For a brief second reality takes over. “Could you answer question number one, please?” I feel like a heel, but it was, is, the most important question. Suddenly, I’m in an “I need to know” mode.
“It’s a biggie. You think you can handle it?” He’s staring at my hand still enclosed in his. This time Betsy Bobblehead takes over. What is it with my mute mouth? My neck, even with the crick in it, seems to work okay.
“When Maizie was ill, I was devastated, an emotional and psychological mess. I sought help from our church’s pastor who has a certificate in counseling. But, I never could bring myself to tell him about my performance problem. I was so ashamed. Mostly for Maizie. I loved her very much, and,” his voice catches here, “the one thing she wanted, a last request, was great sex.” He releases my hand and wipes his brow with the wad of napkins. I think my puffy lips are hanging open. “She wanted to recreate our honeymoon.”
I try to will my mouth to spurt out the expected words of sympathy and empathy. Instead, I squeeze his hand back and nod. Our relationship is becoming a lot of “instead” moments, but it can’t be helped. Sometimes words aren’t adequate. I nod, perhaps for the fifty-third time, but he gets the drift.
“Pastor was very kind. Said he understood and tried to reassure me. However, he was thirty-five at the time and wasn’t dealing with a dying wife. To his credit he suggested I consult a psychiatrist who could write a prescription. I never did.”
I try to process what Noel just told me. But, the ramifications are overwhelming. Finally, my courage comes through and my mouth works. “Are you saying IF we were to marry, it would be a celibate marriage?”
“Possibly.”
“Noel, I know you’re a Christian, but have you ever tested this problem – since Maizie died?” Frankly, I’m hoping he hasn’t. But, even Christians ere.
“No.”
“Are you willing to see a professional now? Mr. Doctor who doesn’t believe in doctors.” I can’t help chiding him.
“Maybe.”
Suddenly, my mind is made up. Noel needs to do something about this problem, if not for me or us, at least for himself and his worth as a man. God makes me bold, on the spot.
“I’m pretty sure you’ve read Song of Songs, one of the most beautiful books in the Bible.” He nods. “And, no one knows just how old Adam and Eve were when she tasted the fruit and they succumbed to sin.” He nods again. “They were both chastised by God and blessed by Him. Became our role models in some way, not only because of the sin, but because God granted them one of the most blessed roles in history—to procreate.” Another nod. “Not that you or I at our age wants to, or should, procreate, but God provided us with complex emotions to share love.” I stop here. This is exhausting me.
I admit I’m getting a little annoyed at Noel’s nodding. Not that I can claim to be a non-nodder. Nodding seems to keep my head busy and my brain working. Maybe it does the same thing for Noel.
“Betsy, it’s not that simple.” Lids lower over the Crayon blue eyes, so I have to guess at their meaning. I’m guessing embarrassment—we already talked about that—and fear. An old, much discussed, subject. Yet, my tongue and lips don’t obey my mind.
“Still afraid?”
“Sadly, yes.”
For once my mind and mouth are at an impasse. “Noel, you have to deal with this situation. If not for us, for yourself.”
Now he’s nodding more than I ever did, and it’s getting really annoying. I don’t want to be insensitive, after all my future may be in jeopardy here, but we need to make progress. Or, should I say progress. I have a lightbulb moment. You know, the kind when some thought or idea zaps your brain?
“Noel.” I wait until he gives me his full attention. “Have you mentioned your problem to Bett?”
“Sort of. Why?”
“Only ‘cause she has a great shrink, probably even a whole address book full of them. I—uh—don’t necessarily want you to share a lot with her. But, she might be a good resource for the right psychologist or psychiatrist or even, who knows, the right Christian counselor.”
There is possibly about thirty seconds of silence before I have the courage to speak.
“Then, there’s moi.”
Noel’s chin flips up like it’s been hit with a stray bullet. His look says, “Whoa.” I blink my feathery lashes and give him a brilliant smile. Oh, Girl, you are so good!
Noel gives me a slightly wicked look and winks.
“What exactly did you have in mind?”
I rub the crick in my neck. “An adjustment?”
EIGHTEEN
“I didn’t mean that, exactly.” Noel assumes a crestfallen demeanor, shoulders slouched and eyelids blinking as if he’s going to cry.
