“Something’s wrong,” she states matter-of-factly. “What?”
The question hangs in the air while I try desperately to compose myself. As the tears start to stream down my cheeks, I realize composure is out of the question. I need to share. I really want to call Mom. But, Bett’s right here standing six inches away from me, her hand softly caressing my arm. I can smell her perfume, and to distract myself, I try to figure out what scent it is. Shalimar? Channel Number Five? No, too plebeian for Bett. Probably some new designer scent, or one of those you create in that special little room at Nordstrom’s. I’ve always been too intimidated to even step into it and approach the coiffed customer service associates (now that’s a misnomer if ever there was one—what happened to sales ladies?) in their form-fitting black suits and tulip red lips.
I swing around dripping suds from my hands and grip Bett’s arms. She tries valiantly not to cringe and shakes her head full of fluffy curls at my “Sorry.” As I grab a towel, she takes my hand and leads me to the oversized round table in the equally oversized breakfast niche. The towel comes in handy to not only wipe my wet hands, but to blot the fountains running from my eyes.
She whispers, “Tell me about the call.” How can she be so calm? Oh, she doesn’t know yet. When I am upset I get so obtuse.
I relate the call. Not just the gist of it, but every nasty and unholy word. Unfortunately, one of my talents is total recall. I don’t even like to say those words, but I think it’s important Bett has a blow by blow description. That is if she’s going to help me understand what’s going on. Although it probably only took three minutes, I feel like I’d been venting for an hour. My throat is parched, and my voice sounds surreal. Still, I manage to blurt out, “I hate Noel. I hate him. I knew I shouldn’t trust him.”
“Monica.” That’s all Bett says. But, I notice she’s wringing her clasped hands in front of her on the tabletop. Her eyes seem to be a bit glazed, too. Maybe it’s an effect of the tears that are blurring mine.
“Monica? Who’s Monica?” My question falls on deaf ears as Bett gets up to grab the portable phone.
Suddenly, I smell something like burning chocolate. Oh, my ripped knickers! My cake. Pulling open the oven door, I hear Bett punching in numbers on the phone. New tears fall on the deflated chocolate rounds. My beautiful cake layers are ruined.
“Monica.” I hear Bett’s hard voice in the background. “Lay off my friend. Noel never was yours. Grow up! Don’t call me that, you infidel. I refuse to listen to that rubbish. I’m a God-fearing woman.” I’ve turned around by this time and see Bett slam the handset down on the table. It bounces landing digits up and beeps. For just a second my mind leaps from pain and hurt to her declaration of being a “God-fearing woman.”
“What in…?”
“I suppose you should know. Why Noel didn’t expect this and warn you, I have no idea. Man’s prerogative I guess. Or, maybe just the vain hope it wouldn’t happen.”
I sit down at the table again and search her eyes. “Explain, please.”
“It started after his wife died—Maizie. When patients got word of it. Her death, I mean.” She pauses to twist the enormous amethyst ring on her pinkie. “I recommended Noel to her when she came to work one day almost doubled over with back pain. Yes.” She nods. Her eyes lock with mine, and I see pools of blue sadness. “She was one of my employees, bookkeeper, not a sales associate. I knew she was kind of loopy and needy. Craving male companionship. She’d begged me to set her up with someone. It never crossed my mind when I sent her to Noel. Just thought an adjustment of the back, not an invitation to romance.” Bett’s hands are now clasped together so tight her knuckles are Elmers Glue-white. I sense she regrets the decision to send Monica to Noel. I am so perceptive!
I glance up at the ceiling fan whirring above the table. I try to process this story in my muddled brain. I feel my chin quivering and give a little “chin up” in Bett’s direction encouraging her to go on.
Sighing, she continues after relaxing her hands. “She became a real pain in the kazoo. Showed up when Noel stopped for a latte, even appeared in the grocery store behind him in line. Once she even pulled into the car wash right after him. Of course he was trapped talking to her while both of their cars went through the suds. After a year or so with no confrontations, we figured she’d given up.” Bett pauses to blow out a breath, whoosh style. “To answer your unasked question, we both believed she was stalking him. For two years now, there’s been no appearance or communication from Monica. She quit working for me about a month after I sent her to Noel for chiropractic help.
