A Change of Heart

by Nancy Frederick

  I got the Chicken Pox while Mom and Dad were away at that legal conference that time. I was only four. Gram took care of me. She gave me baby aspirins. And I didn't die. "Possible complications caused by administering baby aspirins with a virus. No real proof, though, so sorry," The Doctor saying no proof, just Richard sick with a deadly disease. I didn't die from the Chicken Pox. People stayed with me all the time and I didn't die.

  The distance between the cemetery and her mother-in-law's house was short. In a moment she was ringing the bell, and feeling as though she hadn't been at this door in years rather than only six months.

  Mother Welner, standing straight and scowling at her, opened the door quickly, then said, "R.J. isn't here."

  "I'd like to talk to you."

  Annabeth entered the living room then and seated herself on the couch, facing Mother Welner, who sat down in her usual chair. "I've been cleaning out the attic, and I found this." She opened the box and removed the blanket, handing it to her mother-in-law whose face turned ashen. "I thought I should give this back to you. Maybe you'll want to give it to Linna if there are more children, or maybe save it for one of the girls."

  Clenching her jaw, Mother Welner answered, "I don't think anyone will want it."

  Annabeth struggled to know what to say next. "I really wanted to blame someone when Richard died. Anyone but me. Even now I think that if I'd been here, maybe I could have done something." Her eyes filled once more with tears.

  "You had someone to blame, me."

  Wanting to stop hurting, but not knowing how, Annabeth said, "You didn't know. And the doctor said maybe it wasn't even the aspirins."

  The old woman looked into her eyes. There was no hatred there, only pain, and she replied honestly, "I should have known."

  "And I should have been here."

  Two mothers looked into each other's eyes, each knowing that you can do only what you can do, that you can't be there every moment, that somehow you have to trust the fates to keep your children safe, to let them live.

  "I'm sorry," they both said at once.

  "We should have had this talk a long time ago," said Annabeth.

  Mother Welner nodded, reaching out to touch Annabeth's hand, which opened to hers.

  17

  "I figured you'd be tired and hungry after spending all weekend at that crafts show," said Doug.

  "Ah, that's so nice of you. I'm starving and too tired to move."

  Doug walked into the house and Annabeth followed him into the kitchen where he set down some fried chicken and a big salad. "I knew you'd have cookies." They sat silently eating, comfortable together until Doug asked, "Show a success?"

  Annabeth nodded, "Yes, it's going very well. Only thing I didn't sell is this." She held up an old wooden mug painted with flowers. "Well, I sold a dozen similar ones."

  Doug shook his head, reaching for the piece. "It's so pretty too. It's amazing how you can take old junk and turn it into art." He glanced down at the mug then commented, "Great for pencils or cooking stuff in the kitchen. I'll buy it. How much?"

  Annabeth laughed. "Take it! You think I could charge you money?"

  "Nope, I'm a paying customer or nothing. I made you pay for your car, didn't I?"

  "Okay then, five bucks."

  Doug shook his head, "You'll never make a profit that way. How about fifty?"

  "Are you nuts? Make it ten."

  "I'd like to see more of your work. But I still say you should be painting on canvases."

  "I have photos of everything, you know." Doug followed Annabeth upstairs and sat on her bed as she pulled sheaves of photos from her drawer. They leaned forward then, each lying on one side and looked at all the photos, spread on the bed between them.

  "It's just amazing," commented Doug. "You're so talented. Charming little scenes. Don't get mad at me here, but it's such a waste to be painting on this old junk. Not that it's not adorable or whatever, but still I think it's a waste. Unworthy of your talents." Annabeth remained silent, thinking what a good friend he was as Doug reached under a couple of photos and removed the Glamour Poses shots. "Look at these!"

  Annabeth blushed, "Goodness! I forgot those were there. Give them to me." She reached to snatch the photos but Doug held them away from her so he could view them.

