TWELVE
“Mom, I’m such a ditz.”
I curl my toes under my crisscrossed legs on my parent’s red sofa and sip decaf Hazelnut coffee in a mug purchased from Target. “I can’t, can’t, be falling in love again. I’m fifty-eight years old. I don’t want to make another relationship mistake.”
The wise woman sitting across from me just smiles. She adjusts the cuff of her chartreuse sweatpants and reaches for her coffee mug. Pushing her Kate Spade glasses up on her nose, she finally replies. “What’s wrong with falling in love? Love is a gift at any age.”
Yeh, right, a gift to get hurt again. I look at this amazing woman and blink back tears. Why am I so negative? Mom taught me to be brave, self-sufficient, my own person.
“Here.” She hands me a tissue from an onyx box on the end table. I’m still surprised after five years at the way my parents decorated their townhome. Yellow walls (“I want to bring the sunshine in”), carpet with the cutesy loom name Daffodil, glass and chrome tables and a fifty-two inch flat screen television mounted over the fireplace. Retro contemporary, and definitely eclectic. Did I mention the antique sideboard of Grandma’s hosting the antique sterling silver tea set? (“Been in the family for eighty years.”)
“Yeh, Mom, but…” My voice trails off and I whisper, “He’s really nice, and cute.”
I wonder who’s more insane, me or Mom. Love doesn’t happen late in life, or does it? I’m questioning myself again. I know Mom isn’t insane. She’s the most sane person I know. Well, next to Dad who’s very analytical. Mom’s practical, down to earth. Maybe I should ask Dad about falling in love at fifty-eight. Mom’s talking again, so I look up and search her face.
“Bits, did you hear me?”
“Sorry, I was ruminating.”
“I said . . .” She pauses for emphasis, and probably to make sure I’m listening this time. “God is a God of second chances. Well, maybe third chances.” She grins realizing her mistake about the number of my chances. “He may know all the hairs on your head, but He doesn’t keep track of how many times you screwed up. It’s called grace, Bits.”
“Okay, explain to me. I know He wants happiness for me, but I thought I was very happy with life until Noel came along with his salt and pepper hair. I love my catering business – it’s even starting to break even. Why would God want to change this?” I sip from my coffee mug and whisper again. “He’s really cute, Mom.” Dead giveaway, Betsy.
I rinse out my mug and put it in the stainless steel dishwasher. Mom has the most upgraded appliances, even a trash compactor. Her kitchen gleams, shiny with brushed chrome and silver. Maybe when I’m pushing eighty I’ll have that, too. And a full head of salon blonde hair like Mom.
On the drive back to my temporary home at Bett’s I decide to stop off at my barbequed condo. The few times I’ve returned I try to sneak in when no neighbors are outdoors. Surely they must be out of sorts about the yellow tape across the door and the still lingering odor. I’d rather not have nosey neighbors asking about when I’m going to clean it up, and what will my insurance pay, and how long do they have to deal with this travesty.
Taking a lined pad from my purse I decide to make notes for the three contractors I’m interviewing tomorrow. Maybe focusing on the sooty, smelly mess will help me forget Noel. I step over the yellow plastic tape that bears the word “condemned” and march with purpose into the living room. Soot stings my eyes, and nausea overcomes me from the putrid smell. I can’t do it, I just can’t. In a moment of desperation I call Noel on my cell phone. Did I tell you I have him on speed dial now? It was a concession after his “attack.” My idea.
“I’ll be right there. Go on the porch and wait for me. Give me ten minutes.” What a guy! Did I mention that before?
Noel pulls up, this time in a sleek black Mercedes. I’m scrunched over on the top porch step fiddling with my mousy hair. I hear the subtle click of his car lock and look up.
“I’m here, Bits, to give you whatever help you need.” Bits again! Has he been talking to Mom, or is it a common nickname for Elizabeth?
Noel sits beside me on the step and inches close. One big hand attached to his right arm squeezes my shoulder while the other envelopes both of my hands clasped between my knees. He pulls me close. “Did I tell you my dad was a contractor? I learned a lot from him working on his job sites during summer breaks from college.”
