“Daddy was so mad at us. We could hardly sit down for a week.”
Preston shook his head. “Not without a pillow.” Then he laughed again. “Look, Goldie, let’s not do this anymore, okay? Let’s stay in touch. Let’s share our hurts and our fears and our . . . secrets. The way I see it, it’s a simple matter of trust.”
Trust. Indeed.
I leaned over as best as my seat belt would allow and kissed his cheek. “Agreed.”
We rode in silence for a while longer until he said, “You and Jack okay now?”
“We’re better than okay. We’re in counseling. I actually moved out of the house last year and got my own place for a few months, then moved back.”
Preston shook his head again. “You should have told me. It makes me sick to think that you lived somewhere else for months and I didn’t even know it.”
“So then, what about you? How long are you going to keep your secret a secret?”
“Give it some time, Goldie. You’re living proof that we share our secrets when we’re ready and not a minute before.”
I thought about that for a moment, and about the truthfulness behind it. I thought about how long I’d kept my secret, how Diane was holding her fears secret, how Mama had worn aprons all these years because Daddy thought it was sexy, and how even a good secret is a secret nonetheless. I looked out at the flat farmlands stretching before me and thought about my mountain home in Summit View. I thought about Donna and Vonnie and Evie, about how each of them had kept secrets over the years that had kept them emotionally imprisoned for so long. Then I thought about Lizzie and Lisa Leann, the only ones of our little group who didn’t seem to have secrets at all.
But surely they do, I thought. Because all God’s children have secrets.
Lizzie
19
Boiling Over
An entire week had gone by since I’d made my resolution to stop drinking on the DL, a phrase a couple of the kids at school had recently introduced me to.
“The DL, Mrs. Prattle,” Jennifer Brown said to me while in the media center one chilly afternoon. “You know, R. Kelly’s song? ‘The Down Low’? Nobody has to know?”
Jennifer’s best friend (at least as far as I could tell), Patrick Noone, chimed in. “Mrs. Prattle probably doesn’t listen to R. Kelly, Jen.”
I admit it. I’d never even heard of R. Kelly.
“He’s a singer, Mrs. Prattle,” Jennifer said with a giggle. “You know, ‘Bump and Grind’?”
I frowned in response.
Patrick, an adorable young man if I’ve ever seen one, shook his head. “No, no, no. She’s not going to know that one.” Then he shot a dimpled grin my way. “But I’d be willing to bet you know ‘I Believe I Can Fly.’ Right?”
I nodded. “Now, that song I know.” I’d heard it recently in a bar, in fact, but I wouldn’t go there with my students.
“Totally,” Jennifer said. “So, he has this song called ‘The Down Low.’ It means, on the sly. Hidden.”
“Secret,” Patrick added.
“Secret?”
“Hey, look at her,” Patrick said to Jennifer. “She’s blushing.”
Jennifer’s eyes twinkled as she said, “Maybe Mrs. Prattle has something she’s keeping on the DL.”
I frowned again. “Maybe it’s the grades you’re going to get in library science,” I said.
“Oops,” Patrick said with a wink. “And I’d appreciate it, Mrs. Prattle, if they stayed on the DL.”
So, I’d kept my drinking on the DL, and now it was done. Good. A week without a drink had left me a little shaken at times and craving the taste of a glass of red wine at others, but I’d managed just fine. Even last night, a Friday with enough noise in the house to bring a small earthquake to envy, I’d stayed home, read in the semi-quiet of my bedroom, and managed to get to sleep by a decent hour without the aid of alcohol. My short-lived indiscretion was safely over.
On Saturday I woke early, feeling refreshed. I had a long list of things on my to-do list, including a Potluck meeting and tea with Michelle, Adam, and Adam’s mother. Later, Michelle and I were going to head over to Denver to shop for a wedding dress. Lisa Leann would have a fit if she knew that Michelle and I were looking at dresses without her expertise, but I had dreamed of this day since the day Michelle was born, and I wanted no one else involved.
