Giving Thanks For Baby

by Terri Reed

  The next few pages showed Michelle as a child. She was a cute little girl with dark pigtails and a huge smile.

  From the looks of the pictures she seemed to have had a happy childhood and Trista said as much.

  “What do you know about it?” Mom barked.

  “You look happy in this picture, Mom,” Ross interjected and pointed to a picture of Michelle and her father.

  “Yeah, well, looks can be deceiving.” She slammed the book closed.

  Trista frowned. She’d never thought much about her mother’s childhood. Michelle hadn’t been the warm and fuzzy type of mother. She hadn’t shared stories of her girlhood or had even taken much of an interest in Trista’s girlhood.

  A disappointment that still stung.

  But now that she had her own child, she did wonder what had happened to make her mother so cold.

  Taking the book, Trista sat in the recliner. Flipping through the photos kept her from having to relate to her mother. Though she wasn’t sure how she felt about glimpsing into her mother’s life. There were pictures of birthday parties and friends. Michelle as a child, a preteen. Then as a teen.

  As the pictures progressed in age, Trista noticed a marked difference in the way her mother looked. The smile had dimmed to the point where as a teen she looked sullen. The sparkle in her eyes had disappeared.

  In the earlier pictures, Michelle had looked so happy, especially in the photos with her father, a tall, good-looking man with a charming smile.

  Trista paused and folded back a picture of a teenage Michelle and her father to compare with an earlier photo. In the first image, father and daughter were laughing and she was leaning into him. In the later picture, her father had his arm around Michelle, holding her in place as if she might bolt at any moment.

  But it was the expression in her eyes that disturbed Trista. She’d seen that sort of haunted, battered expression before.

  Recently, in fact.

  On Lynda Matthews.

  A chill ran over Trista’s skin. Had her grandfather abused her mother? Was that why she’d become an alcoholic? Why she hadn’t taken much interest in her children?

  Swallowing back the lump of compassion lodged in her throat, Trista stood. “We should go.”

  Ross frowned and shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “Go?” Michelle asked. Her thin hand clutched at the bed railing. “I want to go. Please don’t leave me here.”

  Ross shot Trista a glare before patting Mom’s hand. “This is where you live now, Mom. You’re fine. Everything is fine.”

  Michelle sat up and stared at Trista. “Mother, is that you?”

  Forcing back the sudden tears that sprang to the backs of her eyes, Trista said, “It’s me, Trista.”

  Michelle tried to get up. “I need to find my mother before he comes home. I don’t want to be alone with him.”

  A sickening dread filled Trista. She wanted to leave but she was drawn forward with a morbid sense of curiosity and the need to help her mother. “Who don’t you want to be alone with?”

  “Mom, settle down,” Ross directed as he tried to ease Michelle back.

  “No, don’t hurt me!” Michelle shouted as she fought against him.

  He pushed the call button.

  Trista grabbed her mother’s hand. The bones felt so small and crushable. “Who hurt you? Was it your father?”

  Michelle pulled her hand away with surprising strength. An ugly rage lit the depths of her dark eyes. “I’ll never let him do that again. I’ll never let anyone hurt me again.”

  “Oh, Mom.” Trista’s heart twisted in her chest and the need to protect rose sharply, unexpectedly. “No one’s going to hurt you. You’re safe here.”

  Mrs. Angelo rushed in the room, took one look at the situation and turned back around. A moment later she returned followed by an orderly. “Okay, visiting time is over.” In her hand she held a hypodermic needle.

  “What are you giving her?” Trista demanded.

  “Just a little valium. Nothing that will harm her,” she answered as she tried to maneuver her way past Trista.

  Ross took Trista by the shoulders and moved her back. “Let her do her job.”

  The orderly held Mom down as Mrs. Angelo gave her the shot. Within a few moments the orderly was able to let go and Mom once again sank back into the bedding. She closed her eyes and her breathing eased.

