“That's all right. Ill be here.”
“Good, then I stay at my sister's. Be home in evening.” Widowed Juanita lived in a small apartment over the garage, but her family lived about twenty miles away in another small town. While not a recent immigrant, she'd never lost her Hispanic accent. Elaine had helped her get her citizenship papers as soon as she qualified, so she no longer had a green card. George had been adamant about that process, back in the days when he paid attention to what was going on at home, before he became head of the surgical unit of the hospital.
“Why don't you take the rest of the cake with you. The children might enjoy that.”
“Gracias. I bring back fresh strawberries from the farm.”
“Only if you let me pay for them. Your sister needs every penny she can get from her produce.”
“We see.”
Elaine shook her head, the motion setting her hair to swinging and falling back into perfect order, as if she had not moved. “Sometimes I don't know what to do with you.”
“You give much, people want to give back. You have everything, make it hard to give back. You need accept good as you give.”
“You've been listening to too many of Father Spencer's sermons.”
Juanita chuckled. “No hablo inglés.”
Elaine laughed in return and laid her hand on Parade. A thought struck. She stood and looked fully at her helper. “See all these lines?” She pointed to the edges of her eyes and down her cheeks. “Do you think I need a face-lift?”
“Do you need a new hole in your head?”
“That's not exactly what I meant.” What she wanted to ask was, Do you think George is having an affair? but she kept her hands on her face and her gaze on the woman across the room.
“You mean this?” Concern drew lines on Juanita's broad forehead and deepened the slashes from nose to chin.
“Yes, I do.” I'm not taking a poll for the media for Pete's sake. She could almost hear the thoughts grinding through Juanita's mind.
“You are beautiful now. Why mess it up?”
“Thank you, but in American society, all women want to look younger.”
Juanita shook her head and a torrent of Spanish burst forth.
Elaine held up both hands in a stop motion. “Too fast, I can't follow you.”
Juanita waved her hands, her whole body screaming the negative. “No can translate, but no, no you do that.”
“All right, I get the message.” While Elaine had learned some Spanish, rapid fire and unusual words did her in.
“You no do, you talk with Doctor Giovanni first.” Both face and tone pleaded for Elaine's agreement.
Fat chance FU ask him. In the first place he won't listen, and if he does, he'll throw a holy fit. Now, ifyoudgone into plastic surgery, dear George, and set up practice in a real city, wed be affluent, such a satisfying word, not just well off. Of course they weren't poor by any means, but income was relative after all.
“Thank you for your opinion.”
“You ask what Juanita think, you get what Juanita think.” Like throwing a light switch, the humble servant returned. “You need anything else?”
“Would I dare ask?”
A smile crinkled Juanitas dark eyes. “You can try.” She flapped a good-bye wave and headed back for the kitchen. “Adios.”
“Adios.” Elaine returned to the couch, pushing a black-and-gold pillow up behind her. The pattern of lions and elephants of the African Veldt always pleased her. So far the pillow fabric was the closest she'd come to the safari to Africa that George had promised her back in the days when he'd vowed to make her dreams come true. Before the hospital took over his life.
She pulled the pillow out and laid it in her lap, tracing the elephant with a wine red enameled fingernail. It was one of the many pillows she'd sewn. She had even made the intricate tassels of gold, tan, and black thread, weaving around the top of them with shiny black rayon. While the sewing had started as a way to pass some of the long evenings with George gone and Ramsey off to school, she'd donated many pillows to charity events, and they always went for good money. More than one friend had suggested she go into the pillow or home-decor business, but giving them away pleased her more. If she ever needed to earn her own living, that was what she would do.
Doodlebug jumped up onto the sofa and then onto the pillow, sitting in the middle as if she'd made it especially for him. After all, he was royalty too, at least in his mind.
“Bug, you're impossible.”
He cocked his head, one fawn ear perked, the tip flopped over. She cupped her hands around his head and kissed the end of his tan-and-white nose. Petting him until he lay down, she picked up the paper again, skimming each page until a letter to the editor caught her eye.
