by Brenda Hill
When I walked into the kitchen, Terry was taking an English muffin from the toaster.
“Wow!” he said, splitting his muffin and slathering each half with butter and peanut butter. “You look gorgeous. Going somewhere?”
“Work.” I poured cream into my coffee and eyed his muffin. When he went to the fridge to get the orange juice, I swiped half of his muffin, gobbling it down like a guilty child. I felt ridiculously pleased with myself, and when he saw his half-empty plate, I laughed at the expression on his face.
“Good God, I’m hooked up with a thief!”
Paying no attention to him, I licked my fingers. “Got any more?”
He sighed dramatically. “Guess I’m recruited to do double-duty in the muffin brigade.”
“You poor thing.” I glanced at my watch. “No time for more,” I said, rising, then I leaned down to give him a kiss.
“Honey, I don’t like you going to the office without that spray.”
“Relax. I’m just going to get some addresses to preview later. I’ll be home around noon.”
“I’m not comfortable with that, babe.”
“I’ll be okay.” Waving my arm, I headed for the door.
Most of the agents had already been in the office and left, except for Ed. As usual, he sat at his desk, steadfast in his dogged determination to answer phones and greet walk-ins. I was glad the office was quiet, which gave me the opportunity to make copies of the current listings and checking them with the Thomas Guide map book for exact locations. Then I made my own list for houses to preview for another open house.
Sometime later, my grumbling stomach told me it was nearly noon, so I punched in Terry’s cell number to let him know I’d be home soon. He didn’t answer, so I called the home number. Still no answer so I left a message. He was probably out shopping to surprise me with another fabulous dinner.
Heading to my car, I thought about Shanna. When would she get my letter? I mentally calculated the time: three days since I’d dropped it into the mailbox, which covered a day for the post office to do their processing, plus a couple more days for it to reach Minnesota. She could get it at any time. What would she think? And, would she call after reading it?
She had to. We had so much to talk about. I could only wait and pray that she would understand.
Just as I unlocked the door, something red caught my eye and I glanced up and saw a Corvette buzz by the office. Rick? I hustled into my car and locked the door, but the red sports car didn’t stop or even slow down.
If it were Rick, what could he be doing? I didn’t want to think he might be watching me, couldn’t imagine why he’d do so. Surely he knew I wasn’t a threat. If I had intended to turn him in for assault, I’d already have done so. But if he’d intended to visit the office, why hadn’t he stopped?
Checking both directions when I pulled onto the street, I felt uneasy and I didn’t like it. I certainly didn’t want to start glancing over my shoulder every time I left the house, but wasn’t sure what to do about it.
Since Mac had been a large man, I’d never overly worried about crime, but I knew I’d better give it serious thought. I’d always felt confident enough to disregard most of Ben’s guidelines, but I realized how naïve I’d been. Naïve? Now, idling at a red light and checking the rearview mirror for a red Corvette, I suddenly realized how utterly stupid I’d been to not have armed myself after the episode with Rick. What had I been thinking?
That was the problem. As if standing by and helplessly watching my husband weaken and die wasn’t emotionally draining enough, after his death I’d been slammed with one deplorable catastrophe after another, and I’d been too grief-stricken and preoccupied to think straight.
Then, of all things, I fell in love.
Thank God Terry had been there to come to my rescue with Rick, but what about the future? I needed to feel I that I didn’t have to rely on anyone, that I could take care of myself.
Terry was right. It was time, past time, actually, to investigate pepper sprays and other items of self-defense.
When I got home, Terry was waiting in his car.
“You coming or going?” I asked, walking over to the driver’s window.
“Hop in and I’ll show you what I’ve discovered.” Backing out of the driveway, he told me he’d been to several self-defense shops while I was at work. “We’re not waiting for your boss’s next meeting; we’re getting something today for you to carry. I’ve gone along on almost everything, but not this. Understand?”