“Silly, I meant…”
He interrupts my thought.
“I know. It’s really a great idea, Betsy. You need an adjustment, and if while I’m doing it,” he pauses, “I do the deep tissue and light massage, well – let’s see if nature takes its course.”
“Works for me, Big Man.” Now, why did I call him that? Maybe to encourage him?
Noel grasps my hand and tugs me toward the little red car. I look back at our table mess of coffee cups and napkins. I’m such a cleanup person. But, Noel shakes his head and I acquiesce. Guess that’s what Mitch does in his off time, clean tables.
During the ride to Noel’s chiropractic office in Scottsdale I’m feeling a bit un-settled. After all, it’s dark, past office hours. I’m surprised lights are on in the small complex of low offices. The women’s health clinic is obviously still seeing patients since two very pregnant women toddle toward their doors and another lumbers out to her car. The veterinarian’s office parking lot is busy with two green clad attendants walking dogs and four patients’ “parents” loading carriers into their SUVs. I relax a bit more when I read the stenciled letters on Noel’s door.
Noel Sheppard , CCRD, FICA
Board Certified
Hours: 10 a.m. to 8 p.m.
Monday – Friday
Saturdays by appointment only
Noel gives my arm a little love squeeze and grins. It’s so good to see his face light up again, I almost forget why we’re here. He flips on overhead lights and leads me to a dressing room. I give him a quizzical frown as he hands me a green hospital type gown.
“Everything except the underpants. Tie it in back.”
“Yes, Sir!”
As I disrobe, I remember glimpsing an interesting waiting room. Eames chairs backed up to the colorful walls hung with lively contemporary paintings of stick-like figures running and leaping. Perhaps to encourage mobility. Magazines were scattered on low tables, and carafes of water with stacks of plastic cups nearby sat on a console. The whole effect was one of relaxation combined with rejuvenation.
I went to a chiropractor for a back injury many years ago. I remember feeling intimidated by his waiting area filled with shelves of ice packs and neck pillows for sale surrounded by putrid green walls. He adjusted me, then left me to a newbie chiro in training. It helped somewhat, but I never went back.
Noel tapped lightly on the dressing room door. “Ready?”
He leads me to a semi-darkened room with a low bed-like table. “Lie on your stomach, Betsy.” His voice has that annoying doctor sound, like a recording.
“You’re kidding. Right?”
“No, I need to massage your shoulders to loosen the tension.” He waits patiently, hands on his hips. “You’re not being a good patient, Betsy. You need to trust your doctor.”
I sneer and flop onto my belly on the hard table. I don’t like being told what to do by anyone, even a doctor, especially Noel. My face goes into a round thing like a hole in the table. I guess so I can breathe, and so women don’t mess their makeup. I feel trapped. My hands flop at my sides and I find metal grips to grab. I cling to them for dear life.
“Relax your arms, Betsy. Drop them at your sides.”
So much for hanging on. I feel like that
old cliché of a drowned rat. I’m all floppy and have no control of my limbs. Just as I’m about to bolt, two thumbs penetrate the muscles between my shoulder blades. “Oh, ow, ooo!” This time, neither God, nor I, has any control over my mouth. The feeling is sheer pleasure and sheer pain. Great combo. I’m just getting into this when Noel tells me to flip over. Bummer.
I struggle resting my weight on my left hip and reminding myself about exercise classes available at the senior center. Finally, I collapse on my back and stare straight up into the Crayon blue eyes. Tonight they are clouded and intense. I close my own baby blues and fold my hands loosely across my belly feeling like a corpse. I’m just about as relaxed as one while Noel kneads my upper arms and my neck. His hands are gently grasping my jaws and he’s rolling my head back and forth. I’m rocking on a boat in the ocean, gently rocking to the roll of the waves when suddenly—my neck cracks. My eyes flip open then flutter close in utter contentment. The man has the touch, no doubting it.
“Betsy?” His voice is a hoarse whisper in my ear. I don’t want to respond and break into my feeling of euphoria. “Betsy, hurry, look. Please.”
With immense effort I turn my head. Noel’s waist is in line with my vision. I see a bulge below it.