“I am writing in response to the article last week about the increased incidence of breast cancer in our county. Another thing I think should be taken into consideration: The mammogram unit at the hospital is older than Methuselah. And if the increased radioactivity due to the high-tension power lines that cut our fair county right in half is the real culprit, how about moving them? Just sign me a concerned citizen.”
Elaine read the letter through again, wishing she had seen the original article. When had it run? She dumped Doodlebug to the floor, set the paper on the glass-topped coffee table held up by two carved Indian elephants and their howdahs, and headed for the utility room where the papers were stacked in the bin for recycling.
She found the article a third of the way down the pile, put the others back, and laid the paper open on the top of the washing machine.
Fourth page, the one for local events, a third of the way down. “High Incidence of Breast Cancer in County.” Only two or three inches long, the article cried out for more research. She tucked a lock of hair behind one ear and, after washing her hands of the newsprint ink, took the section out to the kitchen. She poured herself a cup of coffee from the coffee maker and brought it to the table in the bay window where she sat to sip and think.
Would they print something like this if it weren't true? And if it were true, what was being done about it? Where had the “concerned citizen” gotten his or her information? Was the mammogram unit really at fault? She surreptitiously felt for lumps in her left breast with her right hand. She'd had a mammogram down at the hospital six months before, and the radiologist said she was all clear. Could there be cancer growing in either of her breasts that had not been detected? The thought made her slightly nauseous.
Perhaps the meeting of the hospital guild tomorrow afternoon would be covering something more crucial than the annual Summer Frolic.
SIX
“Honey, I really think it is time you get involved with something. This staying home all the time is…is…” Garth looked into Beth's eyes and stuttered to a stop. He crossed the room and took her in his arms. “Oh, Beth, I love you so, and this is scaring me half to bits.” He ran a hand down her back. “You've lost so much weight a breeze could blow you away.”
Beth burrowed into his embrace. If only he would hold her like this all the time, maybe the monsters would go away. But she knew they wouldn't, monsters like guilt and fear and…and… They took to the sky on wings and covered the sun. And now she was always so cold, even though here it was nearly July. Of course, Washington wasn't Arizona, but she should be warm. Things were piling up; three months in Jefferson City, and she'd still not finished unpacking.
Not that she much cared about the boxes stacked in the spare bedrooms. After all, it didn't look as though they'd need a room for a baby anytime soon.
She pulled back to look her husband in the face. “I'm sorry, Garth. Here you come home for lunch, and I haven't even cleaned up the kitchen from breakfast. You must think I'm a real loser.”
“No.” He shook his head, leaning his forehead against hers. “I've prayed and prayed for you, but now I think maybe you need to see a doctor. Depression is nothing to fool around with, you know.”
“No!” She tried
to step out of the cage of his arms. “No! I don't need a doctor. He'll just put me on pills or something, and you know how I hate taking medications of any kind. You're right though about getting out.” I'll promise you anything if you won't make me see a doctor. They ask too many questions…
“You could work in the backyard. They say planting is good for the soul and body.”
She made a face. “You know how I am about plants. I don't make them grow. I kill them.” She raised her hand, fingers spread wide. “Do you see any green thumb there?”
He took her hand and, cupping it, placed a kiss on her palm, then folded her fingers in to hold the heat in place. “I didn't marry you for your green thumb.”
“Good thing, because—” The phone rang and cut off her comment.
Garth crossed the room and picked up the receiver. “Pastor Garth.”
She watched as a smile stretched his lips, freeing the dimple in his right cheek. He motioned her with his free hand. “Yes, of course, she's right here. Thank you for calling.” He handed Beth the phone, ignoring the questions flashing across her face.
“Hello?” She knew she needed to put some vitality into her voice, but knowing and doing were two different things.
“Beth—if I may call you that. Or would you rather I said, ‘Mrs. Donnelly?”
