The Sunroom

by Beverly Lewis

  My choral director must’ve thought I was nuts today when I told him I wouldn’t be playing for the Christmas Ensemble. He didn’t make such a fuss about it, really, but I knew by the look on his face that he was shocked.

  Mary Beth Peters was thrilled, though. (She’s one of the other accompanists—the next best after me.) It was all I could do to stand there after class while she hugged me and thanked me for “this wonderful opportunity.”

  Oh, to think that I must never play again. . . .

  “What’s Joanna gonna say about you quitting piano?” Emily said on Thursday.

  We were waiting for the school bus, standing by ourselves as the other kids hung back. They sent frightened glances our way, and I found myself feeling sorry for them. Too bad someone couldn’t let them know that cancer could not be transferred to them through us. Yet I didn’t want to cause a scene, and I believed it wouldn’t be long before we could announce that Mommy was cured.

  “Joanna will be very surprised, probably,” I replied.

  “No kidding!” Emily shot back.

  “Look, I can’t worry about everything, can I?” She arched her eyebrows. “You usually do.”

  “Well, this morning I have a history test to think about. I’ll talk to Joanna when I see her.”

  “Better get ready, ’cause that’ll be this Friday,” she volunteered. “We’re going to Aunt Audrey’s for the weekend.”

  Another weekend away from home. Would I ever adjust to the uncertainty, being shuffled from place to place? I didn’t blame Daddy, not at all. Besides, Aunt Audrey and Uncle Jack’s home was actually a very comforting alternative. Not that Aunt Mimi wasn’t kind and so very thoughtful of my sister and me. But it went much deeper with Aunt Audrey. We were, after all, her sister’s children, and we knew she loved us dearly.

  How our auntie could sing the old hymns from memory. Sometimes she recited the lyrics to us without singing—like poetry. I knew it took some doing because I’d once tried saying all four verses of “The Solid Rock,” and failed.

  Thinking of Aunt Audrey, I was happy that we were to spend the weekend there. She might have some insight into Mommy’s progress. And Joanna, her daughter, was my closest cousin, so there’d be no time wasted in superficial pleasantries. My cousin and I were close in age and went way back to toddlerhood. We had been blessed with mothers who appreciated good music, so we’d grown up loving some of the same things. It just might be a fun time after all.

  I came close to spilling my secret that weekend. Joanna and I had already brushed our teeth and dressed for bed when I told her how homesick I was for my mother.

  “I wish you could visit her,” she sympathized.

  For an instant I was struck with the sin of envy. Her mother was strong, a model of good health. “I’d like to sneak into the elevator when nobody’s looking,” I confessed.

  Her eyes were wide. “You wouldn’t really do that, would you?”

  “Getting caught would be worth it if I could see Mommy again.” She covered her mouth with her hand, probably horrified that I was thinking such wicked thoughts. But I needed understanding, wanted her to help bear my burden.

  Intentionally, I slid away, perching myself on the edge of her big bed. My bare feet dangled over the side, and I felt the tickle of the embroidered bed skirt as I pouted.

  “I’m sorry, Becky,” she whispered, tugging on the back of my pajama top. “It’s not easy for any of us. I love your mother, too.”

  It was then that my eyes fell on a small ceramic statuette of a grand piano, white and shiny, atop Joanna’s dresser. My contract with God and all its implications threatened to burst forth.

  Instead of telling her what I’d done at the altar last Sunday, I began to cry. For the first time since the science class incident, I let hot tears roll down my cheeks, unchecked.

  “Mommy, something’s wrong with Becky,” I heard Joanna calling.

  Aunt Audrey hurried into the bedroom. “Dear, dear girlie, what is it?”

  I buried my face in my hands, sobbing.

  Joanna tried to explain. “I think it’s about missing her mother.”

  “Well, of course she does.” Aunt Audrey sat beside me, patting my back. “Why don’t we talk to Jesus about this?”

  I began blubbering unintelligible sounds, but Aunt Audrey prayed anyway. When she finished, I blew my nose and, in general, tried to calm down. But it wasn’t easy with that beautiful miniature piano right in my line of vision.

