Meg
Meg waded through the crowd, afraid she would lose sight of him. Jim kept looking over his shoulder to make sure she was behind him, but she couldn’t reach his outstretched hand. Too many people in front of her. She tried to elbow her way around them. “C’mon, Meg!” he called. “Keep coming!”
“Don’t leave!” she cried out. “Please don’t leave!” She tried to run after him, but her legs wouldn’t move, and he disappeared into the crowd. “Don’t leave me! Please!” They were in a train station—she could hear the whistle—and the train was leaving and Jim was already on board—she could see his face in the window—and she tried to run to catch the train but she couldn’t make it and he was gone. Again.
She awoke panting for breath, her legs twitching in the chair, the whistle of the daily local train fading into the distance. She swiped the tears from her eyes. Sometimes, when the weather conditions were right, she could even hear the rumble of that train and the clang of the bells on the railroad crossings. As a little girl she would lie in bed at night and listen for it, imagining the people on board and the places they were traveling to. Once, when she and Jim were teenagers, their houses separated by a few miles, they each heard the sound of the train whistle while talking on the phone late at night, and they knew somehow that it was a significant, mystical harbinger of their future together, that they were bound by an invisible cord weaving its way through the darkness.
She had dreamt about Jim frequently the past couple of weeks, no doubt connected to her sorting of photos and her anxiety over Becca. Between her longing, bittersweet dreams about Jim and her chronic, alarming nightmares about their daughter, Meg’s sleep—when she did sleep—was fitful and tormented.
And yet she slept soundly enough in stretches, evidently, for her not to hear a phone ring: she had missed the call from the doctor’s office half an hour earlier. She listened to the message. Could she go immediately to the radiology department at St. Luke’s? She folded the blanket and placed it on the chair. Yes. She could. Thank you, Lord. She texted Hannah with the news that she would not need a trip to the emergency room, then shuttled herself to the hospital.
Meg had never sat in such a crowded waiting room. She wished she had bought a mask to cover her nose and mouth. Every time she coughed, someone eyed her critically and swerved away. At every entrance door and along the hallways, posted signs warned about flu season and urged visitors to wash their hands. She wondered what kind of x-rays the other patients were waiting for.
“Margaret?” the technician called from the doorway. It took Meg a moment to realize she was the one being summoned. She put her Bible back into her purse and followed the young woman down the hallway. Ten minutes later she was wearing a hospital gown and standing pressed against a cold, flat plate, chin elevated and shoulders rolled forward. “I need you to inhale as deep as you can, and then hold it for me, okay?” the technician said before stepping out of view.
Meg tried to inhale but started coughing. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s okay.” The technician helped reposition her against the panel and disappeared again. “Deep breath.”
Meg breathed and held it, pain shooting through her chest.
“And exhale.”
Meg turned aside to cough again.
“One more, okay? This time from the side—left shoulder here, hands above your head on this bar here and . . . Good.” She went into the protected booth. “One more breath for me and hold it . . . and . . . okay. Breathe.”
Meg relaxed.
The technician remained in the booth a few moments before emerging again. “Okay,” she said, “we’ve got what we need. The radiologist will read this and send the report to your doctor. Do you have any questions about anything?”
Meg thought a moment and said, “This would show a cracked rib, right? Or pneumonia or pleurisy?” According to her Internet search, those could be common causes of chest pain.
“It’ll give a pretty good view of things,” she said.
Hannah met Meg at the door when she arrived home. “How did it go?”
“Okay,” Meg said. “They were able to squeeze me in between lots of other people, so I was grateful for that. Sounds like the doctor will call in the next couple of days with results.”
“I’m so glad they finally got you in,” Hannah said.
“Me too.” Meg took off her coat and boots. “How about Mara? How did it go at the bank?”
