by Hope Lyda
“The relationship?”
“Stop it, Dad. I don’t want to talk about this.”
“This cannot become a hideaway for you, kiddo.”
I wave about the tiny room which has become Dad’s cave. “Uh, yeah. Look who’s talking.”
“This has become a den of self-pity. I’ll leave if you do?”
I come up here to convince Dad that he needs to return to his life, and now he is trying to convince me that I need to return to mine.
I’m not ready.
“Show me how to play this thing,” I say, full of youthful enthusiasm and manipulation.
If Dad knows what I am up to, he doesn’t point it out. He excitedly pulls up the player screen and gives us both cool nicknames.
Girlfriends
I am waiting patiently—okay, impatiently—for Marcus to come out of the phone closet. This seems to be where we see each other most often here in the house. He is busy finishing his school program, and I am playing caretaker to Dad and carpooler to the kids.
“Are you about done?” I’ve stepped comfortably into the role of being Marcus’ sibling.
He kicks the door three times. Our predetermined signal for “almost done.”
I tap twice on the door—our predetermined signal for “five-minute warning.” And I wait.
He emerges just a couple minutes later with a notebook gripped in his hands, a pen behind his ear, and glasses resting on his nose.
“All yours,” he says, bowing in submission.
“Glasses. Nice touch for your academic career.”
He touches the bridge of his wire-rimmed choice. “Just for reading. I was talking to one of my study partners.”
“Not Law-na?” I am surprised by my sharp tone. I am even more surprised by his response.
“Look…I don’t mention Ben. Leave Lonna out of this.”
“Beau. Beau. Beau. You know the name. Why are we dancing around each other? Is there something here that we are hiding?” I decide to confront him completely. We stand toe-to-toe, and I am ready for us to battle this out.
“There is no dancing. You are uncomfortable around me because I told you how I felt about you last year. That isn’t my issue.” Marcus uses a tone that is stern but calm.
He is right. “You are right.”
“We had such a good time on the field trip and in recent weeks. Is our pattern going to turn into this—good time, bad time? It’s like you feel threatened.”
“Threatened?”
“Mari, I don’t plan to interfere with your life or with you and Beau. I’m not that kind of guy. You should at least know that about me.”
“I do.” I pull on my hair as though going nuts. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m having these mood and perspective swings.”
“Could it be because your life is not your own right now?”
I nod and then add, “But is it ever? I mean, in terms of faith?”
“Milkshakes?” Marcus motions for the stairs in the direction of the kitchen. We used to spend a lot of late nights inventing milkshake flavors and discussing faith.
“Let me make a quick call. I want to hear about Caitlin’s New York trip.”
“There might not be any ice cream when you get done. I’ve timed your so-called quick calls.”
I think on this for all of three seconds. “I can chat with Caitlin later.”
Taking the stairs two steps at a time, we arrive at the walk-in freezer quickly.
“Which three?” I ask Marcus with my hand on the metal door.
“Peppermint, fudge, and orange.”
“Name for creation?”
He considers his invention title carefully. “Patty Goes to Florida.”
I take it in. “Very interesting name. Not sure if it will make our all-time favorite, though.”
“No. It’s hard to beat your Play It Again, Yam concoction.”
“That was before we made the rule that we could not add vegetables to the ice cream. But it was a mighty good shake.” I hold up two aprons and Marcus chooses the frilliest one.
As I scoop his flavors from the large tubs, he reaches across the counter and grabs sundae glasses from the shelf.
“How is your faith these days?”
My surprise at his question shows.
“I’m not judging you. I was asking. As someone who once was involved in youth group with you, I do care.”
“I know you weren’t judging me,” I say defensively. “My faith is good. I’m trying and kind of struggling to figure out how to really follow God’s lead, but isn’t everyone?”
“Yep. At least anyone honest.”
“The past two years seem to be all about finding that place of contentment and also not settling, you know?”
He looks down at the long spoons in his hands. “I do know. And that is exactly what I have been learning.”
“Do you think God triggers certain waves of life lessons?” I wonder out loud.
“In a person’s life?”
“More like in a bunch of people’s lives. I ask because it seems that my friends and I face some similar decisions and faith struggles at the same time.”
“That would make sense. You are all about the same age and you have similar interests and circumstances, right?”
“It goes beyond my friends, though. I run into strangers who are facing the same stuff. I find it interesting.”
“I guess I should start paying closer attention.”
“What have you been learning about contentment?” I ask while perusing the ice cream options. I point to raspberry sorbet, rootbeer ice cream, and lime sherbet.
He makes a gagging face. “Name for this?”
“Pop-Tart,” I say without missing a beat. “Now tell me what you have been learning.”
“I…”
The blender masks what he is saying. I try to guess. “You woke up on the lawn?”
“No, genius.” His face shows exasperation and a bit of embarrassment. “I said I broke up with Lonna.” He pours my disgusting ice cream creation into my glass and avoids eye contact.
