by Nan Rossiter
For the next several weeks, I stormed the gates of heaven with my prayers. I was like the widow who begged the king for justice until he finally grew tired of hearing her voice and gave in to her demand. At first, I prayed Lizzy was mistaken and the lump was a benign cyst, and then, when her worst fears were realized, I prayed He would guide her to the right doctors and the right treatment. And finally, my prayer became a command. “Don’t you dare take my best friend,” I whispered tearfully, “because I will never forgive you.” And then, worried that I might offend Him, I added: “Yet thy will—not mine—be done.”
Chapter 41
“ ‘I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me,’ ” I murmured as I walked up the street to Lizzy’s condo in Somerville—the home she and Elise had moved to after her divorce from Simon was final. All the parking spots in the visitors’ area were full, and I had to drive around the block two more times before I found a space on the street. My heart pounded as I walked up to the door, clutching a bouquet of sunflowers.
I knocked lightly and held my breath. “Come in,” a voice called, but when I tried the knob, it didn’t turn. “Sorry ’bout that,” the same voice called, and a moment later, I heard a click and the door opened to reveal a tall, slender figure.
“Elijah?” I said in surprise. It had been so long since I’d seen Lizzy’s son I hardly recognized him. He was meticulously dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt, his hair was short on the sides and longer on top, and his eyes—behind stylishly square frames and long dark eyelashes—were still the same piercing blue that would knock any woman dead—if there was a woman in his life. Of course, the first thought that came to my mind was: It’s definitely true what they say about the cute ones....
“Hi, Aunt Sal,” he said, smiling and revealing perfectly straight white teeth.
“I’m so sorry about all this,” I choked, reaching up to hug him.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m glad I could take time off to help. Last week was kind of rough, but she’s doing better.” He stepped back so I could step in. “She’s in the kitchen,” he said, motioning down the hall. I’d been to the condo several times over the years, so I knew my way around. “I have to run out to pick up a prescription,” he said, slipping his phone in his pocket, “but I’ll be right back.”
I nodded and walked down the hall to find Lizzy and Elise sitting in the kitchen with steaming bowls of soup in front of them.
“Hi, Aunt Sally,” Elise squealed, jumping up and almost spilling her soup.
“Hi, hon,” I said, giving her a hug. Then I stepped back and held her at arm’s length. “Look at you!”
She beamed. “I know! I just had my birthday. I’m forty years old now!”
“I know!” I said, nodding, even though her birthday had completely slipped my mind. “That’s why I brought you these,” I added, holding out the sunflowers.
“Thank you!” she said, admiring the flowers. “I thought they might be for me.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. “Maybe you and your mom can enjoy them together.”
She nodded and then hurried off to find a vase.
I looked at Lizzy and she smiled weakly. I leaned over to give her a gentle hug. “How’re you doing?”
“I’m okay,” she said. “I miss the girls,” she said, touching her flat chest—a chest I’d once envied. I nodded sympathetically. Two months earlier, Lizzy had called to confirm the lump she’d found was cancerous, and then, in a whirlwind of the most aggressive treatment possible, had a double mastectomy. When she told me, I’d offered to come and stay, but she assured me Elijah had already said he would.
“Have you started chemo?”
She nodded. “It was brutal. I felt so sick . . . and my hair . . .” She reached up to touch her head. “It started coming out in clumps, so Elijah shaved my head and then he went out and bought this hat.” She smiled, touching the soft pink hat on her head. “He’s such a good kid. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
“He is a good kid,” I agreed, “and so handsome! I almost didn’t recognize him.”
“Did I tell you he and his partner have started their own company?”
“Noo.”
She nodded. “They’re designing Web sites. They’re doing really well.”
“Wow, that’s good to know because I need someone to design a Web site for Cuppa Jo. I don’t know the first thing about it.”
“I’m sure he’d be happy to help you.”
I looked down and realized she hadn’t touched her soup. “You should eat.”
