Xena Versus The Spartans
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If I Told You, Part 4 free porn video
IV.
Yes, I did call Bitsy Holland the next morning. Within a couple of weeks,
I made my first trip to New York as a woman. Getting from the mild-
mannered business manager in a book store nestled in the Alleghenies to
the ritz and glitz of New York was not made in a single step. The endless
hours of choosing the right clothes, a crash course in make-up, to say
nothing of having my hair 'done' for the first time, and walking in high
heels, ugh! It's enough to make a body nuts. Don't ask me how I managed
it, but those butterflies in my stomach, as I stood in the lobby of the
62nd floor of a New York skyscraper, waiting to meet Bitsy for the first
time, had turned into screaming eagles. In retrospect I often think of
that morning especially when I'm going to an important meeting or I've
got to make a presentation. No fear that I've experienced since was any
match for that fear. It's not that I don't get frightened or feel afraid,
no; it's the sense that if I could feel the fear of that morning and
still function, then maybe I can make it.
I'd been prepared by Peggy, for my first meeting with Bitsy Holland, I
suppose, and what I'd read about her. Even with all that, however, she
still bowled me over. How does one person both make you feel welcome and
make you feel like you are a piece of meat in a butcher's window? And how
does she do it at the same time? Damned if I know. All I know is that she
did it, and did her best to put me at my ease. For the next two days, I
felt as if I belonged at Davis-Holland. The entire staff were extremely
nice to me even though I had not signed any paper, much less agreed to
anything. Part of the second day was a photo shoot. This was the only
part of the experience that I felt the least bit familiar with, having
spent all those hours in Tony Di Angelo's studio. I won't say that it
didn't bother me that I had people fussing over my hair, my make-up, my
clothes and everything else, but at least I was prepared for it.
Before bidding me goodbye, Bitsy pressed a draft of a contract in my
hand. "Listen, dear, I have a confession to make. Peggy and I were
talking a couple of years ago, just after you had starting working for
her. We naturally made the connection that you were Stephanie and Roger's
son. (Stephanie and Roger were my late parents.) When the wine company
ads first appeared and it was Di Angelo's ad agency that had produced
them, There was something about your face that caught my attention, I
don't know what it was, that was so reminiscent of Stephanie's. Stephanie
had sent me pictures of you and Mary as children. So I knew that you bore
a resemblance to your mother. I began to put two and two together. So I
called Peggy and asked her point blank if you were the person in those
ads. Peggy said that you were. So, I know that Danny Lanier is under that
pretty face of Sandi Harris."
I must have looked pretty crestfallen. "Then was this all some kind of
cruel joke? Did you bring me to New York just to humiliate and embarrass
me?" I could feel tears of anger welling up.
"No, no, dear Sandi, nothing of the sort. You must understand that
although I'm no psychologist, I think I'm a pretty good judge of
character - and of horseflesh." That made me giggle a little. "I thought
I saw something in those ads that was really intriguing, and stunningly
beautiful. I have no idea what's going on behind that pretty fa?ade, but
what I saw and what I see is a beautiful woman. Even if you don't see it
yourself, please understand, dear, that I do and several people do as
well. Now, as to your private life, please remember that my models' lives
are their own, just as long as they don't interfere with the work. Yours
is no different. For what it's worth, your secret is safe with me, rest
assured."
Then she surprised me. This beautifully elegant woman, with charm and
connections to die for, gave me a hug and kiss that told me everything I
needed to know. We agreed that I would take my time to think about her
offer. She had suggested a year's contract with a renewable option.
Included in that would be the considerable prestige of Davis-Holland
which, she assured me, would prove its worth to me in a very short time.
There was a lot to think of on the plane and bus that brought me back to
New Springfield. I was not expected in the Owl & The Pussycat before
Monday so the weekend would give me even more time to mull over my
options. And that's when the roof fell in - with a vengeance.
Perhaps it was the weight of everything just then, but I fell asleep
fairly early after a light dinner that Friday night. When my phone rang
at about 12:30, it woke me out of a very deep sleep. So deep was it that
it took me a moment or two to remember where I was.
The voice on the other end of the phone was a man's deep voice with that
indefinable sense of authority. This time the sound of authority was
mixed with compassion. "Is this Danny Lanier?" he said.
I was still more than half asleep. "Yes, speaking," I stammered.
"This is Officer Warren of the Evanston Fire & Life Safety Department. Is
your sister, Mary Lanier of ______?" (He gave me Mary's Evanston
address.)
