Unfinished Business

by Roxanne Hensley

  They sat in silence as Margaret finished. “So, what are you going to do?”

  “I just said I’m not concerned about dating.”

  “Not about that, silly. What are you going to do with yourself? Don’t you need a job or something?”

  Adrian hadn’t thought about work lately, for the first time in her adult life. Between her severance package and what was left from the small life insurance policy for Brad, she wasn’t exactly desperate for money. She knew it wouldn’t last forever, but the idea of going back to the rat race of corporate America made her stomach curdle. The one thing she always wanted to do and never explored was painting. She remembered enjoying it when she was younger, until her mother said her father was the artist of the family. She’d folded up her easel in pursuit of climbing the corporate ladder, hoping to win her mother’s approval. “I think I’d like to paint.”

  Margaret rolled her eyes. “That’s not exactly going to pay the bills.”

  “I don’t need to worry about that right now.”

  “Whatever money you have saved will run out eventually. Think about that before you become unemployable.”

  “Is there a craft store nearby?” Maybe she could set up a small easel in her room or take one to the beach.

  “You’re serious about painting?” When Adrian nodded, Margaret sighed. “Well, there’s a craft store out on route 99…” she trailed off, looking out the window. Her eyes bugged out of her head, and she turned to Adrian. “How do I look?”

  “Fine?”

  Margaret combed her fingers through her short hair and wrapped the bathrobe even tighter. “It’s Harold.” Adrian gave her a confused look. “Just answer the door.”

  The doorbell rang, and Adrian answered. A man who looked to be in his early 70s greeted her. He was a couple of inches shorter than her, with a panama jack pulled low to obscure his vision. “You’re not Margaret.” He tilted his head to see Adrian. He looked like a quintessential Floridian in his Tommy Bahama shirt with one too many buttons undone, showing a hemp necklace nestled in the salt and pepper forest on his chest. He held an opaque jar labeled Coconut Oil.

  “I’m her daughter, Adrian. And you are?”

  “Harold,” Margaret cooed, pushing Adrian to the side.

  “There you are.” He beamed. “You look radiant.”

  Margaret giggled. Was she blushing?

  “I brought you the oil, just as you requested.”

  “You are such a sweetheart. Thank you.” Margaret reached for the jar. Their hands touched, lingering as they locked eyes. Perma-grins spread across their faces. “Let me get my purse. How much do I owe you?”

  “The usual is fine, as long as you save me some of whatever you’re making with it.” He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.

  “I think I can manage that.” Margaret winked, handing the jar to Adrian while she grabbed her wallet. She took out two twenty-dollar bills and gave them to Harold.

  “Thank you, Margaret,” he said, their gazes locked on one another.

  “I should have some leftovers on Friday if you want to stop by then.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. I’ll see you then.” He smiled and turned to walk away.

  “Thank you, Harold,” she said, her voice coated in honey. She slowly closed the door but left it open just a crack to watch Harold turn around and tip his hat to her before she closed it completely. When she turned around, there was a dreamy look in her eye.

  “Since when is coconut oil so expensive?”

  Margaret’s expression changed, the dream fading. “It’s not.”

  “Then why was this $40?” Adrian examined the jar.

  “Convenience.”

  “That’s a hell of a convenience charge.”

  “That’s basic supply and demand.” Margaret took the jar out of her hands and put it on a shelf in the pantry in the kitchen. “I’m having the girls over Thursday evening.”

  “That sounds like fun.” Adrian had heard about her mother’s friends, Gilda and Bev, but hadn’t had a chance to meet them yet. When Margaret didn’t offer more detail, she wondered if it was her mother’s way of asking her to make other plans. “Do you not want me to be here?”

  “Oh, I…guess that would be fine.”

  “If you don’t want me to be here…”

  “No, you’re welcome to join. I just hope we’re not too boring for you is all.” Margaret picked an invisible piece of lint from her shirt.

  “I’d love to meet your friends.” Adrian smiled.

