He was dimly aware he had been awakened by something hard and intense having to do with his wife, but he couldn’t think of her on an empty stomach. Or without a boatload of coffee to clear away the cobwebs. Bracing himself against the world, he stood up and went to take a shower.
Later, with the coffee brewing and his thoughts clearing, Michael warily entertained the question of why he had been thinking of Elizabeth. Did he have a dream about her? Or had something happened to her? That thought clenched.
No, he couldn’t think that. She had an army of people looking after her in that river community. Plus, if anything bad happened, he would be the first to know. Bad news always traveled at light speed. Good news generally had the pace of a snail.
After he got dressed and retrieved the paper from its box, he went back to the kitchen and waited for that first cup of coffee. He opened up the front section.
He stood as he ate a few slices of toast and downed a couple of cups of coffee. He was restless, antsy, shifting from foot to foot. It was as if he was waiting for something to happen, like a kid waiting for a trip to the toy store. Elizabeth kept crossing his mind more and more frequently. It was probably just the stress and relief of finally having that situation over. He knew everything was set in place because Kate Wilkins had told him. It was over, done with.
Maddening, too, that a picture of Elizabeth’s lovely face kept appearing in his mind, haunting him. He shrugged and concentrated on what he was reading.
He quickly finished eating, then picked up the rest of the paper and went into the library, placing another cup on the table. He sat down in the La-Z-Boy, the one she had gotten him for their fifteenth anniversary, and sat back in comfort. Before he could pull the paper up to read, he found that he was at eye level with Elizabeth’s desk and the locked armoire where she kept her journals. In all the years she had kept them, he had never thought about what was in them. They were private thoughts, and he’d always respected her privacy.
If he was restless before, he was positively on edge now. The newspaper held no interest for him. All he could think about was her journals. What if there was something in those journals that might help him understand? Understand why she felt she had to leave him.
At first maybe she had left to go there and try pot without him looking over her shoulder. But that was all over, and she had said nothing about coming home. He stared at the cabinet for a long time, weighing all the considerations, the pros and cons, just as he would a business decision.
The inner debate was long. Beads of sweat dotted his brow as he wrestled with the idea of invading her private writings.
Finally, he got up slowly, numbly hearing the paper crumple to the floor. He hardly noticed his hands were shaking as he opened the drawer to the desk and saw the key.
Unlocked, the cabinet door swung open easily. Almost in slow motion, his hand was reaching and pulling out the long notebook on top, the last one she had written in before she left him. It was for both of them, he reasoned with his conscience, for a hope of understanding.
Walking slowly, carefully, Elizabeth moved inside the sanctuary, following at a distance behind the vested choir that had just filed in.
After her small miracle this morning, Elizabeth didn’t want to talk to anyone. She had planned on getting here and sitting in the back, then leaving before the choir recessed.
From the moment she had opened her eyes and seen her sun dog winking back at her, there was a newness in her she didn’t want to disturb. She eased into an empty pew at the back and settled down at the edge, looking at the bulletin and waiting for the service to start.
Encircling her like steel bands was an icy resolve, a certainty that something powerful had happened to her this morning, and she was holding on to it for dear life.
She couldn’t think beyond this moment. Intuitively, she knew if she did, then logic, rationale, would intrude and snip away this remarkable moment and she would dissolve into despair.
This new faith was simply not that strong.
She stood as the choir joined with the congregation, voices swelling the air with a confident song of hope and grace. She kept her legs slightly bent for balance, her knees pressed against the pew for support. And willfully ignored what she could not feel.
After the readings of the gospel and the rector’s prayer, the young priest stood before them, his smile sheepish.
Father Jacobs held out his hands. “I should apologize to you, and I know my wife wants me to apologize to her, but I hope you will understand that the matter was taken out of my hands at about 2:30 this morning.” His face was beseeching and earnest; the congregation perked up with interest.
“I had my sermon prepared fully by this past Friday, everything written down and ready to go, just the way Kelly likes it. But all I can tell you is that God has something different in mind for today. Early this morning I was awakened with an urgency I have never felt before, with a certainty that today’s sermon was not right. I sat up in bed, almost shivering in anticipation of . . . something. When I got out of bed, Kelly woke up and wanted to know where I was going.
“She didn’t like hearing I was on my way to the study to write another sermon.” He looked out at his blushing wife, who was busily shaking her head and holding the bulletin up in front of her face as dozens of amused eyes glanced her way.
The rector continued, “You see, if I’m not completely prepared well in advance of Sunday mornings, it makes her nervous. I wasn’t nervous, but I was a little sorry, because I really liked the sermon I worked on all last week.” He lifted his hands, face comical in its asking for their understanding. There were plenty of smiles and nods.
“What was put on my heart so heavily last night that I had to get up and write it down?”
His face was sober as he looked at each of the faces turned toward him and asked one simple question.
“What if there was no God, what if He didn’t exist? How would you live? Could you live if there was no God?”
Many faces pondered the question, while others looked out the stained-glass windows, and children were scratching out pictures on the bulletin quietly.
