Speed-walking kept Betsy trotting, and set Nora puffing and her body screaming long before they made it back home. If she was going to keep this up, she had to get back to a consistent routine. An article she’d read on grieving strongly suggested working out on a regular basis would be advantageous. Of course, exercise seemed to be the panacea for all of life’s challenges.
“Thanks, I think,” she puffed out, bent over, spread hands on her knees. “This was worse than cross-country skiing.”
“We’re not usually so out of shape, come spring.” Susan walked in small circles to get her breath back.
“I know. Blame it on Charlie.” Nora’s mouth dropped open. What had she said?
“You know that’s the first joke you’ve cracked in months.”
“Guess my smart mouth is coming back.” She blinked back the tears, which sprang to the front like soldiers to an order. “That’s one of the things I miss the most, Charlie making me—us—laugh. There’s been no laughter at our house.”
Susan nodded. “He made us all laugh. That was one of his gifts. I bet he’s making the angels double over at times.”
Nora used her shirt hem to dry her eyes. “Thanks.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Early. I have my appointment with Lois at ten.”
The phone ringing when she entered the house sent her hustling away from it. Gordon needed to catch an afternoon plane; he’d be gone a couple of days. While she packed his small suitcase, she dreaded his being gone again. The female emotion in the house grew thick as fog with her and Christi at odds most of the time. Now she had further problems to deal with.
Perhaps Lois would say, “Do and say nothing.”
Lois sat with her hands folded, her eyes on Nora’s face as she explained the paintings and the changes in Christi. “I’m so sorry,” Lois said when the recital was ended. “But I’m not surprised. I don’t know an awful lot about painting, but images like that, and changes like you say, sound like a cry for help, to me. I think you need to talk with her counselor at school. If she is suicidal, we have to get her help before it is too late. I think many people think of suicide when someone they love dies, but it is a passing thing for most. If this is getting worse, like you say…” She paused. “Has Christi said anything to you?”
“Complains about most anything I do or say, but she doesn’t talk about herself. I thought perhaps things were better, because we’ve been talking about what all she needs for art school. She was angry, though, even through that, saying it should have all been done sooner. Or at least a lot of it.” Nora leaned her head against the back of the chair. “And she was right.” She paused. “How can I do this?”
“How can you not?”
“She’ll hate me even more.”
“But at least she’ll be alive.”
Nora nodded. God, I’m so tired of all this. Can’t You make it all right? “Might it be better if I confronted her?”
“Would she be truthful with you?”
Why hadn’t Gordon taken this seriously? Resentment burned like holding her finger over a candle flame. He should be the one asking his daughter if she was indeed suicidal. “I doubt it. And if I do this, when Gordon hears about it, he will be furious with me too.”
“Sounds to me like you’re caught between a rock and a hard place, but if you really believe Christi is in danger, how can you not?”
Nora rubbed her forehead, an ache beginning behind her eyes. How much easier it would be to just ignore this, like Gordon said.
Lord, what do I do? How can I ask for help when I am not doing the things that I know You want me to do? How can I be angry with You on one hand and pleading for help on the other?
“There are no easy answers,” Lois said simply. “Sometimes you feel like you’re being ripped in half and that hole in your heart is never going to mend. One minute you’re mad at God and the next you’re asking Him for help.”
“I was just thinking that.” Nora stared at her new friend. “You felt that way too?”
“Oh, so often.”
“But it finally let up?”
Lois nodded. “Slowly, very slowly, sometimes the only way you can see the changes is to look back at where you were the months before. Like so often, we don’t realize God has been working in and through us until we look back to see how things changed.”
Nora let the words sink in, like drops of life-giving water into drought-dried earth. “Thank you. I know I keep asking for life to go back to what it was….”
“And you know that can never be.”
“I know it, but I don’t have to like it.”
“Nope, you don’t. Acceptance and liking are two different things entirely.”
