Desert Gift

by Sally John

His gold wedding band was gone.

  The flames behind glass threw off enough heat to warm the small space, but it did not touch the sudden chill in her heart.

  “Have a seat,” he said. “Are you hungry?”

  She looked at her chair, a fresh cup of tea on the end table. She looked at his chair, at his end table that should have been piled with books.

  “Jack, I can’t do this.”

  “Can’t do what?”

  “Live here without you.”

  “Sit. Let’s talk.”

  She shook her head. Her chest ached. She had no words to speak. They were dying inside of her, beaten to death by one blow after another proclaiming unabashedly that Jack had moved out of their home, out of their marriage.

  “Jill, I know this is beyond difficult, but we need to talk and get through Connor’s—”

  “How dare you! How dare you do this! Get out. Get out right this minute, Jack.”

  He held his arms out at his sides. “I’m sorry.”

  “Now!” She turned on her heel and hurried back through the empty kitchen, up to the empty bedroom.

  Deeply ingrained, oft-repeated phrases sprang to mind. Don’t let the sun go down on your anger. Reclaim your marriage. Take ownership of your relationship.

  She did not have the foggiest notion of how to heal a marriage.

  The looming black cloud engulfed her. She crawled into bed, clothes on, under the covers, and wondered if she would ever crawl back out.

  Chapter 40

  Seated on his stool at the end of the examining table, Jack kneaded Mrs. Bengsten’s right foot and smiled to himself. A patient’s foot before him, life resumed its balance. He could set aside Jill’s deserved anger. He could anticipate Connor’s return with delight. He could even laugh at his concerns about Sophie.

  That morning he had noticed her hair hanging loose to her shoulders, free from the bun. He skirted around someone at her desk, but not fast enough.

  “Dr. G! Do you remember David?”

  He paused and greeted a vaguely familiar pharmaceutical salesman.

  Sophie had leaned across the counter, her hand on the guy’s forearm, his hand on top of hers, and whispered, “David, this is the one who’s like a dad to me.”

  Later Baxter confirmed Jack’s suspicions: Sophie and the salesman were an item, had been for some time. Baxter had slapped his shoulder. “So sue me for thinking it was you.”

  Jack turned his attention back to the thick ankles and swollen feet protruding from black knit slacks. “Massage like this, a few minutes every day. It will help the circulation.”

  “But Olie hates to touch my feet, Dr. G. They’re not the prettiest things. Maybe if I got him some of those latex gloves, he wouldn’t mind so much.”

  “Well.” Jack looked at the gray-haired woman propped upright, her face a road map of a difficult life. Was that Olie’s fault? Would lines crease Jill’s face someday because of him? “Some people are like that about feet.”

  “Not you, though, Dr. G.”

  “Feet have always intrigued me.” He smiled. “The things they do for us, and we usually take them for granted.”

  “I should tell him we can’t take mine for granted, right? Not with the diabetes.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll pay the grandkids. They’ll do anything for a few bucks, even touch Grandma’s old feet.” She laughed.

  Jack smiled and hoped the jerk Olie had a good pension. “We’ll get these calluses trimmed and—”

  A loud thump on the door interrupted him. A conversation ensued just the other side.

  He excused himself and opened the door. Baxter and Sophie were nose to nose and fussing in loud whispers.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Jack!” Baxter grabbed his elbow. “One minute.”

  Sophie frowned. “This is so unprofessional. You both have—”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Baxter pulled Jack quickly down the hall, into his private office, and shut the door.

  “What—?”

  “Shh. Listen.” Baxter reached across his desk to a radio.

  Jill’s voice filled the room.

  “So except for this knot on my noggin, I am fine. Absolutely, positively fine.”

  She didn’t sound fine. The angelic was missing from her voice, replaced by worn-out, stressed-out, overworked, hesitant, and grating tones.