  Margaret nodded in acceptance.

  Adrian rinsed dishes in the sink. “So, Harold seems really nice.”

  “He is.” Margaret volunteered nothing more. Adrian looked at her expectantly, but her mother’s lips were sealed. “Anything else?”

  “No, I guess I’ll finish this up and go check out that art store on 99.”

  “Good, I’m going to watch the news.” Margaret settled into her recliner.

  “Didn’t you used to tell me TV would rot my brain?”

  “Shh…I’m busy.”

  Adrian left her alone with the talking heads, still wondering about the price of coconut oil.

  Adrian parked in public access parking across from the beach. She decided to take her new art supplies down near the water. What better subject to work on than the peaceful beauty of the beach? It would also give her a break from her mother.

  She lugged her backing board and supplies like a pack mule, feeling the sand slip between her toes as she found a place to set up shop. She took a deep breath, tasting the salty air on her tongue as she admired the natural beauty of ebb and flow. Two older women power walked along the shore, and a little boy built a sandcastle with his father while mom stayed safely planted underneath an oversized umbrella, lost in a book. A couple of kids splashed in the water, and teenagers attempted to surf the non-existent waves.

  Adrian focused her attention on the family building a castle, deciding they could be the subject of her maiden art voyage. She got everything prepped, taping a piece of watercolor paper to her backing board and pouring clean water from a bottle into two separate jars. She pulled out her new brushes and opened her watercolor pan set.

  Where to start?

  Maybe she needed to draft in pencil first.

  Resolved, she traded her brush for a pencil. She looked at the family scene in front of her, ready to recreate the magic. But her hands were cement, unable to reach the paper.

  Adrian always had a natural eye and talent when it came to art. She even received an Arbor Day Art Award for her painting of a palm tree in the third grade. Her father had beamed with pride, knowing he’d gifted Adrian with the ability to capture the natural beauty in her surroundings. Instead of congratulating her, Margaret’s expression soured. Your father is the artist in the family. Her mother’s words paralyzed her then, and they still did.

  But she was wrong, wasn’t she?

  Adrian wished that her father was still alive, able to provide words of wisdom and encouragement in the moment. She felt tears form in her eyes and realized she was still angry at her mother for robbing her the chance to say goodbye to the most important man in her life. “Dad, I need your help,” she said to the wind. She wiped her eyes, questioning her sanity when she waited for a response.

  It’s just paint, a small voice squeaked in her mind. Startled, she wondered if she’d imagined the voice. You got this, it said.

  “Dad?”

  What would make him proud?

  Adrian pondered the question, polishing it in her mind. Then it hit her. She knew exactly what she needed to do.

  She grabbed a pencil, quickly marking rough sketches on her paper. At times, her hands didn’t feel like her own, like some force outside of herself were guiding the pencil over the paper. She trusted it more than herself at that point, whatever it was.

  When her hand stopped, she admired how the sketch perfectly captured her vision. Seagulls cawed overhead as she glanced once more at the f
amily portrait by the shoreline. This is much more beautiful.

  She picked up her paint pans, ready to bring the sketch to life. She held her breath before the brush hit paper for the first time.

  The scariest part is right before you start, the voice said to her.

  She took a deep breath and made contact, sweeping the brush in one long, radiant light-yellow stroke. There. The first step was done, and it wasn’t as scary as she thought. Something flickered to life in her with that first stroke. It was what she was meant to do all along. She wasn’t meant for boardrooms or wool suits anymore. She was meant to bask in the glory of God’s creation, doing her best to recreate its beauty one stroke at a time. She’d opened Pandora’s pochade box and refused to ever close it again.

  As her heart burst into artistic flames, she wielded her hands to merge Heaven and Earth on her paper canvas for the rest of the afternoon.

  Margaret sat at her dining table rubbing her eyes after waking from a three-hour nap. She lacked the energy or desire to eat. She’d always had a good appetite, and when that started to change, she knew something was wrong. Although she still had plenty of fight in her, even if her body was slowly dying.

