by Gayle Roper
James gave his slow smile to his wife, who grinned back. “I’ve spent our whole marriage teaching her that. She’s a very apt pupil.”
Tinksie made a face at him.
I thought about the level of comfort between these two older people who had lived together for so many, many years. They still liked each other. Different as they were, they had somehow crafted a solid marriage.
How did you do that? How did you end up like them instead of like Drew and Ruthie? Or like Mom and Dad? How did you manage to love each other for fifty years and more? How did you manage to be yourself, which Tinksie most definitely was, while you also served the needs of another? Madge and Bill had managed it too, though not for nearly as long.
At home, even before the troubles, there had frequently been tension, days of not speaking after virulent arguments. I sometimes wondered if the marriage would have lasted if Dad had not been forced to spend so many years away. In his absence he had acquired an aura of wonder in Mom’s mind.
I expected that his return and daily presence would dispel that quickly enough. The demise of the marriage could still be in the offing.
I looked at James sitting comfortably in his padded lawn chair. “Can you tell me who is paying the costs at the house? Is it the estate, or are we going to get several unexpected bills?”
James glanced at Andrew, who answered. “Let me assure you that the estate will carry all the costs for the duration of your stay.”
“That’s a relief!” Now all I had to deal with was my sister, my parents, and my feelings for Drew.
And an unhappy Jenna who sat at the kitchen table with Chloe when I returned to the house.
Drew wanted nothing more than to grab his trusty Lands’ End briefcase, flee the house, and hide in the stacks at the Penn Library. Or the historical society. He remembered with longing the anticipation he’d felt at the approaching six-month sabbatical. He’d thought this time would be so relaxing and invigorating.
Instead he was slumped in the kitchen chair across from the weeping Ruthie. What had he ever done to deserve all this emotional chaos?
“Nobody loves me,” she sobbed. “Nobody. I could die tomorrow and no one would even care.” Tears streamed down her face and dripped off her chin onto her dirty cami. Her hair was uncombed and had reached the point of desperately needing a shampoo. She rubbed her fists into her eyes like a child, and Drew noticed that her nails were bitten to the quick.
“You’ve had any number of people love you, Ruthie. Your parents. Me. Your boyfriends.” Though Drew doubted there had been much real affection in those short-lived relationships. Just lust and chemistry.
“Jenna doesn’t love me.” She sniffed and swiped an arm under her nose.
Stifling a feeling of disgust at the glistening streak on her forearm, Drew reached for the napkin holder and pushed it toward her. She took a napkin and blew her nose. Then she held the dirtied thing out to him. Feeling revulsion and certain he was the shallowest man alive, he forced himself to take it. He couldn’t drop it in the wastebasket fast enough.
“She doesn’t love me,” Ruthie sobbed. “She thinks I’m a lousy mother.”
He couldn’t say, “You’re pretty much right on both counts.” Jenna wanted to love Ruthie and be loved in return. All kids wanted to be loved by their mothers, but all kids weren’t that fortunate. Most kids perhaps, but not all. Not his Jenna. And that made for raging conflict in her aching heart.
Oh, God, help Jenna turn to You to fill that void! And please help me here. I want to speak truth to Ruthie, but I don’t want to inflict unnecessary hurt.
“She rarely sees you, Ruthie.”
“And whose fault is that?” She glared at him through her tears. “You keep her with you all the time.”
Drew had learned long ago that rationality wasn’t Ruthie’s strong suit. Her illness skewed her thinking, and she thought she was saying truth when no one else saw it that way. At least that was the situation some of the time. Other times he was convinced she was cunning and devious, three steps ahead of him, manipulating him to get her way. Since he was by nature a straightforward man, he had trouble following her thought processes when she was being wily. He had learned long ago that the best policy was to keep silent. Still, the urge to defend himself was astonishingly strong in spite of all the years and all the fruitless arguments.
“You’re here with Jenna now, Ruthie. You just need to sit and talk with her.”
