Elizabeth swallowed hard, at a loss. Suddenly there was a nudge to her spirit, and she lifted her face up, closed her eyes, and began to pray.
It was much later when, resignation mingled with a calmness born of exhaustion, they were able to finally tell what had happened.
As if she had never spoken of him before, Adrienne explained who he was. “Thomas Edward Smith was born ten years ago to a very dear friend,” Adrienne began, her voice as gray as her face.
“Ian and I had just gotten married. Danielle is younger than I am with two older children. Thomas was a surprise, but everyone loved him so. Never had a child been so welcomed. Thomas was born near the time of our wedding, which is why Danielle wasn’t able to stand up for us. Instead, she asked Ian and me to be his godparents. It was an honor. God, such an honor.” A half sob broke from her.
Ian’s hand gripped his wife’s as he spoke. “I’ve never been particularly interested in babies, but Thomas was different. We had promised to be there for him, to be connected with this child and help raise him.” His voice caught, and he passed a hand over his eyes but kept on going. “As he grew into a bright, insightful boy he was a delight to us, who have never had children. We would plan trips with him, activities to expose him to the beauties of the world—its plays, theater, music, stories . . . He had an artist’s heart but a soul as big as the outdoors.”
“His family chose to homeschool him, as they had done their older children. Years before, Danielle and her husband had purposefully moved to a small farm in a rural community where they could instill in their children the quality and love for life they both shared.” Adrienne wavered for a moment and then continued. “Early this morning Thomas was out bird-watching. It’s something we love to do, and we had also shared this with him. We took him with us on several occasions, to identify birds, learn more about their nesting habits, things like that. Danielle told us he would often go into the forest and silently climb trees, binoculars around his neck, to get as close as he could to observe.”
The pain filled her eyes with tears again, but Adrienne made herself stop and look fully at Elizabeth. “This morning . . . this morning he was out early, climbed a tree, and somehow he slipped . . .”
She couldn’t go on and Ian, now clenching her hands in his, finished, “He was wearing the binoculars we gave him for his last birthday, and when he slipped and fell, the cord was around his neck. The other end, it caught on a branch, and . . . it hanged him. Thomas, he . . . he’s . . . dear God, our wonderful boy is dead!”
It was another hour before Elizabeth felt she could leave them. She took it upon herself to make coffee and then sandwiches for them. She had never seen them nonfunctional, but when she considered why, she had to stop for a moment and press a firm hand on her heart to quell the hurting she felt for them. Her sorrow also included the poor family. Elizabeth carried that darkness with her as she got into her car and left for the city. The basket stayed in the backseat, forgotten.
Chapter Nineteen
It was the weekend following Labor Day, a holiday known to schoolchildren as the last hurrah of summer. Elizabeth had decided not to attend church this Sunday. Michael was flying home today, and she planned to be at the airport to pick him up. She was tired and still unsettled about what had happened to Thomas. It was tragic and awful and she couldn’t let go of it.
After a very small breakfast, she went into her library to read and think. Randomly, she pulled out a few books to look through, hoping she could find something comforting, something that would make sense of the senselessness.
She glanced through a book by Oswald Chambers, put it down, then opened a book on grief by C. S. Lewis and finally realized that nothing was going to help. She got out her journal and sat, tapping a pen on the table, thinking of how to put into words this swirling confusion of emotions that was setting her on edge.
She prayed. It didn’t help. She moved around the room, trying to walk away from this uncertain place.
By the time Elizabeth pulled up to the airport to get Michael, she was exhausted. It seemed to be the premise underlying life now—being worn out. And it hadn’t helped that she couldn’t let go of what had happened to Thomas. That darkness kept shadowing everything she did, pulling on her and keeping her from seeing anything clearly.
She vaguely wondered how she was going to manage to shield Michael from this, when he was going to be home for several days. It was what she had done all summer. She had tried to rest earlier, but the tension of trying to handle all the recent events wouldn’t allow it.
Of course she had missed her husband, that hadn’t changed, but she also wanted to keep him from what he shouldn’t have to see. The weight of that burden also wouldn’t go away, one more brick to add to the load on her shoulders.
They had seen each other infrequently over the summer, and when they did meet it was expected; she had been able to plan for his arrivals. She rested, she made sure things were done beforehand. In that way she knew she was ready to face his scrutiny and it had worked. According to Carol, he actually thought she was getting better—and why not? Even she believed in those good moments that of course she would get better. After all, Father Wells had just said that all things are possible—with God. But if that were true, what about Thomas?
Later, after they had arrived home, they made love. After all, they had not seen each other for several weeks. Michael left her resting with her eyes open, but he couldn’t lie still. His business done in Canada, he was feeling energetic and buoyant. This summer had been excellent for his firm, and expansion seemed limitless.
Michael emptied his suitcase and garment bag, sorted out clothes for the washer, and gathered things destined for the dry cleaners. While he did this, he often went to check on her. “How are you feeling, Beth?”
Elizabeth had no idea what she should say. She didn’t feel all right, but she didn’t have a fever, she wasn’t hurting . . . What was the correct response? A small wave of her hand seemed to suffice.
