by Harry Kraus
He turned up Azalea Drive, climbing the hill towards home and the wife he once thought would satisfy him forever.
He thought of Wendi and his patient, her piano teacher. He remembered the blush of her cheeks as he walked in and found her holding Jack’s hand. Jealousy was a thorn that pricked his soul and drove him towards despair. He could not endure the humiliation that losing his young bride would cause.
As he parked in the garage, he thought again of Cindy, and his hand went to his mouth, rubbing the edge of his lips as he remembered the softness of her touch. He shook his head and fought off the emotion he’d often chided his wife for battling: guilt. Kissing Cindy, as wonderful as it had seemed . . . was wrong.
Was that why it excited him so?
He let himself in the house quietly, expected everyone to be asleep. He removed his shoes and walked into the foyer, glancing into the living room to see that Wendi was up, her long, blonde hair cascading over the back of the couch. He watched her for a moment with her unaware, and again felt a pang of conscience. He approached from behind, thinking perhaps that she slept. What better way to absolve my guilt than to show her my affection?
He leaned over and planted his lips on her cheek.
Immediately, she pulled away and screamed.
The sound was enough to scare him. He jerked away to see that it wasn’t Wendi at all. It was Jack’s fiancée! “Yolanda,” he said. “I-I thought you were my wife.”
Her hand rested on her cheek, covering the violation. “Your wife?!”
“Y-yes,” he stuttered, “the blonde hair.”
She shook her head. “Your wife looks nothing like me!” She stood and backed away with the couch between them. “You dare to assume that I — ”
“Until yesterday, I wore my hair exactly like you.”
Henry looked up to see Wendi.
Yolanda pointed at Henry. “He kissed me!”
“Wendi, I’d forgotten about your haircut. When I saw her there, I thought it was you.”
Wendi picked up a small picture frame from the mantle of the fireplace. It was a recent photograph of her and Henry taken at the lodge at Wintergreen Ski Resort. She held it up for Yolanda to see her long blonde hair. She laughed. “Henry is a lot of things, but a womanizer isn’t one of them.”
Henry stepped back and laid his fist over his heart, watching Wendi as remorse closed around him. Could I ever really walk away from you?
That night, I lay in the dim light of our bedroom and stared at the ceiling. “I’m worried about Rene,” I whispered.
Henry sighed. “She’s a big girl.”
I faced him. “She’s pregnant.”
Henry lay there, considering my words. Then, “Not exactly a convenient time for Randy to toss her out.”
“It’s complicated, Henry. She’s HIV-positive.”
He touched my cheek with his fingers and rolled my hair behind my ear. “Wendi, I’m so sorry.”
“Randy accused her of being unfaithful.”
“He’s been tested?”
“He’s negative. That’s why he thinks she cheated on him.”
“You believe her?”
I sighed. “Of course.” I curled away from Henry pulling his arm around me. “She wants an abortion. I’m supposed to take her to a clinic tomorrow.”
“Abortion? She needs time to think this through.”
He stayed quiet for a moment, and I felt his breath on the back of my neck. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
He stroked my hair and whispered. “We’ve got a nursery, Wendi.”
I gasped. “What are you saying?”
Henry didn’t answer. He just snuggled towards me and kissed my neck.
I was floored. In a thousand years I would never have suspected that from him — that he would speak my heart. Something in me twisted, a flare of regret for what I was giving up. This was the Henry I’d longed for. Without thinking, I reached for him. “Sometimes you surprise me, Dr. Stratford,” I whispered, pulling his hand to my mouth. I kissed his hand and then cradled it in my own.
We stayed that way for a few minutes as I reminded my heart of why I’d fallen for this man. Yes, he worked late and made me fight for second place, but he was compassionate and thorough with his patients, something that gave me comfort since he was the one in charge of Jack. The pendulum of my heart stood still, threatening to arc in the opposite direction from the one I’d been on: an arc towards loneliness, emotional isolation, and divorce.
