Loving Care

by Gail Gaymer Martin

  Christie jumped at the clank of metal against the plate. “You’ve asked us to be friends and I’ve struggled with that, though I like the closeness I feel.” She swallowed her desire to evade the truth. “Part of my reticence is guilt. I’ve let you take the blame for our divorce when I was as much a part of it, if I’m honest.”

  “I don’t understand,” Patrick said, leaning closer as if his nearness would help his comprehension. “How were you to blame?”

  “I didn’t help you, Patrick. I didn’t have the patience. I didn’t take time to listen to what you needed. You were muddying my fairy-tale marriage. I turned away from you. You know how I withdrew. I was no longer the Christie you married.”

  “Yes, but I thought that was my doing. I’d let you down.”

  Tears moistened her eyes. “No. I let you down. I knew you were struggling with issues, but I didn’t want your problems to sully our perfect world. I wanted you to get over it without my having to deal with it. I felt sorry for myself. I wanted my own business and a child. You didn’t share my dreams, and I pushed you away, physically and emotionally.”

  “Months ago I told you why,” Patrick said. “I was so afraid I’d fail you and a child as a husband and father. I’d never realized the responsibility of making a marriage work. I’d never seen it in my own home, but that’s an excuse. I didn’t know the Lord and what the Lord expected. It was the easy way out. The easy way for me. But it wasn’t easy, Christie. I grieved as much as if you’d died.”

  “I had died before you left. I’d pulled myself away from you. I’d shut the door and withdrawn from you in every way rather than opening my arms and admitting we were both needy. I’m ashamed of myself.”

  “I was hurt. I’ll admit that. I saw you distancing yourself. I knew you avoided me. I felt your coldness toward me, but I thought it was my fault. I thought—”

  “You thought wrong. I didn’t give you a chance.”

  He pushed against the mug handle, turning the cup one way, then the other, his eyes glazed with thought…with her confession.

  “When did you realize what you had done?” Patrick asked.

  The truth lay like a lump in her throat, choking her. “Always.”

  “You mean you planned it? You acted that way knowingly?” His jaw sagged with his question.

  “I wanted to get even with you for messing up my life. I wanted you to beg me to be my old self. It didn’t work.”

  “Then why didn’t you give up when it failed? You could have told me. Instead, you let me think… I thought I’d…” His words faded, and a look of anger sparked in his eyes.

  She shuddered at the look in his eyes. Cold and bitter, the way she’d felt once. “When you needed me, I wasn’t there.”

  Christie rose and grasped the chair back to steady herself. “Now it’s your turn, Patrick. Can you trust me ever again? Can you forgive me?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer. She grabbed her jacket and dashed through the door.

  Chapter Twelve

  “What can I get you, Dad?” Patrick studied his father resting in the recliner. Though his skin color had returned to normal since he’d come home from the hospital, his father’s health had a way to go.

  “Some decent food,” he said. “I’ll never get my strength back if you keep feeding me frozen dinners.”

  Trying to remain good-natured, Patrick ignored the comment. He’d been on edge since Christie had walked out the door, taking his heart with her. He was doing the best he could. Between running the business, keeping the house together, caring for his dad and Sean, Patrick had little time to prepare home-cooked meals.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said, making his way to the kitchen, more for his own reprieve than for his interest in cooking.

  Patrick sank into a chair and thought. Christie had thrown him off course, and he couldn’t get her out of his mind. At first he’d been angry. Later, frustration took over. Why hadn’t she told him earlier? She’d had a couple of months to clear the air. They could have dealt with the hurt and moved ahead. He’d tried to prove himself, tried to show her the man he was now, and he thought he knew her. But he didn’t.

  Until a couple of weeks ago, he’d been confident they had made strides toward mending their relationship. He had wanted nothing more, but now she’d hurt him with her confession. It wasn’t what she’d told him, but that she’d kept it secret for so long since they’d met again. He’d opened his heart, and she’d kept quiet. Why hadn’t she told him the truth? He could have handled the truth before. But now?

