Phoebe and the Rock of Ages

by Becky Doughty

  ARE you just avoiding me? Did I do something or say something to make you hate me? I know I’m not the nicest person in the world, even on a good day, but I can’t be held completely responsible for anything I said in the throes of labor. That’s not fair, and you know it. If it’s a project, just tell me, okay? I’ll be offended about your priorities, but at least I’ll know why you’re not coming around. But come on. A new baby,

  Phoebe! Another Gustafson Girl!

  Please, Phoebe. Please come visit us. Come hold Charise. Come laugh at how wobbly my belly is—the boys have had quite a hoot over it. Tim, of course, won’t allow us to make fun of it in his presence; he says it’s disrespectful. He’s right, I know, but part of me wants to push his buttons a little, test him, I guess. See if he still thinks it’s so great to suddenly have the responsibility of a ready-made family. But the man might be as stubborn as I am—he insists I’m still beautiful - he says I’m radiant - ha! - can you believe it? I know he’s just blinded by love for this precious baby girl who’s taken up residence in our throng of boys.

  The boys are so cute with her, even Jude. He keeps hugging her head and whispering something in her ear. He won’t tell me what he says, and although he’s really quite gentle with her, every once in a while, I wonder if I should be worried. He gets this look in his eye… I mean, he’s been the baby around here for a long time now. You and he have a connection, Phoebe. What do you think? Should I intervene?

  Phoebe, I didn’t get to thank you properly for everything you did. I didn’t even say goodbye—you left without saying goodbye. I’m sure it all must have been overwhelming, but you should have stayed, at least long enough to let me tell you that I love you.

  I’m not mad, okay? I just want to know you’re okay.

  Ren

  Phoebe closed her inbox; she didn’t want to read any more emails from family members asking if she was all right. For one thing, she wasn’t all right. And in the state she was currently in, she didn’t know if she’d ever be all right. She just wanted to stay hidden away in her customized art-studio bungalow, have people bring her food—when is that pizza getting here?—and wait for the world to end so she wouldn’t have to pretend anymore.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Pizza!” she cheered, the exclamation a little louder than she’d intended, making her laugh nervously. Hopefully, the person on the other side of her blue door hadn’t heard. She wound her hair into a loose knot at the back of her neck, smoothed the front of her shirt, and shoved the sleeves of her hoodie up her arms a little. She looked like the walking dead, but surely, even the dead had a tiny bit of dignity to uphold. It was possible Phoebe knew the person on the other side of the door.

  She slid back the tiny cover from the old-school peephole and saw a teenage girl holding a pizza warmer in one hand, a cell phone in the other, her thumb working the keypad effortlessly. Good. The exchange would be quick. She didn’t recognize this delivery driver, and today was not a day for introductions and niceties. If the girl kept her job long enough, she’d have plenty more opportunities to get to know her.

  Phoebe opened the door and squinted, holding up a hand to shield against the late afternoon sun, even though it wasn’t shining in her eyes. She knew it wouldn’t conceal how terrible she looked, but at least she could avoid meeting the girl’s eyes and seeing the pity there. As much as she’d like to convince herself that she didn’t care, there was a part of her that hated being seen without her hair done and her make up on—her armor in place. Even by a complete stranger in an over-sized polo shirt and a misshapen baseball cap.

  “Pizza for Pho—um, Phoebe?” The girl stumbled over her name, pronouncing it Fohbee.

  “Phoebe,” she corrected, smiling kindly at the nervous teenager. “It looks different than it’s pronounced, I know, but yes, that’s me. What do I owe you?” She already knew, but the change of subject would put the girl at ease.

  Phoebe wondered if Lily would one day deliver pizzas to people’s homes. She hoped not. She thought it was a rather dangerous job for pretty young girls like the one on her doorstep.

  The exchange made, she couldn’t hold in the words that pushed up the back of her throat. “Um, Josee?” The girl’s name was on the plastic tag clipped to her collar. “I noticed you were texting when you got here. May I make a suggestion?”

