a Christian I knew of who actually
did
what Pastor Jacob used to tell us to do on Sundays. Aunt Dottie was so into the Bible and doing what she felt God told her to do, sometimes I wondered why she didn't preach the messages.
I wasn't expecting the front door to be locked. Then again, this wasn't 1996. Bayford was clearly changing just like the rest of the world. Colder, meaner. More dangerous—with the eighteen-wheeler kidnapping schemes and all.
I rang the doorbell a few times, just in case Joenetta was inside. When I got no answer, I walked around to the side of the house and unlatched the six-foot gate. Hopefully, she still kept the back door unlocked. I laughed to myself, thinking of how different Bayford was from Houston, where (by now) someone would have called the police on me.
The expansive backyard where Aunt Dottie planted her own vegetables was still in place. And although it was winter, just the sight of her peach trees made my mouth water. Nothing like good old country yard-grown produce, even if you do have to pick out a worm every now and then.
The back door of Aunt Dottie's house was open, thankfully. I let myself in and, at once, inhaled the smell of her home, this home that had become mine during the worst time of my life. The heater's furnace, Pine-Sol, furniture polish, and detergent from the washing machine all converged. To me, this was the smell of unconditional love.
 
She was a skinny old thing, this aunt of mine. “You can use this room,” she said as she hoisted one of my suitcases down the main hallway. This place was something straight out of a magazine—an old folks' magazine. Hardwood floors, floral print wallpaper, and stark white baseboards throughout the home screamed “You are now in the country.” At first glance, the kitchen seemed messy. Counters covered with jars, the refrigerator plastered with various magnets. Foil paper blocking the sun's rays from a small area that could probably heat up quickly when the gas stove activated. A closer look, however, revealed a kitchen bearing stripes from decades of fellowship—and good cooking—contained within. No, the kitchen wasn't messy. It was lived in.
Family portraits lined the main hallway leading to the bedrooms. I followed her, wobbling slightly with the additional weight I carried around my midsection. The door to what would be my bedroom creaked open, and the morning's sunshine blasted our faces, temporarily blinding me.
“Ooh! I forgot to pull these shades yesterday.” She rushed over to the window, pushed the lace curtain back, pulled the cord, and the old-fashioned canvas shade flopped down over the pane.
Ever heard of blinds?
She set the largest suitcase on the oblong rug, a coil of thick rope, in the center of the floor. I put the others on the bed, which required a great deal of effort seeing as the bed was a good two or three feet off the floor.
“Don't swing your arms like that!” Aunt Dottie snapped. “You'll choke the baby with the cord—so they say.” Then she laughed at herself. “Whew, chile, I don't know nothin' 'bout having babies. All I can tell you is what I've heard other people say.”

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