“Well, thanks,” I said.
We turned our attention to yet another tester, and I felt like I had a friend by the time I found something I could live with. The lipstick I finally chose is called Shhh. That struck me as so appropriate for the life I’ve been leading that I bought three. Ginger seemed pleased.
It was almost dark when I left the mall. As I walked over to ride the elevator to the top of the Tower of the Americas and view the lights of the city from 750 feet, I thought how nice it was to have Ginger helping me this afternoon. A gentle breeze made the heat tolerable when I stepped out on the observation deck, and I found places for an unobstructed view of all the points of interest. If it wasn’t a feast for my eyes, it was a nice Sunday meal, and a good way to end a day that started so badly.
Or it would have been.
When I came back to my room and tossed my keys into my purse, I noticed my sack of makeup wasn’t in the large outside pocket where I had placed it for safekeeping.
What could I have done with it?
When I left Ginger, I went straight to the tower and then to the hotel, except for a quick stop in the parking lot to get my shoe bag from the car.
I dumped the contents of my purse on the bed, thinking I might have put the sack inside the purse and not remembered doing it. I found a pair of earrings, a laminated bookmark Kelsie had made me in kindergarten, a ticket stub from South Pacific, and salt packets, but not a sack of cosmetics. I checked the shoe bag in case I had put it in there for some crazy reason. Nothing. I was so disgusted. I had spent a ridiculous amount of time selecting that makeup, and besides that, I needed it.
I decided to check the car. Maybe it had fallen on the floor when I grabbed the shoe bag. I even checked the trunk, though I hadn’t opened the thing. By the time I finished ransacking the car, I was agitated beyond reason. I retraced my steps to the tower, willing the little package to be waiting for me on the floor in a dark spot along the railing somewhere. I walked around the circumference of the deserted tower twice, but if I had dropped my sack of makeup there, someone had already returned the lipstick for something with more color. I stood there trying to calm down, telling myself there was no reason whatsoever to be so disgusted, frantic even, about losing some makeup.
Can someone explain why I leaned against the wall, looked out at the lights of San Antonio, and sobbed as though I had lost something very dear?
I walked into the hotel hiding my swollen, bloodshot eyes behind sunglasses. I rushed to my room, washed my face, and lay down with a cold washcloth on my eyes, trying underneath the soothing terry cloth to fathom what the last hour had been about. I had been a runaway train, crashing at the top of the Tower of the Americas. There was no making sense of it.
I finally stood up, hung the washcloth in the bathroom, put on my gown, and picked up Tom’s Bible on my way back to the bed. I flipped to a highlighted passage in John 4 and had the patience to read all of one verse: “My food,” Jesus says, “is to do the will of him who sent me and to finish his work.”
What is my food? What nourishes and satisfies me? What can I not live without? The madness of the last hour suggests the answer is makeup.
Doing God’s will is the last thing I’ve been concerned about lately.
Or is it?
Perhaps his will for me right now is to learn how to live without Tom, to learn to live with what is left, to somehow quit mourning “the tender grace of a day that is dead” and instead embrace and celebrate “the tender grace of a day,” each one a gift from an eminently good God.
Could I get that intravenously?
August 21
I like to ease into the morning. Dawdling suits me.
Not Tom. He liked to get up while the birds were still warming up for their early morning concert. He would have his shower taken, the paper read, and his cereal eaten before the Today show began. He saw a good many sunrises in his lifetime. I’ve seen few and have wished embracing the morning was as natural for me as it was for Tom.
He was always the first one to school. He was usually in his office thirty minutes before anyone else arrived, setting a fine example for the faculty and staff. His favorite saying, pulled out when he was encouraging punctuality, was “If you aren’t ten minutes early, you’re late.” By this standard I was always late when I rushed into my first class with ten seconds to spare.
This was an issue we never resolved. Our last argument had to do with this discrepancy in our personalities and took place on a Sunday only a month or so before he died.
“It’s seven thirty,” he said as I sat at my vanity running a comb through my wet hair.
Grrr. This was a warning, not information. A clock sat on my vanity, less than two feet from my face.
“Don’t do that, Tom,” I said. “I’ll either be ready when you leave the house at eight fifteen or I won’t. We can take both cars if we need to.”
At 8:16 I was ready and glad to see he was still in the house, standing by the door leading to the garage. He even smiled.
Why I always insisted on cutting it so close, I cannot say. I don’t like that about myself. He probably didn’t either.
I intended to leave for Austin today, but I didn’t leave this room. After what happened this morning, I decided to dawdle away the entire day.
I got up late and headed for the shower, still thinking I would leave today.
But standing under the cascading water, I began to cry. I would have thought after last night my reservoir of tears would be depleted. Crying eventually turned into sobbing, gasping-for-breath sobbing. I stopped only long enough to shout something I haven’t uttered since I left home: “I don’t want this. I do not want this!”
When I could finally stop crying, I turned off the water, wrapped a towel around me, walked to the unmade bed as though I were sleepwalking, fell onto it, and stared with unseeing eyes at the ceiling.
