Women's Intuition

by Lisa Samson

  “Is she okay?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve hired a full-time nurse. There’s someone on shift here twenty-four hours a day.”

  Wow. No wonder my basic neuroses seemed like no big deal to Dr. J.

  “What’s her condition?”

  “How much time do you have?”

  I laughed. “No wonder you work so many hours.”

  He squeezed my hand. “You’ve got my number. Those who know think I’m a saint for taking care of her. When in reality I just write checks on her behalf.”

  “Maybe. But where would she be if you didn’t?”

  “Who knows?”

  “See?”

  “I guess so.”

  It was nice to actually encourage somebody else instead of being encouraged. I’ve felt like the pathetic side of any conversation for so many years that I’ve come to think of it as part of my role. Like if people feel sorry for me, they’ll become emotionally invested or something. I don’t know.

  I’m so messed up.

  I hate that.

  A light breeze ruffled the leaves of the maples and oaks in his front yard. Nature diminishes me sometimes, whispering that I’ve never measured up to my potential the way she herself does.

  I think about that a lot. A tree becomes a tree, the exact kind of tree it was meant to be. A mountain is darned good at being a mountain. Rivers flow as expected.

  And then there’s me. I’m a woman, and I have no idea what that’s supposed to look like for me. I’m a freak of nature, I think, searching for meaning even beyond my walk with Christ. I’m groaning for a purpose, a life beyond the walls of the house I’ve built around me.

  But who wants to leave home? You know?

  “Have you ever had any times of doubt, Johnny? About what you wanted to do?”

  He shook his head, his wire-rimmed glasses twinkling in the moon-glow that spilled across us and onto the floorboard. “Not about what I do, but maybe where and how I do it.”

  “Well, at least you have that.”

  “So am I right in taking it you’re doubtful about your own mission in life?”

  “Yeah.”

  He sat in silence for a moment, parallel wrinkles nestling more deeply between his eyes. “So what you’re saying is, the last twenty-two years raising your daughter was a waste of time?”

  “No! Of course not.”

  “Because she’s a neat kid.”

  “I know. I’m just thinking I’m pretty much through with that phase. Hands on, you know.”

  “Right. I know what you mean.”

  “And now I’m home with Mother, and there’s so much catching up to do. But my life has to mean more than that, doesn’t it?”

  “Why?”

  That startled me. “Well, because. Because there’s a big world out there.”

  A really big world.

  “And God’s called you to save it?”

  I laughed. “Hardly! And if He did, I’m doing such a lousy job He’s definitely found another person for the job by now.”

  “Sh!” He held a finger up to his lips. “You’ll alert the nurse I’m home. I’ve been sneaking around in there so I don’t have to get the update yet.”

  “Sorry,” I whispered.

  He squeezed my hand again. “Still, Lark, I know what you mean about feeling more of a sense of purpose.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. I’ve been wondering about my own career.”

  “How so?”

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about Third World countries and all the good I could do there.”

  “Not many people are willing to go over to places like that.”

  “My point exactly.”

  I thought about Johnny, serving people his whole life. “You’d be good at it.”

  “I really think I would. I hope that doesn’t sound prideful.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Just honest.”

  “Because, God knows, I’m as big a sinner as anybody.”

  “I wish you knew me better,” I said, voicing the words as I thought them.

  “I’d like to.”

  What a great guy.

  “No, I mean, regarding a purpose. I wish you knew me better so you could tell me what to do.”

  He released my hand and touched my face. “Lark, I’m not the one to do that. You’re a grown woman, a capable woman when you allow yourself to be. You don’t need me to tell you that.”

  But, you see, I wanted that. I wanted a pep talk just then. I wanted my list of virtues to be called up and displayed within his words. I wanted him to tell me why, as a human being, I deserved his time and attention. “Yes, I do.” There, I said it anyway.

  “The big one is your playing. Now that’s a talent directly from God.”

  “I play at church.”

  “Maybe God has a larger purpose for it?”

  “You think so? Doing what, for heaven’s sake?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know, Lark. I’m just trying to do what you asked me to do.”

  “Well, you’ve given me food for thought.” I shut down the conversation. He might have mentioned a host of better things. But he didn’t. Just my playing.

  Now, if I had been asked the same question by Prisma, I’d have said, “Oh, Prisma you have so much to give. And here’s the list.”

  Kindness

  Compassion

  Sacrifice

  Dedication

  Service, no matter how big or small

  Happiness

  Contentment

  Healing

  Have I brought that into anybody’s life but Flannery’s? And let’s face it, she’s given more of that than I have.

  Big deal. I can play the organ. I can pray on the phone.

  Big deal.

  And then Johnny kissed me again. Right out of the blue. Right on the lips. And I kissed him back. And that night in bed I cried and cried. So much work to be done, so many ties needing to be re-laid to keep my life from becoming the train wreck it was destined to become.

  PRISMA

  OH MY GOODNESS! That woman is much too hard on herself! Here she’s raised a good girl. Goes to church. Plays for the Lord. And talks on the phone every night with strangers in need of hope.

  Yet, if the Spirit is speaking to her about branching out, if He’s itching about in places needing a good scratch, then who am I to question?

