The Apple of My Eye Read online

  The Apple of My Eye

  Mary Ellen Bramwell

  Copyright Mary Ellen Bramwell 2016

  Published by Black Rose Writing

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  © 2016 by Mary Ellen Bramwell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

  Second digital version

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61296-405-8

  PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  Print edition produced in the United States of America

  To Janyce Maxfield Harrison,

  my earliest and most ardent cheerleader

  Coming FALL 2016

  Mary Ellen Bramwell’s next novel, When I Was Seven

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The journey that produced this book would have been incomplete without the help of a number of people. First, I need to thank my daughter, Amy Barnes. Her early reading of this manuscript, and brutal editing of it, made it a much better book. She had a way of getting to the heart of what worked and what didn’t. Without her input, literally this book would not exist. Also, I want to thank my parents, Kent and Janyce Harrison, for their numerous readings of the book in its various forms. Their edits and suggestions were very helpful.

  Many other people contributed in various ways: My great-grandmother, Martha Fereday Harrison, who was always sweet and kind despite a hard life, Phyllis Bestor, Rachel Horn, Robin Horn, Paula Kriz (my early sounding board), Kristen Gough, and the Black Rose Writing team. Special mention needs to be made of the Solon Branch of the Cuyahoga County Public Library. Within its walls, the early pages of this book were written.

  Lastly, I want to thank my family, especially my husband, Allen. He took over the running of the household to free up my time so I could write. He believed in me before I believed in myself.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Coming Fall 2016

  Acknowledgements

  PART 1 – DARKNESS GATHERS – BEGINNINGS

  PAUL

  THE CLOCK TOWER

  AN ECHO IN MY EAR

  OF LIONS AND ELEPHANTS

  A SECOND CHANCE

  APPLE PIE

  MY GROWING LIST OF WORDS

  DADDY’S LITTLE GIRL

  AMY

  REBIRTH

  WHO WANTS TO BE A HERO’S WIFE?

  A HOME WITH A VIEW

  ANOTHER HOME WITH A VIEW

  NOAH

  OF ESCALATORS AND PLAYGROUNDS

  PART 2 – WALKING IN THE DARK – LEAVE

  CALLING OUT FOR MOM

  STARTING AT SQUARE ONE

  PHONE CALLS

  DAY TWO

  DINNER FOR TWO

  INTRUSION

  MARTHA’S CAR

  STAKEOUT REDO

  BACK UPS

  PROGRAMMING MYSTERIES

  WEEKEND PLANS

  NIGHTMARES COME TRUE

  DECISION

  MORE

  GROCERIES AND OTHER THINGS

  A POLICE VISIT

  “FAMILY” DINNER

  ONE MORE NIGHT

  TRUE CONFESSIONS

  AFTERMATH

  PART 3 – GATHERING LIGHT – AVALON

  MOMENT OF TRUTH

  MARTHA AND MARMALADE

  INTRODUCTIONS

  HEALING

  GRANDMA AND GRANDPA CASTE

  TIME FOR TRUTH

  PLANTED SEEDS

  EPILOGUE

  Black Rose Writing 20% off Coupon

  PART 1 – DARKNESS GATHERS

  BEGINNINGS

  I’m not sure which came first, the phone call or the sense of being strangled in my sleep. The choking sensation, as if all breathing on my part must cease, is still vivid in my mind. The feeling engulfs me and I am lying in bed all over again. I feel my throat constricting, intense pressure bearing down on me that I cannot escape. I push away at nothing. I flail and scream, but no sound escapes as my throat is squeezed shut, not by some actual physical hands clasped around my neck but from some nameless danger lurking just as real around me. I gasp for air, seeking somehow to gulp in one long breath that might see me through until I can breathe again. But that breath won’t come, and I feel certain that I will perish in an instant, without even a cry on my part.

  I look around, but all is immense darkness, a dank cavern that must soon swallow my soul. Thoughts race through my mind. Can’t ... breathe!! Air ... air? My thoughts, frantic and disjointed, fade to Why? ... What? as my mind starts to shut down. Stretching out my arms, I reach for ... what? I know not. My fingertips long to touch something, anything, but all is emptiness. There is no hope, no light, no life. . .

  Then a breath, a flicker, and just as suddenly as it came, the strange sensation dissipates, leaving me sucking in deep breaths, surprised to be alive. What is happening to me? I wonder in panic. Where did that come from? I continue to take in large, gasping gulps of air, almost choking on the attempt. Light is now just visible around the edges of the window where moonlight sneaks past the curtain into my bedroom. As my breathing begins to slow and the terror recedes, I puzzle over what has happened. Was I dreaming? The sensation felt so real. I look around me, and in the dim light I can discern shapes but no colors, as if they have been drained from the palette of my life. I feel, more than I see, that I am alone.

