Seven
Cybil awoke, but kept her eyes closed. The layers of her bedding weighed comfortably on top of her: a top sheet, a knitted blanket, and a bedspread. Seeing as it was January, and she had to pay for the utilities, she thought it wise to add extra blankets or put on a heavy sweater instead of turning up the heat. She stretched her arms beneath the warm collection of blankets and let out a loud yawn. Her ex-husband, Brent, would scold her whenever she did this, calling her a fog horn. It was a habit she’d had since childhood and in truth, it had become part of her morning routine.
She slowly opened her eyes, adjusting to the daylight streaming through the frost-covered bedroom window. She lay there, staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling, and a smile spread across her lips. “Today’s the day!” she said to herself in a sleep-laden voice. With the smile still on her face, she succumbed once more to the warm embrace of her bed; her eyelids grew heavy and started to close. Her breathing slowed. The clock radio, which was perched on top of a tall box marked ‘Spring & Summer Clothes,’ started to blare with a DJ’s voice.
“Good Friday morning! That last song was from Ms. Doris Day, recorded in 1956. For a chance to win coffee and doughnuts for your workplace, courtesy of Alpaca Coffee, be the next person to call in and tell us which Alfred Hitchcock film that song originally premiered in. Was it...”
Cybil let out a loud groan and threw her pillow at the radio. It struck the wall, clipping the box on its way down. Both the box and radio landed on the laminate flooring with a crash. The AA batteries tumbled out of the radio and came to a rest under the bed. A loud thudding came from below her, followed by a man’s muffled voice: “Keep it down up there!”
Cybil gave an exasperated sigh, threw the blankets off of her, and sat on the edge of the bed. With a little yelp, she pulled her feet off the frozen tundra that was the floor. Cursing under her breath, she reached under the bed, pulled out a pair of blue slippers, and put them on. She placed the tall box back on its end, fished out the batteries from beneath her bed, and shoved them back into the radio.
Her feet now comfortable, Cybil walked into her bathroom and closed the door behind her. Even though she lived by herself, she always felt compelled to close the door. In the mirror, two eyes stared back at her: one blue, the other green. Her short ash-blonde hair was strewn across her heart-shaped face. Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she removed her bite guard and brushed her teeth.
Next, she took the overflowing hamper from the washroom, and dragged it over to the stackable washer and dryer. She put all the dark clothes, including her scrubs for later, into the washer, and turned it on.
In the kitchen, she reached into the fridge to grab the milk, but her hand stopped, hovering above the unopened carton. A ‘little voice’ in her head nudged her away from the milk, telling her water would be just fine.
This was the little voice she had learned to listen to. When Cybil was a child, she often had feelings about certain things and people. Sometimes it was simple, like when she visited her grandmother in the retirement home, she would always be able to pick out the winning Bingo card. This would sometimes create a minor insurrection among the other residents, and a rule was implemented that no one could win more than seven games in a single session. Eventually, she was banned from helping her Nana at Bingo altogether.
Other times, it was eerie. When she was six, she once woke up to find herself barricading the door of the family car with her body, while screaming and crying, her voice hoarse. She was still in her pajamas, and was preventing her father from going to work. He was furious with her for making such a scene in the middle of the street, as well as for making him late. Then he was made even more tardy when the bridge he usually took in the morning collapsed, killing three people, ten minutes before he arrived. That night, he came home and hugged Cybil tightly, and apologized for yelling at her.
This was the first time she’d had a ‘future dream’, a term she would later use, although she didn’t have a memory of it. The first dream she did remember was one she had of herself, much older, helping people. A man with blonde hair called her ‘nurse’. Her first grade teacher once asked the class what everyone wanted to be when they grew up. Between the typical answers of ballerina and movie star, Cybil resolutely answered, “A nurse!”
Her teacher was taken aback by Cybil’s conviction. He asked, “How do you know?”
To which she responded, “Because I just do.”
Cybil had moved back to Dalhousie two years ago this March after separating from her husband. When she’d met him in college, the little voice had told her to stay away. But he was so charming and attractive that she suppressed the voice, ignoring it for many years. During the time she and Brent dated, she put herself through school by waitressing. She would scrimp and save every penny she had and put it toward her rent, education, food, and if there was any left, her savings.
