'Til I Want No More

by Robin W. Pearson

  He chose a pen from the caddy on the corner of his desk and sketched a rectangle in the center of the first blank page. “You see, this big rectangle is the bigger picture, the finished puzzle. It’s how I see you as a couple.” He created wiggly-edged “squares” within the rectangle. Then he roughed in pictures on a few of them that overlapped to other pieces.

  “Now I see these smaller pictures as the experiences and people that interconnect and interlock, making you two . . . you. They’re your likes and dislikes, your interests and hobbies, your families.” He used the pen to show the outline of the rectangle. “You wouldn’t be complete without these important parts. But your different parts should fit together, complement each other.” He pointed to the squiggles. “You just have to look really closely to see all those tiny pictures.” The reverend crossed his hands on his desk. “Now is probably a good time for us to talk about the next step.”

  Teddy and Maxine stared in silence at his metaphorical masterpiece.

  “You need to spend some intentional, quality two-on-two time with other couples. Sharpen some iron, so to speak.”

  Maxine swallowed. “What couples?”

  “Well, Maxine, that’s up to you. Do you have married friends or family members you’d voluntarily spend a couple hours with? You would probably feel more comfortable in a natural setting.”

  “Like seeing a lion on a safari instead of at the zoo?”

  “Well said, Theodore.” Atwater laughed. “Really, though. I’d like you to choose three or four couples over the next six months and spend twenty-four hours total with each of them.”

  “Uh—”

  “Okay, Maxine, for you, twelve to eighteen. At least. And not for counseling or all at once. Drive over to Thomasville to shop for furniture and eat some barbecue. Visit the natural history museum in Raleigh. Hike or enjoy a long picnic. Just invest some time doing what you enjoy . . . together. Stretch it out between now and the wedding. All I ask is, invest quality time in people who help you interlock your marriage pieces.” He tapped his crude drawing of a puzzle as he looked at them. “Who help make you you. Frankly, you’ll probably get more out of those interactions than sitting here looking at me. How does that sound?”

  Teddy squeezed Maxine’s hand. “Doable. Max?”

  She nodded, grateful they’d at last found common ground. “Do we have to report in? Show you a signed and stamped time sheet at our next session?”

  “Let’s say we’re on the honor system. This isn’t for me, after all. It’s for you. Come up with some suggestions—or even go on your first date—before we see each other next time. If you want to talk about it when we meet, fine. If not, also fine.”

  He paused. “Now is there anything you want to share in these last few minutes we have together? Lilian would tell me I’ve done more than my share of talking.” He ripped in two what he’d called their marriage and dropped it in the wastebasket under the desk.

  The once-and-future bride gasped.

  The minister looked confused. “What? Oh, I’m sorry! Did you want me to save that?”

  Chapter Eight

  “ARE YOU SURE YOU’RE NOT HUNGRY?”

  “And you are?”

  Theodore never looked away from the dark road stretching before them. “Well, it is Valentine’s Day. Most couples eat dinner together. Especially a young engaged couple with a reservation at Marino’s. I know I promised to cook, but since we had that session scheduled, I thought eating out would be easier than whipping something up at home.”

  But not as romantic, Maxine wanted to say. Since leaving the church, she’d sat like a spoon stuck in a bowl of cold grits. Stiff and unmoving. Aside from announcing she wanted to skip dinner altogether, she’d only mumbled her available dates for their next meeting. She’d rebuffed Teddy’s offer to open her car door with a quick shake of her head and had been staring wordlessly out the window at the shadowy outlines of the houses and trees.

  “Maxine, I know I’ve already said it, but it merits saying again. You’re not yourself. You haven’t been since I picked you up at your apartment. I almost didn’t recognize you at church during your outburst, and now you’re stewing.”

  “I wouldn’t call it an outburst, and I’m not stewing, Theodore.” Maxine picked at one of the edges of clear tape affixed to the crumpled sheet of paper in her lap.

  He sighed and squeezed the steering wheel. “Okay, then what would you call it?”

  “A difference of opinion—and that’s healthy, according to your pastor.”

