Old Love in Connecticut

My mother was admitted to the hospital in my hometown where she still lived. A call from her doctor meant that I had to fly out immediately. The advantage -- perhaps the only advantage -- of traveling as much as I do is elite status on airlines. After a quick phone call and burning a substantial number of accumulated miles, I managed to make it from California to Connecticut only about 10 hours after I first spoke with her doctor. She had stabilized by the time I arrived. She had fallen, yet again, but this time she had suffered a severe concussion. I took up a vigil at her bedside, reassuring her whenever she awoke that she'd be alright, keeping an eye on the hospital staff, and in general serving as her advocate for care when she could not.

On day two, I guess I had fallen asleep in the recliner next to her bed. With the change of shift, a new aide arrived to check my mother's vitals. When she came into the room, she must have startled me awake.

"Charles," she inquired?

Not sure where I was for a moment, I stared blankly back at her face for a moment. "Debbie," I asked, hesitantly, though I was sure of the answer even through the fog that enveloped my mind?

Thirty-some years later, I recognized her face, though I could not believe it. She had been my first real girlfriend, spanning the last year of middle school and first year of high school. I had been completely infatuated with her. She broke up with me at the end of freshman year and we'd never really talked again. I knew she had become one of the "popular" girls at school, with all that entailed. We had never progressed beyond some pretty serious necking, but rumor had it that she soon moved far past that with numerous other guys. I had always regretted being the "good guy" who had respected her perhaps more than was warranted. All this, along with the heartbreak of how she had ended the relationship, all came back to me in a flash as I sat there rubbing my eyes and trying to collect myself at my mother's bedside.

She took up her responsibilities. She had always been a favorite of my parents, so she warmed to my mother, expressing concern and her joy at seeing her again -- despite the unfortunate circumstances, and so on. All the while, her eyes darted in my direction. I had aged well, though I might have wished for a shower, a shave, and a clean shirt at least for such a reunion.

Debbie had also kept her shape. She had obviously gained some weight since our high school years, some in good places, some in more unfortunate places. But she still looked good for a woman of her age. At the same time, I sensed that she had had a hard life. She looked worn, with a few too many wrinkles. Here she was working as a nurse's aide, a hard, physically demanding job, at an age when many of my wealthier friends were already looking forward to retirement. She certainly had not realized the potential that I, at least, saw in her back in the day.

After she had finished her care for my Mom, I excused myself and followed her out to the hallway.

"Thanks," I said. "I'm a little concerned about her," pointing back toward the room.

"I expect she'll be fine," she responded. "The concussion should clear eventually. The bigger worry is that she keeps falling." Catching herself, however, she reminded herself, if not me, "But I'm no doctor. You'll have to talk to her physician. My supervisor would already reprimand me for the diagnosis I just gave you," she said with a sad shrug of her shoulders.

"You look great," I said, even if it wasn't entirely true.

"You too," she said, this time with a hint of a smile. "I heard you live in California, the land of money, sunshine, and beaches." There was a wistful look in her eye.

"Yes," I replied. "Over twenty-four years now, ever since I completed my Ph.D." I knew that last bit was probably both a bit of a brag and perhaps a minor dig -- but I couldn't resist.

"Oh, what do you do with that Ph.D.," she asked?

"I teach Economics," I said, toning it down and rolling it back a bit. I had long ago learned that it was a conversation killer with those outside of academia when I described myself as a Professor of Economics at Stanford.

"How about you? How are you," I inquired, leaning in a bit?

"Me," she asked, apparently surprised I'd be interested? Pausing for a moment, and taking a deep breath, she blurted out "Three times divorced, each a lousy fool of a husband who left me deeper in debt than the last. I have a way, I guess, of finding scoundrels who take what they want and leave the rest." Her eyes met mine in a sort of defiant way, suggesting both embarrassment at what she had just admitted but at the same time daring me to think less of her -- which I never would, of course, if she had only known the corner of my heart, deep inside, that she still occupied. First loves are reputed to never quite go away, and I was quickly realizing that mine had not certainly not.

"I have to get to work," she said, again somewhat sadly.

"OK, good to see you," I said as I returned to my mother's bedside to continue my vigil. Sad how lives turn out, I thought, how paths taken cannot be untaken, how choices made cannot be unmade. Nor could I help but wonder how my life might have turned out if we had stayed together as I had so desperately wanted as wounded and rejected teenager.

