Altar Call

by Hope Lyda

  I continue examining the reports from various facilities. A standard questionnaire has been completed for each location evaluated and there are additional notes jotted down at the bottom of the sheets. I notice some are in Beau’s boyish printing, and some are written in cursive.

  Paige.

  Just when I had stopped thinking about her, I see her name scrawled at the top of one of the evaluations. Of course it is her handwriting. She is his mentor. I get up and walk across the room to the sole bookshelf and the sole picture of me and Beau. It was taken after the Tucson Trot, a fund-raiser walk last year. I look terrible. I had just found out that Tess, my favorite resident at Golden Horizons, had passed away. The skin around my eyes is sort of puffy and my face is a bit shiny from the heat. But there is a sweetness in our couple stance. I am leaning on him, and he is giving me a tight sideways hug, supporting me in my sadness. His eyes are not staring at the camera as people usually do when they know a photo is being taken—his eyes are fixed on me.

  The phone rings right beside me and nearly sends the frame flying from my fingers. Instead, I catch it between my arm and my thigh and save it from brokenness. The phone keeps ringing. Even after many months of dating, I don’t feel comfortable answering Beau’s phone. Then again, it could be him wanting to know which sprinkles I like best. I smile. No, wait. He would have called me on the cell phone he bought me. I, unlike him, usually have mine turned on.

  The last ring is cut off and Beau’s voice comes on. “Try, try again. Leave a message at the beep.”

  “Hey, it’s me. I hope you are figuring out what we are missing because I’ve been working on this since we left the restaurant earlier. Maybe you are taking a much-needed break. Remember, I’ve got you all weekend, so be ready to work first thing tomorrow. Ciao.”

  Ciao? Who says ciao? And I’ve been Beau’s girlfriend for more than ten months and I still identify myself when I call. Paige works with him for two months and bypasses her name and throws around “Hey” and “Ciao” as though she’s an overly flirtatious waitress at the corner bistro. My finger hovers over the delete button. But I can’t. It would somehow be admitting that I really think I need to worry. And I don’t. Beau is not that kind of a guy. He’s the kind you take home to meet the parents. He’s the kind you marry if you are lucky enough to get asked.

  I force myself to return to the couch and focus on the data, not the dame. This seems to work as I am on the edge of figuring something out when Beau comes through the door with three freezer bags full of selections.

  “They didn’t have your favorite, and I couldn’t remember what you like second best, so I bought us a buffet of ice cream. And toppings.” He turns to show me yet another bag tucked under his arm.

  Now that I see his smile, I think of Paige. I pray he doesn’t play the message while I am here. There isn’t room for the three of us. “I’m sure I’ll like one of those.”

  “Did you figure out what is missing?” Beau eyes the notepad where I have scrawled out some notes.

  “I have ideas. I’m not sure if it is what you two are looking for.” I did what I thought I wouldn’t do—I indirectly brought her up. But Beau doesn’t notice my phrasing. He doesn’t know that it takes every ounce of self-control in me to not say the word “Paige” right now, out loud, and to his face.

  “That is great. I knew you’d have an eye for this research.”

  Then why wasn’t I asked sooner, know-it-all?

  Beau plops down next to me and hands me a large spoon and a carton of peppermint stick ice cream.

  He is forgiven.

  “You have a cat. Can you fill in the word?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Beau points to the television and the about-to-be solved puzzle. “The missing word? The guy missed it, but I think the woman knows it. It is ‘cat’ blank,” he says, wiping chocolate sauce off his mouth with the back of his hand.

  I look at the board on the screen and shake my head in disbelief. It can’t be. But clearly it is. “Ciao,” I say.

  Beau looks up a bit startled; there is recognition on his face. Then it melts as quickly as the ice cream left on his chin and he looks back at the television. “You’re right. Cat Ciao. That was incredible. You didn’t even hear the clue.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” I say. “Just playing the game, right?”