  A familiar male voice said something. It belonged to either Sam or Don, the morning show guys, brothers in their forties. Likable on air and in person.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m scheduled to do live interviews next week. We have a great lineup of local marital counselors who’ll talk about their special areas of expertise.”

  “Jill, from what I hear, you probably hope one of them knows how to plan weddings.”

  “Don, bro—” Sam’s tone reprimanded—“sometimes you talk too much.”

  “What?”

  “Well, take a look at her.”

  Jill must be at the studio, not on the phone with them.

  Sam went on. “Jillian Galloway is speechless. That wedding info was on the q.t. Way to go, Donno.”

  “Oops!” Don said. “Seriously, I didn’t know that, Jill. I apologize. Too personal.”

  She chuckled, a strained noise. “I’m all about personal. You guys are stealing my thunder, that’s all.”

  “At least we didn’t say who is getting married,” Sam said. “It’s not you, is it? And there she goes. See you!” he called out as if Jill were walking away. “That was Jillian Galloway, folks, just back from her home state of California and author of She Said, He Heard, available at bookstores everywhere.”

  “She’ll be here at the mike next week,” Don added. “Monday, eleven o’clock in the a.m. Meanwhile she is recovering from a tour bus accident, so we thank you for your prayers. Hey, Sam, let’s give a shout-out to those volunteer medics in Sweetwater Springs, California.”

  Baxter reached across his desk and turned off the radio. “Fun guys.”

  Jack locked eyes with his friend. “Mind telling me why you insisted I listen to that?”

  “Thought you’d want to.”

  “Why would I want to?”

  “She doesn’t sound so good.”

  “She was exhausted last night. Good grief. She was in a crash where a woman died. She should have stayed home today.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Jack sighed. “Call a truce. Get Connor married. After that, she and I will talk. We’ll figure something out.”

  “Bzz! Wrong answer. You need a game plan. You need to speak up.”

  “And say what?”

  “Say what you want. You can’t keep Jill in this no-man’s-land any longer. I don’t care how many weddings you have to go to. What exactly do you want, Jack?”

  “To trim Mrs. Bengsten’s calluses.” He turned and walked out the door.

  Chapter 41

  Jill poked a fork at her lunch salad and avoided the concerned expressions aimed at her from across the table. The wincing women in the restaurant booth were Gretchen and the station manager, Nan Zimmer.

  Jill had just described last night’s screech owl routine aimed at Jack.

  “My opinion?” Nan spoke first.

  Jill met the tawny eyes. Nan was about ten years older, the most together woman imaginable with smooth mocha-colored skin and natural curls clipped very short. Her stylish clothes flowed on a well-toned body. Beneath the lovely outward appearance beat a lovelier heart.

  “Jill,” Nan went on, “you’ve got too much on your plate. It happens to all of us. Even you. Superwoman is the creation of some misogynist who got a sick kick out of dumping a load of guilt on us. There is nothing sinful about not being able to fix your marriage, arrange a wedding, entertain the in-laws-to-be, promote a book, conduct live interviews, correspond with listeners, and recover from trauma and bruises all within a week’s time.”

  “The wedding is two weeks away.”

  “Jilli
an.” Her tone reprimanded. “I just told you there is no guilt or shame in this situation. Something has got to go.”

  “Work.”

  Nan nodded.

  “But work is my sanity.”

  Gretchen barked a laugh. “Which is at an all-time record low. I’d say it’s down to the lockup level. But there’s no cause for alarm. Nan and I promise to find the best facility for you.”

  Jill blinked back tears. Gretchen had no idea how close to the truth she spoke. Or that Jill already had her facility chosen. It was back in Sweetwater with her mom and dad and ring of mountains and hairdressing twins. But . . . “I can’t quit.”

  Nan said, “Then I’ll fire you. Temporarily, Jill. You’ll get through everything else on your list and come back better than ever, wiser than ever.”

  Gretchen nodded. “Full of lemonade stories. Like how God gave you a whole bushel of lemons when you had to go live with your parents, as an adult, in Backwater Springs.”

