“Could I have a coffee, please?” she asked the elderly cashier at the café in the square. On this unseasonably mild early spring morning, the park was filled with dog-walkers, joggers, and readers. As the cashier poured her drink, she watched a few patrons disregard the instructions not to feed the birds. The brazen pigeons weren’t fooled by the hawk and owl statues.
“There you are, love,” the cashier said, setting her drink in front of her. His kind smile nearly undid her. Becca quickly counted out her change and found a table where she could study without distraction. She was way behind on a few assignments, and though her professors had been patient, her grace period was drawing to a close. Mourning, she had discovered, had an expiration date beyond which there remained little sympathy and understanding, except perhaps by those who had also suffered loss.
“But we just want the old Becks back!” Pippa had said when Becca bowed out of another invitation to a karaoke night. “Come on. It would do you good to have a laugh.”
She wasn’t interested. She looked up as a man in a tracksuit jogged by and began doing lunges, stretches, and push-ups against a nearby park bench.
Not interested.
Even her high school and college friends, some of whom had sent a flurry of concerned and consoling emails when they first heard the news, had returned to the preoccupations of their own lives. She didn’t blame them. Not much, anyway. No doubt some of them had suffered losses she had never acknowledged or understood, either.
At the table adjacent to hers, a young woman about her age was tossing crumbs toward a white pigeon. “Shhh,” she said, when she saw that she’d been spotted. “Don’t tell anyone.” She brushed off her hands and poured from a small ceramic teapot on her tray.
Becca studied her face. The gesture of pouring tea had triggered a memory. “You look familiar,” she said, scanning for possibilities until she landed on the most likely one. “You don’t work at the hotel near here, do you?”
“Yes, at the Tavistock. But I’ve got the day off today.” She pivoted toward Becca, her expression brightening with recognition. “I know you; you came for tea with your mum a few times, right? Americans. She was over here to visit before Christmas.”
Becca tried to push down the lump in her throat. Why had she started the conversation? Now the inevitable question was on its way. Of all the places to land for coffee . . . of all the people to land next to . . .
“Such a nice lady, your mum. She wrote a commendation letter for me and gave it to my manager when she left. I’ve never gotten a letter like that before, and I didn’t have a chance to thank her. So kind of her.”
Yes, Becca thought, that was the sort of thing her mother would have done. Before any polite inquiries could be made, she blurted out, “My mom died.”
The girl looked stricken. Maybe that’s what Becca was hoping for when she stated it so bluntly: shock. Maybe she wanted sympathy from a stranger since sympathy from friends was waning. “Your mum—”
“Yeah. Cancer.”
“She never said—”
“She didn’t know.” Becca wrapped both hands around her coffee cup and stared at a trio of pigeons vying for more crumbs. “I’m Becca, by the way.” If she was going to confide such news to someone in a park and potentially depress them, it seemed only fair to introduce herself.
“I’m Claire. And I’m sorry, I don’t remember your mum’s name.”
“Meg. Meg Crane.”
“Mrs. Crane. Yes.” She looked at Becca with deep compassion and said, “You have her eyes.”
Those eyes now welled up with tears. Pippa had met her mother. Harriet had met her mother. Simon had met her mother. But none of them had ever thought to make that simple observation. I hope our baby has your eyes, her father had written to her mother the day they saw the ultrasound picture. Becca had found the card on her mother’s desk and had tucked it into her purse after the funeral, one of the few cards she had decided to take with her to London. It was a well-traveled card.
“I’m sorry, Becca, I didn’t mean to . . .”
“No. It’s okay. It’s just . . .”
Claire nodded. “I know.” Something in her voice told Becca that she did, in fact, “know.” Maybe part of experiencing grief meant developing a fine-tuned radar for identifying kindred spirits. “I knew she was feeling poorly when she was here,” Claire went on, “that she had to go home early, but I had no idea she was so unwell. I’m so sorry.”
That wasn’t the cancer, Becca silently replied. That was her grief. Over me. She reached into her bag for a tissue and blew her nose. “Thank you. I remember she said you were kind to her.” Kind when I wasn’t, she thought, and the truth of that admission pained her to the core.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Claire asked. “About your mum?”
Becca considered this a moment, then repositioned her chair slightly. Yes. As a matter of fact, she did.
It was the airplane effect, Becca told herself as she poured out her heart to Claire over the next hour: sit down next to a stranger on a plane in Chicago, and by the time you’ve reached, say, Philadelphia, you know their entire life story. Or they know yours.
While Claire listened without interrupting, Becca recounted some of her favorite childhood memories: watching old Cary Grant films together, dancing with hairbrush microphones to Frank Sinatra standards and ABBA songs while Gran was away, listening to her mother play Debussy or Chopin or Liszt. “She tried to teach me to play piano, but I was more interested in ballet. So Mom saved for lessons for me and came to all of my dance recitals.”
“She sounds like a wonderful mum.”
