A Time to Mend

by Sally John

  She had no idea when they’d begun assuming that. Maybe it was the first year Beth Russell didn’t show up for the birthday gathering. On January 10, 1973, she had lost a fiancé, not a family member. She moved on with life, married, bore children, relocated to the Northwest.

  Indio’s grandchildren attended when they were small. As adolescents and then adults, one or another might come, but most often not. The reality of BJ escaped them. He was real for his parents, his brother, and the woman who was to Indio like a daughter.

  A movement startled Indio. Max appeared in her peripheral vision, noiselessly stepping up from the long path and now toward the memorial.

  She wondered yet again why she had named him after her father, Maxwell James. She should have called him One Who Moves on the Feet of Deer, or whatever the Kumeyaay equivalent of that was.

  She watched him. Like always, he laid a stone on the ground. It was about the size of his hand and came from a stash only he and BJ knew of. As children, they’d shared a fascination with rocks and had hidden a secret collection somewhere on the property. To this day he hadn’t revealed it, as far as she knew, to anyone. He just always showed up with a rock on September 9.

  “Happy birthday, B-Jerk.”

  B-Jerk and Moron Max. The derogatory nicknames echoed from their childhood. Indio had washed their mouths with soap more than once because of them. It seemed not to affect the love-hate relationship they had for each other.

  Max turned to Ben. They exchanged a bear hug. Then he crouched in front of Indio and wrapped his arms around her. “Mom.”

  His eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses. As he let go of Indio, she sensed a hesitation in him. But he recovered quickly, leaned toward his estranged wife, and pulled her into a quick embrace. Then he moved to the other side of Indio and sat cross-legged in the dirt. His black dress slacks would need to be cleaned.

  Claire touched her hand. “Tell us about the day BJ was born.”

  She smiled at her. Claire always asked that. And Indio always obliged.

  “Fifty-seven years ago, I was just eighteen . . .”

  Oh, Ben.” Indio’s plaintive voice thrummed into a low moan.

  “Love.” He gently grasped her elbow. “Come away from the window.”

  Intuitively trusting the wisdom of her husband, Indio let him lead her to her rocking chair in the kitchen corner. It faced away from the window. She sat.

  He settled his tall frame on the tiny ottoman and cradled her hands in his.

  She returned his gaze, searching his eyes for answers.

  In reply, he tilted his head toward her wall of crosses.

  With a nod, she acknowledged that there were no answers beyond the choice to leave everything at the foot of the cross. Jesus had died for their pain, for BJ, and for Max and Claire, now arguing outside in the front yard.

  God is good. Hallelujah.

  Indio said, “They’ve hardly even fussed at each other in front of us before.”

  “We could blame the Santa Anas. The wind is kicking up. It’s hot-ter than hot already.”

  She shook her head. “Not buying that one.”

  “Okay. They’ve never fussed like this before because she’s never out-and- out disagreed with him before. This is a healthy sign. Remember our rows?”

  She winced.

  “Indio, it’s all right that you made waves in our marriage.”

  “You say that now.”

  “Well, I see it now. I didn’t appreciate your bluntness back then.” He winked. “Back as far as last week.”

  She shook her head. “I added chaos to our home.”

  “You kept us real. You know I love our daughter-in-law. She’s a wonderful mother, a do-gooder in the community. But her persona as a milquetoast with Max never was admirable.”

  “She should have spoken up more and not let it fester. Now it’s erupting all out of proportion. She always kept peace in their home before. She created a more loving environment than I ever did.”

  “Want to argue about it?” His eyes twinkled, and he smiled.

  “More than we already have?”

  “The kids have been our vulnerable spot, haven’t they?” He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb.

  “And now Jenna. Instead of working through things with Kevin, she just lickety-split follows in her mother’s footsteps.”

  “Indio, Jenna will learn from this and find her own way. I truly believe it’s a healthy thing for Claire to let Max have it.”

  “Maybe she needs to hear that from you. I haven’t . . . I guess . . .” She sighed. “I’m so angry at her. I know I haven’t forgiven her yet.”

