by Patti Berg
Nelson tramped across the yard, ignoring the fact that his brother was kicking leaves at him, soccer style.
Gideon was the tough guy, enrolled in ROTC and playing sports, to boot. He’d even been recruited by the high school soccer coach to play on the junior varsity team at the beginning of the year.
Nelson, on the other hand, had inherited his dad’s brainy tendencies. James liked words and languages; Nelson was a gifted student and played saxophone, along with being active in Boy Scouts. He had more than seventy merit badges ranging from astronomy to weather, which he’d earned after they’d spent a weekend together last spring making a hygrometer, an instrument to measure relative humidity.
Although Nelson wasn’t all that much into team sports, he excelled in the individual sport of swimming. He’d gotten his technician amateur radio operator license when he was ten, thanks to Fern’s father, who’d been showing Nelson the ins and outs of radio since he was little. His report cards might show nothing more than a B-minus in PE, but he’d scored a lead role in a school play and he had straight As in math and science.
Both boys made their mom and dad proud.
Of course, neither kid was any good at raking leaves; but good or not, they’d get it done sooner or later.
James gave the ball a one-handed lob toward the acrylic board on the portable basketball backstop and watched it roll around the ring three times before dropping through the basket.
“Good shot, Dad, but I think I can do better,” Gideon said, still kicking leaves and annoying his brother.
“Not when the ball’s locked away in my bedroom closet.” James retrieved the ball and tucked it under his arm as he headed up the concrete path toward the front door. “Now get to work.”
James jockeyed the basketball and Fern’s gift around in his arms and listened to the screen door squeal when he pulled it open. Just what he needed. Something else to put on his to-do list. Ignoring it for now, he pushed open the front door and headed into the kitchen, where he dropped the basketball and his backpack on the counter. He hadn’t realized how heavy it was until the weight was off his shoulder, but he had some good bedtime reading inside—the New Testament written in Greek, a Greek-English lexicon, to help him with the words he was a little rusty on, and an early piece of Christian literature, also written in Greek.
Put him in front of a TV watching the Super Bowl or give him books written in Greek, Latin or Old English for Christmas and he was in seventh heaven.
There’d been many a night during Desert Storm, when Scud missiles were being launched right and left, that he’d fallen asleep reading the original Old English version of Beowulf. He’d played football in the sand with his buddies, running for more touchdowns than anyone else in his unit, but his taste in literature had given them an opportunity to laugh, when there hadn’t been much to laugh at in the Persian Gulf.
There’d been a time when he thought Fern would laugh at his preoccupation with old languages, especially when she’d find the books strewn across the sofa or their bed. But then he’d read to her, translating as he went along, and she was mesmerized.
Now he hoped he could mesmerize her, even raise her out of her doldrums, with a fifties twinset.
The house was warm inside; the brightly burning fire crackled in the fireplace that separated the kitchen and family room. Had the boys started the fire for their mom? Had Fern’s sister done it after taking Fern to physical therapy or had Fern managed it on her own? If his wife had done it, had it completely exhausted her?
And what if…James tried to shake the thought out of his head, but he couldn’t. Fern’s balance was precarious. If she’d gotten weak or fallen while lighting the fire, she could have burned herself, even set the house on fire.
Worry was his on-again, off-again companion. Off—or close to off—when they were together; on when they were apart and she was alone.
Dear Lord, keep Fern safe. She’s the light of my life. My heart and soul.
James smiled when he spotted Fern stretched out on the couch in front of the big picture window, a crocheted afghan warming her from neck to toe, and Sapphire, their Maine coon cat, curled up in her lap.
“Have you been sitting there long?” James moved toward his wife, the brightly wrapped gift box in his hands.
“An hour or so. I was watching the boys play basketball, remembering what it was like when they were toddlers and we’d rake the leaves into one big mound and then dive into them like they were snowdrifts.”