When she had first talked to Brent about wanting to become a nurse, he seemed supportive. As she continued through school, and finally completed the prerequisite courses she needed for her program, Brent became patronizing. When she finally enrolled in her nursing program, he became quarrelsome. Their argument quickly escalated into a yelling match, and he became so mad he slapped Cybil across the face. She had stared at him in stunned disbelief, covering her stinging cheek with one hand.
Brent left her apartment, returning several hours later to apologize. He told her she was ‘hysterical’ and needed to be ‘brought back to reality’. He took her out for supper that night in an attempt to show just how sorry he was, saying he would ‘turn over a new leaf’.
Cybil sighed at the recollection, walked to her bedroom, opened the closet door, and changed into her jogging clothes. She grabbed her cell phone from the kitchen counter, plugged in her headphones, and selected her workout playlist. As she opened the door to her apartment, she was greeted by a bright, albeit cold, January morning. Her cell read 10:07 am. Have to be at work by 13:00, she thought as she started to jog down her street.
She remembered when Brent suggested they move in together and pool their resources, to make rent more manageable. She was hesitant at first, but he hadn’t been aggressive in months.
After they moved in together, though, their fights turned into a monthly occurrence.
“He'll change,” Cybil had said to herself after a particularly nasty fight. This was the first time he left bruises on her body. “He's just under stress at work.” Later it became, “He’s under a lot of pressure from...” his boss, or the rent, or anything she could think of. Cybil was starting to run out of excuses, but found herself afraid of him, afraid of what could happen if she left him.
She had frequent dreams of him beating her, or him drinking. One recurring dream was of Brent in his brown Buick. He was drinking and came out of the car, staggering toward her, a bottle in one hand, a gun in the other.
Cybil thought these dreams were just her stresses manifesting themselves. For a time, Brent was helping to support them financially while Cybil went to nursing school. She continued to work as a waitress, but with her increased workload from school, she had to cut back her hours at work.
If she didn’t talk about going to school or her job, they wouldn’t argue. After a time, he proposed to her. Cybil was taken with the idea of having a big white wedding, and considered her options.
Her father, however, took her off to the side one day. “Is he hurting you?” he asked.
“W-why would you say that?” she asked, nervously brushing back a wisp of hair.
“I see the bruises, Cybil.”
“Dad, I told you. Those were from my nursing training. Things can get pretty physical in there!” she said with an awkward laugh.
“If he’s hurting you, I will kill him.”
“Oh, Dad!” she said smiling, but when she looked at him, her smile faltered. Her father, a man who wouldn’t hurt a fly, had a cold intensity in his eyes. It scared her. He was serious. She left the room crying, unable to say anything else.
A month later, Cybil’s father died due to complications from a stroke. Brent comforted her in her grief, and he was there for her as she made funeral arrangements as well as for the funeral itself. Still shaken by her father’s passing, Cybil said she would marry Brent. He suggested she take time off from school and go back to waitressing full time, to help pay the bills for the wedding. Originally, she planned to take a year off and go back the following September. But one year became five. There would always be an unexpected expense or too little money for her to finish her education. Brent got a promotion at work, but with his new position came even more stress. He found comfort at the bottom of a bottle. Odd how there always seemed to be enough money for his new habit.
After a long day of waiting tables, the other waitresses surprised Cybil with a cake to celebrate her five-year anniversary at the restaurant. Although Cybil appreciated the sentiment, they might as well have written, ‘You’ve just wasted five years of your life’ on that cake. That night, she mustered her courage and told Brent she was finishing her nursing degree. As she progressed through the remainder of her program, he insulted her more, degrading her and her future career. That little voice began to yell at her from the depths in which she had buried it, telling her to leave.
“You really think you're going to become a nurse? You’re even stupider than you look,” Brent said after one of his frequent drinking binges.
“Yes, I will be. Brent, I’m going to give you one last chance. You are going to stop drinking, or I am leaving.” He turned around, swaying for a moment, bracing himself against the wall.
“And just where the hell are you gonna go?” he asked.
“Away from here. Away from you.”
Brent mumbled something under his breath and stumbled away.
Cybil jogged around a corner; an empty field lay ahead of her. A large sign read ‘Future home of Crosley Plaza—Another quality project by Rathbone Construction, Inc.” She set herself into a full sprint, channeling her anger.
The morning after she gave Brent his ultimatum, Cybil had the dream again of him stumbling out of his car with a gun. Disturbed by it, she awoke to find him about to leave for work. She ran out into the living room to meet him.