"Yes, I am," a sense of foreboding creeping into my voice.
"I regret to inform you...,"
"Oh Dear God, no!" I interrupted.
"Please, Ms. Lanier," the speaker continued in a calming manner, "I'm
calling from the Emergency Department of Saint Francis Hospital. Your
sister has been involved in an automobile accident. She's been pretty
seriously injured and will be taken up to the ICU in a few minutes. As
serious as her injuries are, Ms. Lanier, please understand that she is
expected to make a full recovery, at least that's what the ER docs are
telling me."
I have to say here that the fact that Officer Warren had called me 'Ms.
Lanier' hadn't bothered me too much. Whenever I get upset my voice goes
up about three octaves. This discrepancy was the last thing on my mind.
"She's identified you as next-of-kin, so we're notifying you so that you
can make arrangements in order to be with her, if you wish." Although
his words sounded formulaic, I could hear a real sense of genuine
compassion in his voice.
"Thanks very much, Officer..., eh,"
"Officer Warren," he offered.
"I will be there as soon as I can."
So much for sleep that night. The rest of the night was spent on the
Internet at various airline and travel websites finding the quickest and
perhaps even the cheapest way to get there. I flew standby on one of the
puddle-jumpers into Midway and got a rattle trap of a rental car at the
airport. I found my way to St. Francis Hospital, but don't ask me how. In
the meantime I'd called Penny Thomas, my boss, at home.
"Take whatever time you need, sweetheart, and tell your sister we're all
pulling for her."
Bitsy Holland was equally understanding. "First things first, dear. If
there's anything you need..."
I politely declined, but promised both Peggy and Bitsy that I'd be in
touch.
I had to sign all kinds of releases and show identification to a couple
of security people before I even got to the ICU. The nurses were
solicitous, but firm. No visitors but family, and no visits longer than
ten minutes. Mary had tubes, wires and monitors everywhere. A large white
cast covered her left leg down to the toes. Her face was still swollen
from the bruising. With all that she managed a smile. "Oh, Danny, you
didn't have to come all this way, but am I glad to see you."
The attempt to lean down to kiss her had to be abandoned since there was
too much hardware in the way. She reached for my hand and held on for
dear life. I'd made up my mind that I would be there for her, so I smiled
at her even through my tears. Since talking was obviously painful for
her, I did most of it. The one amazing question that she asked that had
nothing to do with the accident or with her condition was, "Did Sandi
come with you?"
Maybe dumbfounded is too strong a word, nonplused is probably better.
"Mary, you're the only thing I'm thinking about. I just threw some things
in a bag and here I am. Sandi's an idea that exists in my closet and on a
piece of paper; it never occurred to me to bring her stuff."
"Well," she said, her strength beginning to fade, "I still want to meet
her." It was clearly time to go. Leaning down, I kissed her hand. The
sleepiness overtook her almost at once. I could hear her regular
breathing even before I left the room.
Her place was only a mile or so from St. Francis, so I didn't get too
horribly lost. Mary had given me a key to her apartment when I had
visited her a couple of years ago. The apartment was like her: homey, in
a bookish sort of way. The television in her living room had more dust on
it than the computer did. And the books. Did I mention the books? There
were books everywhere, that's true, but this being Mary's place, they
were stacked as carefully on the floor as they were placed with equal
care on the shelves that lined every room. But it was clean and, in its
own way, tidy. How Mary was able to accommodate both African textiles and
English china teacups into a single collection, I'll never know. Mary
did, of course, and made it seem as if such disparate things had always
belonged together. That was my sister.
Moon Face, her cat, had clearly become reconciled to the narrow passages
he was forced to negotiate through Mary's apartment. Anyone might have
been forgiven for wondering how such a standoffish breed as cats could
have produced such an affectionate creature as Moon Face, let alone, for
his size, one so nimble. In spite of his tipping the scales at
significantly more than ten pounds, he was truly a "lap cat." The first
time that Moon Face jumps unexpectedly in your lap, you realize that
there have been a few too many Frisky Treats thrown his way. That Moon
Face recognized me after all this time, really surprised me. He and I had
been initially wary of each other, but by the time I had left we had
become fast friends on a previous visit. He wasn't too surprised to see
me putting my clothes out on the bed in the cheery guest bedroom. I knew
that I had truly arrived when he leapt into my half empty carry-on and
began to survey its qualities as a potential nest.
Having Moon Face as a distraction took my mind off Mary for little while.