  “Oh, love, you know better.”

  “I liked that she kept the peace. Max was so desperate for peace and stability and acceptance.”

  “You believe that she gave him what you failed to give him.”

  She closed her eyes.

  “Claire is not his mother.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “They will get through this without our interference.”

  Indio looked at him.

  He smiled and peered over her shoulder toward the window. “Well, they’re still going at it, but they’ve moved apart anyway, next to their cars. My guess is neither one is staying for coffee and cinnamon rolls. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re the most annoying man I’ve ever met.”

  “I was talking about coffee and rolls.”

  “I know you were.” She pushed herself up from the chair.

  Ben caught her in a hug before she’d gone too many steps. “I love you, Indio.”

  Coffee and rolls would have to wait. Indio succumbed to the tears she’d been holding back since dawn.

  Forty-three

  Déjà vu enveloped Claire, a squishy sensation, as if she walked on clouds.

  “That’s ridiculous.” Max stood several feet from her, beside his car in the shade of a large oak.

  She saw him through a haze. Perhaps his third—or was it fourth?— repetition of “that’s ridiculous” had caused the déjà vu. Perhaps the heat—she stood in direct sunlight—caused the sense of drifting. Or was it the sudden release of thoughts and opinions? They burst from her like water from a fire hydrant, showering him with a deluge of plans he found ridiculous.

  “Claire, are you listening?”

  “Yes, I’m listening, Max, and I’m tired of it. I told you everything I have to say. Jenna and I are renting a small, two-bedroom house near her school. It’s a month-by-month. Nothing permanent. Okay? We move in next week. We’re furnishing it à la Salvation Army. She’s paying half the rent.”

  “It’s a lousy neighborhood!”

  “It’s where we lived when the kids were little— Oh! Honestly, Max. You know all this.”

  “She should go back to Kevin.”

  “She refuses to. And he refuses to apologize.”

  “She can move in with me.”

  “She doesn’t want to.”

  “I’ll go somewhere else. Phil has room. You two can have the house.”

  “I don’t want it.” The mere thought of living in her home chilled her to the bone. Was it the darkness of accumulated memories? They’d become horrid in light of her new clarity. All those years of the kids growing older, days slipping away like water through her fingers. Max missing one special event after another. The guilt gifts—material things and outings and trips—that she accepted. There was a word for women like her. It was not a nice word.

  “You are so stubborn.” Max’s face reddened, and his voice rose. Perspiration had flattened his blue shirt to his body. Gray-brown dirt clung to his black trousers. He finally removed the sunglasses that kept slipping. His eyes were slits, only the black flashing through.

  “I’m stubborn? Me?” Her own voice went up, uncontrollable. “You’re the one who can’t let something go after thirty-two years!”

  “You slept with another guy! While we were married!”

  “I did not sleep with him.”


  “I doubt that. I really doubt that.”

  “Oh, good grief! Get over it already!” The words shocked her. Those clouds gathered again, surrounding her legs, filling her with airy lightness.

  “I’ll get over it when you get over it.” His voice nearly growled. “You haven’t, have you?”

  The haze shimmered, blurring her view of him.

  “You’ve always held back a part of yourself.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is. I just now realized it, but it’s always been there. An invisible wall you hide behind. Keeping your distance. Letting me get just so close.” He raised an arm and wiped the short sleeve across his fore-head.

  The accusation niggled at her conscience. It felt . . . true. She did keep her distance from him. She did close off a corner of her heart. But it had nothing to do with Petros Melis. Because the real question was, when hadn’t she hidden herself?

  “It hurts too much,” she whispered. Her parents, Aunt Helen, Max. They’d all let her down. Aunt Helen couldn’t help it; she’d died. The others—they chose to abandon her.

  “What?”

  She looked at him. “You would only hurt me. You did hurt me. Why would I let you in?”

  “Don’t worry. You don’t have to let me in. It’s over, Claire. I’m done.” He turned and yanked open his car door.