  Soon, my aunt was tucking both of us in, kissing our foreheads. Before she left the room, I asked her to tell me about Mommy. “Is she getting any better?”

  “The radiation makes her very tired. But that’s part of it.”

  “Is it working? Is it killing off the bad cells?”

  She cradled my hand in both of hers and was silent for a moment. “I saw your mother again today. She’s trusting Jesus for her healing.”

  “Did she tell you about the verses God gave her?”

  “Yes, and now there are even more,” she replied, stroking my hand. “Your mother wants to live to see you and your sister grow up.”

  “I want that, too. More than anything.”

  “But not more than you want God’s perfect will performed in your mother’s life.”

  The words stung my heart. Had I tried to alter God’s will by forcing my own? Had I been too selfish, wanting my own way? Was that why I’d made the pact?

  “Now, Becky,” she was saying, “the very best thing you can do is to fully trust the Lord Jesus for your mother’s safekeeping . . . as I am.”

  It was Aunt Audrey’s gentle way that soothed me most. I wondered then if sometime, in years to come, I might want to tell her about my deal with God. Joanna, too.

  From that night on, I determined to lean harder on God’s will, but that didn’t mean I was going back on my word. I’d made a promise I intended to keep. The Lord knew I meant business, even before our church pianist took sick on Saturday, and Daddy asked me to play for the Sunday song service.

  Chapter 12

  I was packing up my Amish doll, along with my pajamas and other things, when the phone rang Sunday morning.

  Uncle Jack picked up the receiver in the hallway, then called to me. “Becky, it’s your father.”

  Rushing to the phone, I said, “Hi, Daddy. How’s Mommy?”

  “I’m going to need your help, honey.” He sounded a bit edgy, ignoring my inquiry. “Sister Stauffer is sick with a cold. I know it’s short notice, but will you fill in for her during the morning service?”

  I couldn’t believe it. Why was God letting this happen?

  “There’ll be the usual three or four songs from the hymnal,” he was saying. “Don’t worry about an offertory this time.”

  “Uh . . . wait, Daddy. I . . . I can’t—”

  “What is it, honey?”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t do it.”

  “You’ve always been so good at sight-reading hymns. I thought—”

  “It’s not the practicing, Daddy. I’m just not . . . not playing piano anymore.”

  He was in a hurry to leave so he could come pick us up. “We’ll talk more about this.” His voice sounded stern, almost provoked.

  How could I tell him I wasn’t being disobedient at all? How, without confessing what I’d done?

  At church, Daddy led me into the ushers’ room, a small, soundproof cubicle just off the foyer. The place had no window, but there were built-in cupboards where purple velvet offering bags were stored, as well as tithe envelopes and missionary pledge cards. Extra folding chairs, too.

  He asked me to sit down and I did. “I don’t mean to pry, Becky, but your disinterest in the piano concerns me.” He sighed. “Does it have something to do with Mommy?”

  The question took me by surprise. Had the Lord revealed the secret alliance to my father? Is that what Daddy was trying to say?

  I hung my head, bearing both humility and near defeat. What if I obeyed him—went ahead
and played for the congregational singing?

  And then . . . what if Mommy died? Forever and always, I’d regret not telling Daddy the truth so that he’d understand and wouldn’t force me to play.

  Lifting my head, I looked at him. “I guess I should tell you why I can’t play. It’s about . . .”

  My heart was throbbing; my breathing irregular—coming too rapidly.

  I would appeal to God. . . . The Scripture trumpeted in my brain. Dizziness blurred my vision as I attempted to speak.

  I would lay my cause before Him. . . . The room began to spin. “Oh, Daddy, I feel funny, I . . .”

  He dropped to his knees in front of me. “Becky, you’re terribly pale!”

  Then down . . . down I slumped. Daddy’s hands were pushing my head between my knees, gently applying pressure to the back of my neck. He was saying my name, intermingled with the Lord’s, over and over.