“I know she means nothing to Noel, except an unbidden thorn in his side. I’m so sorry.”
I twist the towel I still hold in my hands. Could I believe Bett? Noel? What was his role in the Monica caper? Trust. I need trust. The only place I know for sure I can get it is from my Heavenly Father.
“Bett?” I reached across the table and grasped her hands. “Will you pray with me?”
~
“We prayed together, Mom. It was the most awesome thing.”
Mom picks at her running socks and scratches her ankle exposing her seventy-eight year old veins. I look away.
“Awwww, Bits.” She drags out the “aw.” “What a blessing. Do you think she’s actually accepted Christ?”
I don’t know, and I can’t say. I suspect on one plane Bett was just humoring me, but on another higher plane, I pray she was sincere. She never uttered a word when I prayed, just kept her head bowed and squeezed my hand. As far as I’m concerned, the rest is up to God. Instead of voicing my thoughts, I simply say, “Gosh, Mom. That’s only for God to know.” Yeh, opt out, Betsy. Did I mention I’m a dweeb, wimp, a sad example of a Christian?
Mom fiddles with the bracelet she inherited from Grandma. She seems to be studying the tiny glass ovals encased in gold. She’s worn it on her wrist since about a week after Grandma died, when we cleaned out Grandma’s effects—clothes, jewelry, baking pans (some of which I inherited), books and general stuff. I remember the smell in her bathroom. It was an old lady smell, but pleasant and heady. Soaps and perfumes and room deodorizers from another era.
“So,” she holds me in her gaze twisting the bracelet around her wrist. “What do you plan to do?”
twenty one
The novel hits the wall with a splat. I’m sick of this author who used to thrill me with his mysteries that take place around Phoenix, places I know and can relate to. Now his characters spew out curses, and the settings are so surreal I don’t recognize them.
I had hoped to distract myself from the latest Noel complication by reading a juicy novel. Obviously, it didn’t work. This one was too juicy.
I’m lying on my bed, in my condo, not at Bett’s. It was time to come home, if not to cook, to sleep. My digs aren’t as luxurious as Bett’s, but I need the secure feeling of my own simple surroundings. No fabric covered walls, just paint. No museum quality artwork, just prints—not even by anyone famous or renowned. Plastic handled toothbrush instead of silver-plated, a bathroom light I actually have to turn on manually by the wall switch, instead of one that glows instantly when I walk through the door. I am so bourgeois!
I snuggle under the down comforter I found at Macy’s half-price sale last January and succumb to my version of heaven on earth with my ankles crossed and staring at the ceiling fan. Whir, whir. The twirl of the fan mimics my mind. Remembering how I once (make that twice) felt as a freshman in college, I know I’m not drunk. At least not with alcohol. Still, my head spins. I click on my cell phone and notice Noel has called me four times today. Probably after the vicious call from Monica. Probably after Bett called Noel to inform him.
I feel lost. Swimming in an abyss. I remember looking the word abyss up once for a college paper. A “yawning gulf” was my favorite description. I surrender to the yawning part, uncross my ankles and pull up the comforter. My body is so tired my muscles ache, and I’m just drifting into dreamland when the doorbell ring
s.
I try to ignore the offending sound, but it repeats. Over and over again.
Still in my working attire sweatsuit, I stumble out from under the soft covers, again catching my toe. Shuffling for my fuzzy slippers I find them tucked under the bed. Why am I even doing this? I have no answer. At least none that makes sense.
The peephole in the door reveals a huge bouquet of roses. If I’d known Noel was hiding behind them, I might not have opened it. I guess curiosity got the best.
A hand waves, flutters, at the end of the hairy arm that isn’t holding the bouquet. It retreats behind the mass of buds and two eyes peek out above an aquiline nose. Suddenly, the bouquet and its human holder drop to my waist level. Noel is on his knees. Oh, dear Lord, what is going on here?
“Betsy?” A whisper. “Please.” Is he begging?
I refuse to acknowledge him other than, “Yes?”
He half rises abruptly and thrusts the flowers in my face. I don’t know if it’s because they’re tickling my nose or the scent is overwhelming, but I sneeze—loudly.