A pause lengthened, but for a change, Nora didn’t feel like she had to fill it right in. She leaned her head against the sofa back, peace placing a fleeting kiss on her heart before sorrow shoved its way back in. “Will you please pray that Christi gets over hating me?”
“Of course.”
Nora let her mind go back. “I wanted the perfect Christmas this year, planned so carefully and started on things so early. Now I don’t care if we ever have Christmas again.” She opened her eyes. “Is that such a terrible thing? You know, none of us have even opened the gifts Charlie had chosen for us. I put them up on a shelf, along with those we had for him. Gordon planned a trip to the Bahamas for all of us—I don’t know if he canceled the tickets or what.”
“There will be a time for all that and you will know when.” Lois nodded slowly. “Christmas won’t be easy, but perhaps by next year, you will all begin to make some new traditions. I remember the second Christmas after Lindsey died. I hung a little angel on the tree, and thanked her for being my daughter. We had to go on; the younger children needed to know that Christmas hadn’t died with Lindsey, so we had Christmas at Grandma’s house the first year. But the second year, we decorated and I could finally talk about good memories of Christmases past. Good memories will finally overlay the bad ones and the sorrow.” She leaned forward and patted Nora’s hand. “I promise.”
Nora sniffed and nodded. “I sure pray so.” There, she’d said that again. Pray. When she considered it, she was probably praying more than she thought. Luke had said prayer was nothing more than talking with God, just like we talked with our friends and family. And she talked with Gordon even when she was mad at him or disappointed in something he did or didn’t do.
After Lois left, Nora climbed the stairs, determined to go back into Christi’s room and see if things were really as bad as she thought. She knew that opening that door was breaking her trust with Christi. But if it meant keeping her alive… Lord, I will do anything I can to help my daughter, to keep her alive. She pushed open the door and entered the chaotic room.
While she tried to look at the room as an observer, she felt her heart clench at the paintings stacked and scattered around the room. Paint slashed on canvas screamed fury to her. How could Christi contain all this anger? But perhaps these paintings were what helped keep her from spewing these feelings all over everyone. These later ones had eyes staring at her from gargoyle faces, with curved black claws that dripped red—hideous forms.
She huffed out a sigh. So, do I just go talk with the counselor at school, or do I take one of these along to show her? She wished she’d asked Lois what she thought was the best avenue to take. Gordon, why didn’t you listen to me or at least come in here to gauge for yourself? She left the room, glancing at her watch. She had plenty of time before she needed to pick Christi up. Several times she’d had the feeling that Christi would just as soon not drive herself to school. Perhaps the car had been more Gordon’s idea than her own.
Go… wait? Call… wait? Call, perhaps the counselor didn’t have time to meet with her today anyway. She dialed the high school and asked to speak to the guidance counselor. While on hold, she chewed on her lower lip. Please, Lord, please. At this point, she wasn’t even sure what to ask for. She at least knew the people who worked
there. Perhaps this was one of the good things about her volunteering at her kids’ schools.
“Hi, this is Ms. Jones.” The voice came across, rich and cheery, just like the woman behind it. She truly cared about her students.
“Beth, this is Nora Peterson.” The last time she’d seen Beth was at the service for Charlie.
“Oh, Nora, how good to hear your voice. I think about you so often.”
“Thanks.” Nora swallowed around the block that sprang in her throat. “I have a couple of questions, if you have a few moments.”
“Of course I have time. How can I help you?”
“It’s about Christi.”
A slight silence preceded an exhalation. “I’m glad you called. I’ve been thinking I should call you, but I figured you didn’t need one more problem right now.”
“Like what?”
“Christi’s grades are dropping. A couple of her teachers have mentioned this to me, but since it is not surprising, considering what has happened, we hoped to give her some more time before we intervened.”
“I wondered. She doesn’t want to discuss much with me right now.”
“She’s withdrawn a lot.”