But in the back, tucked in the corner of a pew, a miracle was happening.
Wonder enveloped Elizabeth. Caught in such complete surprise, she was mesmerized by the immensity, the grandeur of this moment.
It was her epiphany . . . her validation . . . her personal sundog moment.
She sat there while a light embraced her that would brook any darkness, a joy filling within her as she realized she had already answered that very question for herself this morning. (Only this morning? It felt like a lifetime ago.) Within this knowledge she felt something begin to melt away: the hard resolve she had manufactured to get through this morning. She felt her soul opening to welcome a spring, a season of faith that can come only after a frigid season of uncertainty, of doubt.
For the very first time, she not only understood the lines from the Book of Common Prayer, but her soul knew it with a clarity that had never been known. “The peace of God that passes all understanding . . .”
And the words from the essay by Lynne Sears Howard “. . . now that I’m listening through a broken heart, I hear what has always been playing.”
Yes!
Finally, she knew and heard the melody that made that little bit of energy dance, that slip of light she had seen move with such vitality on the hospital wall years ago.
Michael was in a fury, his face red with explosive emotions as he read portions of Elizabeth’s journal. He felt indignant. How could she have ever felt this way?
He had always been there ready to help her in any way she needed, but did she ever ask for help when she did need it? Never! That was what was so damn maddening about the whole thing, so bitterly unfair—her blaming him!
He had always wanted to take care of her. Always! But she would no longer let him. Even before she left, she was keeping secrets; she wasn’t telling him anything. He had been shock
ed that day with the lawyer to hear she had finally taken the doctors’ advice and was on one of the therapies, which had always been the best thing she could do for herself.
And when he showed his pleasure about it, she shrugged off his concerns like a distasteful garment and said she wasn’t continuing it.
Why did she have to drive him out of his mind?
He had read about her desire to see a sun dog and also about her conversation with Father Joseph after the shoe debacle. And of course those people, Adrienne and Ian Moore. They seemed like a pleasant couple who knew how to relate to each other; he could sense the wistfulness in Elizabeth’s writings about them and this woman he had never heard about, Lynne Sears Howard.
So each one of them had cried on their husbands’ shoulders; big damn deal. Had Elizabeth ever let him see her pain? No! She was too busy pushing it all way, denying anything was wrong.
He was clenching his jaw and saw his hands tremble and forced himself to calm down. His anger, however just, would change nothing. All it would do was completely spoil his day.
He took a deep, relaxing breath and let it out as a sigh, forcing himself to relax. Then he began reading again.
I can’t believe this happened, I am so angry I want to scream! Whatever have I done to deserve this? Why are people so stupid?
The morning was good. The day was bright and brisk and so I decided to take a walk. The brace was on my left leg, the cane in my right hand, and I started off. I’ve taken short walks before and I’ve always felt self-conscious, but today it didn’t matter. The sunshine and weather lured me out with a smile.
Everything was going great. Even with the aids (or maybe because of them), I was walking great.
I was three blocks away from the house coming back when I heard someone calling my name. I turned and there, running across two busy interchanges, was Helen Lyndon. She was running, her legs and arms in perfect harmony, and I was so jealous I could barely breathe. Suddenly I wanted to scream out to the world that I could do that! I could do that very thing once, too!
When she finally reached me I tried to put a pleasant smile on my face because I hadn’t seen her for months, but the first words out of her mouth were a slap.
“Elizabeth, my God! What have you done to yourself!?” The pity in her eyes made me want to hit it away. (Yes, that was precisely how I felt!)
“Nothing, Helen,” I said.
“For God’s sake, you’re using a cane, Elizabeth. Why?” Her voice had risen as if I must be hearing-impaired as well.
I shrugged, feeling my pleasant face start to fall. “Because I need it.” I made my voice sound as if my answer was completely reasonable and turned to continue my walk, but then she grabbed my cane arm at the elbow. “Elizabeth, I don’t know what’s going on, but here, I’ll help you back to your house.”
By this time any pleasure I had found in taking a walk by myself had shriveled up, and I literally bit my lip the whole way back to keep from either screaming at her or crying, Why are people so stupid?
By the time I got home I had a headache. My stomach is still in knots, but writing this down has helped. At least I didn’t hit her. Helen actually walked me all the way to the front door and waited until I unlocked it and stepped inside.
“Call me anytime you need my help,” she said with a sappy smile and ran down the steps, a hand waving backward.
“Why?” I muttered under my breath. “I didn’t ask this time.”
What is just as infuriating is this: If Carol or my mother heard this story, they would take me to task for not simply explaining everything in the first place. They certainly would not understand why it made me feel the way it did.
Michael frowned. He knew Helen Lyndon, and he wouldn’t be inclined to give her the time of day either. Thinking of Carol and Virginia Mae, he could hear them fussing already. There were a lot of stupid people indeed, and for the first time he connected with Elizabeth’s side. He’d be damn angry, too. He found himself shaking his head out of sympathy and skimmed the next several pages before reading again . . .
Something happened today that was startling. Actually, it shocked me because it showed vividly how much things have changed.