  “Oh, so he’s my pastor now.” He reached across the console between the seats. “You know you can talk to me. I want to hear what’s going on in your mind, even if we don’t agree.”

  No, you don’t want to hear anything of the kind, Teddy. Maxine squeezed his fingers and then she covered their clasp with her free right hand. She tried to shrug off the meeting as well as the memories of the earlier part of her day, but the burden on her shoulders wouldn’t let her. One face continued to cling to her, refusing to let go with the casual movement. She forced her lips into a facsimile of a smile. “Maybe it’s a mild case of pre-wedding jitters.”

  “Nooo, I don’t think so.”

  Maxine’s heart dropped to her toes.

  “I’d call it a major case. Nearly fatal.” He grinned weakly. “Happy Valentine’s Day?”

  “Happy Valentine’s Day.” She detected the relief in his eyes, felt the tension in his body ease. “So . . . besides me, who else would you want to invest an entire day in? Or excuse me, at least half a day.”

  Teddy glanced at her.

  “You know, the couples we’re supposed to double-date over the next six months.”

  “O-o-h-h! Well, you know I’m relatively new to town, and I’ve only recently become half of our couple. Guys don’t generally do couple friends on their own.”

  Maxine laughed. “So there’s no one in your art department?”

  “Funny, but no. It’s probably not a good idea to mix business with pleasure anyway. What about that friend of yours—Evelyn, is it?”

  She peered at the road. Evelyn and Kevin should be a shoo-in, but . . . JD. Maxine tried to dispel his image.

  “That’s a no for you?”

  “No, no . . . I mean, yes . . . no! That’s a great idea. I wish we could go out with Uncle Roy and whoever he’s dating at the moment, but he’s impossible to nail down. How about Mama Ruby and Granddaddy instead? And maybe my parents. It’ll give you time to get to know them better, and I’ll get to see them in a grown-up light. That’s not too much Owens family for you, is it?”

  “Maybe.” Teddy waited a beat. “Ha! Gotcha. Actually, it sounds perfect. A mix of age ranges and years of marriage. When my mother joins my dad here once their house in New Orleans sells, we can double-date with them. Until then, I can see spending twenty-four hours with those couples.” He reached for her hand.

  “More like a whole lifetime,” she murmured and kissed his fingertips. She soaked up the peace between them for a moment. “I think I got my appetite back. Let’s go to Marino’s.”

  ________

  My Daily Grace—Matters of the Hearts . . . and Flowers

  I wonder if your day was full of surprises, hearts and flowers, love and romance, and time with loved ones. That’s the way Valentine’s Day is meant to be, isn’t it? Well, that’s the way I planned my day: chock-full of hearts and flowers and time with Hubby-to-be. But it seems I forgot to check in with God about my plans, because that’s not quite how things turned out.

  Most of you know I’m getting married this year, so this is my last Valentine’s Day as a single woman. And you know how I’m handling it? I’m not. And it seems I’m not alone when it comes to change. I’ve learned from your calls, letters, emails, DMs, and tweets that my struggles have resonated with many of you enduring your own life’s changes—expected and unexpected. Thank you for your prayers, advice, and love. I’ve been trying to take your advice to heart, even the hard-hitting words
to this not-so-wise future bride.

  The thing is, God isn’t satisfied with just a little remodeling. He wants to gut the whole building, take me down to the bare studs and reveal the cracks in my foundation. He has a way of putting His hand on everything, of shaping and molding me to becoming the person—and wife—I need to be. I’m learning it’s not just my name and address that need to change. It’s my whole view on life, how I see myself and my world, how I relate to the people around me, who and how I trust.

  And trust Him to leave no stone unturned. Today God even put His handprint on the way I celebrated this holiday by teaching me about love—and it ain’t all hearts and flowers. It’s loving through thick, thin, and everything in between. Loving the warts and the frog that peed on me. He’s showing me that loving isn’t just planning a wedding—picking a menu, reserving a church, or finding that perfect ring and gown. It’s about planning a marriage. Something I thought I knew about. And not just a marriage between Hubby-to-be and me, but between the great I AM and me.

