Jilly-Bean (Jilly-Bean Series # 1) (16 page)

“Geordie, did you hear?” She looked at her husband in disgust.

“Yes, dear, what did you say?”

She took a deep breath and sat on in silence for some moments, gazing out over the garden. The white plume flowers of Mount Fujiyama phlox glowed brightly against the dark yews, reminding her of the famous white garden at Sissinghurst Castle in England that she had seen on their last overseas trip.

“Well, you know this Matt character means a lot to Jillian,” she said at last. “She believes they were fated.”

Her husband considered this for a moment stroking his wrinkled forehead, then looked disbelievingly at his wife: “Oh, is that right? Fated? I thought she'd broken it off with him.”

Mrs. Crossland began speaking a little breathlessly. “I think she got a little more serious with him than she's letting on: either that or maybe she needs to experience a little unhappiness in her life.”

“Nonsense! Jillian? She's a smart girl.” He quickly flipped through the pages of the business section and then put the paper down. “Well, we were young once ourselves. There's nothing we can say to her; you know that. Experience is the greatest teacher, so they say.” Mr. Crossland looked up from his paper for the briefest of instants and saw Adam and Olivia strolling down the ravine path towards the river between bushes blazing in gold and red, laughing and speaking in hushed tones. He felt a vague reminiscent ache of events from his own boyhood: an impression of a pretty girl long ago, breaking free with a sudden teasing movement as the figures disappeared. He grimaced and then returned his gaze to the business news.

“I just hope she snaps out of it soon, Geordie.”

The couple sat on, troubled by the events that were unfolding beyond their control.

Lauren Chow couldn't contain herself another minute. She sprang to her feet, knocking over the chair she'd been sitting on, and blurted out: “Annie Treadway!”

Jillian turned from the stove, where she had been stir-frying onions, broccoli and red peppers, and regarded her friend Amelia with dumbfounded silence. She was very close to losing her balance, and her voice sounded altered as she slurred the words, “What do you mean? Matt and— and— ” She couldn't even bring herself to say her friend's name. The thought was incomprehensible.

Amelia glanced anxiously and apologetically at Jillian. “I saw them together, Jilly.” Her voice sounded embarrassed. She didn't want to reveal that she had seen them touching, or was groping a better word to describe it? Well, she had seen them kiss.

“What?” Jillian's eyes darted from Amelia back to Lauren in startled appeal. Jillian stood rigid, frowning, the corners of her mouth twitching as if she were on the brink of tears. How could Annie have betrayed their friendship, their bond? Jillian lifted her hands in frustration, then closed them tight over her ears and cried out, “I can't believe this. This is untrue! All of it!”

Lauren and Amelia traded knowing glances, knowing this was a hopeless cause, then turned to face Jillian, united in foreboding.

“Jillian, there's only one person Dr. Strangelove is in love with, and that's himself,” stated Lauren forcefully.

“He's a Casanova, a girl-chaser!” Amelia seconded.

Jillian stared at her friends astonished and livid with rage. “They're together!” She was having trouble not only with her hearing but with her balance. Molly must have spotted a rival dog in an adjoining yard, and her barking was jarring on Jillian's nerves. Suddenly it became ear-piercing. “I'm sorry, tell me again what you saw ....”

Amelia repeated the incident, speaking breathlessly yet knowing this was big news: “Yes, Matt has become friendly— or should I say, has become involved— with our Annie ....” Her words trailed off as she saw the hurt look on Jillian's face.

The friends fell silent. Jillian impatiently dumped the burned vegetable stir-fry in the wastebin, while Amelia continued to chew a stale chocolate-dip donut, trading guilty furtive glances across the table with Lauren. How could Annie, their childhood friend, betray their friendship? The friends stopped talking, but their thoughts all ran along the same lines.

Annie took Jillian to the Coffee Tree, her arm around her friend's shoulders, just like old times, as if nothing had come between them. They sat facing one another across a patio metal table. Annie leaned forward on her elbows; she had lately had her hair cut, and her make-up looked perfect; bee-stung cherry-red lips were still the rage. Her eyes sparkled with an undefined happiness, although she made some effort to suppress this excitement. She was wearing a low-cut summer dress with a floral pattern, which Jillian disapproved of as too revealing. She waited for Annie to explain, to apologize. Their last telephone exchange a few days earlier had been brief and had occurred before Jillian even knew about Annie's involvement with Matt. She remembered now that she had wondered whether Annie was trying to avoid her, unwilling to talk about the painful break-up.

