by Leanna Ellis
“With rumors going around, well, other wives might kick their husbands out of the house or at least out of the bedroom.”
“Well, I considered that. But where would you go? The sofa is taken. To bunk with my dad at the Old Hockheim Inn?”
“I’m serious. I know God is sustaining you. And it’s powerful … and convicting to watch.”
I shake my head. “I’m not a saint, Mike.”
“You are to me.”
“I went to see Josie the other morning. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t rest. So I got up early before even Mother awoke and went to Josie’s house. You know, she never even answered my charges. She never said she wasn’t after you. But she spoke the truth to me. She helped me see that fear was running my life. Fear was making me run.”
Guilt pushes me that extra inch, right out onto the rocky cliff where I stand teetering in the moment that could change everything. I release a shaky breath. “Mike,” I manage, “I owe you an apology. I never thought you should know. I believed it would be easier if you didn’t. I believed keeping it from you saved our marriage. Or I thought so at the time.”
His brow crinkles into a frown. He searches my face, starts to say something but stops himself. “Then why tell me now?”
“I don’t know. I think God wants me to.” Tears tighten my voice. In my head I hear the words liar, liar, liar chanted over and over again. “I owe you an apology. I owe …” My words collapse under the strain. I’m trembling all over, shaking with fear and relief.
“No, you don’t.”
I step back, wonder if my legs will hold me, then clasp his hands between us. I look up into his face, brace for the reaction I know will come, the anger and disappointment and grief I deserve. “Yes, I do. I-I …” The words catch in my throat but I have to say them now. “When you left …” I fight the tears. “Sixteen years ago, I didn’t know—” I stop myself. It wasn’t his fault. I won’t blame him now. “It was a long time ago. And I’ve never done anything like this before or since. Never wanted to.”
“Suzanne—”
“—Mike—”
“Don’t—”
“Hear me out, please.”
He stops, waits.
I can’t look at him. Shame pours over me. I stare down at the space between us, the dusty wooden planks, weathered and worn but sturdy and strong. I try to remember, try to forget. Maybe confessing will help block it out of my memory. But I know that’s not true. I remember every time I look at my son. “I-I slept with another man. W-with Drew. While you and I were married. And I-I’m sorry. So sorry.”
He takes me in his arms again, holds me when I can’t speak anymore. I clasp my hands to his back, dare to hope, pray this won’t destroy us. His chest presses against my face. His strength, his fierce hold on me frightens and comforts me at the same time. Then he pulls away. Through a haze of my own tears, I watch tears running down his face. His pained expression makes my insides ache. “I’m sorry, Mike. I’m so … so sorry.”
His mouth pulls into a taut line. “I know, Suz. I know.”
I can’t speak for a long time as I watch his features change and alter like the expressive Texas sky. Shadows of night falling darken his face. He stares out at the prairie stretching outward like my sin that doesn’t seem to have an end in sight. My throat constricts as I try to hold back the tears that won’t stop. There’s been a drought here in Gillespie County, just as I feel there has been a drought in my own soul. Now it seems the rain has come.
“Mike?” I whisper, my emotions choking the words into a strangled gasp. “I know it’s a lot to ask. I know … you have every right to hate me. But do you think … can you ever forgive me?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. I can hear my heart beating, ticking off each second. I watch the muscles along his jaw twitch and flex. Finally he looks at me, his eyes soft and dewy. “Oh, Suzanne,” he cups my face, his thumb tracing my jawline, “I already did. Fifteen years ago.”
34
What do you mean?” I ask Mike. “You’ve known?” My legs start shaking, and I start to sit where I stand. But Mike grasps my arms, moves me back a couple of steps to the porch swing. The edge pokes into the back of my thigh. “You’ve known since … but how?”
“When you got pregnant. I knew.”