  Trista stopped Mrs. Angelo in the hallway. “I think she was abused by her father. Do you know anything about that?”

  Mrs. Angelo’s expression became sympathetic. “I gathered that from things she has said over the past few months. It’s typical for patients with Alzheimer’s to relive painful memories, especially if they’ve never dealt with them.”

  Trista turned her gaze to Ross. “We have to do something. To help her.”

  Ross’s big brown eyes showed sorrow. “We’re doing what we can.”

  “I can give you some literature on the disease,” offered Mrs. Angelo.

  A deep welling of pity and compassion robbed Trista of her voice. Not only was her mother suffering from this awful disease but the past abuse was tormenting her mind.

  Trista nodded, indicating she’d take the literature. When Mrs. Angelo came back with some pamphlets, Trista stuffed them in her purse and allowed Ross to lead her to the car.

  A strange numbness seeped into Trista. Sitting in the passenger seat watching life go by outside kept her from thinking about her mother. About the trauma she’d revealed.

  “You okay?” Ross asked.

  “Did you know?” Trista twisted in the seat to stare at his strong profile.

  His jaw clenched, then slowly he nodded.

  “When?”

  “Dad told me years ago.”

  His words hit her like a fist to the gut. “Years ago? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You were fifteen and angry at the world.”

  She clenched her fists. “I wasn’t angry at the world. I was angry with them. You should have told me.”

  “And what would you have done with that knowledge?”

  “I don’t know. It would have helped me understand her. Maybe I could have convinced her to get help.”

  He gave her a sharp glance. “Don’t you think Dad tried?”

  “He was a drunk, too. How could he help her?”

  How many times had she seen Ross drag their dad home from a drinking binge? How many times had she witnessed her mother and father sharing a bottle? Too many to count and too many to forget.

  “He didn’t always drink. You were too young to remember, but he was a good dad in the beginning. For both of us. But years with Mom and her repressed anger and hate beat him down. I think it was easier for him to join her in drinking than trying to fight her to stop.”

  “That sucks,” Trista fumed.

  “Yes, it does. But it’s the reality we have.”

  “I wish you had told me. If not then, at least later. Before I married Kevin.”

  “What does Kevin have to do with this?”

  Trista shrugged, unwilling to reveal that Kevin wanted to meet with her and how upsetting she found that. “I might have done things differently. I might have tried to forge a relationship with Mother before she got like this.”

  Regret and sadness clutched at her making her ache.

  “Well, I can’t change the past.”

  “I know.” She sighed and pulled out the pamphlets on Alzheimer’s. “Why do you think she never got counseling?”

  “Too ashamed. Too full of pride. I don’t know.”

  The need to understand burned in her chest. “I want to find out what happened to her. Did he beat her? Sexually assault her? Did her mother know?”

  “You’ll make yourself crazy asking questions like that. She’s not in any shape to tell you and you’d only upset her if you try to make her.” His expression was tender when he glanced over at her. “Leave it alone, Trista. Concentrate on your life. Yours and Aidan’s.”

  But
that was just it. She needed to understand her mother’s past so she could be a better mother to Aidan. An image of Lynda rose in her mind. The bruise, the scared expression in her son’s eyes. Trista had to find a way to help Lynda, especially since it was too late to help her mother.

  Ross pulled up outside of Trista’s apartment. “So what time is your date with Pastor Scott?”

  She’d forgotten about that. She poked Ross in the ribs. “It’s not a date.” She glanced at her watch. “And I’m going to be late if I don’t hurry and freshen up.” She slid out of the car. “I’ll call Kelly and let her know you’re on your way home.”

  He grinned. “I’m sure Aidan’s just fine.”

  Wrinkling up her nose, she stated, “I’m sure he is, too.”

  She waved goodbye and then went to her apartment. It was cold and empty. Unbearable without Aidan.

  After calling Kelly, she changed out of her linen pantsuit and into jeans and a sweater. Just as she was rushing to the door the phone rang. Thinking it might be Kelly calling back, she answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, babe.”

