“I just don’t think I can right now. I want to, but…”
“You only took one bite of toast this morning.” Alice puts her hand on top of Joan’s. “Can you try? You’re so close, Joan. You can have the surgery and…”
“And then what?” Joan is looking at her mom without tears or fear or any worry. “Another surgery?”
“Maybe,” Alice says, her voice a mixture of understanding and hope. “Maybe, Joan. We don’t know. I know it’s a bad day, but this meal could turn it around,” she says, smiling.
“How many times did you tell us that when we were kids?” Joan says, grinning. “‘Everything will look different once you eat dinner!’ Or, ‘Come eat these cookies. They’ll turn your whole day around!’”
Alice chuckles. “Well, it’s true!”
“According to you, anyone who has a bad day just hasn’t had a good meal.” Joan leans her head onto her mom’s shoulder. “I never thought I’d have a hard time eating what you’ve cooked. You were the best mom.” Alice’s eyes fill at the words. “You still are.”
Alice uses her index finger to dab under each eye. “I didn’t come here to blubber. That’s not helpful at all. My mission is to fill your stomach with good food and put weight on you!”
“That’s my mission, too!” Gigi says from the floor.
Joan chuckles. “So many people on the same mission around here!” She looks at her mom. “Stay with me while I eat?”
Alice lifts Joan’s hand and kisses it. “Of course! I love to watch people eat my food!”
November 2012
“What in the world are Braxton Hicks contractions?” Heddy asks inside Gloria’s office.
“False labor,” Lauren says. She thinks for a moment. “If those were false, what do the real ones feel like?” Gloria, Miriam, Andrea, and Heddy laugh out loud. “Why are you all laughing?”
“You’ll laugh someday,” Heddy says. “Not at the moment of contractions, though.”
“No,” Gloria adds. “At that moment you’ll want to kill Travis.” The women cackle again, making Lauren nervous.
“The doctor, too, for that matter,” Miriam says.
“I wanted to break the TV,” Andrea says. The women all turn to look at her for an explanation. “I was sitting in a wheelchair while I was being admitted and the news was blaring from a TV set behind me. The most annoying newscaster in the history of news! What I would have given for a baseball bat to bust open that TV and shut that guy’s mouth.”
Lauren joins them as they laugh, and Gloria puts her arm around her. “We can’t wait to hear your story, babe. It really is one of the best days of your life.”
As the women leave Gloria’s office to head back into the big room, Lauren stops, looking at her. “Gloria? What do you think the percentage is of kids who eat a meal with their parents or whoever has guardianship of them?”
Gloria raises her eyebrows, looking up to the ceiling. “Hmm. I’ve never thought about that in percentages. Some do. I don’t know how many.”
Lauren leans against the door. “Do you think any of them cook with their parent or guardian?”
Gloria shakes her head. “I don’t know. I imagine that some do. Why?”
“Andrea said something to me a while back and I’ve been thinking about it. Is it possible to have some sort of cooking class here? You know, small things like how to scramble an egg, how to bake a potato, cook rice, or boil an egg, or how to make cookies. Things I didn’t know how to do.” Gloria ponders the thought. “I know. It’d be too expensive. We’d need a stove and an oven and a sink and…”
Gloria raises her hands in the air. “Hold on! Hold on! I haven’t said anything yet.” She nods. “Yes, there would be some expense, but we have generous donors.”
“But is it a good idea?” Lauren asks, uncertain.
“I like it, and I think it’s needed. Who knows how it could inspire one of our kids here?” Lauren smiles. “Let’s talk it through with Dalton, Heddy, Miriam, and even Marshall. Let’s hear what they think.” Lauren begins to leave the office. “Who would teach the classes?”
“Me,” Lauren says. “If you’ll let me.”