In a flash that night comes back to me. I remember sharing my joy, crying with relief when I told Mike that I was pregnant. He had hugged me, but he hadn’t spoken, hadn’t said much of anything for a few days. I hadn’t paid attention. I was too excited and too focused on the changes occurring in my body. If I had thought about his reaction at all, I would have thought he was simply relieved.
He turns now and squints at the last remnants of the setting sun. “I did some research. Traced the phone calls to your old boyfriend. Drew Waring.”
My stomach clenches. All this time, he knew. He knew. And he never said a word. Never railed at me. Never accused. Never threatened to divorce me.
He leans forward, resting his hands on the railing, his shoulders flexing beneath his shirt. His sleeves are rolled up, and I watch his muscles tightening as if he could break that wooden plank in half.
“So all this time,” I say, my throat filled with tears, “our marriage has been a lie?”
He turns and looks at me. His features fierce. “No. A lie would have been if I didn’t love you. Or if you didn’t love me. What was there to say about this? You weren’t going to leave to be with him.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I would have fought for you.”
I realize then, he did fight. He fought his anger. His loathing. He even fought me.
“When?” I ask, my thoughts jumbled and unclear. “When did you manage to forgive me?”
He turns, sits on the railing, crosses his arms over his chest. The burnt-orange sun brightens his hair, makes the short strands shimmer silver and black, makes him look ten years older. “I thought about leaving. I did. I was angry. But more at myself. I knew it was my fault. Hey, I was the one who’d left. Just like my mother. I wondered what I would have done if she’d ever come back into my life. I knew I wouldn’t be forgiving.
“And I didn’t know if I could forgive you for a long time. But then one night … not long before Oliver was born, you were asleep. And you whispered my name. I knew then I was in your heart. Not Drew.” His throat flexes, and he looks down. “I knew I couldn’t ever leave.”
Before I can blink or capture a coherent thought, I’m in his arms. I’m not sure who moved first. Or if we moved as one. Maybe that’s how it’s always been between us. I cling to him as if the world is shaking and he is the only solid, unshakeable presence.
Slowly Mike kneels before me, his arms around my waist, his face pressed against my belly. “Can you forgive me?”
“Oh, Mike, get up. There’s nothing to forgive. This isn’t your fault. It’s mine.”
“Do you know why I left?” he asks then.
“Because I was acting like my mother. Because I was demanding. Because I’d forgotten about our relationship and was focusing, obsessing about getting pregnant.”
He shakes his head. “Because I found out I couldn’t give you a baby.”
My hand stills, then I sift my fingers through what’s left of his hair. “When?”
“We had those tests, remember?”
I nod. His embrace loosens, and I back toward the swing for its support. Slowly Mike stands. “The doctor called me that Friday and told me the bad news. I couldn’t give you what you most wanted. And you were ovulating and calling to me. And I couldn’t breathe. So I left.”
“Oh, Mike. I wish you’d told me. We could have—”
“My pride wouldn’t let me. I was afraid you’d walk away from me.”
He doesn’t say the words but I know what he’s thinking. He feared that I would leave him the way his mother had. In his eyes I see the little boy, his eyes fearful, blaming himself.
“Do you know where I went?”
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I shake my head, unable to speak.
“I went searching for my mother. I thought if I could find her, if I could find out why she rejected me, then maybe I could … I don’t know.”
My heart thumps hard in my chest. “Did you find her?”
“I went back to that little amusement park where she abandoned me. I didn’t even know it still existed. But it did. You know, I was eight.”
I realize I’m holding my breath. Mike has never really talked about his mother abandoning him. Only the factual stuff, not the actual story.
“It was just us, my mom and me. I didn’t have a dad. Which made other kids think I was weird. Mom was going to school some, working two jobs. We lived in a little apartment with one bedroom. My bed, really just a pallet of blankets, was in her closet.”
