The Only Best Place

by Carolyne Aarsen

  I made the last corner out of town, then headed down the road toward home. Soon I came to my favorite part of the drive. Up and up through wooded hills, then cresting a ridge and then, suddenly below me lay our valley. A broad wide basin, mountains rising up on three sides, pale blue, snow-covered. Solid. Protecting.

  I saw the patchwork of fields in the valley, some bright green from irrigation. The fields higher up looked as if a giant comb had raked through them creating green furrows alternating with brown cultivated fields. It didn't seem that long ago that Dan had planted the higher land and now it had been up for over a month, growing more every week.

  Below us the silver ribbon of a creek unspooled through the pastures and fields heading toward the Gallatin River and then the Missouri.

  I felt a beat of expectation as I headed down into the valley, thinking of Dan and looking forward to telling him about the garage sale when he got back from spraying tonight. He'd get a kick out of the hat.

  As I drove into the yard, I slowed down by the garden. I had weeded it yesterday, taking peculiar pleasure in sorting out the bad from the good. Restoring order to the neat rows. The carrots were finally recognizable, and the peas were starting to crawl up the fence. I still found it semi-miraculous to see the changes every week brought. I looked forward to tasting fresh vegetables, harvested myself.

  For now, I was excited to help Anneke set up the doll-house. Like any mother of a little girl, I'd been wanting to buy a dollhouse for years, but we simply didn't have the space. It would fit perfectly in the corner of her room now, just under the eaves.

  I parked in the yard and got out, a feeling of accomplishment flowing through me.

  Dan came out of the house, and walked toward the car. Why was he home already?

  “How was town?” he asked as I got out of the car. He glanced at our sleeping kids.

  “Kathy and I went to a garage sale. I didn't think you would be back until after supper.”

  “That's why you didn't come straight home from work?”

  “Yeah.” I gave him a puzzled look. “Is something wrong?”

  “Why isn't Kathy home yet if she went with you?”

  “I don't know.”

  “And you really went to a garage sale?”

  What was with the good cop–bad cop routine Dan was pulling off all by himself? “The evidence, Mr. CSI, is in the car,” I said, an edgy tone entering my voice at the mistrustful one in his. “One dollhouse and three lily plants.”

  He looked from me to the car, his eyes narrowed, an unwelcome slant to his mouth, and a question breathed through me.

  “Where did you think I went?” I asked carefully.

  Dan blinked, then shook his head. “It doesn't matter.”

  “It does,” I said, trying to hold his gaze. But he shoved his hands in the back pocket of his blue jeans, not looking at me. “You're angry, and I haven't done anything wrong.”

  “I don't know about that.”

  “Enough with being vague. Something is bothering you. What is it?”

  Dan sighed, then turned to me. “What's going on between you and Dr. John?”

  I endured an instant of guilt so intense and familiar, it felt like a friend. Right behind that came a mocking soundtrack, the velvet voice of Elvis singing “Suspicion” thrumming through my mind. I mumbled out a non-dramatic, “Nothing.”

  “Really? Then why did he have his hands all over you the other night?”

  I pulled a face. “First off, that sounds gross. Second, that sounds really gross.” He made Dr. John seem like a lecherous old man who couldn't keep his hands off me.

  But other than the lecherous part, he did touch you a lot.

  “That's no answer, Leslie. Is there something going on between you two?”

  You two. Like we were a couple.

  I knew I had been skirting along the edge of trouble when I encouraged Dr. John. Yes, he understood what I was dealing with. No, Dan didn't. Yes, Dr. John was caring and considerate.

  But nothing really happened, I wanted to say, even as a small voice mocked my self-righteous protestations.

  You liked his attention. You encouraged it.

  Not much.

  Enough to let him think he could carry on.

  But I didn't want him to carry on. And how did Dan know?

  I looked at Dan. Really looked at Dan. Saw the hurt in his eyes and felt my world twist and spin as the very things I had accused Dan of now faced me.

  Did it really happen this easily? Was it so simple to slip into unsuitable relationships? A glance. A shared laugh. A spouse who was so busy with other things and other people that you felt a seismic shift of loyalty in your own relationship and desperately needed confirmation that you were desirable. Wanted. Needed?

  “Leslie, you're not saying anything. He called here today. Have you and he—”

  I swallowed my pride. I didn't really want Dr. John. Only support. I took a breath and started down the same road Dan had taken over half a year ago. “Yes, I thought he was attractive. Yes, we spent time chitchatting and visiting.” I held his troubled gaze and saw the hurt I had felt with Miss Bilingual reflected in his eyes. “If I talked too much to Dr. John, it was because I could vent to him about Wilma and Gloria. Because he knew what I was dealing with. Because he sympathized with me and I could tell him things I could never tell you.”

  “Gloria said he could be like that,” Dan said with a sorrowful note in his voice.

  “Gloria? When did you talk to her?”

  “She was the one who told me. Warned me, actually. She saw you and Dr. John.”

  My mouth opened and shut like a fish as I tried to find the right thing to say, the right thing to do. I had never truly understood the full meaning of the word flabbergasted until this moment.

