by Nancy Moser
Tell me about it.
Deidre wanted to run far, far away from Sig, and from everyone. Yet what good would that do? Sig would only follow her and this moment would be repeated. Apparently he needed forgiveness for Audrey. Maybe if she assured him everything was all right he would move on.
She, on the other hand …it wouldn’t be so easy for her. For there was no one who could pronounce a holy “I forgive you” over Deidre and make her feel new. She’d hurt too many people and told too many lies.
Was Sig waiting for her to say what he needed to hear? She put a hand on his knee. “It’s okay, Sig. I understand why you kept the secret about Audrey. On my part, I shouldn’t have believed gossip like that. I’m guilty too.” Of so much more than that.
He leaned his head close until it touched hers. “I’ve made so many mistakes.”
Yes indeed. They were a pair.
“Let’s go home,” he said.
They might as well. Home was as good a place as any to seal a wound.
While others gaped open.
***
Abigail felt something touch her arm.
Her eyes shot open and she pulled back an inch, unbelieving. There, directly in front of her, was four-year-old Joey, his hand resting on her forearm. His light brown hair was tousled every which way, and his face looked as soft and smooth as luscious cream.
He’s flawless.
And in her bed.
She carefully turned in the other direction with the intention of getting up, but there on her other side was Hayley, on her back, arm sprawled over her head.
She was surrounded. There was no way she could move without waking them.
So she forced herself to relax, letting the soft sounds of their breathing lull her back to sleep.
***
When Abigail next awoke, she was alone in the bed. Did she smell toast?
She got up, wrapped her yellow chenille robe around her body, and walked through the hanging beads that separated the sleeping area from the rest of the apartment.
“Hi,” Hayley said from the kitchen. She buttered a piece of toast. “Want one?”
“Mine has peanut butter,” Joey said from his place on the couch.
Although Abigail regularly ate from his position, the thought of toast crumbs in the cushions spurred her to say, “Will you sit at the table, please?”
“Told ya,” Hayley said over her shoulder.
Reluctantly, Joey moved to the table, only tipping his plate once. Abigail took solace that he hadn’t dropped it, for surely the toast would have landed sticky side down.
“Strawberry jam or peanut butter?” Hayley asked.
“Both.”
Her answer made Hayley frown. “That’s the way my dad likes it.”
Ah. The father who’d been shot. How had it slipped her mind? “Your mother hasn’t called?” It was not a good sign.
Hayley shook her head. “I was wondering if we could call her cell.”
“Sometimes those aren’t allowed in hospitals.”
“Can’t we call someone?”
Yes, they could. Abigail got out the phone book and dialed. “I’m calling to check on the status of a patient who was brought in last night. Clive Wilson.”
Hayley stood by her side, and even Joey left his toast behind. Abigail wiped some peanut butter off the corner of his mouth with the end of her tie belt. “I’m on hold,” she told them.
“Is Daddy dead?” Joey asked.
“No, no, of course not,” Abigail said. But considering Delia hadn’t called…
Hayley pulled her brother in front of her, laying her arms over his shoulders, meeting at his chest. He took hold of her hands, completing the circuit. Their position moved Abigail. It was clear they loved each other and were protective.
Too bad you have no one to love and protect.
What an obtrusive thought. Where had that come from?
A woman came on the line. “Mr. Wilson has been admitted. I’ll connect you to his room.”
“ICU?”
“No, just a regular room. Room 425. I’ll connect you now.”
She flashed the children a smile. “He’s still there. He’s in a room. A regular room.”
Joey cocked his head to look up at his sister. “Is that good?”
Hayley nodded. “I think so. I—”
“Shh!” Abigail said as soon as she heard Delia’s voice on the line. “Hi, Delia. This is Abigail. How’s he doing?”
Hayley pulled on the phone, forcing Abigail to tilt it so three ears could hear. “He’s going to be all right,” Delia said. “The bullet nicked his liver and they had to operate, but he’s going to be fine.”
Hayley grabbed the phone away. “Mom! Can we talk to him?” As her mother responded, Hayley nodded.
“I want to talk too,” Joey said tugging at her arm.
Hayley acquiesced. “Here’s Joey.”
While Joey talked to his mother, Hayley said, “Mom says he’s sleeping. Can we go see him?”
To her own disgust Abigail said, “We have the first meeting today, for the play.”
“We can do both, can’t we? You can take us to see Dad, and then we can go to practice.”
Possibly.
Joey handed Abigail the phone. “Mommy wants to talk to you.”
“Abigail,” Delia said, “I know all of this has been an imposition, and I want to thank you for taking the kids in like that.”
“No problem.”
“But I’m going to have to ask you if they can stay a little longer. I really need to be here.”
“I was going to bring the kids by.”
“That would be fine. Maybe on the way to your practice?”
Great minds. Yet, “What about Joey?”
“That’s right,” Delia said. “Joey. It’s all right with me if he goes with you to the meeting. Surely the director will understand once you explain.”
Talk about drama. Abigail sighed. “Don’t worry about a thing. We’ll be fine.”