He leans back against the slatted wood swing, his legs making it rock slowly, gently. “Every now and then, we saved up enough money to do something fun. So that Saturday we went to this amusement park. There were hotdogs, popcorn, and cotton candy. A short Ferris wheel with red and blue lights. They’ve replaced it with a bigger one now. But my favorite ride was the purple octopus with eight legs that twirled and spun around. I was laughing and dizzy as I stumbled off. I looked around for my mom. She was supposed to be right there waiting for me. But she wasn’t.
“I waited a long time.” He looks out at the darkening sky, the sun having disappeared below the horizon. His features look hard, not that of a little boy, but there’s a softness in his gaze, a vulnerability. “Then I wandered over to the women’s restroom, asked some old lady to go inside and call for my mother. “Nancy!” I could hear her voice bounce off the tiles and out the window high on the brick wall. But my mother wasn’t there. And she didn’t come back. A vendor gave me a hotdog for free. The guy running the octopus ride let me go round again, but it only made me feel like I was going to be sick. I wanted to get up high, try to see around the park, try to find my mom.
“By the time the park had closed, I was the only kid left. A guard came up to me, asked me a bunch of questions. I knew I was in trouble when he put me in a police cruiser. Some family took me in that first night. I laid on a cot with a thin blanket and started to cry.” He stops speaking for a moment as if gathering his emotions back to himself.
“So going back to that park, I remembered all those feelings. And I realized that’s exactly what I’d done to you. Something in me had made me run away. Just like something in my mother had made her give up and run off. And so I came home, determined to never run off again. I promised God I would not abandon you. No matter what. But that promise was put to the test.”
“When I told you I was pregnant.”
He nods, clasps his hands between his knees. “For a while, I thought that’s what I deserved. But then I started to think of it as something healing. I could love this child, our child, like my own, the way no one had ever adopted or loved me.”
“Oh, Mike.” I put a hand on his shoulder, wanting to pull him toward me, to comfort him, love him.
But he shifts away, looks at me, his eyes dark. “And I was selfish. It was the only way I thought I would ever have a family. The family I never had.”
I can taste the salt of my tears on my lips.
“That’s when I found God. That’s when he filled up all those spaces in my heart and showed me I wasn’t alone. He’d been rejected too. His own people rejected him. Just like my own mother rejected me.”
He reaches out, wipes the tears from my cheeks. I can see tears glistening on his lashes.
“I love you, Suzanne.”
He kisses me, his mouth soft, tender. For a moment there’s only us. And I know now that he does love me. More than I ever imagined.
35
Thursday, the day of the funeral, brings rain. Heavy rains. Rains like I haven’t seen in a long time. Thunder rumbles. Lightning slashes across the sky. Mike and I stand on the back porch watching the gray, swollen clouds churning as we drink our coffee.
Last night, together, we spoke to Oliver, explained as best we could about the situation and his biological father. He nodded and listened. He seemed calm and composed. He hugged us both.
“Do you have any questions?” I asked, knowing we didn’t have any answers. We weren’t sure how all of this would shake out, if Drew would want to spend time with his son, if Oliver would agree, and how that would change our family. I suppose I was really asking if Oliver thought we had ruined his life.
He simply shook his head and said, “I understand.”
“Do you think he’s okay?” I ask Mike for maybe the thirty-seventh time.
“Seems to be doing remarkably well. I’ll talk to him some more.”
I sip my black coffee and shudder at a sudden flash of lightning.
Mike slips an arm around my shoulders. “He knows we love him. We’ll just have to keep showing him.”
Emotions tighten my throat and all I can do is lean my head against his shoulder. Like Mike said, I can’t do anything about the past. Nor can I foresee problems which might occur. I can only live moment by moment and pray that God will give me the grace to get through each.
“What time do we have to be at the dance hall for the funeral?” Mike asks, pulling me back to this day and this crisis.
I look at my watch. “We need to start getting ready.”
“The funeral is still on, huh?” Mike rubs his jaw. “Whoever said small towns were dull never visited Luckenbach.”
“I thought I’d go over to Daddy’s hotel and talk to him.”
“Want me to go?”
“No, I need to talk to him alone.”