He kept nuzzling my neck, and if I understood anything about the male psyche, I suspected he was enamored by the idea of making love to a short brunette, rather than the long blonde I’d been for him for so long.
“You would adopt Rene’s baby?” I asked softly.
“A boy would be nice,” he said.
A boy. Of course. It was part of Henry’s obsession with a perfect life. First the perfect wife. Then the perfect family: oldest son, younger daughter, separated by two years.
This was not on my agenda. This was the end of day two of the new me. I was supposed to be in Jamaica with a new love. I was not supposed to be dreaming of beginning a family with my image-sensitive husband.
But just then, I wondered if Jack’s amnesia might not be a second chance with Henry. I closed my eyes and pushed my body against my husband’s. There was something comfortable about being with Henry that night, and amazingly, he seemed content to just hold me without demanding more.
As I neared sleep, Henry’s voice filled the silence. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
I didn’t understand what he meant. Perhaps it was his embarrassment over kissing Yolanda. Maybe he was sorry about Rene or about being home late. I wasn’t sure, and he didn’t volunteer more. “Shh,” I said, comfortable in his arms. Just then, I didn’t want to know any more. If this was guilt, it was a new emotion for Henry.
I felt his body shudder against mine before he whispered again, “I’m so sorry.”
CHAPTER 12
The next morning, I drove without speaking, the rhythmic squeak of my windshield wipers and the pelting rain the only noise between us. Rene kept her face towards her window, leaving me alone in my thoughts.
Invariably, my mind was drawn to my own trip to this same clinic. It was a day that changed my life.
Mother drove. I stared out the side window and thought about a man who said he loved me. At least until I carried his baby. “Did you threaten him?”
My mother focused on the traffic. “I only helped him see what was best for his family, Wendi.”
“You threatened him.”
“I don’t expect you to understand.”
I sulked. She was the one who didn’t understand. The only thing she understood was her husband’s standing in the community and protecting his ministry. My baby, his grandchild, was someone he’d never know about. Mom had seen to that. I watched as we passed a vineyard on a Virginia hillside.
When I turned back, I saw her brush a tear from her eye.
“What? What makes you cry now?”
“It’s not like I wanted it this way,” she said. “I’ve dreamed of being a grandmother, you know.” Her voice cracked, and for a moment, she pressed her hand against her face.
When she refocused on the highway, it was too late to swerve. A pickup truck was in our lane, across the center line and closing fast. My scream was the last thing I remember.
I gasped at the freshness of the old horror. Rene looked at me. “Everything alright over there?”
I felt heat in my cheeks. “An old memory, that’s all.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Taking me to an abortion clinic. It’s about the last thing I’d expect from you.”
“You’re my sister.”
“All the more reason to impose your beliefs on me.”
I clenched my teeth. I needed to come clean. Out with the truth. Down with the good-Christian mask. “I’m sick
of being a hypocrite.”
“You feel like a hypocrite for taking me to the clinic?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Then you think what I’m doing is OK?”
“No.” I sighed. “It’s complicated, Rene. I think abortion is wrong, but I’d feel like a hypocrite if I didn’t take you.”
“But you — ”
“I’m not who you think I am, Rene. I’m not the good little pastor’s daughter that you seem to think.” I glanced at her. I had her attention.
“Just because you were bold enough to cuss in front of me doesn’t mean — ”
“I’d be a hypocrite for not taking you to the clinic, because I was in your shoes once, and I wanted someone to take me.”
She tilted her head and squinted her eyes in a question. “What?”
I took a deep breath and blew it out through pursed lips, wondering if I could spill it after all these years. My and my mother’s darkest secret. “Remember my accident?”
I kept my eyes on the road, but could appreciate her nod out of the corner of my eye.
“I was on my way to this same clinic that day.”
“What?” Her voice was tense. “You were pregnant?”
I glanced at my sister. Her mouth hung open as if this was incomprehensible. “But Mom was in the car. She was driving, right?”
I nodded slowly. “You’re getting the picture. She was taking me to the clinic.”