  The girl reddened noticeably. “Sorry. I know I’m not supposed to be on my phone while I’m at work, but my mom makes me text her every time I make a delivery.” She paused, clearly trying to determine how much more she needed to say.

  “I’m glad,” Phoebe said, smiling encouragingly. She was relieved for both their sakes; the girl had someone on the other end who cared, and Phoebe didn’t feel like such a freak for worrying about her. “I was actually going to suggest you let someone know every time you pull up at a house. No matter how many times you’ve been to the place. Every time.”

  Josee cocked her head at Phoebe and grinned. “That’s what my mom said, too.”

  “And if I were you, I’d take it one step farther. When your customer opens the door, don’t hide the fact you’re on the phone. Instead, make a big deal of putting it away and say something like, ‘Sorry about that. Just letting my boss know I made it.’ That way, your customer knows someone else knows exactly where you are and what time you arrived.”

  Josee laughed outright at that. “Wow. You sound just like her. You must be a mom, too.”

  Phoebe felt the words like a knife twisting in her heart, but she didn’t flinch. “I’m a big sister,” she said. “And I’ve been in your shoes, too. Just be careful out there, okay?”

  The girl nodded. “I will. Thanks.” She smiled and waved and hurried down the walk to her car. Phoebe waited until she pulled away from the curb before closing her door. She lifted the lid on the top box and breathed in deeply; her nose was clearing up and the delicious aroma made her salivate. Yes, she’d bought two large pizzas just for herself. Thick crusts with extra cheese on both, a meat lovers and a standard pepperoni. She’d also had them throw in an order of breadsticks and extra marinara sauce for dipping, so she was set. Enough food to last a couple days if she was careful.

  Before she sat down to eat, she jotted off a quick group email to her sisters and grandparents, explaining that she had come down with a nasty cold and was going to lie low for the week so as not to expose anyone to her germs. She sent a separate email to Renata, congratulating her and Tim, confirmed that she was, indeed, not well, and that she hoped to be completely better by Sunday so she could join everyone for Family Dinner at the grandparents.

  She hoped her words would be enough to hold them at bay, at least for a few more days.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Two days later, Phoebe still had not left her sanctuary. She’d stepped outside to check the mail, to breathe in the smell of rain coming—the weather channel had predicted an early winter deluge over the weekend—and had held the door open for the mustached man from the Cal’s Grocery who seemed surprised when he saw her, and had her confirm twice that she was indeed Phoebe Gustafson.

  It was Cal Masters, himself, Phoebe learned after he introduced himself. The mom and pop grocery store did a thriving business in Midtown, partly because they had a website and offered home delivery, but then, so did several of the other big chain grocery stores in the area. What set Cal’s apart was the quality and speed of the service and the personalized care they gave each customer. They had a dedicated staff just for their home delivery service, so each order was processed as it came in, then immediately filled and delivered within an hour to Midtown residents.

  Phoebe loathed grocery shopping and was a regular at Cal’s online—she’d only set foot in the actual store once so she could scope out the quality of their produce before ordering—and she hadn’t met Cal until today.

  “Forgive me,” he explained after setting her order on her counter. His eyes politely scanned the open floor plan of her home,
taking in the potter’s wheel, the photography corner, and the huge canvas mounted on an easel in the middle of her workspace. Behind it, several more canvases were lined up, side-by-side, pencil sketching on each giving evidence that they were all part of a series in its beginning stages. “You’re the artist.” He didn’t act flustered or embarrassed, just pleasantly surprised.

  Phoebe smiled and held up her hands as verification of the fact. She’d been painting when he arrived, and she’d wiped them clean enough to pay for her delivery and put the food away, but her fingers were still splattered with the rust and cobalt hues she’d been using. She was intrigued by the fact that he knew her, though—although her artwork was in several different studios and businesses in Midtown and the surrounding metropolitan areas, she rarely received personal recognition outside the artist community she belonged to.

