The Potluck Club

by Linda Evans Shepherd

  Kevin has good cause to worry, I thought, but I didn’t voice my concerns. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Jan met me at the front door, dressed in a sky blue sweat suit that hung from her frail body. She wore a scarf around her head that pushed her thinning hair to her scalp. Her face was pale, but it looked as though she’d attempted to put on makeup.

  She reached for me as soon as I opened the door, collapsing enough to let me know the situation was critical. I managed to get her to the car, all the while saying, “Have you tried Kevin again?” Water poured in streams from the umbrella I held over our heads, while our feet sloshed at the puddles that had formed during the storm.

  She nodded but didn’t answer. I helped her settle in the front passenger seat, then closed the door and hurried around to the driver’s side. Opening my door I said, “I tried Samuel, but I’m having the same problem. I can’t seem to get through.” I shook the umbrella out, drew it closed, then dropped it at my feet, closing the door.

  Jan laid her head against the back of the seat, rolled her head toward me, and mouthed, “Figures.”

  We arrived at the emergency room of the hospital within minutes. Doc Billings met us at the automatic sliding doors, saying, “Jan, I’ve called your oncologist in Denver. We’ll get you settled here, then see where we stand, what we need to do from there.” Behind him, an orderly stood behind a wheelchair, awaiting our arrival.

  I continued to stand in the doorway, watching Jan as she was being wheeled into the recesses of the sterile emergency room. Doc Billings turned to me before following behind her and said, “Keep trying to get Pastor Kevin.”

  I followed the signs into the waiting room, where a handful of people waited either for their loved ones or to be called back for examination. In the far left was a small table with a phone, phone book, and table lamp casting a faint light on the corner. I walked purposefully over to it, picked up the phone receiver, and attempted to make another call to Samuel. The service was still down.

  Setting my purse at my feet, I realized I was nearly soaked. A shiver went up my spine, and I heard the words from my devotional again. “I am enough . . .” I picked up the phone again, dialing Evie’s house. She answered almost immediately.

  “Evie, this is Lizzie. I just drove past your house and noticed that Vernon’s car is there. Can I speak with him, please?”

  “What’s wrong, Lizzie Prattle?” Evie asked.

  “It’s Jan. Evie, I need to speak to Vernon right now.”

  I heard Evie call Vernon to the phone. When he said hello I asked him if he would drive over to the church. “Tell Kevin he needs to get here as soon as possible.”

  “Will do.”

  “And, Vernon. Ask Samuel to meet me here.”

  I called Vonnie, hoping she wasn’t sleeping. It had been three weeks since her reunion with her son—three weeks of sorting things out with Fred and trying to determine how to let the community in on the various truths of her life—and I knew all this had caused her to be especially worn out.

  “Von, Lizzie. I’m sorry to disturb you . . . I know you’ve had enough on your mind lately, but would you call the Potluckers and tell them Jan’s at the hospital? We need to start a prayer chain.”

  Vonnie relayed that she would. “Should we come up?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so. I don’t know if they’ll keep her here or move her to Denver.” I felt something wet slip down my cheek. I wondered if it was a tear or a drop of rain that had released itself from my scalp.

  “Call me when you know something,” she said.

  “I will,” I said, then hung up the phone in time to hear a nurse call my name.

  “Follow me,” she said. I picked up my purse and walked behind the nurse past dark corridors, through sliding glass doors, and then along a row of drawn curtains until one was pushed back for me to step past. “Here you go,” she said.

  Jan was lying on a gurney, raised slightly at the head and hooked up to as many machines as could possibly fit in such a small area. Her eyes were closed and her lips were drawn tight.

  “Jan?” I whispered.

  Her eyes fluttered open, and she lifted a hand to me. I took it immediately.

  “Did you get Kevin?” she asked me.

  “I called Vernon over at Evie’s. He’s going to the church to get him.”

  “Good,” she mouthed, then smiled weakly. “Vernon over at Evie’s . . .”

  I squeezed her hand. “Yeah. Can you believe it? After all these years.”

