Acm, My Other Man: In Love with Two Men at the Same Time

By Sue Fone

The postcard read, Dont write no more, I may get a new address. Love U. ACM

Alfred Clay Moore planned and carried out his suicide.
He needed answers to questions before he could leave, and it was his unaware best friend he turned to.
This is a love story between a young emergency room nurse and her aide, a self-taught man from the hollers of West Virginia, fifteen years older.
The story spans twenty years of their friendship: the games they played, the talks they had and the lessons they learned from each other. This is a heartfelt, poignant tale of a most unique relationship where role of teacher and student continually shifts from one to the other.
Although often touched by death in her profession, when she lost ACM, her other man, she had no coping skills for her own grief; she was empty for months.
In an effort to stay connected and able to feel him, she pulled out years of letters and pieced them together by date. Then with her morning coffee she re-read his words and traveled backward remembering, reliving and holding on to every moment she could.
Finally she understood the urgency of his need to feel completely secure and why he needed to know the answer to, what would happen if
ACM, MY OTHER MAN pulls emotions from the heart, soul and mind. Its funny, sad, even a little bit crazy, but very real to a West Virginia Hillbilly and his nurse.
This is one womans story of dealing with goodbye and a book for anyone who has ever lost a friend.
If you liked Tuesdays with Morrie and Ghost, youll love ACM, MY OTHER MAN.

"A warm, heart-felt story of a different kind of love between two of the most unlikely people you will ever meet. You'll laugh, you'll cry, and you'll think about all the weirdo's in your life that you've met along the way.
Once you start the book it will be hard to put down."
~Andy Petro author of "Remembering The Light Through Prosetry."

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468522792

Sue Fone

Sue Fone lives with her Darling Man and two dogs in Northern California. With her nursing career behind her, she turned to writing… a passion since childhood. This is her first offering as a published author. She kept her promise to her Other Man by writing a story about him. In doing so she keeps his spirit alive. Visit the author online www.suesula.com

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© 2012 Sue Fone. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 6/26/2012

ISBN 978-1-4685-2281-5 (sc)

ISBN 978-1-4685-2280-8 (hc)

ISBN 978-1-4685-2279-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012907765

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Dedication

Foreword

Introduction

Before ACM

Alfred Clay Moore

Headed Home

Full Moon

First Words

Reality

Propositioned

Emergency Department

3-East Goodbye

We Begin

His Story

The Odd Couple

Popcorn And KFC

His Mom

Dinner In A Box

Talkin’ n Teasin’

Monica

Miss Margo

April’s Fool

Crabby Nights

The Games

Charlene

California Dreamin’

Heartfelt Goodbyes

Final Goodbye

Letters From Home

Settling In

Speed Dial # 5

Weird Disguised As Weird

Hitting Bottom

Roots

Plot #691

The Hard Goodbye

Peterstown, West Virginia

Sadness In My Heart

Publisher’s Clearing House

Happy New Year

Gifts

More Gifts

My Heavy Heart

Monterey

Facing My Fear

July 28th

Gone

Letters

Clues

Back To The Box

A Twinkle And A Wink

Just Checkin’

Failed Attempts

A Sign

Opened

No More Tears

With Much Gratitude And Love

Dedication

This piece of work is straight from my heart and dedicated to you, My Darling Man. You gave me the gift of time and believed in me so deeply that I learned to believe in myself. You encouraged my creative spirit and taught me I had a strength I didn’t know was there. Without you, I would have carried this dream around inside forever but never turned it into a promise kept. Thank you for understanding my feelings and the freedom to love him the way I do. I love you past forever. xxx

Foreword

Words from Melissa Gratiot

The endless hours I’ve spent reading, proofreading, editing, formatting, dreaming of this book and doing it all over again has been an absolute labor of love. I am honored my mom trusted such a treasure so close to her heart to me.

I have read and gone over this book so many times—I’ve lost count and many tears were shed during the process. Alfred Clay Moore ACM was a true character and I was blessed to have known him. This story is a true life lesson to realize that behind every face, there is an entire story built on uniqueness of how they became to be the person they are. Mr. Moore’s life story has taught me to never judge a person before getting to know them. As you read this book his spirit comes alive through her words.

Her writing is a mixture of emotions: humor, heartache, tears, laughter, seriousness, silliness, anger, and sadness. She is a tell it like it is author... writing about true stories from her perspective. Her senses capture the oddness of situations and she has a way of putting the experience down on paper to create a clear visual of the event.

I hope this book hits every emotion like it did for me. It was written from the heart and is a real story about a truly rare individual. You would have loved him.