The “sorrys” Noel’s been whispering and babbling during the last sixty seconds escalate. Now, I’m feeling sorry for him. What is this world coming to?
“Come on, Noel. Off your knees,” I say, grabbing his hand, but not taking the flowers. “You’re going to need a chiropractor if you don’t stand up soon.”
He grins and shoves the roses at my chest. So romantic, but I still don’t accept them. I admit I bury my face in the crimson blooms. There must be at least fifty of them, probably sixty if he bought them by dozens. Their scent is heady, reminds me of a perfume Mom sometimes wears. Maybe she wore it long ago when I was a toddler and she comforted me in the rocking chair. Anyway, it brings back memories that make my eyes tear. Noel, poor man, notices and mistakes my watery eyes for something else. Perhaps romantic interest and forgiveness.
The man is insufferable. Or at least our relationship is. I realize, being the realistic woman I am, he’d never thought about Monica calling me, nor even fathomed how a call from her could damage our love. Still, I stand the wounded warrior in this now love triangle. I manage to shove aside these nagging thoughts and search for a vase large enough to contain the massive bouquet.
“Friends?”
I turn to look at him and hope my scowl answers, but I’m guessing the quizzical look on his face says it doesn’t. “Friends—friends,” I scream. “What kind of friends treat friends this way? We, Noel, were supposed to be lovers, albeit Christian lovers. Two souls who share everything. No holds barred; no secrets; no skeletons buried—anywhere.”
I’m exhausted from screeching. My throat is dry and parched. My diatribe is over. I pick at a bit of Snoopy fur on my sweats left over from Bett’s. That dang-fangled cat’s fur magnetizes to all surfaces, especially fabric. I’m waiting for Noel to touch my arm in apology, maybe in my dream of dreams crawl on the carpet and kowtow at my feet.
I look around in the silence. Noel is slumped on my sofa with the huge bouquet hanging limply in his arms. Am I seeing a wetness glistening on his cheeks? Aw, fiddlesticks, the man is weeping. I take a tentative step toward him and approach his humped over form just as he rubs a fist across his eyes with his free hand. I love it when a man cries. I hate it when a man cries. I feel so helpless.
When a woman cries in the presence of a manly man, she expects to be enfolded in his arms and given silent permission to slobber on his shoulder. A father, a brother, a husband or lover, or even a friend readily takes that role. It’s a natural inclination for the male of the species to comfort and protect the female. But, turn the tables and it becomes a dilemma. Few men are comfortable being the weeper, and most women are confused about how to react.
I make a decision, instantly, based on the knot in my gut. My occasionally logical mind tells me Noel never thought about the possibility of Monica learning about me, much less calling me. Isn’t it a guy thing to not analyze romance? Seems they analyze just about everything else, but not love.
My heartstrings strum the song we sang to the other evening, something about two hearts entwined. I’m just about to make a beeline to the sofa and enfold Noel in my ample arms when he says, “Monica really called you the other night? How did you two hit it off?”
“Hit it off?” My screech owl voice takes over again. “Are you nuts? Crazy? You expected me to have an actual conversation with that witch, that home-wrecker?”
To his credit, Noel looks confused and lays the bouquet of roses on the coffee table. I stifle my concern about their blossoms leaving a permanent stain on the mahogany. His handsome gray-speckled head is bobbing from side to side. “I don’t understand. Bett said Monica phoned you. She wasn’t clear on the conversation. I guess I assumed after speaking with each other you’d had a good chat.” He raises puppy dog eyes to me. “No?”
I nod Bobble head fashion. Does he get the inference, that I’m nodding to his “No?”
“I know Monica can be confrontational, but she’s a pretty rational person.” His eyes appeal to me for understanding. “She’s not a bad person. I sensed she had an interest in me, but,” he pauses for emphasis, “we never dated. Honest.” His right hand crosses his heart in little boy Boy Scout fashion. “She was just a patient.” He hangs his head looking exhausted. I’m still standing like Lot’s wife, a pillar in stone, if not salt.
