The Good Nearby

by Nancy Moser

  Her throat was like the Sahara. “Who says it’s inevitable?”

  He gave her a stern look. “Medical science does not lie.”

  “So there’s no such thing as a miracle?”

  It was Dr. Moss’s turn to open his mouth to speak, then close it. “A miracle, by its very nature, is something against the norm. And though I will never rule one out, I have to treat you on the basis of science.”

  “Bummer thing, science.”

  “Au contraire. Science can save your sight.”

  He was back to the transplant thing again. She sighed. “If I got a corneal transplant, who, pray tell, is going to cough one up for me?”

  He hesitated a moment. “Someone who no longer needs it.”

  She knew this. “Someone who’s dead.”

  “An organ donor.”

  She shuddered. “I don’t like the idea that I’d be seeing with someone else’s eyes.”

  “Not their entire eye. That’s impossible because the retina and optic nerve are attached to the brain, so until we can do brain transplants, we can’t do eye transplants.”

  Too much information. “But you can take the corneas.”

  “Exactly. The success rate is very high. I’ve given you a brochure . . .”

  Which she’d only glanced at. She still didn’t like the idea of it. “Can’t you just do some laser surgery, or put in a synthetic cornea, or something miraculous like that?”

  “No, we can’t. The miracle will come from the donor.”

  There had to be another way. “I’d rather go blind.”

  He took her hand. “Now, Gladys, you’ve fought your blindness every step of the way. Don’t stop fighting now.”

  “But I wouldn’t be fighting anymore; I would be taking. From someone else.”

  “You would be accepting their gift. People who are organ donors do so willingly. It’s a choice they make. It’s a choice they share with their family. It’s a way for them to go on living by helping someone else live, or at the very least, live more fully.”

  She hoped the lecture was over. “I’ll think about it.”

  He studied her a moment. “If you’re troubled because of religious concerns, don’t be. Every major religion condones organ transplants—some even encourage them—so you wouldn’t be going against any church—”

  “That’s not an issue.”

  He blinked, obviously out of reasons. “Think about it. But don’t wait long. I’d like to get your name on the list. The good thing about corneal transplants is we don’t have to worry about matching blood types. The bad thing is, the waiting list can be lengthy.” Dr. Moss moved toward the door. “Do you have any other questions?”

  “Not now.”

  “Call me anytime. I want this to happen for you, Gladys. I want you to see clearly again.”

  So did she. But at what cost?

  * * *

  When Gladys worked in the pharmacy she faced outward, toward the store. She and King had positioned the display racks so they could see the front door and the checkout from this position.

  But this afternoon, after getting the news from the doctor, she didn’t feel like seeing anyone.

  Seeing. Ha. Not much longer. So saith Dr. Moss. Not unless she agreed to the transplant. Not unless she agreed to take someone else’s sight.

  “That they aren’t using anymore. You’re not taking anything from them. They’re giving you a gift.”

  The thoughts swam, causing Gladys to turn toward the back wall and lean against the counter for support. She closed her eyes. How could she do this? How could she not do this?

  The clearing of a throat caught her attention. “Now this is a new one. Napping while standing?” King said.

  “It’s an art. You should try it sometime.”

  Back from lunch, he hung up his red Kansas City Chief’s jacket. “You do look tired. Fill me in on what’s going on and you can head home.”

  She was going to protest, then thought better of it. “Maybe that would be best.”

  She headed for the door, but King stepped in front of it, barring her way. He put a hand on her arm and whispered, “Gladys. What’s wrong?”

  His shoulder was inches away but she couldn’t take advantage of its comfort. Theirs was a working relationship.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  He did deserve to know. She stepped back. “I need a corneal transplant.”

  His eyes widened. “I hadn’t realized it had gotten that bad.”

  “I’m not blind—yet. But it’s only going to get worse.”

  “Then condolences and congratulations are in order,” King said.

  “What?”

  “Condolences on the fact that you need a transplant, but congratulations on the fact that you’re a candidate for one.”

