by Cindy Maddox
Her eyes widened. “Oh, that! Yes, of course. New medication. Much less bruising.”
“That’s great,” Jeff replied. “And that blouse does look lovely on you.”
“Thank you. But I don’t think you called me up here to talk about my clothes.” She raised her eyebrows in anticipation.
“No, Mish, I didn’t,” Jeff admitted. “Stephen tells me that you had an interesting visit at the Bluebird Diner recently. I thought I’d check in with you about that.”
Mish narrowed her eyes. “You mean check and see if I fell off my rocker. You heard about me thinking I met Jesus, and you decided to find out if I need a checkup from the neck up.”
“Mish, I do love how you get to the point.”
“Ethan said something like that the other day, too.”
“Ethan? Is that your grandson?”
“Nah. Ethan’s a young man I met at the diner when I went to meet Jesus the second time,” she said dismissively.
“You’ve met Jesus twice?” Uh-oh. This was progressing quickly.
“No, the first time I went, I wasn’t looking for Jesus. I just found her. The second time I thought I would see Jesus, but I met Ethan instead. I gave him Jesus’s message. I think that’s why she wanted me to go. She is using me to spread the word.”
“And what word would that be?” Jeff asked carefully. He knew it was important not to spook Mish if he was going to help her.
“Well, more than one word, actually. Three words. Follow the love.”
Mish smiled at him. She looked so small and innocent that it was hard to believe she was eighty-some years old. “So you met a woman at the diner who said she was Jesus, she told you to follow the love, and now Jesus is sending you on missions, giving you jobs to do, in order to spread the message?”
“That sums it up quite nicely, Pastor Jeff. Nice chatting with you.” She pushed on the armrests and started to rise to her feet.
Jeff held up his hand to stop her. “Not so fast, Mish. We’re not finished here.”
“Pardon me for saying so, Pastor, but yes, we are. I’m on a mission from God, and you don’t seem to believe in my mission. So we don’t have much common ground on this topic. Or were you wanting to talk about something else? Maybe the name of that cake your Stephen made?”
“No, I do not want to talk about that cake,” he answered quickly.
“Then if you don’t mind, I’m going back to my okra station. I gotta follow the love. And the cornmeal.”
Oh, good Lord, she’s losing it. “Follow the cornmeal?” he repeated.
Mish looked at him as if he was dumb as dirt. “For the fried okra. You use cornmeal for the fried okra.” Then she wagged her finger at him. “Pay attention now, Thomas, or you might miss something.”
Jeff inhaled quickly. “Mish,” he began as gently as he could. “My name is Jeff.”
“I wasn’t using it as a name,” she replied. “I was using it as a title.” On that confusing note she turned and left, whistling as she went.
A title? Jeff thought. How is “Thomas” a title?
Then he recognized the tune Mish was whistling. An old children’s Sunday School song about one of Jesus’s disciples. “Don’t be a Doubting Thomas…”
Cute, Mish. Real cute.
***
The bazaar ended at two in the afternoon, and then they had to tear down and clean up, so it was nearly five by the time Mish got home. She heated up some leftover soup Opal had insisted she take, but once she sat down at the kitchen table she just stared at it. It felt like the first few months after Floyd died, when she wasn’t used to eating alone.
But, no, this was different. This wasn’t loneliness, but she didn’t have a word for it.
It wasn’t that she hadn’t loved Floyd. She had. And he hadn’t been a bad man. He just had a temper to beat the band. He kept it in check most of the time. In the early years it had never been directed at her, and he had loved her in his own gruff way. But over the years he got worse. After Bobby left there was lots of yelling and a few thrown plates, but he had never raised a hand to her. Until the last few years. She had heard somewhere that when people get old, they get less able to keep pretending, so they become more of what they always were. What he always was, was angry and mean. As his body started to fail him, he got angrier—and less able to control it. That’s when the hitting started.