  In the hallway, Patrick listened up the stairs to make sure Sean was still sleeping. He’d been whiney and listless. Patrick hoped Sean wasn’t coming down with something.

  Hearing only quiet, Patrick entered the kitchen and moved to the refrigerator. He stared inside. Nothing looked appetizing. He closed the door and opened the freezer. Frozen dinners. That’s all he had in the house and all he had energy for making. His father would eat one or starve.

  Sighing, he shut the door and rubbed his face. Carry-out. They could have pizza or chicken. Sean would love the pizza. His dad, the chicken. Hating to go out again, he headed for the telephone to call in an order, thinking it was that or—

  The doorbell stopped him. He checked his watch. Christie. Could it be? She’d be on her way home about now. His pulse picked up speed. Maybe she’d had second thoughts…or third.

  He made his way to the front door. Seeing the visitor through the screen, he faltered. “Mrs. Goodson, what a surprise.”

  Christie’s mother stood on the porch, a container clutched in her hands. “Don’t just stand there. Open the door so I can bring in this casserole.”

  “Food?” He lifted his eyes to heaven, wondering if this was God’s answer to his need.

  “I figured your father could use a good meal.”

  Amazed, Patrick pushed open the screen, holding it while Emma came through the doorway. He tilted his head toward the kitchen, and she went ahead.

  “You’re a godsend,” he said, following her, then standing in the doorway watching her put the casserole on the counter.

  “I guessed you’ve been eating TV dinners or carry-out so I decided to bring you a home-cooked meal.”

  Patrick’s heart warmed at her kindness, but then he wondered if she knew about his situation with Christie. Emma had always been civil to his father, but Patrick continued to feel the strain between himself and her. Could she ever forgive him? “Dad was just moaning that he wanted something edible for a change. He’s in the living room. Go say hello.”

  “Pop this in the microwave for a few minutes.” She turned to gaze at the timing buttons. “Try the Warmup Sensor. Then add another minute.” She left the casserole on the counter and disappeared through the doorway.

  Patrick stood a moment, studying the button she’d indicated. Confident he knew which one to use, he took a peek at the casserole. Something with noodles and chicken. It was still warm and the scent drifted upward past the lid and whetted his appetite.

  Emma’s voice drifted in from the living room, punctuated by his father’s deeper voice. He let them talk a moment while he found a can of vegetables, then the can opener. Not fresh, but he hoped, tasty.

  Figuring he should be hospitable, Patrick put on the teakettle. If his memory served him right, Emma liked tea. By the time, he found the tea bags and pulled out the cup, the whistle had given a trill. He finished the brew and carried it into the living room.

  “I made you a cup of tea,” Patrick said, setting it on the table nearest Emma.

  “Thank you,” she said, patting the cushion beside her.

  He peered at her invitation to sit, puzzled as to her true motivation for the visit. Was it his father or him she’d really come to see?

  Patrick sat beside her, listening to the conversation, but soon his father’s words faded, and he realized his dad had drifted off. “Sorry. He still needs his rest.”

  “It’s not your father I wanted to
talk with anyway,” Emma said. Her look left no doubt she’d come to see him.

  Patrick shifted, feeling nervous all of a sudden like a child ready to be punished. “You want to talk with me?”

  She nodded.

  He waited, wishing he could vanish and sorry he’d come in with the teacup. He’d guessed her visit was twofold. Christie must have told her something.

  “I’m worried. I guess that’s how to say it,” Emma said.

  “Worried? About my father?”

  Her faint grin softened her serious face. “Well, him, too, I suppose, but about Christie and you.”

  “What about us?” The words left him, and he realized his avoidance was stupid. “You mean about our talk?”

  This time her face became puzzled. “Your talk?”

  “You mean Christie didn’t tell you?” Obviously she hadn’t or Emma would have been honest.