  I don’t remember much else, except that Lee Anne and her mother came in and stayed with me through most of the song service. It was the one and only time our church folk had ever sounded like Mennonites. They sang beautifully, without any kind of musical accompaniment at all.

  “You never sewed eyes on your doll,” Emily reminded me that evening.

  “I’m getting used to her the way she is,” I said, scrubbing the kitchen counter.

  “Well, maybe if you hold up some buttons for the eyes, that’ll give you an idea of how she’d look.”

  “True.” But I was dragging my feet on purpose.

  She left the kitchen, returning in a few seconds. “Where does Mommy keep the button jar?”

  “Same place as always.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not there. You better go look.” I tossed the dishrag to her. “Finish wiping the countertops.” I hurried upstairs to the linen closet in the hallway across from Emily’s and my bedroom. We’d stayed home from evening church because Daddy was concerned about me. I could’ve told him why I was suffering and spared him the anxiety. Honestly, though, I was thankful that the Lord had put a fainting spell on me that morning.

  As for resting most of the day, that was the norm for Sundays, at least at our house. Daddy was often exhausted from his duties: teaching the Men’s Bible Class during Sunday school, followed by an hour or so of preaching.

  Mommy liked to nap on Sunday afternoons, too. First, she and Emily and I would work together in the kitchen: Mommy, putting away the leftovers; Emily, clearing the table; and I, washing dishes. Emily and Mommy would dry them, trying to keep up with me. All the while we sang or chattered about the morning service and the dear folk there whom we loved.

  Sometimes—and these were the best Sundays of all—Lee Anne’s mother or the wife of one of the deacons would invite us to have dinner with them. Sharing food, or, as Daddy called it, breaking bread with your brothers and sisters in Christ, made the food taste even better. Fellowship was a big aspect of our church family at Glad Tidings.

  In the summer, we’d spread quilts or sheets out on the grass and have picnics after church. Then, if there were people itching to be baptized, we’d turn the social gathering into a spiritual one.

  Daddy and another man, usually Lee Anne’s father, would wade out into the creek near the church, muddy or not. There, the newest members of the kingdom of God always came up from their water baptism either shouting or weeping.

  Afterward, Daddy and the others would change into the dry clothes they borrowed from the secondhand clothes in the missionary barrels. Later, after a trip to the parsonage, those same garments were returned and sent overseas, the smell of creek water and soil completely vanished, thanks to Mommy’s box of Tide and our trusty clothesline.

  “Find some buttons yet?” Emily’s voice startled me from my reverie.

  “Uh . . . just a minute,” I said over my shoulder.

  Rummaging through Mommy’s linen closet was always lots of fun. You could find sheets and pillowcases—sometimes matching, sometimes not—and blankets, a few more threadbare than others. Bath towels, washcloths, and an occasional fingertip towel or hand towel, too. But high on the top shelf, the most unlikely things often appeared if you were looking hard enough. Things like jars of old buttons. Some as old as the hills, or at least Mommy said so.

  Her collection wasn’t representative of mere odds and ends. Many of the buttons told a story. There were buttons from long-ago jumpers worn during grade school by Mommy and her sisters. Buttons from special-occasion frocks and suits, because in those days—Emily and I called them the “olden days”—people wore their clothes till they wore out. They didn’t let anything go to waste, including the buttons left on tattered garments.

  All of Mommy’s button jars were organized by color, which meant that one jar held only white, cream, and yellow buttons. Another stored only pinks and reds.

  Standing on tiptoe, I reached for the blue and purple buttons. Thinking of Aunt Mimi’s gift, I wondered how blue button eyes might look on my faceless doll.

  “What do you think?” I asked Emily, holding two small buttons up to the doll.

  She tilted her head, looking intently. “Too big.” I searched for a set of smaller buttons, mismatched, but blue nevertheless. “How’s this?”

  She stepped back, studying the face. “I think the Amish know what they’re doing.”

  “Huh?”

  She shrugged her shoulders, coming back to have a closer look. “The doll looks better without eyes.”