  I watched as she blinked slowly and then—without moving her head—cut her eyes over to me. “Am I going to die?”

  “No, Jan. Don’t even say that.” I leaned against the chrome sidebars of the gurney.

  She ran her tongue over dry lips. “It’s okay, you know.” I squeezed her hand again. “Remember that day you came to the house?”

  I said that I did.

  “I said there were five healings.”

  “I know.”

  “But then I could only tell you four.”

  “I know, Jan.”

  “I wasn’t ready to talk about the fifth.”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  “But you knew, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I knew.”

  A lone tear slipped down Jan’s cheek. “Death,” she whispered. “It isn’t a punishment, you know, Lizzie. It’s the victory we race toward. We’re born, and God draws us to himself.” She took a breath.

  “Don’t exhaust yourself,” I pleaded.

  “‘Draw me’ the bride said in Solomon’s Song.” Jan had something to say, and she obviously was going to say it. “I’m so grateful he did, Lizzie.”

  “I know. Me too.”

  She closed her eyes then, and for a moment I held my breath until she reopened them. “I’m going to walk on golden streets,” she said, smiling. “I’m going to see the face of my Bridegroom.” Her breath came in gasps.

  “Jan, please . . .” I said, looking over my shoulder at the drawn curtain, wondering when Kevin would get there, and if he’d get there in time.

  Jan squeezed my hand. “Not tonight,” she said. “But soon.”

  I leaned closer to her. “Jan, I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  By the time Kevin and Samuel arrived at the hospital, Jan was settled in a private room. Samuel and I decided to return home. “You can’t really do anything more than you’ve done,” Kevin said to me. “Except pray.”

  On the drive home—alone in my car with Samuel driving behind me—I thought about those words. Except pray.

  “If my people . . .”

  The words went through my mind as quickly as I drove across the intersections of road between the hospital and our house.

  “I am enough . . .”

  I began to recite the words over and over. “If my people . . . I am enough . . . If my people . . . I am enough.”

  When I turned in the driveway, I noticed a light on upstairs, indicating Michelle had returned. I glanced at the small digital clock on my dashboard. It was nearly midnight. Tired, I sighed deeply, pushed the remote control to open the garage door, and continued on in. Moments later I shut off the car, then looked in the rearview mirror to see Samuel pulling up behind me. I had lost him along the way but hadn’t realized it. Somehow, it was okay. Samuel was not my source. He was not the one I clung to . . . or at least not the one I should cling to. My strength didn’t come from him. Still, having thought he was right behind me . . .

  Samuel shut off his car and climbed out. I followed suit.

  “You okay?” he asked me. He reached back into his car and pushed his remote. The garage door began to descend with its noisy clatter.

  I only nodded. If I spoke I might’ve broken down completely. “Michy’s home,” he noted.

  I nodded with relief. Samuel came up beside me, linked his arm around my waist, and pulled me toward the door leading into the house. Inside, he leaned over and kissed my cheek.
Again, I only nodded. “I’m going to finish my devotional before I go to bed,” I said. “That’s what I was doing when Jan called.”

  Samuel patted my hip. “Don’t be too long,” he coaxed.

  “I won’t.” I watched him walk through the kitchen and on up the back staircase, then turned and headed back into the family room, where my discarded Bible, devotional book, and journal lay askew where I’d been sitting earlier. I thought about preparing a cup of tea, then dismissed the idea. I had some things I wanted to say to God . . . to write to him in my journal. There was no reason to put it off.

  “If my people,” I wrote. “I am enough . . . If we would simply pray, then you’ll be enough. Is that it, God? Will you be enough if we lose Jan?”

  “Pray,” Pastor Kevin had said. Pray . . .

  “Start a prayer chain,” I had told Vonnie. But why did it matter? I continued to write:

  Maybe prayer is my being ushered into the throne room of God, where I can tell him whatever is on my heart and he will listen. Maybe it’s just that simple. God has not descended to me. I have ascended to him. All I know right now is that in prayer I can be safe in this room. I can be with my heavenly Father.