Then, with nothing on but a towel, I tugged at the comforter and pulled it over me and fell into a deep sleep. I awoke an hour later, disoriented until the towel and my damp hair reminded me of my meltdown. Management had not knocked on my door, so I assume running water and well-insulated walls muffled the outburst.
After the craziness of last night, I had pulled myself together enough to write an entry that ended with a sliver of optimism. But this morning I wanted, more than anything I can think of, for Tom to walk into the bathroom and say that we were going to be late if I didn’t hurry up. I’ve finally figured out that the obvious antecedent for the ambiguous pronoun in “I don’t want this” is the infinitive phrase “to live life without Tom.”
I do not want to live life without Tom!
I just don’t.
That I have no choice doesn’t seem to give me the perspective it should.
I’ve been thinking that maybe letting go of what we had is so hard because the last decade of our marriage was so good. Each decade seemed to get better.
Not that the first ten years weren’t okay, but most couples have issues to deal with those first years, don’t they? I used to beat myself up for any tension we experienced early on until I finally accepted that blending two personalities, two backgrounds, two histories, two agendas probably isn’t easy for most people.
A benign example is the budget. Both of us agreed that our bills should be paid and something should be put in a savings account. The argument was how much should be put in savings and how much should remain at our disposal. The first year we were married we had a dandy tiff about whether we could get an unplanned pizza one school night. Those issues get resolved eventually, and two do “become one” in ways other than physical. I can’t remember the last time the budget or any financial matter was an issue.
What I consider our worst argument also occurred and recurred in the first decade. I made a hateful accusation, trying, I’m sure, to defend myself unnecessarily. I had failed to do something I said I’d do, or maybe it was the time I lost a hundred dollar bill, our grocery money for a week. Whateve
r it was, Tom said I should have been more careful, or something of that nature. I do, however, recall my exact words.
“So sorry, Tom,” I snapped, slamming a book down on the kitchen table. “I wish I could be perfect like you!”
It was a meanness spoken out of my frustration with my own lack of perfection, or anything close to it. I apologized, of course. He never said he was perfect, and I never had reason to believe he thought it either. Instead he was energetic and conscientious, qualities I admired and envied, and qualities that blessed my life. The bills were always paid, the grass always mowed, golf dates with friends and promises to grandchildren always kept. I never ceased to be amazed that he could do everything he was supposed to do when he was supposed to do it and with so little effort.
Doing what I’m supposed to do when I’m supposed to do it has always taxed me. That has threatened my contentment from time to time. When I once vented something of this nature to Molly, she was incensed. She said I always graded my mound of papers on time and with great care, that I made our home a beautiful and comfortable sanctuary, and that my humor, sensitivity and kindness (the insecure memorize indirect compliments) made my children and their father whole and happy. But I know what I know: Tom made life both good and easy for me.
Sometimes I wonder which is greater, grief or fear.
eight
August 22
I did not dawdle this morning. I took a shower without incident, rushed to the mall to replace my makeup (Ginger was surprised to see me and cheered when she found one last tube of Shhh), and drove to Austin. As soon as I was settled in the Holiday Inn Express, I Googled Austin and confirmed what I had suspected: The city was not named for any of my father’s ancestors. Nevertheless, it looked like a nice city. I took a walking tour of important sites this morning and then grabbed a pretzel and a Diet Coke and spent more time on a self-guided tour, enjoying the serendipity of exploring old neighborhoods, especially the historic district with its beautiful Victorian homes.
Returning to the car, I happened to pass a school where classrooms of elementary children were emptying systematically into the playground and front lawn. I heard an alarm but saw no flames or smoke and assumed I was watching a fire drill. Strangely enough, that capped off my day. It took me back to the first time I’d laid eyes on Tom Eaton.
I had just graduated and accepted my first teaching job. Tom, assistant principal at the time, had been away working on his doctorate when I was interviewed and subsequently hired that spring, and he was gone again the opening days of school. I had not met or seen him, but he apparently had heard about me, had seen me, and even knew where my room was located.
Rumors were rampant one day in late September that there would be either a fire or a tornado drill that afternoon, and I very much wanted to impress my students and the administration with my maturity and responsibility. The three short blasts of the alarm sounded for all the world like the description of the tornado drill, so I told my students to file out of the door and into the hall and to sit in front of the lockers with their heads between their knees. They did this in record time, and I couldn’t have been more proud.
Pride left in a huff, however, when I finally noticed other students marching toward the exit at the end of the long hall and at the same time noticed the expression on the face of an extremely handsome man who had materialized, dressed professionally in khaki pants, a white long-sleeved dress shirt, and red paisley tie.
He pointed to the exit and said, “This is a fire drill, Miss Austin.”
I was mortified.
“Okay, then,” I said. “Let’s go, kids.”
The next morning as I was screeching into my room just before the bell rang, he met me outside my door, explained he was the assistant principal, and asked me to drop by his office during my planning period.
He was packing his things into a cardboard box when I found his office.