  It was an interesting way to look at it. “Doesn’t it bother you that in order for me to get what I need, someone has to die?”

  “It’s not like you’re killing them.”

  Gladys was taken aback. This wasn’t helping. “I’m going home.”

  He touched her arm. “Sorry if that was too blunt. We’ll work through this, Gladys. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Good to know.

  * * *

  Talia went through the checklist for the anesthesiologists’ convention that was beginning today. Tomorrow there would be two catered dinners in the ballroom, the need for ten small meeting rooms with various audiovisual requirements, and coffee-break drinks and pastries to be set up while the attendees were in meetings.

  “You look intense.” Her boss, Wade, stood in the doorway leading from her desk to his office. She loved the way he wore suspenders with his suits. On an older, portly man it would look fuddy-duddy, but on a handsome man like Wade, it looked GQ.

  “There’s work enough for three people—but I have it covered,” Talia said.

  “I’m sure you do.”

  She gave him a second look. His tone was often hard to read.

  He moved next to her desk and she handed him the list. He averted his head and sneezed—twice. “Excuse me,” he said. “Stupid cold.” She must have made a face because he said, “What’s wrong?”

  Her thoughts were forced into words. “When someone’s sick . . . Nesto can’t afford to be sick. So germs and such . . .” She shrugged, hoping he’d fill in the blanks.

  Wade took a step back. “I’m sorry. I never thought . . . I’ll try to keep my distance until it’s gone.”

  She nodded. Was she being paranoid? Nesto’s doctors had said to be careful, but how could she? Her job brought her into contact with hundreds, if not thousands, of people.

  Wade finished checking the list and put it back on her desk. “It looks fine.”

  “Thanks.” When he went back into his office, she picked up the list then suddenly let it go. He’d touched the list after he sneezed.

  With a glance toward his office, she hurried to the restroom and turned the water on full blast. Hot, hot water. Lots and lots of soap. And when she was done she started over. No germs. No germs. I can’t bring home germs.

  Suddenly Talia caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her forehead had deep furrows far beyond her thirty years, and a crevasse bisected her blonde eyebrows. You’d think she was disinfecting her hands after touching something vile—not just a piece of paper. Yet one germ, innocent to most, could be deadly to her husband.

  She raised her wet hands, taking the stance of a surgeon in post-scrub position. She looked ridiculous. The whole situation was ridiculous. Absurd. Thirty-five-year-old husbands shouldn’t need heart transplants. And their wives shouldn’t have to worry about touching a piece of paper or shaking hands, or whether or not their toddler would bring home some bug from day care. Life revolved around people, yet Talia felt that the best thing for her family would be if they could be isolated from the world. Move to Timbuktu. Wherever that was.

  The baby kicked, reminding her that the family would soon be greater by one.

 
Add one, lose one . . .

  She shook her head vehemently. No. Everything would be all right. They’d have the baby, and they’d get the heart transplant Nesto needed.

  There would be four in the Soza family. Four.

  * * *

  Angie paused with her fork in midair and watched her husband chew. “Do you like it?”

  Stanford closed his eyes, gave her a sigh, then chewed some more. He shrugged. “It’s okay.”

  That’s it? “It’s chicken with a special hoisin sauce—with raspberries.” Yet, Angie had burned the sauce. She always burned something. When they were first married Stanford had told her he wouldn’t be surprised if their children came out burned.

  He kept eating, and didn’t add anything to his “okay” opinion. Then he looked up. “What’s wrong?”

  She set her fork down. She was on the verge of doing it again. Pushing too hard. Wanting more. Aching for him to give her a full-blown compliment. She tried so hard to please him, but there was little joy in it. She changed the subject. “I talked to Talia today. She’s doing okay but tires easily. And with her having to work full-time now, I—” she immediately realized her mistake at mentioning . . .

  “Women should stay home. It’s a crime she’s having to work. That’s Nesto’s job.”

