Marina’s quiet for a minute. Then she says slowly, “Liz, you are such a sweetheart. I know you say that now, and you may honestly mean it. But I also know that you can’t imagine John ever cheating on you. Trust me, I never imagined it either. I thought Bobby and I had a good marriage. Sure, we had our arguments. And he could really be a slob.” At this memory she laughs, then grows sober again. “But I loved him, and I’m pretty sure he loved me. I would’ve put the odds for me and Bobby breaking up at almost nil.”
Marina stops talking. The silence at the table grows heavy.
She takes a breath. “But there I was . . . the only single mom on the block. And the women at PTA started clinging to their husbands’ arms and giving me nasty glares, as if I were plotting to slip away with one of them to the janitor’s closet.”
“Marina!” I protest, horrified. “No one thought that! And if they did, they aren’t worth a second thought.”
“I know that now, Liz, and I guess I knew it down deep back then. But I felt so odd. Like I no longer belonged anywhere. It seemed like yesterday we were a couple, watching the twins play soccer. Then, all of a sudden, I was alone. It didn’t seem fair.”
“It wasn’t fair,” says Lucy quietly.
“I know, but that wasn’t the point, as my friend told me during one particularly whiny lunch. This same wise friend explained that God sometimes allows trials in our lives to draw us closer to Him and to prepare us for future challenges. She also said that, just like athletes, we can’t build strength without a little strain.”
Lucy looked away as the waiters cleared the antipasto and placed a fresh tomato salad before each one of us. I knew from experience that Drucillina had likely plucked the ripe tomatoes and fragrant basil leaves from her garden. She then drizzled the luscious concoction with olive oil to make a simple but mouth-watering salad. I couldn’t wait to dig in.
“Has anyone noticed that, so far, this meal is extremely low carb?” I marvel at the burst of flavor that passes over my tongue.
Marina rolls her eyes. “Let go of the guilt, Liz. Just enjoy your dinner.”
“I’ll stop the diet talk if you finish your story.”
“Well, I’d like to say that my eyes were opened at lunch by Lucy’s sage advice—and everyone lived happily ever after. But you already know I’m much too pigheaded for that. Instead I told my dear friend that I didn’t need any more challenges and that I certainly wasn’t in the mood to talk about God. ‘Fine,’ my friend said sweetly. ‘Then keep doing things your way.’ That comment shut me up—and frankly put a bit of a damper on our lunch. By the time I checked back in at the precinct, I’d decided to put in a request to change my lunch hour so next time I’d have an excuse to ditch Lucy if she happened to stop by with another piece of helpful advice.”
Lucy smiles. “I never knew that, Marina. A little passive-aggressive, hmm?”
Marina grins back. “I guess I deserve that. But can I at least finish my story before you make me stretch out on the analyst’s couch?”
“Go on, Marina,” I say, shushing Lucy.
“When I climbed in my car after the shift, I noticed a slip of paper fluttering under the wiper. I snatched it off the windshield and saw Lucy’s handwriting. My first thought was to crumple it up. But thinking it might be an apology for her insensitive comments, I decided to read what she’d written. It wasn’t an apology or a note. It was simply a Bible verse: ‘You use steel to sharpen steel, and one friend sharpens another. Proverbs 27:17.’”
Marina’s voice catches, and she takes a sip of water before continuing. “Well, that did it. The floodgate opened. I sat in that car on what had to be the hottest day in July and cried my eyes out. I knew how hard it had been for Lucy to confront me. Hey, I know how hard it is for anyone to confront me. I train to be scary. Maybe I even scared Bobby off, who knows? So I decided the least I could do was give Lucy’s way—God’s way—a chance.”
“Marina . . .,” says Lucy.
“Luce, I bet you didn’t know I kept all of your notes in my bag, did you? They were kind of a security blanket for the times I felt all alone. I needed to know that someone who wasn’t related to me cared. I mean, I’m close to my family, but they have to love me. It’s required. At least that’s what my mom always pounded into us.”
