Bett wasn’t too happy to have me leave. I think she counted on company to abate her loneliness. But, I knew it was time. I think I even got a nudge from Him. Maybe to get home for the phone call with Brie. I think Consuela was happy, though. She squeezed me so hard I almost called Noel for an adjustment. I mean, she’s been used to caring for one prima dona, but when I came on the scene, even though I didn’t ask for or require anything, she felt obligated. She’d treated me like a queen. But, I sensed she was tired of having two beds to change, two bathrooms to clean, two people to clean up after. Not to mention a 8500 square foot house to take care of. I’m sure she was relieved to see me go.
Speaking of Noel, I need to call him about Brie.
~
I hear a lot of clattering and a mild expletive. He’s probably fumbling with the phone next to his hospital bed. I’ve noticed hospitals seem to have a designated place for the so-called nightstands that hold the rooms’ phones. Always back by the patient’s shoulders, so said patient, who is probably either in pain or incapacitated, has to push up in the bed and turn halfway around to even reach the dratted thing while it shrills loud enough to wake a comatose person in the next room. This in hospitals whose rooms come equipped with flat screen televisions, DVD players and computer keyboards.
Finally, I hear a grunt and “yeh?”
“Good morning to you, too, Mr. Sunshine.”
“Sorry, Betsy. I had trouble reaching the phone.” No kidding.
“I do have some good news,” he proceeds to tell me without asking how I am. “Doc says I may be going home tomorrow. But, I’m still weak.” I hear an exaggerated sigh. “I’ll have to take it very easy for a few days till I get my strength back. And finish the medicine,” he adds. “Think you can help me out? Maybe with a few meals and a little companionship?”
“Uh, Noel, have you forgotten I’m barely mobile? I want to help you all I can, but driving is still a problem. I’m even trying to figure out how to get to the airport tomorrow.”
“The airport!” I cringe at the volume of his voice, forgetting I haven’t told him about Brie. I explain hastily, actually babbling, but he gets the gist. Nevertheless, his next remark sounds accusatory, like the whole wretched situation with Brie is my fault. “I thought you said Derek was a great guy. You’re proud to have him for a son-in-law, actually another son.”
“I was, still am. I just have to support Brie and help her get to the bottom of this mess. She needs her mommy right now, and I’m not about to let her down. I’m sure it’s just a little misunderstanding between her and Derek.” I hear the tiny crack in my voice and wish I felt more confident. My mind keeps wandering back to that “sins of the fathers” thing, even though What His Name wasn’t Derek’s father, but Brie’s.
Derek has a great dad, the kind who took him fishing and to movies and arcades and church. The kind of dad who made an extra effort to parent his son the right way after Derek’s mother died when he was eleven. John was an exemplary role model dad. Far as I know, still is. I used to think maybe he and I might get together, but it wasn’t to be after he met the auburn-haired beauty at church. The fifty-something gal with the slender body—the Yoga instructor who could eat half a dozen chocolate chip cookies and never gain an ounce. Ouch! My mind is wandering still, but without a compass.
“Oh.” Noel’s voice is flat, and I sense disappointment. “Of course. She’s family.”
“Not just family, Noel. My precious daughter. The very one whose father left me when I was pregnant with her. So, I do know what she’s going through, but I don’t know the whole story yet.” I know it’s hard for him to understand since he and Maizie never had children. But, I don’t want to say that because I know her barrenness was the one disappointing thing in their marriage. However, it may be the thing that helped them cling together so tightly. Marriage is such a complicated thing.
Truth be known, I was secretly hoping Noel would stay in the hospital a few more days. I know that sounds unfeeling, but it would have been a load off my shoulders to know he would be taken care of with minimal attention needed from me. Now I have two problems to confront—how to help Noel without seeming uncaring, and do I have the courage to drive to the airport with a cast on my leg? I’ve been experimenting driving to Sprout’s Market and the bank and other local places only a few blocks away. I drove home from Bett’s in Fountain Hills, a twenty-minute ride on Shea Boulevard during rush hour. But, I haven’t tested freeway driving yet. Certainly not early in the morning during high volume time. I’d just have to brave it and pretend Jesus is sitting in the passenger seat like my camp counselor suggested when I was sixteen.