“Brent, you have two weeks,” she said. He stopped at the door, looked over his shoulder, and then left without saying a word. Over that time, Cybil started to slowly move some of her clothes and personal items over to a girlfriend’s house. Brent must have been aware of what she was doing, with the gaps in the closet and items missing from the house, but still he would come home, night after night, and watch television and drink himself into a stupor.
On the last day of the two weeks, he didn’t deviate from his usual routine of him leaving for work without saying a word.
“Brent, you haven't even tried to stop drinking, have you?” she asked.
No answer.
“Do you even plan to stop? Do you even give a damn?” Brent stood at the door, facing away from her. “Why won’t you say anything to me? Why are you acting like such a child?” she asked, raising her voice. She wanted to pound her fists into his back, force him to turn around and talk to her. Anything to show that he was at least acknowledging what she was saying.
“If you leave me, I will find you,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. She was taken aback and her heart pounded as the door to their apartment closed with a bang. She turned, gathered the rest of her things, and left.
Cybil stopped running, bracing her hands on her knees. Sweat beaded all over her body, and the cold air gave her chills. Her legs were starting to ache from being pushed too hard. Her cell phone now read 10:58 am. She started walking back to her rental.
Cybil had finished her schooling via correspondence in her hometown of Dalhousie. Eventually, she found a full-time, albeit temporary, job at the new Dalhousie General Hospital, otherwise known as DGH. The nurse who originally had the position was on a six-week maternity leave, but lucky for Cybil, she decided to stay at home and raise her newborn instead. Cybil worked in the Emergency Department opposite a second nurse and two nurses’ aides. It was a small hospital that usually took in about forty emergency room patients in any given shift. Mostly they were seniors with heart conditions, infections, or everyday illnesses. Lately, with all the new construction in town, they had been seeing construction workers almost daily.
Although she had the hours at the hospital, Cybil took on a second job of community nursing work. It was an on-call position that gave her an extra eight to twelve hours per week. She would go to various homes in the area and provide private nursing care ranging from administering medication to tending to wounds.
For the past two years in Dalhousie, she had saved as much of her paychecks as she could. It was her dream to buy her own home.
Back in the rental, Cybil slipped out of her clothes and into a hot shower. The water cascaded down her body, soothing her aching thigh and calf muscles. After her shower, she wrapped her hair in a towel and dressed in a warm housecoat. She took the clothes out of the washer and tossed them into the dryer.
Cybil thought about all the houses she had looked at. Because of the recent local boom, new houses were being built all over town, but they were designed for the more affluent buyer. This caused the prices of the existing homes to increase as well, and it had become a sellers’ market.
Three days ago, she had gotten a frantic call from her real estate agent, Carl. A house was just about to go onto the market and he had the inside track. It was a great price, but needed a lot of work. With her coworkers’ blessings, she slipped out of work on her lunch break and met with Carl at the house.
A stout man in a black suede jacket and black dress pants greeted her. His wide grin was visible from the street as she pulled up.
“Wait until you see this!” he said. She looked at the red-bricked detached house. There was a large front window with a crack running up the right hand side. Instead of curtains, someone thought a confederate flag would make for a bold decorative statement. The blue shutter on the left-hand side had come loose and was hanging precariously from a rusted hinge. The other shutter, this one green, seemed to be affixed firmly to the house. A gravel driveway crunched beneath their feet, while the gardens lay barren of any plants or trees, save for an empty beer bottle. Curb appeal? Why would anyone want that? she thought.
“Uh, Carl?” she asked, looking at him with a grimace.
“I know, I know. It’s not much to look at from the outside, but this one is a buried treasure!” he replied, striding toward the front of the house. He pressed the doorbell and waited. After several seconds, he produced a key and opened the front door.
“Mr. Straczynski?” he called out. No answer. “Alright, c’mon in!” he held the door open for her as she walked inside.
“This house was built in 1993. It has three bedrooms, two and a half baths, a wood burning fireplace, and it’s over fifteen hundred square feet. Oh, and it also has an in-law suite in the basement.”
“I see,” she replied, looking about the room. It was obvious that the house had been neglected for some time; paint was peeling off the walls, the hardwood floors were in desperate need of refinishing, and the kitchen looked as if it hadn’t been updated since it was built.
“Yep, the upstairs needs a little TLC,” Carl said, his smile diminishing only slightly, “but let me show you the downstairs!”
They walked down a narrow, creaking staircase to a six-panel pine door. She turned the handle to a pitch-black room.
