by Irene Hannon
“Somehow, I don’t think Scott would put you in a position to fail. Do you?”
“Not on purpose. I think he believes I can do it. The problem is me. My confidence level is so low it’s in the negative range.”
“You want my advice? Trust his judgment and stop worrying about what anyone else thinks. Oh, that reminds me . . . have you noticed Mom’s been kind of quiet the past couple of days?”
“I haven’t talked to her much since Wednesday, but Mom and quiet don’t belong in the same sentence. What’s up?”
“I don’t know. She did tell me she wants to go to the cemetery tomorrow, though. In fact, she wants the three of us to go. Is this some kind of annual ritual for Dad’s birthday or something?”
“No. We often go on the anniversary of his death, but she’s never asked me to take her on his birthday.”
“Interesting.” Val tapped the table, her expression pensive. “She had me stop at Walmart on the way home from therapy Thursday too. I offered to get whatever she wanted, but she told me she had to do this herself. For Dad. Any idea what that was all about?”
Curiouser and curiouser.
“I haven’t a clue.”
“Hmm. I told her I’d go tomorrow night, after dinner. Can you come?”
“Yeah. I guess.” Karen propped her chin in her hand. “I wonder what she’s up to?”
Val rolled her eyes. “With Mom, who knows?”
As she pulled to a stop in the deserted cemetery, Karen surveyed the parched grass. Even at seven o’clock in the evening, the mercury hovered near ninety and the humidity was close to 100 percent. Not a leaf was moving, and the limited shade in the small cemetery provided little relief from the relentless sun.
“Mom, it’s stifling today. You shouldn’t be out in this heat.”
“I’ve seen worse.” Margaret grasped the handle and opened the door.
Karen looked over her shoulder at Val, who lifted her hands in a “what can you do?” gesture. “Hold on a minute and we’ll help you out.”
Margaret waited until Val and Karen were both on her side of the car. With their assistance, she stood on the concrete drive and stepped onto the dried-out turf. Val leaned in for her cane, but Margaret shook her head.
“I don’t need that anymore. David said it’s all right to walk without it.”
“Maybe you could use it on the uneven ground.” Karen started to reach for it. With her mother making solid progress toward independence, the last thing they all needed was a sprained or broken ankle.
“I’ll hold onto you girls. I’ll be fine.” She grabbed Karen’s arm, but when she reached for Val, the bag from Walmart got in her way.
“I’ll hold that for you.” Val extended her hand.
After a brief hesitation, Margaret relinquished it and took Val’s arm. She nodded to her right. “It’s over there.”
“I know, Mom.” Karen kept a firm grip on her arm as they inched toward the familiar plot. How many solitary trips had she made here in the early years after Dad’s death—and continued to make until her life had grown too hectic?
Too many to count.
As they reached the simple stone that bore only their father’s name, the date of his death, and a brief paraphrase from Psalms—“My lines have fallen on pleasant places”—Karen’s throat tightened. How she still missed him, even after all these years! But he had moved on to a more pleasant place. She believed that with her whole heart and soul. And he deserved it, for his life on earth with their mother couldn’t have been all that pleasant.
As if reading her mind, Margaret spoke in what, for her, was a subdued tone. “Your father didn’t have an easy life, but he loved you girls. And me, far more than I deserved.”
Karen’s eyes widened, and she exchanged a look with Val. Since when had their mother ever acknowledged her faults?
“Give me the bag, Val.” Margaret held out her hand.
In silence, Val handed it over. Despite the significant improvement in her left hand, Margaret struggled to open the top, which she’d clutched into mangled crinkles.
“Can I help?” Karen stepped closer.
“No. I can get it.” After working at the crimped plastic a bit more, the top gapped open and Margaret reached in. She withdrew a package of licorice and a safari hat, clutched them to her chest, and moved toward the headstone. Resting one hand on the top for support, she bent down and laid the items on the grave. Then she straightened up and stood in silence.
What in the world . . . ?
A tingle of apprehension raced along Karen’s spine, and she glanced at Val. Her sister’s shocked expression mirrored her own reaction to their mother’s bizarre behavior.
When Margaret turned to them, however, her eyes were alert and lucid. “No, I haven’t lost my mind. Though it probably seems so to you.” She withdrew a handkerchief from the pocket of her dress and proceeded to pat her face. “It’s a hot one, no question about it. Always was on your father’s birthday.”
She tucked the handkerchief back, steadied herself by resting a hand on top of the headstone, and gestured to the items on the grave. “I guess you’re wondering what that’s all about—and why I wanted to come here today.”
Karen didn’t respond. Neither did Val.
“Of course you are.” Margaret continued as if she hadn’t expected a reply. “And I’m going to tell you. It’s a long story, so I’ll start with those.” She pointed again to the candy and hat on the grave. “Every year, I used to ask your father what he wanted for his birthday, and he always said the same thing. ‘How about some licorice, Maggie? Or a safari hat. I always fancied one of those.’” The angular lines of her face softened. “He used to call me that sometimes, you know. Maggie. He was the only one who ever did.”