I knew that I would have to be going back to the hospital to talk with
Mary and her doctors about her prognosis. Stopping to stroke the ever-
insistent Moon Face, made me realize that I was terribly hungry. The food
offerings inside the security cordon at the airport gave me few choices.
Grabbing a bagel and orange juice from Mary's kitchen, I headed back to
St. Francis.
Dr. Sterner was to be Mary's in-hospital physician. She was another
contradiction. Probably no more than mid-thirties, and blessed or cursed
with a face like a china doll, Dr. Sterner looked more like a candy-
striper than a Chief of Medicine. It didn't help that she was probably
5' 1" in high heels. All of that aside, however, I didn't have to wait
more than a minute before I understood why all the nurses, and I later
learned, all the staff were in awe of her. A towering intellect, a dogged
determination, a bedside manner to die for, and the capacity to listen
made Dr. Ruth Sterner a person to be reckoned with. And she was caring
for my sister!
When I got to Mary's room about noon that first day, I saw Dr. Sterner
talking in that gentle, but direct way of hers that was simultaneously
firm and reassuring. She was telling, or trying to tell, Mary to take it
easy and simultaneously orchestrating a team of nurses and technicians as
they performed their bedside ballet of changing dressings, adjusting
monitors, drawing seemingly endless tubes of Mary's blood. All the while
Mary kept her eyes on me. With each new ministration, I could almost feel
Mary's pain and discomfort.
Finally I was able to talk to Dr. Sterner as the pandemonium began to
subside. "You're Danny, right?" she began. I nodded. "Well, Danny, I hope
you don't mind my calling you that." I shook my head. "Mary's been
through quite a lot in the last twelve hours. She's going to be fine -
eventually, but she's been through quite a trauma, a series of traumas,
actually. The drunk driver whose car struck them was killed along with
his passenger and, sadly, the person in the car with Mary."
"You mean Jack?"
"Yes, Jack Mitchell. I believe that Mary and Mr. Mitchell were going
together. Is that true?"
I was numb. Mary had just begun to tell me about Jack and for the first
time in a long time, there was a sense of hope in her voice; the first
time she'd spoken about a guy that way in a very long time. And now, on
top of everything else, Jack was killed.
I was trying to keep my own emotions under control, knowing that I would
have to be strong for Mary. Frankly it felt like they were on a roller-
coaster without any brakes.
"Dr. Sterner, will you tell Mary what has happened of shall I?"
"That's what I was about to ask you," she countered.
"I am uncertain as to how I should do it," I said. "She's got to hear it,
but I'm not sure when would be the right time to do it. What do you
suggest?"
"We'll talk to her together. That way, if there is something that is too
upsetting, I can be right there to giver her something to help her get
through it. In situations like this, I don't pretend that the news is
anything but bad, but I let the person indicate how much she wants to
hear and how quickly. It's never a good idea to lie to her, but there's
no reason to overwhelm her with all the bad news all at once." It still
sounded a bit confusing to me. "Look," Dr. Sterner said, "you know your
sister best. How do you think she would want to hear news like this?"
That was a good point. Mary was and is a pretty resilient person, but she
does wear her heart on her sleeve. We used to tease each other as kids
that we would never make good poker players because people could see our
emotions so clearly by our facial expressions. We would let Mary know
that the news was not good, and we would give her as much of the details
as she wanted to hear.
It's not surprising that Mary was devastated by the news. When Dr.
Sterner asked her if she wanted to take something to calm her nerves,
Mary readily agreed. Dr. Sterner also offered to write a prescription for
me if I wanted any for myself, but I declined. Dr. Sterner and I stayed
in the room with Mary until she fell asleep and then quietly tip-toed
out. Even though I knew that she had other patients to see, Dr. Sterner
didn't show any signs of wanting to leave. "Danny, technically my shift
ended about two hours ago, but it was clear that my patient still needed
me and I didn't want to let her down. If you've got a few minutes, I'd
like to give you some more information about Mary's condition."
There were fractures of one leg and the pelvis, a collarbone and her left
arm. Happily the internal injuries were minimal and although she received
a nasty concussion, there didn't seem to be much concern about and
further cranial damage. They would keep her in the ICU for another couple
of days and then transfer her to a medical ward after that. As I listened
to Dr. Sterner, I made up my mind that I would take a leave of absence
from my job and put the modeling idea on hold. It's funny in retrospect,
but Mary's accident had a way of clarifying my thinking. She was my first
responsibility and after she got back on her feet I would think about my
own career. I'd been able to save a little money and there was a modest
inheritance from Mom and Dad and so we could squeak by, just.
