The Eyes and Ears of Love

Acknowledgements

To S.L. Rottman, my former high school English teacher, who inspired me to write. 

To Reese, my daughter, who inspires me every single day to reach for the stars.

To Matt, who always believed in me even when I stopped believing in myself.

To Donna, who has been much more than a sister, but my best friend. 

To Kayla, my unlicensed romance therapist, for giving me the motivation to seek out passion and the affection of love.

To Amanda, my editor, for having patience and a helping heart. 

The Eyes and Ears of Love

Danielle C.R. Smith

Chapter 1

The sun has set in the town of Melbourne. The open window allows the Florida evening breeze to whirl around Bentley’s room. The wind penetrates the polyester fibers of Bentley’s t-shirt, sending a shiver down his bare, olive-tone arms. He wakes instantly and rubs the sleep from his eyes. His limbs feel heavy and unresponsive, but he forces his body to roll onto his left side so he can see his clock: 7:04 p.m., twenty-six minutes until dinner. He has slept the entire day.

Now that he is conscious, he can hear his mother in the kitchen downstairs, slamming wooden cupboards, shuffling through metal pots and pans, and reasoning with the food processor that decides which day it wants to work. Every little sound is amplified in this mid-century townhouse because of the paper-thin walls and small square footage. His parents rented this place about six months ago and sold their rancher to consolidate the medical debt.

His mom finally gets the food processor to work and the sound of a lawn mower rams into his ears. He groans and jerks his hands to cover them.

He feels a sudden movement beside him and an arm wraps around his waist. It’s a woman’s hand with perfectly pink painted fingernails. He scratches his head; he must have been much more wasted than he thought.

I don’t even remember coming home. Did I drive?
He wonders.

He pushes his sore muscles towards the woman beside him. Her eyes are shut and she whistles lightly as she sleeps. He recognizes this woman and rolls his eyes at the sight of her. His nose scrunches as he whispers, “shit!” It’s Shelby, who Bentley knew to be one of the university’s most notorious sluts. She has been trying to get in his pants since he made the basketball team his first year of college, three years ago. Though he may have once shown interest in her, that interest quickly became non-existent the moment he heard the rumor circulating that she had screwed the entire team. And now, the one night he drinks entirely too much, he becomes vulnerable and naïve to her promiscuity. He feels foolish.

His upper thighs throb; last night’s game took a toll on his body. It was by far the most challenging game of the season, a challenge they lost by twenty-two points. Afterward, all the players took out their frustration at their Calhan Delta Fraternity house party through the use of Captain Morgan and Jack Daniel’s.

He looks at the clock once more: 7:21 p.m. He clears his throat loudly to wake her up. She opens her eyes and smiles at him, her thick lips spreading.

“Good morning!” she says, while stretching her arms.

“It’s actually seven in the evening,” he retorts brashly. “But you have to go, like now.”

“Are you sure you want me to leave?” she asks smirking, bouncing her eyes back and forth between Bentley’s face and his pelvis.

He braces himself as he looks down to see his red briefs pointing in Shelby’s direction because of his morning wood. Licking his lips he says, “This happens every morning, don’t feel so special,” his voice crinkly.

Her face takes on a red tint, a stark contrast to the chestnut hair that stands wildly atop her head.

Bentley slips on his superhero pajama pants that his sister got him two Christmases ago. Shelby grabs her things scattered around his bedroom floor as he taps his foot to persuade her to move faster. He opens his door quietly and signals her to follow him.

They creep down the hall and are almost in the clear when suddenly Mr. Menichelli, Bentley’s father, comes out of the bathroom. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head while he passes them in the hallway. He heads down the stairs, which announce his increasing weight gain, as with every step they squeak.

Bentley walks to the edge of the steps and stands listening, rubbing his toes against the plush carpet, waiting for his mother to make a lot of noise again so he can sneak Shelby out of the front door. Seconds later, a culinary orchestra tunes up once again as she rattles through the cupboards. They dodge his mother by bolting to the front door, which is convenient because he doesn’t want her to invite Shelby to dinner. That would be awkward.

He slowly opens the front door to let her out. “All right, I guess I’ll see you at school.”

“Ok,” she says with a shrug.

He shuts the door in her face and watches her through the peephole; she wipes her eyes while walking to an early-model Volkswagen Beetle. One quick look back is all she gives before quickly driving away.

“Dinner!” his mom yells out.

Bentley shuffles to the dining room and sits between Mr. and Mrs. Menichelli, who sit at opposite ends of the table.

Mrs. Menichelli has made pot roast with mashed potatoes and sweet peas. Bentley loves his mom’s cooking, but today the nausea settling inside his belly is calculating revenge for the binge drinking he engaged in last night. He doesn’t know what would be worse at this point, eating the pot roast or afterwards, throwing up the pot roast. His dad on the other hand doesn’t waste a second and digs right in; the sauce dripping down his five o’clock shadow.

Almost every night, they eat as a family, but no one ever says anything unless the salt and pepper needs to be passed. He prefers not talking, though; it’s easier this way. He would just prefer not talking while he ate in his room. Bentley hates trying to act like an ordinary family when it is bleakly obvious that normality no longer exists in this family.

Mrs. Menichelli puts her silverware to the side. Bentley sees her staring at him from the corner of his eye. Her eyes are sad even though she gives him a welcoming smile. The wrinkles around people’s eyes generally develop over years, but Mrs. Menichelli has managed to acquire them over months. While Mr. Menichelli captures stretch marks, Mrs. Menichelli captures stress marks.