  I paused, then continued.

  How could I have taken this so lightly before? I often wondered, “Why my child?” when it came to Michy’s deafness. I cried out to God when I felt Tim had shamed me. I’ve questioned God on so many things over the years, I’ve been a part of a prayer group, but have I truly believed he heard me?

  I shook my head no.

  So now I pray for Jan Moore, and I know others are praying too. The Potluck Club hasn’t always gotten it right, but I know God has heard every one of our prayers. Evie’s, Goldie’s, Vonnie’s, Lisa Leann’s, and Donna’s.

  I nodded yes.

  Perhaps we were in need of healing even more than Jan. Jan’s healing may or may not come about as we desire, but your desire is more that our hearts be healed than our bodies.

  I closed my eyes, squeezing them so tightly I saw bursts of color. They burned and I was tired. Yet, somehow, I felt renewed.

  “Prayer,” I wrote, allowing myself one final line. “What a concept.”

  53

  She’s a true friend . . .

  Clay had been on his way home from the newspaper office when he passed Lizzie Prattle’s car. Lizzie had Jan Moore with her, and they turned into the hospital parking lot. Jan’s head rested against the headrest. It seemed to him that it was tilted too far back for comfort, as though she were an old doll with a rubbery neck. Well, the situation didn’t look good, but he knew Jan was in good hands with Lizzie. That woman was a true friend.

  He slowed down the jeep. He wasn’t much of a praying man, but he figured now was as good a time as any to offer up a line or two to the Almighty.

  The jeep pulled off to the side of the road, and he bowed his head. “God,” he ventured, then stopped. He wasn’t used to this, wasn’t even sure how to begin. “God,” he tried again. “It’s me. Clay Whitefield.” He cleared his throat. “You may not know me well—okay, you know me pretty good, it’s me not knowing you all that well—but I know you know Jan Moore. She’s a good lady, God, and, um, I think she could use you right now.” He cleared his throat again. “So, God? Be with her. That’s about all I know to say.” He opened his eyes, then closed them again just as quickly. “Oh! The Potluckers, God. They’re going to be a little needy right now too. So . . . if you don’t mind taking the time to sorta be with them right now too. Um, yeah, that would be nice.”

  54

  Relishing Faith

  It was quite a different group of women who gathered in my home for November’s Potluck Club meeting. We’d all been through so many changes in the last month, had all learned our own spiritual lessons in life.

  Lisa Leann has kept me on my toes, and don’t think for a single minute I trust her, but I am at least willing to do my Christian duty in giving her another chance to prove herself to me.

  The first thing she did that surprised me was throw a baby shower for Leigh at her home, which I will admit is lovely. The other thing is that she and her husband, Henry, bought the rundown Victorian on Main Street and are fixing it up to be Lisa Leann’s new wedding boutique, a real first for Summit View. For the life of me, and I’d never admit this out loud, I am hoping to be her first customer.

  Here’s something else I’d never mention out loud: there’s a new spring in her step, different from the old spring entirely. Lisa Leann has never been subdued—at least not as long as I’ve known her. But this is different. There’s a glow in her cheeks that Mary Kay couldn’t have possibly put there. My suspicions are that Henry should start his own—shall we say—cosmetic line.

  Donna has continued to be a bit standoffish—both toward me and Vonnie. I know she’s still a bit miffed with me for yelling at her after I assumed she was the one who’d gone to Clay Whitefield. I know now that this is not true, and I’ve apologized, but Donna’s not taking it all so well. Of course, the fact that I’ve been dating Vernon since my strange encounter-slash-dream on the hillside of All Saints hasn’t helped much.

  Leigh says that even when parents have been divorced as long as Donna’s have, there’s still a tiny trickle of hope that they will reunite. If another person enters the equation, that trickle all but dissipates. She also says that Donna could see me as the other woman in Vernon’s life, and herself as the “other other” woman. Only Donna knows why there’s such a wall between us, and all I can do is give it to God and hope he’ll solve it in his good time. Lord knows I’ve done my best by the girl.