  Within moments, swirls of dust churned in the wake of his car, across the small parking area and down the road as far as she could see.

  The sense of déjà vu vanished. She’d stepped into brand-new territory. For the first time, Max had truly left her.

  Forty-four

  Mom, you’re welcome to come to brunch with me and Erik.” Jenna stood in the doorway of Tandy’s small office aka guest room.

  “You and your brother don’t need to babysit me.” Seated on the bed, Claire watched her daughter finger-comb her long hair and gather it into a ponytail. Without benefit of mirror, she deftly twisted an elastic tie around the hair and, voilà, a perfect bun—loose, casual, and lovely.

  Claire smoothed back her own hair. “How do you do that?”

  “Let me try with yours. It might be long enough. Just a sec.” Jenna left the room momentarily and returned with a clear bag of hair accessories, a hand mirror, a brush, and hairspray. She dumped everything on the bed and stepped behind Claire. “When was the last time you had it cut?”

  “Nine weeks.” The week before her birthday. A week and one day before she’d left Max. But who was counting?

  “Maybe you could get it colored so the roots aren’t so noticeable.”

  “Should I?”

  Jenna peered over Claire’s shoulder. “Yes, Mom, you should.”

  “I’m trying to go natural.”

  She went back to brushing her hair. “So have them match the natural color. You need a perkier look than the one you’ve got going here. I mean, just because your life is a mess doesn’t mean you have to show it.”

  Claire laughed. “This sounds like a hint we should go shopping.”

  “Mall therapy! Great idea! I can meet you at Fashion Valley this afternoon. Or we’ll go together if you want to come to brunch first with me and Erik and what’s-her-face.”

  “Jen, you might try saying her name. Your brother could very well marry Felicia Matthews someday.”

  “Marriage will not make her good enough for him. The hanger-on of coattails,” Jenna muttered, pulling at Claire’s hair. “Okay. It’s too short to twist up, but this ponytail is great. You can’t see the roots as much. Hold on.” She dug in her bag and pulled out a silk navy blue scarf.

  “We wore those in high school.”

  “Your point being? There is nothing new under the fashion sun, you know. Just tweaks.” Jenna tied the scarf around the ponytail. “There. Perfect. What do you think?” She handed her the mirror.

  Claire studied her reflection. Without hair falling about her face, the greenish brown eyes were pronounced. “I look like a scared rabbit.”

  “You do not. It’s a classic style. And more natural than your blow-dry, curling-iron, granny effect.”

  “Granny effect? Thanks a lot.”

  “You’re welcome.” Jenna sprayed the hair into place. “There. A little makeup wouldn’t hurt either, Mom. At least some blush.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Jenna plopped on the bed beside her. “Now what about brunch?”

  “I’m going to pass on that. I really want to go to church.”

  “I thought you didn’t like Tandy’s.”

  “I didn’t. It’s growing on me. You probably don’t want to come?”

  Jenna shook her head. “I need to see Erik. He thinks I’ve lost my mind. He and Kevin talk.” She shrugged. “Maybe I’ll learn something.”

  Claire squeezed her arm. Flippant and carefree as she appeared, Jenna could not hide the sadness in her eyes. Neither she nor Kevin had called each other in the week since he’d reenlisted with the Marines. At the high school where they both taught, they avoided each other. Jenna stayed in her department’s wing; he stayed in the gym areas. Rumors flew. They resembled the angst-riddled teenagers they taught.

  Still, Claire thought, it beat a lifetime of “How high, Kev?”

  Didn’t it?

  A short while later, Claire drove into a parking space at the farthest edge of the church lot. Tandy was busy with an open house, leaving Claire to solo for the first time with her friend’s quirky congregation. As she had told Jenna, the service and its people were growing on her.

  Tandy discovered the place after her divorce. Claire accompanied her a few times; she had not been impressed. Although only about a hundred people attended, their worship time was loud, bordering on chaotic at times. Communion was served every week. Jenna would refer to the dress code as typically So-Cal: shorts, T-shirts, and over-sized print shirts for the men; slacks and summery skirts for the women; flip-flops and Birkies for all. Tears and laughter flowed freely; hugs and kisses abounded.