I see Marina swallow hard. She had so rarely talked about her divorce or her ex-husband at FAC, and now I know why.
“But a friend has a choice,” Marina adds. “Just knowing that you had chosen to love me . . . for me . . . helped me crawl out of bed on some really dark days.”
“I had no idea.” I feel like an insensitive fool.
“Marina, you are too hard on yourself,” says Lucy. “You are such a strong—”
“Will you please let me finish before I start bawling in my salad?”
Lucy nods. My throat is too tight for words.
“Anyway, I pulled your notes out of my bag—and dug my dusty Bible from the glove compartment. I began to read the very first card you gave me. I remember it because it was the one attached to that jar of starter for Amish Friendship Bread that I was supposed to stir every day for three weeks or something like that. By the way, what made you think I would ever make that bread?”
Lucy smirks. “I should have known better. I bet you threw it out, didn’t you?”
“Of course I threw it out. Who in their right mind would do all that work just to make a loaf of bread?”
“You actually threw it out?” I ask. “I’ve felt guilty for years, thinking I broke some bond of friendship by not making that bread.”
Marina snorts. “Lizzy, get a life! Do you want to hear the end of my story or not?”
“Go on,” I answer sheepishly.
“Anyway, Lucy’s card referred to Jeremiah 29:11. I looked the verse up in my Bible and read it over and over. I wanted to make sure I’d read it right. It said, ‘“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”’ I remember thinking, Could this be true? Does God really have plans to prosper me? Do I really have hope for the future? This may seem simplistic, but to someone who was looking for an excuse each morning to pull the covers back over her head, it was an epiphany. I thought about that verse all the way home.” Marina wiped tears from her eyes. “For the first time since Bobby left, I didn’t feel alone.”
“Rina, I told you I was there for you,” says Lucy.
“Luce, please don’t take this the wrong way. I treasure your friendship and support. But at that time, I needed something more than you could give me. I didn’t know it then, but what I really needed was to reconnect with God.”
Marina stares at the table. “You both know I was a believer. I knew Jesus paid for my sins on the cross, and because of this someday I’d see Him face to face in heaven. But right then I needed to get through the next day. Waiting for heaven just seemed too far away. Until I opened my Bible that afternoon and allowed God to speak to me through His Word, I thought He’d forgotten about me. Or, worse, that He didn’t care.”
Marina lifts her head, and I see a renewed determination in her eyes. “‘For I know the plans I have for you . . .’ Ladies, those words woke a longing in me I didn’t even know was there. That night I looked up all the verses you had given me, Lucy, and underlined them in my Bible. I’ve clung to those promises more times than Liz has cheated on her diet.”
“Hey!” I toss a breadstick at Marina.
“What are you worrying about?” she teases. “Clarenzo thinks you need to be fattened up.”
As if on cue, a team of waiters emerges from the kitchen with the main course Clarenzo had prepared speciale for us. A steaming platter of brasciole—a traditional Italian meat roll simmered to perfection and covered with a hearty red sauce—is accompanied by a generous bowl of tiny homemade gnocchi, laced with savory roasted garlic butter and Romano cheese.
“Now this . . . this is food!” cries Clarenzo as the pla
tes pass before our wide eyes on the way to the table. “Mangia, signorine! Mangia!”
And mangia—“eat”—we do. Not wanting to insult Clarenzo, I finish every morsel of food set before me, even using the crusty Italian bread to scoop up the last bit of sauce from my plate.
I’m so full I can barely move. What was I thinking?
Before I have time to answer this question, the cappuccino comes. As I sip the warm drink from a tiny cup, I’m paying the price for my gluttony.
I moan. “I hope Clarenzo isn’t planning on closing early, because there’s no way I can walk to the car right now.”
“Me neither.” Lucy’s eyes are closed, and her head is resting on the back of the booth.
“Wimps,” says Marina, even though I can detect a bit of grogginess in her voice too. “My mom cooks like this every day.”
