by Nancy Moser
“Where was she last evening?”
“Talia’s. She babysat.”
“Have you called them?”
“I didn’t want to wake them.”
“So you decided to wake me?”
She wasn’t in the mood. “If you don’t want—”
“Stop. I’m here for you. Or I will be. Just give me a minute to get my brain in gear.”
Gladys heard a car and rushed to the front window, pulling the sheer curtain aside. The car drove on by.
“Maybe she went back home—to her home?” King said. “After all, her husband is in jail so she could go—”
“We assume he’s in jail. Maybe he got out.”
“Do you think?”
“I don’t think Margery would risk going back there in case he could get out. She seems done with him.”
“She was in a good mood this morning after church,” King said.
“Flying high. And she was upbeat about going to Talia’s. She told me she likes Tomás and Nesto. Since he’s so sick, he’s there when she babysits.”
“But maybe he had to go to the hospital and she stayed late to take care of the boy so Talia could go.”
That was the first feasible scenario. And yet . . . “Why wouldn’t she call?”
King’s silence implied he was stumped. “Maybe she’s not used to checking in? Who knows what kind of relationship she and Mick had. Maybe she’s used to doing her own thing and isn’t versed in the niceties of a polite phone call.”
Gladys wasn’t so sure. Even though Margery’s background seemed lacking on the finer points of etiquette, she was a naturally polite girl. Conscientious. And appreciative. She would let Gladys know if she was going to be late. Gladys made a decision. “I’m calling the Sozas’.”
“Call me back,” King said.
Gladys found the number and dialed, preparing herself for an angry reception. Or maybe Margery herself would answer. Please, please, please . . .
“Hello?”
“Talia, sorry to wake you, but is Margery there?”
“Gladys?”
“Yes, yes. It’s me. Is she there?”
“No. She left around eight. I—”
“Thanks.” She hung up and called King back. “She left at eight. I’m calling hospitals.”
“I’ll be right over.”
Gladys flipped to the Yellow Pages. My, the writing was tiny. . . . She got her magnifying glass and saw that Mercy Medical was the closest. She dialed and asked if a Margery Lamborn had been admitted. She played her Dr. Quigley card to get the information.
“Lamborn . . . not admitted, Dr. Quigley. But she’s here. In the ER,” the worker said.
Yes? Gladys had never expected to get a yes. She’d hoped to call every hospital in the book and end up with a collection of no’s. A yes?
“Was she in an accident?”
“I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to give out that infor—”
Gladys hung up and dialed King, hoping to catch him. She did. “Meet me at Mercy Medical.”
Shoes . . . where are my shoes?
* * *
Gladys and King pulled into the hospital parking lot within seconds of each other. She took his arm as they hurried inside, the ER doors opening by themselves. The first person she saw received her question. “Margery Lamborn. Where is she?”
“Are you her parents?”
Though it might be a stretch in King’s case, if it got them inside, Gladys wasn’t beyond fudging. “Yes.”
The woman pointed to the right. “Room 3.”
One, two . . .
A doctor was with her. He looked up.
“How is she?” Gladys asked. “What happened?”
The doctor answered the questions in reverse order. “Car accident. And we’re still trying to determine how she is. There appear to be no internal injuries to her torso. Her vitals are satisfactory. But she has not regained consciousness. We’re giving her medication for swelling on the brain and are taking her up for a CT scan to see the extent of the injuries.” He put a hand on top of Margery’s, as if easing her fears. “An orderly should be down momentarily.”
A young woman with a clipboard appeared at the door. “Can one of you help with some of the paperwork, please?”
“I’ll do that,” King said. “Gladys, you go with her. I’ll find you.”
“After the test, we’re admitting her to ICU on five. You can wait up there for the results.” The doctor moved toward the door, touching Gladys’s sleeve. “I’m very sorry. But we’ll do our best for her.”
But we’ll do our best for her? But?
Everyone left, leaving Gladys alone with Margery. Moving close, she was amazed at how serene the girl looked. And unhurt. There were no marks on her. Not even a scratch. It looked as though she was sleeping. Yet for her to have been unconscious for so long was not good.
Gladys realized she didn’t really know what time the accident had occurred, but from what Talia had told her, it must have happened soon after eight.
She took Margery’s non-IV hand. To think of her being alone so long, with no friend or relative caring about her.
She’s unconscious. She doesn’t know she’s been alone.
Gladys wasn’t so sure. The capacity and capabilities of the human brain were largely unexplored. Who knew what coma patients knew or sensed? The hope that they were partially aware was proven every day by families talking to them, reading to them, trying desperately to engage them in some way as they waited for the eyes of their loved ones to open.
Gladys ran a hand along the edge of Margery’s hair. Her funny, chopped-off hair, sacrificed to be easy care as she survived in her car. “Come on, girl. Things were going good for you. Come back to us. You have many, many better times ahead of you.”
For the first time, Gladys noticed the beep of the monitoring machines. She watched the lines spike and move. Movement was good. As long as the lines moved . . .
Suddenly overcome with emotion, she clamped her eyes shut, fighting away tears. Help her, God. Help her.
