by Irene Hannon
“I’ll think about it.”
She hesitated, but to his relief she didn’t push.
“I left salad and a piece of quiche in the fridge for your lunch. I also made those chocolate chip pecan cookies you like.”
“Thanks, Mom.” A healthy diet and regular eating schedule had been on the list too.
“I’m going to run a casserole over to the Ramseys’. Their son was injured in March, and they’ve been having a rough time. I’m also going to stop in and check on Margaret Montgomery from church. She had a stroke last month. Do you want to ride along? It might be nice to get out of the house for a while.”
The names of her friends meant nothing to him, and he had zero interest in venturing back into the world. Or hearing about other people’s problems.
“No.”
Instead of responding, Dorothy walked into the room and leaned over to kiss his forehead. At close proximity, he could see new, fine lines on her face—put there by him, no doubt. Guilt gnawed at his gut. He ought to expend some effort for her sake, if nothing else.
“Maybe I’ll take that walk instead.”
“That would be good.” Despite her upbeat tone, the strain around her mouth didn’t ease much. “By the way, we’re having a social after services tomorrow. Would you like to come?”
Making some concessions to please his mother was one thing. Going back to church was another. “I don’t think so. I’m not ready yet to be around a lot of people.” Or anywhere close to the God who abandoned me.
“Okay. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.” It was clear she hadn’t expected him to embrace her suggestion.
A few minutes later, Scott heard the automatic garage door kick into gear as his mother pulled out. It rumbled again as she closed it. Then the house fell silent.
Summoning up the reserves of his ebbing energy, Scott reached over to close the mini blinds and shut out the sunshine that often triggered headaches.
Besides, darkness better suited his mood.
As the room grew dim, the outlines of the furniture became indistinct. Feeling his way, he crossed to the bed and stretched out. Not that he held out much hope of sleep. Insomnia had been his constant companion since the accident. Yet he craved the blackness of slumber, where he could escape from the torment of his memories.
In fact, blackness in general held a certain appeal. A promise of release that beckoned to him. Tempted him.
But that decision was so final . . .
No. He wasn’t ready to take that step.
Yet.
“You must be Val. I’m Dorothy Walker, from church. I just stopped in to see how your mother is doing.”
At the lively eyes and open manner of the jeans-clad, salt-and-pepper-haired woman on the other side of the door, Val smiled and extended her hand. “Nice to meet you. Won’t you come in?”
“I don’t want to intrude.”
“To be honest, I’d appreciate the company. I haven’t had a chance to talk with anyone but Mom since Karen and I went grocery shopping last weekend. I know Mom would enjoy a visitor too.” Okay, that might be a stretch. Margaret wasn’t the most sociable person even on her better days. But it wouldn’t hurt her to practice her social graces once in a while. “She should be getting up from her nap soon.”
“All right. I’ll stay for a few minutes.” Dorothy held out a bouquet of roses, peonies, and daylilies. “I thought Margaret might enjoy these. They’re from my garden.”
“Those are gorgeous!” Val took the tissue-wrapped blossoms and motioned the older woman into the living room. Lifting the flowers, she inhaled an old-fashioned, heady scent that evoked images of white picket fences and garden parties and lazy summer afternoons. Of an era when the pace of life was slower, and neighbors met for lemonade and a chat on wide front porches. Of a time when families sat in the deepening dusk of a garden, sharing laughter and stories as the fireflies flickered to life.
A time she’d never known but had always longed to experience.
With an effort, she managed to hang on to her smile. “Have a seat while I find a vase. Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
It took Val a few minutes to scrounge up a suitable container from the recesses of her mother’s pantry. Rejoining Dorothy, she placed the bouquet on the coffee table. “You must have quite a garden.”
“It is nice. And digging in the soil, helping things grow . . . it soothes my soul.” She settled back on the sofa. “Are you a gardener?”
Val gave a wry shake of her head as she perched on the arm of a chair. “Not even close. I live in a high-rise condo in Chicago. My horticultural efforts are confined to growing a few herbs in pots. But I know what you mean about finding satisfaction in helping things grow. I teach drama at a high school, and working with young people, watching them develop, can be an amazing experience.”
“I’ve heard Margaret talk about her theatrical daughter, but I didn’t realize you were a teacher.”
No surprise there. Her mother had always been more impressed by her stage work than her teaching. “You said you know Mom from church?”
“That’s right. My husband and I moved to Washington three years ago, after he retired, and we joined the congregation. It’s a very close-knit faith community, and I feel guilty it’s taken me this long to get over to see your mother.”
“People lead busy lives these days.”
“I’m afraid mine’s been busier than usual in recent weeks. My son was in a serious car accident a few weeks ago, and he’s come home to recover. My husband died two years ago, and at emotionally taxing times like this I feel his loss very deeply.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. I guess we all have our crosses to bear. Fortunately, God walks with us on our journey.”
As Val tried to think of a diplomatic response, her mother’s strident voice rang through the house.
“Val? I’m ready to get up.”
Saved by the yell.