My personal earthly savior has arrived. “You did?”
He nods. “I can tell you what you need to have done, what questions you need to ask a contractor, how much is a fair cost, and, if you want, I will interview them with you.”
“What about your work? You have patients, a life beyond helping me.”
“I can schedule my patients around my personal life. What time did you agree to meet the contractors?”
“All tomorrow. One at ten in the morning, the second at noon, and the third at two p.m. I didn’t know how long each would take, so I left time in between and time for me to make notes about each of them. Seem okay?”
“Perfect. You’re very organized. I admire that.”
Yeh, sure. If only he knew.
After Noel leaves, I decide to go to Sprouts for fresh veggies. I haven’t done a real grocery shopping in over a week, and I feel shopping deprived. Bett’s been ordering from the upscale market, but she forgets to order the most ordinary, but basic things. Like cucumbers, red and green peppers, yams, onions and even lettuce. My culinary talents have been stretched using up canned goods in her cupboard and the few frozen vegetables she keeps in the freezer.
I pull out a cart and wipe it’s handle and my hands with the new politically correct amenity offered at most markets—a wet disinfectant cloth. I savor the clean smell from it and cast my eyes on veggie nirvana. Mounds of fresh greens and reds and all colors of the rainbow are piled high, and at far lower prices than the chain markets. I make an effort to control myself, but I’m like a kid in a candy store with a dollar bill from a doting grandparent. I calculate how many ways and how many meals I can use asparagus at $1.99 a pound. Sole wrapped around it, Béarnaise sauce over it, stir-fried with shrimp, used as a bed under chicken. The list goes on. I control myself to buying three pounds. I pause to stare at an old lady in red velour sweats and drab gray hair who is talking to the bananas. Her hands flutter over them in cadence with her whispered words. I can’t hear what she’s saying, and I’m not sure I want to. But, she does make me wonder if I’m not putting my whole heart into choosing my produce.
The woman in front of me at the checkout counter looks from my cart to me and raises her eyebrows. The checkout guy does the same. “I have a big refrigerator,” I say. “Lots of mouths to feed.” They both shrug. Who cares what they think. I hate waste, but if I waste one green pepper, I still got a deal.
I’m whistling when I unload Old Sassy. I swear she is, too. Hefting six plastic bags, three on each hand, dangling from two fingers and my purse on a shoulder, I push open the heavy door to Bett’s enclave. I haven’t felt this free and happy in weeks. Loose as a goose, that’s me. “Yoo-hoo, Bett, it’s me—Elizabeth, Betsy.” I make a point to enunciate both versions of my name clearly. They say repetition is the best teacher.
Bett swoops down the winding marble stairs and skids on her satin mules almost landing at my feet. She clutches both my arms digging into my flesh with talon-like nails so hard I winch and drop my grocery bags. For once her face is devoid of caked makeup. Its absence makes her look almost childlike. Her voice matches her appearance, tiny.
“It’s Noel. He’s had another attack.”
THIRTEEN
The first question I ask myself is why did he call Bett instead of me? I dig in my purse for my cell phone, then remember I’d left it in the cup holder of Old Sassy. That was the beep, beep I’d heard on the way home from the market. I thought it was Old Sassy singing again, or that the “door open” chime was working overtime. I’ve had a lot of issues with Old Sassy’s electrical system.
“Bett, let’s start with when.”
Her dazed expression must mean she doesn’t understand my obvious question. I try again. “When did Noel have the attack?”
“Oh. About half an hour ago.”
I nod. So far, so good. “Where is he? Now,” I add, because Bett isn’t good at sequence.
“I—think—at the hospital?” She makes it a question.
“The same one? Scottsdale Shea?”
Her head bobs up and down, making her loopy curls flutter.
“Was he taken by ambulance? Or did he drive himself there? Do you know?”
Shrug.
“Bett, can you please put these groceries away. I need to go to Noel.”
Another nod.