After a few seconds, she coughed and cleared her throat. “Anyway, my answer was always the same. I’d say, ‘Licorice will ruin your teeth, Bill. And what in creation would you do with a safari hat?’ Then he’d say, ‘Maggie, honey, these teeth will last far longer than I will. And if I had a safari hat, I could pretend I was hunting elephants in the wilds of Africa while I cut the grass.’”
She shook her head, but her eyes were filled with a rare warmth and affection. “Your father always did have a fanciful streak, you know.” A few beats of silence passed, and when she continued, a hint of regret clung to her words. “I never did get him the licorice or the hat. I didn’t think the candy was good for him, and I dismissed the hat as frivolous.”
Her expression grew pensive as she examined the items on the grave. “I had a peculiar dream the other night, though. I’ve never been one to put much stock in dreams, but this one has been on my mind. I saw your father sitting on that old, rusty riding mower he loved. He was eating licorice and wearing a safari hat, and he looked happy. Then he spoke to me. ‘It’s important to give people the things they need, Maggie. And you still have time to do that.’”
She pulled out her handkerchief again and dabbed at her brow. “I pondered over that for a long while. At first I thought Bill was talking about the candy and that silly hat. But finally, I understood what he meant. He wanted me to tell you girls a story so you would understand why I am the way I am. Why I tend to push people away. Especially the people closest to me.”
She tucked the handkerchief back in her pocket. “I know I haven’t been the best mother. Or the best wife. I thank God every day that Bill saw the love in my heart, even though I don’t always show it in the right way, and that he was willing to take me as I was. His devotion was the greatest blessing I ever received. Followed very closely by you girls.”
Her voice caught, and she rested her hand on the headstone again. “I don’t really know if that dream was a message from your father, or my conscience having its say at last, but after I prayed about it I decided to share my story with you girls. It’s not an easy one to tell, even after all these years, and I’m not going to dress it up or belabor it. The fact is, when I was eleven years old, I was molested by
my favorite uncle. My father’s brother. A man I loved and trusted and admired. It happened three times. I never told anyone about it. I was too embarrassed and ashamed. Somehow I felt it was my fault.”
She swallowed and tightened her grip on the headstone. “Until that happened, I was an outgoing, happy child. But afterward, I shut down. I didn’t trust anyone, and I pushed away the people I should have loved the most. It was the only way I knew to protect myself. I was terrified of having my trust violated, of getting hurt again.”
Loosening her grip, she stroked the top of the headstone. “The truth is, I’ll never know why your father fell in love with me. Why he persevered. I’m just thankful he did. With him, I learned to let my guard down. And after I told him my story, he understood. He was able to see the woman I might have become—and did become, now and then, with him. But habits die hard, and once I had you girls, I reverted to my old ways. Not by choice, mind you; I couldn’t help myself. I started doing things to push you away. I still do. The same with other people. It’s just how I am.”
Margaret refocused on the items resting on the grave. “As I spoke with God about it these past few days, I realized that if the stroke had killed me, I’d have left unfinished business here. I know it’s foolish, but I wanted to bring these things to Bill and tell you girls what happened to me so maybe you’ll understand why I was never the kind of mother I should have been—and never will be, at this stage of my life, I suspect.”
She looked over at her daughters. “I know understanding doesn’t change anything, but it might help you make some sense of it. Especially if you know I always loved you, no matter what my actions might have said. As for forgiveness, I leave that to God.”
In the silence that followed her story, Margaret’s lower lip began to tremble. “I’m ready to go now. And I don’t ever want to discuss this again.”
As Karen tried to digest her mother’s startling story, Margaret sniffed and gave Val a bemused look. “Well, I can’t say I’ve ever seen you speechless.” Then she turned to her. “Are we going to stand around here all evening in this heat? The mosquitoes are out already and I’m being eaten alive.”
Karen jerked forward and held out her arm. Her sister joined her on the other side.
No one spoke during the slow walk back to the car.
Once behind the wheel, Karen’s shaky fingers fumbled with the key as she tried to insert it in the ignition.
What a strange few minutes.
Yet as she put the car in gear and drove away, her throat tightened. Today she’d seen a side of her mother she’d never seen before—and might never see again. She also now understood the events that had shaped her. That might not take away the sting of the hurtful things her mother had said and done through the years or improve their relationship much, but it helped to know Margaret’s criticism had nothing to do with Karen herself and everything to do with a little girl who had been hurt and betrayed by someone she’d loved and trusted. A little girl who had been afraid, after that, to ever again let anyone get too close.
Karen checked on Val in the rearview mirror. As if sensing her sister’s scrutiny, Val met her gaze. And in her eyes, Karen saw what was in her own heart.
Understanding that mitigated the pain of their rocky mother/daughter relationship.
And gratitude for a final gift from the father they had cherished.
“Karen, could you come in here, please?”
At her boss’s summons, Karen surveyed her piled-high desk. Just what she needed—another assignment in the middle of reconciling the monthly department budget.
Stifling a sigh, she spoke into the receiver. “I’ll be right there.” After dropping the phone back into its cradle, she typed several more numbers into the computer, then grabbed a notebook and pen.
