Peppered

By Scott Kimmins

At 82 Years old, Lester just wants his wife back from a coma, when another senior resident of the lavish old age home appears and exerts a strange gravitational pull on Lester. His intoxicating blue eyes, his melodic voice, and his miraculous freckles draw Lester down a path of discovery and enlightenment. In the end, they will help each other, but the path isn't always easy for those that get involved with the mysteriously freckled Dawson Hughes.
Only through discovering the other people that this enigmatic man, Dawson, nicknamed Pepper, has helped does the reader realize this tale is more about the triumph of love, acceptance, and overcoming our own little battles in life. Mix in a little bit of miracle and you have Peppered.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: May 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9780228852360

Scott Kimmins

As a kid, I fell in love with books, the escape, the loss, the triumphs, the sadness and joy of finishing one and picking up the next. While life took me in vastly different directions for schooling and work, I never lost my love for reading and wanting to create stories. Finally, as a father of two girls and never enough time in the day, I decided to take the plunge and write. My creative passion couldn't be held back any longer. I'm easily entertained with stories and I hope to spread that optimism back into the world.

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by Scott Kimmins

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-5237-7 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-5235-3 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-5236-0 (eBook)

Contents

Chapter 1 - Lester – Present Day

Chapter 2 - Dawson Hughes

Chapter 3 - Measles?

Chapter 4 - Lester - Present Day

Chapter 5 - Avery

Chapter 6 - Avery and Dawson

Chapter 7 - Pepper

Chapter 8 - Lester

Chapter 9 - Dawson - Itchy Spots and Friends

Chapter 10 - Cold Lightning

Chapter 11 - Lester meets the priest

Chapter 12 - The Priest

Chapter 13 - Truths

Chapter 14 - Father Walsh

Chapter 15 - Loss

Chapter 16 - Allen’s Gift

Chapter 17 - A Hard Truth

Chapter 18 - A Friend for Life

Chapter 19 - Allen Walsh

Chapter 20 - Lester

Chapter 21 - Avery

Chapter 22 - Pepper’s Return

Chapter 23 - Lester

Chapter 24 - The Chinese Man

Chapter 25 - Maggie

Chapter 26 - Broken bones

Chapter 27 - A Ride in the Red Ford

Chapter 28 - A Summer Drive

Chapter 29 - An Ailing Father

Chapter 30 - Dr. Wu’s Revelation

Chapter 31 - Time to Think

Chapter 32 - Wrestling with Information

Chapter 33 - An Understanding

Chapter 34 - Lester

Chapter 35 - Who Are They?

Chapter 36 - Ellen

Chapter 37 - Awakenings

Epilogue

Chapter 1

Lester – Present Day

He lied to me. Why does everyone believe him? Hmmph. Probably because of his voice.

Lester sat across from the old man with the strange melodic voice and electrifying blue eyes surveying him as he talked. Unhappy with his own outcome of events, he squeezed his coffee cup hard, remembering the man’s sudden appearance in the nursing home a little more than a month ago.

It was just after breakfast when they brought the man into the atrium of the old age home. At the time, Lester was sitting in the dining room’s morning sun at his favorite table, picking at a stale bran muffin and contemplating why bran muffins had become a staple in the diet of old people. This is what kills us. What he wouldn’t give for a bowl of frosted flakes. This was Lester’s morning comfort food for forty years. His wife used to place a full bowl out for him, ready to eat when he got out of the shower. These nursing homes know nothing about pleasure, only rules. His hands were thick from his forty-plus years of mechanical work, dwarfing the muffin in them amongst his arthritic knuckles. A sharp kink at the end of his right index finger, which could never straighten from holding and torquing wrenches, was a constant reminder of his satisfying career. His wife used to love how it naturally hooked around her hand when she held his.

Sun streamed in from large east-facing windows catching the dust motes that floated, turning into a gentle interior snowfall. The hall he sat in divided into an atrium and a dining room. The dining room had solid wooden tables placed evenly throughout the room, and Lester’s favorite table could see both into the atrium and outside to the back gardens. The ceiling rose two full stories above and allowed for sound to echo amongst its great big timber beams creating the illusion that the hall was a little busier than it was.

The old age home began as a hotel in the 1950s but failed to attract enough guests, being too far away from bustling downtown. So, it was turned into a highly sought-after nursing home called The Residence. The first floor housed seniors that needed constant care, where the rooms resembled more of a hospital ward. The paint and floors were stained with the dying’s last breath, exalting their words on their loved ones, who held their hands in the final minutes. It was common knowledge amongst the residents that once you were moved into this ward, you didn’t have much time left.

