Truly Yours Contemporary Collection December 2014

by Joyce Livingston, Gail Sattler, Joyce Livingston

  Buck planted a kiss on his mother’s cheek. “My faithful, forgiving mother. What a treasure you are. I only hope Dad comes to his senses and realizes it before it’s too late.”

  “Your father needs your prayers, Buck. So do I.”

  He kissed the tip of her nose. “You got them, both of you.”

  “Now,” she said, trying to put up a brave front and pointing toward the door. “Go to your wife and enjoy what’s left of your Thanksgiving Day.”

  “You gonna be all right? I can stay with you. Shonna will understand.”

  “I’m going to be fine. I’ll call if I need you.”

  He pulled his cell phone from his belt and held it toward her. “You’ve got my number?”

  She stood on tiptoe and kissed her son’s chin. “Yes, I have your number. Go.”

  As he strode out the door, Sylvia kept the smile on her face, but the minute the door closed behind him, it disappeared, and the feelings of misery and betrayal she had endeavored to squash down deep inside rose to the surface. Oh, dear God—what a mess we’ve made of our lives. Only You can straighten this out.

  After sweeping up the broken glass, she took a long, leisurely shower and let the hot water run over her face and body, washing away her tears, until she could stand it no longer. She toweled off and slipped into her pajamas, then dried her hair with the blow dryer and stared into the mirror. Though she fit nicely into a size twelve, her proportions were nothing like Chatalaine’s. Giving birth and nursing her children had seen to that. Everything had gone south. She glanced at her reflection and the worn flannel pajamas—the comfortable ones she wore more often than any of her others—and thought about the three delicate, lacy nightgowns she had in her bureau drawer. The ones Randy had bought for her the past three Valentine’s Days. Two of them still had the tags on them. The third had only been laundered twice. Why hadn’t she worn them? Hadn’t Randy told her he had bought them for her because he thought she would look beautiful in them?

  Finding it difficult to pray and wondering how God could have let this happen to her, she muttered a few thank-yous, asked God to send Randy home where he belonged, and added a quick, “Amen.” Many of the things Randy had mentioned, things that took her away from him, were things she had done at the church. For God. Is this the way He was rewarding her for her labors? By allowing her husband to walk out of her life?

  As though God Himself were speaking to her, in her heart she heard, It wasn’t Me that let him go, my child. You turned your back on him and let other things take over your life and become more important than the relationship between the two of you.

  “But, God,” she cried out. “Everything I’ve done has been for a good cause. The church activities. The children. Their school functions. Teaching my Sunday school class. Leading the women’s prayer group. Heading up the Care and Share pantry. I did all of those things for You!”

  None of it for your own glory? None of it when you should have been with your husband, being a helpmeet to him? When you made those vows before Me, you promised to do many things. Have you honored all of those promises, my daughter?

  Sylvia stared at the Bible on her nightstand, remembering their wedding and the way the two of them had placed their hands on a Bible when they had made those vows. “But, Lord, Randy made those same vows. He’s the one who is breaking them, not me! It’s not fair that he’s expecting me to take part of the blame.”

  Examine your own heart, daughter. Examine your own heart.

  After turning out the light, she lay in the darkness, thinking. Pondering the words God had spoken to her. How many times in the past five years had her husband seemed aloof? Distant. Sometimes acting as if he had no interest in her or the children. Had an affair been going on right under her nose, and she had been so absorbed with her life she hadn’t noticed? Looking back, the signs had been there. She just had not seen them—or cared enough to see them. The late nights at the office. Sudden trips to the newspaper on weekends to take care of some insignificant problem that cropped up. Calling at the last minute to say he couldn’t attend one of the children’s school functions. He claimed he was doing those things because of increased competition from both his competitors and the way more people were watching television news to keep them informed rather than the newspapers. Even on the few nights he was home, he would hole up in the den most of the evening and work at the computer. At least, she had thought he was working on the computer. Perhaps, instead, he had been talking to Chatalaine on that online Instant Message thing.