She hoped God would listen to her. If he was who he said he was . . . and if he did talk to people like he’d talked to Margery in church . . .
She repeated her prayer again and again, covering all the bases.
* * *
Talia carried Tomás downstairs to eat breakfast and found Nesto standing at the front window, curtains parted, looking outside.
“What are you looking at?”
“Looking for.” He let the curtain fall back into place. “I’m looking for Margery.”
Talia remembered the late-night phone call from Gladys. She’d gone right back to sleep. She kept her voice low, not wanting to wake her mother and bring her into the mix. “You haven’t been awake all night worrying, have you?”
“Praying.”
She felt a twinge of jealousy that this woman would elicit her husband’s prayers, and guilt because she’d not felt compelled to pray. “I’m sure she’s okay. She probably just went out after she left here, out to have some fun, and—”
“No.” Nesto’s voice was full of authority. “She wouldn’t do that.”
“What makes you think you know her that well?”
He hesitated only a moment. “When she left she was happy. And she’s a stay-at-home type of girl. She lives with Gladys now.”
“If it’s worrying you so much, why don’t you call Gladys? I’m sure she’s up.”
“I have. There’s no answer.”
Talia stopped with the kitchen door half open. “You already called her?”
He nodded and caught up with her. He took her hand. “Something isn’t right. We need to pray.”
She nodded at Tomás, sleepy in her arms. “Now?”
“Please.” He held out his hand and she took it. He bowed his head until it nearly touched hers. “Father, we’re worried about Margery. You know where she is. Take care of her. Keep her safe. Amen.” He ended the prayer with a kiss to Talia’s cheek
and his son’s head. “There. I feel better. ‘The earnest prayer of a righteous person has great power and produces wonderful results.’”
Righteous? She wasn’t even close. So would God hear her prayers?
Tomás was hungry. Good or bad, at the moment Talia had other things to think about besides her level of righteousness.
* * *
“You going to get that, Talia?”
Talia looked toward Wade’s office, then noticed that the phone on her desk was ringing. “Sorry.” She answered it and dealt with a problem in the kitchen with a delivery of portobello mushrooms. And for a few moments after getting off the phone, she did concentrate on the scheduling and room assignments for an upcoming plumber’s convention.
I have to do something about Margery. I have to get her out of our lives.
It irked her that someone who didn’t have any education or breeding, who wasn’t even that pretty, someone who had a husband in jail had connected with Nesto. The image of them laughing as if they were close friends made her jaw tighten.
But what would you do without her to take up the babysitting slack? Even though your mother has moved in, she’s gone more than she’s home.
With a shake of her head, Talia forced herself to look back at the convention scheduling. What was she doing wasting her time thinking of Margery? She had important things to do.
But the memory of seeing Nesto at the window this morning, watching for Margery . . . he shouldn’t worry. It wasn’t good for him.
She had a way to fix that. She flipped her card file of phone numbers and dialed Neighbor’s Drugstore. She’d talk to Gladys—or even Margery herself—to be reassured that everything was all right, then call Nesto and get him to stop worrying. Maybe then she could get some real work done.
She dialed.
A man answered: “Neighbor’s Drug, this is King. May I help you?”
“King, this is Talia Soza. Gladys called last night about Margery? Did you—?”
“Talia. So sorry. We should have called back but it’s been crazy. After she left your house, Margery was in a car accident. She’s in intensive care at Mercy Medical. Gladys is with her.”
Talia’s heart fell. “Accident?”
“She’s in pretty bad shape. Head injuries.” She heard a muffled, “I’ll be with you in just a moment, ma’am.” King’s voice came back on the line, talking to Talia. “I have to go. With Gladys and Margery gone . . . I’ll keep you posted.”
“I’m going over there.”
“That would be nice. Gladys could use the support.”
Talia hung up and started to dial Nesto. Then she stopped. He’d been upset wondering what had happened, but he would be even more upset if he knew Margery was hurt. Yet Talia knew that even an awful known was often better than an unknown. She’d call and tell him, then assure him she would take care of it by going to the hospital.
It was a plan.
* * *
First Sarah and now Margery? Angie’s young friends were dropping right and left. But as upset as she was by the news about Margery, Angie was afraid for Nesto. Ever since Talia had called he’d been sitting in his chair, perfectly still, looking out the window. He wasn’t visibly upset, but he was so quiet. . . .
“Are you okay?” she asked him.
He blinked and turned his head in her direction, coming out of his reverie. Yet his face was at peace. It even held the slightest of smiles. “God is up to something.”
Angie was horrified. “Two young women have been hurt in two days. If this is God’s doing I wish he’d stop it.”
Nesto shook his head. “No, you don’t. God knows what he’s doing.”
She popped off the couch. “How can you say that?”
“He does. No matter what happens.”
Angie was incredulous. “Surely you don’t think God is behind this?”
“He allowed it to happen. There has to be a reason.”
She waved her arms, wanting his absurd words to scatter. “I suppose you’re one of those annoying people who say, ‘It’s all for the best’ to grieving family at funerals.”
“No. I give them a hug. I tell them I’m sorry.”