The second floor had rooms more decorated like tiny apartments but with no kitchen. Residents in these units could do most daily functions except typically cooking and bathing. Many of them sheltered themselves in the rooms, most of the time, coming out only to eat or go for a brisk walk.

Then there was the third floor. The red and yellow colours of the hallways breathed more life as you walked into the space. Most rooms on this floor were full-out apartments. The seniors in this hallway were capable of living on their own. Coming and going as they wanted, more resembling a retirement community than the depths below. This is where Lester and his wife lived. They had an apartment on the west wing tucked around the corner at the back. Out their window, they had views of the interior garden.

The fourth floor held the magic, and consequently, the money. When you stepped out of the Fourth Floor elevator, you were met by a red carpet bordered in gold. Thick and lush, it rolled away from you, pulling you along its vividness. The art hanging on the wall was under security, donated by the wealthy residents passing through. The hallways enchanted you with the reflective lighting and the porous ceiling giving way to a skylight every twenty feet. As expected, some of the rooms adorning these hallways were large, opulent, and ostentatious—Persian rugs under the beds and freshly hung flowers in every corner. The wealthy came to live and die on this floor, even having access to it via a separate entrance and elevator hidden from the rest of the building.

At eighty-two, Lester could do almost everything on his own. Both he and his wife had made plans to come here when they got tired of their house and all the upkeep. They waited four years to get in.

Ellen was the only woman he had ever loved. They’d been together for fifty-six years until she slipped into a coma nearly a year ago. They had met when she brought her car into his shop to be fixed, and chemistry developed between them instantly. She was a teacher at a local elementary school. She had eyes as soft and warm as a newborn deer, and Lester swore she purred when she spoke. When she moved, it was with grace and precision. Her mind also worked like this, and this was what Lester liked most. There was no guessing what she was thinking. She just told him.

Lester’s father was also a mechanic and had gone off to WWII but was killed. Lester had only just been born, so he never got to know the man. His mother raised him well and to be very respectful to women. He was a natural charmer and charismatic when he wanted to be, two traits he shared with his father. Ellen and Lester were married after six months.

She rested comfortably in a bed in their room, where he would stay with her all day. He had a bed right beside her and often held her hand through the night, sometimes even crawling onto her bed to hold her. When he could, he would roll her bed out to the living room to watch TV with her because it was important to have a change of scenery now and then—at least that’s what Lester thought. Her coma was caused by a small aneurysm and was expected to pass. Each passing month after the first led Lester into a greater sadness. He simply accepted the fact that at this point, he was never going to be happy again without her by his side.

But it all changed when the man with the blue eyes came into The Residence.

Lester hoped the door chime announced one of the senior’s kids bringing them a McDonald’s breakfast. This always pissed Lester off as he didn’t have any family to bring him a happy meal—that and he was jealous. He loved those damn egg McMuffins.

Instead of McDonald’s, though, a man with perfectly white hair combed neatly and sitting uncomfortably was wheeled in by two younger people. Another old man being admitted. Probably taking the bed of Ralph, who passed away three days ago. Wonder how long he waited to get in here.

As Lester adjusted his glasses, looking over the top of his bifocals, he noticed the wheelchair halted a good ten feet from the admittance desk, and the gentlemen came to his feet with relative ease.

He waited for one of the younger people accompanying him to pass him a cane. To his surprise, the man stepped forward, light and spritely, towards the receptionist. His movements had an air of…what was it? Lester recognized it only too sourly—happiness. He looked closer now and could see the man was smiling as though he had just stepped onto a cruise ship.

The receptionist rose tall and straight from her chair and gave him a wide smile. Who is this guy that made the cranky old receptionist at the front desk smile?

Lester got up from the breakfast table in the dining room and stretched to his full height. His shoulders were still square and strong from years of mechanical work, but his creaking arthritic knees were fighting against him. He shuffled a little closer to the admittance desk to get a better look at the man.

He rubbed his nose, which was slightly too large for his face but not so much it drew attention to it. Underneath the bifocals, Lester’s eyes were pouchy but kind.

