Choices

By Constance Lechman

 Jaune, a 52-year-old widow, is haunted by memories of an abusive teacher and a violent, destructive marriage. A dedicated physician, she is determined to make a difference in politics and is courted to run in a by-election. Despite her professional success, she is worried that she's running out of time to find a loving relationship.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Meraki House Publishing
• Release date: Jul 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9781988364285

Constance Lechman

Born and raised in Winnipeg, Constance Lechman is a retired social worker and hospital social services administrator. She has master's degrees in social work and business administration. Constance has authored numerous non fiction articles and book chapters on social work practice and research. How can a strong accomplished woman be vulnerable, insecure and self defeating? The author strives to answer this contradiction by exploring the complex personality of a courageous female character who battles to overcome obstacles and find love. The results are a page turning read that will be inspiring to women of all ages. A competitive bridge player, Constance loves fashion and is a loyal CFL fan. Decisions is her debut novel. The author lives in downtown Montreal where she continues to write. You can connect with her on Facebook.

Book preview

Chapter

One

Come here, he says, laying back in the driver's seat, grinning at me. The spicy scent of his after shave lotion burns my nostrils. I can feel the heat rising in my face, and my head feels like it is going to explode from the pressure inside. My throat is tightening, closing up, and I feel like I'm going to gag. The car feels like it’s a giant vise that is slowly squeezing me in its grip. I can't breathe. I pull my new leather purse up from the floor on to my lap and tightly grip the handles with both hands.

No, I'm not kissing you, I spit out, fumbling for the door handle, pushing on it and stepping out on to the cement sidewalk.

You're chicken, he says as I jerk my body out of the car. You're a chicken! he shouts at me as I stride away.

Straightening my shoulders and holding my head high, I march up the long sidewalk that takes me to my condo building entrance. I don't hear his car starting so he must be watching me. I'm fuming inside. The uniformed doorman is a welcome sight.

Hello, he says, nodding and smiling at me as he opens the door.

Hello, Max, how are you today? I say smiling at him despite the swirling turmoil inside of me.

The spacious building entrance, with its black and white veined granite floor, feels solid and reassuring underfoot. I pass an oval glass table holding a large black urn with a lavish silk bouquet of white callow lilies and red birds of paradise. The flowers seem to stretch for the light bouncing off the glistening crystal chandelier on the ceiling. It's good to be home and safe. I take a deep breath.

The elevator carries me to the ninth floor. When I open my front door, two small bundles of vibrating white, furry energy charge towards me and bounce up and down as I bend down to kiss them.

How are my babies? I missed you. 

Tao, a male, and Lily, a female, are hairless Chinese crested dogs that I adopted from a rescue organization. Tao barks excitedly as Lily spins in a circle.

Okay, settle down. Settle down, I say putting out my hand, palm down, to quiet them.

I put my keys down on the small gold and green florentine tray on the hall table. I can see into the sleek white and black living room all the way to the wall-to-wall, floor to ceiling windows looking out on to the large terrace with its backdrop of green treetops. The afternoon sun is bright, but the eastern exposure creates a cool, shaded oasis.

I pace inside my living room and focus on taking deep breaths in and out. An unwanted memory from long ago intrudes, and I can picture the mathematics teacher standing over me, smirking. I can still feel his hand on me, touching my body. I squeeze my fists, clenching and unclenching them. I won't think about him. That jerk won't make me go back there. I don't deserve that. I won't let that happen. I'm better than that. I won't sabotage myself by thinking about him.

Picking up the phone, I sit down on one of my leather Barcelona-style chairs and put my feet up on the matching footstool. Tao and Lily jump up on to my lap and snuggle down. I misdial, and then dial again.

Hi, Pierre. How are you?

I'm okay. How did it go?

Thank goodness for Pierre. He's a little quirky sometimes, but he's a decent and kind man. He'd never try to take advantage of anyone.

Well, not too bad during coffee. He bought me an espresso. But, he didn't ask if I wanted anything else to go with it.

Hmm. Cheap. It's only polite to ask. He should have asked you.

He's actually quite nice looking and at first we had a good conversation, but after an hour I was feeling a little bored. He kept talking about himself. Then he repeated a whole story about his biggest work achievement. I couldn't believe it. It wasn't even that big of a deal, and I had to listen to it twice. Finally, I said that I had to get going and he said he'd drive me home.