A waiter brought them their skim-milk chai lattes and almond biscottis. Annie took unhurried sips of the foamy white liquid, while Jillian refused to drink and looked on.

There was a long pause as Annie took a bite of her biscotti, then chewed it reflectively. “I'm having a group of friends up at my cottage next weekend for the July 1st getaway,” she began in a bright amiable voice. Jillian sat quietly as she listened to the names of all the people who had been invited: Amelia Hartmann, Lauren Chow, Andrew Waits, Mary-Ann and a few others she vaguely knew— and Matt Barnes. Jillian glared at her friend.

“Oh, I have something else to say. It's kind of— significant.”

Jillian braced herself; something in Annie's voice prepared her for big news, a big let-down. The queasy feeling she had had in her stomach off and on ever since her discussion with Amelia was returning.

“Yeah, what is it?” she began, trying to keep her voice calm, although the words nearly turned to sobs in her throat.

Annie began in a low voice and spoke carefully, refusing to meet Jillian's gaze, which remained glued on her. “Jilly-sweetie, I'm sure you've heard by now that Matt and me, well— what I mean to say is— Matt and I are dating.”

At first Jillian did not respond. She sat staring at her friend, one hand involuntarily on her chest, wearing a look of vulnerability that now became tragic. When she finally managed to speak, her voice betrayed her hurt: “I expected it.”

Annie wavered, “You expected it? How?”

Jillian spoke carefully, gravely: “Annie, you've made a mistake getting involved with Matt.” She paused. “He's not capable of love.”

Annie sat in silence, watching her friend, then laughed involuntarily. “Oh, that's too absurd! You're just jealous.”

Jillian glared at her. Annie at first returned her gaze with undisguised alarm but then laughed— a little too loudly, since she managed to turn several heads their way.

“You don't know Matt the way I do. He's not in love with you,” exclaimed Jillian, shaking with emotion. Her eyes were welling up with tears.

Annie cleared her throat and gave a little gasp. “I don't think you are in any position to speak for Matt,” she began. Her own eyelids began to flutter as if holding back tears.

“Well, perhaps I didn't make it clear, but his work at the hospital takes a lot out of him, not only in terms of hours but also in mental energy, and that doesn't leave him much time for relationships.” She tapped her fingers lightly on the table. “I'm the one who broke it off with Matt.”

“Why should it make any difference who broke up with whom? It's over, right?” Annie's face was beginning to colour. “I hope there's no ill feeling between us or that you feel jealous about my relationship with Matt.” Annie was doing her best to handle the situation maturely, but then her words began to falter: “You know I care for you more than anything. I've always loved you like a sister.” She reached for Jillian's hand in a show of affection. “We could never let a boy come between us, could we?”

“Of course not! Annie, you're the one that stopped calling me,” said Jillian, sounding hurt.

“If you want to join us for the July 1st long weekend, you're more than welcome.”

This was a lie, she knew. Sighing, Jillian set down her latte, stared at her friend earnestly and said, “Annie, Matt means absolutely nothing to me.” Secretly, the invitation had only intensified her irritation towards her friend. “I'll have to check my calendar and make sure I'm not scheduled to work at the hospital on the weekend.”

As the days went by, Jillian concentrated on her work at the hospital. True, her feelings were hurt, but work kept her mind busy. One morning she had been wheeling Mrs. Carey, who was eighty years old and had suffered a broken hip due to osteoporosis, back to her room from the radiology department. Mrs. Carey, was wiping a clot of saliva off her quivering chin, she looked up at Jillian and asked, “Do you have children?”

Jillian regarded the old woman with amazement; her skin hung in folds from her cheeks, giving them the appearance of slow melting plastic. She didn't know what to say and didn't want to get into a long conversation about her private life; they seemed to have no common ground.

“I don't really want to bother you with petty details about my life, Mrs. Carey. It would only tire you needlessly” she replied.

“But you're not tiring me,” the old woman protested, stretching out a thin trembling hand and looking intently into the young girl's face. “Some bastard has hurt you. I know the look.”