  Angie didn’t want to get into it. Stanford had a long list of grievances against their son-in-law, not least of which was that he was not Martin Madsen.

  In her teen years Talia had been all set to marry Martin. They’d been school chums since eighth grade, and had gone steady since they were old enough to know what that meant. The Madsens were a good family. The father owned a bank.

  The Schuster photo album was full of pictures of Martin and Talia in various tuxes and gowns, as they attended school dances arm in arm. They’d been inseparable. They’d known each other’s schedules by heart and had both planned to go to Notre Dame, where they’d change their “steady” to “engaged.”

  That had been the plan.

  But then, the summer after graduating from high school, Talia worked as a camp counselor. There, she met Nesto Soza. He was a Portuguese immigrant, working with a landscaping crew, putting in a fancy camp entrance with elaborate plantings. Ironically, Angie had worked on the fund-raising for the camp improvement.

  While Nesto worked on the project, he and Talia began a serious flirtation—though how Talia had managed romance while overseeing her twelve-year-old charges was something Angie had never asked.

  At the end of the summer any thought of going to Notre Dame with Martin Madsen was forgotten. Talia couldn’t leave Nesto. And since they did live in the same town and since he had a good job, Talia hung around.

  Their relationship did not go over well with Stanford or Martin, though in truth, Martin seemed less upset about it than Angie thought he should have been, considering the two young people—and both sets of parents—had always considered the kids’ union a done deal.

  Angie liked Nesto from the start and understood a portion of her daughter’s heart. But Stanford was adamantly against him. To punish Talia for giving up her college dreams, Stanford had kicked her out of the house, saying she had to get a job and support herself. As if that was a bad thing? Talia was thrilled to be free of her father’s oppressive thumb. Angie admired her daughter’s gumption. Coming from nothing, Angie knew the excitement that could come from the challenge of making do—though Angie had periodically sent Talia money and brought her groceries on the sly.

  Talia got a job as a clerk in a dress store and got promoted to assistant manager of Better Dresses in six months. Evenings were spent with Nesto, and ten months after they started dating, they were married.

  Unfortunately, it was not the social event of the year that Stanford had always hoped for. Just a normal-sized wedding. Very middle class. Stanford had pouted through the Portuguese dance music at the reception and didn’t even attempt to try the yellow sponge cake, the pão de ló, or the queijadas de nata, the lemon-tasting pastry tarts filled with whipped cream. Angie had found the music, the food, and Nesto’s family—who’d come over from Portugal for the event—delightful.

  Since the wedding Angie’s biggest wish was that Stanford would put aside his could-have-been dreams, see how much the kids were in love, and accept Nesto into the family. But the fact that they’d named their firstborn son Tomás instead of good old American Thomas, didn’t help matters.

  She got up to refill his water glass. “I was thinking of going to Talia’s tomorrow and doing a little housecleaning for her.”

  Stanford laughed. “You? Houseclean?” He pointed to the counter that was spotted with clutter. “I don’t know why you can’t get the hang of organization and cleanliness. I’ve never asked for perfection, Angela. Just some semblance of order.”

  She started to gather up the coupons and mail that had a way of spreading across every flat surface like leaves in the wind.

  “Don’t do it,” Stanford said.

  She stopped.

  “Don’t go over to Talia’s. You’ll end up fighting.”

  “No, we won’t.”

  “Yes, you will. Because you’ll try to help, but you’ll end up being a hindrance, and then she’ll get frustrated because you aren’t doing things her way and you’ll stress her out more than she already is.”

  Angie felt tears threaten. “You act like I’m this hurricane, causing destruction wherever I go.”

  He opened his arms wide. “Category four.”

  The house wasn’t that bad. . . .

  Angie tried again. “She needs help. She needs me . . . us.”

  Stanford stood, carrying his plate to the sink where he dumped the rest of his food down the garbage disposal. “Let it be, Angela. You can’t handle this house, much less helping Talia with hers.”