“W-Why?” I stutter with shock.
He looks at me. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Now I am embarrassed. “I wasn’t even thinking that. I’m surprised, that’s all. When a guy finishing his PhD degree is seeing someone, I guess you figure he is ready.”
“That’s a jump in logic.”
“No, it isn’t. A guy reaches a certain age, and all of a sudden he is ready for forever.”
“Isn’t that the stereotype given to women?”
“Lots of women do want to get married by a certain age because they want to find love. But most guys don’t bother looking for love until they check their own biological clock and decide it’s time.” I’m starting to wonder what my point really is.
“Is Beau one of these guys in the mode of just wanting to be married, no matter who?”
“Well, I didn’t say it means guys throw all discretion to the wind, thank you so much, but…” I pause and slowly nod. “I think Beau is actually a good example, to a certain extent.”
“And this works for you?”
“He loves me.” My defensive tone returns for an encore.
“Mari, I don’t doubt that. However, I find your theory about men quite interesting considering you have how many female friends in serious relationships?” He counts on his fingers over and over, pretending the tally is in the hundreds.
“Two. No, three. Sadie, me, and Caitlin. And we are all in relationships where the guy was ready for a serious relationship before the women were. So there you have it.”
“I’m not most guys. It won’t be a matter of convenience or age for me when I make that choice. It will be about one thing. No—two things.”
I hold up two fingers and await his explanation.
“The woman. And the life lesson we were talking about. I want to really feel that it’s God’s leading.”
“Do you think there is only one perso
n for us?”
“No. I don’t mean that. I’m not expecting there to be a huge sign over a woman’s head flashing that she is the only one, but I believe God’s will is known through the peace we feel in such circumstances.”
“I think growth requires discomfort. Not just roses and teddy bears and paths cleared of obstacles.”
“The discomfort is followed by the peace. That is my belief. Would you just drink that disgusting-looking liquid?”
“And you didn’t have peace about Lonna?”
“No. She’s great, but I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to start a relationship. She could tell.”
“Everyone could apparently. Cheyenne thought you were emotionally distant.”
Marcus cocks his head to the side. “Cheyenne? Since when do you ask advice of a former homecoming queen?”
“It’s not like I brought up the subject of your dating life. She mentioned seeing you two out together the other night. That’s all. I wasn’t asking for advice. Don’t you flatter yourself.” Marcus does not respond, but he downs the last of his drink with an exaggerated gulp of satisfaction.
“Do you have peace about Beau?” Marcus asks sincerely.
Instead of answering, I finish what does turn out to be a very disgusting liquid. I don’t want to get into an analysis of me and Beau, yet I feel relieved somehow by this conversation. “You know, Marcus, this might be the most helpful girl talk I have had in a long time.”
He curtseys in his chiffon apron and says in a high voice, “Give me five, girlfriend.”
Champs and Winners
Nobody use the phone between eleven and twelve today,” I command from the stair landing like the captain of an unruly ship crew.
“We heard,” says Marcus from the study room. “And for those of us who didn’t hear, there is a large sign on the phone closet that is sufficient notification.”
“I can’t read,” states Daisy matter-of-factly.
“Thank you, Daisy,” I say, raising my voice, “for pointing out why this announcement is necessary.”
“I also am not allowed to use the phone anytime, not just between eleven and twelve,” she says innocently.
Marcus starts laughing. “Is the president calling again?”
“I have an important conference call with Golden Horizons. We are planning the end-of-year fund-raiser, and I am in charge of the committee.”
“In absentia,” adds Marcus and returns to his crossword puzzle.
“Yes. But I will be there for the fund-raiser; it is in December—so I will be back by then. I’ll be in Arizona, living there—again. In just over a month, I will be in Tucson.” I’m saying this aloud to remind Marcus that my gig here is a limited engagement. After my talk with Dad in his GameCube cave, I know it is time for me to begin talking about my return to Tucson. I need to say it so I will believe it myself. But right now I am saying it only to get a response out of Marcus.
The scene where he cries and begs me to stay does not happen. The moment where all the kids understand I am a temporary fixture and fall to their knees pleading with me to stay does not happen, either.
Marcus glances up at me and adjusts his glasses. “And I will be in Chicago.”
“Mari, don’t worry,” Jon says. “We’re all leaving for school. That is, if Marcus will get up off his duff and drive us.”
Marcus writes in the last few letters of his final crossword solution while the kids gather their lunches, books, and backpacks. In a matter of minutes I stand on the landing in total silence.
“I’m really going back to Tucson,” I say to the empty table and dirty cereal bowls. “As much as you want me to stay, I have to get back to my life—after all, it is the life that finally unfolded the way it was supposed to. I love my job. I have a handsome, smart boyfriend. My friends need me. Tucson is my…”
The scene where I declare that Tucson is my home to a room of empty chairs, framed photographs of happy children, and mismatched mittens and shoes does not happen. I settle for singing the Rice Krispies theme song.