She got up and walked into the living room so she could see Floyd’s recliner. She didn’t know why she did it—only talked to Floyd in his chair. Maybe it was because when she looked at that chair, she could see him clear as day, sitting there reading the paper or watching “Wheel of Fortune.”
She took a deep breath. “Floyd, I did something stupid today. And the words ain’t even out of my mouth before I can hear you say ‘What’s new?’ So here’s what’s new, Floyd. I wore short sleeves out in public. I did it without even thinking about it. I knew it was gonna be hot in the kitchen so I grabbed the first cool thing I put my hands on.”
She rushed on before she lost her nerve. “And Pastor Jeff noticed. Remember that time he dropped by for a visit, and he saw those bad bruises on my arm? I told him that they was from some pills the doctor put me on. Today he guessed that the doctor changed my prescription, so I let him believe it. But what if he repeats it? What if one of the ladies starts asking questions? What if they figure it out?”
Mish paused. It was so hard to get these words out. But they’ve stayed unspoke for too long, she thought. It’s time.
“Oh, Floyd, I protected you. I didn’t want the church folks thinking bad of you, especially with you being a trustee and all, so I wore long sleeves. For the last few years, every time I went outside, I wore long sleeves. All summer long, sweating like a whore in church.
“I did it for you, Floyd. To protect you. And okay, maybe I did it a little for me, because I didn’t want to be one of those women that everybody in town pities. But now I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to keep wearing long sleeves every day just to protect the reputation of a man who’s been dead for nearly a year.”
Her words were interrupted by the ding of a text message arriving. “Oh, Jesus! What now!?” she nearly yelled. She immediately felt guilty and changed her tone. She tried again, more apologetic this time. More sincere. “Oh! Jesus! What now?”
She looked at the phone.
I need help.
Her heart jumped at the thought of Jesus needing her help. But wait—last time she wasn’t sure if it was Jesus texting her. Maybe it was just the way Jesus got her to the place she needed to be. She looked again and saw that it was a different number. Still, she had a mission, so she took a deep breath and typed slowly into the phone. What kind of help?
The phone dinged two seconds later.
I’m pregnant.
All right, so not Jesus, she thought. Mish stared at the phone while she tried to figure out how to answer. She wanted to say, “Congratulations,” but if the person needed help, they must not be happy about it. But what else to say? She compromised by adding a question mark. Congratulations?
Seriously?
“Oops, wrong answer.” She tried again, this time more professional-like. I’m sorry. I want to help. Can you tell me about your concern?
I’m 16.
Sixteen? What kind of girl is making hay at sixteen? When Mish was sixteen, all she knew about the birds and the bees was the cows and the bulls. Come to think of it, she wasn’t too sure that was a good way to learn. She figured it did make her unnecessarily nervous on her wedding night. She glanced up at his chair. “No offense, Floyd, but you wasn’t nothing compared to my daddy’s prize bull!”
Her phone dinged again.
So are u going to help me or not? The website said I could text and then meet with someone confidentially.
Website? God had a website for her? Wow. She had
a lot to learn about this mission. Of course. When would you like to meet?
Soon. But do I have to come to your office?
Mish laughed at the idea of her den being called an office. She looked again at the number. It was the right area code and the same first three numbers as her cell phone, so the girl must be local. I can meet you anywhere but west of Charleston would be best.
Perfect. Mercy Park? At 3:15 tomorrow by the fountain.
That wasn’t in town, but it was close. Sure.
How will I recognize you?
Mish looked at Floyd’s chair before answering, biting her lip. I’ll be wearing a flowered blouse. With long sleeves.
Mish arrived at the park early the next day. She was a bit nervous about meeting this young gal who’d gotten in trouble. At Mish’s age, what did she know about what this child was facing?