“What?” Trying to laugh, Jillian stated forcefully, “No, no one has hurt me. Why would you think so? I have no children. I'm only eighteen. How about you, Mrs. Carey?”

“Me? Oh, I have 18 grandkids. I raised four children all by myself, with no help from my deadbeat husband. He walked out on me when I was pregnant with my fourth. I had to rely on my parents' help to make ends meet.”

“Oh, that must have been so tough for you, Mrs. Carey!”

The geriatric ward was on the 11th floor and comprised 25 private rooms. The colour of the walls and style of the furniture were carefully chosen for their bland neutral tones of browns and grey: no vibrant colours such as reds or purples that might shock the senses and cause cardiac arrest. With the aid of technological gadgetry, medicines and fluorescent lights, it was as if all who entered were in a state of simulated wakefulness. As Jillian made her way to Room 7, a faint smell of sickness mixed with disinfectant assaulted her sensitive nose. As she entered the room another old woman turned her head slowly towards her. Her eyes had a feverish glow as she stared intently at Jillian, unblinking. She was propped on her bed but seemed to sink into the hollow of the mattress, as if gravity were pulling her down. She leaned forward and looked searchingly into Jillian's face. In a low restrained voice, she said, “They should just let me die and put me out of my misery. They do that in some cultures, don't they? In China don't they take the elderly up to a mountain or something?”

“Maybe they did in the old days. I don't think its legal— for obvious reasons. Are you in a lot of pain?” Jillian replied.

“Pain's the least of it,” the old lady retorted with distaste. “I can't even go to the bathroom by myself. I have to wear something called 'Depends'— diapers.” She started to laugh and gave Jillian a wan smile.

Jillian shuddered and looked around the room silently as if she had stumbled into the Twilight Zone. A light went on in the next curtained alcove, followed by the sound of moaning.

“My kids have no legal right to keep me here against my wishes. These doctors are doing experiments on me without my consent. I'm nothing but a guinea pig to them! Corporations are running these hospitals, not doctors. They don't care about me. Nobody cares about me.” Mrs. Burns was breaking down. “My ungrateful kids and grandkids haven't visited me once since I've been here. They're just waiting for me to die.” She blew her nose, then wiped it back and forth a few times. She was now sitting up on the edge of the bed and sliding sideways, trying to get out. Her sweaty nightgown clung to her skin.

Mrs. Carey was observing Jillian watching Mrs. Burns and said softly: “She's always trying to make a run for it; I think this is her third attempt this week. She won't get far. Security will stop her before she leaves the building.”

“Should I get the nurse? Do you think she'll be okay? What does she have?”

“Cancer. This is the difficult stage.” Mrs. Carey smiled despite Jillian's look of distress.

Mrs. Burns managed to make it out the door but moments later was escorted back to her bed by a large nurse, who talked to her in a tone one might use for a five-year-old child: “Junie, you know it would reflect badly on us if we lost our patients. It would give our hospital a bad reputation. Where did you think you were going? Can you hear me, dearie?”

Stretching her dry lips in a wide toothy smile, Mrs. Carey shrieked: “They won't let you out of the hospital, June. It's the old age home after you leave here, or maybe worse— the cemetery.”

Mrs. Burns looked disheartened and defeated. The nurse heaved her back into bed, gently laying her back on her pillows.

Jillian and the other patients watched in horrified silence.

The nurse added more morphine to the IV, pulled up a blanket lying at the foot of the bed to cover the old woman with it and drew the curtains shut.

In the intervals when the pressure of work was relaxed, Jillian thought of Matt all too often. Walking along the hospital corridors, lost in her own thoughts, she would see young male interns who reminded her of him or imagine hearing someone paging his name over the speaker system— which was absurd, because he didn't even work at the same hospital as she did. At other times, during lunch or one of her coffee breaks, she would insert two quarters in rapid succession into a pay phone by the cafeteria and with shaky fingers call his work place. There she could be seen standing hunched over with head lowered and eyes shut, listening for the ringing, wanting desperately to speak with him and rehearsing in her mind what she would say, then hearing the secretary's voice, followed by a pause: “Hello, Is anyone there? Hello?” Her throat would become constricted, and she would hang up without so much as a return “Hello.” She would stand frozen, simply staring at the phone.