“Oh.”
“It’s okay, Betsy. I’m okay. You were right. You are the best medicine for my problem.”
I can’t think of anything definitive to say, nothing clever. I just nod and grin, and I want to dance. In lieu of doing a jig, I sit up and hug him.
“You’re fine, Noel. Just fine.”
He lifts me and swings me around right there in the examining room in my green gown. This may not be the answer for every man with Noel’s problem, but it was for him, for us.
He sets me down, giving me another hug and says, “Get dressed, Betsy. Time to go home.”
~
We giggle and sing on the way back to Bett’s. We’ve come up with our own personal version of the kids’ song Heads, Shoulders, Knees and Toes. We slap each other’s knees and laugh so hard tears trickle down our faces. Mine just tickle, but I see Noel wiping the stubble of his five o’clock shadow furiously. Exhausted, and breathing heavily, we sigh in unison. I still have the big question to ask.
“Noel, what does this mean to our relationship? This quote, unquote, breakthrough?”
Something like a gurgle, followed by a chuckle, followed by another gurgle emits from his throat. He takes his hands from the steering wheel for just a second, and his arms fly up into the air. “Everything!”
Noticing my obvious silence he glances at my face. “I am a free man, Betsy. A free man.” He places fingertips against my cheek, but keeps staring straight ahead. Turning off Ninety-sixth Street onto Via Linda Boulevard he heads west. Blocks of apartment complexes wiz by, and I wonder where we’re headed.
“Noel, this is the opposite way to Bett’s. What’s up?”
“Going to celebrate, Betsy.”
We pull into a small strip mall and park in the corner. I notice a furniture resale store named Re-create, a pancake parlor, a sushi restaurant and a tiny pizza place. The furniture store and pancake restaurant are dark. A few patrons sit at outside tables in front of the pizza parlor, and lights are blinking from the sushi restaurant as several Asian customers enter it. Did I mention I love sushi?
Noel is like a kid in a candy store grinning from ear to ear. He practically leaps from the driver’s seat and races to open my door. “Pizza or sushi, milady?” he asks as he takes my hand in mock reverence. I admit I feel like royalty. Maybe Queen of Hearts admonishing Alice in Wonderland.
“No contest,” I reply and grab his hand. We race together while I have a sense of déja vue remembering the ice cream parlor. The Japanese hostess looks askance at us, not sure if she really wants to seat this panting couple. She studies us for a moment, and after a polite pause followed by an obligatory bow, she asks, “Sushi bar or table?”
Noel points to a tiny table in the corner. “This reserved,” Ms. Hostess replies. Her face is a composition in ivory. Not even a flutter of dark eyelashes. Noel nods and hands her a twenty. She leads us to the table. It’s private and secluded, set off from the rest of the restaurant.
“What made you decide on sushi, on this place?” He looks a little disappointed, like a man deprived of his pizza. Still, he gave me the choice.
“Look around. Ninety percent of the diners are Asian, and most of them, if you listen, are speaking Japanese. That’s a great restaurant review.” I unfold my napkin and tear off the paper from the chopsticks. “Did you hear anyone speaking Italian at the pizza parlor?” His guffaw startled several patrons near us, and he covered his mouth with a hand, but his eyes still sparkled.
NINETEEN
The hour is late. I don’t have a watch on, and I don’t care what time it is. Probably only elevenish, maybe later. Maybe much later. Still, lights glimmer from numerous windows in Bett’s expansive home. I feel like a schoolgirl with a curfew as we pull into the circular drive.
Noel and I squeeze hands and giggle. Yes, both of us. If you’ve never heard a grown man giggle with pleasure, you’re missing something special. He plants a peck of a kiss on the tip of my nose—so cute—and leaps out of the car without closing his door. Trying to be quiet and not disturb Bett, I suppose. Opening my door, he bows with a flair and takes my hand to help me out. I feel like royalty. Maybe I should suggest an adjustment more often. I flatten my free hand in front of my mouth to suppress another giggle and bat my lashes.