  “I’m not sure what you talked about unless it was about mending your relationship.” She gave him a wary look.

  Finally, he understood. Naturally she worried about her daughter getting tangled up with him again. “You mean you’re afraid I’m trying to sweet-talk her back into a relationship.”

  “Something like that.”

  She took a sip of the tea, then set the cup down with a ting as it hit the saucer.

  Why tell her about their talk? Why go there when Christie hadn’t? “You know Christie well enough to know I can’t sweet-talk her into anything. She’s glued to her convictions. I only asked to be friends.” He couldn’t tell her the whole truth.

  “It’s hard to be friends when you’ve treated the person as an enemy. Why should she trust you, Patrick? What’s different?”

  A great deal was different now. But Emma had asked about what had changed him, and he wanted to tell her. “Do you want the full story or the short version?”

  “Let the casserole get cold,” she said. “The full story is more important.”

  He began slowly, struggling to find the right words to explain his feelings and fears. He talked about finding the Lord, then about finding Sherry, and how his life had changed for the better. Having God in his life had eased his worries, softened the hurt he’d felt from childhood, wondering if he’d caused his mother to leave, wondering why he wasn’t loveable and wishing he were like the other kids. Unable to quench the fear he’d had for so many years, he’d walked out on Christie and avoided dealing with his past.

  And what was he doing now? He’d turned on Christie as quickly as she’d turned on him—without thought, without hope, and without forgiveness. God’s Word filled his thoughts. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what he already has? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.

  Patience. Hope and patience. If he could forgive Christie, then she could forgive him.

  “Please understand that I had never blamed Christie for our divorce,” he said, cloaking what he’d learned from Christie’s admission. Why weight Emma with those problems? “I thought it was me. I’d given up. I was the one who’d feared failure as a parent and who lacked confidence to be a good husband.” The error of his ways struck him for the first time. “But I never told her.”

  “Why didn’t you talk to her, Patrick?” Emma asked.

  Why hadn’t he? If he had, Christie might have been honest. Honesty could have saved their marriage. If he’d been open, Christie might have told him then what she was doing to push him away.

  He wrestled to find an answer for Emma that made sense. Something reasonable. Back then, he’d not been a man of logic or reason. The truth struck him. “I didn’t tell her because it made me look weak. I was the man of the family. I was cocksure of everything—our life, our finances, everything. But inside, I was so afraid that I’d be like my mother. She ran out on us when I was a kid.”

  Emma’s expression changed. Her narrowed eyes became tender and moisture misted her gaze. She rested her hand on his arm. “I know.” Her voice was as gentle as a feather wafting on a breeze.

  “I watched my dad suffer,” Patrick said. “Then after all my worry, I did the same. I did run away like my mother had done.” The words, the awareness flattened him like a steamroller.

  “Not exactly,” Emma said. “You didn’t leave a son behind to be wounded by your actions. Your mother did that.”

  That was the only saving grace he could think of. He hadn’t left behind a bewildered child wondering what he’d done to make his father run off. “But I hurt Christie, and I’m so sorry for that.”

  “Thank you for your honesty. I feel better having heard your side of the story.” She gave his arm a squeeze. “Really.”

  Her presence took him back. Until the divorce, Emma had been the mother he didn’t have. He missed her, too. “Thanks. I needed someone to hear me.” And he needed Christie to hear him, too. Hope. Patience. Forgiveness.

  Emma rose, lifting the teacup and saucer from the table. “It all had a reason, Patrick. I think you know what that was.”

  He stood as she had done, wondering what she meant.

  Without explaining, she carried the china to the kitchen. He followed her to the doorway. “What could be good about what happened?”

  Her loving eyes misted with a mother’s tears. “You found the Lord. Sometimes we go through tribulation and sorrow because it leads us home. It leads us to Jesus.”

  “That was a big price to pay,” Patrick said, thinking there might have been an easier way.