She looked up at the sky. Hate to question your judgment, but you sure about this? Sure you don’t have anybody else who’d be more fitting? Somebody who remembers the passion of young love? She breathed a heavy sigh and pushed open the metal gate that was hanging by one hinge. Ah well, if I’m the best you got…
She found the fountain behind the first set of hedges, took a seat on a wood bench, and then tried to enjoy her surroundings while she waited. But Mercy Park wasn’t exactly bursting at the seams with good things to look at. Fast food containers and brown paper bags seemed to be hiding under every overgrown bush, and cigarette butts littered the ground at her feet. The words “no mercy” were carved into the bench, making her wonder if maybe Mercy Park was one of those—oh, what were they called? It was a big fancy word that meant the opposite, like jumbo shrimp. Something moron, she thought. Oh, hush, Floyd.
Well, whatever the word was, Mercy Park was one of them. She heard about it on the news sometimes, usually about an arrest for drugs or prostitution. She wondered why the girl picked here to meet.
As soon as she saw the girl, somehow Mish knew it was her. Her shoulders were bent like she carried the weight of the world on them, and no sixteen-year-old girl should look like that. She had long, straight, dark hair and big doe eyes. A doe on the first day of hunting season, Mish thought.
She waited until the girl got near her bench and then said as gently as she could, “Howdy, hon. I believe you’re looking for me. I’m Mish.”
The girl stared at her. Just stared. Like she’d never seen an old woman before. Finally she said, “Seriously?”
“Seriously. Because it’s a pretty serious situation you’re in, ain’t it?”
The girl tucked her hair behind her ear. “I mean, seriously, you’re who they sent?”
Mish was confused. “They? As far as I know, Jesus is the only one who sent me.”
The girl’s eyes widened in obvious fear. “Oh shit! I called the wrong kind of place!” She turned and clearly was about to run.
“Hold it right there, missy! What would your grandma say about you running out on an old lady after she agreed to meet you?”
The girl turned back to Mish with angry tears in her eyes. “I don’t know. She’s dead.”
“Did she pass recently?” Mish patted the bench beside her. “Come sit down, hon, and tell me all about her.”
The girl chewed her thumbnail and nodded, but she didn’t sit down. No, she ain’t a doe, Mish thought. She’s an unbroke colt who ain’t yet learned who’s safe.
As she waited for a response, she wondered if she’d said the right thing. She didn’t know what made her think of mentioning the girl’s grandma—it just popped out. Maybe that’s how it was when you’re on a mission. The words just come to you. She tried again. “You was close, I can tell. She must’ve loved you something fierce.” And that’s when the dam broke. Before Mish knew it, the girl had sunk down on the bench beside her, crying fit to burst. And once she got talking, she couldn’t seem to stop. Her grandmother had lived nearby, and they’d always been close. Her parents both worked and her grandmother was the one who met her off the school bus when she was younger. They spent lots of time together. Then about four months ago she up and died. Just like that, no warning, no nothing. The girl had gone to her house after school and found her body on the floor.
Mish was mostly quiet through it all, just responding with the right kind of sounds to help the girl know she was being heard. When the girl finally seemed to run out of steam, Mish decided it was her turn. “And now you’re in trouble and she’s the only person you want to talk to,” she began. “And you’re mad at her for leaving you even though you know it weren’t her fault. And then you’re mad at yourself for being mad at her because what kind of grandchild is mad at her own grandma for dying?” The girl didn’t respond. “Am I right?” Mish pressed.
The girl shook her head and swallowed hard. “No. I don’t want her to know at all, but people keep telling me she’s, like, in heaven watching over me. If that’s true, she already knows, and she must be so ashamed.”
Mish stroked the girl’s hand, just like she used to do for Livie. “She might be disappointed, but the kind of love you described? That’s not the kind that gets ashamed. That’s the kind that just hurts for you. She might be disappointed in what you done, but she still loves you. Take it from a grandma. I know.”
The girl nodded and blew her nose.
“Listen, hon. I need to call you something other than ‘hon.’ What’s your name?”