“Then you have one high metabolism, sweetheart,” I observe, pointing toward Marina’s trim physique. “And, by the way, have I told you lately that I hate you?”
No one at the table has the energy to respond.
“Signorine,” announces Clarenzo, jarring me from my snooze, “to complete your meal—dolce! You like chocolate, no?”
Before we could protest, Clarenzo places a huge piece of Drucillina’s signature dessert, Death by Chocolate, on the table. “Since you on a diet, Signorina Lizzie, I bring one piece and three forks.”
“Thank you, Clarenzo,” I manage to say, convinced that tonight the dessert may just live up to its name.
Even though the three of us are so full we were barely able to waddle out to Marina’s car, Lucy seems to be feeling better as we pull into her driveway after dinner. Maybe it is all the chocolate—the “miracle food”—I theorize.
“So admit it,” teases Marina as Lucy gets out of the car. “Wasn’t this worth missing a movie on the Lifetime channel?”
“Come on,” I hiss, “give her a break.”
“No, that’s OK, Liz,” says Lucy. “I hate to admit it, but you’re right. I needed to get out of the house.” She cocks her head toward Marina and grins. “And I definitely wouldn’t have done so without your bullying.”
“Me? A bully? You know I’m a pussycat, Luce!”
Lucy just laughs.
“Maybe of the man-eating variety,” I add under my breath as we drive away.
MOM’S LAUNDRY SECRETS
Add one cup of white vinegar to the rinse cycle to dissolve alkaline residue to leave clothes soft and sweet smelling.
Blot antiperspirant stains with a solution of white vinegar and baking soda. Wash as usual.
Loosen dried-on glue by soaking a clean cloth in white vinegar and saturating the spot until it’s gone.
Apply a mixture of one part white vinegar and two parts water to grass stains, and blot. Repeat as needed and wash as usual.
Dab white vinegar on mildew and let item sit in the sun. Wash separately.
HARRIS FUN NIGHT GORP
1 cup M&M candies
1 cup salted nuts
1 cup dried cranberries
8 cups unbuttered popcorn, popped
Instructions
1. Mix together in a large bowl.
2. Enjoy!
A few minutes later, I walk into my home to find Daisy sleeping peacefully on a pile of clean laundry that one of my family members obviously took from the dryer and dumped on a chair. Naturally it would not occur to any member of the family to fold this laundry or, heaven forbid, put it away. After all, that’s Mom’s job.
I have no idea who started this vicious rumor, but it’s a widely held belief that the meticulous care of each family member’s wardrobe is my responsibility. Frankly, I have done all I can to dispel this falsehood: from assigning each child a designated day on which to wash his or her own clothing to demonstrating my complete ineptitude in this area. How many shrunken sweaters and bleach-speckled shorts will it take to convince my family that laundry is not one of my core competencies?
It’s not just that I’m “domestically challenged” in the area of laundry. I actually loathe it. I’m not sure why. I wasn’t raised to view this domestic necessity as an undue burden. In fact, my mother still gets absolutely giddy about the prospect of turning a huge pile of dirty clothes into neatly folded and color-coded stacks ready to slide into waiting drawers.
I’ll never forget the time she came to help after I had Hannah . . .
“Liz, let me help you,” Mom cooed as I complained about the mountain of dirty clothes in my laundry room. “I love to do laundry!”
“Mom, you have to be kidding. What in the world is there to ‘love’ about doing laundry?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied, expertly pouring fabric softener into an orifice I didn’t even know existed in my washing machine. “It’s just nice to have everything all clean and fresh.”
I rolled my eyes. “Mom, mark my words. Those clothes will be dirty, smelly rags by sunset, and we’ll be right back where we started. It’s like a bad horror movie, and I’m the empty-headed victim who keeps falling for the plot of the evil mastermind.”
“Liz, you’ve always had such a sense of humor!” she said.
Actually, I wasn’t trying to be funny. But I also wasn’t about to argue when she began to sort socks . . .