By 10:30 my notes are spread out in the phone closet in preparation for the conference call. Beau, Lysa, and a couple resident volunteers—Rose and Chet—make up the fund-raiser committee this year.
I am eager to show everyone that I am still connected to the cause of Golden Horizons’ well-being. And despite the air-clearing conversation during my last visit, my phone conversations have been strained and surface level. I want to be a productive part of this committee so that when I do return, Beau knows I am on his team.
By the time the phone rings I have psyched myself up and am incredibly positive about all things Golden Horizons.
“Hello, this is Mari.”
“Mari!” a crowd of happy voices fills the room.
I can distinguish everyone’s voice but Beau’s. Maybe he wants to address me on his own. Personally. Importantly.
Lysa, always practical, starts right in on the business. “The board liked the idea of the holiday craft and food fair. They especially liked that we receive a portion of the booth rental fees and a small percentage of whatever the sellers take in. Good suggestion, Mari.”
“Thanks. Do we know if we can have the fairgrounds’ pavilion?”
“That is being secured,” Rose offers confidently. “Willy Tanner is on the fairgrounds’ board, so it is only a matter of some paperwork.”
“Willy?”
“He’s a deacon at our church, of course,” Rose says in tsk-tsk way.
“Oh, right,” I say ignorantly and keep waiting for my significant other to address me. When the conversation continues for another fifteen minutes without a peep from Beau, I decide to address him directly. “Beau, is the Golden Horizons’ craft committee planning a special exhibit for our fair?”
Silence.
“Beau had a meeting with…his project committee,” Lysa offers graciously. “He told us to tell you how pleased he is with all the arrangements we have so far. He thinks it is going to be a real hit, like last year’s fashion show. He thought you did such a good job with that he just knows this one will be a smash.”
Overselling. My mind repeats Caitlin’s accurate charge when I was defending Beau. I’m so pathetic. I have my friends and coworkers caught up in the same hyped up protection of Beau and his precious character. The only problem is, everyone but Beau seems concerned enough about our relationship to say anything in his defense.
Lysa gives it one more try. “The good news is that Beau will be able to reveal his report to us and to the board in advance of the fund-raiser. He’ll be able to join the committee for the home stretch on this project by the time you are back.”
It feels funny to be informed about Beau’s life schedule from a third party.
“Speak of the devil!” Chet shouts, and I sit up straight and hit my head on the angled ceiling.
“Sorry I’m late, Mari. What a group of go-getters we have working on this thing. I appreciate your leadership from afar. So are things in order? Are we going to set records this year?” Beau rattles off words as though he just returned from a team spirit management convention.
I don’t want to respond.
Rose, our committee secretary, reads through our meeting agenda and decisions. Beau responds with a lot of “Fantastics.” I am searching for an antacid by the time Rose finishes her recap.
We close with a “Go, Go, Golden Horizons” team cheer in which Beau’s voice is the loud one and mine is the absent one.
As I am about to hang up, Beau speaks directly into the receiver. “You still there?”
My heart races. I’m sorry I hated how peppy he sounded. I liked it, really. It was supportive and motivating. “Yes, I’m here, Beau. I’m so glad…”
“I want to remind you I will need your final recreational report for my project by next week. I know you’re great at deadlines, but we all need reminders.”
Like a reminder as to why I was just excited to hear your voice.
“That’s
all you wanted to say?” My disappointment is expressed openly.
“I’m a nervous Nellie over this project. You have really been my rock through all this, Mari. You are my good luck charm. You’re the little angel that sits on my shoulder and guides me. You are my…”
“Don King?” I interrupt, tired of his line.
Beau laughs. I don’t.
Not catching the hurt behind my sarcasm, he continues. “Well, you are the brains behind this champ. After all, you were the reason I came to Tucson for this job, and it has turned into the perfect career move. Everything is right on track for me. For you. For us. It’s a fantastic time.”
Champ? On track? Fantastic?
After we hang up, I walk down the stairs and turn on the French tapes to fill my mind with more words that make no sense.
At one o’clock the phone rings again. I pray as I tromp back upstairs that this call will make the difference. Let it be Beau apologizing. I want to hear the man I fell for last year and not the game show host persona who just participated in the conference call. Please, God. Make it all right.
“Hello, this is Mari.”
“Mari. It’s Kayla. Is your mom there? It’s important.”
So much for effective impromptu prayers.
“No, she is volunteering in Camden’s class today.”
“I have fantastic news.”
Fantastic. My favorite word of the day. “What is it?” I ask without an ounce of enthusiasm.
“Your mom is the new district city councilman. Woman.”
“How is that possible? She pulled out of the race.” Wouldn’t a campaign manager know this bit of information?
“I know. Isn’t that amazing? She so impressed everyone that the majority of voters wrote in her name on the ballot. This has never happened in the history of this district. And it all happened without investing money in the last half of the campaign. Unbelievable.”
