Ashleigh's Dilemma Read online

  She knew she went too far with that, but it was yet another one of those things she could not control, particularly with her mind half in and half out of sleep. It was certainly ridiculous what passed through her mind. Impossible as she knew it was, in the early morning hours, and sometimes just as she was falling into sleep, it sometimes felt as if her mind, no longer held within the constraints of her will, somehow gained access to the past: a window opens, the head turns, the eyes see… and all in color too.

  On a whim, she'd once asked him, “Did they grow corn?” and he'd answered, “Yes,” but, again, would not elaborate.

  A corncrib, then.

  Whoever the girl was, Ashleigh decided she could not possibly like her; still, she hoped she was alive somewhere and got out while the getting out was good. She was probably married and had her two point five children by now. Statistically, she was probably divorced and on her second marriage. Ashleigh wondered if she ever thought of Patrick and knew that she probably did. If she was alive, that is. But, then again, Patrick thought she was dead and so she probably was. Ashleigh fervently hoped that, however she died, she didn't suffer. She shuddered inwardly: ‘There but for the Grace of God go I, my friend,’ she thought wide awake just before dawn, covering her face with her hands and wondering if she was going mad.

  Ashleigh often thought about the first time she and Patrick met. It was quite a storm, she remembered, with high winds and cold rain. The great old pine took out the power lines making it blacker than black in her house. She remembered the fear of it. She wasn't often afraid but the violence of that particular storm had reached in through the walls of her home: that and the darkness. She had gone to bed with only her flashlight with its almost depleted batteries to show the way. She found it hard to find sleep, but sleep she did. Next morning she immediately called the power company and the first tree service company she could find in the yellow pages. It was the first time she had heard Patrick speak.

  She hadn't thought much of him then – a laborer with a wide smile that was meant to charm her, she supposed; well, ultimately, it had charmed her; she admitted that, at least. But getting to know him was hard. Ashleigh was an aerospace engineer; she was good at math and all things complicated. Her work consumed her. She was smart; she knew she was smart, but the simple things often evaded her. She didn't relate to people very well. Patrick filled that gap, though; not good at math, perhaps, but good at almost everything else, particularly with people. They were very different; at first, she didn’t like that, she thought that two people who were so different couldn’t possibly get along, not in the long run – and if not in the long run, why bother with the short run she had once reasoned. They complimented one another, she knew; that sometimes works, too. That is, after all, why she'd called him after their almost terminal argument almost six months earlier. I'm the forgiving one, she thought – but knew that was a lie.

  It was the pine that had drawn her back to him; the pine he had planted to replace the one that had fallen.

  “So I got us General Tso's Chicken, Singapore Noodles, Moo-Goo Gai Pan for you, Chicken Fried Rice, and four Spring Rolls.”

  “It smells good.”

  When Patrick wasn't cutting down trees and clearing brush, or planting new trees and staking them in place, he was writing short stories and sometimes the odd poem. He had written a story about the two of them walking in the park and he'd written her a poem for Valentine's Day the year before. She didn't like it at first – she didn't like the idea someone was writing about her, that she was being thought of like that, being studied so carefully. But she was used to the idea now. She could recite the poem he'd written. It was often on the tip of her tongue. At the most unpredictable times a stanza or two would cross her mind and she would shake her head and inwardly blush, and smile at her foolishness.

  She found the words he'd chosen beautiful and yet puzzling. She still wasn't sure what they meant: “The towering pine pins heaven, my love, as the snow slowly lowers down the mountain.” What could that possibly mean? Her pine fell in the storm. He'd cut it up and took it away and planted another one. But there had been no snow and no mountains. So, it was a metaphor, but of what? One day she'd have to ask him. Maybe it didn't mean anything; but she knew it did. She just couldn't figure out what. It was frustrating, as is everything to do with Patrick.

  That argument they'd had in those early nearly self-destructing days? It went something like this... “I don't like it! It feels like you’re watching me... You're... You're... obsessed by me!” Yes, yes, she did sound like that- Nasty. It was her temper; it sometimes got the best of her. “It's just a poem; just words.” “But I don't like it!” “You've never had anyone falling in love with you before, have you?” She hadn't; but it didn't help, not then. She didn't realize the significance of what was happening to her until later, in the spring, when the pine began to grow: the soft needles and the scent.

  Patrick topped up his glass with the last of the beer and cryptically said, “The pine will one day fill your yard, that and the Magnolia.”

  He was being puzzling again, but now she liked it; she had grown to like it.

  “I probably won't be living here when that day comes.”

  “The time is now – almost now. I can see the day coming. You and I...”

  She got a fleeting glimpse of what he meant and it startled her. She blushed deeply and turned quickly away so he wouldn't notice.

  “Ashleigh...?” he called her back.

  “When do you want to eat?” she asked over her shoulder; “Do you want to eat now or during the movie, or even after?”