Fern combed her fingers through the silver-streaked smoky black ruff around Sapphire’s neck. “If I’d had a better day and if the wind weren’t so cold, I would have sat out on the front porch and cheered them on.”
James’s left brow rose and a smile tugged at his lips. “Before or after their chores and homework?”
“They were having fun, and I didn’t want to spoil that. Life’s too short, and…you never know what might come along to interrupt your ability to enjoy life.”
James kissed his wife softly. “Bad day at physical therapy?” He sat on the magazine-strewn coffee table in front of her and pulled one of her chilled hands into his, tenderly massaging some heat into her fingers and palms.
“I hated every second of it.”
There were times when James wanted to tell Fern to buck up, that if she continued to let herself have bad days, if she didn’t stick with her therapy, the MS could take a bigger hold on her, even cripple her for life. But today wasn’t the day for that, not when the circles beneath her eyes were extra dark and she looked exhausted.
Multiple sclerosis was a horrible disease, already destroying the protective lining of her nerves, often distorting the signals sent from her brain to her spinal column. Some days she felt okay; others, she might stumble, her words might slur. And then there were those days, probably like today, when she felt too weak to move.
And there was nothing he could do for her. “Want to tell me about your day?”
She smiled. “I’d rather see what’s in the box.”
James shook his head. “Not until you spill your guts and get what’s bugging you out in the open.”
“You shouldn’t have to listen to my whining.”
“I’m your husband, and I’m pretty good at listening—so whine away.”
Fern pulled the afghan closer to her neck, disturbing Sapphire, who jumped from her lap and headed for parts unknown—more than likely somewhere in, under or near their bed.
“We’ve decided to give yoga a try.” She picked up the present James had set next to him on the coffee table. She shook it a couple of times. “This is too big and too heavy to be a piece of jewelry or even chocolate candy.”
“I took a risk this time, but you’re not going to find out what it is until you stop changing the subject and tell me what the problem is with yoga.”
“Well,” she said, toying with the package’s colorful ribbon, “Dr. Chopra and Greg Clement, my new therapist—not that there was anything wrong with my old therapist—seem to think yoga might be just the thing for me.”
“And you disagree?”
“Of course I disagree. The whole experience was awful. I couldn’t sit on a floor mat, like a real yoga enthusiast, because I’d never be able to get up again. So I had to sit in a chair and I’ve never felt so ridiculous in my life. There was a time when I was great at gymnastics—so good that if I’d been more devoted, if I’d been able to train with a great coach, I could’ve gone somewhere with it. Now I have to do yoga sitting in a chair, and I felt like a giant jellyfish drooping over the seat. I couldn’t even lift my arms or legs because I was exhausted from getting in and out of the car on the way to the clinic.”
“You’re too hard on yourself.”
“I want to be normal again.” Her eyes welled with tears. “I couldn’t do any of the easy bends, and I’m talking easy, James—bends a hundred-year-old person could do without any trouble. When that proved a disaster, we switched to deep breathing exercises to strengt
hen my diaphragm, and all that seemed to do was slur my speech and make my hands and feet go numb. I was so embarrassed—”
“You’ve nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“How would you know? You’re perfectly healthy. You can shoot hoops with the boys and jog with them, and you don’t have days when someone has to cut your steak or lift your food to your mouth because you don’t have the strength to do it yourself, or because you’re trembling so badly that you might cut yourself with your knife or jab yourself with your fork. And yes, I know I’m feeling sorry for myself but…”
James slid onto the couch next to Fern and pulled her into his arms, cradling her head against his chest, pressing a kiss against the wavy brown hair of her pixie cut. He could feel her heart pulsing rapidly. Her sobs beat against his palm, which rested lightly on her back, and tears fell from her cheeks.
He whispered, hoping his words would offer some comfort. “We’ve weathered storms before and we’ll survive this one too. You just have to remember how many people are cheering you on, how many friends you have praying for you. And God’s with you as well. He’s watching over all of us, making sure we get through this one way or another.”