Harold Simmons was seated at his desk. As usual, the sun from the large window behind him bounced off his shiny bald head, reminding her of the silver reflecting ball in her father’s rose garden.
But under his intent, no-nonsense scrutiny, those capricious thoughts disappeared as fast as the startled deer she’d seen by the side of the road a few days ago.
He began spitting out rapid-fire instructions almost before she cleared the threshold. “We got approval for a new position. An entry-level financial analyst. I need you to put together a job description based on comparable positions in the industry, along with a list of internal candidates for me to consider. As soon as possible.”
Translation: by the end of the day. Two hours from now. Meaning she’d have to work late to finish the budget.
Her hopes for a quiet evening at home evaporated.
“Okay. I’ll get on it right away.”
Back at her desk, she put aside the budget work and focused on Harold’s project. On the positive side, she’d been around long enough to establish contacts in human resources, compensation, and staffing who could provide the information she needed.
By ten minutes to five, she was putting the finishing touches on the report.
After proofing the job description, Karen gave the list of candidates a final scan. With a satisfied nod, she gathered up the material, started to stand—and froze.
Wait a minute.
She could do this job . . . couldn’t she?
Yes.
She knew the company and the industry. Plus, since her promotion to administrative assistant eight months ago, she’d taken on responsibility for a significant amount of budget work and analysis.
It was a perfect fit—and this job would move her into the professional ranks, offer more perks, and pay a higher salary.
But did she have the nerve to apply for it?
She sat back down.
A few weeks ago, she’d have said no—but she wasn’t the same person she’d been a few weeks ago. Thanks to Val and Scott’s pushing and prodding, she was learning to take control of her own life. To stop worrying about pleasing other people or seeking anyone’s approval. To reach higher than she’d ever dreamed.
Because as Scott had pointed out a few days ago, sometimes the biggest successes come when we take a chance.
Squaring her shoulders, Karen reopened the document of candidates and added her name to the bottom of the list. Hesitated. Moved it to the top.
Five minutes later she marched into Harold’s office and handed him the material. She might not get the job, but at least she’d put herself in the running.
And that, in itself, was a huge step forward.
Tapping a finger against the steering wheel, Karen checked her watch as she waited at yet another red light. Kristen would be starving by the time she fixed dinner, but what could she do? Her boss didn’t care if his special project had thrown off her schedule; the budget work still had to get done. And she couldn’t renege on her promise to Reverend Richards that she’d pick up the proof for the flier about the benefit on her way home.
Praying no cops were lying in wait to fulfill their ticket quotas on this Monday night, she pressed harder on the accelerator and zipped through several yellow lights.
Once in the church lot, she grabbed her purse and half jogged toward the door, scanning the portico for the envelope the minister had promised to leave if she was late.
Nothing.
Had he tucked it against the wall, behind one of the overflowing pots of petunias, to protect it from the gathering storm clouds?
As she ran up the stairs, the muffled but plaintive wail of a saxophone seeped through the thick, wooden front door, and she came to an abrupt halt.
It had to be Scott.
Errand forgotten, she moved closer and cracked the door. He was playing some sort of bluesy number she’d never heard, so raw with emotion a shiver snaked down her spine. Though she heard a few fumbled notes, the rendition was powerful, imbued with such anguish and loss and pain she felt as if she was reading a diary.
As the last notes died away, she drew an unsteady breath and pushed the door open. A shaft of light from the descending sun darted ins
ide, illuminating the man standing in the sanctuary and bathing the interior in a golden glow.
She could manage only one word. “Wow.”
Slowly Scott lowered the saxophone. “I didn’t know I had an audience.” Unlike the first time she’d appeared without warning, however, he sounded shaky rather than angry or accusatory.
“I didn’t think you played the sax anymore.”
“This is the first time since . . . since before the accident. It wasn’t very good.”
“I heard a few wrong notes, if that’s what you mean, but the power of the music . . . the way you play . . . the emotion . . .” She shook her head as words failed her. “You have an incredible gift.”
His color was high as he stroked the polished brass instrument with an almost reverent touch. “I never thought I’d pick this up again.”
“Why did you?”
“Because of what happened yesterday after services. I stayed around to go through some music, and Steven came over to ask if I’d help him with a problem spot in one of the pieces he’s practicing for the benefit. It’s a tricky area, and instead of explaining the correct fingering, I decided to show him. As I played, I realized . . .” His voice rasped, and he cleared his throat. “My fingers were responding. Not perfectly, but there was enough improvement that I decided to pull the sax out of the mothballs.”
“That’s wonderful!” She moved closer and touched his arm.
He looked down at her fingers, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. Seconds ticked by, the quiet broken only by a distant rumble of thunder. She told herself to pull back. Step away. Play it safe.
But before she could follow through, he laid his hand over hers and lifted his gaze.
She stopped breathing.
Something as compelling and powerful as the music he’d just played began to pulsate between them.
He lifted his free hand toward her, and her knees began to wobble. “Karen, I . . .”
“Scott? Is that you in here?”
At Reverend Richards’s question, she gasped and jerked back. Scott dropped his hand at once, but she caught a glimpse of regret as he turned toward the door the minister had cracked open.