I was at a restaurant and bar in the Slip waiting for Carol to come. I ordered white wine and was sipping it, minding my own business.
A man seated at the bar kept turning around and looking. I caught his eye once and smiled vaguely and then politely kept my gaze averted, mostly toward the door, waiting for my truant cousin.
My heart leaped up to my throat when he walked over and sat across from me. I looked at him hard, wondering if I knew him.
I did not.
He was attractive, a man about Michael’s age, light hair cropped close, and then he smiled. My heart tumbled over itself in a way I haven’t felt in a very long time.
“I saw you looking toward the door. I was going to say that I hope whoever you’re waiting for doesn’t show up because I would dearly love to buy you lunch.” There was a dimple on the left side of his mouth and his eyes were frank and admiring.
I smiled and when I did, dammit, I could feel a blush start so I looked down and said, “I’m flattered, but my cousin will be here any moment. And besides, I don’t think my husband would understand about me having lunch with a stranger . . . especially one so attractive.”
I couldn’t believe that came out of my mouth, but I looked up to see his smile deepen and then he chuckled. “I should have known someone like you would be married, but I believe in always hoping.”
We were smiling at each other when Carol came up suddenly, looking from one to the other. “Hello?” She was very polite, but also puzzled.
The stranger looked inquiringly my way. Heart pounding, I knew I had to be firm. “Hello, Carol, please sit down. This nice man was just leaving.”
He got up, still smiling and said, almost under his breath, “I hope he deserves you.”
Then he was gone. Although Carol had a lot of questions, I didn’t have answers. It was just a brief encounter but later as I thought about it, I realized the way he looked at me made me feel something I haven’t felt in a long time.
Pretty.
And attractive. And it suddenly occurred to me that was the way Michael used to see me. With loving, admiring eyes, he would flirt and make me feel pretty.
Now his eyes are disapproving, almost always glaring these days.
I don’t know how to change this. I don’t know how to reach back and bring forward what we used to have. I wonder if he notices, too, and just doesn’t care . . .
Michael put down the pages slowly, stunned. He wanted to be able to say vehemently she was wrong, but how could he? Suddenly, in an awful moment of self-realization, he knew that wasn’t possible because she was right.
It had never occurred to him that he had changed. He was so wrapped up in what was happening to her, he never thought about it changing him.
A memory several years old came rushing toward him, hitting hard. It was something that had taken place when Kellan was a young teenager.
It seemed almost overnight she had changed from his easygoing and lovable daughter to a depressing, cynical, self-centered brat.
She had driven him crazy. He had yelled harshly over the things she had conveniently forgotten to do and disapproved of those she did do.
On this particular occasion, he had been yelling because of neglected overdue library books and countless other things until finally, in tears, she lashed back.
“Why do you have to yell and scream at me to do what you want? Why are you forever scolding?”
He was about to say that was the only way he could get her attention these days, but she kept talking.
“When you yell at me the last thing it makes me want to do is anything that’ll make you happy.” She was crying so hard it was difficult to make out her words, but the next came out loud and clear.
“Why can’t you encourage me to do better? Why can’t you tell me wh
en I’ve done something right instead of always yelling and fussing about what I’ve done wrong? Why can’t you?”
These words had bit into him then because he realized she was right. He had been so focused on what she was doing wrong, anticipating it, it had never occurred to him to help her, encourage her to focus on the right things.
He felt sick. For the first time, he understood with a horrible, sinking realization this was what he’d been doing to his wife.
Carol was slipping chocolate chip cookie dough into the oven when the phone rang. She picked it up as she saw car lights moving out of the drive. Gordon was going to the store to get some more coffee.
They had spent this Sunday together, going to church and then brunch. It had been an easy, restful day, something Carol needed. She’d spent the last three weeks in New York, supervising the endless details of putting together a thirty-minute television show. No one outside the business would ever see the mindless hours of often drudge work required to create those few moments of magic that ended up on the small screen.
But that’s what it took, and Carol was determined to make it shine.
It was over brunch Gordon had asked, “How are our girls doing? The King/Brown duo?”
Carol laughed. “They seem to be thriving. D’Angelletti said at first he had to tell Serenity how to play a part, what to do, how to inflect her voice, but I think she’s getting some confidence about what she’s doing. She’s starting to vocalize what she thinks. There have been some disagreements, to put it mildly, but she’s growing. I think Mehalia is thrilled; the two of them are inseparable. She’s being tutored, and I’ve been told the girl is frighteningly smart.”
Gordon nodded. “I’m glad it’s working out. For Mehalia’s sake, especially.”
“Me, too. I really want Serenity to play a part in this series, but I’m still talking with the network. They would prefer to use someone with an already established name as the lead. I’m thinking about rewriting it to include a strong supporting role for her.”
They had come back to her house to read the Sunday paper or maybe watch the news. It had been restful and pleasant. They decided, after a small dinner, to watch a movie. She found cookie dough and decided to bake them some dessert, while he volunteered to get the coffee.
A Sundog Moment Page 38