She leaped to her feet. “I don’t need to do anything! You do. You need to give her back to me. I’m her mother!”
That was when he heard the front door quietly close. Jenna had left the building. She’d undoubtedly heard the wailing and escaped.
Unfortunately Ruthie heard the soft whoosh too, though how she did through the noise of her yelling and sniffling was a mystery. She collapsed into her chair and started weeping again. “She’s running away from me. She doesn’t want to talk with me.”
Before he’d taken another breath, her tears dried up as if an internal firestorm was sucking all the moisture out of her.
“And it’s your fault!” She jumped up, face hard with fury, and raced to the front door. “I’ll get her back here, and we’ll talk. She’ll talk whether she wants to or not! She can’t run from me!”
Drew leaped from his seat and charged after Ruthie. He grabbed her around the waist just as she was about to pull open the door. No way would he allow this madwoman to chase after Jenna. The girl was hurting badly enough as it was.
As quickly as she’d reached boiling point, Ruthie collapsed. Her legs gave out, and she’d have landed on the floor if Drew hadn’t been holding her.
“I want to die,” she mumbled. “Just let me die. I’m all alone. Nobody loves me. Just let me die.”
Drew picked her up with an arm under her legs and another across her back. Her head lolled against his chest. He was astonished and dismayed at how weightless she felt. He climbed the steps and put her down on the bed in the extra bedroom. He noticed for the first time that she had no bag with her, no backpack or duffel. All she had were the clothes she came in. No wonder she looked and smelled as she did.
“Sleep for a while, Ruthie. Then we’ll talk again.”
She ignored him, turning from him and rolling into a ball. “I should just die.”
How many times had he heard her say this? How many times had he panicked and tried to talk her out of her despair, holding her, rocking her, assuring her of his love and of God’s? How many times had he taken her to professionals—doctors, counselors, pastors, anyone who might be able to help? How many times had he felt on the edge of despair himself because of his inability to help her?
And, God forgive him, how many times had he wondered if her death wouldn’t be the easiest way for all of them, Ruthie especially?
Just like yesterday morning, I opened the front door to Drew. He looked weary and a bit embarrassed.
“Is Jenna here?”
I gestured him in. “She’s in the kitchen with Chloe.”
He took a deep breath. “Well, that’s one worry dealt with.”
“She’s not a very happy girl.” I knew I was stating the obvious, but I was concerned that he wasn’t sending Ruthie packing. I sighed.
That probably made me a hardhearted shrew.
He rubbed his forehead, uncomfortable. “I have a very weird request. Could I borrow some of your clothes for Ruthie?”
“What?”
“She has nothing with her. Nothing.”
I looked into his sad eyes, and the words I wanted to lecture him with died. “Wait a minute. I’ll be right back.”
I ran upstairs and grabbed some underwear, a tee, and a pair of elastic-waist shorts, the last because the woman was skin and bones. I knew my regular things wouldn’t stay up on her. I ran back downstairs, stuffed the clothes into a plastic bag, and handed it to Drew.
“Thanks.” He turned to leave, then turned back. He moved ever so close to me. “You are a very ni
ce person, Libby Keating.” And he kissed me, just a light brush of his lips on mine.
I flushed with pleasure even as the air suddenly snapped with electricity. “So are you. I don’t think I know any other man who would go to all this trouble for someone like Ruthie.”
He ran the back of his knuckles over my cheek and smiled sadly. “It’s not like I have much of a choice.”
I wrapped my arms around him for a comforting hug. He hugged me back and kissed the top of my head.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Lib. So glad.”
I leaned back and looked up at him. “Me too.”
He started to lower his head and I closed my eyes, anticipating another kiss, when I heard a pair of “Yikes!”
Staring at us from the kitchen door were two wide-eyed girls.
I cleared my throat, as embarrassed as if I’d been caught trying to crash James’s Fourth of July party without food. It was a tossup whether it was Drew or I who moved back first and faster.
