by Lisa Samson
I can see Brett wants to contradict, but she realizes it would be against her best interest. She clamps her lips together and nods.
I want to tell them they’ll owe me big time, but there are only two people I’m doing this for. Mom and Jesus. That’s it.
Mitch and I meet for another late-night Starbucks conference. Still in his car when I pull up, he quickly hops out at the sight of me and opens my door.
Any idiot could see I’ve been crying all afternoon, and Mitch is no idiot.
“Oh Ive! What’s the matter?”
The fountains of the deep bubble up once more. He crouches down on his haunches, reaches into the car, and takes me into his arms. And as I cry, feeling my life slip-sliding into a tailspin, he strokes my messy hair and mutters softly.
“It’s okay, Ive, it’s okay. Sh, baby. Everything’s going to be okay.”
16
Lou stands in my living room. “That berry with the white woodwork is perfect. See, Ive-O? I told you to trust me.”
“I still love it.”
“We’ll have the dining room looking like a bedroom in no time. Your mom’s furniture is great. I’m thinking a nice plum in there.”
“Nope, she hates dark colors.”
“Hold on.” She takes her paint chips and heads into the kitchen where Mom’s sitting. I hear muffled conversation. Mom’s always loved Lou.
She emerges. “How about a warmish lavender?” she asks.
“Whatever Mom wants. Can we install doors?”
“Sure. Will Harry do it, you think?”
“He’ll have to. Mom will have a fit if she finds out, but I can’t afford to hire somebody.”
“How about your sister? She offer to help with the change?”
I cross my arms.
“I didn’t think so. When are the others getting here?”
I look at the wall clock. “In ten minutes. I thought Brenda would be here by now.”
“She’s in Mexico! I forgot to tell you! They’re breaking ground this week.”
Very cool.
“Then let’s get started as soon as they come.”
Club Sandwich, here we come.
I’m glad I have this big couch now. Here we all sit: me, Debbie, Dani, and a lady named Krystal who answered our ad in the paper and actually showed up. Debbie’s in the housewife uniform of jeans and a sweater. Dani looks like a hooker, and Krystal wears one of those fancy sweat suits only heavy African American women can get away with. And with aplomb. An amazing arrangement of braids and curls crowns her head.
Why can’t I have that much sass?
I settle into the cushions. “Why don’t we introduce ourselves and tell one interesting accomplishment or happening in our lives?”
“I’ll start.” Debbie straightens her jeans. “My name’s Debbie Meyer. I have two children, Bennie, age eleven, and Lynnie, age four. My husband is Bernie. I was known as Chug-a-Lug in college, and I’m sure you can figure out why!”
Well, this is a good start.
“Ha!” Krystal. “I’m Krystal Percy. I’ve got one daughter, five years old, named Toinette. I’m a preacher.”
Whoa-ho.
“Dani?”
“I’m Dani Hoskins. My daughter is four too, Debbie. Rosa keeps me from being wild.”
Debbie almost chokes on her coffee. Danielle laughs.
“I’m a trainer at Gold’s Gym in Timonium. My interesting accomplishment could well be the ability to tie a cherry stem in a knot, in my mouth, in less than five seconds. But with Chug-a-Lug here, I’ll go a little more tame and say that my favorite TV Land show is Family Affair, and I actually shook the hand of Brian Keith when I was six.”
Debbie sets down her mug. “I loved that show! And to think what eventually happened to Buffy! Buffy, for cryin’ out loud!”
Krystal rolls her eyes. “Girl, I know. And that Jodie boy disappeared after Sigmund the Seamonster, didn’t he?”
Well, we’re really off to TV Land now. No prob. I know a little bit about each of these women and the people they care for. Krystal has a bedridden father and all that entails. Debbie’s mother, Matzo-Ball Waxman, screams at her all day long. Dani’s mother is as helpless as she is sweet. If they want to escape to TV Land, so be it. I’ll go right along with them.