  “Sweetwater Springs.”

  “Water whatever. It’s the desert for crying out loud. Why do they call it water anything? Anyway, it’s like Moses, banished from Egypt, working for his father-in-law for forty years in the middle of nowhere. Then he sees a burning bush and hears God’s voice. And there you have it!”

  “Have what?”

  “Lemonade!”

  Nan burst into laughter. “You skipped the burning bush part of the analogy. Where does Jill get that?”

  Gretchen drew back and gazed down her ski-slope nose at Nan. “Do I look like God to you? How should I know?”

  Grinning, Nan turned to Jill. “She’s right. All we know is that God is faithful. He will give you your own burning bush. He’ll reward you with a gift from the desert, a story to tell others to encourage them in their own journeys.”

  Gretchen leaned forward. “All journeys are strewn with lemons, you know.”

  “You stole that line from me.”

  “So sue me, sweetums.”

  Jill tried to rest in their banter, in their loving care for her well-being.

  They weren’t even aware of the debilitating fear that had struck her that morning and yet they provided a way out. By allowing her to take a leave of absence—no guilt, no strings attached—she could breathe more easily.

  Earlier she had been doing fine. Considering that she had kicked her husband out at the exact moment he seemed ready to sit down and talk about them, the fact that she got out of bed feeling clearheaded was in itself a miracle.

  Then there was the mishap in the garage. Any other day the crumpled garbage can under the right rear tire would have caused her to fuss and fume. With her heightened awareness of the role of trash cans, however, she calmly asked herself what it meant. She decided it meant that she did not belong behind the wheel of a car. She took the train downtown.

  She arrived at the studio in time to catch up on work-related items before lunch with Nan and Gretchen. While she chatted with the receptionist, one of the announcers greeted her with a bear hug.

  That was when clearheaded and calm went out the window. Her grip on reality began to wobble and the debilitating fear circled, looking for a way inside.

  Sam and his brother Don were the luvvies of the staff, their morning show a longtime listener favorite. Sam had ducked out and a moment later she heard the two of them on the lobby speakers, discussing her.

  “Guess who I just saw in the lobby. Hey! Let’s get her in here.”

  Before she could protest, they had her seated before a microphone, headset on. Her eyes went to the control panel and she panicked at the sight of it. It was all she could do to sit still and not whimper.

  At that moment, deep in her heart, she knew there was no way on earth she was ready to return to her job on the radio. How could she ever be ready to sit in that chair again, flip switches, watch the clock, and talk about how to succeed at marriage?

  She said now to her friends, “All right. I need a break. I’ll take it.”

  * * *

  Bolstered by Nan and Gretchen’s confidence that a recipe for lemonade was in the works, Jill phoned the man she’d been avoiding.

  “Jill, how are you?” Lew Mowers had always been the quintessential pastor—kind, caring, friendly, never condescending or harsh, wise beyond his fifty years. Why she had hesitated before talking to him pointed, as it had with her dad, to her stupid pride.

  “I’m . . . I’m . . . I don’t really know how I am.”

  In short order he wove the conversation around recent events and her state of mind. Gretchen had filled him in on the highlights, so he was aware of her and Jack’s separation and the accident. He did not know about Connor.

  Jill said, “I’m sure I can talk him into having you perform the ceremony.”

  “Jill, hold it right there. Connor is a wonderful young man. I’ve known him his entire life, but that doesn’t mean I’m the one he wants for his wedding. My feelings are not hurt in the least. He and Emma need to make their own choices and you, Mama, need to let them.”

  Things went downhill from there. She suspected it was the only way up. God’s convoluted take on how to mold His people into the best possible versions of themselves seemed, at times, perverse. Lew’s words sliced through her. They filleted her soul.

  The conversation eventually got around to Jack. She said, with too much heat in her voice, “He won’t agree to see you for counseling.”