“Um…Ann.”
Mish hadn’t raised a rebellious son without knowing a lie when she heard one, but she knew better than to push it. “Okay, ‘Um Ann.’ I’m Mish. Now let’s back up a second. I think I’m missing a few pieces to this here puzzle. I need to figure out what you are and are not willing to tell me, all right?”
Ann nodded.
“Can you tell me who the father is?”
Ann shook her head.
“Because you don’t know or you won’t say?”
“I won’t say,” Ann mumbled.
“All right then. Should I assume he will not be any help with raising this child?” Ann nodded. “Do you know how far along you are?”
“Seven weeks,” she mumbled again.
“Are you sure?” Mish asked. “It can be hard to pinpoint these things.”
“I’m sure,” she said, and she sounded it.
Hmm. Mish had to think about that one. If the girl knew exactly when it happened, she must not have been making hay all over the place. Maybe it was a one-time thing, just one mistake. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t at risk for other troubles.
“What about DVDs?” Ann looked at her like she had three heads and one of them was on fire. Was she really that naïve? “Come on, honey. DVDs. The herpes and the syphilis and stuff like that.”
Ann started laughing. And she laughed and laughed until tears ran down her face. Mish’s feelings were kind of hurt, but she figured the child probably hadn’t laughed for a while so she let her get on with it. Finally, Ann choked out, “You mean STDs. Sexually Transmitted Diseases.”
Mish caught onto the joke. “Yes, that’s what I meant! Wait. What the heck are DVDs? I know I’ve heard of them.”
“Movies,” Ann explained. “They come on discs.”
“Oh, right! The ones that replaced the BHS tapes! Now I remember. So when I asked—”
“I thought you were asking if I had a movie of—of—when I got pregnant!” Ann said, still wiping tears off her face.
“Oh, I hope not. You got enough of a souvenir!” Mish chuckled but stopped when she saw the smile fade from the child’s face. She patted her hand again. “So about those STDs,” she said kindly.
Ann shook her head. “I don’t know. I just—don’t know.”
“We’ll see about getting you tested.” Mish didn’t actually know what that meant, but she’d heard that phrase before, getting tested. She’d figure it out.
Ann nodded.
“Listen, can I ask you a personal question?”
“It seems like we’re getting pretty personal here, so I’d say so.”
“Do they not train you before they send you out? I mean, no offense, seriously. You’re really sweet and I like talking to you. But I thought they’d, like, make sure you knew about STDs before they sent you to meet with somebody.”
Mish had to figure out how to respond. This was the second time the girl said they had sent her. As far as she knew, it was just Jesus who sent her, but maybe the whole trinity was involved. She wasn’t sure how that worked. So she did what she had learned long ago when she didn’t know how to answer: answer with another question.
“What do you think?”
“Well, I know there’ve been lots of government cuts. Maybe they can’t afford training anymore?”
“Government cuts?” Mish blurted out. “Since when does the government have any say in what Jesus does?” As soon as she saw Ann’s eyes widen, she knew she’d made a mistake. “I’m sorry, honey,” she hurried on, realizing she better come clean. “I think maybe there’s been some kind of misunderstanding.” Then a thought occurred to her. “Where did you get my number?”
“From the women’s resource center website. Why?” Suddenly she seemed to understand. “Shit, I must have written the number down wrong. I didn’t want to look it up on my own phone because I didn’t want it to show up on my browser history. So I looked it up at school, and it listed several numbers. I was impressed they had an option for texting but I was in a hurry, so I must’ve made a mistake.”
Mish didn’t know what a browser history was, but she kept quiet.
“If you’re not from the women’s resource center, then who are you?” The girl’s eyes widened even further. “Oh, wow. You’re just a nice old lady who got my message and drove down here to help some kid she never met.”
Mish didn’t know how to explain why she was there. “Well, something like that, I guess. I’m really just trying to follow the love.”