  Had those excuses been simply that? Excuses to find a way to get out of the house? Away from her? Maybe to meet Chatalaine?

  She flipped over onto her side with a groan, her tears flowing again. This would be Randy’s first night of staying away from home. Was he having feelings of exhilaration? Or was he, too, feeling pangs of loneliness? She shuddered at how awful it felt being in bed alone. Surely, he was telling her the truth. That nothing was going on between him and that woman. God, please keep him pure. Don’t let him succumb to fleshly desires.

  Without Randy by her side, the bed seemed big. Over-powering. Like an angry giant. She closed her eyes and flattened her hand on his pillow, trying to convince herself that he would be there when she opened them.

  He wasn’t.

  She tugged his pillow to her, drinking in the lingering fragrance of his aftershave and relishing its scent, draping her arm over it much as she did over Randy each night after they turned out the lights. Oh, Randy. I love you so much. How will I ever live without you? You’re my very life!

  Four

  The last time Sylvia remembered looking at the clock on her nightstand, it was 5:00 a.m. She awakened at eight, feeling like she’d not slept at all, with the sheets askew, and the lovely old nine-patch quilt half off on the floor.

  Randy!

  She flipped over, her hand quickly moving to his pillow.

  But Randy wasn’t there.

  It hadn’t been a bad dream.

  He had really left her.

  Laboriously, she made the bed, dragging herself from side to side, though why, she didn’t know. An unmade bed was the least of her worries. She brushed her teeth and ran a comb through her hair out of habit, not really caring how she looked. Visions of the long-legged blond on the front of the “Dallas Life” section of the newspaper blurred her brain and made her woozy. Her three children had left home. Buck to get married, and Aaron and DeeDee to attend college. Now Randy, her life’s mate, was gone, too, and for the first time ever—she was alone. Really alone. Since she and Randy had married so young, she had gone directly from her parents’ home to their little apartment, with no stops inbetween.

  She stood at the window for a long time, gazing into the backyard. With all her busyness, she had even neglected the flowerbeds she had at one time loved. When was the last time she had weeded and fertilized them? Even the perennials had quit blooming. If it weren’t for the faithful geraniums, there would be no blooming flowers at all. Thanks to them and their endurance, every few feet a tiny blast of red spotted the otherwise colorless flowerbeds. She winced at the thought. Was her marriage like those flowerbeds? Had she let other things, like the weeds growing so prevalently, go unattended, get in the way, and crowd out the important things of her life until they had withered and died? At the thought, her stomach again turned nauseous, and for a moment, she reeled, clutching the windowsill for support. Oh, Randy. How could I have taken our life for granted? How could I have taken you for granted? Did I really drive you into that woman’s arms?

  Moving slowly into their walk-in closet to pull out her favorite pair of jeans, she froze. Except for a few garments he never wore, Randy’s side of the closet was empty. Even the hangers were gone. Shoeboxes no longer filled the long shelves above the rods. No more beautiful designer ties hung from his tie racks. Even the prized rifle his father had given him when he was sixteen no longer stood in the corner behind the clothing where he had kept it so it would be out of si
ght of the children. Standing on tiptoes, she reached up and ran her hand along the top shelf, in search of the little .25 caliber pistol he always kept there in case an intruder entered their home.

  It, too, was gone!

  Randy was gone!

  Everything was gone!

  Her heart thudded to a sudden stop. Surely, he wouldn’t do anything foolish! Not her levelheaded Randy!

  But the Randy who had told her he was leaving wasn’t her levelheaded Randy. He was a stranger wearing Randy’s body. She only thought she had known him. This new Randy was an unknown entity, and she had no idea what he might be capable of doing. Oh, Randy, Randy! If only you would’ve told me a long time ago how unhappy you were with our marriage, maybe— She banged her head against the window jamb, but it was too numb even to feel the pain. If I’d been any kind of attentive wife to you, I should’ve known. Looking back now, I can see the signs. I’d attributed your silence to you having things on your mind about the paper. All those times when you seemed aloof, I’d thought you were tired. The many times you sat staring at the walls, I assumed you were too physically and mentally exhausted to talk. Were you deliberately ignoring me because you simply no longer wanted to be around me? How could I have been so blind? Why didn’t I ask you if something was wrong? Were you seeing Chatalaine even then?