Mom, I am SO proud of you and ACM is shining down from up above!

Introduction

It was August and another beautiful ocean day. The sun was warm and my mind was racing with weekend plans. My heart was light, and I was smiling with happy thoughts; my daughter Melissa was coming for a visit.

I was in deep conversation with my two backseat buddies as we pulled up the drive. The engine stopped and I opened the door—their cue to exit. I reached down and gave head scratches to my furry companions. They gratefully acknowledged with hand licks, and we headed toward the door.

It was then I looked up at the porch and saw the box. My heart did a flip in my chest then stopped and dropped with a heavy, hard thump. I’d been waiting for this box, and finally it was here. My eyes locked onto it. I stood without moving, barely breathing.

I did a visual scan. It was wrapped in a wrinkled, brown paper grocery bag. The folded, tucked-under ends were secured with X’s of masking tape. It was a small box, like a little hat box, but the power it possessed was huge and beyond anything I’d ever felt.

I heard a painful sound escape my body, and tears came from my eyes like an open flood-gate. I knew it was coming, just didn’t know when and hated the reason why. I stood frozen... unable to move... unable to think.

It looked ordinary, like so many boxes delivered in the past; however this one was different. This one wasn’t just a box; this one controlled and overwhelmed my emotions. The tears continued to pour, and I could feel my heart doing that familiar horrible, heavy, achy feeling again. After a forever minute, I wiped my tears and slowly reached down. I closed my eyes and my arms embraced it, and for a wonderful moment I could feel him.

In a state of numb awareness, I unlocked the side door and entered the house. My purse dropped on the bare laundry room floor, and the door slammed shut. I passed through the kitchen and into the living room to the small, empty table that stood against the wall. It was hard to let go. I took a deep breath, and then I placed the box carefully on the table. A perfect fit. I wasn’t surprised. Finally, I understood the reason for that table.

I stood still in a trance-like stare; then slowly my thought process returned and went backwards remembering the day I’d found that table. It had been a lazy, we-have-nothing-to-do afternoon, and my darling man and I were strolling Old Town. We wandered into one of our favorite shops, and I saw the table. It was just a table but as I walked, I kept looking back. I began having a hard time concentrating on anything else. It had a draw, a force that pulled me close.

I walked back to it. I think I like this, I said outloud but to myself. My words were like a big red flag being waved… a possible sale. The clerk moved quickly toward me already into her routine, Interesting isn’t it? It’s a local artist’s idea of a barstool.

"A barstool?" I was puzzled.

I stepped back to get a better look. It was a simple design—a bit over two feet tall with four straight legs and a top that looked like the lattice crust on a wonderful homemade apple pie but flat instead of bumpy. The finish was a nickel-looking polished and brushed metal. Nothing more, but something made me like it.

Hmmm, I don’t need a barstool. Actually, I thought it was a small accent table.

Well now that you mention it, went the pitch from the smiling saleswoman, it does look like a table, doesn’t it?

I needed another table like I needed a barstool with no bar but something inside of me wanted it, and I purchased without a second thought. We brought it home, and it was then that I took another look and wondered, What had I been thinking and what was the attraction? In truth, I could see it probably was meant to be a bar stool, simply by placing a cushion atop the lattice, which probably was in reality a seat, not a table top.

It fit nowhere and matched nothing. Whatever possessed me to buy it, I had no idea. I wasn’t even sure I still liked it, but I knew I wasn’t going to return it. I felt an unexplainable need deep within to have it. I looked at it again and thought to myself, It stays. I’m not returning it. I’ll figure it out someday. Until that someday I found an open spot where it could just be, and so it was, empty up against the wall for months. But now it stepped from the background and proudly held the box as if it had been waiting, existing for that purpose only. It was a perfect fit.

My eyes remained on the box. I wanted it opened. I wanted past the pain. I’d been rehearsing this moment since the call from his sister. Each time I used a different approach, but now it was real. None of the practice carried with it the true feel of the pain, and I found myself unprepared.

I walked away and tried to cover it all with busy thoughts, but it followed me. I knew no matter how long it took to open and pull out the memories, the pain was going to come. It had to. I knew that before I could smile and remember, I was going to ache for my loss. His name was Alfred Clay Moore. I called him ACM, and he was My Other Man.

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Before ACM

To become a nurse was first a dream, then a passionate goal and finally a reality. After what seemed like forever of balancing classes, studies and practicum, and in between full days of also being a wife and mom, finally... I was a nurse.

*****

It was my first night at the hospital; I was in awe of my surroundings. It felt wonderful… exactly like I always knew it would.

