by Myra Johnson
Daniel sat at his coach's desk and proclaimed this year's Valentine's Day the worst on record as he ate another cold burger and fries alone. If only he could figure out what was going on with her. Why the guilt? Why didn't she want to talk about it? A month later and he still didn't have a clue. Trashing the burger, he walked out onto the gym floor just in time for his next class.
“You're zoning out again, man.” Carl punched him in the arm in time for him to dodge a poorly aimed volleyball served by a skinny kid in his sixth-period P.E. class.
Daniel chased down the ball and rolled it under the net to the server on the opposing side. “Control, Len. You've got to power that thing straight over the net.”
“Marie sent another casserole for you. It's in the break-room fridge.”
“Thanks. You guys are too good to us.” He checked his watch, relieved to see he'd somehow made it through the hour. He blew a shrill blast on his whistle.
“Time's up, guys. Hit the showers.”
Carl lumbered along beside Daniel on the way to their offices at the rear of the gym. “Got time for coffee before you head home?”
“Sorry. Got an appointment with my pastor at four.” He scraped a hand through his hair. “Natalie may not be ready for counseling, but if I don't get some perspective soon, I'll lose my mind.”
“She still spending every waking minute with her mom?”
Daniel shoved through his office door and collapsed into the squeaky chair behind his desk. “Waking, sleeping, morning, night. And the sad thing is, it's like she's not really there at all. Most of the time I find her glued to her laptop, like she's trying to block out the world.”
Carl used his shirtsleeve to buff a smudge off the glass trophy case. “Bummer, man.”
“That's not the worst of it.” Daniel jammed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “When I paid bills last weekend, I discovered she'd made another big withdrawal from our savings.”
“What's she doing with the money?”
Daniel lowered his hands. “She gave her dad some money to help with the medical expenses. The other night I found her surfing the Web for anything she could find about strokes. Then yesterday all these books and DVDs arrived in the mail.”
“Sounds like she's desperate.”
“Which is exactly why I want to get her into counseling. Her dad joined a stroke support group, and Hart and Celia have gone with him a few times. I took Natalie once and she refused to go back.”
“You can't force her if she's not ready.”
“Yeah, but what do I do in the meantime?” Daniel's gut wrenched. He thrust to his feet but remained hunched over the desk. “I feel like my wife is disappearing right before my eyes.”
Natalie paused on the sidewalk outside Garner Printing and Advertising and took a couple of calming breaths. She knew she was on emotional overload, but at least the work Jeff supplied her with kept her from dwelling too much on her mother's illness. Thankfully, Jeff didn't press her to talk about it. All anyone else seemed to care about was convincing her to relinquish the guilt she knew for certain she could never escape. Though people never came right out and said it, the message was crystal clear: Get over it.
And the stroke support group? The worst. How could she sit there and listen to her father and the others talk about feeding tubes, tracheotomies, memory loss, bouts of depression?
At least she'd finally torn herself away from the nursing home. She wasn't sure her mother even knew she was there. Besides, it was better to remember her as she was before the stroke—happy, healthy, and fully alive.
Natalie shifted the strap of her briefcase higher on her shoulder and headed into the shop. The young Tom Cruise look-alike delivery driver stood behind the front counter sorting boxes.
She stepped forward. “Hi, Alan. Is Jeff around?”
The driver slid mirrored aviator sunglasses up his nose and hefted a box. “In the back. Follow me.”
Passing through the large workroom, Alan nodded to his right and continued out the rear exit. Natalie spotted Jeff Garner's broad back as he squatted in front of a monstrous printing machine trying to clear a paper jam. “Quite a mess you've got there.”
“Hey, Natalie. Be with you in a sec.”
The sharp chemical smells of ink and toner invigorated her while she watched Jeff work the ink-smeared paper wad free. He straightened and tapped some buttons on the control panel. Seconds later, the machine resumed its normal hum, spitting out page after printed page faster than Natalie could blink.