“And therefore I shall say to ye, ‘Repent for the end is near!’ ”
What? Who?
I bound from my bed and run down the steps. Did Harry leave the television on last night? It sounds like one of those charismatic women preachers. But then again, “The end is near”? That’s a bold statement for anyone to make these days!
“Turn from your wicked ways! Repent of your sins!”
“Mom?”
She stands by the fireplace, facing out, arms waving. Her skin shines an eerie gray in the light from the powder room. I realize she’s losing weight. But her stomach has become so sensitive, and she eats sparingly. She doesn’t look as full, and the skin on her arms hangs down as she flaps them, punctuating each word with a sweep. “Verily, verily, I say unto thee, except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God!”
The words of Jesus can’t be wrong.
I walk carefully toward her. “Come on, Sister Starling. Testimony time is over. Enter into your rest.” I mentally cross my fingers, slip my arm around her waist, and stroke the back of her hair.
“Thank you, my sister.”
I guide her back to her bed and tuck her in. Grandma’s wedding quilt snuggles her chin, and I begin to grieve afresh. I’m losing her day by day, and I’ll be here for each of them.
Count your blessings, Ivy, count them one by one.
On my way to the door, I stub my toe on the dresser. I swear.
“So what do you want me to do about it, hon?”
“I don’t know, Rusty. I’m just upset.”
“Look, it’s 4:00 a.m. here. If I could do something about it, I would.”
“Forget it.” Where’s my Rusty? Who is this guy? “It’s just that I’m powerless. If you want me to feel guilty, it’s working.”
If I believed that, I’d be more gullible than Mom, who still thinks Brian is “the one who turned out so well.”
“So how’s the group?” I ask. The current tack is obviously not working. Let’s talk about Rusty. It’s all he’s interested in anyway.
“Fantastic! The boss is working on a European tour.”
“Really?”
“Yep. Spring. Babe, I’ve got to get some sleep. Big travel day tomorrow.”
“Where you heading?”
“San Diego.”
“I hear it’s beautiful there.”
Yep, it sure is. I’ve got to get a grip. I’ve got to get a grip.
“Mr. Moore? I’m sorry for calling at this hour.”
“You okay, Ivy dear?”
“No. I need a good cry. And not by myself.”
“You just come on over. I’ll put on a pot of tea.”
At first, I thought to call Mitch but decided no way. Too dangerous.
So I head next door, and Mr. Moore sits me on a lounger, puts a dining-room chair right up next to it. He sits next to me, holding my hand as I sob and sob.
God, I’m so sick of crying. I feel like such an emotional wimp.
The day-care director crosses her arms.
“Fifty dollars?” I ask.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Schneider. But I think it would be in everybody’s best interest if you found another center for Bellatrix.”
“All right.”
I gather Trixie and her effects, and we head out the door into the cold November afternoon.
“Mama! We going home?”
“Yes, baby. We’re going home.”
“Hi hon!”
“Rusty! You okay? It’s the middle of the day?”
“Just thought I’d call and talk to the kids.”
“Okay.” I turn away from the mouthpiece. “Guys! Daddy’s on the phone!”
They rumble in. Ten min
utes later I chat with my husband. Or rather, he chats to me.
The audiences keep getting larger and larger. And people actually ask for their autographs now. Especially down south. Airplay like crazy on the gospel radio stations. On the bus, they slide the dial from station to station and catch a song or two with regularity. He never thought he’d be involved in something this big. It’s like a drug, he hates to admit. But that’s the case. Bringing joy to people, even if only for a little while, is incomparable to anything he’s ever experienced. It’s nice to support them like that, to offer help and hope and therefore, a little mercy. He’s glad to do that for them. And thankful. And honored, even. See, Ivy? It isn’t all about him. He’s part of something far larger.