As I stood taking it all in, my mind drifted. I thought back to the nights of tucking in my girls—my four biggest reasons for why I’d make it through the classes, the studying and all the unknowns that would fall in between. They were my strength. They knew their mom was in school and going to be a nurse, and they were proud. Once I began the journey, no matter how difficult, I knew I’d see it through. There’d be no quitting; that wasn’t the lesson I wanted to teach.

I never stopped being a mom, just took on the role of being a student as well. I still took turns in the carpool that drove Julie to school, chaperoned Amy’s field trips, and continued being a room-mom for Melissa and Kris. Still, somehow I managed to find time for studying.

The blue plastic Fisher Price tape recorder belonged to Amy. She was happy to share, and it became my best friend and faithful companion. It sat on the kitchen counter repeating class lectures and I listened intently night after night while my hands were busy with dinner. I memorized body parts, diseases and drugs while I tossed salad, mashed potatoes and poured milk.

Another constant during my student years was the big red nursing textbook. Like a blankie or a binkie goes everywhere with its owner, the very large, very heavy, red book went with me. It was within reaching distance at all times during waking hours and not too far from me as I slept. I could slip in chapters of reading while waiting for orthodontic appointments, sitting on the bleachers at softball games, riding in the car on short weekend trips or soaking in the tub. Any place where there was time, the big red book was open, and I pulled words from the pages and planted them into my brain.

Alfred Clay Moore

The elevator doors opened and Al Moore stepped out onto 3-East, the medical-surgical wing of Riverside Osteopathic Hospital. It was a small community hospital located in Trenton, Michigan, just a few miles down the river from Detroit. It was 3:00 a.m. and his dinner break.

The hallways were dimly lit and quiet. The only sounds heard were that of his footsteps and his crisp uniform pants as they rustled and swished in harmony with each step. He headed toward the nurses’ station as he’d done nightly for the past 10 years saying nothing but carefully observing, looking for anything or anyone new. His pattern never changed; first dinner, next a smoke and then a stroll through the halls before returning to his post in the Emergency Department where he worked as a nurses’ aide. He rounded the corner and immediately noticed an unfamiliar face. My new nurse status was obvious from the tip of my white starched cap down to the brand new, unscuffed shoes. His footsteps were near. I looked up. Our eyes met. I smiled; he just stared. I was immediately overwhelmed with a comfortable warmth, and in that moment I wondered, Did I know him?

There was nothing striking or outstanding about him, yet there was a pull. His presence caught my attention. My eyes followed him as he continued to walk. He was neatly dressed in white uniform pants and a blue hospital scrub top. He was neither tall nor short, fat nor thin. He blended with average. The rounded top of his head was empty of hair but a thick row of short neatly cropped whiteness circled the back from ear to ear. His beard, also white, was clipped close to his face, and the short salt and pepper mustache matched his thick eyebrows. His skin was pink, but it was his expressive brown eyes that governed his entire face. He reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t think who. There was a twinkle in his eyes and a devilish expression on his face. If guessing his age were a contest, I’d say somewhere around 45. He was attractive to me, but there was something more. There was a feeling of recognition and familiarity. It left me puzzled.

He broke our stare, looked forward and walked through with an air that felt almost teasing. As he walked past the desk without a word, I became aware of a warmth I was feeling inside.

Who was that? I asked, looking up toward the nurses’ station. The midnight nurses were busy scanning patient charts and putting together their plan of care for the next eight hours. There were drugs to be administered, IV’s to be pulled and re-started and a night full of unknowns.

Oh don’t pay any attention to him, came a voice from the utility room. It was Miriam.

Earlier during the change of shift patient report, when the charge nurse had introduced me to the midnight crew it was Miriam who was first to smile and extend her hand in warm welcome. We were easily and quickly acquainted, asking questions and volunteering information and somehow we knew we’d be friends.

She was a tiny woman with a deep raspy voice, maybe early forties. She spoke at a rapid-fire pace that required concentration to follow. Her face wore only a hint of make-up, with short brown hair that gave the illusion of a pixie. Dark circles surrounded her tired looking eyes which told the story of a hard-working woman. Later in our friendship she told me her life was full of disappointment and pain. She told me stories of a husband who drank too much, was a womanizer, and unfaithful to their marriage whenever he chose. But she always beamed with pride when she spoke of her six kids. They were the core of her existence. She’d been an aide at Riverside for 15 years. She knew something about everyone who worked there and was more than happy to share. She whispered the same way she spoke… very quickly. It was that kind of hospital, that kind of town—small, with lots of secret stories that most everyone knew.