“The light switch is just on the inside,” Carl said from behind her. Cybil flipped the switch and immediately covered her mouth.
“Oh my,” she said.
The open-concept in-law suite had both a kitchen and living room. The kitchen had white oak cabinets, and a white subway tile backsplash with a contrasting stone-grey countertop. She ran her hand along its coolness.
“Granite?” she asked. Carl nodded.
Stainless steel appliances stood gleaming under the recessed pot lights. Crown molding framed the ceiling, while the walls were clad in a light beige with a caramel-colored accent wall. Cybil glanced down at paint sample pallets that were on the counter with ‘Silken Pine’ and ‘Kiss Me Caramel’ highlighted.
Blonde-colored bamboo flooring filled the room. There were two doors, one of which was open, revealing the adjoining bedroom. Inside, Cybil found a queen-sized bed as well as modern bedside tables and lamps. A door behind her led to an ensuite washroom with a full bath. It had conservative white tile walls and dark, long, narrow floor tiles, which made it seem larger than it really was.
The downstairs would look perfect in a New York City apartment, not Dalhousie, Indiana. “Why is there such a difference?” she asked Carl.
“The owner was in the process of renovating the house with the intention of flipping it. Obviously he finished the downstairs, but not the upstairs,” he said, shrugging.
“I’m afraid to ask the price,” Cybil said, stroking her neck and looking around the bedroom.
Smiling, he pulled out his business card and jotted a number on it. She stared.
“Are you sure this is the correct price?” she asked. Carl smiled. “That price is fantastic, but it doesn’t leave me with much left in my budget.” Cybil started to nervously run the business card along her fingertips.
“I know, but think of it this way. It’s a rental property. You could start renting the downstairs immediately and subsidize a good chunk of your mortgage. There is a catch, though.” Carl turned serious.
Sighing, Cybil replied, “There’s always a catch.”
“The homeowner is very motivated to sell, which is why the price is so low.”
“Why is he so motivated?”
“He has had some health issues lately and has fallen behind on his mortgage payments. If he doesn’t sell it soon, the bank has volunteered to do it for him.”
“I see. When do I have to decide?”
“Papers have to be signed with a certified check in hand by Friday.”
“This Friday?”
Grimacing slightly, Carl replied, “Yes.”
Quickly calculating closing costs, the notice she would have to give her landlord, and the time she would spend packing, she replied, “The heck with it, let’s do this!” Carl smiled cautiously. “I’ve been looking at houses for a while now,” she continued. “I’m done with renting.”
Cybil smiled into the mirror as she thought about her new house. She clipped her watch pendent to her scrub top, walked to the kitchen, and grabbed the last twelve-grain bagel from the bag on the counter. Tossing the plastic into her recycle bin, she considered what to make for lunch, and then remembered she was going to meet Carl at Alpaca Coffee today at four to sign the papers. She would treat herself to something there for a late lunch; it had been months since she had eaten out. Smiling, she nibbled on her bagel, grabbed her purse, and left.
In the car, she turned on the radio to hear a stern newscaster saying, “A recall has been issued by the FDA for Bluebell brand pasteurized milk with suspected E. Coli contami—” Cybil changed to her favorite music station and was singing along as she pulled into the employee parking lot and parked in the second-furthest spot from the door. Finishing her bagel, she reached for her cell phone and switched it to silent. The time read 12:46 pm.
She approached the Emergency Department doors and found an older, white Ford Mustang parked in front of them, idling. Two teenagers, a young man and a woman, were having a lively discussion about something. She couldn’t quite make out their faces, although the girl had her arm wrapped around herself in a way that made Cybil uneasy.
The girl got out of the car, a backpack slung around her shoulder, and walked toward the doors. She kept her head down, her chestnut-colored hair obscuring her face, as she walked past Cybil and approached the admissions desk. The car pulled out of the drop-off area and onto the empty road in front of the hospital, and the boy pulled out a cell phone and started talking as he drove off.
Don’t talk on your phone and drive. You’re going to get yourself killed, or worse, kill someone else. Cybil shook her head.
She walked into the hospital lobby, past admissions, and into the employee lounge to punch in. At the nurses’ station, she tucked her purse into a drawer under the desk and sat in front of a stack of charts. As she was glancing through the first one, a heavyset nurse plopped down a new chart in front of her.
“We’ve got a teeny-bopper this time around!” she said jovially.
Putting her current chart down, Cybil picked up the new one and read the name: Liu-Warner, Lara.