He was twenty feet away when a bass tone smooth as a jazz tune rumbled into his ear. He leaned against a giant timber support beam and looked up to the ceiling. The sound became louder as he concentrated on it, and its timbre was deep and resonant yet coloured with high and low notes. It was musical but there were words mixed into those harmonics. With his eyes closed, and ears straining, his mind floated back to a night when he and Ellen found some precious time to go dancing at a jazz club. Oh, how they both loved music and dancing. The night was magical from the moment they walked into the club and took their first step in time to the beat. The intensity of the memory came back fast. Lester puts his hand out in front of him. He could feel his wife’s hips moving to the music while his hand rested on the small of her back. The blue satin dress his wife was wearing slid easily under his touch when he twirled her, and it felt cool to his touch. Her eyes, looking up, flirted with his as they danced. The smoke and booze smell of the club filled his nostrils along with the sweet-scented vanilla perfume of his wife. Lester wiggled his fragile hips to the timing of the music he heard.

Suddenly, he realized he was staring at the ceiling, reaching out in front of him, circling his hips, and looking as though dementia had just gripped his hippocampus and jetted him into another world. Lester looked down again and back to the man now walking towards him from the front desk.

Good morning. The musical voice hit Lester deep within his ears, passing the nerve impulse along to his auditory senses within his brain.

The disarming smile of the stranger and the brilliant light emanating from his blue eyes left Lester speechless. As he followed the stranger’s passing strides, he was eye to eye with him. His skin was like a white peach, and he couldn’t be more than mid-sixties in age. He wore a white knitted sweater, matching the colour of his hair, light khaki shorts, and brown leather sandals. Lester could do nothing more than nod politely and lean back against the timber behind him for balance. The musical notes struck his ears repeatedly as the man greeted every person he crossed paths with. He walked with a slight bounce. Before he disappeared around the corner, and shuffling footsteps and broken conversations became the norm again, he felt something slide across his face. It was there before he could stop it or question its purpose. The smile spread wide and quick as though it was afraid for its life and needed to bloom before the snow-falling dust bunnies could freeze it off.

That was the day he met Dawson Hughes.

Chapter 2

Dawson Hughes

Greg Hughes raced out of the house, electing to jump down the four front stairs leading from the porch. His heart was swelling with certainty that this was the moment. The adrenaline coursing through his veins gave powerful contractions to his muscles but left his mind in a feeble state. The misguided jump off the porch careened him forward. He hit the soft dusty earth with a thud, one leg almost extended straight towards the sky, the other foot outstretched underneath him to stop him from landing on his head. His left arm was braced above his forehead, softening the impact.

The clean white shirt he had put on before running out the door gave way to a few small tears and brown smudges from tiny rocks strewn in the dirt. Without pausing, Greg jumped to his feet and continued down the driveway, dust coming off his back in puffs like a steam locomotive barreling down a rail track. He abruptly turned right at the intersection with the main road. He had one goal in mind—get to the doctor’s house. It was already warm, with flushes of apricot already giving way to a blue sky. It was 6:17 a.m.

Within twenty minutes, Greg was back in his own house, panting and sweating, hearing the words, Greg, my water just broke, still playing in his mind.

Okay, honey. The doctor is going to be here right soon. Greg pulled a chair up next to the bed where his wife Sheila sat upright with a few plump pillows propped up behind her.

Jeez, Greg, what happened to you? You are filthy.

Don’t worry about that. Just concentrate on your breathing.

Greg, my water just broke. It’s going to be a while. The contractions aren’t that close together yet. Sheila was casually leaning back. Looking at her husband’s filthy torn shirt, she began to laugh. It was one of the reasons she loved him. He could be as calm as the ocean’s mirrored surface in the morning, but he could also be like tossing waves during an ocean storm.

Honey, stop squeezing my hand so tight, and please go change your shirt. She looked him up and down. I don’t want our son to see his dad for the first time and think he lives in a dirt cave.

Greg looked himself over and smiled. She was right, of course. A steel pillar of calm guiding him through a time when she should be the stressed one. Yes. Of course. Okay.

He looked into those blue eyes of his wife. At times, he swore they were made with a blue so pure that nature would be envious. At twenty-six, she had the soft lines at the corners of her eyes when she smiled. She was considered old to be having a baby in this day and age, but it didn’t make her smile any less. Her petite frame, hidden under the blankets, contrasted with her huge persona. She was the Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny of town, bringing smiles to everyone instead of presents or chocolate. She loved to rest her forehead on Greg’s cheek when they hugged. Her subtle curves resembled that of a lean athlete. Her hair was the colour of golden sand cascading in natural curls and resting softly on her breasts.

Greg stood, caressing her hand softly, and leaned in to kiss her. Sheila leaned her head forward, meeting him a third of the way. When he turned around, his shirt exposed the tears and true expression of his fall. Sheila burst into laughter and then doubled over as a mild contraction hit.

