Desert Gift

by Sally John

  “Just do it, Bax.”

  “We’ll wait longer, make sure it’s numb.” He sat on a stool, the light behind him outlining his salt-and-pepper short-cropped curls. For a big guy with a gruff baritone voice, he exhibited the best of bedside manners. “So what happened? And I’m not talking about an overzealous shampooing.”

  Jack looked at his friend. They first met over twenty years ago in podiatry school. Their paths kept crossing until they eventually opened a practice together. They discussed everything. Baxter did not think God existed; he spoke disrespectfully of his ex-wife; he was not involved in the lives of his twin girls, now seniors at the U of I. But he had always accepted Jack unconditionally and was, hands down, the best doctor Jack had ever met.

  He took a deep breath. “I told Jill I want a divorce. Two minutes later, I put her in a cab that took her to the airport. We’ve talked once since.”

  Baxter twisted his mouth to one side and then the other. “The numbing agent’s gone to your brain. You seem to be talking nonsense.”

  “Guess that means you can get at it, Doc.”

  “Right.” Baxter stood. “You up for dinner?”

  Jack heard the underlying question: “You ready to discuss it?” Not really, but it was probably the smart thing to do. On the short list of men he trusted, Baxter was at the top. “Sure.”

  Chapter 5

  Los Angeles

  Sunday morning Jill rode in silence next to Gretchen. After nearly twenty-five years of friendship with the woman, she should’ve figured out how to win an argument.

  It always came down to their personalities. There was type A, and then there was type A with a kick. Jill’s driven nature wilted in the breeze of Gretchen going at full tilt, doing what she decided was best for everyone.

  “Jill.” Gretchen glanced at her from the driver’s seat. “You know how sometimes when you’re focused, your lips get all wrinkly? Well, that’s not what they’re doing.”

  Jill yanked down the visor, opened its mirror, and saw deep grooves in her face. Crevices from the edges of her lips to the bottom of her chin.

  Gretchen said, “You’re furious. Got it. But you might want to rethink the pinched, clenched expression for now. Bring it out later, like when you’re alone in your hotel room.”

  Jill pressed her cheeks back toward her ears. Her mouth smoothed out. “I’m nervous.”

  “Not as much as you are mad. Admit it, Jill. Get it out before I start quoting Scripture or your own book, that stuff about the sun going down on one’s anger being a major thing to avoid.”

  Jill snapped the visor shut. “Oh, be quiet.”

  “I miss my lovable friend.”

  “How’s this?” Jill bared her teeth. “I’m smiling.”

  “Trust me. This is for your own good.”

  “Please stop saying that. I should be on a plane, not speaking to another group. Not signing another book. Not giving another interview.”

  “You’re doing great. The women love you.”

  Jill stared at her. “At this point, do you think that really matters to me? That strangers think they love me? My husband won’t answer my phone calls. He forgot Valentine’s Day yesterday, probably not a huge deal to some women, but Jack always, always surprises me on that day. Come to think of it, I guess he outdid himself this time, didn’t he? Even gave it to me early.” Her voice rose. “Gretchen, he’s in the middle of a crisis, thousands of miles away. He needs me. I cannot believe I am still following you around L.A.”

  “You’re not. I’m dragging you.” She sighed. “Think of Jack’s crisis as a pothole in his Guy Road. He’s tripped over it and fallen flat on his face. He’s dazed and confused. Because he’s a guy, this is a big deal. He can’t ask his wife for help. It’s against Man Rules.”

  “Jack always stops and asks for directions. He calls a doctor when he’s sick. He notices a basket of laundry and carries it upstairs.”

  Gretchen waved her hand in dismissal. “I admit, Jack is an oddball when it comes to Man Rules. But this is different.”

  “I should be on a plane.”

  “Like I already said a few hundred times, we’ll work on tweaking the schedule tomorrow when everyone is back at their desks. For now . . .” She pointed at Jill’s window. “Look at that.”

