Love and a Little White Lie

by Tammy L. Gray

  “Okay, where do we start?” I ask.

  “Luke. It’s my favorite.”

  “Really? Why’s that?” I flip past a few silky pages and find the table of contents. It takes me toward the back.

  “Because it’s all about forgiveness, and my heart doesn’t feel a whole lot of that right now.”

  The comment is so similar to her daughter’s that I nearly reveal the reason I came. But for some reason, I feel this pressing on my throat to keep silent, so I do and instead turn to the first verse. “‘Many have undertaken to draw up an account of the things that have been fulfilled among us . . .’”

  I’m actually a little disappointed when my phone dings that our time is up. We switched from the Bible to a fictional story about a young Egyptian girl who’s sold into slavery, and I’m right at the part where she meets her new master.

  I set her e-book reader on the chair as I stand. “I’m afraid I have to get back to work, Mrs. Cox.”

  “Will you come back soon?” She reaches out for my hand again, and I feel a surge of affection this time when I take it.

  “Yes, ma’am. Tomorrow at the same time.”

  She exhales and smiles. “You, my sweet Jan, are an answer to prayer.”

  The words bring a scowl to my face. She’s the second person who’s said that to me this week and I don’t like it. “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. I’m just trying to do a little good in a very rough world.” And heck, if Mom is right about karma, it’s time to turn some of it into the positive.

  “We don’t always know when God is using us, my child, but I guarantee He is.”

  I pull my hand away. This is one side effect I hadn’t anticipated when taking the job. All these people ever talk about is God doing this and God doing that. Well, so far my life hasn’t exactly been roses and cupcakes, so even if I were to believe in their lunacy, I’d certainly have a few choice words to say to the man, none of which would include a thank you.

  “You have a nice day, Mrs. Cox. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She’s still talking when I escape from the room. The air feels hot now and weighted, and all I want to do is get back in my car and drive and drive until the feeling goes away.

  I make it down the hall and nearly to the exit when I see a flash of curly orange hair that’s too familiar to ignore. I press my back against the wall and slide out of sight. Ralph is here, and while my need to hide makes no sense, I want to shrink into the walls. Sandra Cox’s words burrowed under my skin, and now I feel as though my deception is plastered all over my face.

  “You can’t just show up here, Ralph.” It’s from the nurse who gave me the bandages. The one who looked as distraught as I feel.

  “What do you expect when you don’t answer my calls or my texts?”

  “What’s the point? Nothing has changed. And I refuse to be second in your life. Not anymore.”

  His sigh holds that same frustration I heard when he asked Eric for more help. “You know I can’t do what you’re asking. There’s expectations. My reputation to consider.”

  “Is your reputation more important than me?” Her voice is so broken I know tears are coming, and I feel sick eavesdropping on their conversation. Sicker still that their back-and-forth sounds clandestine, especially since I know that Ralph is married.

  I glance around for any sort of escape and realize the entrance to the women’s restroom is only inches away from me. I push through the door and immediately go for the sink, my stomach turning so hard I think I might start retching.

  Ralph is a cheater. Just like my ex. And my three stepfathers.

  Heck, just like every other man in this stupid, twisted world.

  I turn on the faucet and am splashing cool water on my face when the bathroom door swings open. It’s the nurse, and there are tears streaked down her cheeks and red rims around her eyes. But none of the friendliness I felt toward her earlier is there. I want to yell at her, remind her that families are devastated when a partner strays. I know this truth far too intimately.

  But I don’t say any of those things, just watch as she goes to the sink next to me and grips it like she might throw up.

  “I saw you duck in here,” she says quietly, though her throat sounds constricted. “Thank you.” She looks at herself in the mirror. “Twenty-six years. You’d think I’d know by now that he will never change.”

  Twenty-six years? My brain throbs as if it knows it’s missing something critically important. That’s when I catch her reflection and see the bright red nametag she’s been wearing all day. Victoria O’Neal. Ralph’s last name. Ralph’s wife.