She nodded. “Want some? Elijah made it—it’s some kind of mineral soup. It’s supposed to be very healing.”
I shook my head. “He made it for you so you’ll get stronger.”
“It’s really good,” she pressed, but I shook my head. She looked around the kitchen. “How about a cookie?” she asked, pointing to a plate on the table heaped high with chocolate-chip cookies.
I smiled. “Did he make those too?”
“He did.”
“Sheesh. You are definitely in better hands with him than you would’ve been with me.”
She pushed the plate toward me and I picked one up and took a bite.
“How ’bout a cup of tea or a glass of milk?”
“Stop,” I said. “I don’t need anything and you need to eat your soup!”
She dutifully picked up her spoon, dipped it, and slowly lifted it to her mouth. “You should try it,” she said with a smile, but I teasingly rolled my eyes and took another bite of my cookie.
Just then, Elise came into the kitchen carrying a vase. “Is this one okay, Mama?”
Lizzy nodded. “Maybe Sally will give the flowers a fresh cut before you put them in water.”
“I can give them a fresh cut,” Elise said, opening a drawer to find the scissors.
“The stalks are thick—be careful.”
Hearing the concern in Lizzy’s voice, I stood to help.
“How’s Liam, Aunt Sally?” Elise asked earnestly.
“He’s fine,” I said, knowing Elise still—after all these years—had a crush on him. “He turned forty this year too.”
“I know,” she said. “I always remember Liam’s birthday.”
“You have a good memory,” I said, helping her arrange the flowers.
“Does he have a girlfriend yet?”
“Not yet.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend either.”
I smiled—Elise and I had this conversation every time we saw each other. Over the years, Liam—knowing how she felt, and never wanting to hurt her feelings—had gone out of his way to be extra friendly, which only made Elise love him more.
“He can be my boyfriend if he wants.”
“I’ll tell him,” I said, putting my arm around her shoulders.
Lizzy smiled; then we heard the front door open. A moment later, Elijah appeared, bearing three coffees from Dunkin’ Donuts and Lizzy’s new prescription, which I soon learned—after Lizzy threw up the little bit of soup she’d eaten—was to help with nausea.
While Elijah cleaned up the mess, I helped Lizzy get back to bed. “This sucks so much,” she said weakly.
“It does suck,” I said, fluffing her pillows. “I’m so sorry you have to go through it.”
“You know what my mom would say?”
I laughed. “She’d say it’s punishment for something you’ve done!”
“Exactly.”
“Well, she’d be wrong,” I assured her. I sat on the edge of the bed and held her hand. “It’s just bad cells growing like crazy . . . for no reason—isn’t that what you told me when we were little?”
She smiled weakly. “It sounds like something I would’ve said.”
I nodded. “You did.”
“Well, I was right.”
I nodded. “You were always right.”
“Thanks for coming, Sal,” she said. “I always love seeing you.”
“And I always love seei
ng you,” I said. “You need to get better so we can go out and—” But before I could finish my sentence, she was sound asleep. I tucked her soft pink hat around her ears and pulled up her covers. “Oh, Lord, please help Lizzy get better,” I whispered; then I lightly kissed her cheek. As I stood up, Ginger—the little orange tiger cat Elise and Lizzy had gotten from the shelter years earlier—hopped up on the bed and curled up next to her. I smiled, feeling oddly reassured that my dear friend would be okay.
Chapter 42
My change of heart wasn’t triggered by some profound epiphany—I didn’t suddenly see the light. Nor was I struck down and blinded by light like Saul on the road to Damascus. My change of heart was so gradual I didn’t even notice it happening; it was so gentle it had taken a lifetime—a lifetime of living and witnessing just how messy life is—to finally realize that no one’s life is perfect.
When I was young—and even as I grew older—I thought Lizzy’s life was perfect. My best friend had always done everything right—from drawing with crayons to winning every game we played; from being our class valedictorian to getting a full scholarship and graduating from college, magna cum laude; from becoming a nurse to finding the perfect guy. Lizzy had done everything right, and as a result, her life was perfect—or so I’d thought.
