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Entertaining Angels

Page 5

by Judy Duarte

“Honey?” Gram called out.

  “Yes?” Kristy made her way to Gram’s room, where antique furnishings and crocheted doilies couldn’t mask the hospital bed that lurked near the window.

  “Are you leaving for work now?” the elderly woman asked.

  “I’ll be going soon.” Kristy approached the adjustable bed that made lifting the partially paralyzed woman easier. As she leaned to place a kiss on Gram’s cheek, she caught a whiff of gardenia mingled with Bengay.

  “What time is it?” Gram turned her head toward the clock on the nightstand, revealing the curls crushed and tangled by repeated contact with the pillow. Gray roots she used to hide with the help of Lady Clairol and frequent visits to the beauty shop on First Avenue tugged at Kristy’s heart.

  “Nearly ten o’clock,” Kristy answered, even though the woman had looked for herself.

  Gram took a deep breath, then let out a brittle, bone-weary sigh.

  Eager to give her grandma something to look forward to, Kristy said, “It looks like we’ll need to color your hair again. Why don’t we get you all prettied up tomorrow? I can give you a manicure and a pedicure, too.”

  Gram rolled her tired eyes. “I can’t see any reason to fuss about my looks. I don’t go out. And other than Pastor George, I don’t get many visitors.”

  “I have a feeling it’s because you run them off.”

  Gram furrowed her wrinkled brow. “What do you mean, I run them off?”

  “Well, it’s not as though you tell them to leave or throw bedpans and pill bottles at them. But people who love and care about you have a difficult time when you talk about wanting to die and discuss the funeral arrangements you’ve already made.”

  “Why shouldn’t I? I’m practically dead already. The Good Lord just wants to punish me and keep me here on earth, useless and unproductive. A burden. For goodness sake, I can’t paint. I can’t work in the garden. I can’t even look after Jason while you work.”

  “I doubt God would punish a good, kindhearted woman who’d once been active in church and in the community.”

  If He was punishing anyone, it had to be Kristy.

  Each time she saw Gram lying in that bed, imprisoned in a body that was failing, she was reminded of her negligence.

  If she’d been home the night her grandmother suffered the first and most devastating stroke, instead of at that party at the Rensfields’ estate, she might have called the paramedics and gotten help for Gram sooner. But Kristy hadn’t snuck in until the wee hours of the morning. And her grandmother had spent most of the night on the living room floor.

  The memory was as clear today as it had been when she’d opened the door and found Gram lying on the drab, olive-green carpet, unable to move, unable to speak. The distorted mouth. That cold, glassy stare.

  Oh, God, she pleaded again. Make it go away, will you?

  But the scene never faded, the memory never went away. And she’d have to deal with the guilt for the rest of her life.

  Still, she wished Gram would just accept the reality they all had to live with. Didn’t she realize that Kristy was emotionally pedaling as fast as she could?

  She did the best she could to shake off the negativity and the resentment that crept in whenever she let down her guard.

  “You’re too young to have to be burdened by me,” Gram said.

  “Don’t even go there. When my mom ran off, you stepped in. And from that day on, my life changed dramatically. You have no idea what it was like, begging for handouts with her at intersections, crying myself to sleep in homeless shelters.”

  “It was the drugs that made your mother that way. I’m sorry that she failed you.”

  So was Kristy, although she couldn’t—no, make that wouldn’t—blame drugs for it. And her mom’s abandonment still hurt, if she let it.

  “But you didn’t fail me,” she told Gram.

  And that was a fact.

  In her grandmother’s care, Kristy had gotten a room of her own, three home-cooked meals a day and a magical cookie jar that seemed to always stay filled. And even though Gram had been nearly sixty, she’d been a loving guardian who’d jumped right in with parents half her age. There wasn’t a field trip that she hadn’t driven on, a school program she hadn’t attended. A PTA meeting that she’d missed.

  And how had Kristy paid her back?