  He’s not cheating after all.

  The responding relief makes no sense, but I want to crumple to the floor and burst into tears myself. I know I shouldn’t hold him to a higher standard for working at a church, but I do. Just like Cameron and Eric and even ultra-perceptive Margie. I want them to be better than the rest of the world. Need them to be.

  Victoria is still looking at herself in the mirror when she says, “I left him a week ago. Packed a bag and went to stay with my sister. I thought it would wake him up.”

  My head spins, yet so much of what I saw in Ralph now makes sense. The rumpled clothes, the frustrated, bottle-tight responses, the plea for Eric to give him some relief. That poor man is losing his wife. No wonder he seems ready to break down.

  “Well, he did come here.” It’s the best I can offer without telling her I’m his temporary assistant. That would probably not go over too well at this point. “And from what I saw, he looked pretty upset.”

  “Not enough to go to counseling. Or enough to work less, or even enough to do something as simple as bring me flowers.” She shakes her head again and looks back at the sink. I see another tear fall. “It’s just time to accept that we don’t know each other anymore. Not since our kids left.”

  I don’t answer because I really have nothing more to offer. Longevity in relationships has never been something my mom or I have been able to achieve, whereas Victoria has over two decades of experience. But it does seem especially tragic that a marriage can sustain that much time and still fall apart.

  “My mom’s been married four times. None of them to good guys.” I don’t know why I’m telling her this. I never talk about my mom, or my childhood for that matter. “If you’ve made it twenty-six years . . . I don’t know, but if it were me, I’d fight like hell to make it last.” I realize as soon as I speak that the h-e-l-l word isn’t really accepted in Christian circles. Or at least Doreen used to fuss at me when I’d use the term as a kid. Always cracked me up, because if she’d walked down the halls of my school and heard the language there, she’d probably go into cardiac arrest.

  Victoria doesn’t seem to care about my terminology. She just keeps sniffling and looking down at the sink.

  I don’t know what else to say, so I simply pass behind her and offer to give her some privacy. Doreen would have prayed for her. Would have held her hand and spoken some great wisdom or truth. I don’t have any of that to give; if I did, I wouldn’t be staying in a wedding cabin, licking wounds from one relationship while wearing completely ridiculous shoes for another one.

  Suddenly everything about Cameron feels stupid and silly. We have nothing in common. And like Dillon so ineloquently pointed out, anything that does start will be based on a lie. Been there, done that, and it never ends well.

  When I get to my car, I’m feeling more defeated than I have in days. If people like Ralph and Sandra, who have devoted their entire lives in service to their God, are struggling this much, how is there any hope for me?

  ten

  The day finishes as lousy as it started. Ralph is distant, moody, and curt, and I can’t really blame him because now I know his secret and it makes me look at him differently. I’m fully aware of my hypocrisy even if it is justified. It’s human nature to judge people by their weaknesses. And everyone in this church would do the same if they knew mine.

  I leave as soon as the cloc
k strikes four, since I’m on a part-time schedule—Monday through Thursday, eight to four. They don’t have me come in on Fridays, as almost the entire staff works Sunday through Thursday. It’s a weird system but seems to be the accepted schedule in this church culture. I’m grateful for it today, though, because my capacity to smile and act like all is well is sorely limited.

  Unfortunately, coming home doesn’t ease my mood any, especially when I see that Dillon has been in my bathroom. The ceiling is fixed and primed. He left a paint can in the corner, which will likely be gone tomorrow.

  Knowing he was here without me, even though I pretty much gave him permission last time, leaves an acidic taste in my mouth. His words have continued to seep into my bones, and with each pang it brings a familiar burn of anger to the surface. No one invited him to give commentary on my life, though he seems determined to do just that since our first conversation.

  I slam the bathroom door and tear into my bedroom, tossing aside my jumpsuit for a much more suitable pair of jeans, long-sleeve T-shirt, and walking shoes. I nearly moan when I put them on.