  It’s at that moment that the phone on my nightstand rings, or it could have happened earlier. I really don’t know for sure now that I look back. I remember it in this order, but why would I have a sense of dying before the phone call? That makes no sense. Even now, when so much is clear to me, I can’t reason it out. I try to switch the order in my mind, to take back even a small tidbit of control, but something in me won’t allow it. It’s as if even my own mind is fighting against me. Or maybe it was quite simply a sense of what was to come. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The phone needs to be answered.

  It rings several times before I dare to answer it. Phone calls in the middle of the night are either wrong numbers or calls that take your life in the wrong direction. How I wish this had been a wrong number.

  “Hello, this is Brea,” slurring out Bree – ah, as if I still lack the oxygen to speak.

  The voice on the other end is indistinct, or maybe I just imagine it so, refusing to understand what is happening.

  “Mrs. Cass? Mrs. Brea Cass?” finally registers in my ear. “I’m sorry; there’s been an accident. Your husband is on his way to Summerhill General Hospital. We don’t know if he’s going
to make it. You might want to get there as quickly as you can.”

  And that’s it — no explanation, no consoling words. Although I can’t, for the life of me, think of any words that would have consoled me that wouldn’t have been lies. In the end, lies would not have helped; they never do.

  I had become so strong in recent years, so comfortable with my life, but suddenly, I found my knees buckling beneath me, unsure of my very footing, unable to think clearly or even make a simple decision. All control was now an illusion as I began to gasp for actual breath, fighting the rising fear overtaking me.

  Strange thoughts flood your mind in moments of crisis. Should I just go in my pajamas? Should I put on my makeup? Should I wake the baby to take him with me or find someone to watch him? He’s teething and he’ll be so cranky, as if any of that matters now. It has been six months since this moment and no one remembers how I looked. I don’t even know whether Noah was cranky the next day or not. I honestly don’t remember Noah even being present, although he certainly was. I know he was cared for, but I don’t know if I did it or someone else did. I only remember that life had changed, and I was sure it would never be right again, that it would always appear to me as gray. I also assumed, wrongly, that I would never again in my life eat an apple.

  But I must not linger on that thought for now if my story is ever to be told, and tell it I must. For this is how I made order out of chaos, because for Noah’s sake, that’s what I knew I had to do.

  PAUL

  Paul was a senior the year I entered college. He was everything I was not: confident, charismatic, funny, and everyone’s favorite. He couldn’t enter a room without charging the electricity in the air. Everyone would turn in his direction as if drawn to him in some otherworldly way. The strong ones would engage him in conversation. Most would simply follow him with their eyes or hang on every word like obedient puppy dogs.

  I was one of the quiet puppy dogs. I had never seen anything quite like him before. I immediately recognized his appeal. His good looks were a perfect match for the character he presented. At first, he seemed arrogant. I heard many accounts of him jokingly introducing himself with, “My name’s Paul, but you can call me Apollo.” Not many people have the audacity to equate themselves with Greek and Roman gods, but Paul could get away with it. He would even add, “You know the god of truth and light.” I’m still not sure why no one took exception to it, but such was Paul and his following.

  Only one thing surprised me. With a bit of chagrin, I have to admit that I had stereotyped the handsome type to be synonymous with a barely average intelligence. Paul surprised me. He was smart, and at the time, I would only admit to myself that we were equals there.

  Growing up intelligent and female created difficulties for me. I learned at an early age that outscoring all the boys in math didn’t make them like me better and often produced the opposite result. My good friends accepted my intelligence, but the boys I was attracted to were often intimidated by me. So, I had learned to underachieve in classroom discussions and overachieve on homework and tests to make up for it. Most of my teachers caught on and tried to talk me out of such behavior, but what teenager listens to reason?

  Entering college, however, I thought I might make a fresh start and do the best I knew how on all fronts. But Paul frightened me. What if I scared him off by being his equal in this one arena? I shouldn’t have worried. Eventually he found me out and tenderly chastised me for robbing the world of my knowledge and abilities. However, that conversation didn’t happen for some time.

  It had all started when I entered my first class that freshman year of college, CS 101- Introduction to Computer Science. Wanting to appear attentive yet not too eager, I slipped into a middle seat. Hopefully its location would not draw attention to me. Of course I was fifteen minutes early, so when the professor entered five minutes later, and I was the only one present ... it became apparent that my seat choice was irrelevant.

  Professor Haynesworth immediately addressed me with, “Good morning, young lady. It’s good to see that someone is interested in my class today.” He smiled, and the lines at the corners of his eyes smiled with him. He reminded me of my grandfather. He was pleasingly plump, and he wore a somewhat wrinkled suit that, rather than detract from his appearance, projected an image of sagely wisdom. His tie, a conservative regimental stripe, hung almost straight down his front. His mother must have passed along good genes because it appeared he hadn’t lost a hair from his head, although it was pearly white with silver highlights. Unruly, yet stately, it added to his mystique.