I tapped on his open door. “I haven’t driven you away, have I?”
I heard his laugh for the first time.
I thought he had called me in to tell me I had ruined the school record for time required for students to exit the building during a fire drill. Instead he began to explain that he was being transferred to another high school to replace a principal who had suffered a serious stroke.
I was disappointed he wouldn’t be outside my classroom door again. The thought of him had been making me smile, which seemed a miracle to me.
I couldn’t have been more shocked when he said he was glad for the unexpected change in his plans. “That will allow me to call you sometime, if you don’t mind.”
A week later he did. That Christmas he asked me to marry him, and in July he became my husband.
Today I looked at more highlighted verses in John 4. Jesus heals an official’s son simply by speaking the words, “Your son will live.”
How I wish he would have said such a thing to me. “Your husband will live.”
I’ve always believed Jesus did such things so that people would realize he was sent from God, who is near and able, but I imagine many reading this account are like the official: It is not the joy of knowing God and belonging to him they want, but his miracle. Except for a very few, the fleeting physical is far more significant than the spiritual, even though it is eternal.
I have to admit that transcending the physical is not easy for me either. Look no further than yesterday morning and my version of a Psycho shower scene.
August 23
A dream awoke me in the early morning. The digital clock said 3:45. It’s not the first time I’ve dreamed of Tom. In one dream I walked out of the high school building just in time to see a school bus pulling away from the curb. Tom, who to my knowledge never drove a school bus, was sitting in the driver’s seat. He had told me nothing about a trip. I tried to catch the bus to ask where he was going and when he’d be back, but he didn’t see me. I stood in the middle of the street watching until it was a yellow dot in the distance.
In another dream he was walking on a long, narrow beam high in the rafters of a barn, his arms extended for balance. I stood below, begging him to come down, but he laughed and said he was fine, that I shouldn’t worry.
In last night’s dream, he was where he was supposed to be, asleep in his recliner. When I came into the living room, I walked over to him and put my hand on his face. When he opened his eyes and smiled, relief flooded me. I told him to get up and come to bed. He put the remote on the round table beside his chair and said okay, but when I got to the bedroom door and turned around, he wasn’t there.
That’s when I woke up. I lay there a long time staring into the darkness before I got up and walked into the bathroom to find something to help me sleep. I stood in the glare of the bathroom light looking at the little blue pill in the palm of my hand and decided I would try to sleep without it. I would give myself a half hour.
As I waited for the thirty minutes to transpire, I grabbed the Bible I had put on the bedside table and turned to some verses in the fifth chapter, where Jesus comes across a man who has been an invalid for thirty-eight years. What struck me as I read this at four in the morning was what Jesus asked the man before he healed him: “Do you want to get well?”
What a strange question.
I really do wonder why he asked him that. Surely the man wanted to get well. But after I turned out the light and closed my eyes, the same question came to me: Audrey, do you want to get well?
I thought the question was rhetorical, but lying there staring into the dark, I realized it really wasn’t, and I lay there for several minutes before I had my answer. Rolling over and pulling the sheet over my shoulder, I finally whispered, “Yes, I do.”
I think I at last understood why I love my Indian sculpture so much. I’m drawn to his posture. It suggests a wisdom that knows where his help comes from and a humility to ask for it. He stands there gratefully anticipating blessings from the Source of all good things. If an artist thought to create a contrast
to that pose, I would be a good model, at least in the months since Tom died. I’ve offered only generic petitions from the fetal position.
I spent the afternoon at an art museum housed in a renovated villa on Lake Austin. I had worn a white one-piece cotton knit dress that hit me, as usual, at midcalf (an excellent length for my legs). A wide brown belt slung around my hips, an attempt at accessorizing, gave it a casual but stylish look. It’s one of several things I’ve brought with me that says—with a hint of a smile—I’m much too young to be a grandmother. Yet it was close enough to age appropriate, especially considering the girl who stopped me as I wandered about the grounds.
She had on a jean skirt that covered maybe an inch of her long, thin legs; two complementary tank tops under a cropped jacket; and wedge sandals that made her at least five foot eleven. The censuring mother and teacher in me grudgingly admitted she looked adorable. For the first time I felt like AARP should actually be sending me their unsolicited materials.
“Do you have the time?” she asked.
I looked at my watch and told her it was just after four thirty. Suddenly she grabbed my wrist and stared at my hand.
“That is exactly what I’ve been looking for,” she said.
She glanced around, spotted her boyfriend across the way, and called to him.
“Brent,” she said as he walked up. “Look at this woman’s ring. This is what I want.”
I surmised I was looking at a couple about to become engaged.
“I’m afraid you can’t have it,” I told her with a smile.
She laughed. “I mean one like it. What’s it called?”
“It’s a marquise.”
“It’s perfect.”
“My husband has wonderful taste,” I told her. “In all these years, I’ve never seen anything I like more.”
Her boyfriend dutifully noted the size and cut of my diamond and then started leading his future wife toward an older couple standing nearby and the parking lot beyond them.
Tender Grace Page 5