  He left her alone in the kitchen, holding the coupons and the mail.

  She opened a drawer and stuffed them out of sight.

  * * *

  Mick went through the mail as Margery made hamburger patties. “You don’t have anything planned for Friday night, do you?” she asked.

  He looked up, suspicious. “Why?”

  She shrugged, but it was a dumb gesture. She was committed to Talia. She couldn’t go back on it now. “I offered to babysit.”

  “For who?”

  “A friend.” Acquaintance. She realized she didn’t even know Talia’s last name.

  “Why’d they ask you?”

  She swallowed the insult. “I’m good with kids. You know that.”

  “How would I know that?”

  Good point. “I love kids. You know that.”

  He tossed the mail so it spread over the table. “Bunch of bills. Why don’t they leave us alone?”

  They would if we paid them. “Could you get out the hamburger buns?” she asked.

  “Where are they?”

  He knew. If he’d only think a minute, he knew. “In the bread box.”

  Mick dragged the bag of buns onto the counter and banged the bread box lid shut. “I like my burger rare, you know.” And he was gone.

  Which all in all was a relief.

  5

  Let the children come to me. Don’t stop them!

  For the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to those who are like these children.

  MATTHEW 19:14

  “You make them take you out to lunch after, understand?”

  “Yes’m.”

  I looked out the window, watching for the blue car that belonged to my friend Susie and her family. I could hardly wait to get in the backseat of Susie’s car because she’d said we could pretend we were on an airplane and her daddy was the pilot.

  Mama looked up at me from the couch where she’d been sleeping every night since we’d left Daddy and moved to this apartment. She said she didn’t like an empty bed, but I didn’t understand that, because if Mama was in it, it wouldn’t be empty. Besides, it had been her choice to move. I sure hadn’t wanted to.

  Mama tucked a corne
r of the blue-and-pink afghan under her chin. “You don’t have any money with you, do you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Because I know those churches. They get you sitting down, play a couple songs, and even get you enjoying yourself, but then they pull out the collection plate and expect you to pay up or get out. The rich taking from the poor, that’s what it is. So I don’t want you having even a nickel in your pocket. Don’t want you tempted. They can pay for their own come-to-Jesus parties. They don’t have to rip off people like us.”

  I saw the car pull in the parking lot and ran to the door.

  “You understand me, girl?”

  “Yes’m. No money.”

  Mama snuggled deeper in the pillow. “Bring me back one of those doggie bags too. Order enough to feed us both.”

  What was a doggie bag? I ran out to the car, pulling the door to the apartment shut with a slam. Mama would be mad because it made her head hurt, but I’d forgotten to close it quiet, and it was too late now.

  Susie’s dad had gotten out and had opened the car door for me.

  “Morning, Gigi,” Susie’s mom said. “You’re looking pretty this morning.”

  “Thank you.” I’d tried, even though the dress I was wearing was too small. I’d taken a wet washcloth and rubbed the stain off the front the best I could. And I’d taken a black marker and filled in the places in my shoes where the shiny part had worn away. I’d bought the shoes for a quarter at our neighbor’s garage sale before we moved. Mama thought it was dumb, but I’d always wanted Sunday shoes. I wore them around the house sometimes when Mama wasn’t around because they made me think of Grammy. I wasn’t sure why. . . .

  Susie patted the seat beside her. “Hey-de-ho, Gigi! Hurry up! Daddy’s flying us to Paris!”

  Susie’s dad got in the driver’s seat. “How about a stop in London first?”

  “Yay! London!”

  Susie clapped and I clapped too. We giggled all the way to church. It was then I decided I was going to see the world someday and have posters of the places I’d been all over my wall.

  * * *

  Mama had been right about the plates they passed around after a bit of music. But wrong about Susie’s family making me give up whatever money I had. In fact, Susie’s mama gave both Susie and me a quarter to put in the plate. Clink. Clink. I wished I had another quarter and they’d send the plate back so I could do it again.