“Not Mom. She didn’t know about the baby, did she?”
I felt an anxious cramp in my gut. “Who do you think arranged the abortion?” I shot a look at Rene before refocusing on the highway. “Even if I’d wanted the baby, she wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Mom?” She shook her head.
I watched as Rene wrestled silently with the news. After a minute, shock changed to emotion of a different sort. “That two-faced — ”
My stomach tightened. “Just like me, Rene. Vanilla on the outside. But inside, pure chocolate.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s not that complicated. Mom was protecting Daddy. She was afraid of the scandal if the word got out that I was pregnant.
We must keep up proper appearances,” I mocked.
“But who . . .” her voice trailed off.
I finished the question for her. “Who was the father? Bob Seaton.”
“The youth pastor?”
“Now you’re starting to understand the scandal.”
“I’m not believin’ this.” She fell into a sullen silence. I felt her eyes examining me and then saw the shake of her head from the corner of my eye. When I finally glanced at Rene again, her head was leaning against the side window, her eyes staring out at the passing roadside.
“Maybe you understand why Mother loved Henry so much.”
She didn’t reply.
“They are both consumed with appearances. Henry’s the perfect surgeon, the perfect husband with the perfect wife, the perfect back-row Christian. Mother was the perfect pastor’s wife.” I paused. “At least until I ruined her perfect life.”
“You? What about me? I’ve never been the perfect pastor’s daughter.”
“But you were gone. Out of sight, out of mind. I was here for everyone to see.”
“Why did you do this to me?”
“Do what?”
“Isolate me. Make me feel like the bad guy.” She pointed an index finger at my cheek, holding it within inches of my face. “And all along,” she said, mocking in a dainty voice, “you and Mother were covering up, pretending to be above my rebellion.”
The accusation stung. And stuck. Everything she said was true, and I hated every word of it. “I know, Rene. And I’m sorry.”
The rain increased, pounding the windshield. I felt my chest tighten as I turned up the windshield wipers. A moment later, I slowed and pulled onto the gravel shoulder. I looked at my blurred sister through my own tears. “I hate myself for it. And I want out. I don’t want to fake my way through life anymore. I hate what it’s done to me, and I hate what it made me do to you.”
Rene shook her head and leaned over to turn on the car’s flashers. She raised her voice to overcome the thunderous pounding on the roof. She squinted towards the road behind us. “You’re going to get us killed, you know.”
“Look at me,” I coaxed. “I envy you.”
Her mouth fell open. “You’re insane.”
I shook my head. “I’m serious.” I looked away, unable to hide from her searching eyes. “You and I aren’t as different as you think. But you never cared what others thought. You didn’t care about Mom and Dad. You didn’t care about the church — ”
She grabbed my arm. “Don’t say it.”
I pulled away. “It’s true!”
“No!” She seemed to hesitate. “I acted like I didn’t care. But I always wished I could be the daughter that Daddy loved. I wanted to be you.”
I shook my head. “Daddy loves the daughter he thinks I am.” I looked back at her. She was crying too. “You’re wrong. Daddy loves you. But he knew all about your life.”
She huffed a protest. “So he shuns me. That’s love?”
“Yes! That’s the only way he knew to show it. He thought it would bring you back.”
“He doesn’t know everything. He doesn’t know I’m pregnant. He doesn’t know I’ve got HIV.” She sniffed. “I always wanted to be you.”
“Aren’t we quite the pair,” I said, my voice thickening. “I wanted to be you. You wanted to be me.” I flipped the electronic door lock. I yelled to overcome the downpour. “Switch with me.”
She yelled back. “What?”
“You drive the Mercedes for a while. Let’s switch.” I stared at her. “Come on, you drive.”
“You’re mad.”
“I just want to be honest. Finally.”
She shrugged as I flung open my door and jumped out into the rain. She made a mirror image dash around the front of the car. We collided in front of the Mercedes hood ornament.