The hospital originated from an old, three-story red brick mansion built in the 1800’s. Henry Ford purchased the home and in 1944, it was turned into a hospital. It sat on a large parcel of green grass with beautiful Weeping Willows scattered about and overlooked the Detroit River. It had been added to and renovated enough times to boast a 200-bed facility.

On warm summer days, healing patients with visitors and hospital employees having lunch would sit at the river’s edge. Sailboats passed by swaying with the songs of the wind. It was a calming atmosphere for patients, visitors and workers alike. But sadly, the old red brick mansion was being swallowed up by time and change.

My mind was still on my mystery man. I watched him fade down the hall and disappear into the darkness. I heard the stairway door open, then close.

Why shouldn’t I pay attention to him? I asked.

Miriam walked toward my medication cart. She came close and lowered her voice to a hush, That’s crazy Al Moore, she rapidly whispered. He works down in the ER and walks the halls every night. He’s just an old weirdo, made his own casket.

WHAT? I blurted a bit too loud.

"You heard me. He made his own casket. Says he’ll use it for a coffee table ‘til he needs it for himself. Tell me that’s not crazy."

You’re lyin’!

Nope, I saw the blueprints with my own eyes.

Swear?

I swear. Couldn’t make that one up.

"Wow! That is weird."

That was it for me. I was hooked; my curiosity was piqued. Who was this man, and why did I feel such a strange, strong pull toward him? For a moment my mind wandered, but the sound of a patient’s buzzer at the nurses’ station brought me back. It was time to be a nurse.

Headed Home

My very first eight hours were over in a heartbeat. I was on top of the world and hurried home to tell my four ladies all I’d seen and done.

My drive from the hospital to home was close, easy and almost automatic which allowed my thoughts the ability to wander, and they did. They went back there; back down that hallway of vulnerable people I’d so carefully watched over and cared for during the night.

I thought of Mr. Andrus. He was my patient who couldn’t sleep but didn’t want medication. I sat on the edge of his bed while he talked. I heard a man who was lonely and scared. He had much to say if only someone would listen.

Mr. Burston, my angry patient, was hostile to everyone. His room was semi-private but the other bed remained unoccupied and would stay that way. As long as he was in that room, he was alone. He lied helpless in his bed while the cancer ate holes into his body. He knew everyone hated coming near him, looking at him, touching him and smelling the stench the air fresheners couldn’t hide.

The young woman at the end of the hall had cried all night. Her newborn baby had died shortly after the emergency delivery. There were no words for me to even try to console her so I sat beside her and quietly held her hand. I thought to myself how horrid it would be not to have all of my girls. A few of my own tears escaped from wherever it is that tears are kept until they’re released.

These were cases of the heart, the things that nursing school could only caution about. There were no cures, and the textbooks had no answers… no right words.

Deep in thought, not really aware of my surroundings, I drove myself home. Inside, my girls were into the groove of morning. Journey music was blaring from one bedroom and hair blow dryers from another.

It was my girls who were my cheering section and my strength when I felt like quitting. Posters and words of pride and encouragement had been taped to the wall in the corner of the bedroom—the corner where the old card table sat and served as a makeshift desk for six years. It’s where I spent hours reading, writing, studying and sometimes feeling a bit guilty when I could hear them downstairs and wondered, Should I be down there with them?

Days when I questioned what I was doing and why, I looked up at a gift from Amy, a drawing that I’d taped to the wall. It was a modified stick-figure lady in a white dress and a smiling face. She had short yellow hair under a white nurses’ cap and below the picture was written, Mom. It was all I needed. My answers and my reasons were all about that taped picture on the wall.

It was my dream but a complete family-of-six decision. My girls gave 100% cooperation, and a trip to Disneyland in California after graduation was the reward. We shared a forever-to-remember celebration.

Working the midnight shift was the solution to avoid leaving my girls home alone. Their dad was with them at night and I was home each morning before they left for school. Responsibility for getting up each morning and beginning the day belonged to each girl.

I told a few stories of my first night to my captive audience as they sat at the kitchen snack bar and crunched their cereal. I promised more hospital tales after school. I kissed them each goodbye and watched as they were on their way.

I was tired and ready for sleep. I slipped under the covers and closed my eyes. His face appeared, and he escorted me into the warm darkness of sleep. He felt so comfortable, so familiar. Who was he? I wondered.

Full Moon

11:00 p.m. I pulled my car into the almost vacant lot. No visitors, free cafeteria sandwiches and plenty of parking… all benefits of working the midnight shift. I stopped briefly and smiled at the full moon reflecting off the river, but the cool, crisp autumn air convinced me to walk swiftly toward the building. I entered through the side door, then up the elevator and still, none of it felt real.