  By being as wild as her mother had no doubt been. But those days of foolish, teenage rebellion were over. Kristy would take care of her grandmother, just the way Gram had always taken care of her.

  And she wouldn’t complain—ever—although that didn’t mean she liked listening to death wishes.

  She mustered a smile and tried to change the subject. “Hey, I forgot to tell you. Shana Delacourt is going to get married in August. To Brad Rensfield.”

  Gram managed a smile—something Kristy rarely seemed to see these days. “The Delacourts ought to be ecstatic. The Rensfield boy is as rich as old fury and a fine catch.”

  Without thinking, Kristy muttered, “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Kristy hadn’t meant to broach her thoughts about that with anyone, let alone her grandmother. “I really didn’t mean anything by that comment. It’s just that he’s a bit spoiled. And he’s sowed so many wild oats that his folks ought to invest in a granary.”

  “Oh, well. Boys will be boys. Now that he’s grown up, he’s probably gotten that tomfoolery out of his system.”

  Kristy sure hoped so.

  If anyone deserved to be happy, it was Shana.

  Gram shifted in bed, undoubtedly trying to find a comfortable spot, and grimaced.

  Kristy took her frail, liver-spotted hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Do you need to go to the bathroom?”

  “No, not yet.” The old woman blew out another feeble breath. “I wish that you didn’t have to ask, that I didn’t need help. I’m sorry for being so much trouble.”

  Kristy pushed the button that lifted the head of the bed, then helped her grandmother sit up a bit. “I love you. And you’re no trouble.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud, Kristy. Look at me. I’m worthless like this. Why couldn’t I have just died that night?”

  “You’re the one with all the faith, Gram. Maybe God has a reason to keep you here.”

  “Humph. And just what would that be?”

  “You’ll have to ask Him,” Kristy said, only too glad to pass the buck on spiritual and philosophical issues and change the subject.

  When Gram humphed again, Kristy asked, “Do you think we have enough time to pull off an August wedding?”

  Gram paused, as though weighing the benefits of stewing in self-pity or answering Kristy’s question. “Mildred Walker’s granddaughter started planning her wedding more than a year in advance.”

  “That’s the kind of time frame I was thinking of. But Shana’s determined to get married this summer. And since she’s in Australia and can’t do much in preparation, she asked me to help.” Kristy drew open the drapes to let in a bit of sunlight. “I suppose I’ll have to hustle, but I don’t mind.”

  “I remember my own wedding day,” Gram said, her faded gaze wistful. “My sister Grace did most of the work. And she even baked the cake.”

  “Well, I’m not sure what I’m getting myself into. Shana asked me to help with the planning, but I have a feeling I’m going to butt heads with her mom.” And that wasn’t something she was looking forward to, especially when the woman had never thought Kristy was good enough to be her daughter’s friend.

  Of course, it wasn’t as though she’d ever been mean. She just had a way about her that shouted out her objections loud and clear.

  “Cassandra Delacourt can be a bit fussy, but she’s got a good heart. And she’s done a lot of charity work over the years. In fact, Pastor George mentioned that she planned a fashion show last fall, and the proceeds went to fund the soup kitchen.”

  Kristy had heard that. And she suspected the money was helpful. B
ut she couldn’t imagine Cassandra donating her time at the kitchen.

  Of course, who was Kristy to criticize? She didn’t have the time or the means to support the kitchen at all.

  And attend a fashion show at fifty dollars a head?

  In her dreams.

  The doorbell rang, and Kristy stepped away from the bed. “That’s probably Barb. I’d better let her in.”

  Barbara Crenshaw, the licensed vocational nurse, had been a godsend, especially since she looked after both Gram and Jason while Kristy worked, eliminating the additional cost of daycare.

  “Can’t Jason get the door?” Gram asked.

  “He went out to play with Danny and Tommy,” Kristy said, as she turned to leave the room.

  “Well,” Gram said, “if I don’t see you before you leave, have a good day.”

  Kristy stopped and glanced over her shoulder. “You, too.”

