Page 12 of The Bitter Rival

Isabella

“Austin, I’m home,” I shout, juggling two large grocery bags against my chest as I attempt to close the front door behind me. Rounding the entryway toward the kitchen, I place the paper bags onto the counter and head in the direction of the bedrooms.

The home we shared was an older brownstone with high ceilings and small, dark rooms. These dwellings were not constructed during the open floor plan era of today’s homes. The kitchen was closed off from the den. I’d paid a pretty penny to open up the space. The two bedrooms were down a dark, narrow hallway. The building was actually a duplex in the fan district of Richmond. My older brothers lived nearby and could offer help at a moment’s notice if needed. It was also close to the VCU campus where Bailey had attended college. She’d often stop by for lunch on her breaks, but alas, she’s working full time at the Richmond Art Museum, and those luxuries are few and far between.

I quietly push open the door to Austin’s bedroom, never knowing what to expect when I enter. Today, the wall shared between the two residences of the duplex is covered in a variety of earth tones. This piece is in the beginning stages of construction, so I don’t tax my brain too hard to consider the direction the piece is headed. My son is hard at work, ensuring the entire wall is covered in one color or another. A cream-colored, well-used, drape cloth is on the floor beneath him, spattered in multicolor paint.

“I got us a rotisserie chicken and some macaroni and cheese for dinner. You hungry?”

“Not right now, Mom. I need to paint this some more. Maybe later, Mom,” he replies flatly.

“Okay, Austin. But don’t get so focused on your new project you forget to eat. Okay?”

“Okay, Mom.”

My gifted son is the love of my life. While Rick and I married for love at the ripe old age of twenty, it didn’t take long for Austin to pop onto the scene. We’d apparently conceived on our honeymoon, having a newborn before my twenty-first birthday.

We were nervous about raising a small child while Rick worked through a demanding pre-med curriculum. Yet, Austin was an easy baby. He slept through the night quite early, and he never cried. Initially, despite the fear of being young parents, and Rick having a stressful college program, he seemed excited to be a father. He spent every free moment with Austin. Rick and I had dated all through high school and had plans. He’d go to school first, and then, once he’d fulfilled his dream of being a cardiologist, it would be my turn.

My focus was my family. I didn’t mind at all. I loved Rick and Austin. They were my whole world, and I’d do anything to make them happy. I thought Rick felt the same way until he started pulling away. He was a smart, caring man. I thought if anyone could handle the pressures we were facing, it would be Rick. Yet once Austin was formally diagnosed with autism, our family began its slow and steady demise.

Austin was a quiet child. He was incredibly smart, but his inability to maneuver social interactions created difficulty for him as early as age three. Initially, I thought he was just an introspective toddler. I assumed he liked to investigate the world around him at his own pace. But the older he grew, the more I noticed his lack of eye contact, even with me. Once the pediatrician confirmed his diagnosis, I went into overdrive. I looked for any available service to aid in his progression. The more I immersed myself in Austin’s therapy, the more Rick engrossed himself in his studies. He gradually found studying on campus much easier than doing so in his quiet study.

Austin never interrupted. He rarely required direction of any sort. He was quick to learn how to be self-sufficient and preoccupied himself with creating visual works of art. My oldest brother, Dominic had given him some drawing pencils, a sketch pad, and an easel for Christmas one year, and Austin’s talent gradually revealed itself. He loved all forms of creativity, be it paintings or sculpture, but gravitated most toward sketching vibrant, abstract pieces of art.

The older Austin grew, the larger his artwork became. By age six, it was apparent he could not limit his enthusiasm to paper. I began applying large sheets of butcher paper to the walls to allow him the room to create without constantly having to repaint the walls of the home. He’d begin constructing his masterpiece in his sketch pad but would not quit until the work was translated into the form of a mural on his bedroom wall.

Rick barely made it to age four before checking out of our family. Initially, he’d pick Austin up for the day, every other weekend. Yet, the excuses became more frequent for his absences until he eventually just stopped coming. I secretly wondered if he took Austin over to his mother’s home for the day while he returned to his studies. But Austin didn’t seem to miss his father when he wasn’t here. So, why make a big to do about the situation? I only worried about him when he was gone anyway.

Heading to the kitchen, I put away the groceries and decide I’m not really hungry at the moment. My walk down memory lane having depressed my appetite.

“Austin, I’m going to take a quick shower.”

“Okay, Mom,” I hear from the bedroom. My standard reply. Austin can be tough for some newcomers to handle. He’s very tall and well built for a seventeen-year-old. He’s nearly six feet already, taking after his father’s side of the family. He interjects very little into any conversation, and most of his answers are succinct. Dating during the early years was difficult. I chose to be cautious about bringing new men into our lives. This was warranted as very few had any interest in taking on a special needs child like Austin.

While he didn’t have outbursts or put people in uncomfortable situations, he was overwhelming to someone not accustomed to his behavior. All of his focus was on art. I had help from my family and a lovely neighbor, Mrs. Robinson, who looked in on Austin while I worked. Yet, I’d frequently come home to find he’d fallen asleep on the floor, covered in paint. There would be random, multicolored footprints scattered about the hardwood of our home. I’d given up on trying to attack each stain with vinegar or paint remover as soon as it was spotted. I now saved and hired someone to come in and paint and strip the floors once a year.

As I find clean night clothes to don after my shower, I decide to relax with a glass of wine and a good book after dinner. Sure, I would’ve loved to have joined my new friends from work for a drink. But there’s no reason I can’t enjoy my evening just the same. Sliding my fingers along my modest library, I grab a book and place it by my nightstand for later. I’m sure Austin will take his dinner back to his room to eat as he paints. If I can’t enjoy my evening with Jeff, Mike, and Erin, I’ll at least get to spend it with the likes of Elizabeth Bennet and her sisters. Not sure if tonight is the night to deal with the haughty and arrogant Mr. Darcy. May have to save him for another evening when I can deal with that scoundrel better.

My mind suddenly shifts to the last haughty, arrogant scoundrel I met and blush. Hell, now I’ll be picturing the shark as I turn the pages of Jane Austen’s masterpiece. One thing’s for certain with the real-life Mr. Darcy. There’s no happily ever after coming in that scenario.

CHAPTERSIX

Sebastian

“Good morning, Dr. Lee,” the lively nurse greets as we scrub up for surgery.

I’m sure I should know her name, as her voice sounds familiar. With her face covered in a surgical cap and mask, I cannot place her. Admittedly, there hasn’t been much of an attempt on my part to learn names at this hospital. “Good morning,” I reply. The first surgery scheduled this morning isn’t complex. Hopefully, we won’t have any issues today.

“I heard you’re operating on Mr. Hansen after this,” she continues.

“Yes, he had an unfortunate encounter with a table saw.” The patient is in his late sixties and has neuropathy, damage to the nerves in his fingertips. I suspect the neuropathy is from years of diabetes and may have contributed to his accident.

“Well, he’s a local celebrity around here. I hope you can get him back to his old self,” she replies, her eyes appearing to smile in my direction over her surgical mask.

“What kind of celebrity,” I coax, wondering how this fact wasn’t revealed during his examination in the ER.

“He’s a painter. He has his work in all of the local art shows. It’s incredible. He’s been creating landscapes and seaside paintings for years.”

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