I make a quick decision and take the bags to the kitchen, then return to grab Bett by the wrist. She is still standing in the foyer like a clay statue, or maybe a child waiting for the next Mother May I announcement in the ancient game. Being the organized person I am (guess I am organized as Noel said), I had my groceries separated on the check out conveyor belt. Per my request, the goofy looking teenage boy put all the fresh vegetables in three bags and the few cold items—cream, butter and eggs—in another bag. Bread, nuts, rice and baking chocolate are in the last bag. I put that one still filled in the pantry.
“Please put all this in the fridge,” I say pointing to the remaining bags.
“Okay, will do. Go to Noel.” Suddenly, Bett has come alive.
~
This time I have trouble finding a parking spot near the emergency entrance. After I circle around twice, a young couple carrying a baby goes to their monstrous SUV. I wait patiently while they buckle the child into its car seat, put the diaper bag in and finally back out. I scoot in and flinging the door shut I almost forget to lock Old Sassy.
The pudgy-faced receptionist looks up from his novel. I talk over his “Can I help you?” and tell him my friend is supposed to be here, with an attack of some kind. I don’t want to make a medical diagnosis, so I avoid the words “heart” and “anxiety.”
“We got somebody name of Noel?” he asks the male nurse beside him. The other man does some playing on a computer and nods.
“Three A. You a relative?”
I’m tempted to say “sister,” but that old honesty thing kicks in. “A very good friend.” I underline the word good with my voice. “I know he wants to see me. He asked me to come.” Well, not exactly, but he probably should have. The silly goose. I still haven’t checked my cell phone messages, so he probably did ask for me.
Pudgy Face nods, and his partner gestures to me with a crooked finger. I follow him through a door marked No Admittance—Hospital Personnel Only to a room with a privacy curtain pulled around the bed. Noel is propped up on numerous pillows watching television. A game show. “T. T, idiot. Ask for a T. The word is theater.” Wow, he must be really sick. Sorry, judgmental of me.
“Noel?” Why do we humans always form questions of a person’s name when we catch them off-guard? His head snaps toward me to reveal a “being caught” expression on his handsome face.
“Betsy?” See, he does it, too.
“None other. How’re you feeling?”
“Much better. Now that you’re here,” he has the grace to add.
“I’m glad.” This conversation is not only going nowhere, but it’s boring. I’m glad, truly glad, Noel seems fine, but this scenario is getting a bit old, too. I muster up my muster again to ask, “Noel, what’s going on?”
He fusses with the sheets and pushes the mattress with his palms to scoot up on the pillows. Clicks off the TV remote, takes a sip of water from the plastic cup and straw on the nightstand.
I’m sure you’ve heard of the pregnant pause. Oh, yeh, from moi. Well, you just witnessed it again.
“Hi,” he says as if he hadn’t acknowledged me two minutes ago. An embarrassed blush spreads across his face making his Romanesque nose look larger.
I feel anger creeping up the backs of my legs to my neck. What is the deal with this man? I’ve heard of mountains and molehills, but this is bordering on the ridiculous. I repeat my question.
He looks at me sheepishly. I almost expect him to “Baa.”
“Sorry. I seem to have this thing, this problem, when I get too close to you.” What? Confession time? Am I supposed to feel guilty about this?
“Noel, you were fine this afternoon. In fact, you were my hero.”
A look of pure puzzlement comes over his continence. “Me, a hero?”
“Yes. When I was at my wit’s end I called you, and you came right over.”
“I’m counting on you for tomorrow. I really need you and your expertise to deal with the contractors. Please don’t let me down.” I plant a perfunctory kiss on his brow and head out, hopefully leaving a scented trail of Jessica McKlintock perfume behind to entice him.
~
Back in the driver’s seat of Old Sassy I try to control my emotions. I decide the only way to deal with them is a conversation with the Creator. “Dear Heavenly Father, First, thank you for Noel being all right, or at least he seems so. Thank you for being able to come to You with my petitions as petty as they are. I’m confused, God. I feel angry and a bit deceived. I don’t want to feel either, but You made me human, so I have human emotions. I know, I’m not taking responsibility for something I should be able to control. Please help me understand how to control my frailties. I’m confused. Oh, did I say that?