  “Any time is good.”

  “Now?”

  “Now is good.”

  “During the movie, then?”

  “Sure.”

  She moved to get the food out of the warming oven.

  “Okay, you sit and I'll bring all this out.”

  “No, I'll help; let me help.”

  She gave him a stern look and he took the hint.

  She had finally called and said, “I'm sorry.” She hadn't even said her name, or why she was calling; all she had said was, “I'm sorry,” but he had known who was calling and what it was about right away. He didn't hesitate and said before she could get another word in, “For God’s sake, I was falling in love with you, Ashleigh!” Everything she thought she might have said dropped out of her mind then; she couldn't think of anything to say, he shocked her so. She remembered closing her eyes and gripping the receiver until she thought her fingers might break. “Do you still feel that way?” she’d finally asked. “Yes… I often wish it was not true, but yes.” He finally broke the following silence during which she had to find a chair and sit by adding, “It’s a mystery; I have no idea why and we shouldn’t ask why.” She had silently laughed as she wiped away the sudden welling of tears that threatened to spill over. Her heart soared and ached at the same time. She felt joy as well as fear and didn't know why, or how, she could feel both at the same time. Okay… she reasoned at the time; no one had said that to her before; definitely a first; and if it didn't work out she'd just tell him to go, and that would be that. It would be simple. No heartache.

  Patrick set his unfinished beer aside and stood beside her, accepting the trays from the oven and setting them on the counter and prying back the tops to expose the food. Their hands touched and fell away. Their shoulders grazed past one another and then returned. Ashleigh glanced at him and smiled – she couldn't help her smile and immediately tried to remove it from her face by shrugging, canting her head, lifting her shoulders and letting them fall in a shrug of indifference. Patrick touched the small of her back, gently and unnecessarily steadying her as she leaned out over the counter. Standing close to him again, he let his hand fall away. She didn't mind it so much now.

  They sat side by side on the couch, their plates filled and the television off. They began to eat talking with their mouths full. “This good!” Ashleigh managed with a drop of Moo-Goo Gai Pan tric
kling down her chin but then quickly caught up with a napkin. Patrick nodded enthusiastically and motioned toward the television that stared back at them. “Oh! Yes!” Ashleigh set her plate aside and reached for the controller. She carefully aimed it, pressed a button - and when nothing happened, carefully studied it with a puzzled frown as if this was the first time she’d seen it; “Got it now...” and she carefully re-aimed it and pressed. The television snapped to life and the screen filled with color and the room with sound.

  “It's a French-Canadian movie. I got it because you're Canadian. You should understand it without translation.”

  Patrick carefully swallowed. “I was raised in Rhodesia. I lived on the West Coast of Canada. I can't speak a word of French,” and then realized Ashleigh had been teasing him. It was a first. His smile widened; “I hope you can translate,” he said.

  “There are subtitles.”

  He laughed.

  The movie told the story of a woman struggling to interact with her family, primarily her sister, after spending a number of years in prison. The antagonist, Juliette, had been confined for so long she felt dehumanized and found it difficult to relate to others.

  As the credits rolled up they found Ashleigh and Patrick close together, holding hands, their bodies touching, shoulder to hip, and along the length of the legs that were stretched out off the edge of the couch. In the early moments of the movie, Patrick had reached for Ashleigh’s hand and hadn't let go since. She had to go pee and was thirsty too, but didn't want to release his hand. She was almost holding her breath as they sat together for fear she might say something, move, or do anything that would break his hold.

  “I wish I could write like that,” Patrick sighed as he reached for the controller and turned off the set. Ashleigh swiveled toward him, ready to stand. Patrick quickly kissed her. Ashleigh didn't protest but immediately turned away and began to stack the plates keeping her face averted. Patrick knew her face was bright red because her ears glowed.

  “That was good then, did you like that?” Ashleigh asked keeping her back to him.

  “I liked it very much.”

  She glanced quickly back at him. “I meant the movie!” she squirmed and stood, still not facing him, balancing the armload of plates, spoons, forks and knives, and the half-empty Chinese food containers. Patrick followed her to the kitchen carrying what she had not managed to. He stepped to the sink to rinse the plates. She immediately stepped to his side and tried to push him aside.

  “I'll do that! I'll do that!”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Go stand over there. Have another beer. I bought six!”

  “Why'd you pick that movie, by the way?”

  “I thought you'd like it.”

  “...Juliette reminded me of you.”

  Ashleigh was back at the sink. The water was running.

  “How's that?”

  “She'd been isolated for so long.”

  Ashleigh slipped the last plate into the dishwasher, closed the door, and programmed it for a quick rinse. The machine started up. She turned to him, leaning back against the counter. “I talk to, and interrelate with, dozens of people each day; hundreds even over the course of a week. So don't tell me I'm isolated!”

  “It's a mystery, isn't it: seemingly contradictory?”

