The Only Best Place

by Carolyne Aarsen

  Once upon a time, in some flight of fancy I'd had, gathering eggs brought to mind a hazy picture of plump, contented brown chickens pecking pastorally on the ground while my children and I frolicked amongst them, plucking eggs from soft, straw-lined nests.

  I tugged open the door to the chicken coop. Squawks and the muffled thud of flapping wings as the startled chickens took flight shattered that daydream. I sneezed, batting away fluttering feathers, trying to find the chicken feeder in the half light of the chicken coop.

  “No frolicking today, kids,” I warned as I dropped the cookies on the straw-covered ground. The chickens at least liked my baking. They usually gobbled up my hapless attempts at the culinary arts, magically transforming them into eggs that I would use for my next attempt. Which would probably end up back here, thus completing the cycle of life.

  I shook some pelleted chicken feed into the feeder, then turned to deal with the most complex part of the operation.

  Three chickens crouched in the boxes, wings spread over their bounty, glowering at me with beady eyes as they clucked out a warning. Dan had shown the kids and me how to gently slip a hand under their bodies to pull the still warm eggs from under them. He hadn't even flinched when a chicken jabbed the back of his hand with its beak. Not for me. Bravery wasn't my middle name. Actually it was Annie, but I tried not to advertise that fact.

  “The chickens are too noisy,” Anneke said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “And very, very stinky.”

  “I agree, honey.” I eyed the still-nesting chickens. If I made a mad dash I might be able to pull off a daring egg retrieval and save myself from being called a wuss. I know Dan would laugh if I told him, he would tell his family and they would laugh, and I would, once again, look like the silly city girl I was.

  Let's see. Pride, wuss, pride, wuss.

  Nah. Wuss was fine with me.

  We beat a quick retreat from the chicken coop, closed the door behind us, our onerous task for the day partially completed. Sasha, who had been sitting guard, bounded to her feet, her tail telegraphing her pleasure.

  Anneke scampered ahead of me, Sasha loping alongside her. Taffy, Dan's horse, whinnied hopefully at us.

  I didn't have anything for her, but she appreciated our attention nonetheless. Nicholas petted her head, then saw the cows grazing in the pasture and pointed one pudgy hand. “Cow. Cow.”

  I laughed and gave him a quick hug. “You little stinker. You'll say doggy and cow but not Mom.”

  He looked up at me and blinked, his hand still pointing away. “Cow. Cow.”

  “Mommy. Try it,” I encouraged. “Mommy.”

  “Cow.”

  Well, maybe in his mind they were one and the same thing.

  We wandered along the fence line as Anneke plucked some dandelions. I let the peace of the scene wash over me, thankful that the open spaces no longer intimidated me. Maybe, by the time I left, I would love this as much as Dan did. Maybe we would come back more often. If he didn't determine that Seattle wasn't good enough and decide to move across the country again. We really needed to get that Dream Home so we could put down some roots.

  By the time we got back to the house, Nicholas was rubbing his eyes and ears. If Anneke could be kept occupied for a while, I might have a chance to send my sister another e-mail, maybe even read another chapter in a book I had gotten from Judy.

  As I hung up the kids' coats, the jangling of the phone pierced the quiet. I glanced at the clock as I ran to answer it.

  “Leslie, just thought I'd call.” Gloria. Her precise words, spoken with such scrupulous caring, shriveled the faint hope that it might be someone interesting or fun. One of my friends from Seattle apologizing for not answering my e-mails, my sister maybe, or even a telemarketer asking for donations.

  “I heard you started working. And that Kathy Greidanus is taking care of your children.”

  Nothing like coming out swinging. “I met her in the store one day and she offered.” I tucked the phone under my chin as I lifted Nicholas into his high chair. Thank goodness for cordless phones, I thought as I started buttering bread.

  “Do you think that's wise?”

  “I'm sorry…” Peanut butter for Nicholas. Just jam for Her Majesty. No clue what she was talking about for Gloria.