Jeff tore a paper towel off a dispenser and wiped his hands. “Let's go talk where it's quieter.”
He made a quick detour to grab two mugs of coffee and then joined her in his chrome and fake-walnut office. “Any problems with Mr. Cronnauer's requests? He can be such a fuddy-duddy.”
“Under control.” She unzipped her briefcase and retrieved the artwork samples she'd prepared. “If these pass inspection, I've got everything on CD ready for printing.”
Jeff flicked a strand of auburn hair off his forehead as he perused her samples. “These look great.”
She crossed her legs and reached for her coffee. “I aim to please.”
“You do way more than that. Businesses around town are specifically requesting you. My layout skills aren't hacking it anymore.”
The compliment brought a warm glow to Natalie's heart. How long had it been since she'd felt valued? She smiled her gratitude.
Jeff came around the desk, pushed some papers aside, and sat on the edge. He clasped his hands and leaned toward Natalie, giving her a look that raised the fine hairs on her arms. “I've got a proposition for you.”
“A proposition?” Her fingers curled around the padded armrests.
“I'd like you to go into business with me—a full partnership. I'd continue overseeing the business and technical side, and you'd take charge of the design aspects. Graphics, layout, all the artistic stuff.” He stood, one hand held out in appeal. “What do you say, Natalie? We could be quite a team.”
She pressed a palm to her stammering heart. “Wow! I wasn't expecting this.”
“I realize the timing may be bad, what with your mother and all—”
“No, actually, the timing is perfect. Work is the only thing saving my sanity. Except—” Her stomach clenched. Daniel was already furious with her for draining their savings account. “I have nothing to invest in the company. It's costing every spare cent we have to help with my mother's care.”
“Not an issue. We'll figure out a fair amount to deduct from your salary each month to buy you into the business.”
It sounded exciting and challenging—new motivation to drag herself out of bed every morning. Natalie rose and gripped Jeff's hand in a firm shake. “I'm in. Let's do it.”
“Don't do it, Mom.” Lissa fought the tremor in her voice as she scraped a plate and set it in the dishwasher. She saw little enough of her mother already. Now Mom would be spending hours and hours every day at Mr. Garner's print shop.
“I need to do this, honey.” Her mother whisked a kiss across the top of her head on her way to the fridge with a plastic container of leftovers. The tart aroma of sausage and kraut hung in the air. “You've got school expenses. Your dad's car is in the shop again. And Grandma's medical bills are piling up.”
Lissa marched to the table and wrapped her arms around her dad's neck. “Talk to her, Daddy. We need Mom at home.”
He cast her a tired glance and flicked to the next page in the sports section. “I've already tried, kiddo. Your mother's mind is made up.”
Sucking in short, quick gasps to keep the tears from spilling over, Lissa wrapped her arms around her chest and bolted from the kitchen. Her whole life felt like a roller coaster on rocket fuel, speeding out of control and plummeting toward certain disaster. Mom and Dad were hardly ever home at the same time. When they were, if they weren't arguing about something, they weren't talking at all. It would only get worse with Mom working full time.
; 4
With Natalie's long hours at the print shop and his school and coaching duties, Daniel hardly ever saw his wife anymore. Not that it mattered. Ever since Valentine's Day, their marriage seemed to be on hold. Life for Daniel had become one long waiting game, waiting for Natalie to work through her guilt, waiting for any kind of change, positive or negative, in Belinda Morgan's condition. Only then could he hope for the return of any semblance of normalcy. It was May. How long was he supposed to wait?
A four-way stop loomed at the edge of his headlights. He applied the brake and glanced in both directions. With little traffic this time of morning, he hit the gas pedal, ready to zip through the intersection. Until the Bronco coughed, sputtered, and died.
“Come on, start, you blasted machine.” Daniel twisted the ignition key and jammed his foot on the accelerator, but the engine refused to turn over. Nerve endings screaming, he slammed his fists against the steering wheel and squeezed out a long, pained moan. So much for getting to school early to finish typing up the final exams for his history classes.
