“She was receptive?” I asked.
Evie shook her head. “Yes and no. No in that she wouldn’t let me inside her house and yes in that she truly seemed willing to at least think about what I’d said to her.”
I smiled. “Well, we can only hope she’ll take your words to heart.”
———
By the time we’d eaten and cleaned up the kitchen, it was nearly time for me to meet Michelle. I dropped by the house to brush my teeth and then drove to Higher Grounds Café, where Michelle stood waiting outside for me.
“What took you so long?” she signed as I approached her on the sidewalk, which stretched the full length of Main Street.
I gave my watch a quick look. “It’s not quite 11:00,” I signed back.
“I guess I’m just anxious,” she said. “I really need to talk to you.”
I looped her arm in mine and with one hand indicated we should head inside.
I’d wondered why my daughter wanted to meet with me for lunch, and with her nervous demeanor, my curiosity was piqued. We couldn’t be seated fast enough or order soon enough for me.
“You took off from work today,” I said when the server was done placing water with lemon on our table and taking our orders.
Michelle nodded, then added, “I had a doctor’s appointment.”
I froze. “Why? What’s wrong?”
Michelle shook her head. “Nothing. I just had some questions.”
“About?”
Michelle’s shoulders dropped as she continued. “Mom, Adam and I have been talking about a family.”
“A family?” I shot back. “So soon?”
Her hands flew over the next few words. “You don’t understand, Mom. I’m worried about whether or not my baby could be deaf. It’s hard enough to live and work within the hearing world, but what about me as a mother and . . . what if I was a deaf mother with a deaf child? I have so much to consider here, and I don’t know what to do.”
I leaned back in my seat. “Michelle,” I began slowly. “Michelle, I’ve honestly not thought of this. What does Adam say about it?”
“He says that if we have a deaf child he would be the hearing parent and that I would be the parent who gives so much love it wouldn’t matter that I am deaf. But . . .” She shrugged her shoulders as if to say there was little else to say.
“What did the doctor say?”
She took a sip of water before answering. “That our child has a 90 percent chance of being a hearing child.”
“Well, then, what are you concerned about . . .” I stopped. “Your child? Michelle are you—”
Michelle popped her thumb against her index and middle fingers several times. “No, no, no.”
I sighed. “Oh, good grief. You scared me.”
She laughed out loud. “Would it be so horrible? If I were pregnant, I mean?”
I shook my head. “No, it wouldn’t be horrible. I only mean to say that you should have plenty of time—just you and Adam—before you start thinking about a family.”
“Maybe in a year,” she said.
“Think of waiting at least two,” I encouraged.
“Two?”
“Trust me,” I said. “Life happens so quickly. Don’t lose this time with your husband. Just the two of you.” I thought of Goldie then. Of her being alone at this prime time in life. “It’s precious,” I said.
Just then the cell phone chirped from my purse. I held up a finger to Michelle, indicated I had a call, and then looked at the caller ID. It was Lisa Leann. “Hello, Lisa Leann,” I said.
“Oh, good. You answered,” she said. “I was afraid you’d be busy at work.”
“I’m off today,” I said. “I have to do some things to help with Mom.”
“Oh. Well, then. What are the chances you can come by later this afternoon? By the boutique, I mean.”
“The chances are good,” I answered. “Why? What’s going on?”
“I just got a call from Pastor Kevin. He wants us to cater a citywide party for the Founders Day celebration coming up.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“We need to start planning right away,” she said.
Of course we do, I thought. “What time should I be there?” From behind me I heard the front door bells of the café jingle their welcome. From the look on Michelle’s face, it was someone she knew. But, just as quickly, the pleasant expression gave way to concern. I looked over my shoulder. Donna and Vernon—looking haggard—shuffled toward the front counter before looking our way.
“Can you be here at 4:00?” I heard Lisa Leann ask.
“Um . . . yes, 4:00. I’ll see you then. I, um . . . I need to go now, Lisa Leann.”
I hung up without saying good-bye.