It was the moment that the craziness of it all seemed to hit me face-on. I grabbed Rene to keep from slipping. She shook her head and lifted her face against the downpour, resigned to the drenching. Then she lowered her face to mine. I couldn’t tell the difference between her tears and the rain. Both had mixed to throw her bangs into a tangle on her forehead.
“I’m so sorry,” I cried.
She laughed. Laughed at me in my brokenness.
And amazingly, I found a chuckle escaping from my lips too. Honesty felt good. Soul-cleansing good, just like the rain. We embraced before she pushed me away. “Get in,” she yelled. “Before we melt!”
It was a joke from our childhood. I used to tease her whenever we did anything bad. It started when she was in the eighth grade and she told me how she’d kissed Derrick Knicely in the little anteroom behind the pulpit in the church. She’d backed him up against the baptismal and dared to touch tongues, a wickedness I was sure God recorded. She wagged her head at me as she bragged. “So I’m the Wicked Witch of the West.” I pointed my finger at her. “You’ll melt if you get wet.” She only laughed and imitated the evil laugh from the witch in The Wizard of Oz. “I’m melting!”
We ran around the car and assumed our new positions, me in the passenger’s seat and Rene preparing to drive.
We waited in silence for a few minutes until the rain slackened. Then she turned to me and said, “Do you believe all the stuff Dad taught us?”
I wrinkled my forehead at her.
“You know, all the Christianity junk.”
I didn’t know how to answer. I knew one thing. If it was real, I hadn’t experienced it. But I was a professional at looking like I believed it. “I believe in God,” I said, looking down.
“Do you believe he loves us?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I feel guilty most Sundays.”
Rene tapped the steering wheel. “You know what’s weird? I believe that part of what Dad taught. That God loves m
e.”
“He taught you that?” I was tempted to scoff. “All I seem to remember is that I’m a sinner. I’ll never be good enough.”
“You know what’s weird? I came home thinking you would help rescue me.” She shrugged. “You know, the lost prodigal.”
I touched her arm. “Maybe you’ll rescue me.”
She looked both ways and pulled out onto the highway, making a U-turn.
“What are you doing?”
“Going home.” She glanced over at me. “You were supposed to talk me out of this clinic trip, Wendi. That’s why I came back to my Christian sister when I was in trouble.”
“What a joke.”
She sighed. “So tell me about Bob Seaton.”
CHAPTER 13
Henry looked at the log of missed messages on his phone and winced. Jesse Anders. The name brought with it a snow blanket of bad feelings. And now, with Anders in a corner, he was reacting, threatening to disrupt the snow into an avalanche of trouble.
Maybe I’ve misjudged him. Could Jesse really be a danger?
Henry shook his head. It seemed unlikely. And Jesse had waited too long to bring a legitimate lawsuit.
So why did he let the name tighten his gut and disrupt his control?
Henry told himself not to worry. That Jesse was a pest. A lowlife druggie and no more, a disgruntled family member of a patient Henry would rather forget.
If only I’ d had the guts to cut him off months ago.
Iglanced at Rene. She wanted the scoop on Bob Seaton. I took a deep breath and wondered where to begin.
It was the season for our big Christmas pageant at the Baptist church. It was my father’s baby, a huge community outreach deal, the one time of year that brought me as close to embracing the gospel story as anything ever did. It was as if the manger scene, the carols, the gifts, and the swell of the choir tempted my heart to believe that a God had been born of a woman. Almost. At least at Christmas, I wanted to believe, and for those days of pageantry, singing of a plan born long ago in the heart of God, my emotions convinced me I did, and I felt less of an imposter when I sang at Christmas than any other time.
Of course, that was before Christmas reminded me of Bob Seaton. He was the youth pastor in our church, the sort of guy the kids all loved. He was an athlete-turned-seminarian and had the body to prove it. I was fourteen. Naïve. My body was mature, but my head was adolescent, and to me and a half dozen other estrogen-crazed teens, Bob Seaton was the epitome of hot.