After a little moment of “now what” silence, during which my mind stayed utterly blank, Jenna said, “I’m going to stay here today, Dad.”
He nodded. “I think that would be good.”
The girls disappeared upstairs to Chloe’s room. When their footsteps died away, I turned to Drew.
“You have to tell her to go, Drew.”
He stared at the ceiling. “She wants to die.”
“Does that mean she’ll actually do something dangerous, or is she just talking, looking for sympathy?”
“Who knows? Certainly not me.”
“But you’ve still got to tell her to go.”
“I know.” He sounded so frustrated, torn in two.
“I know you want to help Ruthie, but Jenna deserves to have her home back.”
“I know.” His voice was clipped, and I should have realized that his frustration with the situation was turning into anger at my pushing.
“Send her to her parents. Better yet, maybe they’d come and get her. Let Del struggle with her for a while.”
His jaw hardened.
“Or send her back to wherever she lived with Mick.”
“How about I send her away when you tell Chloe about her father?” Now the sparks flying weren’t passion but annoyance.
I drew back and immediately became defensive. “It’s not the same!”
“Isn’t it?”
“I’m trying to protect Chloe. You’re hurting Jenna.”
He stuck his index finger under my nose. “Lack of action is lack of action, Libby, whether it’s yours or mine.” He turned on his heel and let himself out of the house, the plastic bag of clothes for Ruthie hanging incongruously from his clenched fist.
I stood there stunned, trying to figure out how we had gone from kissing each other to hurting each other in just minutes. Apparently he didn’t know how to do the Tinksie/James or Madge/Bill thing any better than I did.
I was caught completely off guard when an agitated Chloe came running down stairs with an upset Jenna behind her.
“Mom, the shoebox is gone!”
16
“WE’RE NOT GOING TO CALL the police,” I said after I ran upstairs and checked to be certain Chloe hadn’t missed the shoebox. Of course she hadn’t. It was definitely gone from the top of my bureau.
“But, Mom, you’ve got to call them.” Chloe stared at me, confused. “That’s what you do when there’s a robbery.”
“I-I need to talk to Aunt Tori first.”
Chloe stared at me for a moment, and I could see her distress when she understood the ramifications of my comment. This was her clever, beautiful, exciting Aunt Tori I was casting in the role of major thief. “Do you really think she took the stuff?”
“I don’t know.” I rubbed my hand over my unhappy, teeming stomach.
I realized with a deep pang that I did think Tori was guilty based on prior history and present opportunity. I reminded myself that it was only right to give her the benefit of the doubt. Innocent until proven guilty and all that. And she had been in Atlantic City—or was supposed to be.
“I know I threw the deadbolts when I went to bed last night,” I told the girls, “and they were still in place this morning because I had to open them when I went to visit Tinksie and James.”
“That means someone came in through a window or the back door.” Chloe made a face and glanced over her shoulder as if she expected to see the thief behind her.
I nodded. Or used Tori’s keys, but I didn’t say it.
“And he was in here while we were asleep!” She shook her hands like she was trying to flick off something unwholesome stuck to them. “Oh, that gives me the creeps!”
“Tell me.”
I checked all possible portals of access for scratches or gouges left by a burglar’s tools, even the windows to Chloe’s aerie. I’d seen To Catch a Thief enough times to know that sometimes burglars came down from the roof, though I doubted if many of them looked like John Robie/Cary Grant. My heart sank when I found no sign of forced entry.
“I have a question, Ms. Keating. How did anyone know the jewelry was here? And why would someone only take that shoebox? I don’t know much about valuable stuff, but this house seems to be loaded with stuff worth taking.”
“You’re asking questions that need answers, Jenna. I intend to ask them of Tori when we see her this afternoon at my parents.”
Oh, Lord, what do I do if she’s guilty?
A little black cloud wanted to park over my head, blocking the Light. It was taking shape, sending out thunderbolts of doubt and confusion. What did I owe my sister, especially if she was guilty? What did I owe family? What did I owe God?