  My day turned out to be full of heart-pounding twists and turns, just not the ones I expected. I’m grateful that even when the best-laid plans fail, Jesus never does. First Corinthians 13:8-13 puts it best (now, get ready, because this is a long one):

  Love never fails. But whether there are prophecies, they will fail; whether there are tongues, they will cease; whether there is knowledge, it will vanish away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part. But when that which is perfect has come, then that which is in part will be done away. When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known. And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.

  Maxine hit Submit, wishing she felt known by more than the readers she freely bared her heart to. After gently sliding her laptop beneath her night table, she turned off the lamp and tucked herself in bed, pulling up the yellow Egyptian cotton sheets and heavy salmon-colored duvet to her chin. When she scooted down, the glow-in-the-dark clockface drew her eyes—1:52—before they skipped to the vase of chrysanthemums—a dozen real blooms from Teddy that served as a foretaste of the wedding bouquets-in-waiting. They’d finished two movies before she’d sent her groggy fiancé home. Sleepy herself now, Maxine closed her eyes and focused on Karen Carpenter singing about rainy days and Mondays. “It’s Valentine’s Day that gets me down, Karen,” she mumbled and rolled to her other side.

  JD always laughed at my love of seventies music.

  Maxine’s eyes flew open and she flipped over onto her back. “I don’t care what you used to laugh about, Jay,” she announced to the ceiling. As if to prove it to the furniture, she reached for her phone. Less than a minute ticked off in the time it took her to select a playlist and reclaim her spot between the sheets. She closed her eyes as MercyMe flooded the room.

  She opened them and found herself staring at the mannequins in the window of Kleinfeld. “Ooh! I’ll go in. If I can’t find the perfect wedding gown in New York, I can’t find it anywhere.” She pushed open the door and looked up to the tinkling bells above her. “That’s strange. That never happened on the TV show.”

  Maxine strolled through the aisles. She pushed aside layers of tulle . . . satin and silk . . . sheer bodices . . . beads, bling, and sequins . . . and tripped over a three-foot-long chiffon train. She looked down at her feet. Plastic scuba flippers?

  “Here, let me.” A familiar voice floated from above as a soft hand cupped her elbow and helped her to her feet.

  Maxine brushed off her polka-dot, cotton pajamas—why in the world was she wearing pj’s and flippers in Kleinfeld?—and looked up. “You’re Randy from Say Yes to the Dress! But it doesn’t sound like you.”

  Randy smiled. “I’m here to help you. What do you need?”

  She stared at him, trying to meld his rich baritone with his well-cut, gelled salt-and-pepper hair and dapper suit.

  “Maxine, you’re getting married in two weeks. We need to get started.”

  “Two weeks? But I thought I had ten months! Oh no! Kleinfeld will make me buy from the sample room, and I’m nowhere near a sample size! What am I going to do?”

  “I know exactly what to do. Now if you’re getting married underwater, you’re going to need—”

  “Underwater? I’m not getting—”

  “Of course you are!” Randy took her hand and led her to a row of colorful gowns. “It’s time to take the plunge, girlfriend!” His deep laugh reverberated off the walls of the store. “Here, try this on. It’ll show off your beautiful figure.”

  She plucked at the bold flowers dotting the shimmery lace. “But I can’t wear hot pink and yellow. Mother would have a fit. Maybe candlelight, or okay, I could try blush. But hot pink? Yellow? Not on my wedding day!” She handed the gown back to him. “Let’s go over there.”

  But Randy was handing her a shimmery black number with a satiny red hem. “This. This.”

  “Red. Black . . . Oh, I can’t wear white. I can’t wear white.” She buried her head in her hands. “What was I thinking? It doesn’t matter that I got baptized. I can’t wear white this time.”

  Randy dropped the gown. Organza pooled at his feet, but it didn’t trip him up because he seemed to float over to her. “No, no, love. Don’t cry. It doesn’t matter what you wear when you wade in the water. Hot pink, yellow, polka dots, or stripes. The blood will clean it. Your dress will be white as snow.”