She hung up and looked at the two children standing before her. “It appears we’re stuck with each other all day.”
“You’re taking Joey to the meeting with us?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Can we stop and get Chick-O-Rama?”
Perfect. At the moment Abigail felt the need to wallow in a few thousand grams of fat, calories, and chemicals.
***
This was not Ken’s type of restaurant. Especially at Sunday noon. The whole place was full of families coming from church, assuaging their guilt with the reward of something steeped in fat, calories—and flavor.
He couldn’t eat like that anymore. It wasn’t just his high cholesterol but the way his stomach simply couldn’t take it. Middle age was a triple bogey.
He was early but scanned the restaurant for Philip. Not that his son had ever even been on time for anything in his—
“Hi, Dad.”
Ken turned around and saw Philip coming in the door. Philip moved a step closer than usual, as if to hug him, but luckily an elderly couple needed the right-of-way, and the hug was aborted.
Philip nodded toward the hostess. “Have you put our name in yet?”
He shook his head. “I just got here.”
Philip stepped to the podium. “Two, non-smoking, please.”
“Right this way.”
Philip took a step back and let Ken go first. Ken was blown away. That the simple act of getting a table should have made him feel this way added to the shock. For Philip was poised, grown-up, and polite.
Where was the brash, slumping loser who smelled like cigarettes—or worse? Where was the kid who looked like he wanted to punch the world in the stomach or spit on anyone who dared wield authority?
The hostess handed them menus. “Thank you,” Philip said.
My, my, my. The world had definitely blown a cork.
“The biscuits and gravy are good here.” Philip reached across the table and pointed to the entry on
Ken’s menu. “You can get an egg, too, and sausage links. I remember how much you like biscuits and gravy.”
What else did Philip remember? What would Ken prefer he forget?
Ken found himself dreading the answer. He hadn’t been a good dad. After the divorce, Ken had not taken advantage of all the visitation the courts allowed. He hadn’t handled teenage rebellion well. And when Philip had dropped out of college because of drugs, then went into rehab and tried hard to beat it, Ken hadn’t found the patience for such things. Why would the kid take drugs in the first place? Didn’t he have any self-control?
The waitress brought water. “What would you like to drink?”
Get me a double. “Coffee for me.”
“Me too, please,” Philip said. He pulled the container of sugar and sweeteners close.
Ken pointed at it. “You always did have a sweet tooth.” He tried to think of something else to say, and zeroed in on Philip’s red polo shirt and black pants. A polo shirt similar to the one he had on. He would have bet a million dollars his grown son would never wear a polo shirt. “You look nice. You didn’t have to dress up for me.”
“I didn’t. I came from church.”
Ken nearly choked on a piece of ice. “Since when?”
“Since recent.”
Ken snickered. “Why?”
Philip shrugged. “I like the comfort of it.”
“You like all that namby-pamby stuff?”
For the first time, Philip’s face took on a hard edge. “So real men don’t need God?”
“Real men don’t need to sit in a pew to know God.”
“So you know God?”
Ken smiled wickedly. “I’ve heard of him.”
The waitress brought their coffees. “You ready to order?”
Ken hadn’t looked at the menu but closed it. “Biscuits and gravy, an egg over easy, and sausage links.”
“Ditto,” Philip said. When the waitress left he tore open a packet of Equal and stirred it into his coffee. “It was nice to see you last night. At the fund-raiser.”
“Sorry for running out so fast.”
“Sorry if you felt tricked. Mom wants us to get back in touch.” Philip cradled his coffee mug in his hands and looked down at it. “Why haven’t you returned my calls?”
Ken leaned against the aqua vinyl of the booth. “I’ve been pretty busy with this trial, being on the jury.”
Philip nodded once. “Mom told me. How long is it going to last?”
“We had our first afternoon of deliberations Friday. It will take as long as it takes.” Ken was glad Philip didn’t ask for details. Not that he would. Philip had never cared much about what was going on in Ken’s—
“I have HIV.”
When the words flew across the table and hit him, Ken happened to be looking at a baby in a high chair across the aisle. The baby had dark, curly hair.
“Did you hear me, Dad? I have—”
“I heard you!” Even the baby turned toward Ken’s voice. He lowered it. “I heard you.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say. I heard you I heard you I heard you.
“It’s under control. It’s not AIDS yet. And it’s not a death sentence anymore.”
“Are you gay?”
Great. Three more awkward words to add to the day’s inventory.
Philip leaned toward him. “I got it from a drug needle.”
Ken realized his head was shaking no. How could this clean-cut, polite, totally transformed boy—man of twenty—have HIV? He’d obviously beaten the drugs. He’d turned his life around. Only to have it cut short?
Ken saw that Philip’s hand had traversed the space between them and was on top of his own. “It will be all right, Dad. It will.”
Ken pulled his hand away and hissed, “How will it be all right?” He looked toward the window as a blue van pulled into a parking place and two parents and three kids piled out. A family. Would Philip get the chance to marry and have a family?
Philip seemed to guess his father’s thoughts because he said, “I’m in an early stage. Since it hasn’t attacked my immune system yet, with meds I may live as long as people without HIV.” He looked Ken straight in the eyes. “How many of us can state with certainty how long we will live?”
