Desert Gift

by Sally John

  “Honey, you’re not a child anymore. I need you to be grown-up about this. Dad and I are in the middle of a life-changing mess. The timing couldn’t be worse, but what’s done is done. We move on. I am happy for you. Emma must be an extraordinary young woman.” She spoke around a lump in her throat. She wanted to be happier for him. She wanted to have gotten to know the girl, to have a front-row seat to their growing relationship, to give them advice.

  Given her current situation, that would not have been a good thing.

  She swallowed. “Now, what can I do for you? Dad says you want small.”

  “Yeah. We have to get back to school and we want to do it while her parents are here.” He rattled off the very, very short guest list, the plan for dinner in the back room of his favorite Italian restaurant.

  It wasn’t Jill’s mother-of-the-groom dream wedding. Nope. Not even close.

  He said, “Did Dad tell you about the ceremony itself?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Now don’t freak out.”

  She counted to five. It was a reflexive reaction to the phrase that always prefaced something she didn’t want to hear. “Honey, I’m sure Pastor Lew will accommodate you. We can use the chapel. It’s smaller—”

  “Mom, the thing is, we don’t want him to marry us.”

  “What! What? Connor! Pastor has been an integral part of your entire life! Why on earth would—?”

  “Why on earth would I even try to talk to you?” His voice rose. “You want me to grow up, but the minute I make a decision you don’t like, you go off the deep end.”

  “Good grief. I’m only confused, that’s all. Help me understand. Don’t you like him?”

  “Not really.”

  “But why—?”

  “Look, I can’t do this right now. I’m having a nice time with Emma and her parents. And oh, by the way, yes, they do drink wine, and as a matter of fact, so do I.”

  “Oh, Connor! How could you! You’re playing with fire. Your great-grandfather Galloway—”

  “Was a raging alcoholic. I know and I know all the genetic possibilities.”

  “Then why—?”

  “Probably because you pounded into my head ‘Don’t do it.’”

  “I also told you not to run into the street.”

  “It’s not the same thing.”

  “Connor, my only intention was to protect you. To keep you from doing something that would hurt you or that you might regret later.”

  “But it’s my life. I have to make my own choices and figure things out for myself. C’est la vie.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing, Mom. Let it go. Let’s just say au revoir for now and finish this later. Okay?”

  She placed her free arm across her middle and squeezed tight, holding back an emotional explosion. “I apologize for freaking out.”

  He exhaled loudly. “I’m sorry for raising my voice at you. We good to go now?”

  “Who do you want to conduct the ceremony? And where?”

  “Later. Say ciao, Mom.”

  “Ciao, Mom.”

  He snorted, the sound falling somewhere between a chuckle and a locker room phrase.

  Jill closed the phone and wished with all her might that she could stick her son and his independent streak and his smush of languages in a corner for a long, long time-out.

  * * *

  Jill did not rejoin her dad in the garage. Instead she walked. She walked hard, regret and confusion coursing through her, jamming each footfall against the rocky earth until at last she felt drained.

  What was all this? First Jack, then Connor. A wall had been built between her and the two people closest to her and she had no idea how to tear it down.

  It took the entire three-mile round-trip trail to the waterfall plus the two-mile round-trip trek from the house to the trailhead to work out her twisted knot of emotions. The western sky was all pinks and purples above the mountains before she got back to the center of town, the sun long gone.

  She did not make a conscious decision on which route to take home but found herself passing Wags Service Station. She slowed and then stopped.

  Beyond the pumps, Ty was visible through the open doorway and picture window. He moved about the shelving units, perhaps organizing the few groceries he carried.

  Exhausted, she watched him, her breath condensing in the cool evening air.

  And in her imagination she began to play a game.

  What would it be like to chuck her life? Just start all over. Give Jack his divorce. Let Connor do what he was going to do anyway without a cautionary word. Get a small, cheap apartment in Sweetwater. Wander the trails. Volunteer at the nature center. Be a help to her aging parents. Do anything but teach. Never, ever give an opinion on communication or puzzle out a relationship.

  Fall in love again with Ty Wilkins. Taste his kisses that by now would be full of the manliness only hinted at when they were teens. Be his right hand at the station.

  He stepped through the door now, a trash bag in his hand. He caught sight of her and paused.

  They gazed toward each other in the semidarkness, the area between them brightly lit by the overhang’s lights. The air fairly crackled with electricity. It was not part of her fantasy.

  She wondered if he played the same dangerous game.

  They stood like that for a while, a minute or two. Maybe half an hour. Maybe longer. Time ceased.

  Jill lingered in the tantalizing scene that played out in her mind. She tingled from head to toe. She felt like a child whizzing down a playground slide.

  She heard the silence, the hush of the desert.

  And then she heard the whisper.

  She wanted to run from it, from the words that spilled into her heart.

  This is how it happens.

  No! she argued.

  This is how it happens.

  No. I’m just . . . I’m just—

  This is how it happens.

  Everything faded from view, real and imagined. The gas station. The pink sky. Ty’s lips on hers. An abyss pushed them all aside. It yawned, a great widening blackness that wrapped around her, seeping into every pore of her body.

  “No,” she whispered.

  Jill turned and quickly walked away. She began to jog. Her muscles protested and her heart pounded.

  She wanted to sleep with Ty.

  This is how it happens.

  It happened out of the blue. Out of pain and loneliness. Out of being human. Out of the declaration of a husband who hurt so much he wanted a divorce. Out of a son’s rejection.