  Faith is something I’m learning situation by situation.

  Leigh was learning this too. Gary called every night but one, and that was last night. I’d never seen anyone struggle with the lack of a phone call since the days of my high school prom when I stared at a silent phone. By the time we turned in for the night, Leigh had gone from crying to saying, “Good riddance,” though I don’t think she meant that for a second.

  God love Lizzie, she was really putting in the time with Jan Moore. She cooked for the family, helped Jan with the house, stayed with her during chemo treatments and while she was in the hospital, both here and in Denver. At first Lizzie was so dogged in her belief that Jan would beat cancer, but now I saw a new determination. Like me, Lizzie was coming to grips with death and God’s will and how those two things interchange. Lizzie also was a virtual encyclopedia of information for us, making sure we all stayed informed on the latest cancer-fighting techniques. She even set up a “self-examination day” for us Potluckers. That’s the day she called everyone first thing in the morning to remind us to do our exam while bathing and then called back later that night to confirm that we had.

  According to Lizzie, everyone was A-OK.

  Goldie’s been going to work Monday through Friday at Chris Lowe’s office. From what Vonnie says, she loves the job and she’s happier than she’s been in many years. She continues to live with Olivia and Tony. She told me they’ve insisted she stay until Olivia stops with the sickness part of her pregnancy. This will enable her to save some money to get her own place . . . if need be.

  Of course, as soon as she arrived for the club meeting (and she was the last to do so), everyone flocked to her. “Has he called you?” Lisa Leann asked. “Suggested you come home?” She tossed her red head. “Now, I know I said you should take him for every penny he has, but now that I own my new shop, I say let bygones be bygones. And I think you should know I’m intending to do some wonderful things with wedding vow renewals at my new business. Lots of silver and gold and weaving in your original colors, that kind of thing.”

  Goldie was holding a tuna casserole, which I later learned was called dilly tuna salad. (In spite of her marital woes, Goldie continues to be a good cook, and there’s not a soul here who isn’t grateful for it.)

  Goldie handed off the casserole dish to me, raised her hands for silence, and said, “Yes. Every day. Three times a
day like clockwork. Knowing him, he’s got it written down in his Daytimer. Call Goldie. Beg. Call Goldie. Plead. Call Goldie. Make promises you know you aren’t ready to keep.” Laughter followed Goldie’s dramatic performance.

  “And? What do you say to that?” someone asked, but I’m not sure who because I was already halfway to the kitchen.

  Fortunately I could still hear the conversation, mainly because once I was out of earshot, I sprinted to the kitchen and back, nearly tripping over my own two feet.

  “And nothing. He swears it’s over with Charlene Hopefield, but I keep telling him that if he doesn’t seek counseling with me, he can forget it, which is exactly what Chris has told me to say.” She lifted a diamond and turquoise pendant from just below the hollow of her throat. “Here’s the latest peace offering. I’m wearing it, but I’m not buying it, if you know what I mean.” She grinned at us, dropping the pendant. “I no longer feel like I’m wearing his sin, but more my victory. Anyway, I’m enjoying myself right now.” Goldie moved through the small crowd and continued, “I’m not saying I don’t want my marriage to work, but I will admit to wanting Jack to suffer a little.” Her eyes widened. “Not in a bad way, of course.”

  “What’s wrong with a bad way?” Donna said. When all eyes fell on her in silence, she coughed out a laugh. “I’m kidding. I’m kidding.”

  Leigh left the little gathering about that time and went to the living room to sit down, saying, “This baby weighs an absolute ton.”

  Vonnie watched her closely. “You okay, Leigh?” she asked.

  Leigh nodded an answer while rubbing her belly, looking a bit sad in my view. This particular day marked her official due date, and I could sense she was hoping the baby would make his or her appearance in a timely fashion. Vonnie walked across the room to her, laid her hand across her forehead, and said, “Don’t worry. It’ll come when it comes. You don’t want to rush it. Believe me.”