Knowing there was little more I could do at the hospital, and needing some real sleep, I checked into the nicest hotel in the area -- fortunately just across the street. After cleaning up for the first time in days, I checked in with the family at home and fell into a deep slumber.

...

After a good rest, I returned to the hospital looking a bit more presentable than before. I have to admit that I took a little more care putting myself together than I might have otherwise. I laughed at myself when I realized I was worried over the choice of shirt from among the few I had thrown into the suitcase days before. I knew I was being silly. No way did I want to return to my high school days. No way did I want to rekindle a high school romance that left me deeply hurt. Yet, there was still this little tug.

I was there by the shift change and, as I hoped though I would not admit it to myself, Debbie was on again and was my mother's aide. Dutifully taking care of her responsibilities, she seemed a bit more chipper this time than last, joking with my Mom, recalling a few of the good old days with her when she had had supper with my family. They talked about my Dad, my mother's favorite topic still 10 years after his death. It was a warm little engagement.

Again, I followed her into the hallway. "Debbie," I began, haltingly. "Can I buy you a coffee during your break?" Good god, I felt and most likely sounded just like that high school boy I so wanted to forget.

"Sorry, Charles," she said. "We're so busy here at the hospital that I don't really get much of a break during my shift. Fuck knows I need one," she said -- surprising me with the expression, "but I can't really take one."

"How about a drink after your shift," I pressed?

"Nope, got to get home."

"Lunch, before your shift tomorrow," I asked, now sounding desperate.

"Can't," she said.

Not willing to risk my ego anymore, I said "OK" and began to turn around to return to my mother.

"Breakfast," she finally said as I almost reached the door?

I paused. Did I really want this? Did I want to give her new power over me? "OK," I gave in. "I'm staying at the Adderson. Can you meet me there? The breakfast there is good from what I hear, though I've only had the coffee."

"How about 9," she asked? "With this afternoon shift, I tend to sleep in a bit."

"Fine," I shrugged, as if it did not really matter to me. "I'll swing by to see Mom early and then meet you in the lobby."

...

The tension at the table was so thick you could, as the old expression goes, cut it with a knife. Once so close, but now so far apart. We had everything and nothing to talk about. Finally, the dam broke as Debbie began to tell me about her life, barely making it through high school, dropping out of college, three kids with three different husbands who drained what few financial resources she managed to accumulate in between marriages. The debts she was now working off to try to make a better life for her kids.

She, in turn, seemed genuinely interested in my life. Without rancor or conceit -- I hope -- I told her about the life of a well-paid Economist, my nice home in Silicon Valley, my family, our exotic vacations, and -- yes -- my regular trips overseas to lecture, consult, and so on. It was a marvelous life, one that I am quite proud of -- and reasonably so. She took it all in, as it were a fairy tale. Hardly anyone else from our hometown had made it out. Most still lived in the area, working menial jobs. As we compared notes on old classmates, I was clearly the success story of our cohort -- and I decided not to disguise this fact.

"Well," she finally said, "I guess I didn't hurt you too badly when I broke up with you," a statement with an implied question.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," I murmured. My success and bravado quickly disappearing. "I lost nearly a year to depression and misery," I continued softly. "Sophomore year was a lost cause, academically. It was not until well into my junior year that I recovered enough to actually care whether I attended classes or not. It's a wonder any college accepted me," I blurted out, perhaps a bit too forcefully. "More important, though, I didn't date again until senior year, and those were all disasters. They were wonderful girls," I said shyly, "but my heart was blocked." Putting it all on the table, I had to admit that "It was not until college, when I finally met the woman who would become my wife, did I become emotionally whole again."

She sat quiet for a few moments, stretching into what seemed like an hour. "Wow," she finally exhaled. "I didn't know."

"No one did," I replied, "not even the woman in the hospital" -- I pointed in the general direction. "I kept it bottled up deep inside, perhaps that's why it festered so long, why the scars are still there."

"Wow," was all she said, again. Staring out the window, she reached for my hand on the table and gently clasped it. "I've made some big mistakes in my life," she admitted, "But this may top them all. Here, I had this guy who apparently worshipped me, with such potential -- which even I saw at the time. Somehow, I threw it all away for a string of losers."

Now, it was my turn to sit silent. I couldn't disagree with her on any count. Yes, I had worshipped her. Yes, I had made something of my life, unlike most of our contemporaries. And, yes, it appears she had married a bunch of deadbeats. The question that raced through my mind, which I dared not articulate, was what was wrong her her? Why couldn't she see what I had seen those many years ago?