TWENTY-FIVE
November 1972
John examines the fourth table leg and sighs. “Finally! All four legs.” The doctor has scheduled Joan’s surgery four days from now, firmly believing that her weight is close enough. Between work, helping with the children, and grocery shopping, he manages to sneak in an hour or so of work on the table every few days. He hopes, even prays that he can have the table finished by Christmas for Joan. He has taken his family to church for the last two months, and if Joan is able following her surgery, he envisions taking them to the Christmas Eve service and then coming home to put Gigi and Christopher to bed. He and Joan can put the presents beneath the tree and then he can make sure that she is resting comfortably in bed before he brings the table inside from the workshop. He can only imagine Joan’s face when she sees it on Christmas morning.
He looks at the pieces of the table and wishes again he could remember the name of the man he met in the hospital cafeteria following Joan’s surgery. He would love to talk to him about the table and even more. He would love to talk to him about Joan’s surgery, about prayer, about why cancer exists in the first place, and about doubting all that he’s learned to believe in the last few months. Even with a few extra pounds, Joan is weak; he knows that, and the surgery scares him. He presses the palms of his hands into his eyes to hold back the tears. In the last several months he has tried to be strong for Joan and his family in every way, but fear spreads across his chest.
Tears fall over his face and he swipes them away. “Don’t!” he says to himself. He picks up one of the pieces of wood for the tabletop and examines it. He needs to glue these pieces together. Another tear falls, and John brushes his shoulder against his cheek. “Stop it!” he yells. “Stop!” He throws the tape measure, pencils, and clamps from atop the workbench across the room and slides to the floor. “I’m trying to believe,” he whispers. “She’s my world. I’ve loved only her. She’s the only one.” A knock at the door startles him, and John hurries to his feet. Who would knock? Joan, Alice, or the kids would march right in. He uses the tail of his shirt to wipe his face and hears another knock. He walks to the door and opens it to a man he’s never seen before.
“John?” The man is in his late sixties or early seventies, with thinning brownish gray hair and glasses. “When I knocked on your front door, your mother-in-law told me you were out here. I’m Ed Grassle from church. I was told about your wife and wondered if I could come visit with you. Is that okay?”
John feels a lump in his throat and nods. “Sure. Come on in.” He leads Ed into the workshop and points at a metal stool. “You’re welcome to sit there.”
“Maybe in a minute,” Ed says, noticing the pieces of wood on the workbench. “Are you making a table? Beautiful wood. Black walnut.”
John nods. “Yeah. I started it a few months ago. You know it’s black walnut?”
Ed picks up one of the table legs. “I’ve been dabbling for years. This is beautiful work. You’re very talented.” John smiles. Ed holds the leg higher, examining it.
“I don’t know about that. I spend a lot of time just standing here and staring at the wood, it seems.”
Ed smiles. “Then you’re a craftsman through and through!” He holds the table leg closer to him and runs his hand up and down it. “Have you ever thought about a piece of wood? Or even a tree, for that matter?”
John looks at him, surprised. “Yeah, I have!”
“Amazing, right? No lab can come up with a tree.”
“Or a seed,” John adds.
“Or a seed,” Ed says, agreeing. He sets the table leg down and looks at John. “There’s a lot we can’t do, isn’t there.” He doesn’t say it as a question, but rather as more of a statement. Ed knows his place in the universe. “John, when I heard about your wife, I wanted you to know that you’re not alone.” John bi
tes the inside of his mouth, nodding. “I know you must be awfully scared right now and wondering about what will happen.” A tear falls down John’s cheek, and he brushes it away. There are people who make you feel instantly at ease and immediately cared for because their words, the way they slip their hands into their pockets, even the way they walk let you know that the only place they want to be right now is with you. This is Ed to John. “You don’t know me, but I’ll do anything for you and your family. My wife and I both will. We don’t want you or your family to feel alone, John.” The fear, pain, hurt, stress, and anxiety rush to John’s chest, and he wraps his arms around Ed. Ed claps him on the back just like the good father that John imagines him to be, and he stands quietly, letting John cry.
November 2012
Gloria’s house is decorated with a mixture of Christmas swags, bulbs, stars, and Nativity sets, with pink, yellow, blue, and green balloons and streamers strung across the ceiling and doorways. Gloria looks around her living room and sighs. “If they came here today, House Beautiful would be so confused that they’d never feature me in their magazine.”