“No, of course not, Beth is fine.” She paused, her eyebrows doing the wiggly questioning of her husband, who had assumed his most innocent expression. “Did you set this up?” she mouthed.
He shook his head adamantly.
“This is Harriet Spooner. I've met you at church and I have to apologize for not calling you sooner, but I thought perhaps you needed time to settle in, and anyway, I don't know what your interests are, but I was wondering if you would like to attend a WECARE meeting with me this evening, and I would come by and pick you up and a couple of others go from our church and I do hope you can fit this into your busy schedule.”
“Uh…” Beth caught herself nodding and racing to catch up to the running monologue. WECARE, whatever that is, must have something to do with community outreach. After all, what could go wrong with a group by that kind of name? “Sure, I guess I could fit it in.” She gave Garth a rolled-eye look and almost smiled at his answering shrug. “Good, I'll see you then. Thank you for thinking of me.” There, good company manners, the stock in trade of all pastors’ wives. She hung up the phone and sucked in a deep breath, blowing out her cheeks on the exhale.
“She's a talker, that's for sure.” She felt behind her for the chair. “You need to be sitting down for that one.”
“She does have a tendency to run her words together, but from what I've seen and heard, she has a heart as big as Mount Rainier.”
“You know anything about a group called WECARE?”
“Nope, not a thing.”
“She said she'd been waiting so I could get settled in first.”
“See, I told you. I've found the people here very friendly, and I know you will too.” He took her hand, pulling her to her feet. “Come on, wife, I'm starved. Surely there is something good that goes along with that wonderful aroma.”
“I did start a pot of chili.” At least I got something done today. She glanced down at her jeans. Besides getting dressed, that is.
After Garth left, she cleaned up the kitchen, then scrubbed the guest bathroom, hanging fresh towels and even digging into one of the boxes for the soap dish and acrylic tropical fish to set on the top of the toilet tank. She leaned a wicker shelf unit against the wall. Perhaps Garth would put that up when he came home. After dusting and vacuuming the living room, she treated herself to a relaxing bubble bath, something she'd been wanting to do for a while. Until now she'd not had the energy to turn on the water. “Lord, how disappointed Garth must be with me. And how disappointed you must be.” She leaned back against the inflated neck rest. “I am such a failure.” She moved the rose scented bubbles around with a languid hand. “I really need a friend or two here.” She thought back to their former parishes. Getting to know church members should be easy by now. After all, though everyone looked to the pastors wife to be open and friendly, too often they feared she might come in and take over. “Well, that's not me, for sure. Little miss mousey, hiding in her corner. Must drive Garth nuts, but he never says much.” She watched the soap bubbles amble down her raised arm.
With the water cooling, she washed and rinsed, then watched the water gurgle down the drain. If only her problems would disappear as easily. She dressed in a red-and-white striped cotton sweater and her standard denim skirt with the buttons up the front. Not too casual and not too dressy, since she had no idea what this WECARE meeting was all about.
Staring in the mirror to brush her hair, she paused in midstroke. Surely this couldn't have anything to do with abortion. The pro-life movement was Garth's major political platform. Surely he didn't set this up.
Later, when she heard him enter the kitchen, she turned from the stove and pointed a spatula in his general direction.
“You didn't set this up, did you?”
“Set what up?” His look of total confusion reassured her. Garth never lied. He never even stretched the truth the tiniest bit when telling a story.
“This WECARE thing?”
He crossed the room, shaking his head. “My little worrier.” He kissed her cheek and raised the lid on the frying pan. “Fried chicken, I thought that's what I smelled. Ah, I think I've died and gone to heaven.” He clutched both clasped hands to his chest.
“And if you will hang that shelf thingy over the toilet in the bathroom, I will mash the potatoes.”
“Slave driver.” But he went off whistling to get his hammer.
She stared at his back. You are so good to me, and I have let you down so far youll never know. She closed her eyes, the weight of her agony pulling her down into a puddle of sludge in front of the stove. Or at least it felt that way. Stop iti Stop it right nowlThe command seemed to echo all around her. Her eyes flew open and she stared around the kitchen. Shades of her big sister, Melanie, sounded right in the room, bossy as ever and right, as usual.