“Coming, Mom.” She rose. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll bring Mom out for a visit. Do you mind waiting?”
“Not at all.”
As Val had suspected, however, Margaret wasn’t the least bit happy about entertaining an uninvited guest.
“I look a sight.” Margaret peered into the mirror over her dresser and patted her hair, twin crevices etched in her brow. “You’d think a person would call before dropping in unexpectedly when someone is ill.”
“I think it was very thoughtful.” Val handed Margaret her cane.
“That’s because good manners are about as rare today as piecrust made with lard. And the world is a worse place because of it.”
“But a lot healthier.”
“Hmph.” Margaret peered at her over her glasses and took her arm. “We might as well get this over with.”
As Val helped her mother into the living room, Dorothy rose and held out her hands. “Margaret, it’s good to see you.”
Her mother extended her good hand in an excellent imitation of a queen condescending to meet with a peasant. “Thank you.”
“Look at the beautiful flowers Dorothy brought.” Val motioned to the coffee table.
Margaret adjusted her glasses and scrutinized the table. “You better put a saucer under that vase. I don’t want it to leave a water ring.”
So much for graciousness.
“I checked. It’s dry.” She nudged her mother. “Aren’t they lovely?”
Margaret glared at her but got the hint. “Very pretty. You always were quite the gardener, Dorothy, though it seems a waste to put that much effort into something that has such a brief life.”
“But the flowers give such pleasure while they’re here.” Dorothy smiled. “I’m glad to see you looking better.”
As Margaret gave a long-suffering sigh, Val decided her mother was the family member with the real dramatic talent. “I suppose I’m improving, but illness is a trial.”
“That’s true. On the
plus side, you’re lucky to have such good care from your two daughters.”
“Yes, well, families should help each other.”
“I agree. But young people are busy these days.”
“I know. I haven’t seen much of Karen since Val arrived.”
Val resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Leave it to her mother to gloss over all the years of Karen’s diligent care.
The chime of the doorbell interrupted the conversation, and Val eased Margaret into a chair. “I’ll get it.”
Glancing out the sidelight before she released the lock, she stifled a chuckle.
Perfect timing.
She called over her shoulder as she opened the door. “Look who’s here, Mom.”
Karen walked in, juggling packages in one arm while a load of clothing in clear plastic dry cleaning bags was draped over the other.
“Why, Karen, we were just talking about you.” Dorothy gave her a welcoming smile.
A ruddy hue suffused Margaret’s cheeks, but she masked her chagrin with annoyance. “Why aren’t you at the office? I thought you always worked the last Saturday of the month for closure, or whatever you call it?”
Karen sent Val a questioning glance.
“Mom was just saying how she hasn’t seen much of you lately.” Val did her best to tamp down the curve of her lips.
Understanding dawned in Karen’s eyes. “We finished the closing early this month, so I stopped to get your prescription and a few other odds and ends you needed on my way home. I also picked up the things you left at the cleaner before your stroke. I thought I’d save Val a trip.”
“Hmph.” Her mother inspected Karen. “I see you still have that pink blouse. It’s not your color, you know. You ought to get rid of it. Too bad some of Val’s style sense didn’t rub off on you.”
A few seconds of awkward silence crawled by, and Dorothy checked her watch. “I’m afraid I have to be running along. But I must say I wish I was staying for dinner. Whatever you’re cooking smells delicious.”
Margaret sniffed and sent Val a suspicious look. “What is that?”
“Ratatouille.”
“Rat a what?”
“Ratatouille. It’s a vegetarian dish made with eggplant, tomatoes, green peppers, and squash—you’ll love it.”
“More of that health food stuff.”
“It’s good for you.”
“But I’m losing weight.”
“Also good for you.”
“As far as I’m concerned, you could take a few culinary lessons from your sister. She knows how to cook real food.”
Dorothy picked up her purse. “Well, I’d better be on my way. I’m going to stop by the Ramseys’ with a pan of lasagna.”
In light of all the negativity pinging around the room, Val didn’t blame their guest for making a fast exit.
Too bad she couldn’t join her.
“Lasagna. Now that’s real food.” Margaret directed the comment her way.
Before she could respond, Dorothy jumped in. “I make it with turkey.”
Margaret’s jaw dropped. “You put turkey in lasagna?”
“You can’t tell the difference, and it’s much healthier than ground beef.”
For once, Margaret was speechless.
Val was tempted to give their guest a high five.
“How’s your son doing, Dorothy?” Karen draped the clothing over the back of a wing chair.
A shadow passed over the older woman’s face. “Thank you for asking. It’s been tough for him. His physical progress is slow, and the accident left a lot of invisible scars I suspect will take even longer to heal.”
“I’ll keep him in my prayers.”
“Maybe we’ll see him at church.” Margaret folded her hands in her lap—meaning she was about to issue one of her platitudes. “The Lord gives great comfort in times of trial.”
“Yes, he does.” Dorothy pulled her keys out of her purse.