“Yes, dear,” I meekly answered with a smile. I didn’t tell him about seeing Rick. Might as well let him think he talked me into it.
Yucaipa didn’t have a self-defense shop so we headed west on I-10 to San Bernardino. The Tippecanoe exit was just ahead and my stomach rumbled. Most of the good restaurants in the area were clustered on Hospitality Lane just off Tippecanoe and Waterman.
“You have to feed me first,” I told him. “My half-muffin this morning is gone.”
“My muffin, you mean. Serves you right if you’re hungry.”
“Now how can I shop for anything when I’m starved? All I’ll pay attention to is my stomach.”
“Lord, I’ve never met such a whiner.”
I’d thought we’d have a quick sandwich at Coco’s, but he had other ideas. He pulled into the parking lot at Mimi’s, an upscale café with beamed ceilings and Mardi Gras prints on brick walls. When ordering, I found out I wasn’t the only hungry one. I selected the pot roast sandwich, and Terry had the French onion soup followed by an appetizer plate with spinach and artichoke Dip. My sandwich and his entrée arrived, the garlic shrimp spaghettini, a pasta with large shrimp and marinara sauce. When I looked at our table loaded with food, he shrugged.
“Gotta keep up my strength, you know,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.
I laughed and dug in, helping him with the appetizers.
An hour later, we stood at the counter in Milo’s, a shop specializing in self-defense products. The wall behind the counter was covered with metal hooks holding plastic cartons of sprays in various sizes.
“Take a look at this.” Bruce, the owner, the sleeves in his white t-shirt rolled back to expose tanned muscles, placed a shiny red metal cylinder about the size of a lipstick, in my hand. “Perfect for a woman.”
“Looks like lipstick,” I said.
“That’s the idea, but inside you got a powerful pepper spray. Reaches up to six feet.”
During the next half hour he patiently showed us a variety of pepper and mace sprays, all which, according to him, swell mucus membranes and make breathing difficult. “And when the guy rubs his eyes, he rubs the pepper in.”
He took another black cylinder with orange wrapping from the cabinet. It was larger than the lipstick.
“Now this mace spray is great,” he told us. “It’s a thick foam and covers the guy’s face. But get this: the foam leaves a dye the cops can see. The asshole, pardon my French, wouldn’t be able to deny a thing.”
I didn’t hesitate. “I’ll take it.”
* * *
At seven that evening, I eyed the phone. Shanna should have received my letter by now, so why hadn’t she called? The stove clock told me it was seven here, so it would be nine at Shanna’s. She’ll call now, I kept thinking. She probably wanted to wait until after dinner and Kyle was asleep. I just needed to occupy myself for a few moments more.
Terry had gone to his apartment to pick up some odds and ends, so I tried to read one of his thriller novels. I sank onto the new sofa’s soft cushions, but it didn’t take long to realize I’d skimmed the same page several times and still didn’t know what I’d read. Glancing again at the phone’s handset, I picked up the TV remote.
I scrolled through the channels and settled on an old Mayberry episode, watching as Andy and Barney grimaced after sampling Aunt Bee’s newest batch of homemade pickles. She was anxiously waiting for their reactions and they were groping for something nice to say about something so sour. While it was comi
cal, I thought that was the way families should be—loving and supporting each other, even when it hurt.
Just as I took a sip of tea, the phone rang and I almost dropped the cup. My heart pounded as though I was readying for battle. Or my execution. Grabbing the phone, I cleared my throat.
“Hello?” From the other end I heard nothing but silence. A crank call?
“Lisa? Is this Lisa Montgomery?” Jenna’s voice. I bristled. Just hearing her voice filled me with outrage. “I know you probably don’t want to hear from me—”
“How dare you call me.”
“I’m sorry, but I want to talk, mother-to-mother.”
“What could you possibly want? You’ve already taken everything I have.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, but—”
“You’re sorry I feel that way? You stole my life from me. How else could I feel?”