Back then, that tone had meant trouble for their teasing baby brother, but today, she, Beth, was on the receiving end. Why haven't I called her? Another one of those questions with no answers.
Beth drained the potatoes and dug the old-fashioned, wood-handled masher out of the drawer.
“Honey, you better come check this so I don't get it in the wrong place.”
“Coming.” Garth had a tendency to hang everything according to his eye level, and, at over six feet, that was higher than most, Beth's in particular. She stopped in the bathroom door and nodded. “Good, that's just right.”
“Is it centered? Look close.”
She came on into the room to stand in front of the stool. “Looks good to me.”
“You're sure?”
“Garth.”
“I know but I've moved too many pictures and shelves and.
“Nail it in.” She caught the twinkle in his eyes and donned her most pious expression. “I do hope you located the studs first.” So many times she didn't get things hung just where she wanted because the studs were in the wrong place, and Garth had a flaming battle with molly screws.
“Mashed potatoes, right.”
“On the table by the time youre done.”
They'd just finished eating when the doorbell rang. Garth raised an eyebrow, and Beth flapped her hand at him as she went to the front door.
“Hi, come on in.” Beth stepped back to indicate invitation.
“Why, thank you, dear, sorry. I think I'm a mite early but I stopped by the grocery store and allowed plenty of time, but this time I got right through and so since I didn't have enough time to go home again and really I didn't see any need to do that and I hope I'm not intruding, you know I would never want to that, so if you are ready we could just go on and be one of the first ones there but that's all right because I could help hand out papers or something li
ke and if you'd like you could help with that too.”
Before she could take a deep breath and be off again, Beth placed a hand on the woman's arm. “Perhaps you would like a cup of coffee. Garth and I were just about to bring ours into the living room.”
“Why, how lovely but you're sure I'm not putting you out or anything? I would most hate to do that what with we haven't gotten to know each other at all well yet.
At the briefest of brief pauses, Beth indicated a chair. “I'll be right back. Do you take it black or…”
“Black is fine.” Mrs. Spooner sat where indicated.
Beth kept from grinning at her husband's discomfiture and proceeded to pour three cups of coffee. If only she had baked some cookies or something. She always used to have cookies in both the cookie jar and the freezer. Garth did love his cookies. Another place she'd let him down.
But Beth refused to allow the thoughts to bring on the gray. She nodded to the silver tray holding three hand-thrown mugs she'd received from a friend as a going-away and housewarming present.
“I take it you want me to carry that?” Garth looked from the tray to the door to the living room as if she'd asked him to go shopping with her at Victoria's Secret. She rolled her eyes and nodded toward the door.
He winked at her, and backing through the swinging door, turned with a smile. “Why, Mrs. Spooner, how good to see you.”
“Oh, you must call me Harriet. When I hear Mrs. Spooner, I look around for my mother-in-law, bless her soul.”
“Well, then, Harriet it is.” Garth set the tray down on the milk-painted coffee table that Beth had refinished so professionally at their last house. She'd found the beat-up old table with turned legs put out for the trash in front of a house and had gone up to the door to ask if she could have it. When the owner said, “help yourself,” she'd rushed home and had her neighbor and friend bring their truck to haul it home.
When Beth picked up her coffee and sat down, she trailed a hand over the table, suddenly wishing she had the energy to find another piece to do. To think she hadn't even set her sewing machine up, and here she had a room to call her own. Until they had children, if they had children… no, don t go there. You sit right here and be pleasant to Mrs. Spooner and go to the meeting, and perhaps you will find a new friend in the process. After all than how you metShawna, at a meeting. Yeah right, another person I haven't calkd. Shawna had been her best friend back in Arizona, where they'd lived before Jefferson City. She sipped her coffee and listened to the decidedly one-sided conversation between Garth and their guest.
The Healing Quilt Page 4