  “Again, Jill, not a problem. Just because you hear God speak through me does not mean everyone does. Trust that God will provide others to minister to Jack. If you want to talk with me and Lindsay,” he mentioned his wife, “we are available. You know that. And you know we’re praying for you and Jack and Connor and Emma.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Now, what do you want to do about your ladies’ class?”

  An image came to mind of another ladies’ class. She stood before it, spouting off about the demise of her marriage.

  Lew said, “Would you like an extended sabbatical?”

  She shook her head and nodded and shook it again.

  In the wake of her silence, he answered his own question. “Yes, I think that’s a good idea. We will see you when we see you.”

  Chapter 42

  Jill spotted Connor standing curbside at the airport in almost the same spot she had waited the night before. She parked nearby and sprang out of the car.

  “Mom!” He hurried to meet her and wrapped his arms around her. “Are you all right?”

  She looked up at him. “I told you I was. You didn’t need to come home yet.”

  He studied her face exactly like his dad the doctor would. “You’re really okay?”

  “I am fine.” She looked behind him, away from those blue eyes that knew her too well. “Where’s Emma?”

  “She and her parents stayed in Denver. They have more sightseeing to do.”

  “Oh, Connor.” Jill spoke with remorse. “Why did you cut your time short with them?”

  “I figured it was time to stop putting myself first. It’s obvious you and Dad need some moral support ASAP. Mom, about that other phone call, I am sorry for being—”

  “Truthful? For being real?” She shook her head. “I’m grateful for your honesty.”

  “My delivery needs some work.”

  “And so does my receptivity.”

  “I know you disapprove of things I’ve done, but it’s my life.” Evidently he needed to get some things off his chest right then and there, curbside at O’Hare.

  “Yes, it is your life, Connor. And you do not have to earn my love or my approval. All right?”

  A slow grin spread across his face. “All right.”

  She smiled and handed him the car keys.

  He made bug eyes and opened his mouth wide. “No way.”

  Jill shrugged and walked toward the car, consciously choosing to let him gather his luggage by himself without her instruction or muscle. Like allowing him to drive, it was an act of letting go of the old, cont
rolling Jill. Baby steps, for sure. But movement all the same.

  His silly reaction to the keys indicated he noticed her effort. Of course, how could he not? Except for the season when he was required to practice in order to get his license, she had been driving the kid around for twenty-three years.

  Kid? Connor was a young man, about to be married, whose gaze discomfited her because it saw right through her and shed light on every mothering flaw.

  But earlier that day he had phoned her rather than his dad. He had asked her to pick him up at the airport after a seven-month absence. Maybe that added up to something akin to forgiveness.

  Maybe it meant it wasn’t too late to be a better mother.

  * * *

  “Mom, did you grow up eating pie for breakfast?” Connor set the rolling pin on the countertop and surveyed his work, a paper-thin circle of dough.

  Jill laughed. “No.” She set down the vegetable peeler and flexed her fingers. “How many apples do we want?”

  “Grandma’s recipe calls for five more. You can’t stop yet.” He grinned and picked up the peeler. “I’ll work on them. Why don’t you slice?”

  They stood across from each other at the counter where the bottom of its L shape cut across the kitchen, dividing workspace from eating area. They were trying to re-create his favorite “Daisy Breakfast.”

  The hour was late. They hadn’t arrived home from the airport until after ten o’clock. Despite their clearing of the air earlier, they tiptoed around the obvious: Jack’s absence. How should Connor reunite with him, the father who no longer lived at home? Should they invite him over? Did Jack even have to wait for an invitation? Should Connor leave his mother and go to Jack’s place? The questions remained unspoken.

  This was new territory. Jill wondered if she would research it someday, draw from personal experience, and air a program about it. The thought made her cringe.

  Jill bit her tongue and offered no solution.

  Eventually Jack and Connor resolved the issue without her input. Connor got off the phone and said something about his dad’s early surgery in the morning, the lateness of the hour, when they could touch base tomorrow.