“Any suggestions?” Nora pulled the desk chair out and sat down.
“I would be glad to talk with her, sometimes it is easier to talk with someone outside the family.”
Nora nodded. Wasn’t that what she was doing? What Gordon had done? But do I tell her about the paintings? “Ah, has her art teacher mentioned anything?”
“Like what?” The tone became slightly guarded. “Perhaps a difference in her work?”
“What are you observing?”
Nora closed her eyes, but instead of wisdom, Christi’s paintings bombarded her. “She’s painting horror and nightmares.” The words came out on a whisper, air pushed past the boulder in her throat, growing larger by the moment.
“Scary stuff?”
“Big-time scary stuff. Death and dying, blood and black.”
“Are you worried about her being suicidal?”
Talk about blunt. Put it right out there. “Yes.”
“Okay, I’ll work from this end and do my best to keep you out of it.”
“But you’ll keep me posted?”
“As much as I am able. I’ll talk with her teachers and find out what they’ve observed. We’ll do our best for her. Like Charlie, she is much loved here. Thanks for calling.”
“Thank you.” Nora hung up the phone and rested her forehead against the wall. She’d set the balls in motion—now to see what would come of it.
Two days later, Christi stormed into the kitchen, even ignoring Bushy, who met her at the door and meowed to be picked up. She slammed her backpack down on the chair and glared at her mother. “I got called in to talk with Ms. Jones today.”
“And?” Nora kept her back to her daughter, scrubbing carrots and potatoes for the pot roast cooking in the oven.
“She said my grades are falling and the teachers are concerned about me. Bunch of nosy—”
“Well, are they right? About your grades, I mean?” Nora tried to release the death grip on the scrubber.
“Just because I’m not pulling straight A’s right now”—Christi reached in the refrigerator for the orange juice and poured herself a glass—“she asked if I wanted to talk about anything.”
Charlie would have glugged from the jug. The thought brought the burning to Nora’s eyes and made her sniff.
“There’s cheese in the drawer if you want some and I bought crackers today.” Yesterday she’d been taken to task for not keeping the right foods in the house.
“Any more cookies?”
“In the jar.” Christi usually opted for cheese or some other protein rather than carbs. Hard to stay on top of things, especially when the last place Nora wanted to go was the grocery store.
Bushy jumped up on the counter and bumped Christi with his nose. He turned down the bite of cookie she offered and sat to clean his front foot.
Nora watched the byplay out of the corner of her eye as she cut up the potatoes and carrots. “Supper will be ready in about an hour.”
“Is Dad coming home tonight?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“She said she thinks I need to go to a counselor.” Her daughter’s tone was tight, spitting out the words like cobra venom.
“So what’s wrong with that? I talk with Lois, Dad talks with Luke. We all need help at times.” Nora dumped the vegetables in the roaster with the meat and shut the oven door again. “I know you miss Charlie terribly and this could help.”
“Like talking to some shrink is going to help. Can they make Charlie come back?”
“No, of course not. How I wish someone could.” Nora rolled her lips together and sniffed.
“There you go, crying again.” Christi slammed her glass down on the counter; then grabbing her backpack from the chair, she stormed out of the room and up the stairs.
Nora clamped her teeth together. What a brat. She was sure if she looked down, she’d see blood running from the stab wound. What ever happened to the idea that families stuck together, helped each other out when troubles got to be too much? The more she thought, the more the tears flowed. The pull of her bed and the sanctuary beneath the covers and in sleep dragged at her shoulders, fastened upon her feet, willing her upward. Lately she’d been doing so much better at resisting.
She wrapped her arms around her middle and went to stand at the bay window. Gray clouds scudded across patches of blue, the wind chased wavelets across the lake. Tiny spears of green poked up through the winter-browned grass.