Her stare makes him nervous because he knows she is itching to speak and he knows what it’s about.

“Honey?” she says in a meaningful voice, “I hate to bring it up. . .”

“Then don’t,” he says, tension building in his throat.

“We need to talk about it,” she says in a voice that is pleading on the way to peeve.

“No, we don’t,” he sneers.

Mr. Menichelli slams his fork on his plate. His face is flushed. “I’m really sick of this crappy attitude you have been copping lately. Your mother is trying to speak with you but she has to tiptoe around the damn topic because you are so unpredictable.”

Bentley keeps his face down staring at the ten peas on his plate. He doesn’t dare look his father in the eyes. Mr. Menichelli had barely spoken to anyone in the family in months, but it seems that finally the anger has burned through.

“John, please,” Mrs. Menichelli begs with moist eyes.

“Oh darling stop treating him like a child. He is twenty-one years old, damn it! I’ll be in the family room.” He grabs his dinner and retreats to the other room, the sound of ESPN fills the silence.

              The silent tension is brutal and long between Bentley and his mother. In the last two months Bentley has developed a new attitude, one that he knows isn’t fair to his mom or dad. The whole family feels the same amount of pain and anger, no more and no less. Bentley can’t control his attitude. He’s mad and it helps to be mean to his family because there isn’t anyone or anything else to take the emotional beating. He finds satisfaction by talking back to his mom and ignoring both his parents. 

“Ben,” she says breaking the silence, “she doesn’t have much time, sweetie.” She pauses. “She asks if you are coming every day.”

He attempts to clear his throat but the dryness only makes it worse. “I’ve been busy, really busy, with school and basketball,” he says with a raspy voice.

“I know,” she nods. “I just think that she deserves everything she wants right now. Especially the things she needs.” She puts her hand atop of his, rubbing soothing circles on his palm. “And the only thing she needs, is you.”

He pulls his hand away. “I have to work on an essay,” he lies, leaving the table, walking away from his mother. The phone rings on his way upstairs. He freezes in fear, waiting for his mother to answer.

“Hi, Lisa!” his mom answers.

Hearing the sound of relief in his mother’s voice, the tension drains from his shoulders. Lisa is a bible study friend and no one to be concerned about.

Mrs. Menichelli has more hope than Mr. Menichelli and Bentley. She believes in miracles while the men of the family believe in what science tells them, and science is telling them tragedy will occur. She prays and begs God for a miracle every day while Bentley refuses to pray to a higher power that is responsible for this devastation to begin with.

Late that night, the words of his mother haunt him while he lies on his bed. He alternates between gazing at the nude Pamela Anderson poster taped to the ceiling and at his clock turning from minutes to hours. It’s 12:00 a.m., he hears the ticking of each second he wastes lying in bed. At 12:01 he snatches his keys. He leaves the house quietly to avoid waking his mom or dad up.

At 12:27 a.m., he arrives at the hospital. Parking the car, he sits, gripping the wheel. His stomach tightens. He doesn’t feel the courage to go inside. He hasn’t been inside the hospital for seventy four days and if he doesn’t go in today, it’ll be seventy five, and eventually it’ll be too late. Forcing himself out of the car, without thinking he locks the car door and throws his keys inside before shutting the locked door. He realizes what he has done and lets out a loud grunt while trying all the door handles. He peeks inside the window and sees his phone in the center console.

“Damn! Why did I do that?” He presses his hand to his forehead. “Don’t be a coward, Ben. Just go in and ask to use the phone,” he says aloud.

He slumps his posture and his thoughts wander as he walks up into the hospital to the main desk attendant. He hates the hospital. He’d rather be abandoned in a desert with no water than confront a hospital.

“I locked my keys and phone in the car. Can I use your phone to call a locksmith?”

The lady doesn’t speak and hands him the phone and a phonebook.

“Bentley?” a voice asks from behind him.

He turns around to see Mable, the RN for the night shift standing in front of him.

“That is you! I’m just coming back from lunch!” She seizes him for a hug. “Emily is going to be so happy you’re here!”

“Ugh, actually, I just locked my keys in the car and am just trying to get home. It’s far too late for me to be visiting anyways.”

“Aw, baby, but you are home! God locked your keys in your car for a reason.”  Mable is like Mrs. Menichelli and always brings up God, which only pisses Bentley off, especially at this moment because he knew it was his own fault for locking his keys in his car—not God’s fault. She grabs his forearm and pulls him to walk toward her destination. “She’s sleeping right now so it’ll be easier for you to see her. And you can even leave before she opens those gorgeous blue eyes.” She pauses momentarily. “She’ll be happy just knowing you came to see her.”

They walk under a giant rainbow door border reading CHILDREN’S WARD. He stands in front of her room for several minutes before he gets a gentle push from Mable. Her room is covered with drawings and paintings she has done over the last few months. He hears the intense sound of her trying to breathe while she sleeps. It sounds fatal, like every breath she inhales just isn’t enough to replenish her body. Bentley makes his hands into fists, fighting back the tears. She is mostly bald now with a few patches of thinned out brown hair. She has no eyebrows or eyelashes. She doesn’t look like the Emily he remembers. The last time he saw her, seventy four days ago, she was only beginning to lose her hair. Now her skin is so pale that all her veins are evident. He remembers one distinct vein, in the middle of her forehead, because it would only become visible when she was angry or in pain. And now all her veins are showing and he fears it is because of pain. He can’t bear to look at her anymore; the sight of her makes him physically ill to the point he can’t handle it one second more. He looks away.