by Nancy Moser
It wasn’t that Angie minded spending time with her grandson, but for Talia to just assume . . . “I’m going to the shelter to serve lunch today. With Margery and Sarah.”
“I’ll be back way before that,” Talia said, putting on her jacket. “Just an hour would help tremendously. Ninety minutes, tops.”
“No problem,” Angie said.
The look of relief on her daughter’s face made Angie glad she hadn’t balked. For the poor girl to be excited about ninety minutes? Perhaps things were even more stressful for Talia than she’d thought.
Talia kissed her child and husband and was out the door. Nesto moved the boxes of cereal within Angie’s reach. “There’s Life in the pantry . . . ,” he said.
“This is fine.” She chose the Toasties box because it didn’t have a cartoon character on the front. Tomás held a piece of cereal in her direction. “For me?” she asked.
“Gee!”
She popped it in her mouth. The cinnamon-and-sugar coating was good. Perhaps she’d been hasty in her choice. But she couldn’t very well pour the Toasties back in the box.
Nesto grinned. “You can have two bowls. I won’t tell.”
Angie hadn’t realized her expression had mirrored her craving. “Maybe I will.”
He raised a spoon. “It’s like the country song ‘Live Like You Were Dying.’”
The milk she poured on her cereal slopped over the bowl. How could he be so cavalier about dying?
Nesto pressed a napkin to the spill. “Do I make you uneasy?” he asked.
“No, of course not.” She looked down. “I was uneasy before you said a word.” She glanced up. “I’m sure Talia’s told you I left her father.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Angie had expected him to say more. “I know it will be hard for people to understand—my leaving after all these years—but I’ve come to the end of my abilities. I try and try to earn Stanford’s respect and love, and get nowhere. There’s nothing more I can do.”
“You’re right.”
“What?”
“The best things are not earned. They are given. Free.”
Angie huffed. “Not from my experience.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
She sighed and ate a single flake from her bowl. “You’ll have to forgive me but I’m feeling very cynical right now. Nothing’s free. Nothing.”
“Love is. It should be.”
Angie smiled. “What planet are you from, Nesto? Don’t you know that every smidgen, every iota of love has a price tag and has to be earned?”
He shook his head. “That’s not right.”
“But that’s the way it is.” Where should she begin? “If I want Stanford to go to a fund-raiser event with me, it costs me a steak dinner with his favorite twice-baked potatoes, a pumpkin pie, and . . . well . . . a few other things.”
“He won’t go just to please you?”
She laughed.
His head was shaking again. He wasn’t convinced?
“If I want to borrow his headphones when I take a walk, it means at least an hour of running his errands in return.” She got to the bottom line. “If I want a good day tomorrow, I have to earn it today. It takes hours of prep work to ensure peace in the Schuster residence.” Angie realized she was crying. She flicked the tears away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t air our dirty laundry like this.”
“You’re sharing. You need to share.”
“But what good does it do? It won’t change anything. Like I said, all good things cost. All good things have to be earned through tons and tons of work.”
“Not all good things.”
“Name one.”
Nesto hesitated, then said, “Vida eternal.”
“Eternal?” It sounded prettier when he said it.
“And vida is life. Life eternal.”
Eternal life. “Oh please. As if I want this life to go on and on and on forever.”
“Not here, but life after this one. In heaven. We don’t earn our way to heaven. It’s a gift.”
A huge, disgusted laugh broke through her anger. “Come on, Nesto. Don’t be naïve. We’re supposed to fear God, which means he can get mad if we’re not good. It means we have to earn his love, just like I have to earn Stanford’s. Why do you think I do all this stuff for my husband—and for others too? Why do you think I bend over backward? To earn brownie points with God. To make sure I get to heaven.”
Nesto’s jaw dropped.
She pointed at it. “Why that look? Don’t tell me you don’t do good things to earn God’s love?”
“I want him to be proud of me, but I don’t do things to earn his love. He loves me, no matter what.”
Angie felt another laugh threaten, but held it back. “So if I throw all propriety to the wind and become a serial killer he’ll love me?”
Nesto retrieved a piece of Tomás’s cereal from the floor. “He’d be sad, but he would love you.”
“Then what incentive does anyone have to do good, be good, act good?”
“We do good because we want to. We choose it. Out of free will.”
She snickered. “How much simpler life would be if God made us do what we’re supposed to do.”
“He wants us to choose. It means much more that way.”
It might mean more but it was also much harder.
Nesto set his coffee aside, giving his words room. “If we could earn a way to heaven by doing good, we’d try—” he looked to the ceiling—“one up?”
“To one-up each other. Yes, I suppose we would. Whoever has the longest do-good list wins.”
He wiped some milk from his son’s chin. “There’s pride in that. ‘Salvation is not a reward for the good things we have done, so none of us can boast about it.’”
Angie pushed her bowl away an inch. This was very confusing. She was hoping to get to heaven by earning it. She did hope God was impressed with all her volunteer work and all her self-sacrifice in regard to Stanford. Yet if Nesto was right, the truth upon which she’d based her life was faulty. All her volunteering, all her good deeds . . . they might earn her God’s approval, but they wouldn’t earn her a way to heaven.