  Her doctor said it would happen. He said it along with words and phrases like progressive, and treatment would help with the pain, and need to start immediately. She’d only heard half of what he said and comprehended less. She didn’t need to hear every word to get the gist.

  When she decided to forgo treatment, her doctor had other words to say, like didn’t advise and should she change her mind. But she wouldn’t. She knew as soon as she heard stage four, it was over. She didn’t want to put anyone through the pain of watching her die slowly, with treatment only delaying the inevitable. She intended to die with dignity or at least with as much as she could, given her body would soon betray her.

  She took pride in being self-sufficient, a pillar of strength for those around her when they needed a boost. God’s sense of humor wasn’t lost on her. Now she was the one who needed a pillar of strength to lean on.

  “Maybe it’s time to call Adrian,” Gilda had said to her. Gilda and Bev, being cancer survivors themselves, knew immediately what was going on with Margaret without her uttering a word. Maybe Margaret wasn’t as good as she thought at hiding the truth.

  Margaret didn’t have the fight in her any longer to disagree, but she didn’t want the C-word to be the reason she and her daughter reconciled their differences. And when Adrian said she would come, Margaret had a hard time accepting it. She’d never been able to ask anyone for help in her sixty-something years alive, so what was the point now? Besides, there was a part of her that believed if she voiced her need for help out loud it would be her death sentence. Not that cancer was being kind to her regardless. She fully expected its retribution to be cruel and, God willing, swift.

  She hadn’t prayed in a long time but had recently reopened her channels of communication with God. She imagined Him in His white robe and olive branch crown, stroking a thick white beard while He considered how to handle her cries for mercy. She’d turned her back on God years earlier, feeling a sense of betrayal from one of His missionaries in the church. She’d struggled after Adrian was born with what people had since started calling postpartum depression, and she didn’t think she’d survive another pregnancy. She went to the priest seeking counsel on the matter, wanting approval to use birth control to avoid going through the pain she’d endured. He reminded her that using birth control was considered a sin and encouraged her to rely on the rhythm method instead. It was a fatal blow to her relationship with God, and she decided to rely on modern medical advancements anyway and slowly stopped going to church.

  Her separation from the church drove a wedge between her and some of her closest friends and even caused tension with George. But she didn’t have a choice—it was life and death for her, and she chose to live in spite of disapproval.

  Now she was staring death in the face, reaching her hand out for the God she’d turned her back on years ago. She longed to feel His fingers entwine with hers, lovingly shepherding her to the next phase of her journey. She’d recently pulled out her rosary from the jewelry box and wore it as a reminder to stay close to Him during the treacherous time. Her mind guffawed the first time she wore it, chiding her for being a complete phony. But what did she know anyway? She didn’t imagine God to be as unforgiving as her mind. It was one of the few thoughts that kept her going.

  Her fingers brushed the hematite beads of the rosary while she struggled with the weight of her eyelids. She’d better lie down again before the excitement later with the girls. It would be the first time she’d invited her daughter to get a glimpse of who she was as a woman, not just as a mother, and it would be lying to say she didn’t feel nervous. Knowing her friends, Margaret hoped to still have a daughter after the evening’s get-together.

  9

  After reaching a stopping point, Adrian decided to let the paint dry before finishing her portrait. She packed up her supplies and carried them back to the car, careful not to touch anything with the ends of her slightly damp painting. Despite it being a winter day, the sun still beat down, bringing the temperature to the manageable low 70s. Adrian had to admit, she had missed winter in Florida. It was a welcome reprieve from recent rainy winters in Austin.

  She gingerly opened the back door of the sedan and placed the painting supplies on the floorboard, laying her work in progress on a towel across the back seat. Satisfied, she closed the door and turned to catch another glimpse of the shoreline a hundred yards away. But something else caught her eye.