I’m pacing, actually hobbling, around my condo with the portable phone jammed against my ear when my toes that are exposed at the open cast stub the coffee table and my hand lands on a book to catch my balance. My Bible! Hello, Lord. I am so sorry I’m trying to solve these problems without your help. I need your guidance. What should I do? I think He just pushed a button in my brain. I’m not exactly crazy about His suggestion, but I must trust His judgment over mine. My tongue starts to work again, maybe faster than my brain. I spout out my crazy idea. Is it God’s, or mine?
“Noel, I know the perfect place for you to recuperate.” Did I hear a crack in my voice again? A tinge of jealousy? Still, I press on knowing it’s the right thing, the perfect answer. “Bett’s.” There, I said it. I swallow hard waiting for a reply. When none comes immediately, I start the parrot questions. “Noel? Noel?” Maybe he’s fallen asleep or dropped the phone. Finally, I hear a hoarse whisper.
“You sure? You’d be all right with that?”
“I—I think so. It might be the best solution for now, and I know Consuela would dote on you,” I hasten to add. “Have you ever slept in a velvet-paneled room? With a huge furry cat as your blanket? And, a silver-handled guest toothbrush?” I wonder if my forced attempt at levity has fallen on deaf ears until I hear another whisper.
No. It would be a new experience. You sure?” he questions again, and I can almost see the devilish grin on his face—below the Crayon blue eyes and above the cleft chin.
“Yep. I know she’d love to have you.” I hope I’m right. “You’d get three delicious squares a day from Consuela, a soft bed and lots of attention. Bett will hover I warn you, but she’s lonely. If you felt up to it and had the desire, you could even do laps in the pool. That’s a great way to get back your strength.” I close my eyes tight and silently pray, but for what – maybe God’s will and my acceptance of it? “What do you say?”
“Okay.” Suddenly his voice seems stronger, even chirpy happy. “I’m game if you are.”
Now, I’m feeling conflicted. I’m not sure if I’m having latent jealousy, or just guilt because I’m not the one who’ll take care of Noel and nurse him back to health. I feel torn between the man I love and the child I love.
“Betsy?” His warm voice hums over the phone line. “I know this is a difficult time for you. I understand your devotion to Brie, and I agree you need to be there for her. I’ll be fine at Bett’s. Probably won’t want to leave if all you say is true. But,” he hesitates, “I hope I’ll have a chance to meet Brie, even be part of her life.”
“Noel, I’d never keep her from you. I love you so much. I just feel it’s time for me to be a strong parent for her. I’ve been where she is now. I get the picture, as ugly as it is. After she and I sift through the emotions,” I continue to ramble, “we will all get together as a family. I know Brie will love you as much as I do.”
When I finally hang up sending slobbery smooches over the phone, I take a deep breath and dial Bett’s number. Nothing would ever have prepared me for her answer.
I blew it, Lord. I blew it. How was I to know what Betsy would ask me? I can change my plans. It will be a hassle, and a big expense, but I can afford it. Not to mention the others I’ll offend. Please give me guidance. I love to be needed, to be helpful, but this is the most awkward time to rearrange my plans.
> Where is that Scripture she loves so much? Jeremiah? Something about the plans you have for me, not my plans, but yours.
TWENTY SEVEN
I guess you could say I was floored. What is that old adage about “never assume because—?” Never mind. As my Auntie May used to say, “Great minds run in the same gutter.”
I’m doing the thumb-twiddling thing again and, at the same time, slamming kitchen implements on the counter. (I’ve gotten really good at multi-tasking.) The metal spatulas don’t make the same pinging sound on the new marble countertops as they did on the old Formica ones, but at least there’s no chance of chipping. The sound is kind of neat, too. I’m drumming out my version of Dave Brubeck’s Take Five and fuming over my egotistical assumption Bett would welcome Noel for caregiving. “How could you be so dumb?” I say with teeth bared glaring into the reflection on the back of the copper bowl? I learned as a teenager forty plus years ago to never assume. Just as I’m slapping myself on my forehead, the phone rings.
“I am such a ditz.”