I pull my mind back to the present and shoo Daisy off the pile of clean clothing. I sniff a couple of the T-shirts on top. They have a definite dog smell. Do I toss these back in the dirty laundry pile? Or should I just put them away and hope Josh doesn’t get a whiff of our wily Westie? Once again I’m faced with every mother’s dilemma when making such a choice: would I be able to hold up under the questioning of Dr. Phil?
I picture myself in the good doctor’s hot seat before a TV audience of six million “good mothers” . . .
A tearful Josh has just explained to the empathetic Dr. Phil that his mother expects him to wear clothing from the dog’s bed.
“Could this be true, Mrs. Harris?” asks Dr. Phil.
I’m not sure if I’ve heard his question correctly since I’ve been focusing on holding in my stomach and clenching my thighs in an effort to present a slimmer silhouette before the cameras, which seem to be filming me from every conceivable angle. I’m also trying to jut out my chin because I’ve heard this will disguise the wrinkles on my neck and make me appear more confident. With all this on my mind, I’ve completely lost track of the conversation.
“Mrs. Harris . . . Liz . . . do you realize that this sort of behavior is considered child abuse in many states?” Dr. Phil persists.
“No, no, no, I would never abuse my children,” I protest. “It’s just that the kids never fold the laundry from the dryer. Then it ends up—”
“Are you saying that you think the proper parental response to this childish misstep is to force your young son to wear the flea-infested clothing from the bed of a dog?” . . .
As the image of Dr. Phil recedes in my mind, I sigh. Once again convinced I’ll never be a match for the good doctor, I gather the clothes from the chair and walk through the kitchen to the laundry room.
As I fill the washer, I wonder, Where does all this laundry come from anyway? My children constantly tell me they have no clean clothes. If that’s the case, whose clothes make up the four loads I do each day?
And what happens to all the towels I wash every week? I sometimes wonder if an evil little creature lives in the corner of the linen closet, just waiting to devour my clean bath towels as soon as I stack them on the shelf, leaving me only a few thin washcloths to dry my shivering frame after a shower.
I consider exploring this subject further in one of my weekly columns. One of the perks of writing a lifestyle column in the local newspaper is having access to a number of domestic divas anxious to promote their products and services. Perhaps one of these experts will turn out to be a true maven in the laundry room—providing a series of tips to transform this daily drudgery into a delight.
Fat chance.
I will never b
e my mother.
While I sit at the kitchen table, waiting for the washer to finish the spin cycle, I notice a strange light flickering under the basement door. I’d thought I was alone in the house, so I quickly tick off the whereabouts of family members on my fingers.
Let’s see. John is on a fishing trip until tomorrow night.
Hannah is sleeping over at her best friend, Kimberly’s, house—promising she’ll be in bed at a reasonable hour. Yeah, right.
I look at my watch and notice it’s only 10:30—too early for my teens to be home on a Friday night. I’ve learned from parents who have emerged from their children’s teenage years with their sanity intact that most teens view coming home even a minute before curfew as too “geeky” for words.
So, where could the light be coming from? Perhaps an intruder slipped into the house while I’ve been tending to domestic duties, I theorize. I always suspected there was something unsafe about laundry!
I gently press my ear to the basement door. Hearing nothing, I open the door a crack and peer down the stairs. The light is definitely coming from the rec room—casting multicolored shadows like some overenergized disco ball.
So what do I do now? Do I creep down the stairs, armed with an umbrella like some dimwit in a suspense film?
Wait a minute. Where’s our fearless Westie?
Of course, Daisy, who leaps at the door in a raucous frenzy at the sight of the UPS man, is nowhere to be found. Figures. She’s probably still sleeping off all that cinnamon toothpaste from this morning.
I could call John on his cell phone. He and his fishing buddies should be in from the lake by now. But before I punch the first number on the handset, I change my mind, remembering the last time I called him on one of these weekends of “male bonding” . . .
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