  Ashleigh shook her head. “No...” She knew what he meant. Patrick was very perceptive. It frightened and also exhilarated her to think he knew her better than anyone else knew her; only her mother had known her as well. Gone now, though - and that's another thing she shared with Patrick: both their parents, mother and father, had passed; they were each orphans. It left her with only a brother who lived far way and he with a sister who lived just as far.

  Patrick reached for her hands. He lifted them from her side where they hung as if forgotten. She let him hold them. They would feel warm from the dishwater. This was not an advance; he was not going to kiss her, she decided.

  “Do you think your mother would have liked me?” he asked.

  Ashleigh felt her heart cinch and throat constrict; but he was holding her hands and she couldn't turn away.

  “...I know she would.”

  It was true. Ashleigh was certain her mother would have approved. In fact, if her mother could have complained about anything at all, she would have complained about her daughter. “A little tenderness goes a long way, dear. You're never going to get a man with that attitude of yours,” is what she’d say. “But I don't need a man!” would be her reply. Her mother would drop her head then look up, resigned, after hearing her daughter say the same thing over and over. “You’re right – you don’t need anybody,” she’d sigh.

  Patrick continued to study her. Her eyes shifted about the kitchen and then settled back on him. He smiled as their eyes met. “It's good to have you here,” he said.

  She couldn't help it; she broke his grip and turned her back to him. “It's good to have you here, too,” she said; but then could not help herself, turning back and challenging him, “But where would I be if I wasn't here? I live here!”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Ashleigh turned away from him again, her arms across her chest. She would not look at him.

  “You have to go now. The movie's over,” she said.

  “Kicking me out already?”

  “Yep.”

  Patrick nodded, “Okay, I'm going... I'm going...,” he sighed.

  She pushed him along and followed close behind.

  “But will I see you tomorrow?” he asked over his shoulder as she pushed.

  She thought about it and knew she probably shouldn't, once a week was enough.

  “I don't know… I have to go to the gym.”

  He suddenly stopped and turned back, blocking her forward motion. She nearly collided with him. She found herself wanting to take a step back, but refused to give ground and so stood close to him toe to toe. “Okay...” she agreed finally, nodding her answer - and then he kissed her, in the kitchen, under the dome light, with the dishwasher running, and the leftover Chinese food still on the counter. She let him kiss her – and then pushed him back.

  She hoped he could not see that her eyes were welling, threatening to spoil her makeup. She knew she was as red as she'd ever been – no avoiding that. Her nose was running. She spun away and found a tissue and, without a great deal of elegance she thought afterward, blew her nose, followed by quickly but discretely dabbing at her eyes. “Now you really have to go!” she said and glanced at him over the tissue she kept to her nose.

  Patrick's smile reached from one side of his face to the other.

  “Don't smile like that!”

  “Sorry!”

  Ashleigh again blew her nose – and could not help herself and laughed too – but silently. What came out was muffled by the tissue she continued to hold up to her nose.

  “Go, please!”

  I'll pick you up at ten?” he asked, persistent. “McKeldin area? Hike?”

  “Okay... I'll bring the leftovers,” she offered, turned, and again pushed him toward the door, leaving him with no doubt that this time it was time to go.

  He trundled with her down the hallway, opened the inside door, stepped past it, but then stopped and turned back, she colliding with him. She waited for him to go while moving back but staying close, her eyes cast downward, her face careening to red, while wondering if another kiss was coming but not certain she was ready for another. Patrick – again unpredictable – only brushed his face against hers, his cheek to hers.

  “See you tomorrow,” he said and kissed her again quickly as she looked up.

  He smiled as he stepped back and opened the screen door letting the cool and fragrant summer evening drift in. “See ya...” he called back, stepping beneath the light cast from her porch light, and then one more step into the darker night.

  “Bye...”

  She closed the door. She didn't watch him drive off. She locked the door, and feeling warm and lonely di
dn't bother to clean up the rest of the kitchen but went straight to bed. She couldn’t wait. She needed the comfort of her bed and the promise of sleep. She knew it would protect her from the haunting sense of loneliness that had unexpectedly settled upon her. It was a feeling she was not familiar with, and yet another she could not understand the source of.

  That night, Patrick wrote Ashleigh another poem. He called her at two in the morning. She had slept for a while, but then had awakened, and when the phone rang she was wide awake.

  “What do you want?”

  “I wrote you a poem. I want to read it to you.”

  “For God’s sake, it’s two o’clock in the morning! Can’t it wait?”

  “No, no, it can’t!”

  She could hear him unfold a piece of paper and place it in front of him.

  “Okay, are you ready?”

  “I don't want to hear it. I want to go back to sleep!”

  “It's short.”

  He read it. The words his voice sang sounded strange and beautiful. Sinking lower into the comfort of her bed, tears filling her eyes, not understanding the source, filled with the mystery of it while hoping his voice would never end, she listened.