He came back a little later. “Stay there as long as you like,” Michael urged. “I’ll order some pizza. Wouldn’t that be good? I noticed the salad in the refrigerator. I’ll get that out, too. Is there anything else you’d like?”
She shook her head slightly, not wanting to make the effort to speak.
It seemed like mere seconds had passed when Michael was again sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Elizabeth, do you want me to bring you a plate?”
She moved slightly to look at the clock on the bureau; she couldn’t believe it was that late. Where had the time gone? She shook her head and began to creep out on her side, but Michael was right there, a hand under her arm—the wrong arm—and she suddenly knew she didn’t want any of this. “No. No, Michael, I’m not hungry. Truly.”
She rested back against the pillows and looked up into his anxious face, and for a moment it was almost enough to make her try again to get up. She was making him very worried. She knew it, wanted to erase that look from his face, but the idea couldn’t make her move. His feelings didn’t matter at this moment because she needed every bit of effort for herself.
For the first time, without realizing it, Michael’s happiness and concern were not her priority.
She was.
Michael left her, worry chasing him like an itch; he went into the kitchen but couldn’t eat. How could this woman, so weary now, be the same woman who was in his arms mere hours ago? A woman who had filled him over and over with desire and completion, participating and giving and giving until he not only thought he would explode but did—with her. The difference was like someone had hit a switch so abruptly she had shut down. He wondered if this was his fault. Had he been too demanding? But she was so responsive, . . . so . . . He shut his eyes, trying to quell a wave of fresh desire. No, no, he knew it was this rotten disease; he knew it caused fatigue, yet it seemed surreal, so . . . wrong. And suddenly he was swept away by the burning question that had no answer: What in God’s name
could he do for his Elizabeth?
The whisper of the answer—nothing—slashed him harder than any knife blade. Restless, he kept quietly returning to the bedroom, being careful not to disturb her, but wishing, hoping, he could find a way to help.
With her eyes closed, Elizabeth could hear every time the door was pushed open; the light from the hallway brightened the dark under her eyelids. She knew it because she couldn’t sleep.
Fatigue and sleep had nothing to do with each other; she wondered if he knew that. Probably not. The bone-deep weariness that had nothing to do with physical activity didn’t respond to rest—all she could do was stop, keep breathing, and hope.
He had come yet again to stare down at her, then reach out to touch her shoulder, but she was relieved when she heard the door finally shut. She should have been warmed by his concern, but how could she feel a closeness that wasn’t there? Perhaps his concern and worry were real, but wrapped within them was an edge, a hardness she didn’t try to understand.
Instead of feeling cherished by his attention, she felt exposed and vulnerable; all she felt when he looked at her now was— damaged.
Michael woke up at his usual 6:00 a.m., immediately alarmed at the empty space beside him. Concern pounding his heart, he grabbed a robe and went in search of his wife. Please let her be all right, please . . . Words tumbled around in his head, disjointed and erratic. He pushed the door open to the kitchen and found her.
Piano music from a CD filled the air and there she was, mixing eggs and sautéing vegetables for an omelet. He could already smell scones in the oven. His frown wasn’t from anger, though it looked like it. Damn, this made no sense at all. She had been exhausted last night. Of course, he was relieved she wasn’t hurt, but the adrenaline pumping inside him had nowhere to go. He breathed hard and finally said something.
She jumped at the stern “Good morning” that came from the doorway. Then she laughed, throwing back her head. It did nothing to ease the conflicting emotions wrapping him like a prisoner. “Hey sleepyhead, you finally got up.” She set the bowl down on the counter and held out her arms. He moved in closer to hug her and even tried to smile, but failed. He was completely baffled. Michael had a hard time comprehending things that made no sense whatsoever.
“Me a sleepyhead? You’re the one who never gets up before I go to work! And what’s all this? You never ever cook me breakfast during the week.” He tried to keep his voice clean, but even he could hear the clip in it.
She lifted her chin a little higher. “So enjoy it now.”
She turned back to the oven, and all Michael could do was shake his head. It made no sense. Intellectually, he tried to blame the disease. Tried to, but he had to wonder what was real and who was really in charge. He knew it wasn’t him and resented that more deeply than he could admit.
Chapter Twenty
The first meeting of the Northern Neck Neuromuscular Support Group was called to order by a wonderfully composed Adrienne Moore. Elizabeth was amazed at her friend’s resilience. Adrienne and Ian had only just returned from the funeral and visiting Thomas’s family. She found it incredible there were no smudges of sadness on their faces. Elizabeth thought them remarkably stoic.
The fitness center had a large open room with the front desks staffed by healthy, muscled attendants. Situated on the other side of the building was the indoor pool. The chlorine smell attested to its health. Adrienne had pointed out on the way to their room that the club offered water aerobics. “The doctors said that would be very good for me. Would you like to try it, too?”
Elizabeth shrugged, not really listening; she was trying to push away the absurd nervous jitters suddenly making her heart race. She fervently hoped there would be somebody here for this new group Adrienne wanted to start. What if there was only her and Elizabeth?
It was the third Tuesday of the month, and when they opened the door to the designated room, she was relieved to see people at the long rectangular table.