My life, on the other hand, was a mess. I was the queen of sin and bad choices, and my imperfect life reflected every one of those bad choices. As I stood looking out the kitchen window, though, cradling my cup of tea, the sun broke through the clouds and made the raindrops glisten on every surface—just like they had on the day of my mom’s funeral, the day I’d told my dad I wanted to go to St. Clement—and I realized I wasn’t alone. I smiled wistfully. Did I regret my decision now? Would my life be different if I—at five years old—hadn’t said I wanted to go to school with Lizzy? Would I now be living in a sprawling house with a handsome, successful husband? Would I be the mother of grown, successful children, and maybe even a grandmother to adorable, perfect grandchildren? Would I have spent my life teaching, or would I have been—because my husband was so successful—a stay-at-home mom who ran the PTA, volunteered in my community and my church, and ran my beautiful, smart, polite, perfect children to soccer practice, Scouts, and dance? Would my life, now, be somehow richer, fuller, happier?
I took a sip of my tea and pictured Coop, at that very moment, building a fire in the woodstove at the boathouse. I pictured his calloused hands as they slid logs through the heavy iron door, struck a match, and held it to the kindling. I pictured him kneeling down, rubbing his hands together, and holding them to the fire. I pictured his eyes—eyes that had seen more than their share of tragedy—reflecting the glow of the fire, reflecting the trust and care he’d placed in me, and reflecting the memories of a life well lived. Suddenly, I knew, with every fiber of my being, that I didn’t regret any of it. My life may not have been perfect, but neither was the life of anyone else I knew—not my parents’ or Coop’s or Lily’s or Liam’s . . . or Lizzy’s. We’d all made mistakes, committed sins, had our regrets, and begged for forgiveness. We’d all known sorrow, joy, disappointment, and triumph. And we’d all pressed on.
I smiled. My cup overflowed—my imperfect life was rich and full of blessings, and I wouldn’t change a thing. I’d known true love and I knew what it was like to be truly loved; my life had been touched by others’ lives, and my life had touched theirs . . . and in the end, that was all that truly mattered.
The wisdom that comes with time is a blessing. That’s why, on a morning in March—a day that was both rainy and sunny—I picked up the phone, whispered my “go-to” prayer—“ ‘Lord Jesus, Holy Father, have mercy upon me, a sinner’ ”—and dialed the number on the card I’d been carrying around in my pocket for weeks—the number of an attorney who would help me begin the process of divorcing Drew.
Chapter 43
“ ‘Teach us to number our days,’ ” I said, four months later, as I pulled a large white envelope out of my mailbox, “ ‘that we may gain a heart of wisdom.’ ” In the waning light of the summer evening, I looked at the return address and felt my heart skip a beat. For forty-eight years I’d born the weight of guilt and shame for the things I’d done when I was a girl, and now, this envelope brought news that I was free—my divorce was final!
I’d begun the process of divorcing Drew on March 13th—the very same day Pope Jorge Mario Bergoglio—the pope who would quickly become known for his profound humility, mercy, and love—was elected. On that day, I’d felt oddly assured that all would be well—that I would find forgiveness in the eyes of the Church and in the eyes of God, and that I would be accepted into heaven when I died. And now that I was free, I couldn’t wait to tell Coop.
I didn’t know why it suddenly seemed so important to me. Would it somehow change the way things were between us? Certainly, we’d be able to live our lives openly, but did that really matter? We would still be the same people—the same couple—who’d loved deeply and been there for each other through all the joys and sorrows of our lives, so how would my newly found freedom change things? I didn’t know the answer—I only knew that the thought filled my heart with joy.
I tucked the envelope under my arm and leaned down to pull a weed. The gardens were in desperate need of my attention, but as I knelt down to pull more weeds, I heard a truck pulling into my driveway and I looked up. My heart pounded, hoping it was Coop—I couldn’t wait to tell him the news, but when I realized it wasn’t him, I frowned. What was Liam doing here?