  It was like a church full of Tandys. What you see is what you get. Unrestrained emotions and in-your-face sermons ruled the morning.

  In spite of the warmth Claire had begun to feel after a service, it was, at times, just a bit too much.

  She restarted the car and drove away. There was quite enough of just a bit too much in her life.

  Claire drove to Oceanside, on the coast, and walked out onto the pier jammed with Sunday crowds. Fishermen lined the rails. Children raced ahead of mommies. Daddies pushed strollers thump, thump over the thick uneven boards. Older couples rode the electric cart “taxi” to and from the fifties-style restaurant located at the end.

  Claire stood there, behind the eatery and way beyond swimmers and surfers. Nothing but iron-gray water and steel-blue sky lay before her. Nearby, fishermen leaned at the rails. Families lingered, hoping to glimpse the occasional dolphin or sea lion.

  Oceanside was many miles from Claire’s life down in San Diego. The women in her social circles would give away a diamond necklace before sharing space with people who caught their own dinner while resting their elbows in seagull droppings. Max’s clients did not frequent the military town. Her son Danny lived at a different beach. No, there was not a chance she would run into an acquaintance.

  Except the one in her memory.

  She had walked with Petros on this pier.

  Maybe she should have walked with him all the way to Greece.

  Forty-five

  That long-ago winter afternoon, as Claire stood with Petros on the pier, a cold, sharp breeze blew. They entwined their arms and watched the sun sink behind dark, puffy clouds on the horizon.

  Out-of-the way meeting places had become necessary. Fans occasionally recognized the visiting artist on the street. His life was well documented via local television, newspapers, and magazines. His personality sparkled onstage and at the schools, preschool through university levels. His trumpeting gift mesmerized. And his intriguing Mediterranean appearance wasn’t all that bad to look
at.

  “Claire.” Petros intoned that one syllable like a vocal caress.

  Before she’d known the real him, she’d fallen in love with his voice. Its foreign cadence and deep richness embodied the most ancient of sounds: music. And, of course, it was music that invisibly bonded their spirits.

  “What?” Still laughing at something he’d said a moment ago, she turned away from the railing and faced him. “Petros?” She slid her arms around his waist, alarmed at the shimmer of tears in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “You are so easy to love.”

  She shook her head.

  He cupped her face in his hands. “Yes, you are. You are beautiful and kind.” He kissed her, his full lips a brush of gossamer. “And you—how do you say it? You play a mean violin.”

  Her throat closed. Max never expressed his love in such ways. He never made her feel loved or even lovable. Why had she ever thought she loved him in the first place? He disdained her music. He cared more for establishing his business than anything.

  But they were married. She’d vowed to make her marriage work. It would never resemble her parents’ ugly version of housekeeping.

  But what was she supposed to do with the enormous emptiness inside of her?

  Petros traced his thumbs across her cheeks, catching the trickle of tears, and gazed into her eyes.

  She shivered, not from the cold air but from the effect of Petros. He touched her at some closed-off place in her heart. No one else had ever come near to finding that place, let alone unlocking it. But Petros held the key. It was in how he made her believe in herself, in herself as a woman. When he spoke affirming words and so obviously desired her, indescribable hope flooded her soul.

  Max made her feel . . . inadequate.

  “Claire,” Petros whispered. “I say it one more time: please, please come home with me. Come to Greece.”

  “I—I can’t.”

  To her immature, idealistic, proud mind, there were all sorts of reasons why she couldn’t. She would succeed where her parents had failed. She would not succumb to affairs or alcohol or other coping mechanisms they’d used. For a time with Petros, she had lost sight of her vow to Max—that she would never divorce. Now she returned to that promise, believing it was the right thing in some cosmic way. And while she might have lofty thoughts, she wasn’t stupid: rebound-ing with a stranger whose native language she did not even begin to speak spelled a worse disaster than pressing on with Max.