They had met at university. Greg was two years older and a sophomore. He came from relative obscurity in his little town of Kelowna on the shores of Okanagan Lake. His family owned a small section of land large enough to become an orchard for apples, pears, and cherries. Summers were filled with picking fruit and selling at local markets and then turning all that was left into marmalade and jam. They made connections to wholesalers but were never wealthy.

Greg’s best friend growing up was a boy named Neil. He came from an established family with large tracts of land and long-established business connections to wholesalers. They produced most of the crops sold and owned three stores throughout the region. Neil wanted nothing to do with the orchard business, but as the only son in a family of two daughters, it was his duty to take it over. Neil’s passion was the outdoors. He seldom stayed indoors, and at best, he regarded fruit farming with disdain. However, he listened to his father, and when old enough, he and Greg worked at the stores.

Conveniently, the best producing store was the farthest away. Neil set it up so that he and Greg would work together there and learn the craft. His father readily agreed, thinking his son was eager to follow in his footsteps, but Neil had something else in mind and would skip out of work and leave Greg to run the store alone. Greg didn’t mind, and he took an affinity to the store’s daily operations, soon learning to handle some of the larger business transactions for Neil’s father.

It wasn’t long before the truth of who was running his stores floated back to Neil’s father.

In a final attempt to sway his son, Neil’s father sent Greg to the closest university down in the US—the University of Oregon in Eugene. He hoped the outward display of favouritism might meet with his son’s disapproval and convince him to go with Greg. Unfortunately, Neil was the first one to congratulate Greg on his academic scholarship and wished him all the best.

Neil would later take his own business acumen, outdoor exploits, and experiences to various contacts who manufactured outdoor apparel. Soon, he had a company of his own, and he patched up the relationship with his dad.

Greg met Sheila in his second year in business. She was a beautiful flower blowing in the breeze on a gusty day wearing a yellow sundress. He couldn’t take his eyes off her as they both leaned into the wind walking from one class to the next. Just as they passed each other, a severe gust of wind blew her off balance and into him. Before he could think twice, he dropped his books, the wind ripped the pages open, and loose-leaf pages spiraled upwards. But Sheila rested in his arms. Her golden hair was straighter at the time and blew against his chest, tickling the underneath of his chin. He was instantly smitten, but it wasn’t until she looked up into his eyes that he first noticed their intoxicating blue. Shelia let a short burst of laugher escape, quickly covering her mouth after. Greg found her actions endearing and genuine. The purity of her danced around his head, along with all the papers floating mid-air, lost from his books, turning into a production the Nutcracker would have trouble keeping up with.

She dashed for the closest paper hovering above the ground and placed it in his hand. When his feet hit the earth again, he pulled his gaze into the direction of the taunting wind and began chasing after the more and more pages now playing tag with each other. They smiled and laughed, both missing their next class as they chased his papers.

Greg succeeded in finishing his business degree with honours. His business thesis set out strategic options for shipping interior British Columbia goods to the coast. His secret weapon was Neil’s trekking exploits and all the relationships his friend had built along the way. Joining forces with Neil’s father, he began building a grocery empire based in Vancouver. Sheila graduated two years later with a teaching degree, and they were married that summer.

They worked in Vancouver for a year before deciding they would head back into the interior and start a family near Greg’s hometown town of Kelowna. And now, two years later, they were about to have their first child.

The doctor came five minutes later with his wife in tow. Her arms were full of towels and sheets. Greg sat in a fresh white shirt, talking quietly to his wife, trying to stay as calm as she was. The slight red flush creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks was the only sign that he was nervous.

Morning, said John. The doctor’s voice was a welcome relief for Greg, no longer having to deal with the situation by himself. So, we are delivering a baby today, are we? His smile was genuine and comforting to the future parents.

I’ll do my best, but God knows this boy already has a mind of his own. Sheila rubbed her stomach. Her gaze was in Greg’s direction and not the doctor’s.

Twenty-eight hours later, the last scream came from Sheila’s sweat-beaded forehead. Her blonde locks were plastered to her pale cheeks. She slumped back onto the pillows as the baby finally emerged. The doctor’s wife wiped her forehead with a cold cloth and then helped clean the newborn. Greg jumped off his chair, dancing on the spot to see his new family member. It was never in question that it would be a boy. Sheila knew this indisputably. The window off to the right side of the bed was open. A welcome breeze caressed the curtains and Sheila’s warm body. It breathed new life into the room with the late summer scents it brought in.

The doctor pulled the baby away and lifted him for the first glimpse. His skin wasn’t as pink as Greg thought it would be, and he was covered in something wet and almost fuzzy looking. The doctor’s wife laid out a clean towel to lay him on. Sheila lifted her head with a tight jaw and thinly pressed lips, staring at the baby. Greg picked up on her emotion.