  In the distance, a steeple rose out of the morning mist, a white cross on its top.

  “Jill, this is why I’ve kept you going. Okay? This. You’re there, sweetums. You’ve made it to the top of your dream hill.”

  She gazed at the symbols that had so long energized her work. The cross was all about her faith, the steeple all about a well-known church where she could hardly imagine she’d been invited to speak of that faith. She was indeed at the top of her dream hill, that thing Jack and Jill were supposed to climb together.

  Gratitude and disappointment tumbled through her, a surefire recipe for disaster.

  * * *

  Gretchen parked the car and grinned. “Welcome to Hope on the Coast, apex of twenty-first-century Christendom in America.” She chuckled. “Hills don’t get any higher than this one, huh?”

  Jill pressed at the base of her throat where her breath seemed to be stuck.

  The church had something like a gazillion members. Its outreach programs fed, clothed, sheltered, and provided rides to countless homeless, sick, poor, and seniors weekly. It had a school, pre-K through college. The pastor and an associate pastor were quoted worldwide as some of the day’s best minds on the Bible. The biggest names in Christian music either had roots in the church or hung out with the choir.

  Gretchen grabbed Jill’s arm. “It’s time to compartmentalize. Put Jack in a back room and shut the door. Okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Breathe. Smile. I said breathe.”

  Jill shut her eyes. God, help me, help me, help me.

  They walked across the huge lot. Scents of eucalyptus and sea salt mingled and filled the cool morning air. People strolled and chatted. The ocean lay off in the distance. From photos she had seen, she knew it would be visible once the fog lifted.

  Jill felt dazed. This was one hill she had never set out to climb. Then her work evolved, one thing led to another, and the what-if dreams began. Hope on the Coast? Maybe. Someday. Why not? Gretchen, the quintessential type A, made contact. And now here she was.

  Jill stepped through the bank of glass doors and into a foyer that stretched out of sight. On an easel where every eye could see sat an enormous poster board. Plastered on it were Jill’s photo and information about her speaking that morning to a women’s Sunday school class.

  Right there, in that church with a foyer as big as all outdoors.

  Gretchen pinched her arm. “Yes, you really are awake.”

  Jill’s entire face softened into a smile and she knew the grooves had smoothed away. “Thank you for getting me here.”

  “Not my doing. That was all God.”

  Yes, it was all God. Her faithful, loving, all-powerful God. “Why would He give this to me?”

  “Simply because He loves you?”

  “All I do is talk to people and write down what I learn from them.”

  Gretchen leaned in close to Jill. Her left eye narrowed; the right one flashed neon green. “I have one down-to-earth note.”

  “Only one?”

  “Ha-ha. Listen up. You and I are impressed because this is a super big deal to be invited here. The glitter factor is sky-high. But remember, Jill: God works through regular human beings, and everyone in this place is a regular human being just like you and me. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “But you do fit in nicely with that gorgeous suit.”

  Jill touched the short silk jacket, glad she’d chosen the orchid one, her best color. “Thanks.”

  “So no ecstatic squealing, okay? You are not meeting George Clooney.”

  “Okay, got it.” She winked. “What do we do if people squeal ecstatically at me?”

  Gretchen raised her head and ch
uckled. “You’re going to be impossible to live with after this.”

  Jill’s eyes stung and she turned away, blinking rapidly. She smiled at a stranger and felt the weight of disappointment again. Jack should have been there with her at the top of the hill. He should have been there.

  * * *

  Jill managed to avoid squealing as she met people at Hope on the Coast. She shook hands with authors of books she’d read and reread, even of two people she had interviewed by phone. She replied in a lucid manner to a well-known singer’s hello. She did not faint dead away as she was invited up to the podium during the main service to be introduced.

  Her head agreed that her reaction to the glitter factor was silly, but the rest of her was tickled pink. She could have simply basked in the environment and not said a word all morning long.

  But they had asked her to speak to a women’s class.

  Somehow in that classroom, though, between coffee, music, prayer, and introduction, the program had skated from speaking into answering questions.

