by Leanna Ellis
“We’re on our way home, Mrs. Redmond.”
“It’s kind of late for you to be at the hospital.”
“We went by Lily’s house and picked up some things for her mother.”
“That was nice of you. Is there anything I can do?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You both have school tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
My worry has nowhere to go, not even to push into anger. “How’s Lily?”
“She seemed okay. She was sitting up in bed, talking and joking around.”
“Good. Then it’s probably just a bump in her road. Hopefully she’ll be out of the hospital soon.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Thanks for calling and letting me know you’re on your way.” I close my phone, caress the facing as relief washes through me.
Jack waits for me to fill him in.
“Gabe said Lily was doing okay. They’re on their way.”
Jack rolls up the poster-sized schedule of the swimmers and snaps a rubber band around it. “They’re good kids.”
“They are. I was worried what would happen if . . . well . . . I don’t want to think about it. Izzie is so caught up in helping Lily. She’s determined to help Lily get well.”
Jack cups a hand along my jaw and neckline. My stomach does a slow roll. “I’d tell you not to worry but I suspect that won’t help.”
All I can do is stare up at him, until my gaze drifts downward toward his mouth. The memory of his kiss lingers. “I know something that might take my mind off it.”
“Oh, yeah?” He moves closer.
I can only nod.
He takes my hand and pulls me toward the sofa. “This is what I do when I’m worried.” He sits me down, settling next to me, his arm snug around my shoulders. My heart is pounding in my chest. Maybe this isn’t the time for making out. But I also don’t want to say anything.
Then he looks me straight in the eye, his gaze serious and calm. “I dump my stuff at the foot of the cross.”
My chaotic heartbeat slows as guilt flows through my veins. Why didn’t I think of that? Because I was thinking of myself and my own needs. Then, instead of kissing me, he tucks my hand in his and bows his head. At first I’m not sure how to take this abrupt change. But as he begins to pray for Lily, her mother, and Izzie, my heart tumbles head over heels. There was a time when I felt I was the only one praying. I’d lie in bed at night, Cliff snoring beside me, and I’d pray for our marriage, our family. But no miracle happened. And now . . . how can I believe?
When Jack gives my hand a gentle squeeze and looks up, I ask, “So you believe in miracles?”
He rubs a thumb over my knuckles, dipping thoughtfully into each groove. “Yeah. They don’t always happen. If Gabe’s dad had lived, that would certainly have been a medical miracle. But I know they happen. I’ve read about them, witnessed them.” His hand cups mine as he studies me for a long, uncomfortable moment. “You don’t?”
I tug my hand back, erase the feel of his skin against mine. Miracles seem as far-fetched as a fairy tale ending of Happily Ever After. “I don’t know.”
Chapter Twenty-two
The next day I stop by the hospital to visit Lily and see if Terry needs anything. Besides the usual flowers, I take some magazines, a stuffed animal, and cookies. Lily sleeps through my entire visit. When her mother slips out of the room briefly to see me off, she hugs me close.
“If you need me, don’t hesitate to call. Okay?”
She nods, tears brimming her eyes but not overflowing. I start to walk away, but then Jack’s prayer comes back to me. Turning back, I place a hand around my friend. The right words elude me. Doubts bombard me. I clutch at the only solid foundation we have and His words, greater than my own, flow of their own accord, “Our Father, which art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever. Amen.”
Terry joins me in saying the last couple of lines and then we hug. It feels as if she is putting all the words she can’t say into her embrace, and I try to convey my feelings to her as well.
Not far from the hospital is the retirement village where Marla lives. It’s where Harry lives too. It’s a quiet and peaceful gathering of apartments and houses. There are no children running, yelling, or riding bikes, only a crew of maintenance men sawing branches off a giant pecan tree. All that’s missing is the neon sign—circle with slash through it over pictures of young children. After I check Marla’s apartment and find no one home . . . or at least no one answering the door, I locate Harry’s residence two streets over.