Be honest, she commanded herself. Right now, you want to go up there, break down that door and scream back at her. Rip up those horrible paintings, make her clean up that disgusting mess and order her to apologize. Rage made her shake as if she were freezing. Fury sent her across the room to grab a jacket off the hook and head out the back door. She stopped a moment on the deck, Betsy’s bark penetrating her storm. Letting the dog out, she started down the hill, but instead of hitting the path around the lake, she veered off to the rose garden on the right. Or what was usually the rose garden. By now, she always had the mulch removed so the roses and perennials could send out new shoots of life.
Leaning over, she pulled back some of the straw and tree trimmings she’d used to protect the plants. Instead of healthy new growth, she saw limp white stalks, fighting and dying beneath the heavy mulch. “Oh no.” Her breath caught. She pulled off more, ran up to the garage, got out fork and rake, along with the wheelbarrow, and pushed it back down the hill.
After she pulled the mulch back and forked it into the wheelbarrow, she knelt beside one of her favorite rosebushes, Double Delight, one of the most fragrant of her collection. Charlie had given it to her for Mother’s Day two years ago. Instead of healthy green shoots, the stalks looked black and dead. “No! You can’t die!” She cleaned off more, frantically searching for healthy green stalks with small buds of leaves ready to pop out to greet the spring sun. Her breathing became ragged as she scrabbled in the dirt. “You will not die too!”
One stalk—that’s all, but at least there was one. She tenderly examined it. Sure enough, down near the crown, but on the stalk, was one, no—two small nubs, not dried and black like the others, but reddish with bulging life. Life.
She dashed her tears away and dug around the anemic spears of daffodils, coaxing them upright with straw and dirt mix mounding around them. Pulling back another patch, she found crocuses, their blossoms spent before they could reach the light. Why had she waited so long? Her garden needed her. Needed her to pull off the protecting mulch and let new life seek the sun.
Like her. It made her pause momentarily. Throw off the grief that so pressed her down and made her want to die. Surely, if her plants could seek the sun after the winter they’d been through, she could also. Betsy lay down beside her and nudged her arm.
Sometime later, when she realized dusk had snuck in and
blurred the trees across the lake, she tossed the rake and fork on top of the wheelbarrow load and trundled it over to dump on the growing new compost pile. She’d use the compost from last year’s pile to spread a life-giving summer mulch on her flower beds.
“Oh, Betsy, the pot roast.” Overwarm with her exertion, she jogged to the deck, and when she saw the dirt on her shoes and knees, she toed off her tennis shoes and hustled into the house. With the roaster on the stove and the oven now turned off, she lifted the lid. Pretty brown, but not burned, with all the water cooked away. Still, the brown drippings in the pan would make wonderful gravy.
Just in time. Just in time for the roast—hopefully, just in time for her plants. With spring bringing new life outside, surely there could be new life inside too. Inside her house, inside her heart. Yes, the hole was still there, but according to Lois, even that would eventually heal. Was the help just in time for Christi? She had to believe it was so.
When Nora reached up in the cupboard for the flour canister, she discovered a note on the counter. “Mom, I’m sorry—again. I guess I do need to talk to somebody. Christi.”
Epilogue
Two days after Christi’s graduation, and still tearfully savoring the tributes to Charlie the other students brought that day, Nora brought in the mail, flipping through the envelopes to dump the advertisements in the trash. A letter with a return address from Omaha, Nebraska, and a typed address to “Mr. and Mrs. Peterson” caught her attention. She set it, several cards addressed to Christi and a couple of bills on the desk, flipped the applications for more credit cards to one side to shred and dug the letter opener out of the drawer.
Probably another plea for donations, she thought as she almost tossed the letter, then opened it instead. An envelope inside was addressed by hand: “To Donors.”
Her mouth dried as she stared at the block handwriting. Should she call Gordon? She went to the stairs and called up. “Christi?”
“What?”
“Are you busy? You got some cards.”
Christi, cat on her arm, strolled down the stairs. “What’s the matter?”
One Perfect Day Page 25