It took a moment or two, but at last Fern lifted her head, attempting a smile. “You think so?”
“I know so. Remember what David said in Psalm 23. ‘Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.’”
“That’s pretty easy to forget when you’re mired in self-pity.”
“God’s pretty forgiving.” James kissed her again. “Now open your present, babe, and I hope you can forgive me if I’ve blown it.”
A smile radiated on Fern’s face as she carefully removed the ribbon and Elvis Presley paper, which James knew from experience she’d use again someday. Fern’s resourcefulness had gotten them through more than one rough time.
Slowly she lifted the lid, wanting to savor each suspenseful moment, just as she had taught the kids and James to do on Christmas morning. There was no ripping paper off boxes and tossing lids in the Bell household. They took their time—and Fern was doing that now, making James sweat.
He’d never seen her in a twinset, especially something that had been worn by another woman half a century ago. If she hated it, it would be one more disaster added to her day.
Fortunately he didn’t have long to worry. Fern peeled back the pink tissue paper and her pretty brown eyes sparkled. “Oh, James.” She lifted the peach-colored sweater that glittered with rhinestones and inspected every inch of it. “It’s beautiful. I’ve got photos of my mom wearing a twinset like this when she and my dad were first married, and I always hoped they’d come back in style so I could find one to wear.”
“This one’s a good fifty years old.”
A smile burst out on Fern’s mouth as she dropped the sweaters and cradled James’s five-o’clock-shadowed face in her hands. “You’re a good fifty years old.”
“And getting a little worse for wear.”
“No, sweetheart, you just keep getting better and better.”
Forty-five minutes later the Bell family gathered around the dining room table, the fettuccine Alfredo and chopped salad James had prepared—following Fern’s expert instructions—ready to be devoured.
“Would you say grace for us tonight, Nelson?” Fern asked, folding her hands and bowing her head.
“All right, Mom.” Nelson folded his hands and lowered his head. “Here’s a little ditty from Robbie Burns, Scotland’s favorite son.
O Thou, who kindly dost provide
For every creature’s want!
We bless thee, God of Nature wide,
For all thy goodness lent:
And if it please thee, heavenly Guide,
May never worse be sent;
But, whether granted or denied,
Lord, bless us with content! Amen.
Amen was repeated all around the table before the boys grabbed the bowls of pasta and salad, heaping loads of each on their plates. They’d eat Fern and James out of house and home before long. Still, both boys were a blessing.
“Hey, Dad.” Nelson’s mouth was too full of pasta to be talking, but James let it slide. One crackdown on manners during dinner was more than enough. “Mr. Fischer’s decided being our scoutmaster’s going to be the death of him. His words, not mine. So he’s quitting.”
James had a forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth. “You’ve got to be kidding. He’s the best leader I’ve ever met.”
“It’s obvious that you haven’t spent much time at meetings.”
True, unfortunately.
“Mr. Fischer doesn’t quite know how to work a compass, and he wanted to give us refresher courses on knot-tying once a month like it’s something we didn’t all master years ago. At this rate, I’ll never make Eagle Scout.”
“Has anyone volunteered to take his place?” Fern asked, picking at her salad, rolling a cherry tomato from one spot on her plate to another.
“Nope, it’s the same old, same old. Everyone’s too busy.”
“So what’s the plan?” James asked out of curiosity, not that he planned on volunteering, since he fell into the same old, same old crowd.
“Someone from the Boy Scout Council is having a meeting next Monday at Mr. Beckwith’s house, six o’clock sharp, to talk with all the parents. You’ll come, won’t you?” Nelson aimed critical but loving eyes at his parents. “Both you and Mom?”
Fern finally lifted a shaky fork full of salad toward her mouth. “I’ll try, Nelson…if I feel up to it.”