“She is. Was.” Becca bit her lip. “Here”—she reached for her phone—“I’ll show you a picture of her. I mean, you’ve seen her. But this was just a few days before . . .” She scrolled through photos until she found the one she was looking for, the one with the blue butterfly resting on her mother’s shoulder. It was one of her favorites, not just because of the expression on her mother’s face—the surprise, the wonder, the joy—but because something in the way the light was shining into the atrium made it look like her mother’s face was shining too.
“Ohhh. She’s beautiful.” Claire’s eyes brimmed with tears.
How could it be that a relative stranger could be so deeply moved by her pain when her friends hadn’t expressed any interest in photos or stories? “The color of the butterfly, that’s the same color as the dress she was going to wear for her best friend’s wedding. But she died the week before. So I offered to wear the dress and stand in her place.”
“I’m sure your mum would have been happy about that.” Claire handed the phone back to her.
Becca couldn’t help it; she kept talking. “She told me this story about my dad—he died before I was born—how he had invited her to a Valentine’s Day dance when they were in, like, ninth grade. And she saved and saved her money because there was this blue chiffon dress she wanted to buy. But when she took my grandmother to the store to see it, Gran didn’t like it. So Mom didn’t buy it. But then when she saw this bridesmaid dress, it looked just like the Valentine’s gown.” Becca pressed her palms against her eyes. “I wish she’d had a chance to . . .”
It was all the chances, wasn’t it? All the missed opportunities that fed Becca’s regret, all the future opportunities that fed her sorrow. “You know what I’ve been thinking about the past few days?” Becca said, rubbing her face. Claire waited. “My own wedding.”
“You’re getting married?”
“No. I mean, not yet. I mean, I’m in a serious relationship with someone, but . . . no.” She wiped her nose with her sleeve. “I’ve been thinking about the future, about how I won’t have a dad to walk me down the aisle, how my mom won’t be there to share the moment with me. To share any of the moments with me.” That’s the part she couldn’t fathom, couldn’t accept: the finality of it all, the never, ever again-ness of it. Never, ever again would she receive her mother’s comfort. Never, ever aga
in would she share her mother’s joy. And though they had said goodbye with love and tenderness, never, ever again would she have the opportunity to regain her mother’s trust. Or her approval.
“That’s really hard,” Claire said. “I’ll be praying for you.”
Even though Claire didn’t say the words in the carefree, flippant way Becca had heard others say them, she stiffened. Prayer was the easy offer people often made to those who were grieving. Whether they ever followed through with it, she couldn’t say. It didn’t really matter, either. What good was prayer? Prayer was just words spoken into an empty void that might make the person praying feel better but didn’t accomplish anything of any significance whatsoever. “Well, thanks for listening.” Becca gathered her trash and shoved it into her empty cup. “Sorry to dump on you like that.”
“It’s no problem. Any time. I mean that. You can drop by the hotel any time.” Claire removed a scrap of paper from her purse, scrawled a phone number on it, and handed it to Becca. “Do you go to church at all?” she asked.
“No.” Becca wasn’t going to have this conversation. A shame too, a potential new friendship being aborted as soon as it began. She shoved the scrap into her purse, just to be polite. “Sorry, I’ve got to run.”
Claire looked like she wanted to say something more, but Becca slung her bag over her shoulder. “Please drop by any time,” Claire said, “if there’s anything you need.”
Yeah, no. Becca thanked her and with a casual wave, strode across the park. Obviously, Claire was a “Jesus person.” And what Becca didn’t need was Jesus.
Mara
“She’ll be rolling over in no time,” Mara said to Abby as Madeleine lifted her head and did a mini-pushup on the apartment living room carpet. “That’s how Jeremy used to get around. He’d roll from one side of the room to the other.” She couldn’t believe how much her granddaughter had changed in only two weeks, and this cemented her resolve: even if Abby and Jeremy privately accused her of being overbearing, she was determined to see Maddie weekly, if not several times a week. She wouldn’t let them renege on their babysitting offer.
If Abby had been surprised to see her mother-in-law at eight-thirty in the morning, she hadn’t voiced any objection. After dropping the boys off at school, Mara, on a whim, had decided to pop in unannounced. “Why don’t you go lie down?” she said. “I’ll watch her. I don’t have to be at Crossroads for another hour.”
“Jeremy didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“My shift at the hospital changed. I work second now. I’m so glad to be off nights.”
“Oh. Guess he forgot to mention it.”
“It’s a new change. Just started this week.”
So they probably wouldn’t need her to help out with babysitting a few mornings a week. Maybe she could help with evenings when they both had to work. If Jeremy had work.
Abby rolled Madeleine onto her back and set the activity gym above her, rattling a plastic monkey to get her attention. Maddie beamed. “Who’s a smiley girl?” Abby said, moving her face toward Maddie’s to touch noses. Maddie giggled. “Who’s a smiley girl?” Maddie laughed, a gurgling little baby laugh that made Mara laugh too.
“Oh, that baby!” Mara said, sliding to the floor to be near her. “I just want to gobble her up, she’s so cute.” Mara squeezed the blue elephant’s belly. The squeak made Maddie laugh again. “Is she sleeping any better?”
“I think we’re getting there.”