“You’ll take the body,” he smiles, “to the church?”
I ball up my fist and punch him playfully on the shoulder.
His grin widens. “It’s going to be interesting.”
I frown. “I’m afraid it’s going to make headlines.”
* * *
“DADDY,” I SAY when he opens the door, “we need to talk.”
“Okay.” He takes my dripping umbrella and sets it in the corner. The bed behind him is made. Mother’s rule was whoever gets out of bed last has to make the bed. Dad typically made the bed, unless he was traveling. Seeing the green-and-orange paisley comforter tucked in neatly around the pillow makes my chest ache.
“Can you believe this rain? We haven’t had a good rain in … well, I can’t remember when.” He offers me the chair and I sit at the desk, shifting to face him. “Have you had breakfast?”
“Yes. Have you?”
“I’m not hungry. What did your mother fix this morning?”
“Eggs Benedict.”
“She is a good cook.”
“Are you missing her?” I ask, hopeful.
“Some things.” He sighs and sits on the edge of the bed. “Your mother … well, she’s a good woman. She means well. She’s been striving her whole life. It’s wearying.”
“I know.”
“This whole thing got out of hand, didn’t it?”
“Do you think you can forgive Mother?”
“Forgive her? What do you mean?”
“Can you forgive her for harping on you for years?”
“It’s strange, Sugar Beet, but I miss her. I do. When I left, when I walked out, I never thought I’d miss her nagging. But I feel kind of lost without her. Like my right arm is missing.”
“Daddy—”
“I don’t feel like your Mother needs to apologize. She is the way she is. But I know what I’ve done wrong, and I have to apologize to her. If she’ll hear me out. But your mother isn’t one to forgive. When she gets mad, when she cuts someone off, that’s the end. And it’s all my fault. I don’t have anyone to blame but myself.”
“Maybe Mother needs to learn some about forgiveness. As I’m learning.”
“It’s not easy.”
“No, it’s not. But I suspect Mother misses you too.”
“You do?”
“Sure. I mean, right
now, she has Mike, Oliver, and me to razz.”
“What about Cal Henry?”
“Oh, yeah. Him too.” Although he hasn’t made an appearance yet today. “But when that house is empty—”
“It’ll finally be just the way she’s wanted it for the last forty years: clean.”
I reach out to my father, hold his hand. “I don’t think so. Maybe all her cleaning, all her striving, all her nagging is her way of controlling life. It’s a façade. It’s not real. No one can really control their life. But there’s some fear deep down inside her, something she’s afraid of. But I don’t know what it is. I’m not sure even Mother knows.”
He rubs the back of his neck thoughtfully. “I hadn’t thought of her that way. No one would imagine your mother being fearful. She’s so formidable. But you might be right. You just might be right.”
“What do you think she’s afraid of, Daddy?”
“I don’t know. But if she is afraid, I haven’t done a very good job of making her feel secure over the years. Maybe your mother and I both need to change.”
* * *
ACCORDION MUSIC SWELLS and pulses in a warbling antique voice. I’ve never heard “Precious Lord, Take My Hand” played with a lilting polka rhythm. A friend of Daddy’s, Ralph Hall, who has played at the Luckenbach dance hall numerous times, sits beside the casket, cradling his beloved instrument. He softly taps his mud-covered boot in rhythm.
The flower arrangements, which sit along the base of the stage, are color coordinated the way Mother requested. I have to admit, Mother puts on a beautiful funeral. Even in a dance hall. The mood will be set with just the right selection of hymns. It doesn’t hurt to have a mournful rain falling outside, though if Mother could have ordered sunshine, I’m sure she would have. Only a couple of the wooden windows have been propped open for air circulation.
We all look a little damp around the edges as the rain has continued all morning, making a mess of the unpaved parking lot. My hose are damp and my hem splattered with mud from my mad dash through the puddles outside. Mother too, looks a bit wilted, her black linen suit not nearly so crisp and starched as she would prefer.