After a few calming breaths, he climbed out of the car and gazed up and down the empty stretch of highway between Fawn Ridge and Putnam. Not a headlight in sight. A chilly, pre-dawn breeze whipped at his open windbreaker. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone.
“Nat, it's me. The Bronco died again.”
The whoosh of the bathroom shower blunted her disgusted huff. “Where are you?”
“About five miles up the highway.” He squinted to read the road signs. “At Connealy Road.”
“Okay, I'll be there in fifteen.”
She arrived in twenty, give or take five minutes of chewing him out for making her late for her own job.
It didn't end at supper that evening—or the next. Between driving him the rest of the way to Putnam Middle School, arranging for a tow, and then haggling with the repair shop, she made sure he knew exactly how severely she'd been inconvenienced. Once they sent Lissa to bed Friday night, the argument continued behind their closed bedroom door.
Daniel flung his shirt into the laundry hamper. “I can't help it I don't get paid more. You're the one who won't leave Fawn Ridge. You're the one who won't let me apply at a higher-paying school.”
“You know what my family means to me. And it's not like I don't contribute. I've been making good money at Garner and Pearce.” Natalie yanked her gown over her head and plopped onto the mattress. “Besides, it's your stupid car that keeps breaking down.”
“It's not just my stupid car that's eating through our bank account.” He tore his belt from around his waist and slung it on the closet floor—right on top of a brand new pile of books and pamphlets about strokes and alternative therapies. Heat seared Daniel's chest. He understood how badly Natalie wanted her mother to get better, but some of the unconventional approaches she'd been reading about were downright ludicrous. Before he could stop himself, he scattered the books with a well-aimed kick. And nearly doubled over as white-hot pain sliced from his big toe straight to his knee.
Natalie glared from her side of the bed. “Feel better now?”
He seethed with embarrassed rage. Every breath scraped his lungs like sandpaper. Without a word, he scooped up his pillow and the chenille throw at the foot of the bed and marched upstairs to the guestroom.
After a couple of hours tossing and turning, he gave up on sleep and went down to the den to boot up the computer. By morning he'd updated his résumé, printed out thirty copies, and addressed envelopes to the highest-rated school districts in three states.
Only after stuffing the letters through the post office mail chute did he pause to consider the possible repercussions. What if he actually got an offer? Would Natalie come to her senses and let go of false hopes about her mother? Would he finally convince her to leave Fawn Ridge with him and start fresh? Or had he just signed his marital death warrant?
Natalie shuffled in from the garage and dropped her purse onto the nearest kitchen chair. Her keys slipped out of her hand and clattered to the floor. When she bent to pick them up a muscle in her neck cramped. She winced and pressed a hand to the sore spot.
“Hard day at work?” Daniel leaned in the doorway from the den. His tone was anything but sympathetic.
“As a matter of fact.” She straightened and glanced around the kitchen, her nose detecting the aromas of pepperoni, tomato sauce, and mozzarella. “Any pizza left?”
“After Lissa had her fill, I finished it off. It's so late, I figured you'd already eaten.” Daniel went to the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of milk.
“Thanks a lot.” Cactus nettles jabbed Natalie's spine. She shouldn't feel resentful—it was her choice to work late—but she did. She found a can of soup in the pantry and retrieved a saucepan from beneath the range. “Where's Lissa?”
“Spending the night with Jody.” Daniel set his milk glass on the counter and folded his arms. “You and I need some time by ourselves.”
Her head shot up at his words, and for a millisecond she felt a shiver of warm anticipation. Then she caught the look in his eyes—a look that held not the least hint of romance, not the least hint of love.
A sense of dread curled through her abdomen and quelled the last remnants of hunger. Exhaling slowly, she turned off the burner and stepped away from the stove. “You sound serious. What is it?”
“I can't go on like this, Natalie. The arguments, the blame— when you're here at all, that is.”