  Personal questions.

  They were written on index cards, a thick stack of them in the hands of the teacher, Danielle. She and Jill stood on a slightly raised platform at separate podiums as if they were having a debate. At least a hundred women sat at round tables, their faces awash in sunlight streaming through large windows at one side of the room.

  Danielle looked at a card. “Okay, here’s one I’m sure we’re all curious about.” The woman was totally California coast with long blonde hair, a surfer’s toned body, and a toothy smile. She could have been anywhere between twenty-five and forty-five. “What does Jackson Galloway look like?”

  Jill blinked. What did that have to do with anything? “What does he look like?”

  “Yes. You often talk about him and you’ve written so much in your book about him. Like they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.” She held up She Said, He Heard, Jill’s photo on its back cover facing out. “We had hoped to meet him, but since he’s not here—” she shrugged—“imagining what he looks like helps bring your dialogues with him to life.”

  “Those dialogues are samples of what any couple might engage in. Jack just looks like an average Midwesterner.”

  “Define ‘average Midwesterner.’”

  From the corner of her eye, Jill saw Gretchen stand up about halfway back, near one of the windows.

  Her friend cupped a hand at her mouth and called out, “He’s way cute.”

  Women chuckled and Jill’s cheeks felt hot.

  Danielle grinned. “From someone who knows him. So, Jill, cute as in ‘hunk’ or as in ‘farm boy’?”

  The heat spread to Jill’s neck. “Cute as in pleasant-looking with light brown hair and hazel eyes. Laugh creases. Five-eleven. Trim.” Except for the two new inches at his waist since he’d added baking to his gourmet-cooking hobby. But that didn’t seem any of their business.

  “Somewhere in between, then. All right. Tell us, how did you two meet? He’s a Midwesterner, but you’re a California native, correct?”

  “Yes, I grew up in Sweetwater Springs.” She named her hometown, a small place out in the desert that Angelinos liked to visit in winter. “We met in Hollywood, at Grauman’s Theatre. Uh, I mean Mann’s.”

  “Really?” Danielle’s eyes sparkled. “Love at first sight and you moved all the way to Chicago?”

  “Something like that.” Jill used up every last ounce of self-control to lift the corners of her mouth. “Danielle, I’d hoped to talk about the book, about ways to improve our communication skills with husbands and significant others. I—”

  “But this is so much more fun!” Danielle looked out at the audience. “Isn’t it, ladies?”

  The group applauded enthusiastically.

  Too enthusiastically. Too ecstatically.

  Danielle said, “We can get all that technical information from your book. I’ve read my advance copy and I highly recommend it. I’m sure many others here will read it. They’ll glean from your insights, and believe me, they will apply them. But they’ll crave more personal information. You don’t have nearly enough for my satisfaction. And you know what?”

  Jill shook her head. No idea.

  “Today, Jillian Galloway, we have you right here with us, in the flesh.” With wide eyes and a pleased-as-punch tone, she went on to sing Jill’s praises.

  Praises to Jill.

  Jill, a regular human being.

  As if glitter surrounded her.

  Meanwhile, her husband was back at home, considering a divorce.

  The second hand on the wall clock jerked forward at half speed and the bizarre interview continued. Replying to questions that Danielle read from the index cards and made up impromptu was like tottering on a balance beam. To keep her focus, Jill held her breath. She drank water. She homed in on Gretchen. She fiddled with a button on her jacket, resisting the desire to rub her chest, which burned like it had on the plane, as if words piled up inside of her, trying to find a way out.

  Those words had nothing to do with her wedding twenty-four and a half years ago, her son, Connor, Jack’s work in podiatry, or what she watched on television.