That was nice. Did you go with him?

Yes. I was glad because it had started to rain a little and I didn't have an umbrella with me. But when he pulled up at my building, he drove a little ahead of the sidewalk and parked. Get this! He wanted to neck. I said no and got out and he called me a chicken. Twice! I can hear my voice rising. Tao and Lily jump down and go to their dog beds where they lay down, watching me.

What?

I know. I was really pissed off. I'm still mad.

That's disrespectful. Are you going to see him again?

No way. He's toast. The joke's on me, though. Before that happened, I was going to say yes if he asked me out again. I thought I should give him another chance. I thought maybe all the talk about himself was just nervousness. Ironic, isn't it? Anyways, he sealed his own fate. I don't want anything more to do with him.

It looks like you're going to have to kiss some more frogs before you find your prince, Pierre says, laughing.

I guess so. But, I think I'm done with blind dates. Anyways, I just wanted to tell you what happened. I'll talk to you later, I say, hanging up. Thank goodness Pierre agrees with me, otherwise I'd think that I'm going nuts. What is it? Why can't I meet anyone decent?  I know that I'm not the most beautiful woman in the world. I'm not a beautiful yellow flower like my namesake, even though I was born with platinum blonde hair. And, I was a cute kid with my braids. But over time, my hair has turned to a deep brunette. And, sure, now I'm getting older. But, I'm not exactly a dog.

I look down at my body and sigh. I'm still pretty good for 52. Thankfully, I’m tall, five feet nine inches, and slim. My hair is long and wavy. I choose my clothes carefully, picking classic styles, and I was recently approached by an agency to do some modelling. So, I can’t be that bad looking.

The phone rings, and I reach for it quickly.

What are you having for dinner? Pierre asks before I can say hello.

A tossed salad and a grilled chicken breast.

Bring it. Come for a drink and eat here.

Okay, I say and sigh.

I want the company, but evenings with Pierre always go the same way with him talking on and on about European royalty. But, I shouldn’t get annoyed with him. I’m lucky to have a tall, good looking guy as a best friend. Pierre knew my husband, Ian. They'd golfed together, and he stayed friends with me after Ian's death. He has always sympathized with me, recognizing how Ian's violent temper must have made my life miserable at times. He knows where I'm coming from. So, I can be myself with him.

Chapter

Two

Want a vodka and tonic? Pierre asks when I arrive.

Since his divorce six years ago, Pierre has been living in a two-story penthouse condo in a residential and office tower with a sleek black aluminum and smoked glass facade. The tower sits atop a concourse with luxury shops, a chic bar and restaurant, hair salons and a spa. It's a five-minute walk from my condo.

He's furnished his place in contemporary white leather furniture. We sit facing each other, sipping our drinks, while I recount my coffee date story.

When Pierre goes into the kitchen to start dinner, I wander over to look out of the floor to ceiling windows that overlook the adjacent mansions in our city's wealthiest neighbourhood. I can see the street where I lived with Ian after we were married.

We had a five-bedroom stone home built in the early1900s. Ian paid for the kitchen of my dreams. And, I took classic French cooking lessons in my eagerness to please him. My disappointment that Ian seemed completely indifferent to my effort and expertise in the kitchen was shattering at first. But, I made up my mind that I would cook for myself and our daughter, Annie, when she came along.

In those days Pierre and his wife lived three houses away. Our paths crossed often, and we quickly became friends. Pierre and Ian golfed and played squash together, and the four of us often dined out in nearby restaurants.

Six months after our marriage, I was both thrilled and scared to learn that I was pregnant. The excitement of a baby was tinged with the fear of how I would raise a child with a husband who I now realized was an alcoholic with a lot of bottled up rage. Initially, he kept his anger under control, but soon he exploded whenever he was challenged about his drinking. Incredulous at his behaviour, I vowed to myself that I wouldn't brawl with him. I wasn't interested in any kind of Liz Taylor and Richard Burton version of love and marriage.

I remember Ian's excitement at the news of my pregnancy. He was so attentive and concerned with my health that I made up my mind to stay with him. I decided that I couldn't divorce him now that we were having a family. I'd made my bed and I needed to make the best of the marriage. I didn't want to raise a child alone. And, I wanted my baby to have a father's presence.

