In the Neighborhood of Normal

by Cindy Maddox

  Mish caught him staring at her and winked. He smiled back. She looked awfully pale, but her eyes were twinkling and she looked like she’d never been happier. Perhaps she hadn’t. Bobby was sitting beside her, solicitous and caring as he held the hymnal for her, then whispering something to her that made her smile.

  After the hymn, he read the scripture she had chosen—nothing shall separate us from the love of God—and then he delivered his homily. He spoke of faith and doubt, of purpose and calling, of love and where it leads. He tried to be truthful, preaching only what he could honestly say he believed. There wasn’t much God talk. He didn’t know what he believed. But he knew he believed in love. And he believed in Mish.

  ***

  Juliann’s hands were sweaty. She was clinging so tightly to the red spiral bound notebook that she had little curved lines on the palm of her hand. She let go of the notebook and wiped her hands on her thighs. The fabric of her borrowed dress was a little slick and not very absorbent, but it was better than nothing.

  Pastor Jeff was talking, but she wasn’t listening. She just let his words wash over her, the rhythm and pitch of his voice soothing her. She was up next. She didn’t know how she was going to do it, how she was going to keep from crying. She was so relieved, so grateful, that she cried every time she thought about what might have happened.

  She had spent hours reading Mish’s poetry, looking for the right one for the service. After reading through the red notebook that she knew was in Mish’s crochet bag, she saw a bookshelf full of similar notebooks. They were all filled with poems. Most of them—she had to be honest—were not good by poetry standards. They were full of inconsistent rhythms and forced rhymes and occasionally a metaphor so bad it would have been laughable. But they were also filled with Mish’s unique view of the world. There were poems about little things, like the daisies next to the manure pile, and big things, like her concerns about the future of the country. There was sweetness and laughter, worry and fear. In other words, there was life. There was Mish.

  The right poem had been in the first book, though. In fact, it was the last poem Mish had written before she ended up in the hospital.

  Juliann was really nervous about speaking—her public speaking experience was limited to class presentations and oral reports. She’d never read anybody’s poem out loud, and especially not her own. She also wondered about how people would react to her being asked to speak. They had all known Mish so much longer, so much better. But it was Mish’s request so there was no way she could refuse.

  An elbow in her side drew her back to the present, and she suddenly realized Pastor Jeff had stopped talking. Her mother gave her a smile of encouragement, and Juliann stood from the second row, climbed the steps to the platform, and took her place at the podium.

  “My name is Juliann,” she said softly as she opened the notebook where she’d written down her speech. Suddenly Pastor Jeff was at her side. He pulled the microphone closer to her mouth. She nodded and tried again. “My name is Juliann,” she repeated, and this time she heard her voice magnified through the sound system. “In just two weeks Mish Atkinson changed my life. We met each other by accident. I made a mistake when I wrote down a telephone number, and even though she had no idea who I was, she came to my rescue. I almost ran at first. I didn’t think this crazy old lady in her flowered blouse would be able to help me with my teenage problems.” When she heard a few chuckles in response to her words, she looked up from her notes. Mish was smiling at her, and so was everyone else. She felt her shoulders relax just a bit.

  “But before I knew it, I was spilling my guts and she was making me feel like she had known me my whole life. There is something about her that just makes you feel safe. She says it’s because she is strange. ‘An odd duck’ she calls herself. She says she is glad she’s odd because it makes people feel like they can be themselves with her. I don’t know if it works for others, but it sure worked for me. I told her one day that she had become like a cross between a best friend and a grandma. So I call her my ‘best-grand.’

  “When she was in the hospital, she asked me to read two poems at her service—one of hers and one of mine. I’ll read hers first.” She cleared her throat again before beginning to read.

  I might’ve been wrong. It’s hard to tell.

  I don’t always hear right, can’t always tell

  when someone is kidding or has something to sell.

  I might’ve been wrong. It’s hard to tell.

  I might’ve been wrong. It’s hard to say

  to jump right in, to go away.

  I might’ve been wrong to simply obey

  but I’d rather be wrong than walk away.

  I followed the love, and I have no doubt

  that following love is what life’s about

  so maybe I’m crazy or on my way out,

  but I followed the love, and I won’t back out.

  I followed the love and it leads me still

  when the road is easy or all uphill,

  though others may question, I never will

  I followed the love and it leads me still.

  Juliann looked out at the audience to see a mix of tears and smiles. Some of them, like Mish’s daughter-in-law, cried openly. Mish’s son used a white handkerchief to wipe his eyes. Mish didn’t even bother to wipe hers.

  But Juliann was only halfway done. She still had to read her poem, and it was hard to read it in front of so many people. It had rough edges and fast rhythms and could only be spoken with fierce passion.

  “This is the poem I wrote for her when I was afraid she was—when I didn’t know if she was going to make it. Mish, I hope you like it.” She took a deep breath. It was now or never. She began to read.

  I am smart.