  The look in Gram’s eyes said that a “good day” wasn’t likely.

  If Kristy could have conjured up an upbeat response, she would have. But if truth be told, she wasn’t expecting a good day, either.

  Chapter 4

  Renee sat on a swing at the playground in the park, the toes of her sandals shoved into the sand.

  She gripped the chains, leaned back and looked at the sky, trying to gauge the position of the sun. It was late morning; she knew that for sure.

  Since she had no way of knowing when it was eleven o’clock, she decided to sit in the park and wait until she saw people heading toward the church across the street.

  That was another thing she should have asked the boys to provide—an alarm clock so she could tell time. What if she had a job interview or someplace else to go to?

  Her stomach growled, and she placed a hand on the bump where her baby grew, rubbing it gently. “I’ll get you something to eat as soon as I can.”

  She could, she supposed, just hang out in front of the church until the soup kitchen doors opened, but she didn’t want to draw any more attention to herself than necessary. All she needed was for some do-gooder to turn her in to social services, thinking they were looking out for her best interests.

  “Having fun?” a man asked.

  She glanced to the edge of the playground, where Jesse, the hippie guy, stood. He was holding a small, brown paper bag in one hand.

  He looked pretty much the same as he did yesterday, when he suggested she come to Fairbrook. He still wore the same baggy green shirt, the same faded jeans—she could tell by the frayed hole in the knee.

  It seemed safe to guess that he was homeless and didn’t have access to a shower.

  At least she’d managed to clean up this morning and change her clothes. But she wouldn’t hold that against him. She could end up in that same situation if she wasn’t careful.

  “Hey,” she said. “I see you made it.”

  He nodded. “I got in last night. So what do you think of the place so far?”

  “It’s okay.” She tightened her grip on the chains, pushed back with her feet, and set herself in motion. “I’ll feel better when I get a job, though.”

  “Something tells me you’d be better off in school.”

  She stopped pumping, felt the swing slow, then kicked again—determined to blow off the remark as ridiculous. “Why would you say that?”

  “You look pretty young to me.”

  “Well,” she said, pumping for all she was worth, “just so you know, youngness runs in my family.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “My second cousin is going to turn fifty on her next birthday, and she looks like she could be my sister.”

  “You don’t say.” Jesse made his way toward the swing set. “That’s unbelievable.”

  Actually, it ought to be, since it was a flat-out lie. Mary Ellen had lived a pretty rough life. And all those cigarettes she’d smoked and the booze she’d drank hadn’t helped. With that mousy gray hair and all those wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, most people thought she was way older than she really was.

  The dishonesty tweaked Renee’s conscience, but she continued her story. “I know, but it’s cool, huh?”

  She hated liars, mostly because she hated it when people lied to her. But she couldn’t risk having anyone learn the truth. What if someone found out she was a pregnant minor living in a tree?

  Of course, Jesse the hippie guy didn’t appear to be a run-of-the-mill do-gooder, so maybe she didn’t need to worry about it.

  But for safe measure, she added, “We’ve got good genes in our family.”

  Jesse, who now stood only feet away from her, lifted his sack. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

  “Yes,” she said, stretching the truth. “I had oatmeal.”

  Hey, everyone knew granola bars were made out of oats.

  Jesse opened the brown sack he had, reached inside, and pulled out an apple. He handed it to her. “Here, then. Have a snack.”

  Cool. She slowed the swing to a stop, then took the fruit from him, looked it over, and rubbed it on her shirt, like she was trying to shine it. “Thanks. I love apples.”

  Actually, she wasn’t all that big on them. And if given the choice, she preferred the tart, green ones. But her stomach was beginning to gnaw on itself, and she figured the baby could use the vitamins and nourishment.

  She tried to be ladylike when she took the first bite, but it was so juicy, and she was so hungry, that she was afraid she would end up wolfing it down.

  A couple of bites into it, she tried to get the focus off her. “Have you had any luck finding a job?”