From what I've told you up to this point, you won't be surprised to learn
that Peggy and the crew at the Owl & the Pussycat told me to take
whatever time I needed. They would be there for me whatever I needed.
Bitsy Holland could not have been nicer. She told me that her offer would
be waiting and then offered to come to Evanston herself to do whatever I
wanted her to do. That floored me. When I thanked her for her
thoughtfulness, she said it was the least she could do. At the very
least, she said, let me know if I needed anything.
"I know a few people," she said matter-of-factly. That was an
understatement. I doubted then and I doubt now that there was anyone that
Bitsy didn't know.
After talking to Mary and Dr. Sterner, we agreed that I would go back to
New Springfield and get whatever I needed to stay for an extended time.
Mary had only one request. She wanted to see Sandi. Since the accident I
really hadn't given the Sandi 'thing' much thought. For someone so new at
the modeling business, Sandi had managed to acquire enough clothes to
fill and additional suitcase. At that point I figured, in for a penny, in
for a pound, and decided to bring everything, wigs and make-up included.
I only hoped that Mary wouldn't change her mind.
Back to Evanston and now more or less permanently installed in Mary's
spare bedroom, I began my new career as a care giver with Moon Face the
cat always at my side. To be honest, I had been the one who usually was
cared for and not the other way around. There were a thousand things that
I would learn. Mary, as a sister and as my 'patient,' turned out to be a
fantastic teacher. In fact becoming her care giver was the making of me.
Those first several weeks with a rented hospital bed in the living room
were a little trying, but Mary endured my mistakes and except for a few
flashes of temper - that were thoroughly justified, I might add - she was
a model patient. We fell into a routine with me being part nurse, part
maid, part coach and cheering squad all rolled into one. True, Mary had
some very black days. She hadn't known Jack very long, but a mixture of
survivor's guilt (why did he die, and not me? I'm glad/sad that it wasn't
me), and her various physical ailments tried even her patience. Those
were the days, as every care-giver knows, that no matter what I did it
was wrong.
At the end of one of those, I'd like to say that I would just chalk it up
to Mary's nearly impossible situation, but I'd be lying. I shouted, I
screamed, I cried, I went into a massive funk. Without realizing it I had
expected that Mary would see me as her knight in shining armor and kiss
the ground I walked on. Hah! To say that it taught me several important
lessons would imply that I was a willing pupil. No, the experience
dragged me, kicking and screaming, to the realization that I was helping
Mary because I could and because I could, I should. Rewards for my
'sacrifice' for my sister were never the reason I did it. There were many
nights I had to remind myself of this. Thank God, for those few phone
calls to Dr. Hansen, my therapist back in New Springfield.
One of the highlights of my visit was a big envelope I got in the mail.
It had a P.O. Box in New Springfield as a return address, but I wasn't
expecting anything so I was caught off guard as to what it might be. In
the envelope were handwritten cards and notes from the staff, the
volunteers and the clients at the reading center. The lovely cards the
staff and the volunteers were really appreciated, but Mary and I lost it
reading the notes from the clients. Some of these folks had the most
primitive writing skills and little grasp of English, but that didn't
stop them from expressing their heartfelt wishes for Mary's speedy
recovery.
"Dear Mary Lanier," one began, "your Danny loves you and we love him. He
takes you at your house our love to make you better well soon and very.
Listen to Danny person, guy good and nice. Prayers we make you for and
for Danny, too. Come to Center well with Danny here. Hear to him teach us
very good well. Many kissings and huggings, Mrs. Chen."
Now what was I supposed to do with that? Her efforts at writing were
enormous. Because of people like Mrs. Chen, the sad or angry feelings I
felt were not erased, but she had given me a perspective. And
difficulties I might have didn't go away, but seemed less impossible
somehow. Mary didn't recover miraculously, but both of us felt less
impatient about it. I would tease Mary now and again, "Listen to Danny
person, guy good and nice," and that would make us both laugh.
As I read back over this, I realized that I had left out one fairly
important fact. The first week that Mary was home she wanted to meet
Sandi. Well, putting on one of the outfits that Peggy helped pick out, I
began an impromptu fashion show.
"My dear, Sandi," Mary scolded, "you'll have to do better than that."
She proceeded, over the next several days, to instruct me in the finer
points of coordinating outfit, hair and makeup, and the all-important art
of accessorizing. At first I was doing all of it because Mary seemed to
enjoy it. Well, as things often do, one thing led to another. The fashion
shows became a daily affair that always concluded by Mary asking me to
"leave that outfit on for a little while, it suits you." Thinking that it
was more trouble to change, I left the women's clothes on more often than
not.