She hugged herself against a sudden chill. “What are you saying?”
“I'm saying if you can't be a wife to me—a mother to Lissa—then I want you to move out. We need you full time or not at all.”
“What?” Natalie spun around, one hand on her forehead. Move out? The stove burner still glowed orange beneath the edge of the saucepan. She thought about touching a finger to it. Maybe the shock would wake her from this living nightmare.
A trembling started deep in her core. She crossed to the table and sank into a chair. “You can't mean this, Daniel. Think about what you're saying.”
“I have thought about it. Plenty.” He stood over her with arms crossed and jaw clenched. “You spend every waking minute either at the print shop or working on your laptop at the dining room table. I go to bed alone; I get up alone. I take care of Lissa alone. It's not fair to me, and it's definitely not fair to our daughter.”
Her hands balled into fists. Her eyes burned. She could hardly get a full breath. “You don't understand—”
“That's the problem. I don't understand.” Daniel gripped the back of a chair. His head wagged like a pendulum. “You've stopped visiting your mother at the nursing home. You won't go with me to counseling. I don't know what else to do.”
He turned away, his next words barely audible even as they exploded on Natalie's eardrums. “This is Saturday. Next Thursday is the last day of school. I want you moved out before Lissa and I get home.”
“Daniel and I are separating.” Natalie rested her forehead on clasped hands and stared at a scratch on her parents' kitchen table—an old scratch, long and wavy and deeper on one end. She probably gouged it with a pencil while doing her homework a thousand years ago.
Silence filled the farmhouse kitchen. A warm gust of air billowed the gingham curtains at the open window beside her. She raised her eyes to meet her father's. “Aren't you going to say something?”
The sadness in his gaze said it all. “It's a mistake, Rosy-girl. And you know it.”
“We're only separating—nothing permanent.” At least she hoped Daniel would eventually take her back. “We're fighting too much. We need some space. I've already put a deposit on an apartment.”
“What about Lissa?”
Natalie rubbed her temple. “She's staying with Daniel for now. This is going to be hard enough on her without making her move out of the house.”
Dad rose and strode to the sink. He wet a dishcloth and wiped at imaginary spots on the counter. His shoulders knotted beneath his chambr
ay work shirt. He stopped, leaned over the sink, and pressed his eyes shut. “If your mother knew her illness split up your family, she'd be crushed.”
A river of pain flooded her. She swallowed a sob before it could escape. Mom had always done so much for her—selling paintings to help pay for Natalie's art supplies and classes, her riding gear and horse show entry fees, and then …
“Natalie, didn't you hear the weather forecast? I won't leave you alone on the farm with a bunch of nervous animals.”
On top of all her other sacrifices over the years, Mom had risked everything important to her in that one act of selflessness. Yet Natalie kept making one wrong choice after another.
Now things had gone too far, and she could see no way back. As a tear slipped silently down her cheek, she studied her wedding ring before sliding it off her finger and tucking it into her pocket.
“No problem, Jeff. The Carla's Confections ad will be ready for printing first thing Monday.” Natalie snapped her cell phone shut and turned onto Willowbrook Lane. This was her weekend to spend with Lissa, and she promised herself not to spend the whole day working. Maybe by afternoon they'd have time—
Her heart thudded to the pit of her stomach. She'd barely gotten used to seeing the gaudy for-sale sign in the front yard, its red and yellow logo a jarring contrast to the colonial-blue siding and white trim gracing the home she and Daniel had shared for the past three years. They'd dreamed about it together, pored over building plans together, and scrimped and saved together until they had enough for a down payment.
Now someone had slapped a big, bold SOLD sign across the Realtor's emblem. It was over, the dream dying along with her marriage.
After Natalie moved out, it didn't take long to realize they'd have to let the house go. Their combined incomes barely covered the mortgage payment, and now Natalie had apartment rent to pay. The real estate agent assured them that with families wanting to resettle before school started, summer was a perfect time to sell.