  The image of the elegant woman popped into her mind, uninvited, when she moved toward the bed, pausing at the full-length mirror on the way. Her breath caught and nearly gagged her as she stared at her reflection. Can this be me? Where is that young woman my husband used to admire? The one whose hair was brown and shiny, instead of dull and graying? The one who was twenty pounds lighter and cared about her figure? Who always put her makeup on first thing in the morning and went out of her way to kiss her husband good-bye when he left for work? The one who hung on his every word, making sure she was there whenever he needed her? She glanced down at her faded jeans and the well-worn T-shirt that had become the uniform she crawled into when she came home from one of her functions, eager to make herself comfortable. When did I decide it was no longer necessary to look my best at the end of the day when Randy came home from work? When did I become so careless?

  Grabbing her robe from the chair where she had left it, she draped it over the mirror, shutting out the image that threatened to destroy what little self-esteem she had left. But it didn’t help. The reflection remained etched on her memory, and she did not like the feeling.

  She had to talk to Randy. To beg him to come back home where he belonged.

  “Good morning. Dallas Times. If you know your party’s extension, you may enter it now, otherwise listen to the complete list of options before making your selection,” the canned recording said when she dialed the phone. She punched in the numbers by rote and waited for him to answer.

  “Good morning. Randy Benson’s office. This is Carol. May I ask who’s calling?”

  Instantly, Sylvia realized she had dialed the extension for Randy’s office and not his direct line. “Ah—Carol—this is Sylvia. May I speak to Randy?”

  “I’m sorry, Sylvia. He isn’t in. He’s in meetings over in Arlington most of the day. I don’t expect him back until late this afternoon.”

  A meeting in Arlington or another one of his rendezvous?

  “When he’s out of the office, he usually checks in with me several times a day. Would you like me to have him phone home?”

  “Yes, would you, please? I’ll—I’ll be here all day. I really need to talk to him.”

  “Would you like me to try and reach him?”

  “No, just tell him when you hear from him.” She thanked the woman, then hit the Off button, and placed the phone back onto the charger, disappointed.

  She had no more than lifted her hand from it, when it rang. She snatched it up, both hoping it was Randy, yet not sure what she would say if he did call. “Hello.”

  “Hi, Mom. I’ve been concerned about you. Are you okay? Do you want me to come over?”

  As much as she loved hearing her oldest son’s voice, she was filled with disappointment. “No, honey, I’m—I’m okay. Just depressed.”

  “I love you, Mom. You know I’ll come if you need me.”

  She smiled into the phone. At least her son still loved her. “No, I don’t want you taking off work. Don’t worry about me, sweetie. I’m still hoping, praying, somehow this will all work out.”

  “I still want to call Dad.”

  “I know, but please don’t. Let’s make it as easy as possible for your father to come back home, and I don’t want there to be any rifts between the two of you.”

  “Okay, but if you—”

  “I know, and thanks, Buck. Get back to your job. Your mother will survive.”

  “Survive?” she repeated aloud when she hung up the phone. “I’m not so sure I will survive or even want to if Randy doesn’t come back home.”

  She busied herself doing several loads of laundry, weeping when she pulled a couple of Randy’s favorite shirts from the hamper. Her tears fell softly onto the fabric when she cradled them close, the faint aroma of his aftershave tantalizing her nostrils. When the last piece had been pulled from the dryer and folded, she closed the laundry room door and made her way into the kitchen, checking the clock as she moved to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of cranberry juice. It was nearly noon, and she hadn’t eaten a bite of breakfast or even had a glass of water.