“Bett?” This time I do have to question since I’m not sure about the voice. It sounds like Bett, even showed her name on Caller I.D., but the tiny, soft voice isn’t like hers.
I can almost see the tears trickling down her face and rolling over the crevices of her caked makeup. That vision almost undoes me. But, before I, too, start to weep she bursts into joyful laughter. She must have the phone receiver tucked between her shoulder and ear because I hear her hands clapping gleefully, like after we sing a praise song at my church.
“What an opportunity! God is SO good. Noel’s room will be ready tomorrow.”
“Bett,” I try to keep my voice even and modulated. “I don’t understand. I thought you had plans to vacation in the Caribbean. I hope you didn’t change them for Noel—or me.” Truth be known, I hope she did. I feel this sort of leaden weight in my chest. Guilt maybe? Now I start to rationalize to myself. Bett goes to fabulous resorts every year. Surely, this was no big deal, just a diversion for her. No big deal. Yeh, Betsy, when did you ever go to the Caribbean?
Never.
~
I am such a wimp. Bett insists on having “her man” pick Noel up from the hospital and bring him to her opulent house. Turns out “her man” (originally stated as “my man”) is her faithful gardener, Roberto. I knew Bett didn’t have a chauffeur, but in my stress mode about getting Brie from the airport, and gleeful at not having to nurse Noel, I hadn’t given it a thought. Poor Roberto. At least he won’t have to deal with Pudgy since there’s no reason to traverse the ER, and hopefully he’ll meet Nurse Jones. Although I cringe to think what his reaction would be if she pulls the Nurse Ratchit routine on him. Especially since he barely speaks the English language and probably never saw One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Surely, Nurse Whatever She Calls Herself from time to time will have to be sensitive enough to not impose levity on the poor man.
I stuff these thoughts down into the guilt gully of my gut as I swing from the 101, Pima Freeway, onto the 202 freeway toward Sky Harbor Airport. My right leg is aching from trying to keep my toes hovering on the gas pedal at sixty-five while sitting at a slight angle with the cast left leg stretched uncomfortably under the dash. Scottsdale had installed speed cameras on the Pima Freeway about a year ago and they put a cramp (pun intended) on driving a major stretch between Shea Boulevard and Tatum. Thankfully, according to dubious statistics, the cameras have cut down on accidents, as well as catching a few weirdos who paid no heed and zoomed by them at 100 plus miles per hour, including several illustrious major sports figures.
Terminal Four’s sign looms ahead, and I dip to the right. I am ten minutes early, a first for me at airports, and circle twice. The third time I slow past the Southside exit a chunky woman with frizzy hair leaps toward Sassy. Glory be! Is it, could it be…my Brie?
My first thought, however unmaternal, is who is that fat girl, and what has Brie done to her hair?
~
“Momma, he just keeps saying he’s sorry, but he’s not ready to be a father,” Brie whines. She picks rhythmically at the loden green jersey stretched across her bulging belly as if constantly loosening it will make the bulge disappear. It’s unbearably hot today, pushing 114 degrees, and I notice dark rings under her arms and trickles of sweat running down her temples. Because of my cumbersome cast I stayed in Sassy while Brie hefted the planet’s largest suitcase under Sassy’s swing-up back door. I couldn’t help but notice the scattering of cruise line stickers adorning it. A reminder that she and Mr. Not Ready to be a Father had some nifty trips in their short marriage. I debate whether the nagging twinge of bitterness I’m feeling is resentment at Derek or jealousy toward both of them for their flamboyant excursions. Maybe Noel-guy will take me on a cruise after we’ve both healed—and married. Yeh, right. Isn’t there a song titled “In Your Dreams?”
I reach toward her knee to give it a squeeze midst her babbling, but she pushes my hand away. “Sorry, Momma, but my knees are so sore and swollen. The baby’s taking its toll on my body.” She reaches into her saddlebag-sized purse and extracts a bag of M & M candies that she proceeds to shove by handfuls into her mouth. I console myself that she didn’t refer to my future grandchild as an “it.” Some blessings come in small doses.