“I don’t think that would be the only reason,” Miriam says before clapping her hands together. “All right! Put these cards over there on the gift table. They’re for each person to write down some baby advice.” Gloria reaches for a pen from the cup on the table and writes: Don’t listen to Miriam before folding it and setting it inside the basket. “What did you write, Gloria?” Miriam says, her voice dripping with suspicion.
“The best advice Lauren will receive today,” Gloria says. “It’s something I wish I’d known years ago myself.”
There’s no time for Miriam to read the card, as guests are at the door, waiting to come inside. “Come, come,” Miriam says, ushering them inside. “Gifts over there. Lauren will be here in a few minutes.”
Gloria moves to the kitchen and straightens the food on top of the counter. “I still think we should have told Lauren about the shower,” she says to Miriam and Heddy.
“She didn’t want a shower,” Miriam hisses.
“Well, things like this make her uncomfortable,” Gloria says, cutting a coconut pie into eight pieces. “We could have brought gifts to her home without the fanfare that makes her squirm.”
Miriam scoffs at the thought. “A baby shower will not make her squirm. Whatever you wrote on that card will make her squirm!” The doorbell rings and Miriam shouts, “She’s here! Everyone quiet!”
Gloria sticks a finger in the ear that’s closest to Miriam’s shouting and walks to the front door, opening it. “Hello, babe! Come on in.”
Lauren walks inside and jumps at the chorus of voices yelling “Surprise!” at her. “So, we’re not actually meeting about the fund-raiser?” Lauren asks, smiling as she takes off her coat.
Gloria takes her coat and wraps an arm around her. “We just want you to know that we love you and your baby.”
Lauren’s eyes get misty and she hugs Gloria, the woman who’s more like a mother to her than anyone she’s ever known. Miriam steps beside her, and Lauren wraps her arms around her. “You organized this just like you organized my wedding, didn’t you, Miriam?” Miriam pats her back and gives Gloria a look that says I told you so. Lauren squeezes her in a hug. “Thank you.”
After the presents are unwrapped and as Lauren is finishing eating a slice of cake, her cell phone rings. She pulls it out of her back pocket and looks at the number but doesn’t recognize it. “Hello.”
“Lauren?” An older man’s voice shouts on the other end. “This is Bud Waters. I understand you want to talk to me.”
Lauren sets down her cake and moves to Gloria’s bathroom so she can hear. “Yes! How are you, Mr. Waters? I heard you were sick.”
“I was!” he says, shouting. “I got awfully sick in Arizona. I got food poisoning and then it just snowballed from there.”
Lauren closes the bathroom door. “I’m so sorry! Are you all better?”
“Getting there every day,” Bud says, still at full volume. “How can I help you?”
“I…” There’s something in his voice that makes Lauren want to meet him face-to-face. “Actually, do you think I could come to your house and talk to you about it? It’s about someone who used to buy milk from you. I’m trying to find them.”
“Well, if you want to do that, that’s fine with me. Do you still have my address? You left a note so I’m assuming you do.”
Lauren chuckles. “Yes, I’m all set. Is it okay if I come this afternoon?”
“About what time? I eat my dinner around four thirty,” he yells at decibels that Lauren’s ears have never heard. “Will you get here before then? If it’s later, do you want me to save you some dinner?”
She laughs out loud. “No, I’ll be okay. Thank you, though. I can be there around two o’clock.” Lauren opens the bathroom door and smiles.
TWENTY-SIX
December 1972
John sits at the kitchen table and opens Joan’s recipe box, pulling out a card and looking at it: Aunt Dee-Dee’s Peanut Butter Fudge. That was one of the first things Joan made from her mother’s recipes. When was that? Six or seven months ago? Don’t even try to skimp on the sugar, Alice wrote. It’s Christmas, for crying out loud! John smiles, reading the card.
“What are you doing?”
John jumps at the voice and turns around to see Joan standing in the kitchen doorway leading into the hall. “I was just looking over your aunt DeeDee’s recipe for fudge.”