  Etiquette

  More croissants, Mari?” Lola Swanson, who smells of lilac linen spray, leans over me to secure a pretty pastry with metal tongs.

  “Yes, please,” I say in a very dainty voice. I am participating in the final presentations of the Elders for Etiquette club hosted by Golden Horizons. I don’t remember agreeing to this for one of my rare weekends home, but Lysa assures me I did.

  “I always love these.” Lysa smacks her lips three times after nibbling a miniscule sandwich.

  “You just flunked the manners portion of this session.”

  “Ya think?”

  “I think. Now, Sonya is a shining star. Look at her.”

  We glance over at our friend, who is sipping from a porcelain cup like a queen.

  “If this is an Elders for Etiquette event, do you think on the other side of the tracks there is an Elders Against Etiquette activity?” I have not had coffee yet.

  “Oh, let’s go.” Sonya says, laughing.

  Lysa turns to me. “Don’t your breakfast buds meet at Freddies on Saturday mornings?”

  “We met yesterday for the dress fitting instead. But really, the Saturday breakfast ritual was hardly happening—not since DE-day.”

  “D-day?” She wipes watercress from her chin with the back of her hand.

  “Diamond engagement ring day.”

  “Changes everything. I’ve seen my sister twice since she got married a year ago. We used to go shopping at the Farmers’ Market every Wednesday.”

  “Now?”

  “Not once.”

  “Are you doing anything with our bossy boss?” Sonya dabs the corner of her mouth with practiced flair.

  “We hung out for a while last night.” I pout. “His mentor is in town, and they need time to go over his proposals for the program.”

  “He’ll do so well. That is worth a weekend now and then.”

  I wave my napkin casually. “Oh, yeah. It’s worth it. I just wish…”

  Lola comes out of the kitchen a bit flushed to apologize for the delayed baked Alaska. We graciously tell her not to worry.

  “That it wasn’t your weekend?” Sonya asks sympathetically.

  “That too, but—this is silly—I wish he had a male mentor.”

  “You are crazy to worry. Beau is the most stable guy I have ever met. And he is absolutely smitten with you,” Sonya says, telling me what I already know.

  Greta Banfeld prances into the center of the sunroom. She has on ballet slippers and seems to be our unscheduled entertainment. Clearly a ploy to keep our minds off being deserted by dessert.

  We cannot take our eyes off of her. She reminds me of a music box ballerina on a spring coil who bends when the lid is closed—her spring might be loose.

  “I’m getting dizzy. Make her stop,” whimpers Lysa.

  I turn to laugh, but I see she is holding her stomach and turning a shade shy of a shamrock.

  “Maybe you had better excuse yourself. I’m pretty sure that…”

  Lysa bends over and places her startling green face in my lap. She also knocks a dish of tapioca all over me.

  “…this is not polite.” My impulse is to jump up and run far, far away, but I place one hand on her head to comfort her and with the other try to scoop up the pudding.

  A few moments later, without attracting more attention than necessary, I half lift, half drag Lysa to the hallway. In her sick mumblings she mentions a tuna allergy.

  “Can I help? Lysa, do you need a ride home?” Sonya joins us in the hallway near the bulletin board decorated like an aquarium.

  Lysa looks up at a colorful, paper version of a betta. “Tuna.”
>
  “A nursing student should know not to mess with food allergies, especially not at a function,” I reprimand my friend just as we turn the corner toward the bathroom.

  “I wanted to be supportive,” she moans.

  I look up in time to see Beau and a stunning woman walking down the hallway.

  Beau, looking curiously at the scene and trying to piece together what is going on, asks, “What happened?”

  “Lysa’s allergic to tuna.”

  “Tuna,” she echoes pathetically. Lysa’s mouth is now open as though she has been drugged.

  I’m trying to stay focused on Beau because I don’t want to look at Paige. I see she is dressed in a polished, tailored suit, and this is not my best moment. I realize this is poor manners. So be it.

  “Sonya?” Paige’s voice glides over me toward my friend.