  Danielle flipped through several index cards. “Time is running short. It has been so great having you here, Jill. . . .” She paused at one full of small print, front and back. “Here’s a situation: ‘On your radio program an expert said that sometimes we get blindsided in a relationship. You said that was impossible if we stay open. My husband and I stayed open for sixteen years, through thick and thin.’” Danielle turned the card over. “‘Last week he moved out. No warning. No explanation. So why don’t you just—?’” Danielle cleared her throat and looked up. “Obviously this woman is in a great deal of pain. Dear, whoever you are, I hope that you’ll talk to one of our counselors here. They—”

  “Why don’t I just what?” The words burning in Jill’s chest jumped into complete sentences and found their way out. “Why don’t I just keep my big mouth shut? Great advice. I totally agree.” She looked out over the women, trying to find Gretchen, but saw only wavy lines as if the air itself churned as much as she did. “Four days ago I would have said we can’t stop the birds from flying over our heads, but we can most certainly prevent them from building a nest in our hair.”

  “Jill—”

  “I would have said, honey, if you’d kept your eyes and ears open, if you’d dotted all your i’s and crossed all your t’s, then you would not be in this predicament.” Her voice rose into tremor territory. “If you’d taken ownership of your relationship, he wouldn’t have left. He couldn’t have. He would have had no reason to. But now?” She paused, caught a breath, and lowered her voice. “Now I say that’s a bunch of cow manure. Pardon my French. And I am truly sorry for feeding you such false hope.”

  The women’s faces still floated before her. She heard their heavy silence.

  She turned and tried to bring Danielle into focus.

  “Jill, I’m sure you’ll agree there is always hope when we invite God into a situation. I do apologize for not censoring that card. In this class we are all about being real and this dear woman is—”

  “Being real? Try this one on for being real, Danielle: the way-cute Midwesterner wants a divorce.” She blew out a breath. How was it that she hadn’t told anyone close to her except Gretchen and now she could announce it to the world?

  A speechless Danielle stared, her mouth half-open.

  “It’s true. After all I’ve done, the birds have built a nest in my hair. You might want to reconsider recommending that book.” Anger engulfed her, an onslaught of rage that nauseated her. She had to get out of there.

  Gretchen touched her elbow.

  Jill grabbed her friend’s hand and stumbled along beside her, down from the platform, down from the top of the hill.

  Chapter 6

  Chicago

  Sunday morning Jack sat in his basement nook, a home office Jill had created for him, a space located between the laundry and
family rooms. He rarely worked in it, really didn’t need it, but had grown to appreciate it.

  From her undying determination to do things correctly—“A doctor should have his own professional space in the house, not a corner in the dining room!”—came a place of solitude. In recent months he had rediscovered that aspect and sought it out often. With Connor seldom at home, the dryer thumped only occasionally and there were no male teen voices booming around the pool table or at video games.

  Jack stared at the e-mail on his laptop, reading it for the umpteenth time since he’d first seen it on Thursday, the day Jill left. It was from their son, copied to both his and Jill’s addresses.

  Hey, Mom and Dad. Well, you’re probably in sunny SoCal by now. Just wanted to let you know Prof Isola is taking us to Prague. I’ve told you what a fanatic she is. Free time? E-mail? Phone calls? Not on my watch! So I’m OOT for about ten days. Later.

  “OOT” was Connor’s shorthand for “out of touch,” a phrase he made frequent use of. Jack figured it was code for “love you guys, but hey, I’m twenty-three, in Europe, got better things to do than chitchat.”

  Jack smiled. Connor was all Jack could ever hope for in a son. He was a great kid, a good human being, never a source of grief or despair. A graduate of the University of Illinois, he was now studying in Italy for his master’s in art history. What did it matter he would never make a dime working in a museum? So what if most of his study time now meant touring Europe and discussing art in every café from Paris to Prague?

  His smile faded. Like Jack, Connor was an only child and close to his parents. As it did for Jack, the word close meant taking on too much responsibility for their well-being. Divorce would hit him hard.

  Jack moved the cursor over the Reply tab and hesitated. Tell him in an e-mail? Pretend all was well? Just a quick “luvya”?

  He shook his head and signed off. Connor’s schedule had granted him a reprieve.