  Gloria's silence beat on my ears, but I wasn't going to break it. The veiled anger in her voice got my back up. I just wished I knew what had gotten her knickers in such a twist.

  “I realize that you feel the need to work, but I'm just a bit worried about Dan,” she said. “He's going to be starting field work in a few days. What is he going to do about supper?”

  Supper? The man didn't have two hands to feed himself?

  “He made his own lunches before.”

  “Do you think that's fair?”

  “Sorry. You lost me.” I deftly cut up the kids' bread. Nine pieces for Anneke, cut off the crusts for Nicholas.

  “Out here in the country we farm wives bring supper out to our husbands when they are working in the fields. They put in long days and can't come home for a warm meal. I don't mean to sound nosy…”

  But you are.

  “… but how are you going to do that if you're working? And, I would like to come back to my original point, why is Kathy Greidanus taking care of Nicholas and Anneke? Didn't you think of asking us? Mom and I talked about it. We could easily do it, as well.”

  I dropped into the nearest chair and rubbed my forehead. How to work through this? Sure, Gloria was Dan's sister and the children's aunt. But the kids didn't know her any better than they knew Kathy. And I liked Kathy. And she was supportive of my working. And the kids liked it at her place.

  When I picked them up after work yesterday, Kathy had Nicholas on her hip and gave him a kiss before she handed him over. Knowing that he was loved and cared for made his protest at me taking him away worth the moments of self-doubt I'd had about working.

  Dan still resented my going to work, but once I laid out my reasons, he gave grudging approval of my bringing them to Kathy's place. I wasn't used to making my decisions by committee. I thought that I would have earned some Good Mother points simply by finding a wholesome alternative to day care.

  “I'm sorry I didn't consult you, Gloria…” Big, fat liar… “But Kathy volunteered. My children are used to her and I don't think I should change that now. Besides, she's right on the way to town.”

  “I would be willing to come and pick the kids up,” Gloria said. “We're not that far away.”

  And with that she offered me an immediate out. “Thanks, but I don't want to run the kids around that much. Besides, I'll be working shift work and it won't always be convenient. Thanks for the offer, though.”

  Nicholas threw the last of his bread on the floor, signaling the end of his lunch.

  “I gotta go, Gloria. The kids need their nap.” And I needed to regroup. “Thanks for calling.” I hung up before she could say anything more.

  I cleaned up the kids, changed Nicholas, and by the time his eyes were drifting closed, the phone rang again. This time I checked the call display. Wilma.

  I had used up all my energy on Gloria, so I let it ring. When she called again, I let it ring again. And one more time.

  Chapter Nine

  I told her that if she doesn't take her medicine the voices will start and people will think she's crazy.” Darlene Anderson rolled her eyes as if to say “you know what I mean,” then angled her head toward the middle-aged woman she was escorting to an empty cubicle. “Then she started running a fever and I don't know what's causing what.”

  The woman in question wore a pink hat with a bedraggled feather, a man's woolen vest over a stained white shirt, and a long sweeping velvet skirt. As we settled her on the bed, she kept whispering about a gig she was late for, her fingers twisting around each other. Her cheeks flamed, her eyes were glassy, and I could feel from her arm that she was burning up.

  Darlene was slightly more lucid. Emphasis on slightly. In the time i
t took us to walk from the reception area to the emergency department, she had been chattering steadily about the VandeKeere family, how low the river was, the shameful movie being shown in town, and horoscopes.

  She finally lowered her voice and drew me to one side as she glanced sidelong at the woman now settling onto the bed. “I brought her in for the fever, but you know she's right cuckoo, don't you?”

  “The correct term is schizophrenic,” I said primly.

  “Whatever.” Darlene dismissed the terminology with a flip of her hand. “Doesn't change the fact that she thinks she's a concert pianist.” Darlene sighed. “Absolutely nuts. Thinks she has to go out tonight to play in New York.”