  “Paige? What are you doing here with…” Sonya pauses.

  I know why she stops the conversation. “With Beau” does not sound proper. After all, Paige isn’t with Beau. This is all my mind focuses on and seems to avoid the question that would be asked if people asked the questions they wanted to instead of politely stepping around issues: “How do Paige and Sonya know each other?”

  I don’t ask it, and I still don’t look up.

  “I’m Beau’s mentor. Can you believe it? Small world, isn’t it? We have lots of work to do this weekend. We are on our way to look at some of Beau’s research here at the office. This project is his heart, but I think I can offer some guidance. Together we have a good chance of earning our grant stripes on this, right, Beau?”

  “Yes,” Beau says, and I can tell by the volume of his voice that he is facing me. “Mari, can I help you and Lysa? She looks awful.”

  “She’s had a bad day. We’ll be fine. Excuse us.” I am giving him the brush-off. I am also counting the number of times Paige used “we.”

  “Mari, do you want to use my office? Lysa could lie down on the couch in there.” Beau is trying to acknowledge me in this situation, and I don’t take it. Yes, I did beg him to introduce me to Paige early on, but this is not the moment.

  “We’ll just take her home. Paige, good to see you. Maybe we can catch up during one of your visits,” says Sonya.

  “We will be busy, busy, but perhaps coffee sometime. I’ll get your information from Beau.”

  I am already in the women’s restroom splashing cold water on Lysa’s face and mine when Sonya finishes saying goodbye to Paige.

  “You didn’t tell me it was Paige,” Sonya says with a bit of shock evident in her voice.

  I use the soap from the hand dispenser to wash my face and hands. If the sink was bigger, I’d try to dive in. My erratic motion turns the substance into many suds. I’m wearing a halo of bubbles as I look into the mirror. “I didn’t realize the name Paige meant anything. How do you know her?”

  “Well, you know that Beau and I knew each other as acquaintances in college. Paige introduced us.”

  “She thought you two would want to date?” Lysa asks the question because once you almost throw up in public, you do not have to abide by the proper question rule.

  “No.” Sonya manages a polite laugh. She is yanking paper towels and wiping up the mess I have made. “Goodness, we may need to give you both a shower.”

  “What aren’t you saying, Sonya?” I ask.

  She keeps cleaning and avoids looking at me. “This is a conversation for you and Beau.”

  “If it is something you would want to know, tell me.”

  She considers this and nods. “Paige and Beau dated.”

  “My eye. My eye!” Soap has dripped into my field of vision.

  “Flush!” Lysa pushes my head under the sink with the force of full recovery. After a few seconds she pulls me back upright and wipes my face. “Open your eyes, Mari. Try to focus on my fingers. Your eyes will water for a while, but you need to open them.”

  My instinct overrides my common sense, and my eyes remain tightly shut.

  I’m not ready to look.

  Amazing Grace

  Caitlin lives walking distance from my church, and while I thought I would not be up for it after yesterday’s big news flash, I am decidedly very much in the mood to be back in my home church.

  I didn’t even call Beau because I figured he would be working all morning with Paige. I let myself acknowledge this without going down a path of dark thoughts or jealous rants.

  And when I see him entering the church from the other side of the sanctuary, I am only glad, relieved, and happy.

  He scans the crowd, notices me, and rushes over. His hand reaches for mine and doesn’t let go during the service, which makes taking communion difficult and makes experiencing communion attainable. When he gets the chance, Beau looks at me and mouths he is sorry. Later he nudges me and whispers it in my ear.

  A part of me wants to strangle him right here in the pew we have chosen as our favorite spot. I figure that is about 49.9 percent of me. One of my biggest fears in a relationship is to be made the fool of, to be taken advantage of, to not be cared for in some way that is important. Beau’s lack of being forthright is shocking. If anyone else was dating a guy who did this, I would be skeptical. I would be a love atheist or at least a romance agnostic. But this is my Beau. The one who treats me well, laughs with me, and cares about the people I care about. The view is much different from here by his side.