Vernon and Donna were now walking toward the table I shared with my daughter. Vernon gave his forehead a quick rub. Donna’s eyes looked bloodshot and swollen. My breath caught in my throat as I whispered, “What in the world . . .”
I didn’t bother to sign, not even for Michelle’s sake. From the looks of things, there was no need.
Goldie
15
Simmering Suspicions
They think I don’t know, Lord. My friends. My precious friends who I love and appreciate. They think I don’t know the truth.
The truth about Andrew.
Andrew and his mother, Amy.
Amy and Jack.
God, please help me as I try to say this. Holy Spirit, help my heart form the words . . .
I watched as Lizzie backed out of the driveway, followed by Evangeline. I stood at the window and peered through the lacy sheers and counted the beats of my heart as I watched the wheels turn. And when their cars had disappeared from sight, I stared ahead for a good ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Counting. Counting. Wondering how many breaths I had left before I, too, joined Jack in heaven. And wondering how many times I would inhale and exhale before I just simply broke down and screamed until there was no air left inside of me.
One or the other. Death or screaming.
Help me to say it, Lord. Help me come to grips with it.
When I was too tired to continue staring, I walked into the kitchen, rinsed the dishes, and then slipped them into the dishwasher. When the kitchen was clean—when the casserole dish was sealed and placed in the refrigerator—I ate a handful of the prissy pecans my sister Diane had left for me and then turned off the light and walked down the hall toward the spare bedroom.
The spare bedroom and the desk.
Inside I flipped on the overhead light, then moved purposefully toward the wall where the oversized clunky desk was pressed. I sat in the chair then pulled open the middle drawer. In it were the usual suspects. Paper clips. Rubber bands. Pens and pencils. A few Post-it notepads, one in the shape of a football. I picked it up. I fanned through it. I pretended to hold it as though it were real pigskin. I imitated a long pass. I chuckled.
I threw it back in the drawer.
In the back of the drawer I found a small bottle of aftershave. I pulled it out. Stetson. I started to put it back, but then I twisted the cap—it had been screwed on tight—and when it slipped into the cupped palm of my hand I drew the bottle up to my nose. I waved it back and forth, back and forth, and when I had gathered up my nerve, I inhaled.
Jack.
The tears formed like pools in my eyes, spilled over like streams down the sides of my face. I replaced the cap and laid the bottle near the football Post-it notepad.
I took a deep breath and shut the drawer.
I then moved to the right top drawer. More odds and ends. Envelopes. Stamps. Bank deposit books and old checkbooks.
I looked at the date of the last check. One month previous, written to Simmons Jewelry & Gift.
“Seven hundred and twenty-five dollars,” I whispered. For what?
Surely not jewelry. Since Jack and I had reunited, his giving me jewelry was taboo. Before, in the years when Jack had strayed, his restitution had always been an extravagant piece
of jewelry. My jewelry armoire was packed with oodles of it.
“I want no more jewelry,” I’d told Jack when we’d worked through our issues, when he’d gone to counseling for his—what do they call it?—sexual addiction.
Jack had agreed. So then what was this?
I shut the top drawer and opened the bottom. There, nestled between a row of manila files, was an oblong box wrapped in pretty paper, tied off by a light pink bow. I picked it up. It was heavy, so I rested its bottom in the palm of my left hand, then turned it over carefully. On the bottom, where the bow’s ribbons came together, was the oval sticker with “Simmons Jewelry & Gift” embossed in gold.
I stared at it for several moments before I slit the first piece of tape with my fingernail. Then another. And another. And another until the paper fell away, exposing a Lladró box and a tiny card. Across it, my name. Goldie.
Jack’s handwriting.
I breathed out a sigh of relief then opened the box. Inside was the unmistakable porcelain craftsmanship worthy of the Lladró name. Pastel paints. Fine workmanship. “A Little Romance” this statuette was titled. A pretty little maid, a handsome gentleman, hands clasped on a linen-draped table between them, a tiny bud vase filled with flowers on the table. The maiden sat demure. The lad sat intent.