“I’m not calling to rehash the past. I want to talk about Marsh. Surely as a mother, you can understand.”
The door opened and Terry walked in. “Shanna?” he mouthed.
I shook my head. To Jenna, I said, “Yes, I’m a mother. I have a legitimate daughter, which is more than I can say about your son.” Feeling proud of myself for speaking up, I glanced at Terry.
He was frowning. I had not expected that and was slightly taken aback. While I tried to read his face, he carefully set down his stack of books and sat beside me.
“I have a favor to ask,” Jenna continued, ignoring my comment. “I’d like to have you meet with Marsh and—”
“Meet with Marsh?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You actually want me to meet my husband’s illegitimate son? You’re out of your mind.” I slammed down the phone.
“She wants you to meet her son?” Terry asked. “Why?”
Fuming, I paced the living room. “Of all the nerve . . .”
“So tell me. And stand still, honey, you’re making me dizzy.”
Halting, I faced him, my arms crossed over my chest. I was so angry I couldn’t keep still and my foot tapped a cadence on the floor.
“When I met her in Big Bear,” I said, making an effort to say each word without screaming, “she said something about her son wanting to know more about his father. If she thinks I’m going to sit that kid down and tell him about my husband, she’d better think again.” Losing the battle to stand still, I paced again. “I can’t believe that woman.”
“I can understand how you must feel,” Terry said, his tone level, “but you might think about talking to him.”
I stopped. “You can’t be serious.”
“Honey, growing up without a father can be a lonely existence for a boy. I know. You could talk to this child, tell him about his father. That might not be so bad.”
“I’m sorry if Marsh will suffer, but I’m not going to talk to him. No way.”
“Just remember,” Terry said, “what happened was not the child’s fault. He needs to know everything he can about his father.”
“He has Stan and Maggie. Let them talk to him.”
“It’s not the same and you know it. There are so many things you would know that they don’t, things that would delight a child. You must have photographs of Mac when he was young. Baby pictures, even.”
“I can’t believe you would even suggest such a thing.”
“Ah, honey, don’t look at me like that. I just tend to look at everything a little differently now.”
His words reminded me about his illness, and how all of this must seem so petty. I sat beside him and put my arms around him, laying my head on his shoulder. “I wish I could look at it like you, but I’m not that noble. I can’t even think about Marsh without wanting to smash something. Preferably Jenna’s face.”
Terry chuckled. “I really can’t blame you. But, whether you like it or not, there’s a child’s future at stake here. You could help him.”
“I guess I’m a terrible human being, because I just can’t do it.”
“That’s okay. Right now you’re hurting, and you need some time to recover. When you do, I know you’ll do the right thing.”
***
That night I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing the joy on Marsh’s face when Stan swung him to onto his shoulders. Terry was right—Marsh wasn’t at fault—but I still couldn’t bring myself to acknowledge him as Mac’s child. Especially when his very existence was an insult not only to me, but also to Shanna.
Rolling on my side, I thought about my daughter and imagined how shocked she’d be when she read my letter. Why hadn’t I thought to call Leif so he could stand by? I could only hope she’d be okay.
Snuggling next to Terry, I wondered if I’d ever forgive Mac and Jenna enough to make room for Mac’s son in my life.
***
The next two days I stayed by the phone, but Shanna didn’t call. Even though she and I had cell phones, we each preferred the stability of our home phone.
The third day I began to worry. Had anything happened? Had Shanna read the letter and gone into shock? After picturing her pale and bleeding in the emergency room, I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I called her.
No one was home so I left a message on voice mail and called again later. Same thing. Where could they be? Then I tried her cell phone and got voice mail yet again. Trying not to panic, I checked the listings and called the local hospital. Thank God she wasn’t there.
Next, even though I dreaded it, I called Leif’s work. I’d heard the jokes about tiresome women who checked on their husbands and boyfriends, so I’d never called Mac at the plant unless it was an emergency. And I’d certainly never called my son in law at work.