  The irony of it all. I had said nothing about Tabitha, wanting to spare Gloria. I assumed, from her hesitantly spoken words, she was going to allow me the same courtesy.

  “I can't believe this,” was all I could come up with. “I can't believe she would have the nerve… After what I had to clean up… what I had to do…”My voice halted as hurt fought with pride and shame.

  Dan stood rock-solid, his arms across his chest. “She told me about Tabitha. Don't think she's not grateful for what you did.” He glanced at the kids in the car. They were stirring. The statute of limitations was running out on this discussion, and I was trying to encapsulate my confusion, my anger, and, yes, my guilt, into something resembling a coherent sentence.

  “Why didn't she talk to me?” was all I could come up with. I thought Gloria and I had come to an understanding. That gentle soundtrack moment in the hospital room had been wiped away by her self-righteous attitude. One step forward, two steps back. “Doesn't she care?”

  “I know my family's not perfect,” he said. “But you can't accuse them of not caring. They're involved in our lives. They care about our marriage. And I do, too. I had hoped that moving here would help us. I thought you wanted the same.”

  “I do…”

  “Then why were you spending time with this doctor?”

  “Why were you spending time with Miss Bilingual?” Guilt made me lash back.

  “Her name was Julie. And I spent time with her because I was weak and because I was confused and because she was around and you weren't around,” and once again we revisited ancient history.

  “I was trying to keep our family financially afloat,” I said.

  “Like I am now. And you may not see it, but I appreciate the help we get from my family. I don't see your sister helping out. Or your mother.”

  My face stiffened as the blood drained to my chest and pain lanced through my very being. “Low blow, Dan. You know as well I do that I haven't heard from my mother in months…” My voice broke. Did he think I liked how dys-functional my family seemed compared to his? Didn't I get to see enough disapproval from Wilma and, yes, Gloria? Had he moved so firmly over to their camp that he could no longer see my point of vi
ew?

  “If she ever stayed in one place long enough, maybe you would hear from her.”

  “Don't you think I want that?” I cried, my voice breaking. “Do you think Terra and I chose to have an absent mother? Do you think I enjoyed wondering if my mom was going to be home when I got home from school, wondering how we were going to makeit through the week? Do you think it's easy for me to be surrounded by your family, who have always been here and probably always will be, a reminder of what Terra and I don't have?” I pressed my lips together. Dan knew about my past, but I seldom spoke about it. The past was, well, the past. I didn't want to spend too much time comparing memories. Dan's would always eclipse mine. “Your mother is far from perfect, either, Dan VandeKeere. And each time I see your family I see a family so different from mine, but yet not so different. From the first time your mother met me she made her mind up about what kind of person I was, and she doesn't seem to want to change it no matter what I do. Yes, my mother is a failure in the mother department, but I would be careful how you throw around accusations. They can come back and smack you in the face.”

  And I should know, I thought as Dr. John's face suddenly superimposed itself on Miss Bilingual's. Our combined failures.

  “My mother has had her own difficulties…” Dan said, aligning himself on Wilma's side.

  “Your mother had a husband who loved her and gave her a home. That was your father. That her second husband was a snake is hard. But she had and still has people around her. A community and people who care. My mother had no one. And maybe I'm not perfect, I've never claimed to be, but I hope that if Nicholas ever gets married, I don't treat his future wife the way your mother treated and still treats me.” Dan blanched as my words spun like a cyclone, gathering speed, words spat out in anger and self-defense. But I couldn't stop now. “And if you're going to blame everything that's wrong in your mother's life on the fact that some man recently left her in the lurch, then you're only making it easier for her to be unkind, and uncaring, and controlling.” And I should know, I thought, but I wasn't going to give him any more ammunition.

  “She's not controlling, Leslie.”

  “If she's not, why does she insist on controlling the farm accounts?”

  “Because we were only going to be here awhile.”

  Were. He said were. “And now?”

  “Things change.” He drew in a deep breath. “In spite of what you've just said about my mother, I don't want to leave.”

  A wail from Anneke scattered the conversation. I blinked, trying to ground myself back in the present. I needed to retreat and regroup. Regain my own control.

  “I can't talk about this now, Dan. I just can't.” Too many emotions churned around us, too many words had been thrown on the ground. We needed some time and space before we took them up again.

  The next few hours were painfully silent as we ate. Dan read the story Bible again, but I couldn't listen. My feelings were a patchwork quilt of guilt and pain stitched together with anger. Not comforting at all.

  Afterward Dan carted the dollhouse into Anneke's room and helped her set it up, a job I had been looking forward to doing.

  Instead I planted the lilies, watered them, and stood back to garner what precious enjoyment I could. The woman at the garage sale had told me that if I clipped them off they would grow better next year. I didn't care about next year, I wanted to enjoy them now.

  Stay here?

  I know my kids loved it here. They loved their grandma—correction, Oma—even if I didn't. They loved their aunties, the chickens, the dog, Dan's horses.

  And you don't?

  I couldn't fit my head around that yet. Didn't know where to put it.

  What would I lose? What would I gain?

  There are moments when you like it here. Admit it.

  But so much would change…

  I couldn't think about that yet. Not yet.