  "Don't be silly. I want to see them. Aren't you gorgeous!" Doug took a long time, examining each photo carefully, seeing each detail as he did in every part of life and then he glanced casually at Annabeth, who blushed each time, then back to the photos. Annabeth, feeling as though she had never before been seen so completely was nervous, although she didn't know why. Doug remained silent for a long time, just looking at the photos and then at Annabeth, then he said in a voice that was very quiet, "Could I have one of these?"

  She only replied, "Sure," but the way his request had touched her was reflected in the tenderness on her face.

  They looked deeply into each other's eyes, heat and understanding passing between them, each wishing the other would come another step closer until Doug broke the tension by saying, "I see you've finally lured me up here into your bed."

  Back in familiar territory, Annabeth smiled, saying confidently, "Yes, and you're at my mercy now."

  Doug laughed sardonically, then leaning up, pressed her flat against the bed, his hands on her shoulders, his lips inches from her own as he spoke, "Don't you ever think that. Right now you're wondering, 'Will he do it? Can't I just give in? I want it so bad. I want him so bad.'"

  About to nod and agree, Annabeth took a deep breath. She looked intently into Doug's eyes and saw him smiling at her. Instead of the usual taunting, the tests that she knew he gave to help her learn to take charge, there was something else in his eyes. What was it?

  Doug loosened his hold on her and sat up, reached for her hand and helped her to an upright position, then they both stood, and he held her in his arms for just a moment. "You need to rest now," he said.

  "Um, Doug?" He looked deeply into her eyes, waiting for Annabeth to continue. "Are you coming for Christmas dinner next week?"

  "Am I invited?"

  "Silly! Of course you're invited."

  Doug paused a moment before answering. "Do you think I'm a terrible father? Not going to see my kids on Christmas. They both have plans already. Betsy with her in-laws and Philip with his mother. They don't even mind I'm not coming. Must be my fault."

  "I could never think you're terrible at anything, Doug. Are you upset you're not included in their Christmas?"

  He nodded, then looked into her eyes, "I'm upset, but I'm glad I'm included in yours. Oh--there's this guy--leased a lot of cars--invited me to a New Year's party. I said I'd get back to him. I know it won't be much fun, but would you come with me?"

  "Why won't it be fun?"

  "Dunno--business thing. You don't have to if you don't want to."

  "What about Patsy?" Annabeth held her breath as she asked this question, not knowing why she was so apprehensive about what the answer might be. "Won't she want you with her then?"

  "I broke up with her a while back."

  "What happened? I mean if you want to tell me."

  "It wasn't very dramatic at all. I just realized it was never going to amount to anything. It was just a fling. Just fun, casual, and I told her. She was upset, I guess, but nothing too bad."

  "No woman could lose you without being upset."

  "The thing I liked about her was that she was easy."

  "A slut like me?"

  Doug laughed. "No, I mean she was easy--I knew she'd never reject or hurt me. She was safe." Once again he looked deeply into her eyes, searching for something Annabeth couldn't identify, then Doug hugged her, holding her for just a bit too long. "So you'll come with me?"

  "Sure I will! It's the first New Year's date I've ever had!"

  Later Annabeth lay back on her bed, counting her money from the show and thinking about the evening she'd spent with her old friend. Wasn't it sweet of him to ask for her photo. And he
was so shy in doing it, too. R.J. would never have done that. In all the years of their marriage he'd never had a photo of her in his wallet or on his desk and it had never occurred to Annabeth to give him one. And that look in Doug's eyes. Had she seen it before?

  The next morning, she was back at work in the attic, digging through a pile of boxes containing her old art materials. The extra brushes and paints she set aside to bring downstairs, but at the bottom of the box was the catalog for the New Orleans Art Institute and wedged inside it was an application which was only partially completed.

  Look at this! And this! The classes! New Orleans, me in a big city, just like a grown up. These kids are real artists. Mr. King saying "No, look," drawing on my picture, silly, try to do it his way. My pictures aren't real art, he said that. But that was a long time ago. Wish they had art in school, another teacher to ask. More teachers in New Orleans. I could learn to be a real artist. Maybe I could. Dad. Ask Dad.