*****

The afternoon crew of nurses dragged across the hall for patient report looking beaten, whipped, totally exhausted and, for sure, wanting to go home. The charge nurse announced one of our nurses had called in sick for midnights, and so far the supervisor had been unsuccessful in finding a replacement. It looked as if we were going to have to work a nurse short and share the extra load. The ER was using the nursing pool for help and still they were swamped. To sum the evening up… the moon was full, the patients were restless, there weren’t enough workers and not an empty bed in the house. And did anyone from the afternoon shift want to stay over and work a double? Not a chance!

There was no time that night to sit and talk with Mr. Andrus. Mr. Burston was just one of the many awake and unhappy patients. The young woman who had lost her baby had been transferred and in her place was another young woman, fresh from surgery.

Miriam had been assigned to work the middle hall with me. She was a hard worker and except for an occasional cigarette break, never stopped; no one stopped working that night. It was overwhelming and exhausting, with much that needed to be done, and not enough aides, nurses or time to do it.

*****

I blinked, and it was daybreak. The shift was over, but the crew remained. The metal patient charts clanked against the carousels as tired-and-wanna-go-home nurses forced themselves to quickly record the events of the night. We took our information from scraps of paper with all kinds of abbreviated words, numbers and symbols scrawled everywhere possible. Karen mumbled with impatience at herself. She was having trouble reading the vital signs she’d hastily recorded on the palm of her hand. The nursing notes were important; they’d help the morning doctors and nurses plan their course of treatment for the day. They’d read the notes and decide if their patients were the same, better or worse and what to do about it.

The midnight aides had been to each room. They emptied trash, gathered laundry and delivered fresh water. They also re-stocked the linen and lined the laundry carts along the hallway walls. Everything was ready for a new day.

Miriam and Esther were in the utility room. A grievance filed by a nursing assistant on 2-East had the Local 89 members buzzing. Whenever the volume of the conversations dropped to an obvious low, it was union talk going on. We could hear Miriam’s muffled voice and Esther’s hearty laugh. The two of them were funny together. Miriam’s humor was dry with a touch of sarcasm and just plain funny. Esther, well she was always ready for a laugh. Their turn was over, and the day shift was off and running.

*****

The midnight workers stepped outside and greeted the morning. A few deep breaths of the crisp, cool air felt delicious and were enough to keep us awake for our journeys home.

Miriam and I were headed in the same direction of the parking lot and soon were walking side by side.

Weird Al asked about you tonight, she told me.

"WHAT? Wha’d he want?" My eyes were locked on Miriam waiting for her response.

He cornered me in the cafeteria and was askin’ all about ya.

Like what? I listened wide-eyed with interest and amusement.

He wanted to know who the new blonde was. He always watches for new nurses. You know how men are, they’re all the same… always checkin’ it out.

I felt a mischievous smile take over my face and catch Miriam’s attention.

Hey, what’s goin’ on? she asked.

I looked at her and hesitated for only a moment before I spoke, If he asks about me again, tell him I’m a hooker and that’s all you know. Okay?

Okay crazy lady, and she laughed.

We wished each other a good sleep and waved goodbye.

I smiled all the way home and wondered, Who was this character that captivated my attention?

First Words

The first month passed quickly. The hospital and routine felt comfortable, like second nature. The midnight workers were a small, friendly group and before long all of the faces had names. It’s where I’d always wanted to be, and it felt like a perfect fit.

I didn’t see him every night. Sometimes the elevator didn’t stop on 3-East at 3:00 a.m. and sometimes I was just too busy to notice. But more often than not, the doors would open, and I’d watch as he stepped out into the hallway and began his routine.

We hadn’t spoken yet, but if I happened to catch his eye, he nodded his head in a non-verbal hello which always made me smile. I nodded back and now and then threw in a little wink for him to wonder about.

My attraction to him was curious. I had nothing to compare it to. It wasn’t on a level of anything I’d ever experienced. I didn’t understand it, but I knew I’d pursue until the strange man and I were friends. I had a need to know him, although in a way I couldn’t explain, I felt like I already did. It was more like a reconnection. I was devoted and in love with my husband and family. It wasn’t that kind of thing. He wasn’t an intrusion in my life. It felt more like he belonged, a good addition. It was comfortable. He didn’t make my heart pound. He made my soul smile, but what I didn’t know was WHY?

It was an unusually quiet night. The medication carts had rolled swiftly down the halls shortly after the shift began. Nighttime medications had been administered and back rubs given. Patients had snacked on graham crackers and