Heaven was a gift? Nesto made it sound so easy. Had she been complicating her life? making things harder than they really were?
Nesto reached across the table and touched her hand. “Are you okay?”
She slid her hand out from under his and took her bowl to the sink. “You’ve just given me a lot to think about, that’s all. About heaven, about life, about . . .”
“Your husband?”
“We’ll work it out,” Angie said.
“You do that. Life’s too short.”
Nesto should know.
* * *
Angie slipped upstairs to Talia’s and Nesto’s master bedroom to use the phone. Nesto was in the living room playing with Tomás. She’d made the excuse that she was going upstairs to make her bed.
It was already made.
She was going to follow through with the statement she’d made to Nesto about her marriage to Stanford: “We’ll work it out.” Four words casually tossed into the air, implying a mysterious sleight of hand that was based on nothing more than desire, determination, and blind hope. The specifics of how they’d work it out eluded her.
She sat on the edge of the bed and drew the phone into her lap. How could she get Stanford to love unconditionally? How could she even explain what that was? Nesto had explained it to her, but Nesto was eloquent. And Nesto had explained it to Angie by using God examples. That would not go over well with Stanford.
She assumed Stanford believed in God, but she wasn’t completely certain. They periodically went to church, and when they did, Stanford always put a nice-sized check in the collection plate. But when she’d sneak a peek at him during the service at a moment when she was moved or touched in some way—to see if he was moved or touched—she’d invariably find him checking out the stained-glass windows or his manicure or the insides of his eyelids. And
when Christians were portrayed badly in movies or on television—which they often were—Stanford was always quick to add, “I hate when they act all high-and-mighty like that. Or over the top like crazed zealots.”
They. As in not him. Which made Angie wonder if her husband considered himself a Christian at all.
If he wasn’t that, then what was he?
His own man. A self-made man who’d made her into a Stanford-made wife.
A Stepford wife? A robotic woman who did exactly as she was told? who achieved her husband’s standard of perfection in every way?
“That’s certainly not me.”
Angie was startled to hear her thought said aloud. But that didn’t make it any less true. No matter how hard she tried she would never be perfect. Never please Stanford. Never measure up.
The big question was, would he—did he—love her anyway?
It was time to find out.
She dialed home. When the phone rang two, then three times, she was almost reliev—
“Hello?”
“Hi,” she said, proving the limited extent of her communication skills.
“Oh. It’s you.”
“I . . . I . . .” Oh, dear. Why had she called again?
“Where should I send your clothes?”
Angie moved the phone to her other ear. “I . . .”
“Come on, Angela. I don’t have all day.”
She hung up, her hands shaking. Forget discussing the finer points of unconditional love with her husband. There was no love present at all. Zero. Zilch. Nada. He wanted her to move out.
You are out.
Angie shook her head. No, she wasn’t out. She was away. There was a difference.
Oh, God, what should I do?
“Angie?” It was Nesto’s voice calling from downstairs.
“Coming.”
Angie left behind the uncertainties of her marriage and went to love the ones she was with. As unconditionally as possible.
* * *
Gennifer looked up from her mug of coffee as Sarah came into the kitchen. She did a double take because Sarah was carrying an armload of clothes from her closet.
“What are you doing?”
“Cleaning out some things.” Sarah dumped the clothes on the kitchen table, then headed back upstairs.
Gennifer noticed a blouse and skirt she’d given her daughter for her last birthday. Tommy Hilfiger. She’d seen Sarah wear the outfit just a few weeks earlier.
Gennifer hurried into the front hall and called up the stairs. “Sarah? What’s going—?”
Sarah appeared, struggling with two boxes. “You could help, Mother.”
Gennifer rushed up the stairs and took the top box. It was full of books. She spotted Little Women and Gone With the Wind. They took the boxes into the kitchen. Gennifer set hers on the nearest counter. “Sarah, I demand to know what’s going on.” She picked up Little Women. “You love this book. These books.”
Sarah was rearranging the items in her box. Gennifer spotted a CD player, a half dozen CDs, a funky orange-and-chrome alarm clock, and a little zipper case Gennifer knew contained Sarah’s favorite hair bands and barrettes.
“Sarah? Answer me.”
With a sigh, Sarah looked up. “I do love those books. And I love these things too. And the clothes. But that’s the problem. I love them too much. There are so many people down at the shelter who don’t have any—”
“You are not taking these things to the shelter!”
Sarah lifted her chin. “I am so. You gave these things to me. They are my things. Right?”
“Technically, yes, but that doesn’t mean you have the right to give—”
“Technically, it does.” She slipped the CD player between a stuffed bear and three Beanie Babies. “We have so much . . .”
“So you’re going to just give it all away?”
Sarah stroked the head of the bear. Years before she’d bought it with her Christmas money and named it Max. “Not all of it,” Sarah said softly. “I’d like to, but I just can’t.”
Suddenly, Sarah began to cry. Gennifer watched as her daughter fought for control—and won. “I’m going to the shelter now. To take these things. And to serve lunch.”