  “Not as big a price as Jesus paid for you and me.” She patted his arm. “Now heat up that casserole.”

  She whisked past him, and before he could let her out, he heard the screen door slam, and her footsteps fade down the porch steps.

  Christie looked at the blueprints she’d pushed to the back of the worktable. She had let the negotiations for an addition drag on for months, and now Jeffers Construction was pressing for her answer.

  She could picture the children playing in the sunny new room, the toys and books on shelves lining the walls. The old rooms would give her more space for naps and an extra “quarantine” spot for sick children.

  Christie had experienced the problem of ailing kids, and she liked the idea of having a special place for ones who become ill during the day. She’d explained to herself over and over the reason for wanting the addition. If Patrick hadn’t come into her life, she would have signed the contract, and the construction might be nearly completed.

  Resentment snaked up her spine. Then the truth snapped her back to reality. When had she listened to anyone, especially Patrick? She’d faltered on her own—worrying about the cost and her rationale. Patrick might have been right. She’d accused him of meddling, but he’d given her sound advice. She heard about a new child-care center opening on the opposite side of town. That could cut into her present business. What would she do then?

  “Why so serious?”

  Christie turned toward Annie. “Thinking,” she said.

  “Shouldn’t do that. It’ll get you into trouble.” Annie stepped closer, a smile growing on her lips. “Next week, I’ll be a mother.”

  “Annie,” Christie said, throwing her arms around her friend. “I’m so excited.”

  “I want you to be one of my first visitors.”

  “You name the date, and I’ll be there.” Joy filled Christie’s heart and vibrated through her like a celebration, and for once envy hadn’t come to the party. She truly rejoiced for Annie and Ken’s blessing.

  When the doorbell chimed, Annie gave her a parting hug and hurried from the room to answer the door.

  Annie’s joy filtered into Christie’s thoughts. Annie’s life had taken on new meaning, as Christie’s had when Patrick had come back into her life.

  To her surprise, Christie felt renewed. She needed to ask Patrick’s forgiveness. She’d walked out on him, not letting him vent his anger. He deserved that, and she deserved to take it standing up. They’d both made mistakes, but they’d both grown. She’d put
so many blocks in their way. Time now things changed.

  Christie gave a last look at the blueprints and pivoted as a figure in the doorway caught her attention. She looked up to see Patrick as if her thoughts had brought him here. He stood with one hand behind his back, a boyish look on his face.

  “Hello,” she said, finding her heart in her throat.

  “I have a peace offering.”

  She didn’t respond, realizing she was the one who should have brought a peace offering.

  Patrick listened to her silence a moment, then moved closer. “Okay. It’s really a friendship offering. I want to step back and start again.”

  Start again. “Patrick, I want to apologize for—”

  He lifted his hand to stop her while his other hand jutted forward holding a shiny gold box wrapped with gauzy green ribbon and topped with an autumn leaf. Christie eyed it.

  “It’s for you.” He moved closer.

  She managed to pull her gaze from his and look at the package. He set it in her hands. Candy. She eyed the discreet label on the side. Jenni’s Loving Kisses. She wanted to be lighthearted and not let him know the emotion that wrested inside her. “What about my figure?”

  “It looks good to me,” he said, then shaking his head as if he realized he’d taken one step beyond friendship already. “You can share it with the staff.” He tilted his head toward the doorway.

  “Thank you,” she said, distraught at feeling such pleasure in his gift. After all that had happened between them, he was offering her another chance.

  Though she hated to ruin the lovely packaging, Christie pulled off the ribbon and peeked inside. Dark and milk chocolate bonbons sat in the box, each decorated with a different swirl or colored topping.

  “My neighbor has her own in-home business making those things. They’re good. Try one.”

  She lifted out a peace offering and let her teeth sink into the creamy chocolate. Her taste buds awakened with an unusual spicy flavor—cinnamon. “Delicious.” She extended the box toward Patrick. “Have one.”

  He shook his head. “Those are for you.”