  It was a Thursday evening. I had drawn the afternoon/ evening shift this week, grateful once again for my wonderful babysitter. Kathy gladly took the children this afternoon, promising to feed them supper and bring them home when Dan was done with fieldwork. I knew they would be all cleaned up and read to and cuddled and snuggled. I had felt a moment of jealousy when I first thought of her taking them out of the bathtub all slippery and wet and drying them off, then reading to them. But when I came into the hospital and felt the energy of the place, my emotions balanced out.

  I don't know how I managed all the juggling I had to do with day care and Dan's work before. It wasn't pleasant, but somehow we coped. I would have a hard time going back to that.

  “And what is your association with Mrs. Tebo?” I asked, trying to find my way around this bombastic and rude yet caring woman as I started a chart for Mrs. Tebo.

  “Oh, nothing at all. I help her once in a while. Come and clean her house. She throws a fit, but honestly—it's a pigsty.” Darlene sighed heavily. “Just doesn't take care of herself. I found her today sitting stark naked in the bathtub. She was shivering even though she was burning up. Silly woman.”

  I cringed, glancing over at Mrs. Tebo, who, thankfully, was oblivious to all this chatter.

  “These old people,” Darlene continued. “Hard to take care of. Just like that Mr. Mast. He's a stubborn old coot. Just won't take his insulin. I suppose you need to take her history again.” Darlene glanced at the chart. “I don't know why you can't use what you had before.”

  “It's procedure.” I ignored her complaints and got the particulars on Rena Tebo via Darlene and a few muttered responses from Rena herself.

  Once I got the woman's sad and all-too-familiar history down, I pulled out the blood-pressure cuff.

  “Here. I'll need to help you with that,” Darlene said, scurrying over as fast as her formidable bulk would allow her. Amazingly, she didn't knock anything over as she bent to lift Rena's chin up. “The nice lady is going to take your blood pressure, okay?” she yelled, as if Rena were two miles away instead of two inches.

  Rena just blinked and stared.

  As I put on the cuff and started up the machine, I caught Darlene inspecting me. “You don't go to church with your Dan, do you?”

  I blinked a moment, surprised at the question, though after spending even these few minutes with Darlene, the boldness shouldn't have been a shocker.

  “No. I don't.”

  “Why not?”

  I ignored her as I noted the blood pressure and took Rena's temperature. Through the roof.

  “I prefer not to,” was all I could muster. My focus was Rena Tebo right now, not my faith life.

  “You should. Be good for you.” Darlene nodded, her chins jiggling as if underscoring her comment. “You need to know that God is in control. Especially when those really bad cases come in the hospital.”

  I thought of the multiple motor vehicle accident earlier this week that had resulted in three deaths—a mother and her two children. I was so relieved I had missed it. Judy had gone to school with the mother and was heartbroken. She and Dan were going to the funeral tomorrow. But I was staying home with my children, blocking my life out into compartments. Work. Home. They didn't intersect. I couldn't allow it or I would constantly be seeing Dan or Anneke or Nicholas on the stretchers that came in.

  “I'm sure God has enough people to occupy His time. He won't miss me,” I said, thinking I was so smart and glib, hoping I could get her to stop prying into my life. Who was the nurse here after all? Who was in charge?

  “He's missing you now,” Darlene said with a knowing look. “Like the one sheep missing from the ninety-nine. He goes after them because He cares.”

  Sheep? Ninety-nine? What in the world was she talking about?

  I shrugged lightly, then moved on to things I did know about. “Dr. Brouwer will want to listen to Rena's chest. Do you think you can get her to put on this gown or at least take some layers off?”

  Darlene waved me off. “Not a problem. And don't forget. God is waiting. He wants you to know what your only comfort in life and death is.”

  I supposed she wanted that to sound comforting, but it sounded more ominous than reassuring.

  “Rena Tebo?” Dr. Brouwer sighed as he finished what he was doing and clipped his pen in his pocket. “That's the second time this week. Medicaid is going to give me grief over this one. What is it this time?”

  “Elevated temp and b.p. Some question as to what medications she's taken. I've got her ready for you. A Darlene Anderson brought her in.”

  To my surprise, Dr. Brouwer laughed. “She's a character, isn't she? I don't know how many of the town's down-andouters she's tucked under her wing, but it's quite a few. Good thing she's got large wings.”