  "Dad, um, Dad?" He's busy reading papers, always busy. Tapping his shoulder, sitting down on the ottoman in front of his chair. "Dad." I shouldn't be bothering him, his work's too important. Looking up at me, finally. "Um, Dad I was thinking after high school, maybe I could go to art school. Like college but art. See, New Orleans, not too far."

  "What?" Dad looking worried. Must be too expensive. "Art school? All the way to New Orleans? Who'll take care of the kids?" Dad looking off into the distance, faraway look.

  "I thought I could learn to be a real artist."

  "Aren't you just going to get married some day? Be a mother and a wife?"

  Nodding at Dad, of course I'll get married, be a wife, but still I could be…"

  "Nothing to fall back on, art, not like you could fall back on that."

  Annabeth tossed the catalog and application into the pile of things to discard and sat back thinking about her father. It was then she'd decided to be a wife and mother, not something she'd wanted all her life. It was her father's comments, plus her insecurity about being a real artist and that made her believe all she could be was a wife. She paused for a moment, her mind empty of thoughts, her heart flooded with feelings and then she formed an opinion. It was lousy of her father to do that, selfish. He didn't even look at her; he never looked at her; he still didn't look at her. He didn't even bother to handle the divorce himself. She was glad. Annabeth held her hand to her throat, then continued her train of thought, glad, yes glad. Glad she'd run off with R.J. like that and showed her father. Except…except…he still didn't give a damn.

  Annabeth raced down the stairs, her feet gathering speed as she moved and she walked into the kitchen where the pile of paintings lay. She paused a moment, took a deep breath, then lifted the pages, sheet by sheet, examining each one as though it were the first time she'd see them. Slowly she poured over her work, stopping to note special details, searching for flaws until she'd reached the last sheet, then said aloud, "They are good. They are." She thought of Doug, telling her to paint on canvas, to stop wasting her talent on junk. Then, taking another deep breath, she reached in a drawer for the phone number Becky had given her weeks ago and dialed the calendar company.

  "Hello," she said, "I'm an artist and I'd like to submit some sketches for consideration for a calendar." After noting all the details on a sheet of paper, Annabeth sat and thought. Maybe they wouldn't want her sketches, maybe it wouldn't lead anywhere, but at least she had tried and it was a beginning. She had done something difficult, had been courageous and Annabeth was proud of herself. When the phone rang, she half expected it to be the calendar people calling to say yes, which of course was silly. She hadn't even sent the sketches yet.

  "Can you make me five pies this year instead of four?" It was Julie.

  "Julie, do you know how to bake a pie?"

  "No, you always bake the pies."

  "Well, it's time you learned. Instead of me making the pies this year all by myself, I want you to come over here and help with them. That way you can learn how to do it."

  "I don't know if I'll have time."

  "You'll have to make time, or there won't be any pies. Besides, it can be a fun thing for us to do together."

  "You're getting so bossy."

  Annabeth laughed. "We'll have fun."

  She climbed back up to the attic then and finished sorting through the art materials and was ready to bring down a box of things she wanted to discard when an old steel filing box caught her eye. Opening the top, Annabeth withdrew a number of papers, some having to do with her husband, some with Mother Welner. "Look at this. Hmm. Look at this." She stopped and carefully examined the papers, then placed them back in the box. Could R.J. really have made that much money? He always had a pocket full of cash. Should she call her father about this? What was the use of that? She thought back to the conversation she'd witnessed between R.J. and his mother in the courtroom. This must be what Mother Welner was so worried about. No wonder.

  Doug arrived early on Christmas morning, before Laurel was awake and way before the others were due to arrive. He carried several bundles as well as some of his homemade biscuits and a ham he'd smoked himself the night before.