  They’ve been telling me that my whole life

  as if whole were the sum of the parts of my soul

  and integers gave absolute value to my existence

  and alpha particles could explain my amorphous matter.

  I am smart.

  They’ve been telling me that my whole life.

  I know things.

  I can explain capacitive reactance and anti-matter

  and discuss the anti-climax of The Grapes of Wrath

  and what it means to breastfeed a starving stranger

  I know things.

  But I don’t know how to give without fear.

  I don’t know how to welcome without motive.

  I don’t know how to love without reason or rhyme

  I’ve had little time for freedom

  and little room for faith

  and little cause for hope

  and I have little hands for holding on.

  You taught me how.

  I am smart

  But you are wise

  and in your eyes I saw the reflection

  of a me I didn’t dare to believe.

  I am smart enough to decide what matters

  brave enough to determine my own absolute value

  bold enough to drink the wine of vision and vice

  and pay my own price for pleasure.

  I will not give in to the pressure on my spine

  to bend

  to another’s will

  to bow

  to another’s wish

  to hang my head

  for someone else’s shame.

  I am not to blame

  I will not lower

  my gaze

  my expectations,

  my flag to half of what I can be.

  I can be

  smart and silly

  scared and still brave

  the second-oddest duck on my lake of dreams.

  You taught me how.

  So I will not let death take you,

  remake you,
/>   or erase you from my heart.

  You were my greatest teacher

  my best-grand

  the best hand I ever held.

  It holds me

  still.

  The silence was so thick that Juliann thought they must have hated it. But then she realized why everyone was silent. Mish had handed her dog to her son and was slowly, painstakingly, pushing herself up out of her wheelchair. Once she got to her feet, she began to clap, and the whole audience joined in. Mish was smiling from ear to ear even as tears poured down her face.

  They were an odd pair, she and Mish. But it worked. They worked. And to whoever or whatever started Mish on this strange journey, Juliann was thankful.

  ***

  Mish looked around the crowded room. She still couldn’t believe so many people showed up for her celebration. It took forever and a day to get through the line of folks waiting to greet her, and now everybody was mingling and chatting. Except one. Ethan had been standing against the wall sipping a glass of punch, but now he was edging toward the door. She waggled her fingers at Juliann, who immediately bent down beside her wheelchair.

  “Go stop that young man by the door,” she whispered. “Tell him I want to speak with him.” Juliann returned a minute later with Ethan in tow. “Now go find Emma,” she instructed Juliann.

  “The girl who texts for advice about clothes?”

  “That’s the one,” Mish confirmed with a smile. She’d been planning this introduction for some time. She took Ethan by the hand. “So have you found your Miss Right yet?”

  He ducked his head as he blushed. “Not yet. But you told me to follow the love so I haven’t given up.”

  “Good. Because here’s your chance.” She saw Juliann returning with Emma. “And compliment her clothes,” she whispered before the girls arrived.

  “Mish, you wanted to see me?” Emma asked, her eyes darting from Mish to Ethan and back again.

  “I surely do. My friend Ethan here was about to leave our little gathering because he doesn’t know anybody here, and I want him to stick around for a while. I was wondering if you’d be willing to keep him company.”

  “Um, yeah, I guess,” she stammered. Then she looked at Ethan. “I mean, sure, I’d love to,” she said with a smile.

  Ethan smiled back. “That’s a really nice jacket.”

  “Thanks! So how do you know Mish?”

  “Oh, don’t talk about me,” Mish interrupted. “That’s boring. I’m sure you two young people have more interesting things than me to talk about. Go on,” she urged, waving her hands. They laughed, and turned away, still talking.

  Mish motioned to Juliann again. “I’m getting tired but—”

  “Are you okay?” Juliann interrupted. “Do you need anything? Should we take you back to the nursing home?”

  “It’s a rehab center,” Mish corrected her kindly, “and I’m all right for now. But I am running out of gas and need to talk to Pastor Jeff before I leave. Can you take me to him?”

  “Of course! Let’s go find him.” She pushed the chair through the crowd, which parted easily for them, everyone smiling at Mish as she passed.

  “On second thought, just take me back to the sanctuary. Then bring Pastor Jeff to me there.”

  When Juliann left her, Mish took the opportunity to enjoy the calm away from the bustle of the reception. She wasn’t sure why she was so tired after just sitting in a chair for a few hours. She’d had similar conversations with Sheila, the nurse back at the rehab center. Every time she complained about being tired, Sheila reminded her that she’d just had brain surgery, for crying out loud. To which Mish always replied, “Sure, but I slept through the whole thing!”

  She reached up to scratch behind her ear, then pulled off the purple hat and rubbed her hand across her head. Her hair was starting to grow back. She wouldn’t have worn the hat at all except for the scar. It still looked kind of Frankensteiny and she didn’t want to make people uncomfortable. She was putting the hat back on when Pastor Jeff came in and sat down on the front pew, facing her. “Thank you for the beautiful service.”

  His smile was warm and full of love. “I’m just so glad you were here to enjoy it.”

  “So how are you?” Mish asked.