  “Know what I think?” I said. “I think she listens better because she’s blind.”

  Emily twisted her long locks. “Is that why you talk to her so much . . . late at night?”

  Flabbergasted, I stared at her. “Why, you’ve been playing possum, Emily Owens!”

  She grinned, mocking me. “She can’t really hear you, ya know. You oughta talk to God instead.”

  “I do, probably more than you.”

  “Do not.”

  “Do so.”

  This was hopeless. I wished I’d gone to church with Daddy.

  Chapter 13

  Monday, October 6

  Dear Diary,

  I’m staring at the elevator doors at the far end of the hospital lobby. Emily and I wanted to come along with Daddy tonight. Guess we’re tired of being lonely.

  Anyway, we’re here, doing homework and not talking to strangers, but the hours drag on and I’m worried we’ll be droopy-eyed for school tomorrow.

  Mommy’s just two floors above us, somewhere in a semi-private room. I’ve never asked Daddy what it looks like, but I’m pretty sure I can imagine how it smells. Down this hallway and around the corner, there’s a drinking fountain, and the scent of the place starts to change if you get too close to the nurses’ station. It’s a lot like rubbing alcohol or something stronger, maybe.

  I’m so worn out, I could lie down on this sofa and go to sleep. Sure wish those elevator doors would open up and spill Daddy out!

  “What did Joanna say about you quitting piano?” Emily asked, looking up from her book.

  “Please, Emmy, not now, okay?”

  “Well, when? ”

  I shook my head. “It’s too complicated.”

  “And I’m not old enough to understand, right?” I groaned; couldn’t go into it, just couldn’t. Why wouldn’t she just leave it be?

  “So . . . what’s complicated?”

  I glanced at the clock. “Let’s phone Mommy’s room, okay?” “You’re ignoring me,” she whined, closing her book.

  I found some change in my wallet and headed over to the receptionist’s desk. Timidly, I asked for my mother’s phone number. “She’s in room 317.”

  “Would you like to use this phone?” the lady offered. I looked down the hall, toward the telephone stalls. Craving privacy, I told her, “I’ll think I’ll use the pay phone . . . but thank you.”

  She nodded, wearing a quizzical expression.

  When the phone rang, Daddy answered. “Uh, hi . . . it’s Emmy and me. Are you about ready to go
home? I mean . . . it’s getting kind of late.”

  I heard him exhale, then pause for a moment. “That’s right . . .you’re downstairs, aren’t you?”

  “Did you forget?” I glanced at Emily who was making a sour face.

  He was saying something to Mommy now, and because the voices sounded muffled, I knew he’d covered the phone.

  Daddy had forgotten, all right. I waited, trying to sort out the situation. Poor, dear Daddy—a quiet, reserved man—was caught up in a swirling storm, with Mommy at its center. Any father might have forgotten given the same dire circumstances.

  He was back on the line in no time, apologizing repeatedly. “I’ll be right down, Becky,” he said. “Two minutes, okay?”

  “If it’s all right . . . uh, could I talk to Mommy?”

  “She’s feeling a bit drowsy, but I’ll put her on.”

  I waited, longing to hear her voice again. “Hello, honey. Are you and Emily all right?” Her voice sounded weak. Husky too.

  “We’re just tired, that’s all.”

  “Daddy’s so sorry . . . he has a lot on his mind.”

  “I know. We’re fine,” I assured her.

  “Is your homework finished?” she asked.

  “Yes. Emmy’s too.”

  “Wonderful. And your school grades?”

  “Okay, I guess.” Emily’s were better than mine.

  Mommy stopped talking, and I didn’t know if I should say something or wait for her to speak again.

  At last she said, “Oh, honey, it’s so hard to think of my precious girls being right here in this very building, yet too far away to see . . . or to hug.”

  “I know. I hate it, too.” Then I got brave. “How much longer, Mommy? How long before the doctors let you come home?”

  “Well, that’s being decided tomorrow,” she said, her voice sounding lighter. “Maybe they’ll release me sometime this week.”