Of course I would allow Michelle to pick out her own dress. I’d certainly allowed her sister the privilege for her wedding. Over the past couple of months, Michelle and I had studied stacks of bridal magazines and had pretty much decided that her dress would be a strapless sheath with lots of beads or lace, and in white. Her bridesmaids would wear black trimmed in metallic silver. It would be an en vogue wedding. And I would be the sober mother of the bride.
On my way to our Potluck Club, which was meeting at Evie’s despite Lisa Leann’s protests to have it at her boutique, I stopped by Goldie’s. Samuel had seen Jack in the bank the day before, and Jack had told him that Goldie would be flying in later in the day but that she wasn’t ready for a lot of company. I understood, having also lost my father and still missing him as though his death were yesterday. But Jack had told Samuel that if anyone would be welcome right now, it would be me. I took that as a sign to keep her arrival quiet and to slip over for a few minutes.
Goldie looked to have lost about ten pounds in the last few weeks. But her hair was nicely styled, her makeup had been lightly applied, and she was dressed as though she were going to the club meeting.
“Lizzie,” she said when she answered the door. “I’m so glad you came.”
I had brought a cake. I extended it toward her. “Got coffee?”
“Is that your mystery mocha cake?”
“It is.”
Then she smiled. “Then I have coffee.”
As we gathered around her kitchen table I noted the strong scent of Pine-Sol wafting through the house and the sound of both the washer and dryer doing their jobs from the adjoining laundry room. No doubt Goldie was working overtime in the housecleaning department since her return. I felt good knowing I’d given Goldie what had to be a much-needed break from her labors.
With thick slices of the cake and steaming cups of coffee before us, Goldie shared with me about her time away, her father’s life, his death and funeral. She cried, and I supplied tissues from a small pack I keep in the tidy crevices of my purse. At one point, my emotions raw with memory of the loss of my own father, I cried with her.
When we’d dried our tears and finished off the last moist crumbs of our cake slices, Goldie asked, “So what’s on your agenda today?”
“I’m having tea with Michelle, Adam, and his mother, and then Michelle and I are going to a shop in Denver to narrow down the search for her gown.”
“Oh, what fun. I remember doing the same for Olivia. Of course, she didn’t like anything I liked.”
“So far Michelle and I have agreed on everything. At least what we’ve seen in the magazines and catalogues.”
“Good for you,” she said sincerely.
I took a deep breath and exhaled. “And we have the club meeting in a bit.”
Goldie looked appalled. “Oh no! I forgot!”
“Don’t worry about it, Goldie. No one expects you to show up. Heavens, no one even knows you’re back in town.”
She nodded. “Secrets,” she said after a time.
“What?”
“Keeping secrets. My brother Preston and I were talking about it just yesterday. ‘No one knows,’ you said. He’s been carrying a secret from the family and I’ve been carrying a secret from them since nearly the year Jack and I married. You know, our problems . . . our secrets.”
I straightened my shoulders. “Where is Jack?”
“Grocery store. I gave him a very long list. I told him I’m just not ready to handle seeing a lot of people yet, but we need some real food in this house.”
I nodded in understanding but said nothing. When I stood to carry my dishes to th
e sink, I gathered hers as well.
“We share our secrets when we’re ready and not a minute before.”
I whirled around. “I’m sorry?”
“That’s what Preston said to me yesterday.” Goldie rested her chin in the palm of her hand. She stared straight ahead, but not at me. “Do you ever wonder what secrets our friends carry, Lizzie?”
I crossed my arms. “No. That wouldn’t be right.”
She cut her eyes over at me, then gave a slow smile. “Liz . . .”
I sat again at the table. “Would you want them wondering the same about you?”
“No one has to wonder about me,” she said. “Everybody in this town knows.”
I touched her hand lightly. “Not everyone.”
She didn’t answer, but her eyes narrowed as though she were deep in thought. “Lisa Leann. Now there’s a woman with secrets, I’d be willing to bet you.”
“Goldie!”
Goldie shrugged. “Maybe being in the South for a while has brought out the stinker in me. Southern ladies sure do love a good tale, and they don’t really care who it’s about.”
I stood. It was best I leave. “Who doesn’t? I have to go. What can I do for you?”
