On The Other Side

Chapter Four: The Wonder Of Ms. Claire And Aggie

Aggie Birrell stands on tiptoe at the candy counter, her fingers resting on the edge, eyes trained on the rows of tall, glass jars filled with colorful candies. I see her run a finger gently along the peppermint stick filled jar, her tongue sticking out between her lips in concentrations.

I smile, holding back a laugh. If I knew Claire wouldn't scold me for spoiling her, I'd give her the whole jar. I walk over to her, ruffling her soft curls. "Good morning, darlin'." I quick pull a peppermint stick out of the jar, hand it to Aggie, who swipes it quickly from my hand, beaming, her eyes sparkling mischievously.

I wink, pressing my finger to my lips, as she tucks the treat in her pocket, skipping away. This is Claire, Ms. Claire, she asked me to call her, and Aggie's first day working at the store.

My store, "Kelly's Grocery and Apothecary" is my life, all I have left. I used to have a wife, a son, but when the market crashed last year, all of our wealth, my doctors' practice, disappeared.

My now ex-wife, Barbara, was a beauty and she knew it. Her hair was blonde and sleek, her eyes blue, her skin pale and smooth. We met when I had been in America for only a month, a fresh doctorate under my belt from my homeland of Ireland.

My parents died when I was just a young lad, my grandfather raising me. He was always in my corner, always cheering me on. When I told him I wanted to be a doctor, he didn't laugh, didn't degrade, he only smiled and made it possible, working in his grocery store, paying for my tuition. I worked odd hours at the store when I could, helping to pay my way. I earned my doctorate when I was 22, my grandfather passing away just a couple of weeks later.

With nothing keeping me in Ireland, I bought passage to America and stepped onto U.S. soil in 1925. Just 4 years before the crash of the stock market, the beginning of what's called The Great Depression.

In the not too long ago past, life was a dream, the American dream was real, at least for me. I had literally just hung my wood signage, "Dr. Declan Kelly, MD, outside my brick office, a small, rather stuffy two-room office, but all my very own, when I ran smack into a beautiful native New Yorker.

Barbara McKenzie took my breath away, her American accent thrilled me, her red lacquered lips enticed. It hurt to find out she loved herself more than me, that she loved the thought of being a wealthy doctor's wife more than being just my wife. When she gave birth to our son Liam, twelve weeks early, he was too tiny, his heart too small, his skin so thin I could see the veins crisscrossing, giving him life for a short two weeks.

I'll admit, I cried and cried. I couldn't believe God took my son from me, that my wife seemed not to care that the babe she carried for months was gone.
After losing Liam, she refused to have another child, refused to put her body through that again; her words, not mine. I tried, truly I did, tried my damnedest to make our marriage work, tried to get her to love me. But that's the damnedest thing of all. I discovered you can't make someone love you, they either do or they don't.

When the stock market crashed, my practice closed, why on earth would anyone pay to see a doctor. No one had money for the basics, like food or housing anymore, much less a doctor. When my patients stopped coming in, and the money stopped coming in, I found out Barbara didn't love me. She couldn't abide the thought of having no money, the thought of having only me was unthinkable to her.

The day I cleared out my office, giving the lease agreement back to the agent, making my way wearily to our apartment, Barbara was already gone, divorce papers sitting on our bed, her closet empty of clothes, shoes. Her drawers empty of her stockings, her lingerie. The only thing left from Barbara was her smell, her perfume wafted around the bedroom for weeks after she left, torturing me every night I tried to sleep.