What’s wrong? His head was swiveling back and forth from his wife to his son.

Why isn’t he crying yet? Sheila’s voice was hoarse from the strain of the last twenty-eight hours. Her hand reached out for Greg’s.

Just give him a second, Sheila, the doctor recommended. He quickly toweled off the baby, pulled the umbilical cord, and cut it, creating the swollen new belly button. He hoped this might spark a cry.

All outward appearances of the baby looked good. He was moving ever so slightly when he first came out, but the movements slowed with each passing moment. The doctor put him on the bed, pressing his stethoscope against the tiny white chest. Everyone remained silent as the doctor listened to the heartbeat and checked the airways.

It’s slow, he said. The hot, humid air clung to his words as if to slow them down further and underscore the tone that always comes with bad news.

What does that mean? Greg gripped Sheila tighter,

He’s not going to make it, Sheila whispered, a tear falling down her cheek.

Greg looked over and tried to swallow back his fear. He’s going to be fine, though. Right, Doc?

The breeze from the open window dissipated, allowing the curtains to catch their breath along with the room’s occupants.

He doesn’t seem to be breathing. The doctor opened the baby’s mouth to see if he could see anything blocking the windpipe.

Precious seconds ticked by as the doctor and his wife checked for everything on the baby.

Let me hold him. Sheila’s voice was a couple of octaves higher than normal. Greg watched as the baby, now turning greyish blue, was passed into the arms of his mom. Sheila cradled the tiny body to her bosom, tears streaming down her face, and whispered over and over, It’s okay, lil’ one, it’s okay. It’s okay, lil’ one, it’s okay. As she spoke, the tiny frame became greyer still, and movement slowed to imperceptible.

The doctor stood, his wife’s hand in his, and took off his glasses. Sheila, I am so sorry.

Sheila stared at the ceiling, feeling the tiny unmoving body against her chest—its cooling form a stark contrast to the sweaty heat coming off Sheila. Greg sank heavily into the chair, his posture deflated, face white, his eyes pooling quickly until a slow blink flooded tears onto his cheeks. The air in the room clung to them all, thickening every second and suffocating them. Only Sheila could speak.

It’s okay, lil’ one; it’s okay.

A cool breeze billowed the curtains towards the bed. Sheila looked over and pulled the baby she knew she would name Dawson closer as if the curtains were going to grab the baby out of her arms. Cool air glided silently like a swan on an evening pond through the thick heat in the room. Oh, Dawson. I wish you would cry, the sweat-soaked mom called him by his name out loud for the first time.

The room’s silence was broken by a sharp intake of air followed by the wail of a newborn’s cry, which rang through the room with the power of a chorus singing a solitary note, the breeze carrying it on unseen wings. All four adult heads snapped to attention and stared at the pink flush spreading across the baby’s face. Dawson’s cry became louder, and more notes joined the single note. It was the purest sound Greg and Sheila had ever heard. Tears poured down their faces. Sheila glanced at the curtains and secretly thanked them for bringing breath to her son.

And this was how Dawson Hughes was born in late August on a beautiful Saturday morning.

Chapter 3

Measles?

One month later, the newborn Dawson was on display for everyone to see at a post-baby shower hosted by the neighbors. Sheila relaxed in the corner of their house on a sofa with Dawson cradled in her arms. His squinty face and tiny hands reached out in all directions, trying to grasp whatever it is that newborns reach for.

The conversation in the room was light and airy without much discussion about the troubled birth.

My God, he has your eyes, Sheila! was the most exclaimed sentence the first time anyone saw him. Of course, it was true. Under those tiny eyelids shone the brightest of blue eyes. They focused on nothing and everything at the same time when they were open. Even when his eyes were closed, you’d swear you could see them shining through. Sheila laughed every time someone said this and replied proudly that she thought he was trying so hard to breathe that when he finally did, he pulled his first breath as if he were sucking in the sky and the sun. All that perfect blue had nowhere to go, so it packed itself and the sun into his eyes.

Greg agreed with his wife, flashing her proud smiles while talking business in the corner with his friends. Later that night, when they were settled back at home, Greg confided in his wife, saying it was apparent by the attention he received that Dawson was going to be something special.

You’re a new parent, honey, she replied. You’re supposed to think that. She nudged him gently in the ribs while he wrapped his arms around her.

They stood in the doorway to the baby’s room, leaning against each other. The night had cooled considerably from the week’s heat and brought with it a brief respite. Sheila walked back into the