He had a point.
“There are consequences to choices, Dad. Mom always told—” He faltered, then continued. “Both you and Mom tried to tell me that, but I thought I knew better. I wouldn’t listen. And now I’m paying for those decisions.” He shrugged.
Ken didn’t know what to say.
“I take full responsibility, Dad.”
Ken felt this throat tighten. Who was this man before him? For he was a man now—no thanks to Ken.
The waitress approached with a tray. “Here we go. I don’t need to ask who gets what because you got the same. Like father, like son.” She did a double take at the two men and added, “Hey, you are two peas in a pod.” She nodded at their polo shirts then turned a finger in a curlicue motion near her hair.
Philip looked to Ken.
Ken nodded. “Can we get more coffee? When you have the time.”
Time.
Would never be the same.
***
As if I don’t have enough to worry about.
Bobby knew it was a horrible attitude to have while sitting in church, but he couldn’t shake it. The stress of being on the jury and having Patti’s fate in his hands; Becky’s precarious pregnancy; her desire for him to quit one of his jobs; the ever-present lure of his furniture making; and now, his sister’s appearance in Branson which conjured up memories that ached with the bite of bittersweet.
Should he follow through with his initial impulse to contact her?
If I wait long enough, she’ll be gone and I won’t have to.
He shook his head, causing Becky to glance in his direction. He looked forward, pretending to be paying attention to Pastor Collins.
“The New Testament verse for the day comes from Second Corinthians, chapter 4, verse 8: ‘We are pressed on every side by troubles, but we are not crushed. We are perplexed, but not driven to despair.’”
Wanna bet?
Despair was precisely what Bobby felt.
And worry.
Yet when he looked to his right to see Becky, he received a smile for his trouble and a squeeze of her hand in his. Becky never seemed to worry. She approached every bump in the road with a calm determination to keep going. If the bumps were bad enough to require a detour? Keep going. If the road was washed out? Find another way but keep going. She was the little engine that could. I think I can. I think I can. I know I can.
Pastor Collins’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “The Old Testament lesson is from Second Chronicles, chapter 20, verse 17: ‘But you will not even need to fight. Take your positions; then stand still and watch the Lord’s victory. He is with you, O people of Judah and Jerusalem. Do not be afraid or discouraged. Go out against them tomorrow, for the Lord is with you!’”
Becky was always telling him not to worry, that God would take care of it and would do the fighting for them. “You worry too much, Bobby. Let it go.”
Let go and let God.
And there it was. Even though the saying was on everyone’s trite list, on this particular morning, at this particular time, it came to him with fresh meaning. Could he really stop fighting for everything, stop mentally fighting about everything? Just take a position, stand still, and watch the victory play out?
The service entered a time of silent prayer. Bobby almost laughed at the timing. But he didn’t waste the moment either. He bowed his head and gave it a shot. Take all of it, Lord, all the things that are eating at me. Make them work out Your way. Do it, God. Do your stuff.
He smiled at his choice of phrasing. Was it proper to ask God to do his stuff?
The congregation sang a response. The service continued.
It was too late to be eloquent now.
***
“Bobby, who’s that o
n the porch?”
Bobby finished his turn into the driveway. A young woman stood up from the wicker rocker and moved to the top of the steps.
It was Cass.
Bobby turned to Becky. “That’s my…I had her in my cab yesterday and I thought…but…”
“Who is it, Bobby?” There was an odd lilt to her voice.
“It’s Cass, my sister.”
Becky beamed. “I know. Isn’t it wonderful?”
Bobby stared at his wife. “You know?”
“Surprise!” Becky laughed and waved at his sister. “When Cass called me yesterday she said she nearly had a conniption when she realized it was you driving the cab, but by then you’d driven away. Besides, we had a plan and she didn’t want to ruin it.”
“You and my sister had a plan?”
She reached across the middle console and touched his arm. “I called her.”
“But I didn’t know where she was.”
“It wasn’t that hard. I knew your aunt lived in Chicago She sounds very nice.”
“You talked to my aunt?”
“Of course. She’s the one who gave me Cass’s phone number. The numbers of your other sisters too.”
“Out, Daddy!” Teresa said from the backseat.
“Me too!” Tanner said.
Bobby put the car in park, turned off the engine, and let the kids out of the van. They raced toward the front door, oblivious that a family moment was about to unfold.
“Whoa there, cuties!” Cass said, making herself small as they zipped around her to go inside.
Becky was the first to reach the steps. She held out her arms.
Cass came down to greet her. “Hi, I’m Cass, Bobby’s little sister.”
They hugged like he’d often seen women do—even women who barely knew each other, even women who were just meeting.
“It’s so nice to meet you!” Becky said.
Then it was his turn. “Hi, Brother,” Cass said. “Again.”
Bobby took a step closer but still hung back. “Why didn’t you say something in the cab?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t know it was you at first. My brain was geared to meeting up with you later, not in a cab. It was the Cowper quote that was the clincher, wasn’t it?”