  Cal crossed his arms and nodded thoughtfully. “Well, isn’t that something. We have a piece of your artwork hanging in our front entryway.” He seemed almost careful in his choice of words, which made Phoebe pay closer attention. “The painting means a great deal to my wife. It’s called Cerulean. It’s a pregnant woman.”

  “Oh?” She smiled, hoping he’d say more. Her heart lurched when he told her the name of the piece. It was a painting she’d done when she’d turned twenty-five, when Lily would have turned nine, during a period when Phoebe especially missed her mother—and her daughter who was someone else’s daughter—fiercely.

  A nearly naked woman with her arms wrapped around her distended abdomen, her face lowered, eyes closed in an expression of longing and serenity. She had dark hair like Phoebe’s that cascaded down her back, but her features were Theresa’s, the woman who had adopted Lily. Standing against a cinnamon and caramel textured background, her face and neck transposed from skin tones into swirling hues of blues and greens over her chest and limbs, the colors separating into landforms over the orb of her belly, so that it looked like she cradled the world in her arms. And instead of depicting the excitement of a mother-to-be, Phoebe had painted the swirling blue and green ache of uncertainty—am I woman enough to be a mother?—almost eclipsing the golden halo of anticipation and joy. There were times, like the woman in the painting, when it seemed to Phoebe like she’d been pregnant and waiting her whole life…just as there were times when the knowledge that the baby she’d given birth to would never be her own to hold. She would ache with cerulean longing; instead of a child, she felt like she carried the weight of the world in her arms.

  She’d embraced the color as her own; she’d even matched the blue in the painting to the blue on her front door. Welcome to my cerulean world, it declared to any who would notice.

  Creating the masterpiece—it was visually stunning, one of Phoebe’s best—had been cathartic, but it had taken so much out of Phoebe emotionally, that she’d auctioned it off through a local gallery, unable to bear looking at it. She’d donated the proceeds to the organization through which she’d met Jeff and Theresa.

  Cal’s eyes lingered on the new painting she was working on, and when he didn’t speak right away, she added, “Thank you. My work is very important to me, so it does my heart good to know it has a good home.”

  Cal cleared his throat, now a little abashed. “Would you mind if I told her I’d met you? She—well, she would be honored, I’m sure, as much as I am.”

  Phoebe thought it an odd choice of words. His wife would be honored by the fact that Cal had met Phoebe? But she nodded agreeably. “Please do. I’m honored to have met you, too.” She grinned, and then added, “And not just because of the art. I’m glad for the chance to tell you personally how much I appreciate you and your store. Your service is stellar and the folks who deliver my groceries are extremely helpful and polite. I get a lot of stuff delivered to my home, and there are some I have to be…careful about, if you know what I mean. But your staff is always a joy to have in my home. And I love the fact that you, as the owner, make deliveries, too.”

  “Thank you,” he said, a satisfied smile on his face. “However, I must admit that although I oversee the shopping portion of each order, I don’t usually get out on deliveries. I like to be on hand at the store at all times, but for some reason, we’ve had more delivery orders than usual today—and we’re short a few staff members because of a flu bug going around, so I’m helping them out. I’d like to think Providence has played a hand in things in allowing me to meet you. You’re a household name in our home.”

  “Wow.” Phoebe felt bolstered by the man’s kind words, and although she didn’t have any plans to leave her home in the near future if she could help it, she handed him one of her business cards. “Perhaps one day I’ll have the chance to meet your wife. In the meantime, my email address is there if she’d like to sign up for my calendar updates or my newsletter. I know that seems rather impersonal, but most of the time, I don’t know where I’ll be until I tell my subscribers.” It was true. Phoebe’s schedule was mandated by her next showing, her next customer, her unpaid bills.

  “Alice would love that. In fact, I’d be surprised if she wasn’t already on your mailing list, but I’ll certainly give this to her.” He hesitated only a moment before grinning sheepishly. “Would you mind signing the back of it for her?”