Goldie stood too. “Ask the girls to pray for Mama. For my family. For me. But tell them I’m not ready for company just yet. Make that point especially with Lisa Leann.”
We walked to the door. “When will you go back to work?”
“Monday. Chris was kind to let me off as long as he did, but I need to get back to normal as soon as possible. I just don’t want to have to recount the story of Daddy’s passing over and over to everybody and their sister. Not right now.”
I gave her a hug at the door. “I understand totally,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.”
Lisa Leann was still less than happy that we weren’t having the meeting at her boutique.
“I told you, Lisa Leann,” Evie said to her after several sighs from our favorite Texan, “that our club meetings should be here and our catering meetings should be at your place. Thus, we do not get the two confused.”
“But you’re a newlywed,” Lisa Leann countered. “I was just trying to relieve you of any unnecessary work.”
“Get over it, Lisa Leann,” Donna said, then popped a meatball in her mouth.
Lisa Leann was nonetheless gloating about something.
“What are you grinning at, Lisa Leann?” I asked her. “What do you know that we don’t know?”
She merely raised her perfectly penciled eyebrows and said, “Not we. You.”
I pointed to myself. “Me?”
With a wave of her hand she walked away, saying, “I’m not saying another word. You can’t make me. Take away all my makeup and make me wear hand-me-downs and I’ll still not say another word.”
Evie walked up and stood shoulder to shoulder with me, peering after the tiny bit of dynamite that had left the scene. “Good grief, I think she’s serious.”
“A bare-faced, Goodwill-dressed Lisa Leann,” Donna said from behind us. “Who can imagine that?”
All through our lunch and prayer meeting Lisa Leann kept grinning at me. I narrowed my eyes at her (as best I could . . . I’m not good at veiled threats), but whatever little hush-hush was going on in her brain was staying confidential.
Oh well, I thought later as I pulled my car out of Evie’s driveway. I have enough on my plate without wondering what Lisa Leann is up to.
I rushed to see my mother before meeting Michelle, Adam, and his mother Esther at the teahouse. I found Mom curled up in her bed like a little girl, sound asleep. I didn’t want to disturb her so I slipped back out of her apartment and headed back for the parking lot, only to be stopped by Luke Nelson. He was at the front doorway, and I had a sneaking suspicion someone had alerted him of my arrival. It was just too convenient that he was at this particular place at this particular time. He looked more like a roadblock than the handsome administrator of the Good Samaritan Assisted Living Facility.
“Why, hello, Luke,” I said with a forced smile. “Do you work every Saturday?”
“Every other.” He sighed as though he’d been holding his breath since the last time I’d seen him, when he’d told me my mother had worn a teddy to the residents’ pajama party. “Mrs. Prattle . . .”
“What has she done now?”
Luke shook his head. “It’s not one particular thing. But she’s slipping rather quickly.”
I closed my eyes and nodded, then opened them again. “What do you want me to do, Luke?”
Luke smiled at me, I suppose in hopes of softening whatever blow he was about to deliver. “My records on your mother indicate that you and your brother are co-executors of her estate.” He nodded his head as though he agreed with his own statement.
“You think my mother is dying?”
“Oh no, no, no. Nothing like that.” He swung his head from side to side. “But do the two of you take care of the decisions concerning your mother? Together?”
“I suppose so.”
Again he nodded. He was beginning to remind me of one of those bobbing head dogs that my father kept on the dashboard of his car back when my brother and I were children. “I would simply suggest that you contact your brother and talk. Start looking into something more along the lines of a nursing home. A twenty-four/ seven care facility.”
I sighed. “Luke, my brother’s wife is still recovering from a very serious heart attack. My daughter is getting married soon. You remember those last few weeks and months just before you got married, don’t you? I’m dealing with senioritis at the high school— spring break is just around the corner, not to mention prom—a new business venture and the wedding, and now you want me to find my mother a new care facility when we just got her settled here?” My voice managed to raise an entire octave as I spoke. My chest tightened, and for a moment I thought I was going to have my own heart attack.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Prattle. I’d say within the next month or so, you’ll want to have her in another facility.”