“You may know the desires of my heart, but I’m not sure I do. I know it’s too soon to think about a future with Noel, but our friendship seems to be developing into more. Please help me figure it out. I guess I’m scared. Burn me once, maybe even twice, it’s my fault. Burn me three times, it certainly is mine.
“Thank you for the wisdom I know You will give me, and thank you in advance for bringing Noel’s body and emotions in line with Your Word. In Jesus’ Precious Name, Amen.”
I sit for a few minutes feeling drained and feeling the peace of God’s presence. I feel especially close to Him, and a Scripture about trusting and letting go of the past comes to mind. I’m not sure, but I think it’s from Isaiah. “Forget the former things; don’t dwell on the past. See, I’m doing a new thing!” I’ve probably messed it up by paraphrasing it, but it speaks to my heart. I’m encouraged about my relationship with Noel. Surely, God put that passage on my heart. Surely, God put Noel in my life.
My cell phone still beeps in the cup holder, so I flip it open to voicemail expecting to hear a plea from Noel to come rescue him at the hospital. Rats! The only message is from contractor number two who wants to change our meeting time tomorrow. Suddenly, I’m deflated like a punctured balloon. Noel never called me. He called Bett instead. I spew nasty names at him in absentia. “You ingrate. You shallow man. You phony.”
Oops. What happened Betsy to “forget the former things” and seeking God’s wisdom?
Old Sassy coughs when I turn the key, then she rumbles into a roar. As I back out of my parking space I notice angry faces in other car windows waiting for the precious commodity. Maybe I should have gone somewhere else to pray. I wave and smile and say a prayer for those needing to get to the emergency room. “Bless them, Lord, and bless the health of those they are going to see.”
As I pull out of the parking lot onto 90th Street, my mind spins with guilty thoughts about Noel and what’s on my plate, a.k.a. calendar. Realization hits and I suck in breath.
Tomorrow is Meet the Contractors’ day.
FOURTEEN
I arrive, notebook in hand, at my smelly, sooty condo at nine forty-five. It’s one of those Arizona mornings
that fool you into thinking Fall really has come. The sun overhead is just as brilliant as it was in July when the temperature was one hundred fourteen degrees. But, it’s blessedly cool this morning at ninety-two. Birds chirp oblivious to my morbid mood. A mockingbird taunts me when I repeat his sound. His whistles are so much better than mine, so much more authentic. I look up seeing him perched like a miniature king on the frond of a palm, just on the tip with his feathered chest puffed out as if to say I can do this, you can’t. He ignores my squinty glare and stooped shoulders. I stick my tongue out at him, blah! I pull a tissue from my bag to wipe the moisture forming on my forehead under my yellow visor and plop down gracelessly on the step of my front porch. I’m weary.
Weary of no resolution about renovating my home, weary of Bett’s silliness and cooking for her, weary of Noel’s antics, I need answers. I need someone to say this is what’s going to happen and this is when. At this point I’d take a definitive answer for almost anything, like why my chocolate soufflé fizzled last night. Maybe I beat the egg whites too long. I’m grabbing my bangs between my fingers and tugging so hard it hurts when I hear the purr of an engine.
The cute little red PT Cruiser zips up beside Old Sassy making her look like an overweight elephant without a trunk. Well, she has one, sort of, but not in the front. I laugh at the image. Thanks, God, I needed that.
Noel steps out lightly and flings a red door closed not bothering to use his remote to lock it. His stature is tall enough he can grin over the roof. What a guy! Have I said that before? This morning he wears leather thong sandals, generically know as flip-flops, a loose Hawaiian shirt, probably from Tommy Bahama, and khaki shorts with too many pockets. He looks spiffy, and, to boot, he’s carrying a clipboard. I am impressed, although I’m not sure why. Maybe because he showed up.
Butterfly Dreams (A Christian Contemporary Romance) Page 6