After several transfers, the lead man, a Burt Larsen, after discovering who I was, told me Leif had left a few days ago to begin his vacation.
“I think the family was going to the North Country for some fishing,” he said. “Actually, Leif booked the company timeshare near Brainerd. Want that number?”
Even though I took the number, I decided not to call. No use ruining their vacation. If Shanna had a chance to rest, I wanted her to have it. There would be plenty of time later to sort out the mess. At least I knew she was okay—for now.
The Brainerd Lakes area was a lovely place, full of pine forests and huge lakes several hundred feet deep. Once, while visiting the kids after they moved to Minnesota, they took me on an overnight trip to do some fishing and to take me around the North Country, so different from California’s Inland Empire. I’d loved the small towns and the highways lined with pine trees. I’d even loved the evenings when the smell of wood smoke hung in the air.
Back home, when looking at Yucaipa’s scorched hills, I’d think of the cool, crisp Minnesota air and looked forward to someday living there.
Having been raised in Minnesota, Leif was an avid sportsman; as Kyle grew older, he’d teach him how to fish and hunt, how to survive in the wilderness. I had to admit Leif was a good man, someone with infinite patience, someone who always gave excellent advice. How fortunate Shanna had been not to have married someone like her father. I wondered if Leif had seen Mac as he really had been, if perhaps he had guessed the truth about our relationship. Perhaps that was why he’d never said much when he was around Mac and me. I just assumed he was shy. If he had sensed something amiss, perhaps he would help Shanna to understand.
***
Over the next few days I spent more time at the office than I’d had in several years, dutifully taking my turn answering phones and talking to walk-ins. Ed was always there, still plugging along, slowly building his list of clientele. While he didn’t dazzle Ben with his sales record, he managed to make enough sales to support his family. I’d always preferred the excitement of showing houses and talking to a constant stream of people, but watching Ed, I began to consider that the methodical drudgework of keeping records and follow-up calls to prospective clients had merit as well.
At home, Terry and I settled into an idyllic splendor that surpassed anything I’d ever dreamed of.
Sometimes he had dinner ready when I came home from the office, and sometimes he’d take me out. On the days I felt tired, we’d order pizza and sprawl on the sofa and watch a movie.
He seldom talked about his illness and I didn’t want to intrude. I admired the way he seemed to be able to set his illness aside and live in the now.
A few times while watching TV, he’d become quiet, and I’d think he was absorbed in the program. One evening I spoke to him and finally had to touch him to get his attention. When he turned to me, his eyes had an unfocused, distant look, as if he were far away from my living room. Then he blinked and was himself again.
I wondered if he had been thinking about his disease. Men were supposed to be macho, but was he fearful of dying? One evening I asked.
“It’s not the dying I’m concerned about,” he said, his tone somber, “or even what happens afterward, if anything. What horrifies me is the progression of this disease and how it’ll affect me. Do you have any idea what it does?”
Having already read every reference I could find on the computer, I nodded.
“I’ll slowly become helpless,” he went on, “not able to eat, not even able to wipe myself in the bathroom.”
Keeping very quiet, I snuggled close to him. Whether to give, or receive comfort, I didn’t know. Or care.
He slipped an arm around me. “I’ve considered suicide—”
Alarmed, I sat up. “No! You can’t do that.”
“Well, I haven’t done it yet. I’m afraid of doing it too soon and missing something wonderful, like another day with you. But if I wait, I could become so helpless I couldn’t do it at all.”
“You can’t even think about that, Terry. What if you committed suicide and the next day they found a cure?”
“So far, the only thing that’s available is medication to help the symptoms. You know, this is an inherited disease, and I’ve thanked God so many times that I never had children. At least I can be grateful for that. I’ve wondered about Dad’s accident, wondered if perhaps that was his way out. I’d always cursed the fates that took my father away from me while I so young, but when you consider the alternative, maybe it was a good thing.”