  He pulled out lecture notes and began to write on the whiteboard in blue and green ink. I smiled to realize red, synonymous to me with blood and homework corrections, would remain capped. Finishing his introductory notes on the board, he turned to me again. “So what brings you to the Midwest? I don’t believe you’re from around here, am I correct?”

  Startled, yet pleased that he would take notice of me, I stammered, “No, I’m not. I’m from back East, but I liked this school’s computer science department, and they offered me a scholarship.” For some reason I added, “But I guess I really came because when I visited last year, this just felt like home.” I was surprised at my openness with someone I had just barely met. For that matter, we had yet to be introduced, but something about his manner said I could trust this man.

  This first impression, as first impressions go, was surprisingly accurate. Haynesworth was a man with no guile. What you saw was what you got. In the coming months and years, I would find him always to be impeccably honest, and as such, always assumed the same in others. It was refreshing to be viewed that way. I worked hard to always deserve it.

  The memories of that day, etched into my mind, centered more on the next person to enter the classroom since it was the first time I laid eyes on Paul. He walked in the door behind me and brushed past my seat, walking down the aisle to the front of the room.

  “Professor, how’s it going today?” he asked, with a ready smile.

  “Ah, Paul. Thanks for coming. I want to introduce you to the class today. I’m sure the newer students will need your assistance as the semester progresses. We have one young student, so far, but I’m sure the others will find their way here in a minute or two.”

  Paul turned to take me in and smiled in my direction. I melted. He was tall, like my father, probably six feet or so. He was trim yet fit with broad shoulders, a perfect image of someone that could and would protect me. He had wavy auburn hair and eyes that seem to draw me in. I couldn’t make out the color of his eyes from my “middle” seat, and I found myself wishing I had chosen the front row. His clothes were neat and clean, no crumpled t-shirt, but a button down shirt that seemed neither too dressy nor too casual on his muscular torso. I was surprised to find my heart beating faster, yet I felt helpless to slow it down. Nervously twisting my fingers through my long hair, I ended up with blonde strands caught in my jewelry.

  He seemed aware of the effect he had on me, and, I came to understand later, he well knew the influence he had on others. He looked at me and winked before turning back to speak with the professor.

  Trying hard to hide my smile, I looked down and started to rummage through my backpack for a pencil, a phone, any kind of distraction. As I did so, I noticed other students had started to trickle into the lecture hall. By the time class started, thirty students were spread out around me.

  Professor Haynesworth began his introduction to the class, but I struggled to focus. I couldn’t take my eyes off Paul seated near the front of the class. He stood when he was introduced as the teaching assistant for the class. As I watched, he flashed his smile at everyone, especially pausing on my female classmates. I felt foolish. I should have known that I was nothing special, just the opposite sex, just one of many objects of his attentions.

 
I should have had an easier time listening to the lecture after that, but I felt like a rudderless ship, tossed about by the conflicting emotions this momentary encounter sparked. I was confused that such intense feelings could appear so suddenly. I no longer watched Paul, but I couldn’t concentrate on the professor’s words either. Eager for the class to be over, I just wanted to escape and plant my feet on solid ground.

  When class ended, I quickly gathered my things, spilling pencils and books in my rush. Flustered, I started scooping up my belongings, trying to keep tears from forming at the corners of my eyes. Just when things seemed like they couldn’t get worse, Paul appeared at my elbow, reaching down to help gather my things.

  I looked at him not knowing what to think and certainly not wanting to be the fool again. He handed the last pencil to me and said, “May dropped papers be the worst thing that happens to you all semester long.”

  Taking away my embarrassment and making me smile at the same time was not what I had expected. It was also not what I wanted. How dare he make me smile!

  He looked me directly in the eye, and I saw how his blue eyes complimented his auburn hair, but then chastised myself for noticing. Never dropping his gaze, he stretched out his hand towards me. Opening his fingers, I could see he held a small, rosy colored apple. “Here, maybe this will help,” was all he said, as he placed it in my hand. I was too dumbfounded to even mutter a thank you before he was gone.

  . . .

  After that first classroom introduction, I was determined not to care. Clearly, he was the catch of the day, and I had no real chance. But even more, I recognized the type. I would be like a shiny, new toy that soon loses its luster.

  The apples, I suppose, won me over in the end. Throughout the semester Paul always flashed me a smile, along with all the other girls in the class, but he reserved the apples for me alone. The type and size varied, and over the course of the next few months, I tasted more varieties than I knew existed. I can’t say that I understood this quirky behavior, but I didn’t linger on it. His magnetism always melted away my desire to dislike him.