  She frowned as irritation heated her skin. “You said you’d call tomorrow.”

  “I had a moment. So how about lunch on Tuesday?”

  “I told you I’d have to check my schedule at work. Call me tomorrow evening.”

  “Right. The big lawyerly schedule.”

  Her blood pressure rose at the dig. “What is it you need to speak to me about, anyway?”

  “I want to reconnect with my favorite girl,” he replied smoothly.

  “Favorite until the next one comes along,” she shot back.

  “Come on, no need to get nasty. I’d like to talk. Nothing more. I’ll call you tomorrow.” He hung up.

  Trista slammed down the receiver and sank onto the couch. The emotional roller coaster the day had turned out to be was wearing her down. All she wanted to do was curl up next to Aidan and sleep.

  But how did she get hold of the pastor to cancel their…not-a-date date?

  Scott stood in line outside the Chestnut Grove theater with a ticket in his hand. He’d wanted to buy Trista’s ticket, but he was afraid she wouldn’t appreciate it since this was not a date.

  The late-afternoon sun turned the snow on the ground to slush. People were taking advantage of the break in the blustery fall weather. The long line outside the theater began to move and Scott stepped forward, his gaze searching the street for any sign of Trista.

  He checked his watch. The movie was set to start in ten minutes. She was already a half hour late. A disquieting queasiness roused old fears and insecurities. Was Trista standing him up?

  He checked his e-mail on his PDA. No new mail.

  At the door to the theater, he stepped out of line and moved closer to the ticket box. He could turn in his ticket and get a refund. Disappointment and irritation settled heavily on his chest. He’d been looking forward to getting to know Trista.

  “I’d like a refund please,” he told the cashier behind the glass.

  The young boy looked bored. “I’m sorry. We don’t give refunds once the show has begun.”

  He frowned as annoyance tightened in his chest. “There’s still five minutes.”

  The boy shrugged, unconcerned. “The previews have started. Sorry. Theater policy.”

  “Scott?”

  At the sound of Trista’s voice something in Scott lightened. He turned to see her hurrying toward him. She looked sleek and beautiful in her faded jeans, dark boots and red sweater beneath an unzipped black parka. Her hair hung loose and blew crazily in the late-afternoon breeze.

  “Is it too late?” she asked between breaths.

  “I don’t know.” Scott turned back to the boy. “Can I buy another ticket?”

  “Sorry. It’s sold out.”

  “Bummer,” Trista said. “I’m sorry.”

  Relief that she hadn’t stood him up made him smile. “No problem.”

  He studied her face. There were black smudges beneath her eyes. From the cold or from tears? His chest knotted with concern and his earlier irritation dissipated. “How about a cup of hot chocolate and piece of pie instead?”

  “That sounds wonderful.”

  “Good. I’m not sure I’m up for the Starlight Diner. How about the bookstore café?”

  “Perfect. And I’m game to walk to the café if you are,” she said.

  “Let’s,” he agreed and held out his arm.

  As they walked down Main Street to The Reading Rainbow Palace, Scott sensed the pensive mood overtaking Trista. He hoped she’d trust him enough to open up about what was bothering her because he’d like to help her.

  And he couldn’t deny how nice it felt to have her on his arm. But this was not a date.

  Chapter Five

  “This rivals the Starlight any day,” Trista said between bites of Dutch apple pie. The toasted brown sugar melted in her mouth and the spices, cinnamon and nutmeg, combined with the tart apples were nirvana for her taste buds.

  Scott grinned. “I think this came from the Starlight.”

  She liked the way the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Really?” She shook her head. “They outdid themselves then.”

  “Considering I wolfed mine down in three bites, I’d say so,” he agreed.

  “Well, it’s not like you have to watch your weight.” She’d more than noticed his trim physique, his broad shoulders and all-American good looks. Dressed in cargo pants and a rugby shirt under his leather bomber, he looked more like a model in a magazine than a pastor. Which made this “not a date” not only harder, but confusing.