“With Angie?” Gennifer hated the disdain in her voice but she wasn’t awake enough to be subtle.
“And Margery.” Sarah grabbed a banana. “Why did Dad sleep in the guest room last night?”
None of your business. “We had an argument. We’ll be fine.”
“You’re not messing things up with him, are you?”
Gennifer felt her jaw drop. “How dare you say—”
A car horn honked outside. “Would you hold the door for me?”
In shock, Gennifer did as she was asked, but as soon as the door closed, she left her coffee behind and went back to bed. The oblivion of sleep was the only medicine worth anything right now.
* * *
“You don’t have to go,” Gladys told Margery. “The shelter can serve the meat loaf and peas without you.”
Margery zipped her navy hooded sweatshirt. “I’ll be fine. Angie is picking me up. And Sarah will be there too.”
“A middle-aged volunteer and a teenager. Quite the battery of bodyguards.”
Margery appreciated Gladys’s concern, but . . . “Mick’s my husband. He’s not going to hurt me.” A quick thought surfaced: but he has. She put her purse on her shoulder. “He doesn’t even know I volunteer down there. Besides, he doesn’t want me; he wants drugs.”
“You’ll be in a bad part of town, won’t you?”
This conversation wasn’t going anywhere. “I’ll be back about two.” She put a hand on Gladys’s shoulder. “Don’t worry so much. I’ll be fine.”
* * *
“Don’t worry so much. I’ll be fine.”
Margery’s words haunted Gladys all morning at work. The odd thing was, her thoughts didn’t revolve around Margery and her loser husband Mick, but around herself.
I’ll be fine.
But would she?
Gladys dumped a new shipment of amber-colored prescription bottles in the Plexiglas box for easy access. The rattle of plastic against plastic corresponded nicely with the rattle of her thoughts.
“My, my,” King said from across the room. “What did those vials ever do to you?”
“I’m testy today, all right? Can’t a woman be testy in peace?”
“I’m not sure testy and peace can even live in the same sentence, but I’m certainly not going to argue with you.”
“Good.” She wadded up the empty bag from the vials and stuffed it in the trash can, pushing deep.
Bill, a regular customer, came up to the Drop-Off counter. Gladys would have preferred King handle him—since Bill had a penchant for talking in great detail about his Boston Terrier Abby and Gladys wasn’t in the mood—but since Gladys was closest, there was no way she could gracefully hide in a corner and let King handle him.
Best to get it over with. “Morning, Bill.”
“Morning, Gladys. How you doing?”
“I’m—”
King suddenly appeared at her shoulder. “She’s testy, so watch out.”
Gladys couldn’t believe he’d said such a thing. “I am not testy. I’m fine.”
As soon as she said the key word fine, Gladys went into overdrive. She heard King’s and Bill’s banter, and was even aware that Bill shared Abby’s latest escapade, but was very glad when King filled the prescription. She wouldn’t have been able to do it. For with the cue word fine she’d left testy behind and entered the Twilight Zone.
You are not fine, and you will not be fine, not until you take care of things.
What things?
You know very well what things. Your eyes.
She had no idea what had brought that on. Her eyes hadn’t suddenly gotten worse. She’d adjusted her lifestyle at home and at work to accommodate this weakness. Why was she even thinking about them at all?
King was at his wor
kstation, filling Bill’s prescription. He glanced in her direction. “You okay?”
“Fine. I’m fine.”
There it was again. Fine.
And with its sounding, her heart started beating as if someone had just cussed at her.
Fine was not a bad word. It was a fine word. Although it is a four-letter word . . .
King finished the prescription and called Bill back to the counter. He went over the side effects of the drug, and they exchanged a few final pleasantries. “Do what you have to do, Bill. That’s the only way to handle such a thing.”
“That’s the plan,” Bill said. “Bye, Gladys.”
Absently, she waved good-bye.
“Do what you have to do.”
Those weren’t just King’s words. They’d been Aunt June’s words too. Because things were not fine and they would not be fine until Gladys did what she had to—
“Hey, Red, is there a reason you’re putting the cap on an empty pill bottle—and taking it off—over and over?”
Gladys looked down at the pill container in her hands. When had she picked it up?
It didn’t matter. She had to do what she had to do. Now.
She set the bottle on the counter. “I’m going to call the doctor and get on the list for the corneal transplant.”
King’s expression went from confusion to recognition to confusion again. “That’s great, but why now?”
“Because I have to do what I have to do.” Suddenly her words spilled out, as if an inner dam had burst. “I am not fine, and I’ve kidded myself too long. I’m not going to get better without a transplant, and I can’t get a transplant without being on the list, so why don’t I put myself on the list? I am real great about giving Margery advice, telling her to do what needs to be done. I’m all brave on her behalf, but then I don’t apply it to my own life. Physician, heal yourself and all that. I have to do what I have to do because I need all the help I can get.” She took a much-needed breath.
King mimicked her breath. Then he handed her the phone. “Do it.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
“But . . . it’s Saturday. I’m not even sure if Dr. Moss’s office is open.”
“Do it.”
“You’re being bossy,” she said.
“I’m just trying to help you do what you need to do, because you need all the help you can get.”