  Here I was praying God would wake her up, and now that He’s decided to do so, I just feel so sorry for her!

  I laid out my clothes for the morning as Lark told me all about her discoveries over the week Flannery and I photographed all sorts of lighthouses—Ocracoke definitely being my favorite. It’s this short little squat white lighthouse with a black bonnet. Reminds me of an old-time settler woman on her way out to gather wood.

  So Lark went on and on about getting back to basics and trying to live more for others.

  “By that, do you mean your mother?” I asked, dreading the answer because Lark can be a bit thick at times.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Oh, Lord, she’s seen the light! “I think that’s good then.”

  “And I’ve also decided I’m going to go ahead and get my driver’s license again. Flannery told me she’d help me.”

  I snorted. “Oh, Lark! That’ll be a sight to see! Can I come too?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Why the driving?”

  “So I can take Mother around to her appointments and all.”

  “Do you think you’ve already begun weighing yourself down in the details?” That sure qualified as a zinger.

  “Well, maybe. But—”

  “Do you think maybe your mother just wants to be with you? Did you think that maybe you don’t need to be cooped up in that den twenty-four hours a day? Did you think maybe you could seek her out once in a while and not have it always be the other way around?”

  Now where did my special striped dress go? I turned to face my closet.

  “Man, you’re not p
ulling any punches, are you, Prisma?”

  “You got that right.” I waggled a finger at her, then continued to look for the dress. “The fact is, Lark, you have no good reason for behaving toward your mother the way you do.”

  “What about Bradley? What about all that?”

  “What about him?” Ah, there it was, back between the blouses and the skirts. Now why in the world did I hang it there? I must be losing it.

  “Well, how can anybody get over something like that?”

  “They do it every single day, Lark. And you know it. Baby, I don’t know why you can’t get over all of this. I think you’ve been depressed for two decades, if you want to know the truth. I think you need to see a doctor and get some medication.”

  Did I say that? Oh my goodness!

  Lark turned around and ran from the room.

  A little while later she came back. “I’ll make an appointment.”

  “Good for you! I think even Dr. J will think it’s a good idea.”

  She nodded.

  “Does he know about Bradley?”

  “No.”

  “Think you ought to tell him?”

  She shrugged and leaned up against the doorframe. “Yeah. But I need to tell Flannery first.”

  My heart broke for her. Lord have mercy, the child didn’t deserve a situation like this. I threw my dress on the bed, crossed the room, and put my arms around her. “Baby,” I whispered, “it really is time to get back to basics. You’ve just been talking about the wrong basics. It’s time you own up to the truth. To your mother and to Flannery. Johnny Josefowski, and maybe even your hermit tendencies, is the least of it.”

  “I know.” Lark began to cry. “I just don’t know where to begin.”

  I would have offered to do it for her, but the Spirit was telling me no.

  The truth shall set her free, Prisma.

  That night I stood by my window looking at the stars.

  “Jesus?”

  “Yes, My girl?”

  “Would You be working on Baby Girl’s heart in advance to hear the news?”

  “Are you asking Me to?”

  “Yes, Jesus, in Your Name I am.”

  “All right then. And if it’s My will that they be in for a little rough water for a spell, what is that to you, Prisma?”

  “You know me, Lord. You know I can’t stand to see anyone suffer.”

  “Even when I’ve got a plan?”

  I closed my eyes. “I’ll just pray for Your will to be done then, Lord.”

  “It’s usually one prayer most of My children can live with.”

  “Although, sometimes it takes time to accept the answer, right, Jesus?”

  “Sometimes it does.”

  I watched the night sky some more. “Prisma, My girl? You know I love you.”

  “I do, Lord.”

  “And you know I know what’s best for all of My girls here on Greenway, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “Then rest well, My girl, and keep the faith.”

  I tell you the truth, Mrs. Summerville keeps knitting up a storm. It’s a sight to see.

  Flannery

  GRANDY PULLS OUT HER ALBUM. The surgery’s tomorrow. No one wants to leave the house. Even Asil’s light burns in his window above the garage.

  I mean, what if she dies on the table?

  I’d like to think I have more time left with Grandy. A lot more. Especially now that she and Mom are at least trying to get along. Maybe I could even talk Uncle Newly into coming over for Thanksgiving this year.

  Like that’ll ever happen.

  Stranger things have taken place though. Even here in the family. Prisma said Grandy actually walked the aisle at Prisma’s church this morning. “Gave her heart to Jesus right then and there!”

  See what I mean? And earlier this evening, when we saw Mom take Grandy a cup of tea and sit next to her on the couch, Prisma pulled me into the laundry room and said, “You see that there? We got our work cut out for us.”

  “What do you mean, Miss Prisma?”

  “We’re matchmakers of a different sort now.”

  And there they were, two women who were blessed enough to be given a clue before it was too late. Let’s hope they didn’t blow it.

  Dear Jesus, please don’t let them blow it.

  See, with James and all, I know I can’t be around for Mom the way I am much longer.

  “I gotcha, Miss Prisma. I’ve felt sorry for Grandy for so long.”