History is filled with the demise of bearers of bad news. I don’t kid myself that the news I’m supposed to drop like a nuclear bomb on Marla will not be well-received. But decapitation isn’t Marla’s style. I imagine she will inflict pain of a different kind. Before I change my mind, I knock on Harry’s door. A heavy, thick wreath decorated with pumpkins and apples, golden and burnt orange leaves along with a gigantic bow overwhelms the small door. I recognize Marla’s handiwork. It reminds me of how close we’re getting to Thanksgiving. Jack would say there is much to give thanks for. In the chaos of my life, I suppose it could all be worse. But I’m not able to go there.
After a moment’s pause, Harry opens the door. He’s wearing his usual mismatched clothes, but I notice his shirt has been ironed. It’s a sure sign Marla’s taken over his life. “Come on in!” He grins and opens the door wide. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“You have?” I step inside the darkened apartment where the shades are drawn, blocking out the bright sunshine. After I blink a moment, allowing my eyes to adjust, I notice the apartment is smaller than Marla’s. It’s quaint, decorated with antiquated furniture that appears to be in pristine condition. The Victorian sofa doesn’t seem to match Harry and I’m guessing reflected his deceased wife’s tastes. The light from the television gives the room a ghostly cast of shadows. Although the sound is muted, I recognize the women on The View arguing about something, their mouths stretched tight as they gesticulate wildly.
Harry punches a button on the television and the picture fades into black. He then turns on a table lamp that offers a rosy hue over the room. “How’ve you been, Kaye?”
“Good. And you?”
“Never better.”
“Is Marla here?”
He gestures toward a door along a hallway leading away from us. “She saw you coming up the sidewalk and ran to the bathroom.”
Irritation pulses through me, and I start toward the bathroom. This is getting ridiculous.
“I saw you on television.” That’s stops me cold.
I freeze. “You did?”
“We were watching the news the other night.” He clears his throat. “There was a spot about Gabe’s park reopening and Marla pointed you out in the crowd.”
“Yes, it was a big event. I have some more news for her today. Some news I’m not sure she’s going to be very happy about.”
“Uh-oh.” Harry’s brow collapses into furrows of worry. “Are you sure you have to tell her then?”
“Afraid so.” I feel a little like the cowardly lion having to march into the wizard’s chamber. With trepidation balanced out by a healthy dose of irritation, I head toward the bathroom where she’s hiding. I lean against the door facing, mustering strength I don’t have. Then I knock.
No answer.
I look toward Harry. He gives me an encouraging nod, reminding me of when I urged him to speak to Marla when she hid in my bedroom. I smile back at him, take a deep breath, and try again, more forcefully.
When she continues to ignore me, I begin as if I’m with Izzie when she was twelve years old. “Marla, I know you’re in there.”
“I’m in seclusion.”
“Seclus
ion is when someone goes to a monastery, not one’s boyfriend’s.”
“He is not my—”
“Come on, open up.” I feel as weary as Dorian Gray at the end of his life, tired of the pretenses and charades. “I need to talk to you.”
The door opens a crack. “What’s wrong?”
Her face surprises me. She’s wearing no makeup, but her features aren’t as lopsided as they were right after surgery. Her skin, however, has a red cast, like she’s experienced a very bad sunburn. Around her eyebrows bits of skin flake off like she’s molting.
“Marla, your face! It looks . . .” I can’t say she looks like an insect. “Like you’re, uh . . . healing.”
She purses her lips. A twitch at the corner of one eye reveals her doubt. “What’s wrong?” Perfectionism and selfishness fall by the wayside when Marla’s focus turns to a crisis. “Is it about Isabel? Has she done something else to herself now? She hasn’t gotten a tattoo, has she? Or pregnant?”
The concerns I had about telling Marla shrink under the force of her judgment. “It’s not about Izzie. It’s about Cliff.”