  My walk will make me feel better. It always does. I’ll walk out this feeling of unrest, of disappointment and self-reflection. I’ll remind myself that my time in Texas is temporary and best served if I stay away from forming a relationship that will undoubtedly lead to more pain.

  I shut my door to the cabin at the same time my phone buzzes in my pocket. For a second, I think it might be my mom, and for that brief period of time I feel a surge of hope that maybe she’s come around.

  It’s not my mom, though. It’s Doreen, asking if I’ll be coming to dinner.

  I text back a yes because I don’t think I have the capacity to be alone tonight. I feel this tug inside of me, this wrenching and twisting that is as unwelcome as it is uncomfortable.

  I was so stupid taking that prayer card, thinking I could help someone else when my entire existence is one big do-over right now.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Cox,” I say out loud as I take that first step. I won’t be going back to that nursing home. If her God wants to use someone, well, it’s not going to be me.

  “You’re awful quiet tonight.” Doreen’s watching me with the keen eye of a parent as I push around the contents of my plate with a fork. “Something wrong?”

  “No. Just tired.” I glance up and smile at her to make my case, but I can already tell by the gleam in her eyes that I’m not going to be let off the fishing hook anytime soon.

  “Tell you what—since you seem to be finished, why don’t we go out on the patio and let Jim clean up tonight?”

  I can tell my uncle wants to protest as much as I do, but Doreen’s tone isn’t up for negotiation. To further her stance, she stands and slides her plate on top of her husband’s. “I’m going to go light the fire pit. Jan, get a jacket on; it’s cold outside.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble to my uncle as I walk past him with my barely eaten dinner in hand. “She’s mother-henning tonight.”

  “No worries, Teapot. Doing the dishes every once in a while keeps me out of the doghouse.”

  I don’t know why Uncle Jim calls me Teapot, but he has for as long as I can remember. It warms me now, that consistency he’s always shown. Unlike Doreen, Uncle Jim doesn’t like crowds or gatherings or big displays. He’s all quiet strength. Introverted and amiable, but when needed, he stands up as the clear leader of his family. He’s the most steadfast male figure I’ve had in my life, and I don’t know why, but I set down my plate and hug the back of his shoulders.

  It’s awkward because neither of us is prone to affection, yet I can’t seem to help myself. Everything in my psyche is off today, which makes my impending discussion with Doreen even more terrifying. She reads me way too well.

  I set my dishes in the sink, grab my coat, and take the dreaded steps out the back door and onto the patio. She has the fire pit going, a blanket wrapped around her legs, and a determined set to her chin.

  “Sit,” she says, patting the cushion next to her. I do as she asks, because that’s just how it is between us. “Now, tell me what’s going on with you.”

  I want to talk about my horrible day. About the disappointment of Cameron being absent, the thrill of helping Sandra only to have it crash down around me by seeing the degradation of Ralph and his wife. But instead I find myself asking a question I never have before.

  “Why didn’t you ever take me to church?” The words make her sigh and lean back on the love seat we’re sharing. Still, I press. “I came every summer for a month, and yet I have no memory of going to any sort of church function.”

  “It was a stipulation your mom gave me. You could come and stay with me, but if you returned home quoting Bible stories or singing hymns, she’d stop the visits altogether.” Doreen looks at the arbor overhead. “It was a struggle every year, knowing what you were being cheated out of but fearfully unwilling to step over Cassie’s clearly drawn line.”

  It jars me for a second, hearing my mom’s childhood nickname come out. Her given name is Cassidy Elizabeth Sanders. Same last name as mine because my father split a month before I was born. She’s changed hers four times now, Burch being the latest one and maybe the best of the four. I don’t know, I’ve only spoken with him a handful of times, the second being their wedding day.

  Even when I lived in Georgia, I stopped going to my mom’s house. Too many memories there that would nip at my serenity. Instead, we’d meet for lunch or she’d come to my small one-bedroom apartment. Our relationship is not like Doreen’s and mine. My mom isn’t a nurturer or even a mother really.