Could my heart stand the conflict?
No matter how I looked at things, it all came back to the question of who besides my sister had access and knowledge. She’d already taken one pin. There was a terrifying logic in the thought that she’d taken the rest. But why? I’d not told her of their worth.
“Uh, Mom.”
I looked at Chloe, caught by the uncertainty in her voice. Oh please, Lord, not another problem. I’m not sure I can handle any more than my disagreement with Drew and my fears over Tori.
“Jenna wants to go with us to Mom-Mom’s. And I want her to come too. Then I won’t be the only kid.”
“My mom’s in bad shape this morning.” Jenna’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want to be near her.”
I could almost see the black cloud hanging over Jenna’s head. If Drew had a hard time figuring out what to do about Ruthie, how was a thirteen-year-old supposed to figure it all out?
“We’d be happy to take her,” I said stiffly to Drew on the phone a couple of minutes later. “You needn’t worry about her.” I rested my head against the cool enamel of the refrigerator and mourned. The first man I’d even looked at since Eddie, and I’d killed the romance before it even began by pushing my way into an issue that I hadn’t earned the right to discuss.
“Aren’t you getting tired of her at your house?” he asked, equally stiff.
“Not at all. We’re glad to be her refuge.” I heard myself and wanted to bite my tongue, but it was too late.
“Huh.” He hadn’t missed the little barb. “Are you saying you don’t want me to come this evening?”
I blinked, surprised he’d still want to. “No, I’m not saying that at all. I’m just saying she’ll be fine with us.”
After his little contretemps with Libby, Drew was not in any mood to face Ruthie. He walked several blocks to calm himself, the change of clothes for Ruthie dangling from his hand in its plastic bag.
“I’m trying to protect Chloe. You’re hurting Jenna.”
He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. All he wanted was an ordered and orderly life. He never chose the chaos of Ruthie and Jenna and even Libby, who made his stomach twist with her too-cool, precise, and incisive evaluation.
I just want peace and quiet, Lord. Is that asking too much? I don’t want to be st
retched and twisted and forced into some mold not of my choosing.
No sympathetic voice from heaven answered with a soothing, “I understand, Drew. I agree you deserve uninterrupted tranquility. Let Me fix things for you so there are no worries, no tensions, no stress. After all, you’re My favorite person in the whole world, and I’ll see to it that you and you alone have no problems.”
Okay, Lord, so I’m a selfish idiot. Some days being a mere human is hard, but I know it’s not a valid excuse for my anger, resentment, and pride. Forgive me.
A Ben quote popped into his mind: “God helps those who help themselves.” Hard on its heels was one from Scripture: “Whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.”
So Your message to me is do something. Do something, but make it something that honors You.
He thought hard as he retraced his steps to the house. Ruthie was waiting, her earlier desire to die apparently on hold.
“If you give me some money, I’ll leave,” she told him as she trailed him to the kitchen, where he started the coffee maker.
“What does ‘some money’ entail?” There was no way he was giving her money. It’d go to alcohol or worse.
She studied him for a minute as if evaluating her options. She indicated the house with a flick of her hand. “You must be paying significant rent to live here. That means you can’t be hurting.”
“I’m here on a house exchange,” he said patiently. “Didn’t you meet the people living in Colby Creek?”
“Oh. Well, you can still give me some money.”
“What I want to give you is this.” He held out the plastic bag.
She opened it and saw the contents. “What’s this? Used clothes?”
“Clean clothes. Go take a shower, Ruthie.”
She let the bag fall to the floor, folded her arms across her chest, and stared defiantly at him.
He made believe he hadn’t seen the challenge. “When you’re finished, we can talk about what I can give you.”
She studied him as he got a mug from the cupboard. When he paid no attention to her, she eventually picked up the bag and went upstairs to the bathroom. When he heard the pipes creak as the shower started, he breathed a sigh of relief. With a quick prayer, he picked up the phone.