  Which brings me to the 50.1 percent that wants to readily forgive him. I want to hear his reasons and believe him wholeheartedly. I want to be the giver of grace.

  I have not heard his reasons for keeping the truth from me.

  I don’t have to imagine them because I know them well.

  I have not yet told him the whole truth about Marcus. It never occurred to me to reveal that Marcus is not just a good-looking, good-hearted guy who is helping my parents, but someone I had a relationship with. A young, teen relationship, but nevertheless one that affected me and my heart deeply at that time in my life. If Beau visited me at the center, he would see how closely Marcus and I work together. And should he stumble across the detail that we once dated, I would be standing in the same place of guilt by omission.

  I am ready to give grace because I know I need to ask for it as well.

  On the steps of the church, I confess to Beau that I dated Marcus many years ago. Beau says he felt jealous of Marcus from the beginning, but only because Marcus was close to me, geographically speaking. I laugh and say it was the same threat I perceived about Paige.

  We come clean about our past enough to reassure the other that it was our past trials that made us who we are today. There you have it, love professed in clichéd story morals.

  Best of all, we both agree it cannot be geographic distance that keeps us together or tears us apart. The faith we have in our future stems from the grace we are giving to one another this weekend. It is a clean slate that we don’t disturb with lots of exuberant promises or vows. Doing so would only remind us how fragile this relationship is, and we both want to give it a real chance at survival.

  Today, as I hand Clarissa my ticket, there is no extra security check. Beau does not give me more ways to stay in touch with him, and I follow Clarissa’s rules carefully. I think I even see her smile as she recognizes my name and driver’s license image which is, sadly, hard to forget.

  As I sit on the plane flipping through the airline publication and pretending to read, I figure out that the camera phone, the calling card, and the necklace Beau gave me last month were less about Paige specifically and more about the fear of what distance can do to a relationship—and what the nearness of others can also do to a relationship.

  I reach into my bag and pull out the gaudy necklace. The chunky chain and mother of pearl goes around my neck—once again. It is my act of faith.

  Stranger and Stranger

  Could you get that, Mari?” Mom calls from upstairs. I am cleaning up yet another weekend breakfast mess after losing an arm wrestling wager wit
h Jon. Now all the kids have invited me to an arm wrestling challenge with dreams of being chore free for the rest of their young lives.

  I head to the front door and look in the security monitor. Kayla. Then I look down at my messy apron, frayed jeans, and broken flip flops. Oh, great. She will pretend to not know me all over again with this getup.

  Kayla enters the door by first poking her head in, as if checking to see if the coast is clear of kids. She seems relieved until she spots me standing by the soda fountain bar holding up a spatula.

  “Goodness, Mary. They’ve put you to work.”

  I don’t correct her. She knows my name—just as I know hers. “That’s right, Kale. But you know what hard work volunteering can be, don’t you? After all, you’ve taken on my mom’s campaign out of the kindness of your big heart. It’s not easy to be so generous.”

  She fluffs the back of her hair with platinum adorned fingers. “Well, thank you. It is worth every backbreaking minute of it.”

  “Mom!” I call for backup.

  “I’m here, Miss Impatient Pants.”

  I turn to Mom to thank her for the humiliating nickname, but when I see her beautiful outfit, all I can do is praise her. “Is that what you bought last week? It’s wonderful. That jacket is very stylish, and the necklace is fantastic.”

  “Those were my selections, Marsha,” beams Kayla.

  I stare at Mom, giving her a “see what she does?” look. But Mom is on an adrenaline high and does not tune into her daughter’s hypersensitivity to being called by the wrong name.

  Kayla does a quick check of Mom’s makeup and outfit and her notes. “Perfect. They will love you at the Friends of the Library function. This group represents people we want to back us all the way.”

  “To the White House?” I ask mischievously. Mom is running for city council, not a senate seat, for goodness’ sake.