I stood up, feeling my knees ache, and watched him climb out. His face was white. “What is it, Li? What’s wrong?”
He shook his head and tears streamed down his cheeks, and he seemed unable to speak. I felt my heart start to race. “Tell me,” I whispered, but he just shook his head.
* * *
I’m always surprised by the beauty and pain in the world. A good, full life is rich with both. Over the years, I’ve come to realize that hardly a day goes by when joy isn’t mixed with a measure of sorrow, and with this knowledge comes the timeless reminder that we should make the most of each day. I have a favorite poem that reminds me of this too. Every time I’m bored with the monotony of everyday life, I think of Mary Jean Irion’s poem “Normal Day.” It reminds me to enjoy the loveliness of every day, even—and especially—the boring ones, because, all too soon, a day will come that’s fraught with worry and sorrow—and my heart will ache for that simple, boring, monotonous day.
On the day Liam pulled into my driveway and stood in front of me, his broad shoulders sagging with grief, I suddenly thought of that poem. Oh, please let me go back to the beginning of this day of making coffee, wiping down counters, washing dishes, baking bread, and pulling weeds. Please let me just be weary from a long day’s work—let me go to bed and wake up to another boring tomorrow—just like today—with no surprises. . . no sorrow. “Oh, please,” I cried. “Please don’t let this day end this way,” I sobbed. “I want it back. I want all our days back.”
Liam wrapped his arms around me. “I’m so sorry, Sal. I know how much you loved him. I know how much he loved you.”
Chapter 44
“ ‘Trust in the Lord with all thy heart and lean not unto thy own understanding,’” I whispered as I followed Liam and Tuck down the winding path to the sandy beach behind their house. “ ‘In all thy ways acknowledge him and he will make straight thy paths.’ ” Not this path, though! I thought wistfully as we wandered along through scraggly pitch pine and beach plums.
Liam had finally managed to tell me, in fits and starts, what happened....
* * *
He and Coop had finished work and Coop had tried to give him money for a couple of six-packs, but Liam had pushed the money away, insisting it was his turn to buy.
Coop had shrugged. “Shoot yerself.”
And Liam had smiled. “I’ll see you at home.”
“Not if I see yer sorry ass first,” Coop had replied.
When Liam got h
ome a half hour later, he was surprised the house was still dark. Someone must’ve stopped by and they got to talking, he thought, but as it got later and later, he started to worry. Finally, he drove back to the boathouse . . . and found Coop lying on the cement floor with Tuck beside him—the big golden retriever’s head on his chest and his sorrowful eyes telling the whole story—Coop was gone.
* * *
“How about here?” Liam asked, stopping on a dune, his eyes full of tears.
Tuck sat down next to him—practically on his foot, and I nodded.
Liam and I both knew Coop hadn’t wanted a service. Through the years, he’d made it very clear. “Just toss me in the water and be done with it,” he’d said.
“Do you want to say anything?” Liam asked, wiping his eyes and opening the beautiful mahogany box he’d made from the wood of an old Chris Craft.
I cleared my throat, closed my eyes, and began softly, “Immortal God, Holy Lord, Father and protector of everything Thou hast created, we raise our hearts to Thee today for our beloved uncle and friend, Winston Ellis Cooper III, who has passed out of this mortal life. In Thy loving mercy—” Suddenly, I stopped midsentence, opened my eyes, looked up at the endless blue sky, and realized how weary I was of saying memorized prayers. Coop deserved more than that—he deserved a prayer that came from my heart.
“Dear Lord,” I began again. “Thank you so much for bringing Coop into our lives and giving us so many years together. He has been a blessing to everyone who has known and loved him, and we miss him with all our hearts. We know he is with you, though. Now you have another master boat builder in heaven—and I’m sure he’s already struck up a conversation with Noah and is asking him some technical questions about the ark. It would be just like him. Please continue to bless us as we carry on with our lives . . . and without our beloved Coop. Amen.”