She was relieved to hear it.
His eyes turned toward the window again, then moved back to Angie. “God is up to something.”
As a woman she was used to gut feelings. Intuition. Whatever a person called it, it was a real commodity. So who could say that if a godly man like Nesto felt such a thing it wasn’t real?
He smiled at her. “I’m glad you’re here, Angie. I’m glad we can pray together.”
Pray. Yes, she should pray. That she could do.
* * *
As she drove to the hospital, Talia filled her car with a string of apt descriptions of her character. “I am the most selfish, mean, nasty, vicious, cruel . . .”
Unfortunately, there was no one to argue with her. Not that they could have, present or not. To waste the entire morning absorbed in her mental vendetta against Margery only to find out the woman was desperately hurt and unable to defend herself . . .
“I’m so sorry. So sorry.”
Upon hearing the words—which were heartfelt—Talia realized she’d been saying them as a prayer. Luckily, God had been the only one aware of her horrible thoughts against Margery. The idea of someone else knowing the horrid condition of her heart made her cringe with awful could-have-beens. If she felt guilty now, how much deeper would it have been if she’d shared her pettiness with others?
But now, no one needed to know. Like the good person she was not, Talia would do the right thing by going to the hospital to show her support. She knew all the right words to say, and hopefully, the actual doing would rub off on her inner attitude and water down the guilt so she could at least live with herself. She’d get through this excruciating nibbling of her insides, the biting that accompanied every memory of her malicious thoughts.
Talia realized she wasn’t sorry for the thoughts just because Margery was hurt but because they weren’t deserved. She often called her father a snob for berating Nesto’s humble background, yet she’d just proven herself to be every bit as unfair and bigoted against Margery.
Strong word bigot. But that’s what she was. A jealous, petty bigot who took her frustrations out on an undeserving target.
“But I’m so stressed.”
The words sounded as empty as they were. Everyone was stressed. Such was life. Everyone had a right to complain, but the fact that Talia did more than her share . . .
Suddenly a flood of tears threatened, and Talia pulled into the parking lot of a grocery store where she could let them come. Shame overwhelmed her. Not just for the bad things she’d thought about Margery, but for her attitude in general. When was the last time she’d done something without complaining or being irritable? Even getting up in the morning, even getting Tomás up and going, then tackling her to-do list from the mundane to the major . . . nothing was done with joy or even a quiet acceptance. Everything elicited anger, bitterness, and constant complaining, vocal or internal. It was horrible being immersed in such discontent.
But as things were, how could she be otherwise? During this awful waiting for Nesto to get a heart and for life to get back to normal, contentment wasn’t an option.
Was it?
And speaking of options . . . would they ever know normal again? Was it a possibility? Or would their lives continue on this merry-go-round of chaos?
Yes.
The simplicity of the word caused Talia to suck in a breath. Yes? This was going to continue?
She felt the baby kick and put a hand on her abdomen to comfort it.
The baby—their daughter—would be here soon, bringing with her all the accoutrements of new life. If Talia thought life was complicated now . . .
Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.
She’d heard Nesto repeat the verse many times—the last time while she’d been scrubbing a t
oilet. Talia smiled bitterly at the previous nondivine location, though honestly, sitting in the parking lot of a Piggly Wiggly wasn’t much better.
But maybe that was the point. No matter where she was or what she was doing, Jesus was saying, “Come to me.” She didn’t have to be in church or even in a particularly reverent state of mind for him to try to make contact.
. . . all of you . . .
Everyone. Anytime.
Talia gripped the steering wheel, leaned her forehead against her hands, and began. “Lord, I’m tired of waiting for things to get better. The key to all of it is Nesto’s getting a heart. The way I see it, if he could get better, then everything else will get better. So answer that one, Lord. When? When is Nesto going to get a heart?”
She was quiet a moment, and was not surprised there was no answer. She was only slightly disturbed to find the thought See? I knew you wouldn’t answer ticker-tape through her brain.
With a surge of sudden drama, she spread her hands toward the roof of the car, raised her face, and closed her eyes. “Here I am, God. I’m a messed-up, confused, often nasty woman. This is all I am at the moment. If there’s anything better in me, I’m afraid it’s hidden way down deep and you are just going to have to deal with it. I am what I am. So here I am. Do with me what you want. Frankly, I’m too tired to care.”
She opened her eyes and lowered her hands. A little boy riding in his mother’s grocery cart nearby stared at her. She waved. He waved back.
If God needed a witness to whatever transaction had just taken place, he had one. No age discrimination here.
Talia had to acknowledge she did feel better. She had no idea why, but would take what she could get.
And now that’s exactly what she had to do. Get. To the hospital.
It was time to at least pretend she was a good person.
* * *
“Are you sure you’ll be okay alone with Tomás?” Angie asked Nesto.
“Go. Go see Margery—for me as well as for you.”
Angie kissed him and her grandson and left. After praying with Nesto Angie had experienced an odd nudge to go to the hospital. For Margery’s sake but also for Sarah’s. Sarah was still recovering. If she found out through the hospital grapevine that Margery had been hurt . . .