She opens the door wider. “Is he all right?”
“I imagine he’s doing just fine.” Actually I don’t want to imagine anything of the kind. “Or not. I don’t know.” I cross my arms over my stomach as if that will suppress the wobbly feeling inside. “He came to see me before he left.”
“Left? Where’d he go?”
“To Vegas. To elope.”
Shock widens her eyes. “He didn’t!” Her brow crinkles, and she smooths the spot with her forefinger. “Well, if he was going to marry anyone, then I guess I’m glad he chose you.”
How far have we come? When I was nowhere close to her motherly dream for Cliff to now I’m ideal compared to Barbie.
“At least we know each other, Kaye, and—”
“I didn’t go to Vegas, Marla. He took Barbara.” I bite out the name, forcing myself not to call her Barbie or any other name that comes to mind.
“What? NO!” She slams the door back against the wall and barrels into the hallway, shouldering me out of the way. “Where’s my phone?”
“It’s too late.” I follow after her. “They left over a week ago.”
She comes to a sudden halt in the den. She lifts her shoulders in an awkward movement, squaring them. Harry stands frozen in place as if unsure what to do or how to respond. She tilts her head toward the door, and Harry slips out the entrance, the bolt sliding into place. And I’m left alone with Marla.
I feel bad for him, like he’s been dismissed by the queen. “Harry could have stayed.”
“This is about family.”
“But this is his apartment.”
“He doesn’t mind.”
How does she know? “He has a nice place.”
“It needs some updating. Maybe we’ll hire you to do that.”
I sigh. “Don’t rearrange this man’s life.”
She wheels around on me. “It’s my business, isn’t it?”
“I care about Harry. And you.” The latter isn’t as hard to say as I thought it might be. It’s as if the years of difficulties have become fuzzy with distance. “Why are you denying he’s your boyfriend? Usually when a woman sleeps with a man—” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it. Marla doesn’t move a muscle. Not even a twitch. “Are you two . . . married?”
“Heavens no. And we are not”—she lowers her voice—“sleeping together.”
“Could have fooled me.”
She lifts her chin a notch.
“It’s none of my business. Just please, try not to hurt him. I mean, he’s a nice guy. Be kind to him.”
She stares at me as if I’ve accused her of torturing the man. “So when did Cliff and . . . that woman . . .” Her mouth twists.
I am starting to feel sorry for Cliff’s new bride. She doesn’t have any idea what’s in store for her. “Over a week ago. They’re married by now and enjoying their honeymoon.”
Surprisingly that last word doesn’t bring a bitter taste to my mouth. But Marla wobbles. Her hand juts out to balance herself against the sofa, then she sits on the coffee table. Even her slight weight is too much for the delicate legs and the table tips. I grab her before she falls. She clutches my arms, and I help her stand. Her hands begin to tremble. When I get her situated on the sofa, she tips her head into her hand. “What was he thinking?”
I have no answer.
“Doesn’t he know how ridiculous he looks? Going around with a woman who’s . . . barely that! It’s one thing to destroy his marriage and go out with the woman. But I thought she was just a midlife crisis and he’d realize—” She stops her tirade and looks up at me.
“I thought so too.” I shrug. “He made his choice.”
“And he told you? But not me.”
A sticky point. But I suspect Cliff cares more about what his mother might say, even Izzie, than facing my wrath. Where once that would be painful to admit, now I don’t much care. “He had to tell someone. Maybe it was easier to face me.”
Marla flexes her hand as if in a conscious opposition to what she might otherwise do. “The next time I see him—”
“It’s too late now.” Silently I hope she won’t treat Barbara the way she treated me—as an interloper. My magnanimous attitude surprises even me. There was a time when I would have gladly helped with Barb’s water torture. But not anymore. She and Cliff aren’t worth the energy it takes to ratchet up my emotions. “I’m sorry, Marla.” And I am. About the news. About Barbie. About everything. “Maybe Cliff sees something in Barbara that we haven’t.” Maybe she sees something in him that I’m blind to.