I try to recall the Bible verse about gluttony, but since I don’t need to refer to it often (honest, I hardly ever eat what I cook), it escapes me. Just as well, Lord, huh? What’s that verse about being judgmental? Aw, “…stop passing judgment on one another. Instead, make up your mind not to put any stumbling block or obstacle in your brother's way.” Somewhere in Romans I think. I thank the Creator for the reminder and swerve around a van displaying a carpet cleaning ad.
Drat! I miss the exit to Shea Boulevard and have to go to the next one. Trying to follow Brie’s constant soliloquy, and nod, and give an appropriate “Hmm” occasionally has distracted me. When we finally pull into the parking lot of my condo complex, I hear myself whooshing a giant sigh. Both my legs ache, the one in the cast for obvious reasons and the right one from stretching to reach car pedals. I feel as if I’ve run a 5K, which I actually did once. Twenty years ago. No comment, please.
“Brie, honey, could you please come around and help me extract my cast?”
Instead of rushing to her mother’s side, she stands like a pillar of salt (I know, the image comes to mind again) and says in a plaintive whine, “This is where you still live?”
~
When she was fifteen, I sent Brie to charm school.
I figured Cotillion hadn’t worked, so we’d try the next step. Certainly not a dance one since she’d never mastered the basic two-step. I remember sitting on the sidelines with dozens of other mothers while Commander Olander and his Mrs. called the instructions from a small stage. All of us moms wore pasted on grins, sort of like the ones you see grade-school kids drawing irreverently on their teachers’ photographs in school annuals. I’d glance at Mary Beth Baker and Louisa Mae Smythe and my heart would fill with hate. Not exactly for them, but for the fact they’d produced daughters who were, although still preteen, lithe, slim and sure on their feet. Boys rushed to dance with them, probably because the boys had no clue how to dance themselves. So, they clung as much as decorum allowed and let Rachel Baker and Suzanna Smythe lead. Two girls in elegant dresses, one in shimmering blue and the other in topaz satin.
Once, a large, muscular boy held his hand out to Brie. My first thought was he must be a potential football star, an athlete, much adored and looked up to by his classmates. I found out later, during Brie’s sobs, he was the school clown, the dunce two years behind the others. We quit Cotillion the night her so-called-father didn’t show up for the father-daughter dance.
Charm school wasn’t much better. Mrs. Weaver, the owner’s wife who was really Mrs. In Charge, told Brie repeatedly she’d never “find her style.” I mean, how much “style” does a fifteen-year-old have? Mostly what’s “in” and being sold in the wanna-be bout
iques. Oh, where was Bett and her boutiques then?
Did you guess? Charm school was Disaster Number Two.
When Brie started swim team her freshman year in high school things got better. At least she had some pre- and after-school activity to divert her thoughts from boys. As it turned out, with Coach Dempsey’s help, she developed a mean butterfly stroke and won a few medals. Plus, her body toned out and she lost a few pounds. Dempsey’s encouragement by pushing her to the limits of her abilities garnered her a small scholarship to a local college. Plus a few medals and a trophy. I hope God blessed that man who made all the difference between getting a higher education or not. I will forever be indebted to him screaming and cheering during her high school graduation. He gave the first soft drink toast at her party, and because he came, so did several football and basketball players making Brie’s grad party very special. I wish he were here now. How I’d love to thank him again and have him give encouragement to her during this rough time. Sadly, he can’t be.
Coach Dempsey died of heart failure three years ago.
~
Brie lugs the gargantuan suitcase up the stairs to the porch and drags it across the carpet to the guest bedroom I’d lovingly prepared. Because of my cast I can’t help much. “Uh, honey, you didn’t tell me you were this pregnant.”
“Momma, if I’d told you five months ago, you would’ve…well, whatever.” She shrugs her shoulders dismissing me, whining—still. I stuff down the thought that if she wasn’t my daughter I’d have fingers around her throat. What has happened to the gentle, soft-spoken, almost timid girl I raised? Perhaps that small swimming scholarship and the stint as editor of the college paper went to her head. Maybe the newfound confidence from rooming with the girl from England and the one from Shaker Heights, Ohio. Maybe they taught her style, enough so when Derek met her at a sorority function he was intrigued. But, what happened to the teaching, the style? Somewhere, maybe during the past few months of pregnancy, it got lost.
Butterfly Dreams (A Christian Contemporary Romance) Page 13