A bright, welcoming smile was bestowed all around, and Adrienne looked with approval at the thirteen people who presented themselves this morning. Some in wheelchairs, others with canes, some looking as fit as the people using the exercise equipment beyond the door of this room.
“I am delighted you all could come. My name is Adrienne Moore, and I would like to go around the room and let you introduce yourselves. I’m also sending a pad and pen around for your names, phone numbers, and addresses, so we can keep in touch. Let me assure you, this information is confidential and will not be allowed to go outside the group. Here, Elizabeth, you start.”
Elizabeth nodded, wishing her face wasn’t flooded with color like a red neon sign. “Hello, um, I’m Elizabeth Whittaker, and I have MS.” Laughter suddenly sputtered. “I feel like I’m at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.” Nervous titters eased the nervousness of new people meeting for the first time. Except for Adrienne and Elizabeth, no one knew anyone else.
As everyone introduced themselves, Adrienne was making notes: three people with MS plus Elizabeth, two with fibromyalgia, two with post-polio syndrome, Adrienne with SMA, two with various forms of arthritis, two with Parkinson’s. There on the far end of the table was a very handsome and obviously athletic young man.
“Uh, my name is Gregory Jamison, and I’m not here for myself. I have an uncle who has ALS; you know, amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. He saw the story about this group starting and asked if I could come and, well, check it out for him.”
“That’s kind of you,” Adrienne said, puzzled. “We’re glad to have you in proxy and we’ll be glad to have your uncle when he comes, but what exactly are you supposed to check out? See if we’re legitimate?”
She watched, intrigued, his face coloring. “Well, um, to see . . . if you’re upbeat, or . . . uh, depressing. Yes, I think those were his words.”
Adrienne threw back her head and laughed so fully, so broadly, that it demanded participation; within seconds the room was roaring. “Well, let me assure you, the last thing this group will be is depressing. I’m hoping we can be activists, leading the charge for change, for awareness, for understanding from people like you who are”—she paused dramatically—“merely temporarily-abled.” That startled a smile from him; this woman had no idea of how right she was about that.
“Welcome.” She looked around at the others, hoping this group could be what she had just described. “This area needs a lot of change. For the ones who use the handicapped parking spaces, are you tired of people who invariably leave their shopping carts right smack in the middle of the space because they’re too lazy to walk them back into the store?” The nods were unanimous.
“How about that huge discount store in town that mashes all its merchandise together so even if you don’t need a wheelchair, you can barely get from one department to the other?” Ethel Carden asked with a good deal of indignation in her voice. She sat in a trim motorized cart as she looked around the table, frowning hard enough to go do something about it right now. She was one with MS and had not taken kindly to it, or to the way it had changed the people in her family. The way they treated her now, as useless as a piece of dried-up old wood, kept her grumpy.
“Good! One of the things we can do is to write to these stores and let them know how we feel. Another thing is to write to newspapers and complain. It’s the squeaky wheel that gets the attention and believe you me, I intend to sound like pure rust.”
“Did you ever happen to consider,” an amiable man in a wheelchair pointed out, “that it’s also the squeaky wheels that get replaced first?”
Giggles rippled the room and only increased when Adrienne sat up straight and said smugly, “I’m irreplaceable”—Adrienne checked her notes—“Mr. Albert Stoddart.”
“Uh-oh, she’s got my name, there could be trouble.” His face fell easily into familiar laugh lines, as if it was something he often did. He held out his hand. “Peace. I’m perfectly happy to have you as my leader, dear lady.”
Gregory watche
d as strangers soon relaxed into the ease of old friendships and wondered why that was. Adrienne was discussing strategies and speakers, and there was no end to discussions and ideas for topics.
“What about health insurance?” a young woman asked. She had no diagnosis, still going through a tumult of tests because of dizziness, numbness, and temporary blindness and, as yet, all the doctors could do was speculate. There was not enough evidence clinically for any firm diagnosis. She had a high deductible and it was costing too much to find nothing.
“Ah.” Adrienne shook her head. “I was a lobbyist on the Hill for over twenty years, and we could never, ever get Congress to focus in on the need for reform. How many people here have some sort of health insurance?”
Roughly half held up their hands. Adrienne nodded knowingly. “What do the rest of you do?”
“Pray nothing else happens,” muttered a construction worker crippled by arthritis. “All the companies want to exclude the arthritis because it’s a preexisting condition, but hell, that’s why I need it.”
Pearl Smith, who had fibromyalgia, raised her hand to speak. “Well, I don’t know if this counts, but I’m on Medicare through Social Security disability and my husband makes too much to be eligible for any other assistance. The supplemental insurance I’ve been paying for out-of-pocket has been going up so much each year I can hardly afford it. No other company will insure me because of my ‘preexisting condition.’ Don’t you hate that phrase? Talk about discrimination. Every cent I get from disability goes to insuring my family. I’m just hoping the rates don’t go up as bad as they say they will next year.”
Elizabeth listened to the undercurrent of anxiety in their voices and was amazed she had never, ever once considered how fortunate she was. Michael’s company was profitable and all employees had excellent coverage.
A Sundog Moment Page 19