  She’s always been the needy one and I’m her strength, even when I have none left. Our twisted relationship is why I knew I couldn’t go back to my hometown, back to her complaints and needs and endless frustrated commentary about her newest deadbeat husband. Yet, at the same time, I find myself missing her more and more each day. Because even though she’ll never win Mother of the Year, my mom has been the most consistent source of love in my life. Without her, I really am alone.

  “Do you remember our weekly ‘girl day’?” Doreen’s question pulls me from the recesses of my mind.

  I’m grateful. Days of reflection annoy me. They don’t come often, and when they do, I feel no capacity to handle the self-examination.

  “Of course I remember. They were my favorite.” We’d leave the boys behind, go have breakfast, then do some shopping in Arlington.

  “They were every Sunday morning for a reason.” She sits straight again and runs a loving hand down my cheek. “I guess I always hoped our closeness would one day open the door that your mom seems so determined to seal shut.”

  That uncomfortable feeling slams into me again and I stand, needing to move as much as I have all day.

  Doreen must see my discomfort because she doesn’t tell me to sit back down. Instead, she curls the blanket in her fists and says, “It’s okay to ask questions, Jan. And even more okay to seek answers. You’re not betraying your mom by doing so.”

  Tears prick my eyes. It’s a backward mentality, I realize that. To hate how my mom leans on me to the point of breaking, and yet I feel completely empty because of the distance. I wonder if they have chapters on this in psychology class. If our messed-up relationship can be defined by some four-syllable word in a textbook somewhere. I wish someone would highlight the chapter and give me a solution, because right now it feels hopeless.

  “I’m already betraying her,” I say, which is exactly how I feel. Being with Doreen, working at a church, it’s everything my mom loathes. “Her ultimatum at Christmas made it clear that she believes I am.”

  I spent the holiday in Texas with Doreen, Uncle Jim, and my two cousins and their families. Doreen is twelve years older than my mom, so even though Doreen was in her late twenties when she adopted her two sons, and Mom had me at only nineteen, both my cousins are married—one with a kid, the other with a bun in the oven. Meanwhile, I can’t even seem to make a relationship last more than sev
en lousy months.

  “Cassie is . . .” She pauses like she’s really trying to find the right words. “Well, she’s complicated. Mom died when she was so young, and your pawpaw, though he tried, was too overcome with grief to be the kind of father she needed.”

  “You turned out okay.”

  “I had my mom for seventeen years. Cassie had her for only five. We didn’t have the same childhood.” The sadness in her voice is palpable, and I sit back down because I’ve done it again. Brought up the one subject that seems to deflate that powerhouse spirit in my aunt.

  Something horrible happened between my mom and aunt the week before Pawpaw’s funeral. Something bigger than normal sibling arguments, and afterward nothing was the same. They fought over the will, the funeral service, even down to what clothes he’d be buried in. My cousins and I quietly stayed out of it and slowly watched the demise of a sisterhood.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have dumped this on you.” I wrap an arm around her shoulders and rub her upper arm. “Mom will come around. For both of us, I’m sure.”

  “That’s what I pray for every day.” Doreen lays her hand on my cheek again and smiles. “You know, it’s been an awful long time since we had a girl day. I think maybe we’re overdue.”

  Her offer surprises me and brings a new wave of emotion. “I’d love that.”

  “It’s a date. I’ll pick you up Sunday morning at nine.”

  I know she’s giving me an out. Time to process these new thoughts and feelings I’m having without the pressure of stepping into Grace Community on a Sunday morning. It’s a sacrifice for her that I don’t miss or take lightly.

  And never in my life have I loved my aunt more than I do right now.

  eleven

  I’m feeling so much better when I wake up on Thursday morning that I nearly cheer when I see the sun through my windows. The bad thing about my mind is that once a thought takes hold, it snakes and burrows until I grab the unwelcome intrusion and rip it away. The good thing about my mind is that once I do, I’m free. No more self-reflection and no more burden of conscience.