Jack and me . . . like when we met.
“We were so in love, weren’t we, Jack? Back then? And then again?”
I put the figurine on the desk then started going through the files. Most were labeled with the names of creditors. Bills to be paid, one read. Another, bills paid.
But no key.
Help me, Lord. With your help I can do anything. I can even say out loud what my heart knows is true.
I moved to the top left drawer, and there I found what I’d been looking for. A ring of keys. I held them in my hand, my palm flat out. I fingered each one. Could it be this one? Or this one? That one?
Then I threw the keys on the desk, stood, and walked away. Out of the room. Down the hall to the kitchen for a glass of water and then to the sofa for a nap.
I just need to lie down and take a nap.
———
I woke over two hours later and only because Olivia was knocking at the front door.
“Oh, Mom! Were you sleeping?” she asked, making her way into the living room.
“Is that a crime?” I asked, standing before her.
She wrapped me in her arms. “No, of course not, Mom. You’re bound to be tired.”
“Just playing catch-up with my sleep,” I said. “I thought I’d get it while I can. Do you want some coffee? I can make some . . .”
“Let me,” she said then brushed past me as she walked toward the kitchen.
I nodded. My daughter. Always taking charge.
“Where are my babies?” I asked, taking steps behind her.
“With Tony’s mother.”
“Ah.”
Olivia pulled the carafe from the coffeemaker, walked over to the sink, and began to rinse leftovers from the pot. “By the way, you should see Evangeline Vesey’s house right now.”
I felt my brow rise. “Why?”
“Donna’s car is there. Vernon’s. A couple of the other deputies. It looks like the sheriff’s department is having a picnic or something.”
I ran my hands up and down my arms for both comfort and warmth. Lately, it seemed, I was always cold. So empty and so cold. “I hope everything is okay.”
By now Olivia was pouring fresh water into the coffeemaker. She looked over her shoulder and smiled. “I’m sure it is. They may be having lunch there or something. Anyway,” she said, returning her attention to the task at hand, “what are your plans for the rest of the day?”
“I’m going through some of Dad’s things in his desk.”
She replaced the pot before turning fully to face me. “Mom, I thought you were going to wait for me to do that.”
I sighed as I walked to the table and sat. “Olivia, it may come as a shock to you, but I am perfectly capable of taking care of these things on my own.”
My daughter stared at me for long seconds before continuing to prepare the coffee. “I know that, Mom. I just don’t want this to be too hard for you.”
“I’m a big girl.”
She smiled sadly then said, “I know. It’s just that . . .”
I clapped my hands together in a light pat. “Why don’t I come to your house for dinner tonight? I would love to get out of here for the evening, and I’m fairly tired of the food folks have been bringing over.” I paused. “I wonder when all that stops. Two weeks, someone told me. After two weeks, friends and family figure you’re over it.”
“Oh, Mom.”
I stood. “Let’s have our coffee in the living room and let’s talk about something other than your father or my being a widow. Deal?”
This time her smile was sincere. “Deal.”
———
After Olivia left—after I was done playing the brave mother and the valiant widow—I went in search of the funeral home guestbook I’d been given after Jack’s burial. I found it where I’d left it nearly a week ago, in a blue, zippered, vinyl pouch filled with blank thank-you cards, the cards from the floral arrangements, and the financial paperwork from the funeral home.
Pouch in hand, I returned to the living room, where I sat on the sofa and began pulling cards and paperwork and the book from its soft interior. There were only a few floral cards because we’d asked that in lieu of flowers, donations be made to the American Heart Association. Since last week, the contribution cards had been piling up in a shoe box in the dining room.
I picked up the thank-you cards and examined them.
I should start these soon, Lord. I should have started them days ago, maybe.
I opened the guestbook. Read each name. Each address, as though I didn’t already know them by heart. The names I’d expected to see were all there. The girls. The men in their lives.
Vonnie’s parents came. How sweet. Funny, I don’t remember seeing them . . .