Marla snorts. “I suppose marriage to Cliff isn’t easy.”
“That’s an understatement.” I sit next to Marla on the sofa. “They’re both going to have their work cut out for themselves.” There will always be someone younger, someone in better shape. Not to mention how easily Cliff gets bored.
“So you actually want their marriage to work out?”
I cross my legs and give her question a moment of contemplation. I never thought I’d wish for Cliff’s marriage to another woman to be successful. Maybe my heavy hope is buoyed by the salt of doubt. But then again, who needs more upheaval? Izzie certainly doesn’t. It would be nice if her parents were steady and unwavering at last in their relationships. “At first, I thought a plane crash would be a good answered prayer.”
Marla nods her agreement.
“But that would only hurt Izzie more. And another divorce? I don’t want that. Not for Cliff or Barbara or Izzie. Like it or not, she’ll have to see her dad occasionally.”
“And her stepmother.”
“Yes.” That’s a bit harder to swallow. “But it’ll be okay.”
“Are you sure about that?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure of anything. We’ll have to make it as right as possible.”
“How can you do that?”
“It’s what we women do, isn’t it? We spruce up bad situations to make them as nice as possible.”
Her eyes narrow and yet amazingly appear the same size. “You’re a stronger woman than I ever could be.”
I laugh. “Oh, I don’t know, Marla. I think you give me a run for my money.”
She shakes her head. “I’ve been a coward for years.” She waves her hand as if shooing away an irritating thought. “How are you doing with this new turn of events?”
Her question stuns me. Has she ever asked me how I’m doing? Even when Izzie was born? “I’m okay.”
She looks dubious at best. “And Isabel?”
“She says she doesn’t care. She’s glad Cliff’s not moving back in. I think maybe she could see her father’s true character better than the rest of us.”
“I bet”—Marla wags her finger—“he gets her pregnant and they end up having kids.”
There’s a happy thought. The corners of my mouth feel weighted. “Maybe he’ll learn to be responsible this time around.”
“Do you know who you’re talking about?”
“We can only hope for the best.” A miracle, as Jack would say. And the thought of him makes me smile.
She releases a long, slow sigh. “What are you going to do, Kaye?”
I clasp my hands in my lap, my fingers encircling my bare, left ring finger. This time there isn’t a tightening in my chest. “Get on with my life. Which is what I should have done a long time ago.”
She gives a tiny snort. “Do you regret trying to get him back?”
I shake my head. “Not at all.” I tilt my head. “Well, I did at first. But now . . . no. I have no regrets.”
Marla taps her fingers along the arm of the sofa. “How is that possible?”
Her question startles me. “What do you mean?”
“I have regrets. So many regrets. How can you not regret marrying so early?”
“I regret getting pregnant before I was married. But not having Izzie. I’m sad at Cliff’s choice, but I know I gave my marriage the best I could. We all make mistakes, Marla, but I guess the best we can do is to learn from them and try to do better the next time.”
She leans back into the sofa, which seems so stiff and unrelenting. Marla’s shoulders sag. “But I’ve made so many. I feel like there’s a big scoreboard up there somewhere showing how many times I’ve made poor choices.”
Her admission stuns me, and for a moment I flounder. Does she think I’ve been judging her? “No one is keeping score.”
“God is.”
“He wants to wipe away all those mistakes and regrets and turn them into something wonderful.”
“How is that possible?”
“Well, I made a mistake by getting pregnant, and I did my best to make things right.”
“And you ended up with a husband who, I can say this because he’s my son, is pretty worthless.”
“But I also have a wonderful daughter.”
“What if she ends up like her father?”
“That will be her choice. But I don’t think she will. She’s observed things I never wanted her to see or know about, but now maybe she’ll consider them before she acts. She’ll know the other side—the side full of pain.”