Poor Ian. I shake my head. What a terrible end. We were both shocked and frightened the morning that Ian found an ugly, huge bruise under his arm. He'd been showering and called me to the bathroom to show me.

What the hell is this? he said to me, looking shocked.

You must have knocked your arm on something, I told him. Did you fall when you were drinking yesterday? The frightened expression on his face told me that he hadn't.

Then almost overnight his legs had bruises covering them. I had rationalized the first bruise away. But, his legs—that was different. I knew in an instant that it was serious. How could this broad-shouldered man, who was over six feet tall and so strong that he could lift and carry pieces of heavy furniture like they were plastic toys in a doll's house, be sick? But, my medical training set off warning sirens, and when the first test results came back showing a rare form of blood cancer, I'd burst into tears.

I cringe as I recall my reaction to the news. I was so selfish. I should have been more professional and more helpful to Ian. The worst part was that when I was alone with my thoughts I couldn't help but hope that now that he was sick he would surely stop drinking. Maybe the cancer is a blessing in disguise. He'll surely change now. Maybe this is just what we need, I remember thinking.

Do you want another vodka?  Pierre calls out from the kitchen.

I'm jolted from my thoughts. Tears well up in my eyes. No, I better not. If I drink more, I'll really get myself feeling down. I turn from the window and sit down on the soft sofa and grab a throw cushion and hug it to me. My mind quickly goes back to Ian.

Having my own business allowed me to take time to accompany him to treatments and to nurse him as he struggled with the side effects of chemotherapy. The treatments, as hard as they were, brought some peace and regularity to our life together. The chemo left him too weak to go out carousing with his buddies. In one way, that was a positive side effect. But once the treatments stopped and he regained some of his strength, he disappeared again with his buddies, leaving me once again sitting at home alone. Fuming, I felt trapped by his behaviour. But, I could not bring myself to leave him now that he was so ill. How can I leave a dying man? I told myself. With my finger tip, I dab at the tears trickling down my cheeks.

I picture the last weeks of his life when he was too sick to go out to drink. I spoon fed him alcohol when be pleaded with me. I argued with myself about it. But, it was the only pleasure left to him. Why not let him have it? He was dying.

When his doctor told him that he needed hospitalization, he grabbed my hand and said, I don't want to go to the hospital. I don't want to die there. I want you to look after me.

I remember being frightened and angry and I told him, I can't Ian. You need heavy care. Please understand. It's not that I don't want to do it. I can't.

You know how to look after me the best. You've always done that, he said and sobbed as I held him in my arms. The tears are running freely down my face and neck. I reach into my pocket and pull out a tissue and blow my nose and wipe my face.

I hired an around-the-clock nursing service and bought a hospital bed for him. Between the nurses, the medication and my constant attention, we made him physically comfortable.

Before he died, Annie, a lawyer married and living in Toronto with her husband, Robert, and their five-year-old son, John, came from Toronto to stay for three days. It was all Ian could talk about when he knew she was coming. He rallied and was able to sit in a wheelchair. We were a little family again.  We talked and laughed. I could see that he was struggling with the pain, but he seemed to draw on an inner strength that was super human. Annie left promising to return the next weekend.

The next few days were a blissful time. I finally had my husband to myself.  For the first time since we were married, drinking and his buddies didn't come first. It was a big price to pay. I alternated between sadness and contentment. I'd crawl into bed beside him and hold his hand and stroke his face. The nurses would often find me in the bed fully clothed and asleep beside him.

Tears blur my eyes as the memory of his last day rushes into my mind. I had awakened early, feeling a sense of dread. Ian was awake beside me. I kissed him and he smiled and murmured, I love you. I wasn't hungry, but I wanted to shower. Afterwards, I put on fresh pyjamas and crawled back into bed with him. I kissed his hands. He was lying on his back, and the nurse came in to give him his morphine.

After she left, I turned to Ian. I love you, I told him. Please don't leave me.

He looked at me and whispered, You are the only person I have ever loved. I'm sorry, so sorry.

He closed his eyes, and I kissed him on the lips. I recall feeling a sense of overwhelming