From the names scribbled across the lines, it looked as though every student and every graduate of Summit View High had come by to pay their respects. Their parents, too, of course.
My index finger ran the length of each page as my mind repeated the names, each one a treasure in my heart. Then it stopped, resting on a name I’d not expected to see. Just under Chris Lowe’s name was the name of my sweet friend Van Lauer, a man I might have developed feelings for had my marriage not meant so much to me.
How was it I had not seen him at the funeral? How could I have missed his being there?
Jack . . .
I stood from the sofa and returned to the spare bedroom, where I went back to the ring of keys I’d left on the desktop. When I had them in my hand I went to the two-drawer filing cabinet Jack had kept on the floor on the right-hand side. Kneeling before it I tried each key until I found the right one. When the lock popped open I dropped the keys to the floor and opened the top drawer.
More files. Mostly taxes. One manila folder held this year’s paperwork.
Having this stuff will come in handy, Lord. Thank you for showing it to me.
The second drawer slid open easily, revealing packets of photographs, mostly of football games. There were score pads from years gone by as well as recent. But tossed in the midst of it all was the one thing I’d been looking for all along.
An envelope—yellowed with age—with a Fort Collins return address.
I opened it gingerly, slipped out the tri-folded paper inside, and then began to read.
It was a birth certificate.
Help me say it, Lord. Help me say . . .
“Jack had a son.”
Lisa Leann
16
Baby Food
I rubbed at my eyelids. It had been an anxious night since Mandy had left the evening before. So I was relieved when Mandy had called about 3:00 a.m. Tuesday morning, finding me dozing on the sofa after surviving one more round
of rocking a crying baby. I’d grabbed the phone on the first ring. “Mandy? Where are you?” I’d whispered.
Her voice sounded weary. “Mom, I’m safe in London. My plane boards for Cairo in about six hours.”
“Thank the good Lord. Any more word on Ray’s condition?”
“I’m afraid I won’t know any more until I get there,” she said. “How’s Kyle?”
“Good as gold,” I lied.
I heard her sigh in relief. “Then he’s sleeping okay?”
“Sure is,” I said, even though I could hear the baby fussing from the crib in the guest bedroom. Apparently the phone’s ring had awakened him. I shook my head. I’d worked so hard to get him back to sleep, but from the sound of things, Kyle was about to play war on my eardrums.
Once again.
I tried to rush Mandy along before she heard Kyle’s nighttime hysterics for herself. “Glad you called, honey. Call me the minute you get to the hospital, okay?”
“Sure will, Mom. I love you.”
“I love you too.” I hung up as Kyle let out a bellow.
———
After a sleepless night and a busy morning, I glanced at the clock in the kitchen and saw that it was nearly noon, which meant it was about 8:00 p.m. in Egypt. Hard to imagine, what with the sun shining outside my kitchen window. I paused and stared at the shimmering Gold Lake across from my condo. Oh Lord, I breathed a prayer as I took the dishes out of the dishwasher. Please, please let Ray be okay. Please.
As I finished the dishes, I could hear Kyle stirring from his midmorning nap. The poor little thing was all tuckered out from the previous night’s tears. I’d swear that little guy knew something was wrong. Well, at least he knew I wasn’t Mandy.
Even though I’d been able to give him Mandy’s bottled breast milk up till now, I’d had a time getting it down him. It seemed he wanted his mother more than a bottle or even the baby food I’d tried to feed him. Nothing would do until I joined in with his cries as I rocked him in the same old rocking chair I used to rock his mother in when she was but a baby. So help me, I just couldn’t help it. The lack of sleep, the thought of my Mandy out there all alone trying to get to Ray, and the thought of how this precious baby’s daddy was possibly dying in some strange hospital finally got to me. It seemed natural to join Kyle for a good wail. My cries somehow quieted him, probably out of shock that his granny could make such a fuss. But the truth was, when Henry had checked on us at sunrise he’d found us still in the rocker where we’d wept ourselves to sleep.
Bake Until Golden: A Novel (The Potluck Catering Club) Page 11