  “So, Ross mentioned this morning that you two were going to visit your mother. How did that go?”

  She met his gaze, noting the darker blue ring around the lighter blue irises. “You talked to Ross?”

  “After church.”

  Uh-oh. She braced herself, wondering if her brother had grilled him about meeting her at the movie. “What did he say?”

  “Just what I told you. Should he have said something more?”

  “No,” she said.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Stalling, she took a sip of her cocoa.

  “I’m guessing it didn’t go so well?”

  When the moment stretched, she relented because she had no reason to be rude. “It was…how much has Ross told you about our mother?”

  His gaze turned sympathetic. “A little. She has Alzheimer’s.”

  Trista laid down her fork. Tension pulled at the muscles in her shoulders. Still she hesitated, uncomfortable with the chaos of emotions the visit had brought. She reminded herself he was a pastor, a man who should be good at listening and giving advice. And she had a favor to ask of him—as a pastor. “Mom’s in the advanced stages. She thought I was her mother.”

  “That must be hard for you to see her in that condition.”

  Pressing her lips together to keep her emotions under control, Trista nodded. “We found her in the closet, hiding. Her nurse said it’s typical of Alzheimer’s victims to relive some trauma from the past. I think she was abused by her father as a child.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I guess it makes sense. Some abused children grow to abuse their own children.” Seeing the leap of concern in the pastor’s eyes, she quickly added, “Ross and I were never physically hurt.” She frowned as some memory just beyond her reach tapped for attention. “At least I don’t think we were. But my mother was emotionally abusive. I sometimes can still hear her voice in my head telling me I’m no good, I won’t amount to anything.”

  He reached out to lay a hand over hers. “And look what you’ve done with your life. You’ve succeeded. You didn’t let your mother’s words dictate your future,” he pointed out.

  Taking comfort from his touch, she said, “That was more Ross’s influence than anything else. He was the anchor in the storm of my childhood.”

  “What about your father?”


  A vague image rose of her father sitting on the stoop of their flat in Brooklyn, his head resting on the iron railing, a bottle in a brown bag clutched in his hand. He smelled like booze and needed a shave. She’d skirt around him as she would a homeless man. She shrugged. “A drunk. He was such a nonentity for me. Just someone in the background of my life.”

  “Did you or Ross ever seek help?”

  “Who would we have asked? Both sets of grandparents were gone. We didn’t go church. No one at school cared.”

  “You two must have felt so alone. Scared.”

  She appreciated his empathy but she didn’t want his pity. She’d had enough of that from her in-laws to last a lifetime. “We managed. Like you said, we succeeded in spite of our parents. But now I’m a mom. I want to understand the past so I don’t make mistakes that hurt Aidan.”

  He squeezed her hand. “You’re a good mother. You won’t repeat the past.”

  On some level she knew he was right. “But I have made some mistakes, used bad judgment, and I know that the way I grew up contributed to those decisions. I want to understand my mother but I don’t know how to deal with her.”

  “You don’t have to deal with her alone,” he said, his voice gentle.

  Trista linked her fingers around his. Hanging on to the feelings of trust and support he offered. “Thank you. I appreciate how easy you are to talk to.”

  His smile was pensive. “I’m glad you think so. But I meant let God comfort you. Give Him the past and trust Him with your future.”

  His words brought an ache to her chest. “That sounds so much easier than I know it is.” She held his warm brown gaze, seeing the tenderness of his soul. “I haven’t let God into my life,” she confessed. “Growing up as I did, I couldn’t see how God cared.” She still didn’t.

  “I understand. Without someone to guide you to the truth, how could you find it?”

  His words, full of sincerity, touched her heart. He wasn’t placating her. He wasn’t feeding her a line. Somehow she knew that. And that made her want to know more about him. “Who guided you to God?”

  His eyes lit up. “My grandfather. He used to sit me on his knee and talk about God.”