  She saw a small group of people gathering, some of them holding small cups of coffee from a portable carafe sitting on a nearby folding table. A white sign with red letters, “Bereaved by the Beach,” leaned against the table, a red arrow pointing their direction. She’d considered group therapy when she and Brad were having fertility issues, having read stories about how helpful it was just to be heard by others who truly understood their strife. If Adrian were being honest, she’d carried quite a burden in the past few months: infertility, infidelity, and death, both literally and figuratively. Maybe this was a sign. Maybe she could use a shoulder of someone who could help her make sense of the recent losses.

  Adrian assessed her appearance: paint-stained hands and soft, loose clothing. She touched the top of her head, feeling the ridges and bumps of hair on top of her less-than-perfect ponytail. She didn’t have a lick of makeup on either, but at least she’d brushed her teeth. Maybe she should return when she wasn’t so disheveled.

  Go, a voice said to her.

  Lacking complete cognitive control over her movements, Adrian realized she’d locked her car and walked toward the group. She wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t matter. She was in all her non-glory. Group therapy was supposed to be a judgment-free zone anyway, right?

  Her pulse raced as she approached the table, hands shaky as she pushed the lever to dispense coffee into a paper cup. The warm contents in her cold hands provided some comfort as she took a sip to calm her nerves. She saw a woman with a blond bob approach in her periphery.

  “Hi, I’m Karen. I don’t think we’ve met,” she said. Her green eyes were as warm and inviting as the tender timber of her voice, and Adrian felt herself relax slightly.

  “No, we haven’t. I’m Adrian.” She held out her left hand for Karen to shake, pulling it away after seeing the stains under her fingernails. “Sorry about my hands.”

  Karen brushed off her apology with a wave of her hand. “So, are you…?”

  “Bereaved?”

  Karen chuckled nervously. “Yes, there isn’t an easy way to ask, huh?”

  Adrian nodded, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “Well, we’re about to start if you’d like to stay. You can share with us whenever you’re ready, or if you just want to listen, that’s fine too. No pressure.”

  “Yeah, I’d like that.” The words fell out of Adrian’s mouth.
She wondered who or what possessed her, feeling out of body as she settled into a folding chair in a circle underneath the pavilion.

  She nodded and said hello to the four other people in the circle, who introduced themselves as Frank, Henry, Gina and Susan. Everyone seemed normal, their smiles warm despite the heavy burden they shared behind their eyes. Adrian felt her body relax more. For the first time in months, she didn’t feel so alone. The people at the meeting had stories to share of their own, stories of love and loss. But they’d carried on, and so could she.

  “Sorry I’m late.” A man in a crisp charcoal suit and red tie took a seat next to Adrian. She stole glances at the newcomer from her periphery. He had a familiarity she couldn’t put her finger on. His dark curly hair and deep brown eyes made her heart stop. The wood, orange and ginseng notes of his cologne tickled her senses. Maybe she didn’t know him, but she definitely wanted to.

  “Glad you made it, Christian,” Karen said.

  Christian. Why did that sound familiar?

  “Okay, thank you all for coming.” Karen drew Adrian’s attention back to the present. “Today we’ll be dealing with the F-word.”

  What kind of therapy was this?

  “Forgiveness!” Karen chuckled. “Forgiveness is one of the greatest challenges we face as we try to process a new reality without our loved ones. The grief we feel from their passing is normal, and forgiveness can feel unnatural. But in order for our hearts to heal, we need to face this F-word. Does anyone have something they’d like to share about forgiveness?”

  The group was silent for a beat before a woman across from Adrian cleared her throat. “I guess I’ll go.” She shifted her heavy body in the small chair, pushing brown hair behind her right ear.

  “Here we go,” Susan mumbled under her breath, punctuated by an eyeroll.

  “Hi. I’m Gina, and as some of you may know, I lost my daughter, Trudy, in a car accident.” She paused, holding her breath to keep tears from forming in the corners of her brown eyes. “Trudy was only seven. She would have been eight next Thursday.”