  “I’m not worried about it. Work has a way of finding me. How about you?”

  “Not yet. I’m going to stop by the soup kitchen, then I’ll start job hunting. Hopefully, I’ll get one soon.”

  “Do you have a place to stay?” he asked.

  Her mouth was full of apple, so she nodded. And when she’d finished chewing, she said, “I’m renting a room. It’s upstairs and has a great view.”

  “It’s always a relief to know where you’re going to sleep each night.”

  She nodded. He had that right.

  “Do you know what time it is?” she asked.

  “Close to eleven, I think.”

  Good. She figured he was waiting for the doors to open, too. “Are you going to the soup kitchen?”

  “Not right away.” He placed a hand over his eyes, shading them from the sun, then glanced off in the distance. “I’ve got something to do first. I’ll probably drop in before they close at two.”

  She wanted to ask what he was going to do, but she figured it wasn’t any of her business. It’s not like she and Jesse were friends.

  A wistful shadow crept over her.

  She missed Megan and Danica, the friends she’d made in San Diego. Friends she’d had to give up when Mary Ellen had kicked her out.

  For a minute, she wanted to blame Mary Ellen for screwing up her life. But that wasn’t true.

  She’d done that all by herself.

  At eleven o’clock, Craig sat inside the cozy, book-lined library of the Parkside Community Church. He’d just met with the board of elders and the senior pastor, George Rawlings, a short, stocky man in his late fifties.

  The group had seemed pleasant enough, although a bit on the stuffy side. And, overall, the meeting had gone as well as could be expected.

  Just moments ago, one of the elders announced he had a luncheon date, and the board had quickly dispersed, each one going his own way.

  The only two left were the pastors.

  “You came highly recommended,” George said. “And the fact that you’re related to Wesley Houston is a real plus. You’ve got some big shoes to fill.”

  “Yes, sir. I know that.”

  Before assuming leadership of Desert Fellowship, a large and growing congregation in the Phoenix area, Craig’s granddad had written a book about his experiences as a missionary, which had become required reading in seminaries all over the country.

  “You�
��ll probably find that Parkside Community Church is much smaller and less dynamic than you’re used to,” George said, “but we’re growing and reaching out to the community. We have a lot to be proud of.”

  “I’m sure you do.” Craig offered the man a smile. He was determined to make the best of his new position in Fairbrook, even though he’d been hoping to get a bigger, more prestigious assignment, one that would have provided him a better opportunity to make a difference in people’s lives. At least, that seemed like a good way to validate his ministry.

  “You’ll be heading our youth group,” George said, “as well as our home visitation to shut-ins. And, of course, whenever I’m out of town or unavailable, you’ll give the sermons and cover for me.”

  Unfortunately, being a bench warmer had never held much appeal. But win or lose, Craig had always been a good sport. So he put on his best hey-it’s-just-a-game smile, nodded at George, and tried to conjure the proper enthusiasm for the job.

  “Why don’t you let me give you a tour of our church buildings,” George said.

  “Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”

  The senior pastor led Craig out of the library and past the official church office, where they’d met earlier. Then he pointed out his private study, with its own wall-to-wall bookshelves and polished oak desk.

  It was small, Craig noted, but impressive.

  Two doors down, George stopped at a room that was smaller yet. “And this will be your office. We’ve ordered a desk, but it hasn’t arrived yet. I’m afraid you’ll have to make do until then.”

  “No problem.”

  The house, which had been promised as part of Craig’s salary package, wasn’t ready for him to use either, which made him wonder if Parkside Community needed an associate minister as badly as the bishop seemed to think they did.

  Again he couldn’t help but think there’d been some kind of mistake, maybe even on his own part, because in spite of telling his family that he’d been called to the ministry, he hadn’t heard a peep.

  Their next stop was the sanctuary, with its stained glass windows, padded wooden pews, and the hand-carved altar. “That’s the original pulpit,” George said.

  “How long ago was the church built?”

 

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