Nelson gave his eyes a quasi-roll, even though he knew his mom’s health was unpredictable. They had an unwritten rule about not making Fern feel guilty, but he was only thirteen—a precocious thirteen—and sometimes he slipped. Fern and James also had another rule: The boys were allowed to be human and getting frustrated once in a great while was A-OK.
Gideon shoveled another heaping mound of pasta onto his plate while Nelson stared down his father. “What about you, Dad?”
Any excuse James came up with would sound a bit lame, so he said, “Mark it on the calendar and remind me on Sunday and again on Monday morning. I’ll go to the meeting, but don’t commit me to anything beforehand…or while we’re there.”
“It’s not like you have to be the scoutmaster, Dad,” Nelson stated, excitement rising in his voice. “You could volunteer for something else, like teaching first aid or giving a talk on what it was like being a medic in Desert Storm.”
“I’ll think about it. But like I said, don’t sign me up for anything.”
“Your father’s worried that he’s got his hands full already, working all day and taking care of me. But I’m getting better all the time, and I’m sure he can find a few extra hours a month—or maybe even a week—to help out.”
James nearly choked on his pasta.
“Great! Thanks, Dad. I’ll put a big note on the fridge so you won’t forget.”
James gave his wife the look, the one that asked, “What are you doing to me?”
He just couldn’t take on more commitments, even though Fern was looking at him with gentle, loving eyes that said, “Thank you, hon,” and Nelson was already rambling on about next year’s Jamboree and how much fun they would have camping out…with spiders and snakes and maybe a bear or wolf or two.
Never, James thought, as he swallowed a bite of salad.
He didn’t have the time, and he had even less energy lately. He couldn’t get involved or add anything else to his already big to-do list.
And there was no way he could be talked into it.
Chapter Six
SNUG AND WARM IN A SOFT FLANNEL NIGHTGOWN, pink chenille robe and furry slippers, Elena curled up on the sofa with Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca, her favorite book, one she’d read many times since she had fallen in love with reading as a child.
Tearing her gaze from the page—from the wicked Mrs. Danvers caressing one of Rebecca’s delicate silk
nightgowns, as she pointed out to the second Mrs. de Winter how beautiful Rebecca had been, trying her best to drive the second Mrs. de Winter away from Manderley—Elena looked at the clock once again. It was quarter past ten, and Cesar should have been home long ago.
She tried not to worry, tried to bury her mind deep in her book, to allow the writing to transport her from her home in Deerford to the Cornwall coast, to a gothic mansion overlooking the rough-and-tumble ocean.
But the scents of peanut butter and chocolate swirling about the kitchen and family room, the delectable aroma of the cookies she and Izzy had baked earlier in the evening blended with wafts of evergreen from the pine logs sizzling on the hearth and kept her firmly planted at home.
She put down the book. Rising slowly, she stretched the kinks out of her back and walked into the kitchen. Taking a freshly baked cookie from the cookie jar, she leaned against the counter, waiting to hear the diesel engine on Cesar’s truck rumble up the drive.
As so often happened, Elena looked around the kitchen and family room, her favorite part of the home she and Cesar had shared since shortly after their wedding twenty-seven years ago, and wondered if there were any more changes needed, any future remodeling they could do. But everything appeared perfect.
This was where she baked cakes and breads, canned fruits and vegetables, made tamales from her mother’s secret recipe and created frilly dresses for Isabel, almost always in pink, with streaming ribbons and lots of ruffles and lace. Her designs were terribly old-fashioned—just like the interior of her home—cut from half-a-century-old McCall’s and Simplicity patterns; but that didn’t matter to Isabel. No Hannah Montana rocker outfits for Isabel Rodriguez. No sirree.
Isabel, with her curly, waist-length black hair and striking, wonder-filled light gray eyes, was long asleep, tucked into bed at eight by her dad—Elena and Cesar’s son, Rafael. Izzy was one of a kind. The best kind—independent, precocious and the apple of her grandparents’ eyes.