We both extend hands at the same time. His touch is warm as he pulls me down on the sofa next to him. His lips are fiery hot and taste of salt from his tears. His embrace is strong as one of those chiropractor hands caresses my back. I am mush. Did I mention I love this man, and would forgive him almost anything? “Almost” being the operative word.
~
“You made up.”
It’s a statement. Bett clasps my hands. We’re munching on Swedish cookies and sipping hot herb tea in her so-called breakfast nook. This evening she’s wearing a diaphanous sunflower yellow negligee and pegnoir. She’s ready for bed, and so am I, emotionally. The filmy, see-through fabric clings to her and swooshes as she turns toward me. Her mop of curls spring up and down when she bobs her head waiting for confirmation. I don’t want to go into minute detail about Noel and me making up, so I simply nod in the affirmative and smile at her questioning eyes.
I take a nibble of cinnamon cookie and let it melt on my tongue. “Yeh, it’s okay. He explained.”
“Praise the Lord,” Bett exclaims and squeezes my hands again.
“Bett,” I look her directly in the eyes. “I hope you aren’t using that phrase lightly.” I worry she’s picked up some of my Christian jargon and either says it to impress me or doesn’t realize what it really means.
The curls bounce again, and her eyes zero in on her teacup. “Nope. Know what it means.”
I take a breath so deep I think I’ve sucked in all the air in the massive kitchen. Lord, please guide my words. “Bett, what exactly are you saying? Nonbelievers use that expression loosely, but so do believers. It’s an expression of faith that we almost say without thinking.” I pause and give her a significant look. “Tell me why you used it?”
Lady Mac Beth had nothing over Bett. I hope Bett’s hand wringing isn’t becoming an obsession. I reach for her hands. I clasp them tight, tilt her chin up with my forefinger and look at her face imploringly. She is shaking, her whole body quivering.
Her eyes are still downcast, and I can barely hear her whisper, “I did it.”
“Did what?”
“Last night I was so upset about the rift between you and Noel I pleaded with God. I felt this tremor. It was almost like He spoke to me, me Bettina Bethany.”
“Oh, Bett.” My heart is swelling and my eyes are blurring. I touch her arm but have no more words.
“So, I spoke back. ‘Why would you talk to me, Lord? I don’t deserve your love or attention. Please, explain.’ It was a very logical conversation. I really wanted to know.”
Remember the pregnant pause? Focus on it again.
“So?”
I’ve mentioned before how utterly brilliant my remarks are.
“Sooo…” She draws it out. “I had your Bible open to John 3:16. I read it over and over. ‘For God so loved the world he gave his only begotten son that whoever believes in him will not perish.’ Or, something like that.” She loosens her grip on my hand and locks her eyes with mine.
“I’m getting older, Betty. I know my time will come someday soon, and I don’t want to perish, to spend eternity without the comfort of God. Besides, I know you’ll be up there with Him, and I want to be with you forever.”
A chill creeps over my body, and I rub my arms feeling goose bumps. How do I explain to this dear woman she mustn’t accept faith in God and Christ just because she wants to be with me forever? I want her need to be with the Lord forever and her relationship with Him now to be genuine. I blow a big breath, like when I’ve been exercising long and hard, and begin the lesson again.
I did it. I told Betsy I’ve accepted you, Lord. I’m not sure she believed me. What now, Jesus? I thought she’d be thrilled. I’m so confused.
TWENTY TWO
Ten years ago, when my stomach was flatter, I sometimes went without a bra. Not in public, mind you, just around the house. Although occasionally, like when I stepped out to retrieve the morning paper or take more garbage out to the can, a neighbor would see me. I felt pretty daring, even though I knew I blushed. Actually, I felt more daring than I did in the sixties and seventies during the “burn the bra” era. I guess my ego needed a little push up (no pun intended). I don’t know what the flatter tummy had to do with this admission. Go figure. (Oops, no pun intended, again. Honest.)
Today, I need to get my thoughts together. I dwell on Bett’s revelation of accepting Christ as her savior. Did I get through that curly skull last night? She claims I did, but she just kept nodding. Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled Bett has made this life-changing decision. I keep raising my hands and shrilly claiming, “Praise the Lord.” Now, who’s the hypocrite?
Butterfly Dreams (A Christian Contemporary Romance) Page 10