You can probably guess where this is going. By the end of the second week
that Mary was back, Sandi was Sandi more or less full time. "Sandi, you
know, you can't just keep wearing the same thing day after day; you need
some variety," Mary teased me one day. It was clear to her and
increasingly clear to me that I was going to need some more casual
clothes to wear around the house. That led to my first solo foray to the
local mall. Thank God, there were still a few of those big, old
department stores like Marshall Field anchoring these places. That gave
me the degree of anonymity that I needed. The salespeople there were more
helpful than they knew. There was one woman in particular who was
extremely helpful. Whether she was used to "unusual" girls - "girls" like
me - she never said; she could not have been nicer.
After the initial trepidations about being found out in public and thanks
to a modicum of confidence that trip to the Mall gave me, I realized that
if anybody noticed they didn't care. Frankly, it was clear to me that I
was more concerned about being the best brother and friend I could to
Mary, than I was about what people thought of me. Without my knowing it,
this led to my being so comfortable in my role as "Nurse Sandi," that I
must have projected this comfort so that even quizzical looks barely
caught my attention.
Depending upon how you look at it, this was further compounded or
affirmed by Mary's next request of me. She wanted to have three of her
closes friends over for a little relaxed evening together. I should say
at this point that each of them had visited Mary individually since Mary
had come home, and when they did I made myself scarce. I didn't hide or
anything like that; it was just that Mary deserved some private time with
her closest friends and I wasn't going to stand in the way. The evening
plans that Mary put forward were of a different order. She was explicit.
"Sandi, I want you there. I've told each of them that I'm getting
terrific care and they all expressed interest in meeting the person who
was taking such good care of me."
"But, Mary,..." I said, my fears of discovery bubbling to the surface, "I
know what they think I am, but who do they think I am? Just what did you
tell them about me?"
"Sandi, relax, since both Joyce and Jennifer and even Lisa know I have a
brother, I couldn't very well say that 'here's my brother in a dress',
unless that's what you want me to say," she took a very reassuring tone
as she reached out to take my hand.
"No, Mary, I don't. I'm still wrestling with all of this. Couldn't you
just say that I was your long-lost cousin?" I tried a feeble joke.
"Wait, wait, how about this? Mary said, thinking out loud, "You're my
brother's fianc?e and you're helping me out because he couldn't get away
from his job for an extended period. And, wait... um, you're going back
to graduate school at the end of February."
"But, Mary,..." even as I was about to frame an objection, Mary cut me
off.
"Yes, Sandi, it's perfect. That way they will be able to reconcile the
fact that Danny was here when I was in the hospital, and also, that you
are so close to me. They won't be surprised that I would have a close
bond with my brother's fianc?e."
I was still dubious to say the least. We agreed that I would think about
it and talk after lunch. When I took Mary for PT that day, - I remember
it was a cloudless winter day, a Tuesday, I think it was - I took a walk
to think about this little get together and all of the things that had
happened to Mary and to me over the last few months. You're not going to
be surprised when I tell you that, once again, there was no blinding
epiphany. I was so my wrapped up in my thoughts and in breathing that
cold, very fresh air, that I almost lost track of time.
"Ms. Lanier?" an older woman's voice inquired.
I guess she startled me out of my reverie. "Yes, yes?" I stammered.
"Your sister's ready to go." She threw a quizzical glance in my
direction. 'What,' she wondered, 'were you dreaming about?'
There's one other thing I forgot to mention. Spending so much time
together naturally enabled us to become much closer. Even before Mary got
home from the hospital, she and I had talked more than we had in the
previous ten years. And it didn't stop there. She wanted to know
everything, but she wasn't satisfied with 'just the facts, ma'am.' No, in
her gentle but persistent way she drew me out so that I was talking more
about the way that I felt about all sorts of things. She was relentless:
Mary wanted to know what I thought and how I felt about everything! This
was very new territory for me. In order not to be totally under the
microscope, I tried turning the tables on Mary. Well, that was an eye-
opener. She was only too interested in my listening to the nuances of her
own feelings and reactions, this subtle teacher of a sister. It was a
very interesting exercise. Through this process something began to
happen.
I've got to think about it for a little while so that what I write really
does reflect what was, perhaps, the most amazing thing that happened to
me in those few months in Evanston with Mary.
Miracle
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