“And get this! Marlin gave us the news about Europe. Plans are finalized, and we leave after the New Year. Six months we’ll be gone. I’m sorry it’s so long, and I hope you won’t flip, but who knows what kind of audience we’ll garner over there? It could bring in more money than we’ve ever dreamed we’d have, hon. We can hire a nurse for your mom, put all the kids in private school, and maybe even add on to the house, a nice master-bedroom suite on the ground floor, a bed and bath for your mom. It’s all going to work out beautifully.”
I’ve got nothing left to say.
Okay, so now I really have to get to work on this novel. Ten grand for the advance, a third up front, which will pay for my kitchen renovation and Mom’s room. Lou talked me into a new stovetop and an extra oven. Rusty will be thrilled, as well as Brian. I wish I could say my brother’s tail rests between his legs, but no. That would be too much to hope for.
I fire up Old Barbara, buzz off this week’s column, this time about taking advantage of our right to vote. Tony loves it.
Now. The book.
My basic story: a woman, pregnant, turns on her stalker, the father of her child, and the hunted becomes the hunter. What started out as a story of female empowerment will become another male-vigilante tale. But it’s a break, and I’d be a fool not to take it.
Okay. Jane becomes Nick.
I have six months to revamp this sucker.
Chapter One
Jane was tired of looking in her rearview mirror.
Well, that’s no good anymore. Universal change from Jane to Nick.
Nick was tired of looking in his rearview mirror.
Hmm, that doesn’t work either.
Oh great.
Two in the morning and I’ve decided just to scrap the manuscript and begin again. Six months to write an entire novel, forty-eight columns, and six newsletters. Brian’s trying to talk me into returning to the restaurant. “I’ll even start reading that Bible if you do.” No way. The boy’s on his own.
Someone’s behind is bumping down the steps. Persy enters the kitchen. “Mom, I don’t feel good. My stomach hurts.”
He looks gray.
“Have you thrown up?”
“No.”
“Do you feel like you have to?”
He nods.
“Now?!”
He nods again and lets it fly. All over my lap.
An hour later he’s tucked back in bed, we’ve read about more Ancient Marvels and Mysteries, and I’m so mad at Rusty I could spit. I didn’t say “I do” for this. I thought a marriage meant mutual support, not this lone life of coping and trying and praying and grasping and sucking wind and hoping things will change.
I pray that God will change Rusty. I should pray He’ll change me, but I’m scared to do that. I’m scared of what the answer will look like. And anyway, I’m not the one who left.
Sometimes I want to take Rusty up on his RV dreams. Leave all this behind. Say good-bye to Brian and Brett and Harry. Say good-bye to this life where I’m stretched so thin I can only do a half-job on everything. And then, poor Mom.
No sense in going to bed now.
I make a cup of tea and get back to work.
Will anyone close to me see that I need help? Will anyone notice that I give and give and get little in return?
Stop feeling sorry for yourself! That’s what they’d say.
I turn on IM.
Mitch’s button is lit up.
hi ive.
hi mitch.
you doing ok?
persy’s sick.
poor kid. poor you.
i’ll survive, you’re sure up late.
yep. pulled out the old yearbooks, believe it or not.
no way!
yep. i’d forgotten we were voted king and queen for the sweetheart prom when we were juniors,
tom webber was furious.
what a geek, ive. why did you date him for so long?
looking back now, i just can’t say.
if I’d have known you two would have eventually broken up, i’d have gone to school around here.
Oh Lord.
life never seems to work out like you think it will, does it, mitch?
I sit and wait and wait and wait for him to reply.
Finally.
maybe sometimes, though we can decide to go for it anyway. happiness, I mean.
and what makes you happy?
More time elapses. Then—
i think you probably know.
i’m still not ready to think about big changes, mitch.
i know, i know. but i’m not going anywhere. i’m not going to make the same mistake twice.
I change the subject, get back to business. But when we sign off, I shut down the computer. My hands shake so badly I can hardly type.