Margaret shifted her attention to Karen. “Are you planning to go with me next Wednesday to that travelogue Mary Nissan is doing at the library, about her trip to Africa? I have to call in a reservation.”
“No, Mom. I have choir practice that night, remember?”
She huffed out a breath. “I don’t know why you bother. Val got all the vocal talent in the family. I’m sure you wouldn’t be missed if you took the night off to spend a few hours with your mother.”
As a flush rose on Karen’s cheeks, Val’s blood pressure spiked. That crack had been downright mean.
She opened her mouth to speak, but her sister beat her to it.
“There may not be many more practices, anyway. Marilyn told us at the last practice that her husband has been transferred. They’re moving in two weeks.”
“Really?” Dorothy sent Karen a surprised look. “I hadn’t heard that.”
“There hasn’t been an official announcement yet. I think Reverend Richards is planning to let everyone know at services tomorrow.”
“Does he have anyone in mind for the music director job?”
“Not that I know of.”
“I hope he finds a replacement soon.” Margaret leaned over to the coffee table and wiped up a nonexistent speck of water with a tissue from her pocket. “Services won’t be the same without music.”
“That’s true.” Dorothy stood.
Val took the hint, leading the way toward the foyer as she fought the temptation to walk the woman to her car—and keep walking.
“I’ll keep you on my prayer list.” Dorothy paused on the threshold and spoke once more to Margaret.
“Thank you. I can always use a prayer or two.”
Val lifted her eyes to the heavens as she closed the door behind their guest.
Amen to that.
At the sound of a key in the kitchen door, Scott set his empty water glass on the counter and turned to greet his mother. “You’re late. I was getting a little worried.”
Dorothy closed the door behind her, crossed the room, and dropped her purse on the table. “I stayed a little longer than usual to talk with Reverend Richards after the service. Did you eat anything yet?”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“I could make some pancakes. Remember how we used to have them every Sunday after church?”
“Sure. That would be fine.” Though he tried to put some enthusiasm in his voice, the words came out flat.
She opened a drawer and withdrew a mixing spoon. Dropped it on the floor. A moment later, a plastic bowl met the same fate.
At her uncharacteristic jumpiness, Scott frowned. “Is everything okay?”
“Of course.”
“You seem a little on edge.”
She measured the flour. “I suppose it’s related to my conversation with Reverend Richards. You’d like him, Scott. His sermons always offer practical advice about how to put faith to work in everyday life.”
“What did you two talk about?” Scott homed in on her first comment and dismissed the rest as he began to set the table.
For a brief second his mother’s hands stilled. Then she resumed beating the eggs she’d cracked into a bowl. “You.”
He froze. “What about me?”
“About how you’d be the perfect temporary replacement for our music director, who just resigned.” She said the words fast, in one rush of breath.
Scott stared at her back as she added milk to the mix and stirred with more force than necessary. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No. I’m dead serious. He is too. The job is yours if you want it.” She cut a slab of butter to melt on the griddle.
“I’m not ready to even think about going back to work yet.”
“It’s not like digging ditches. I doubt your doctors would have any issue with this, but you could check with them if you’re concerned.”
“Doesn’t the music director have to play the organ?”
The griddle was beginning to sizzle, and Dorothy spooned batter onto the surface. “We don’t have an organ. Just a
piano.”
“Okay. A piano.”
“Yes. And direct the choir.”
“What about my hand? The one that doesn’t work right, remember? I can’t play the piano.”
“I’ll bet you play better with one hand than most people do with two. You were always good on the keyboard. Besides, the congregation doesn’t expect concert quality, and playing might help restore some dexterity to your fingers.”
A one-handed church music director—who didn’t attend church. The whole thing was ludicrous.
“Does your pastor know I’m not the most religious guy around?”
“I discussed it with him.” Dorothy flipped the pancakes. “He said the Bible is filled with stories about how the Lord sought out those who had fallen away.”
Checkmate.
But even if that description fit him to a T, he had no interest in being a music director.
“It wouldn’t work out, Mom.” He placed the utensils on the table and retrieved the orange juice from the fridge. “Besides, I’m not ready for anything like that.”
“Consider it from a practical perspective, then.” She slid the pancakes onto plates and joined him at the table.
“What do you mean?” He upended the syrup container and squirted a generous amount on top of his pancakes.
“The job will provide some income until you decide what you want to do. I know the truck driver’s insurance company is taking care of all your medical bills, but it might be nice for you to have some discretionary income.”
That was a harder argument to fight. He’d done okay when he was playing full-time, but music wasn’t the kind of career that made you rich unless you hit it big. His meager savings were already taking a hit.
Only the faint ticktock of the clock on the wall broke the silence as he watched the widening pool of syrup reach the edge of his golden pancakes and ease over the sides. His mother had always made good pancakes—and given good advice. Often over meals like this one.
The truth was, he could use the money. And after all her support, it wouldn’t kill him to do something that made her happy.
He raised his head to find her watching him, her own food untouched.
“Okay. I’ll fill in until they find someone else.”