“Shh, you’ll wake her royal highness.” Noel tries to look stern, but his Groucho Marx expression makes me giggle all the more. For the first time I notice how thick his eyebrows are when he wiggles them. Cary Grant, Michael Rennie and Groucho all rolled into one. Can I live with that? I remind myself those images are all surface. It’s the man underneath, the soul of the man, that matters. Just as 1 Corinthians 13 comes to mind—“Love is patient, love is kind…”—a blinding light flashes and our heads jerk up.
“Yoo, hoo. You two okay?”
Bett. What on earth is she doing up? Spying on us? Waiting like a disconsolate parent? My latent teenage persona takes over, and I bristle.
Noel squeezes my hand so hard he almost crushes it. His wink gives me pause. Am I being too sensitive? He nods, then shakes his head ever so slightly. Is he reading my mind now? He winks again and does the Groucho eyebrow thing. “Isn’t this fun? Between Bett and you, Betsy, I feel so young.”
I take a deep cleansing breath. Maybe the man has something here. After all, we owe our meeting each other to Bett. And she is a sort of lonely mother wannabe. We both turn and wave, and for some unknown reason, even to me, I blow her a kiss. Suddenly, all the lights except the one on the porch go off. I turn to Noel and rest my head on his shoulder. “I feel young, too.”
TWENTY
A month later.
I’m still at Bett’s. Not officially, just for cooking. Luke did a super job renovating my condo from the fire damage. But, I was getting cramped in my little kitchen with all the orders coming in. Bett suggested I apply for a commercial health permit to use her kitchen for my larger orders. It was no problem getting one since her kitchen is larger than many restaurant ones, and all her appliances are labeled “commercial.” As a bonus Consuela keeps it immaculate. I think it’s a way for Bett to keep me close to her. She insists it is a wedding gift to me.
I’m mixing the batter for my wedding cake. I’m not a baker. But, this is something I’ve always dreamed of. Just the batter, not the decorations. I’ve hired Joseph and Joseph, decorators extreme and masters of fondant, to embellish it. They’ll step in next month to create the cake of my dreams. Meanwhile, the five tiers of lemon and chocolate, alternating in size and flavor, will be double-wrapped in plastic and resting in Bett’s monstrous freezer awaiting their masterful touch.
I’m licking the driblets of lemon batter off the spatula when my cell phone vibrates. The little window lights up, but not displaying a phone
number. Odd, it’s a “Restricted Number.” Can’t imagine, but since the cake layers are in the ovens—yes, two out of Bett’s four ovens—I decide to answer with a cautious “hello.”
“My aren’t we the mousy-voiced thing? I might have expected that.” The caller whose voice is definitely female, but marginally feminine, lets loose with a high-pitched cackle.
“Excuse me,” I say as calmly as possible, “I believe you have the wrong number.”
Another cackle, throaty this time. “If this is Betsy, Elizabeth, or whatever your name is, I’ve got it right.” There’s that pregnant pause again while I reflect, and she apparently waits for her words to sink in. “Lay off Noel you revolting snake, you wicked witch, you man hunter, you, you…” A stream of expletives, the ones that refer to me as a woman, drip like venomous E.V.O.O. from the raspy voice.
Of course any sensible person would hang up. One of my favorite childhood books was about an inquisitive and meddlesome little primate. His personality must have rubbed off on me. “WHO is this?” I hear myself screeching and bite my tongue. So much for my ladylike behavior.
“Don’t get your (she uses a slang term to name a body part, actually two) in an uproar, Honey. You’ll find out soon enough. Ask Noel.” And with that, she hangs up leaving my shaking hand holding the phone.
Suffering shellfish, you betcha I’ll ask Noel. If I let him live long enough.
“Who was that, dear? I thought I heard you screaming.” Bett floats into the arena sized kitchen in a crimson lounge outfit—filmy pant legs each the width of most skirts topped by a tent-like overblouse with wing shaped sleeves that would make a butterfly envious. She looks like she is practicing to fly. Matching rouge highlights her cheekbones and puffy lips. In contrast, her blue eyes look troubled and center on the blush I feel creeping across my nose.
I shrug and busy myself with rinsing the batter bowls. Tears sting my eyes and I sense my shoulders trembling. I feel the gentle touch of her hand on my arm.
Butterfly Dreams (A Christian Contemporary Romance) Page 9