I looked beyond Luke to the glass doors of the Good Samaritan. Outside, the gray clouds that had been gathering all day began to break apart and the sun was shining. God, I reasoned, was—in his own way—reminding me that in the midst of trial there was hope. I just had to stay focused. “I’ll see what I can do,” I said. “I’ll call my brother later this evening or perhaps tomorrow after church.”
“That’s a good idea,” he said. “I’ll be here to help in any way I can.”
I took several steps toward the doors.
“And, Mrs. Prattle . . .”
I stopped, but I didn’t turn around.
“I’m so sorry about all this.”
“Me too,” I said. “Me too.”
Michelle had asked that we meet at a new and quaint teahouse called Abigail’s. It had been open for less than a month, and I’d not had the opportunity to go yet, so I thought it was the perfect choice. Not only was it different from what I was accustomed to, it wasn’t Apple’s. Right now, I didn’t trust myself at Apple’s. Tension was mounting in my shoulders. I either needed a drink or a massage.
I had the desire for one, no time for the other, so a relaxing teahouse on a lovely Saturday in mid-March was the perfect solution. “See, Lizzie,” I said to myself as I pulled into the parking lot in front of the new establishment. “You can make good choices. Tea. Not wine. Plain ole coffee. Not Irish.”
Adam’s car was parked two cars down, so I knew that the others had arrived. I stepped out of my car and into a pile of slush, frowned, but kept going. Inside Abigail’s small foyer, I stomped my shoes free of excess snow and sludge onto the damp welcome mat, then removed my coat, hanging it on a nearby antique coat tree. I had no sooner done so when a dark-haired woman who appeared to be in her midthirties met me. “Welcome to Abigail’s,” she said. “I’m Abigail Bohman.”
“Hello, Abigail,” I said. “I’m meeting my daughter and her—”
“Michelle an
d Adam?”
“Yes.” I beamed.
“They’re here and are waiting for you.” She turned and led me into a charming, brightly lit room laden with Victorian furnishings. Painted white tables covered in pristine and crisp white linen displayed fine Victorian china and heavy silver. The walls were papered in a pale yellow and white stripe and bordered with a floral pattern. One window was topped with an ornate stained glass insert that sent prisms of color and light across the room.
In the far corner, at a table for four, my daughter, Adam, and his mother smiled toward me. Michelle was so excited; she actually spoke “Mom!” as she waved me over.
I waved back and was soon seated to the left of my future son-in-law (who politely stood when I arrived at the table and pulled my chair out for me), to the right of my daughter, and across from Esther Peterson.
Adam’s mother is an attractive woman who carries about fifteen pounds too many. She has porcelain skin and medium length dark blonde hair that is worn straight and pulled away from her square face. I’ve seen her at church a good number of times and have, of course, spoken to her over these past few months, but haven’t yet felt we were even close to being friends. Just friendly.
Adam looks more like his father—tall and dark—and Britney like their mother sans the extra weight, I thought as I said, “Good to see you, Esther.”
“Lizzie. It’s always good to see you.” She glowed as she spoke and spread her hands over the table as though she were showing it on The Price Is Right. “I hope that this tea will be the beginnings of a new and long-lasting friendship.”
I looked over at Michelle. She was reading Esther’s lips, and once Esther was finished speaking, she turned to me to read my response.
As is my habit with my daughter, I signed, “Hear, hear!”
Michelle applauded lightly and then signed, “I’m so excited.”
Out of habit, I spoke her words for her, but before I could finish Esther signed back, “You have every right to be, sweetheart.”
Something inside me stirred, and it wasn’t pretty. As the mother-in-law of Sis’s husband Isaac, Samuel Jr.’s wife Mariah, and Tim’s wife Samantha, I was accustomed to loving them as my own children and my own children being loved and endeared by their in-laws. But Michelle is my baby. She’s the one I spent the most time with over the years, taking her to the deaf academy, learning sign language with her, teaching the others in the family, speaking for her, all the while encouraging her that she could do anything a hearing person could do . . . except hear.
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