  Phoebe smiled. “I’d love to.” She took the card back and scribbled her name across the card. “I can do you one better, too.” She had a stash of desk calendars that she’d ordered for Christmas gifts for the family—she made them every year with her own art, and she usually had a few to spare. She explained as much to Cal after signing Cal & Alice - From my heart to yours - Phoebe on the inside of the cover. “You let her know she won’t find this in any store or anywhere online, okay? It’s a ten-of-a-kind calendar.”

  Cal accepted it with bright eyes. “You have no idea what this will mean to her, Ms. Gustafson.”

  “Phoebe. Please.”

  “Phoebe.” Cal picked up the plastic carton he’d carried her grocery bags in and headed for the front door. “This has been the highlight of my day.” He paused on the front stoop and cleared his throat. “I feel compelled to tell you something else.”

  Phoebe stood in the entry and nodded.

  “You might not understand at this moment, but I’m going to pray that God opens doors for you and my wife to meet one day. I want you to know that it might not be easy for either of you, but I have a strong notion that this meeting—” he waved a finger between the two of them. “—is part of a much bigger plan.”

  Phoebe’s hackles rose a little. She didn’t need God setting her up to meet anyone. The last time she’d asked for his help, he’d left her high and dry. He’d stood her up in his own house, instead, making her deal with the likes of Trevor Zander.

  Who is suddenly back in your life like a bad penny, a small voice murmured inside her head. A thought occurred to her. She gestured to her outfit, her hair she had swept up into a messy bun and covered in a tie-dyed scarf. “I hope you don’t think I’m one of those recluse artists. You know, the kind who stay locked inside their own homes and only talk to their agents and delivery people and wash their hands a thousand times a day.” She held up her hands again. “I’m messy and outgoing and I usually love meeting people, in case you’re worried about that.”

  Cal chuckled and shook his head. “No, no. The thought hadn’t crossed my mind.” But he didn’t expound on why he thought it might be difficult, and Phoebe was finished trying to wheedle it out of him.

  “Okay. Good. Thank you for the groceries. I’ll see you or one of your other guys in a couple weeks then. I shop about twice a month.” She snorted. “Or rather, I make you shop for me about twice a month.”

  “It works well for both of us. You do what you do, and I do what I do, and everyone is happy, right?” He waved without waiting for an answer and headed down the walk to his van.

  Groceries put away, she paused at her computer. She hadn’t checked her email since telling the family she was sick t
wo days earlier. She knew there would be word from all of them, some conciliatory, others a little more demanding, but since none of it would change her mind, she hadn’t bothered checking. Nor had she bothered plugging in her phone to charge it. In fact, the longer she went without it, the more freed up she felt. Why did she have to be at that thing’s beck and call twenty-four-seven?

  But now she was curious about Alice Masters. Was she on her mailing list already? And what was Cal being so cryptic about?

  She checked her hands again to make certain she wasn’t going to leave any paint smears behind on her keyboard and sat down. Email first. Get it out of the way. Then she’d look for Alice’s name on her mailing list.

  Her eyes widened when she saw email after email from her sisters, almost all of them with attachments. What was going on? Without really considering what was wrong, she opened the most recent one from Juliette.

  Baby pictures. Image after image of a tiny round face with a thin thatch of dark curls on top, wide gray eyes slightly tilted up at the corners. A petite pink mouth, ten delicate fingers, boxy feet with button toes. Pictures of the boys gathered around Charise, Reuben holding her on his lap, Judah’s arm too tight around her neck. Pictures of Granny G nuzzling the baby’s neck. A darling image of Grandpa G in his easy chair, holding Charise in his big, gnarled hands, the two of them staring eye-to-eye at each other. The look on the old man’s face was beatific, and more than Phoebe could bear to see. She clicked out of the email without reading Juliette’s words and waited for her lungs to fill.

  Before she closed out of her inbox to scan her email addresses for Alice Masters’, a name caught her eye and her hand froze. Trevor Zander?