Glancing at her watch, she jumped at the time. "I didn't realize how late it is," she exclaimed. "I have to get to work."

...

I had much to think about at the hospital as I sat there watching my mother sleep. I consulted with the doctors. Arranged for her to be transferred to a rehabilitation facility, knowing that Medicare would not cover the full cost and I'd, once again, have to pick up the difference. While my brother lived in the area and took care of Mom's day-to-day needs, he had fallen into the trap that so many others in our hometown had, never made much working blue collar jobs, spent more, and lacked the ability to provide for himself, never mind our mother. Thousands of miles away, I was happy to pay for what I could not provide on a more daily basis. In between making these arrangements and filling our far more forms than seemed necessary, I thought about my breakfast conversation with Debbie. Mom was happy to hear the sanitized version, though a little sad to hear how Debbie's life had turned out. "Too bad," she commented, "I always liked her" -- something I don't think she's ever said about my far more sophisticated and supportive wife. With preparations made, and my brother lined up to help Mom with the transition to rehab, I booked a flight back to California for early the next morning.

Later than night, as I was getting ready for bed, there was a soft knock on my door. Wondering who it might be, I opened it to find Debbie standing there in her hospital scrubs.

"Can I come in," she asked? I stood aside and extended my arm, inviting her into the richly furnished room. "Nice," she said. She was obviously nervous, so I said nothing and waited for her to speak. "I feel bad about hurting you," she finally said in a very soft voice that I barely heard. Before I could process this thought and respond, she stepped close, wrapped her arms around me, and drew me into a deep kiss. Memories flooded over me, turning me once again into that desperate teenager. I am afraid that I reciprocated, embracing her and kissing her back with all that I had. It was, at least on this superficial, physical level, like we had never parted.

As our bodies pressed together, I became engorged. "You know," she said as she broke our kiss, "I always regretted that you were not my first." Grasping my now noticeable erection, she pulled me to the bed. Clothes quickly disappeared. She had a few extra pounds. Her boobs sagged. Some stretch marks were evident. But, she was still beautiful, at least to me in that moment. The little flame that I thought I had smothered rekindled and then burst into fire. The heat was searing.

Years melted away. Without much foreplay, she directed me into her sopping wet body, where I slipped readily inside. She was not a virgin, but a mature woman with more than a few lovers. Still, she felt wonderful. With years of experience, we both relaxed and enjoyed the experience far more than we likely would have as fumbling teens. I took her long and hard, and she fucked me right back. It was almost as we were trying to relive our entire lives in that single moment, and put all of our energy, our hopes, our regrets, and ourselves into not only pleasing ourselves but the other. As she spread her legs wide, I held her abundant soft breasts and bottomed out against her cervix. Grinding myself against her clit with every stroke, we both rose -- floating on the brink for as long as we could. Finally, as I pounded my anger and resentments as well as my past and present passion into her, she clenched down on me as a massive orgasm swept through her. As her body gripped mine more tightly, I also tumbled over the edge, spewing into her warm, wet and welcoming body. I won't say it was absolutely the most spectacular sexual experience of my life, but it is high on my list.

Looking at the clock and seeing that we'd been at it for over an hour-and-a-half, I pulled her into a spooning position, wrapped my arms around her, and mumbled that I had to leave early in the morning. The hurt was finally healing.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke to feel Debbie sucking on my growing cock. "I need you," was all she said. She climbed on top and slid down onto my rock hard shaft. Hard again much sooner than usual, I guess I really have returned to my teenage years. Again, we used all the tricks we'd learned over the years with others to both please and, perhaps, impress the other. Every technique, every little move that seemed to bring pleasure to past lovers was recycled. We fucked again for nearly an hour, both cresting together. As I shot another large load within her, she too let out a massive cry and shuddered again and again until she collapsed on my chest and I took her into my arms.

"I have to go," she said after a few minutes. "I just wanted you again before I left." I watched as she got dressed to go home.

"It was good to see you again," I said.

"Yes, it was," she replied as she looked at me, still in bed. "No regrets," she asked as she rose to leave?

"None," I smiled. "In fact, far fewer than I had a few days ago without realizing it"

"Wish I could say the same," she responded quietly. "Say goodbye to your Mom for me."

...

The alarm when off an hour or two later. Did I have an impressive dream, I wondered as I laid there in more than my usual morning stupor? As I came to, though, I realized the bed was damp, with a very large wet spot in the middle where our cum must drained out at some point. I smelled of sex. I took a shower, packed my things, and drove to the airport.