  I put the kids in bed while Dan retreated to his shop. We maintained a quiet cease-fire, neither of us talking. Neither of us knew what to say, how to regain lost ground.

  I tried to read a book, gave up and went to bed, lying between the freshly washed sheets, trying to find sleep. Dan joined me much later, but he turned away from me, presenting his back to me across the expanse of our bed, which now seemed as broad as the Atlantic and just as inviting. In minutes I heard him snoring.

  Sleep, when I finally found it, was restless. Full of incoherent dreams.

  I woke up in the early morning, unable to sleep anymore, and made my way back downstairs. Two o'clock in the hospital was usually a chance to catch up with some of the other nurses, catch up on paperwork. At home, it was an empty, lonely time with no one to connect with. I checked my e-mail. Nothing from Terra or Josie. Somehow it didn't matter as much as it used to.

  I wandered around the house, restless, unsettled.

  Then I saw the Bible sitting by Dan's chair. I snapped on the light and picked it up. I had read it a couple of times before, not sure of where to start. A piece of paper stuck out from the pages, so I opened it there. Psalm 23. I dropped into Dan's chair and started reading. The rhythm of the language and vaguely familiar words drew me in. “… He leads me beside quiet waters. He restores my soul.” I took a long, slow breath as I read, letting the cadence of the words wash over me. Comfort me. “… You anoint my head with oil. My cup overflows. Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

  I dropped my head on the chair and stared at the ceiling. The house of the Lord. Did God really want me? Would He really restore a soul that had been tainted by wrong? Would the family really forgive me?

  I felt as if my life were unraveling and I didn't know how to put it back together again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  And when did you say you injured your back?” I asked my patient as I whisked the curtain closed around the bed. The day had been busy, thankfully. I didn't have time to spin through the endless circle of what I had said the day before yesterday—what I should have said, what I shouldn't have said. Dan hadn't brought it up yesterday or this morning.

  I didn't know how to proceed from here and I couldn't mention it to Kathy or ask her advice. As for my magical book? Well, there was no chapter in How a Marriage Can Succeed that covered uneasy truces.

  “Ten years ago. I was working as a roofer. Slipped on a shingle that some idiot had laying around and wham“—he smacked his hands together—“I was sliding down that roof and on the ground before I knew what hit me. Saw more stars than the Walk of Fame.” He gave me a quick grin, then, as if realizing that he was supposed to be in pain, and winced. “I need to see the doctor.”

  Mr. Francisco wore scruffy blue jeans and a tattered jean jacket and his hair was pulled back into a greasy ponytail. Obviously not one of the more prosperous seekers of the American Dream.

  “Before I get the doctor, can you do a few things for me so I can judge the extent of your pain?”

  This netted me a sullen look and a shrug. “Sure. As long as you don't make me throw my back out. I'll sue, you know.”

  Of course he would.

  “Can you lift your arms over your head?”

  This was done with much groaning and moaning as I watched for any telltale signs. I knew that the motto of the justice system was “innocent until proven guilty,” but I had a vibe about this guy.

  I gave him a few more small exercises, which he performed mindlessly, his begrudging air slowly fading as I took notes.

  “Can you touch your toes?” I asked the question casually, and when he easily bent over to do this, my vibe grew stronger. He should have been in agony.

  “So, when is the doctor going to see me?” he asked, his voice growing quieter as he straightened. “I really need something for the pain, 'cause I lost my other prescription.”

  Of course he needed a new prescription. And as we went through the list of his allergies—big surprise—he named every common painkiller tha
t could be acquired without a prescription.

  With patients like Mr. Francisco, training and intuition collided. My training taught me to be sympathetic, to listen and to be nonjudgmental.

  “Are you on any medication now?” I asked, injecting a pleasant tone into my voice. It was work, that injecting. I knew this guy's type all too well. We came across them day after day in Seattle, and it was always a struggle to deal with them professionally and courteously when you knew they were using and abusing the system.

  He lifted his hands just a fraction. The pain, of course. “Well, I had some medication, like I told you. But I was with some dudes and we were hanging out at my place. One of the guys went into my bathroom. He's a big-time druggie. Loser,” he said knowingly with a slow nod, pulling me onto his side. “I'm sure he's dealing on the side. Knows I'll squash him like a bug if I find out he's doing that stuff. I'm sure he took the stuff from my bathroom, 'cause as soon as he was done, he told this other guy they had to leave real quick. I was going to go to my regular doctor, in Missoula, but he's gone on some fancy trip to the Bahamas. You know doctors,” he said, lowering his voice and angling his head with a quick jerk toward the cubicle where John was busy with another patient. “I had to come here anyway to see some guy about a truck that I was going to buy. I was gonna try to go without the pills, but the pain, it just got too bad.”

  “That's too bad,” I said, forcing sympathy into my voice.

  “Anyway, when can I see the doctor? I'm dying here.”

  I smiled politely as I carefully wrote out some notes on his chart. I'd seen dying, and Mr. Francisco was a long ways from hearing the angels sing.

  “I'm in pain, nurse. You have to pay attention. You have to treat me.”

  Don't roll your eyes. Don't even make eye contact. Just keep writing.