  Why hasn’t he called? Surely, Carol has heard from him by now.

  She jumped for the phone when it rang about three, but it was not Randy calling; it was Buck, checking on her again.

  An hour later, a telemarketer called, offering to give her an estimate on siding. Normally, she listened courteously to their spiel before saying, “No, thank you,” and hanging up, but not this time. This time his call infuriated her, and she cut him off right after his “Are you the homeowner?” question.

  For the next hour, she sat staring at the phone.

  But it didn’t ring.

  Nor did it ring at six, or seven, eight, nine, ten, or eleven, other than two more calls from Buck.

  When the doorbell rang at half past eight the next morning, she rushed to answer it, stubbing her toe on the ottoman on the way, but it was the UPS man bringing a package. Something Randy had ordered from a computer supply company.

  Other than Buck’s regular concerned calls, the phone did not ring a single time on Saturday, and Sylvia found herself in a deep pit of depression with the walls closing in on her. Why didn’t Randy call? If only he had left the phone number where he would be staying. She was tempted to look up Chatalaine Vicker’s number in the phonebook but decided against it. Whether Randy was at her place or not, he would be furious with her for checking up on him. She tried watching TV to keep her mind off him, but that didn’t work. Next, she pulled out the quilt she had started when their children were small and had never finished. Maybe the rhythm of working the needle would help sooth her jagged nerves, but she found she had misplaced her thimble, so she returned it to its box in the family room closet. The novel in her bedside chest held no more interest than it had a day or two before and ended up back in the drawer.

  In desperation, she turned to her Bible for solace, but even it did not help. A bookmark fell out onto the bed as she closed its cover. Her gaze locked on the quotation printed there in a beautiful script. Its message ripped her heart to shreds. Love thrives in the face of all life’s hazards, except one. Neglect. The words ricocheted through her being, replaying over and over, bathing her heart with guilt. She had neglected Randy! Oh, dear Lord, what have I done? Help me, I pray! Help me put our marriage back together!

  At seven the next morning, after another sleepless night, she phoned Jen, her pastor’s wife and best friend. “I won’t be able to teach my class today,” she told her, trying to make her voice sound raspy, as if she were coming down with something. She knew if she ran into any of her friends, her face would immediately tell them she had a probl
em without a word being spoken. Her swollen eyes and reddened cheeks, too, would be a dead giveaway, even if she could keep her tears in check, which she knew would be impossible.

  “I’m sure Randy is taking good care of you, Sylvia, but if there’s anything I can do—” Jen laughed. “Like open a can of chicken noodle soup, heat it in my microwave, and bring it over to you, I’d—”

  “I know,” Sylvia answered, interrupting, but the last thing she needed was to have to explain her appearance to someone. “There’s really nothing you can do, but thanks, I appreciate the offer. I—I think I’ll just rest and take it easy.”

  She stayed in her pajamas and robe all morning, mostly just sitting in Randy’s recliner, rubbing her hands over the armrests, and staring out the pair of sliding glass doors, watching the birds feed at the birdfeeder he’d built for her for Mother’s Day four or five years ago. She had spent many happy hours watching the cardinals and blue jays sort through the seeds, picking out the kinds they liked best.

  Buck stopped by about one o’clock, bringing her cartons of sweet and sour chicken, fried rice, and crab Rangoon from her favorite Chinese restaurant. Although she appreciated his efforts and concern and thanked him with an enthusiasm she did not feel, the food was tasteless and held no appeal. He took out the trash before leaving, telling her he’d be back the next day, but to call if she needed anything in the meantime. He explained Shonna had wanted to come with him, but he’d told her it might be best if she waited until Sylvia was feeling up to seeing her. She thanked him, saying she would phone Shonna in a day or two. Maybe then she would feel more like talking about things.

  After sleeping most of the afternoon, she ate a bit more of the rice about seven and crawled into bed at eight, facing another sleepless night without her husband by her side.