“Great. She was blown away by the cash, kept saying she couldn’t believe she had friends who would help out like that, and she was able to open her own checking account. Her attorney called right when we were finishing up. He said he’ll contact Tom’s lawyer and make sure the deposits will happen like they’re supposed to. So I think she feels relieved about everything.”
“Good,” Meg said, settling into the recliner. “I tell you what: I’ve never really hated anyone before, but between Simon and Tom . . . well, I can’t say I haven’t fantasized about both of them getting what they deserve.”
“I know. I’m with you in that. Maybe I have my own forgiveness letters to write.”
Meg had forgotten about that exercise. She still didn’t have the emotional, physical, mental, or spiritual energy to work through any forgiveness issues with anyone. Maybe once she felt stronger, she’d try to write some letters. She would also make an appointment to see Katherine as soon as she was sure she wasn’t contagious with bronchitis or pneumonia.
“How about something to eat?” Hannah asked. “I can defrost some of Mara’s chicken noodle soup for you.”
Even soup seemed like too much. Whatever virus or infection had wrecked her body had eliminated her appetite. “Maybe later.”
“You’ve got to eat something, Meg. Can’t have you wasting away. How about grilled cheese? Or a milkshake? I can go get some ice cream. You tell me what sounds good, and I’ll get it for you.”
“You sound like my Jim,” Meg said, smiling. He used to hover around her whenever she caught even the simplest head cold. She had forgotten that about him, one of many things she had forgotten. “I’m really not hungry right now. But later. I’ll eat something later. Promise.” Right now she wanted to sleep. And maybe she would dream again of Jim.
Charissa
Tuesday’s pop quiz, intended as a way for Charissa to exert authority and to shame a couple of students into better study habits, resulted instead in a reprimand from Dr. Gardiner. Please stick to the syllabus as presented, she wrote in an email. You are free to adapt the lectures and essay themes as you see fit, but in order to be fair to all of the students, presenters are to use only the agreed upon exams. Let me know if you have any questions.
Punks. Justin Caldwell and his posse had probably marched straight to Dr. Gardiner after class to complain.
Fine. She wouldn’t grade the quizzes. But they had revealed exactly what she had suspected: half the class hadn’t bothered to do any of the reading. How would she assess whether they were completing the required reading if she couldn’t surprise them periodically with quizzes? Dr. Bauer had been very fond of pop quizzes in their freshman literature and writing courses, and Charissa had relished the regular opportunity to demonstrate her conscientiousness.
“Not everyone reads every word like you,” John said when she picked him up at work shortly after five o’clock. “You’ll be able to tell from their essays, won’t you?”
She would scan every single one of the essays through an aggressive plagiarism filter, and if she caught a student cheating—she hoped she’d catch one—she would march him straight to the department head. The syllabus said zero tolerance. She would show zero tolerance. “I can’t wait to run my red pen through them,” she said.
John raised his eyebrows. “You’re scaring me.”
She laughed. “Through the essays, not the students!”
“You’re still scaring me. Don’t turn into one of those nightmare sadistic teachers.”
“Okay. Rephrase:
I look forward to seeing how well the students have assimilated what I’ve been teaching. There. Better?”
“Remind me never to cross you in the classroom, Mrs. Sinclair.”
She didn’t correct him. John wouldn’t appreciate her instruction for the students to refer to her as “Ms.” He wouldn’t understand her desire to distance herself from his mother, who, to her credit, had been keeping her opinions to herself the past couple of weeks. Or maybe John was keeping those conversations to himself. She hadn’t asked.
She slowed to let another driver merge into their lane. “Realtor called a little while ago,” John said, “wondered if we would be interested in moving up our closing date to Friday.”
“Yes! Absolutely! Did you tell her yes?” If they could close on Friday, they could start painting rooms and moving boxes and furniture on the weekend.
“Yep. Three o’clock.”
“That’s great, John!”
“I know. Tim and some of the guys from work said they can help out. I really think we can do everything with a U-Haul. Might take a couple of trips, but we can do it.”