  “Darlene is… interesting,” I conceded.

  To my surprise, Rena was in a gown by the time we got back. Still muttering and still complaining, but in a gown.

  Dr. Brouwer checked her over, then pulled out a prescription pad and scribbled something on it. “She'll need to take these twice a day for ten days,” he said, handing it to Darlene.

  Darlene nodded slowly, looking over the piece of paper as if she could decipher Dr. Brouwer's handwriting. I knew I couldn't.

  Dr. Brouwer talked about ongoing care and follow-up but Darlene waved him off.

  “I know how this works,” she said decisively, tucking the prescription into a pocket of her sagging sweater. “I've got it under control.”

  “I don't doubt you do,” he said quietly.

  We left Darlene chattering to Rena and as soon as they were out of earshot, Dr. Brouwer started laughing again. “I imagine you've seen all kinds in Seattle. But I doubt you've seen too many like Darlene.”

  “Not too many,” I agreed. Darlene was a puzzling combination of generous and strange, but in my mind the generosity won out over the rest. Someone willing to cart around a schizophrenic woman and keep tabs on an elderly diabetic man was high up in my books—in spite of her questions about church.

  “So, what did you do with your kids?” Dr. Brouwer asked, obviously not in a hurry to go. His shift had been over for ten minutes and still he hung around, looking like he wanted to chat, something I had to get used to. In the emergency department in Seattle, there was no time for small talk. The smallest it ever got was “You ready for a break?” or “What are you doing this weekend?” usually thrown out as we passed each other in the hallway.

  “I took them to a babysitter.”

  Dr. Brouwer had been gone on vacation when I started and only now, after three weeks of work had our shifts intersected.

  “Who?”

  “Kathy Greidanus.” I didn't know whether to finish charting or fully engage in chitchat. I picked up Rena's chart and Dr. Brouwer followed me to the nurses' station.

  “Remind me how old your kids are?” Dr. Brouwer asked, leaning against the chest-high divider that separated the desk from the rest of the department.

  “Nicholas is one and a half, and my daughter is four,” I murmured. Why was he still hanging around? Most doctors I knew stayed beyond their shift only in case of a pressing emergency or if they were coming down off a tense code. And then they didn't make with the yik yak—they kept busy, trying to corral their stress into the farthe
st corner of their mind where they could handle it.

  “Nicholas being the little boy who was with you at the auction,” Dr. Brouwer continued, settling in for a chat. “And what's your daughter's name?”

  “Anneke.” Usually I would have brushed off such a blatant and rather clumsy effort at getting to know me. But it had been a quiet evening so far on the ward and I was in a good mood. Our little family had eaten breakfast together today and, as my peace offering, I tried to make French toast. Though it wasn't completely done in spots, it wasn't burnt, either. We'd sat down together and talked in complete sentences. Dan told me what he was going to do that day—fix the air-seeder and work up the back fields—and I told him my evening work schedule. Nothing new about my job, whereas Dan's created a steady stream of jargon that was as foreign to me as the church talk he currently indulged in during coffee times with Uncle Orest. Irrigation,no till,wheat and barley, heat units, desiccation, redemption, reconciliation, and offerings.

  “How are you coping with the move from city to farm? It must be a bit hard to get used to.” He leaned in, not enough to invade my personal space but enough that I caught the barest whiff of cologne… and interest.

  “I've had some adjusting to do.” My foray into and hasty retreat from cow-moving territory and egg gathering came to mind. “But the countryside is beautiful, and that helps.”

  His smile slowly transformed his face. Very easy on the eyes. Why hadn't some single woman snapped this man up yet?

  “I love it here. I can't imagine moving into the city.” He shifted his weight so both his elbows were on the counter. “I've been hearing good things about your work.” Deeper smile. Dimples even.

  Pause. Freeze frame. Was I being overly sensitive, or had he made a subtle shift from getting to know me to making a move on me?

  Me—with two kids and stretch marks? Right, Leslie.