  “Well, she never really handled either Lark or Newly the way they needed to be handled. But far be it from me to interfere.”

  We had ourselves a good laugh at that one.

  Yep, this was a calling for sure. Prisma knew what she was talking about. Their feet were finally on the right road, and we weren’t going to take any chances that they were capable of keeping them there on their own. “Yep, I gotcha.”

  So the four of us sit around the kitchen table looking at what Grandy has done that week on her album. “I’m only up to when you were in first grade, Larkspur. And I’m already almost finished with this album.”

  “I’ll pick you up some more at the craft store, Mrs. Summerville,” Prisma says. “This will be a nice thing to do while you’re convalescing.”

  “Thank you, Prisma.” She pats Prisma’s hand, leaves it there for a moment and squeezes. Sometimes you just need a little vicarious strength from Prisma. “Now, see here”—she angles the book and slides it over to Mom—“this is your first day at school that year. And the other side is Easter Day.”

  Let me tell you, Mom was cute. A little yellow dress and coat. White Mary Janes, a tiny purse, and a boater with a yellow ribbon. Mom’s finger points to a picture on the other side of the page. I have never seen this one. “What in the name of heaven are you wearing on your head, Mother?”

  Grandy laughs. “That was my Easter bonnet that year.”

  “You’re wearing it in front of the church, Grandy.”

  “I know. Your mother insisted I wear it all day. She made it that year at school.”

  Mom almost spits out her tea. “I made that? And you actually wore it to church?”

  Grandy reddens under the memory. “Let’s just say it was one of those moments you wished at the time wasn’t happening to you. But looking back, I know it was worth it.”

  And Grandy has every right to be embarrassed. The sight of that literally makes me want to hoot with laughter. Take a paper plate, cut holes in either side, string bright purple gift ribbon through, and add lots of toilet paper roses and bows. Then tie it under a slender chin, and wear it with an ivory linen suit, pearl jewelry, and patent leather pumps and purse, and I’d call it an ensemble to die for. Die of mortification, that is.

  Go, Grandy!

  I turn to Mom. “Did you do anything like that?”

  “Well, not quite to that extreme. I don’t remember that at all, Mother. Wow.”

  I know. Wow. “So? Any embarrassing mother moments with me?” I’m not about to let the topic go. Mothers sacrifice their dignity for their children all the time. I am entitled to at least one such tale.

  “Well, there was the time you pooped all over me as I was getting up to play in the band.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep, before Daddy di—was gone. We were in some dive in San Francisco.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I put on my winter coat and told the band, ‘Winter Wonderland’ in the key of C.”

  Grandy claps. “You didn’t, Larkspur!”

  “I did.”

  “How resourceful, dear. I love it.”

  Mom stirs her tea. “I was glad they could play it. They weren’t the best of musicians back in those days.”

  “What did Daddy do?” I ask. I hope she remembers.

  “Just smiled and did some amazing little licks on his guitar in between verses.”

  I’d give anything to have heard my father play. Even just once. I sigh. “I wish I remembered that stuff. I t
ry so hard to recall him, but I just can’t.” I often think of all the nights I lay in bed as a kid and felt weird. The girl without a father. I mean, every kid wants to stand out some, but not like that! And my friends would complain about their “old man,” and I’d sit there and stew because they had no idea how, deep down, I yearned to be held in big strong arms and to be admired by a set of blue eyes that crinkled inside worn, male skin.

  “Well,” says Prisma, in her change-the-subject-tone, but why we need to change it is beyond me. “Tomorrow’s the big day, and, Mrs. Summerville, you need your rest.”

  Grandy sighs and flat-palms the table. “I know. I’d rather stay up and talk the night away. It’s been years since I’ve done that.”

  And then Mom says, “We’ll have scads of time for gabfests. And think how much better you’ll feel after the surgery. You’ll have so much energy we’ll be able to talk for three days straight!”

  Grandy inches to her feet. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

  Mom helps her to her feet and escorts her from the room.

  I’m having another one of those life-is-changing-before-my-eyes moments. I’ve been having a lot of those lately. But tomorrow, things will be changed forever, one way or another.

  Because she may die on the operating table.

  Dear Lord, please don’t let her die on the operating table!

  Leslie

  WELL, AT LEAST I’M MOSTLY READY TO DIE if I do go today. Jesus keeps my soul with “His perfect love,” as Prisma calls it. Lark and I have stitched our wounds. And now the true healing can begin. Now there’s my knitting, of course. I’m hardly done with my knitting plans.

  It’s dark outside. For some reason the streetlights dimmed earlier than usual. No sign of pink in the sky, and the lights closed their eyes, today of all days.

  In my younger days I would have contacted the city about it, sputtering an earful.

  I remember a verse my grandpa used to quote about the Spirit praying for you with “groanings which cannot be uttered.” I’d rather not contemplate the kind of groanings the Holy Spirit groans. I’m just thankful He’s doing it on my behalf, because right now I cannot pray on my own. I am stuck in this moment. Right here. And every moment after this, until I know whether I’m coming out of the anesthesia or stepping through heaven’s gates, seems darker than the street outside.