17
Christmas Eve, and here we all sit at the airport. Hard to believe it’s been almost six months since Rusty’s last visit. Trixie’s beside herself, singing all sorts of carols. Lyra wears a new dress she designed and made. Persy feels fine now and presses buttons on his Game Boy. I took an old Demerol left over from Trixie’s C-section and feel better than usual. Hey, you do what you have to do. And my head was killing me. I’ve got to start getting more sleep.
Here he comes. God, give me strength.
“Rusty! How did you afford something like this?”
The ring twinkles in its velvet box. A three-diamond sparkler. I’ve always wanted one of these. He takes the box, gently lifts out the ring, and places it on my finger. “I’ve saved a little here, a little there.”
It’s beautiful. I suspect his motives.
“Thanks, Rust. Hey, I think I smell something burning in the kitchen!”
I jump off the couch.
He stands up. “Hey kids! Let’s play one of those new games you got!”
Did he hear me?
I didn’t sleep with Rusty once during his entire visit. I blamed it on the novel. Yes, I confessed the venture to him, staying up late each night to work. It’s coming along. I’ve set aside any delusions of grandeur and am shocked at how easily violence pours from my fingertips. Maybe it’s not so surprising, considering my burgeoning anger. Thank goodness that tomorrow Club Sandwich meets. I need it these days. I hate to even admit that I’ve become a support-group kind of person. But with Mom up three times a night—another excuse to sleep on the couch—Brian’s letting the restaurant slip down a slope to ruin with the most peculiar menu ever heard of, and Brett’s marriage utterly on the rocks despite her selling the shop, I’m eager to hear about situations worse than my own.
Which is a bummer in itself. I can’t even feel as sorry for myself as I’d like.
I try to keep clear of Mitch as much as possible. When he looks at me with those eyes … But business is business, and I can’t avoid my boss completely.
Rusty leaves for Europe in eight days. For the first time since this circus began, I’m glad he’ll be far away. Honestly, I used to think the kids would be better off with the visits. But now, I wonder. Is a fly-by-night father better than none at all? I wish I knew.
Poor, lonely Mitch stands on the other side of the door in the bitter January cold. He called thirty minutes ago, told me to turn off Old Barbara and get dressed.
“I’ll take care of things at your house. You can just have a good time.”
I don’t know what I’ll do, but hey, an evening to myself? I’m not stupid.
I open the door. “Hey Mitch! Come on in.”
He holds out a ticket. “It’s a ticket to that comedy you were talking about. At Towson Commons.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a gift card from Starbucks. “And this is for afterward.”
“What’s all this about?”
“Consider it a belated Christmas gift. You’ve seemed stressed.” He slips out of his parka and lays it across the back of the couch. “I know you, Ive.”
“Is it showing in my work?”
“Not a bit.”
Yeah. Nobody but Lou knows me like Mitch does.
Thank goodness he’s a gentleman.
I’m crying through the entire movie. A comedy. I can’t stand this. I feel guilty sitting here while they’re at home. Mitch is probably at his wit’s end with Mom. I need to get out of here.
“Home already?” Lyra asks as I let myself in through the kitchen door.
“I couldn’t relax.”
“Well, you can here. That Mitch guy is really neat. Winky loves him. They’re in the living room listening to big-band music.”
I set my purse down. “Really?”
“Yeah. That Glenn Miller is great. You’d really like it, Mom.”
Fact is, I love big-band music. Maybe I need some old-fashioned swing to kick me up a bit. I enter the party room.
“Hey guys!”
Mitch. “What are you doing back already?”
“Couldn’t sit still. Anyway, I hear there’re big doings right here.”
“Yeah. Dorothy and I are having a good old time, right Dor?”
She smiles. “You have a nice gentleman caller here, Ivy. Do your best to hang on to him.”
“Mom—”
“Let it go, Mom,” Lyra whispers in my ear. “She doesn’t know her right from her left tonight.”
“Have a seat, dear, and listen to records with us.”