  "Don't you look like Santa Claus," Annabeth commented, smiling, "And me still in my robe."

  "I wanted us to be alone so I could give you these." After setting the food down, Doug lifted the other packages and followed Annabeth into her living room, where they both were seated on the sofa. He set a medium-size package on the coffee table, topped by a smaller one. And a huge parcel he held in front of her. It was easily four feet square. "Open this one," he commanded.

  "Let me get yours first." She rose, reached under the tree which sat in the front window and removed one large box, which she lifted with difficulty, and another smaller one.

  "Wow!" he said, filled with boyish excitement. "I didn't expect anything at all. Go on, you go first."

  Annabeth smiled with anticipation, then tore into the wrappings covering the huge parcel. It was filled with blank canvases in an assortment of sizes. She grinned, sighed, bit her lip, then reached to hug Doug. "This is great. I was planning to take your advice you know."

  "Well, I know artists really stretch their own, but I figured these would be a start and you wouldn't have to do any work before you got going. Now open that box right there--it's part of this gift."

  Annabeth obeyed, revealing a tool-kit type box filled with tubes of paint in every color. Her eyes opened wide. "Oh Doug!"

  "I didn't know if you wanted oil or acrylic, so we can change these if they're wrong."

  "They're perfect. Oh thank you! Now you open that box."

  "Wow, heavy!" Doug hoisted the box easily, noting its weight. He marveled as he unwrapped it, "Look at this. Oh!"

  "I had Rum build it."

  "For my baseballs. It's perfect." It was a natural maple cabinet, polished to a high luster and containing several shelves on which the baseballs would fit perfectly. Glass doors closed tightly, keeping the inside dust-free. "But you didn't paint on it."

  "I didn't want to do it in case you'd rather have it plain, but…" Annabeth rose and pulled a panel from behind the Christmas tree. She removed the pull out shelves and neatly fit the panel in place. It contained scenes from great moments in baseball.

  "Will you look at that! Babe Ruth. Hank Aaron." Doug shook his head in amazement.

  Annabeth looked sheepish for a moment. "Research. I didn't know who any of these guys were. Had to get a book on it from the library."

  Doug set the cabinet down gently then reached over and hugged Annabeth. "It's the best present I ever got."

  "Ah," she sighed with pleasure.

  "Now you. Open up that one."

  "This is heavy too. Weren't you the busy bee!" Inside the wrapping was a box and in the box lay a black leather book. "A big book?" she asked, lifting it out. It had handles and a zipper which Annabeth opened. "A portfolio! It's wonderful!" Then she saw what was inside it. Blow ups of all her photos. It was a portfolio of her work. "Oh,"
she said, "Oh," pressing her hand to her throat and afraid to go on, lest she start to weep. She reached that hand to Doug, squeezing his arm. "Oh Doug. It's so wonderful. I just can't tell you what this means to me. Thank you so much. How did you get these anyway?"

  "Sally helped me."

  "Look, you even have shots of the big pieces in the attic. You're amazing."

  Doug smiled, thrilled that she was so touched. "There's this crafts gallery I know of in Atlanta. I thought maybe you could go see them. I mean I'd take you."

  Annabeth nodded. "Really?"

  "Sure. Anytime you want. No more shows for a while, right?" As Annabeth nodded, he continued, "So craft galleries are a good idea."

  "If my stuff is good enough. I didn't have much luck with the gallery in New Orleans."

  "Did you actually go see them? With pictures I mean."

  Annabeth shook her head. "No."

  "So what're you talking about. Go see them! Now can I open this one?" Annabeth nodded and watched as he tore into his other box. "Sexy," exclaimed Doug as he pulled out a navy silk bathrobe.

  "You said you didn't have a robe."

  Doug held the robe up to himself. "What do you think?"

  Annabeth pursed her lips as someone about to whistle or moan with pleasure aloud and said, "Gorgeous!"

  "Really?"

  Not realizing the question was sincere, she answered, "You bet."