“Amazing, the difference a good night’s rest makes.”
Abby nodded. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, I’m fine. Thanks. But get yourself something. I’ll watch her.”
While Abby made herself a cup of tea, Mara lay on the floor beside her granddaughter, tickling her tummy and rattling her toys. Baby therapy made the whole world better. “I think maybe I upset Jeremy last week,” Mara said when Abby returned with her steaming mug. “I assume he told you about my basement idea.”
“Yes. It was a really generous offer. We were grateful for it.”
“I’m not sure he was.” Mara sat up on the carpet, her fingers resting on Madeleine’s tummy.
“He knows you want what’s best for him. For us. I think it’s the whole needing-to-provide-for-his-family thing.”
“Yeah, I get that. I wish I had thought it through before I offered. You know me, I get in trouble for speaking without thinking.”
“No harm done, Mom.”
Mara kissed Madeleine on both cheeks. She would do anything for any of them. Anything in her power.
“I’m glad you stopped by this morning,” Abby said, her face partially concealed behind her mug. “I was about ready to call you.” Mara raised her eyebrows inquisitively. “I’m worried about Jeremy. I think he might be drinking again.”
Mara felt a fist strike her gut. “What makes you think that?”
“Last week before my shift got changed, he came home late a few nights. I thought maybe I smelled it on his breath. He acted okay, but . . .”
“No. No, I get it. Even a little bit could . . .”
“Right.”
Alcohol was not something Jeremy could manage in moderation. He’d been sober for five, maybe six years now, and he had worked terribly hard to get there. Though Abby no doubt knew about his past struggles with addictions, she had only ever known him as clean.
“He’s under a lot of stress right now,” Abby said, “and I know he’s feeling discouraged. Depressed, even. I told him I’m willing to move. If the economy doesn’t pick up here, we should go some place where he can find a job.”
Mara pretended this news was not also a fist to her gut.
“My parents said it’s a bit better down in Ohio. But I’m thinking maybe even farther south. Like Texas, where he could work construction year-round.”
Texas?
Abby set her mug down on the coffee table and swept Madeleine up into her arms, nuzzling noses. “If he could find something full time with benefits, I could quit my job and stay home with Maddie. He knows that’s what I want, what we both want.”
Mara would do anything for them. Anything in her power. But letting them go?
Oh, God.
No.
Later that afternoon, while supervising meal preparation at Charissa’s house, Mara asked her if she knew anything. “No, nothing. John hasn’t said anything to me about it.” Charissa repositioned her knife and continued her slow chopping of vegetables for the stir-fry. She was determined to win her cooking bet for the week. “And I hope it’s not John that led him into temptation. I overheard him invite Jeremy out for drinks one night. I never asked where they went. I’m sorry! If we had known about this, we never would have—”
“No, I know.”
“He hasn’t been at church the past couple of weeks.” Charissa scraped the green peppers into the oil and jumped back, startled, when the pan sizzled and spit. “Abby came alone with Madeleine last week—she’s asking great questions about life and faith—but I don’t think John got very far when he tried to ask Jeremy how he was doing. I’m sorry, Mara. I’ll be praying. Is there anything else we can do?”
No. Nothing. There was nothing else anyone could do.
Hannah
Hannah poured herself a first cup of tea and stared into the predawn darkness. She ought to have returned Mara’s frantic phone call about Jeremy. Instead, she’d waited a few hours and then emailed a perfunctory message to say she would pray. So far she hadn’t. Not wholeheartedly, anyway.
She wished she could skip the Sensible Shoes Club meeting. She supposed she could tell them that she was leaving for Chicago early tomorrow morning and didn’t have the energy to undertake both. That wasn’t technically a lie. She didn’t have the energy. More than that, she lacked desire.
At Nathan’s urging, she had emailed Steve early in the week to let him know she would be coming to town to pack things up. He had immediately replied, inviting her to participate in t
he worship service. She declined. “Then how about a farewell reception after the second service?” he wrote. “A chance for us to wish you well.” Reluctantly, she agreed. She wondered if Nancy and Doug would be there.
Nathan shuffled into the kitchen in his robe and slippers. “You’re up early.” Usually Nathan was in his chair with his Bible and journal by the time Hannah came downstairs. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Not great.”
“Was I snoring again?”
“No.”
He measured out the coffee grounds and switched on the pot. “A lot on your mind, huh?”
She nodded. Tomorrow she would cross the threshold of her house for the first time in almost eight months. She and Nathan would pack up her possessions at her home and her office—with both of them working at it, they might finish in a single day—and spend the night at a hotel. Then, after enduring the hastily organized reception, the speed and timing of which would only heighten the rumors swirling about the “real reasons” for her departure, they would load up the U-Haul and leave her life behind. “I really hope Heather’s not planning on hovering around while I pack up,” she said, still staring out the kitchen window into the darkness. “I want time alone in my house.”
“So tell her that.”
“I’m not going to tell her that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t tell people what I want.”
“Or what you need,” he added quietly. He probably didn’t mean for the words to sound like an accusation.
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