Maybe instead of the Sensible Shoes group meeting for one of the prayer exercises on Friday night, they could meet at the house for a blessing service. Hannah had been enthusiastic about leading something for them. But if Meg was still sick—
“What’s wrong?” John asked, correctly interpreting her furrowed brow.
“I promised Meg she could be in the house before we move anything in, remember? So she has a chance to see it empty, to be there to pray, to think about Jim—whatever she needs to do. And if she’s still contagious at all . . .”
“It’ll be okay, Riss. We’ll stock up on Lysol. You can wear a mask. We’ll spray everything down after she leaves.”
“I’m paranoid about getting sick.”
“I know. But if she feels up to coming over, then I think it’s really important to give that chance to her.”
John was right. She couldn’t renege on that offer, not without severely hurting Meg’s feelings. “I’ll invite them all over for seven o’clock on Friday,” she said.
Three days. In three days they would take possession of their first house together. She felt a sudden flutter in her stomach. Excitement, maybe. She moved her right hand from the steering wheel to her abdomen. Or maybe—just maybe—she had felt their baby move for the very first time. At the stop sign she turned and smiled at John.
“What?” he asked.
“I love you,” she said, and kissed him.
Meg
Yes, she would definitely be well enough to go to her old house on Friday. No way she was going to miss an opportunity to stroll through the space she and Jim had loved together, to touch those antique doorknobs again, to open the cupboards, to sit on the hearth, to stand at the kitchen sink and look out the window at the backyard where their rose arbor remained.
“I’ll be there,” Meg said, phone wedged against her cheek as she measured out her cough suppressant. “Thank you so much, Charissa. You have no idea how much this means to me. And I’ll wear one of those masks or something if I’m still coughing.”
Charissa laughed. “Sorry to be such a wimp.”
“No! I understand. I was the same way when I was pregnant with Becca.” Meg had lived in fear of doing something that would harm their baby and had obsessively followed all the doctor’s instructions, even down to bravely instigating an argument with her mother by asking her not to smoke anywhere near her when she was pregnant. Mother had thrown a fit about that, scoffing about how ridiculous and overprotective Meg was. But then when her best friend died of lung cancer a few months later, she stopped smoking. Immediately.
Meg felt like someone was sitting on her chest every time she tried to breathe. She hoped the doctor would be able to prescribe some kind of antibiotic to help. “Here, Charissa—I’ll pass the phone to Hannah so she can talk to you about the details for the blessing. See you Friday!”
Hannah took the phone and scribbled notes at the table while she and Charissa planned a brief service of prayer.
A few high school friends had helped Jim and Meg move in when they first began renting the house on Evergreen. But the two of them hadn’t marked the transition from renting to owning in any significant way. Then again—come to think of it—after they signed the papers and returned home, Jim insisted on picking her up and carrying her across the threshold. And they celebrated with strawberry milkshakes made in the blender Rachel had given them as a wedding gift.
Maybe she could drink a milkshake. Hannah had offered again to go to the store to buy ice cream.
“All set?” she asked when Hannah hung up the phone.
“All set. We decided we’d have the house blessing instead of doing one of the prayer exercises, and then we can start meeting at their house every other week, to get on track together again.”
“Sounds good.” Meg opened a kitchen cabinet and removed the blender.
“Does this mean you’re taking me up on my offer?” Hannah asked.
“Yes, is that okay?”
“Of course! What flavor ice cream?”
Meg fingered the setting buttons on the base. “How about strawberry?”
They sipped their strawberry milkshakes in front of the fireplace in the parlor and talked about wedding plans while the snow alighted on the trees. “Where would you want to honeymoon?” Meg asked. “If you could choose anywhere and money was no object?”
“Oh, I don’t know . . . Europe, maybe. Scotland or England. I’d love to see London someday.”