“Don’t skimp on the sugar,” Joan says, stepping toward him.
“It’s Christmas, for crying out loud,” he adds.
She sits down at the table, reaching for his hand. “Thanks for putting up the Christmas tree this year. Sorry I wasn’t much help.”
He smiles. “The kids had fun. And you did help. You barked orders at us from the sofa.”
She chuckles. “Somebody has to be in charge. Otherwise, it’s chaos.”
“Things were fine until Christopher got hold of the icicles. That’s when chaos broke loose!”
She chuckles, thinking about it. “Who invented icicles anyway?”
“Satan,” he says, making her laugh.
Joan points to the recipe card in his hand. “Do you want to make some?”
He looks up at her. “Now?” She nods. “What about your surgery?”
“That’s two days from now. I can eat all the peanut butter fudge I want today. We could bring the kids in. It would give them a break from pulling the icicles off the tree.” He smiles, looking at her. He knows she’s weak and afraid. He knows she doesn’t have the energy for it right now. “Today’s the day, right?”
He stands up and pulls her to him. “It is.”
“And peanut butter fudge makes everything better, right?”
He laughs. “According to your mom, yes!”
December 2012
Lauren knocks loud enough for Bud to be able to hear and smiles when she hears the door unlocking. A tall, thin, elderly man with snow-white hair smiles back at her. “Mr. Waters?”
The door squeaks as he opens it toward her. “Yeah! Call me Bud, Lauren! Come in!” She enters the small living room with a couch and recliner that are long past worn. “Sit down anywhere.”
She sits at the end of the sofa and looks around the room; the wall behind the sofa is covered with photos, some of them taken on a farm. “Was this your farm?” she says loud enough for the walls to shake.
He stands in front of the couch, peering at the pictures. “Yep. The farm in Grandon.” He pauses for a moment, taking in the picture. “My dad owned it before me.”
“It was a family business?”
Bud shakes his head. “Nah. Ended with me. My boys didn’t want to farm. Can’t blame them. It’s not what it once was. It’s harder than ever to farm.”
“Was it a dairy farm?”
He nods. “The milk that farm produced!” He fades off just thinking about it. “You know, it’s not even a farm anymore. Som
e big shot bought the property and built an enormous house and created pastures for horses. Things change.”
Lauren points at one of the pictures. “Is this your family?”
“That’s Ron. He and his wife live just a few miles from here. He’s an accountant. His kids are grown and spread all over, but they come home when they can. And this picture here is Kevin and his wife, Kathy. You talked to her. He’s been a tire salesman for twenty-five years or so. Their two kids stayed close. They don’t live too far from here.”
“And your wife?” Lauren asks, wondering if she’s asked the wrong thing.
Bud points to a picture of him and his wife standing at the Grand Canyon when they both appeared to be in their seventies. “That’s Elaine. She died four years ago.”
Lauren can see the sadness in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Waters. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“I’m glad you did,” he says, sitting on the recliner. “As a matter of fact, I think I would’ve been offended if you hadn’t. I like it when people ask me about her. Everything I have is because Elaine and I worked together. Couldn’t have done it without her.” Lauren smiles, thinking of Travis. “I can’t help but notice that you’re about to be a mom.”
Lauren puts her hand on her stomach. “I am! I’m due this month.”
“I love being a dad. And a grandpa!” he says in a way that makes Lauren want to cry. “I hope you love being a mom.”
“I think I will,” she says, nodding.
“Would you like any water or anything to drink?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
He settles farther back into the recliner. “You said something about trying to find someone?”
Lauren leans forward, resting her forearms on her knees. “Yes! I bought a table a few months ago and inside a drawer was a huge stack of recipe cards—so many cards that they belong in their own recipe box. All of the recipes are personalized, written from a mother to her daughter. Some of the recipes mention buying milk from Bud. It took me a long time, but I finally found you! Anyway, I don’t think those recipes were meant to be given away. I think they got put into that drawer by accident and someone is missing them. I’m hoping that you can help me find the owner.”
The Christmas Table Page 11