  He brushed away her question. “Oh, I’m fine. The real question is how are you?”

  “No, the real question,” Mish corrected, “is the one I just asked. And Jeff?” He didn’t meet her eyes. “I want the truth this time. You’ve visited several times since my surgery, but we’ve never named the bull in the room.”

  Jeff chuckled. “I think the expression you’re looking for is the elephant in the room.”

  “I’ve lived on a farm all my life,” she replied. “There’s a much bigger chance of a bull in my living room than an elephant. Plus, I’m pretty good at recognizing bullshit when I see it. So don’t tell me you’re fine. You’ve been in a spiritual crisis for months now.”

  Jeff let out a heavy sigh. “You heard me in the hospital, didn’t you?”

  “When you said I could die as a result of having faith? Or when you professed your love for me and said the age difference didn’t matter?”

  His hand flew to his mouth. “No, Mish, I didn’t—” His hand dropped to his heart and he leaned toward her. “I mean, I don’t know what you heard—and I love you but not in that way and—and Stephen—”

  Mish burst out laughing. “Take a breath, Jeff! I know you never said that!” He flopped back against the pew, his hand still at his heart and his head thrown back. “But notice which one of those statements you argued with.”

  Jeff was silent for a long time, eyes closed. If he was her age, she would think he’d fallen asleep. But he finally whispered, “I’m so ashamed.”

  “Whatever for?”

  He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. “I’m supposed to be your pastor. I’m supposed to be the one with all the faith, and with at least some of the answers. Instead you have seen me at my worst. You’d already heard me say I wasn’t sure I believed in God, and then when I said that in the hospital—well, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to become your pastor again.”

  “When you said that, in the hospital, did you hear my response?”

  “You said it didn’t matter,” he replied, still not meeting her eye.

  “Good. I wasn’t sure if I had said that out loud.” She paused, trying to find the right words. It was important that Jeff understand this. “It’s like with that Jesus woman. The woman I met in the diner?”

  He finally looked her in the eyes. “Yes?”

  “I have a confession to make.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t know if she’s real.”

  Jeff’s brow furrowed. “Of course she’s real. She’s—”

  “I know she’s a real person,” Mish corrected, “but I don’t know for sure that she is Jesus. That’s what I meant in my poem. Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter.”

  “How can you say that? Of course it matters. Why else would you have risked everything—”

  “Because she was real to me. She told me to follow the love. How can that be bad? I got to go on a grand adventure. I got to meet interesting people. I got to help some of them. I even got me a dog. Why does it matter whether she was Jesus or not?”

  “Because you almost died!” Jeff argued.

  “Oh, so you want someone to blame? If the woman was Jesus, then you get to blame God? And if she wasn’t, then you get to blame me, for believing? Or you get to blame fate or Juliann or some guy in a park who—”

  “Yes! I blame him! You never would have met him if you hadn’t—”

  “No!” Mish said with all the strength she possessed. “I will forgive you for just about anything, Jeff. I will forgive you for doubting me. I will forgive you for doubting God. I will forgive you for far more than you’ll ever fo
rgive yourself. But I will not forgive you if you steal my miracle. It’s mine, and I will not let you make it small and grubby. It saved me. It saved Juliann. Hell, it saved Honeybear. It doesn’t matter if you believe. It doesn’t matter if she was Jesus. You judge a tree by its fruit. And it’s damn good fruit.”

  When she finished her speech, she felt all the energy leave her. She hardly noticed the tears as they fell. Then she felt the hands around hers.

  “You’re right,” he whispered. “It is damn good fruit.”

  She looked up at him, the tears in his eyes matching her own. “I just wanted to follow the love,” she whispered.

  “I know, and you did.”

  “And I ain’t done yet so don’t be thinking we’re through,” she said, regaining her fire. “I still got me some living to do, and I’m gonna keep following the love until the day I die,” she promised. “And maybe a few days more.”

  “I’m counting on it,” he assured her.

  “Thank you, Pastor Jeff,” she said, squeezing his hand. “But you better hold on tight.” She grinned. “It’s gonna be a helluva ride.”

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank Jackie for forcing me to go to a writers’ meetup, which prompted me to get off my butt and finally start writing beyond the third chapter of this book. The meetup dissolved but a small writing group formed, adding Joan and Alice to my team of supporters and cheerleaders. Their kind critiques were invaluable in my writing and editing process. Thanks also to Salt and Sage Books for the excellent developmental edit, and to Nancy for the title idea.

  I also want to thank all the wonderful “church ladies” I have been privileged to know over the years. Thank you for inviting me into your lives.

  Big thanks to everyone at Regal Publishing, especially Jaynie Royal, who shared my vision for the work, and Pam Van Dyk for helping my writing to shine.

  And finally, I thank my family. Jackie, you may call me your angel, but you keep me from flying in circles. And to my darling children, Amelia and Joshua: although your demands on my time may have slowed the writing, you have always been my greatest teachers. I am a better person for your presence in my life.