“London is wonderful,” Meg said. “Even with everything that happened with Becca, I’m so glad I got to see it. So much history.” Meg stared at the snow globe on the mantel, a special souvenir from her trip.
“Where did you and Jim go on your honeymoon?”
“Mackinac Island.”
“Oh! I’ve heard that’s beautiful.” Hannah curled her feet beneath her as she repositioned herself on the sofa.
“It is. It’s like stepping back in time. It even smells slower, sounds slower, with just the clip-clop of the horses and carriages.”
“No cars?”
“No. Just horses and bikes. And lots of fudge shops.” She could still remember the porter in a top hat who greeted them when their carriage arrived at the Grand Hotel, his long coat matching the scarlet geraniums in the planter boxes. Jim helped her down from the carriage, and she took his arm as they entered the grand lobby. Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Crane. Neither one of them had ever stayed at a fancy hotel before, and they were overwhelmed by the elegance—and a bit intimidated during their first formal multicourse dinner. But by the second day, they had relaxed into the rhythm. “If you ever get a chance to visit the island,” Meg said, “it’s worth seeing the Grand Hotel. We loved it there. We had tea every day on the porch, with an amazing view of the water.”
“The white rocking chairs, right?” Hannah said. “I’ve seen pictures. Iconic.”
Meg and Jim had walked for miles along the shore, hand in hand. They explored gardens, played croquet, and rode bicycles. They even rented a horse-drawn carriage for a tour around the island, laughing over Jim’s attempts to keep the plodding horse from stopping every few feet to graze. Jim made friends that day with a man who was scooping horse manure off the road, a man who, with slow speech and a childlike, cockeyed smile, informed them that he was a poet who had written a book the local bookstores kept in stock. “Really?” Jim said. “Congratulations!” That afternoon Jim bought the book and tracked down the man for his autograph. Eddie. Eddie Something. Eddie could not have been more delighted.
“Maybe we should take a road trip,” Meg said. “I think the ferries start running again in May.”
“I’d love that! Let’s plan on it.”
If Becca changed her mind about Paris—better yet, if Becca and Simon broke up and she came home for the summer—maybe she would want to go with them to see where her parents honeymooned.
H
annah placed another log on the fire. Meg watched the flames tentatively lick the edges before devouring it with a renewed burst of energy. That’s what she needed. A renewed burst of energy. She was disappointed the doctor hadn’t called. Then again, if the crowds at the hospital were any indicator, many sick people were waiting for phone calls.
“Mind if I read?” Hannah asked, settling onto the couch again.
Meg shook her head. Even enjoyable conversation taxed her strength.
As Hannah opened a book about pilgrimages in the Holy Land, her face relaxed with a contented smile. Much as Meg longed to see the places where Jesus had walked, her fears would keep her from taking such a trip. She would have to experience it vicariously through Hannah’s photos and stories.
Maybe Hannah would take that trip to the Holy Land as Nathan’s wife.
Meg wouldn’t mention that possibility to her. Way too soon! Hannah would probably say. She seemed to have it firmly set in her mind that she would be returning to Chicago in June, not to pack up a house for a move but to serve the congregation again, at least for a while.
Meg was glad she and Jim hadn’t waited long to be married: only a three-month engagement. Once you found the love of your life—
Her phone rang, startling her. She leaned over and checked the caller ID. Private number. Salesman, maybe. Second ring, third ring. “Want me to answer for you?” Hannah asked.
“No, that’s okay. They can leave a message.”
She stared again at the fire, listening for the beep on her archaic answering machine. “This is Dr. Carlson, calling for—”
Meg grabbed the phone, fumbling as she tried to find the right button to push. “Hello?”
“Is this Margaret?”
“Yes. Hi, Dr. Carlson. Thanks for calling.” She hadn’t expected him to call in the evening.
Hannah set the book down on her lap.
“Yes . . . well . . . I’ve got the report from the radiologist, and it does show something suspicious on your x-ray.”
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