  “I don’t understand. The blood . . . ? Where?” Maxine looked at her hands and feet. She contorted her body, trying to check every inch.

  His warm laugh flowed over her, covering her from head to toe. “No, flesh of my flesh. You’re not hurt. You’re healed. You just see the outside. But it doesn’t matter what you wear, because it’s the heart that’s important.”

  “My heart?”

  “No. Mine. Why don’t you wake up? You need to answer the phone.”

  “Oh! That was the tinkling I heard! The phone, but where is it?” Maxine felt in the tiny pocket on her pajama top and patted her hips. No cell phone. She dropped to her knees, her flippers in the air, and felt along the floor. She peeked under the organza puddle. “The phone. I can hear it, but where is it?”

  Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling. Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling.

  “What . . . ? Wh . . . ?” Half-asleep, Maxine felt along the top of the night table. Something clattered to the floor. Awake at last, she threw the covers aside, dropped to her knees, and lifted the white cotton bed skirt. She stretched under the bed until two fingers snagged the phone. Buzzz. Buzzz. She dragged it close enough to hit the green button. “H-hello?”

  “Maxine Owens?”

  “Yes, yes.” Maxine’s heart raced. She wriggled her toes in the silky fronds of her rug. No flippers. “Who’s calling?”

  “Dr. Stacy Jackson at Virtua Memorial. You need to come down as soon as possible.”

  Suddenly awake, Maxine blinked in the bright morning sunshine squinting through the closed shutters. She retrieved her glasses and slipped them on. She never could seem to hear well without them. “The hospital? Dr. Jackson?” She cleared her throat and pulled off the satin cap keeping her hair back. Curls draped her shoulders.

  “Your sister, Celeste Owens, is in the emergency room.”

  “Celeste? What—?” Maxine glanced at the clock: 9:26. Okay, it’s 9:26 and today is Wed—no, Thursday. Where is Celeste on Thursdays at 9:26? “But Celeste has her music lesson now. She’s practicing her solo. For the concert.”

  “No, Miss Owens. Celeste collapsed during her lesson, and her instructor called an ambulance. We can’t reach your parents—John and Vivienne Owens, correct?”

  “I—”

  “Maxine. We need you to come down to the hospital. Now. For your sister, Celeste.” Dr. Jackson had dropped the careful, gentle tone. In a second, her voice went from
patient to brusque, urgent. “It could be her heart.”

  March

  “If your tears had words, what would they say?”

  ROSE MERIWEATHER

  Chapter Nine

  MAXINE LEANED BACK, relishing the sounds of the brass, woodwinds, strings, and percussion playing tag with each other during the warm-up. The trills, tweets, toots, rat-a-tats, bellows, and strums ricocheted off the walls of the nearly empty auditorium, but it was all background music to Maxine. Her eyes were fixed stage left, on the girl wearing the red turtleneck sweater cradling the double bass. Just as they’d been for more than three weeks, since Celeste collapsed during her private lesson.

  Today, Maxine hadn’t dropped off Celeste at orchestra and headed to Sassafras, the library, or some other nearby spot to wait and write. Instead, she set up shop right under the balcony to enjoy the music and work on her latest post. When the musicians finished their warm-ups and launched into the first piece, however, Maxine’s fingers froze after typing My Daily Grace. The bright stage lights conjured up images of the thirteen-year-old on a hospital examination table; the sounds of the flutes peeking up from the other instruments reminded her of Celeste’s heartbeat on the monitor.

  Doctors were still prodding and poking the girl. Yet she took it all in stride—the tests, the attention, the fretting. The unknown. Something Maxine had a hard time doing. She wanted to count every beat, hold a mirror under Celeste’s nose while she slept, make the teen quit orchestra and do all her classes from her white four-poster bed.

  “Doesn’t God have us all in His hand, Maxine?” Mother had reminded her earlier that day.

  Maxine watched her shave the carrots before dropping them into the colander in the sink. “Yes, but—”

  “Butts are for kneelin’ and prayin’.” Vivienne turned on the faucet and gently swirled around the vegetables she was preparing for a dinner Manna was catering.