  “Oh, God.” She panted the words as her feet hit the concrete. “I had no idea.”

  Of all the pithy suggestions she had spouted about how to avoid adultery . . .

  “This is too easy. I could have. Oh, God. I wanted to. Help me. Help me. Help me.”

  Who did she think she was? Temptation was alive and well in the desert, in the heart of a woman who condemned others and thought she knew better.

  The garbage can creaked and groaned, its weight unbearable.

  “Come to Me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens. Come to Me.”

  Jill slowed to a walk and let herself dwell on the familiar words. She replayed them over and over. The cool night air touched her skin and she knew it was full of acceptance.

  God loved her, warts and all, trash and all.

  Chapter 31

  Chicago

  “Jackson, dear.” Katherine Galloway’s voice warbled through the cell phone. “Is this an inconvenient time?”

  Jack touched his chest, willing the boom in it to quiet. His mother never called in the morning on a weekday unless his father was having a heart attack. Of the four times that had occurred, even the refined Katherine had not inquired politely about convenience.

  He said, “I’m just out of surgery and walking to the office.”

  “Oh, tell me, what did you do?”

  Jack grinned at her enthusiasm. She still believed that d
octors walked on water. “I reconstructed an ankle.”

  “How marvelous! Will he or she be able to dance?”

  “If he wants.” The hockey player he had worked on did not seem the dancing type. Jack prayed he would find something, though. Ice-skating was no longer in the kid’s future. “How are you?”

  “Peachy keen.”

  Turning into a rabbit warren of back hallways, Jack chose to avoid the easy route to his office. And Sophie.

  His mother said, “Did you want something?”

  Uh-oh. “You called me.”

  “I did?”

  “Is Dad okay?”

  “Your father? Well, yes, he’s fine. As fine as a coot can be, anyway. I must add that caveat. He seems a bit grumpy. I don’t think he slept well.”

  As his mother rambled on, Jack entered the back entrance of the main office. A few more steps and he would be home free, inside his private—

  “Dr. G.”

  He spun on his heel, gave Sophie a fake smile, and pointed to the phone at his ear.

  Sophie smiled sweetly and pointed at the coffee mug in her hand. She passed him and went into his office.

  Her hair was pinned back in its bun.

  She emerged, no mug in sight, smiled, and passed him again.

  The coffee would be on his desk because she would have checked upstairs with the OR and learned when he had left. She would have perfectly timed the delivery of the coffee she knew he enjoyed after early-morning surgery.

  Katherine was still chatting about his father’s attitude.

  Jack shut his door and sat at the desk. “Mother, do you remember why you called?”

  “Jackson, you know better than to ask me that! It addles me. I do believe it sets the Alzheimer’s into motion.”

  “You do not have Alzheimer’s and you are less senile than 98 percent of other women your age.”

  “I don’t suppose that says much, considering my age. Have you told me this before? I can’t seem to recall.”

  He laughed. “Very clever. Now, I really need to get to work.”

  “Yes, of course. This won’t take long. Your father and I were listening to Jillian’s program on the radio. Until today they’ve been running prerecorded interviews. But this one is from a few years ago. Why is that?”

  “They only made so many new ones. Since when do you two listen to Jill’s show?”

  “Why, Jackson, we’ve listened to it for, oh, I don’t know. Ages.”

  “You never mentioned it.”

  “I’m quite certain we have. Perhaps you’ve got a touch of senility yourself.”

  Jack would bet the new blender he bought last night that his parents tuned into the Christian radio station the day after he informed them about the separation. Gearing up for battle, Katherine would need to arm herself with ammunition, tidbits to shore up her position. “Galloways do not divorce.”

  “At any rate,” she said, “this was an especially well-done presentation and rather poignant given the present circumstances. The topic was husbands in midlife crises. According to the expert she interviewed, there are enough documented cases of similar situations that doctors believe it is a real phenomenon. Then women called in with the most heartbreaking of stories. Jillian was absolutely tender with them and pressed the expert for answers. He didn’t seem to have any.”

  “Mother, do you mind jumping to the point of this story?”

  “Oh, sorry. I forgot it’s a workday for you. The point is, Jillian was asked what she would do if faced with this. She said communication is the key and that at the first warning signal, she would insist that you both clear your schedule, sit down, and talk. She said above all, she would be right beside you as your helpmate, not the enemy.”

  Jack pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “And then,” Katherine went on, “she said this went way out of her league, that it might be necessary to see a counselor. I guess my point is, maybe you should do that.”

  “Do Galloways see counselors?”

  “It is a new day, dear. Good heavens, it’s a new century. Do you have a new red sports car?”

  “No, only a new blender. It’s white.”

  “Perhaps it’s the same thing.”

  Blender as a chick magnet? “Mother—”

  “I hear the exasperation. May we have a copy of Jillian’s book?”

  “I gave one to you.”

  “You did? Well, we’ll check the bookshelves. I don’t remember seeing it.”

  “I’ll bring one on Sunday. Good-bye.”

  “She also said that Christian counselors are listed in the Yellow Pages. Good-bye, dear.” Click.

  Jack shook his head. Where had all that come from?

  There was a quick rap on the door and it opened. Sophie appeared. “The natives are restless, Dr. G.”

  “Coming.” He stood and gulped the still-hot coffee. Sophie did know how to make a perfect cup.

  He better not tell her about his new blender. She might unleash the bun again and call him Jack and suggest smoothies at his place.

  * * *

  Jill’s distinctive, whispery voice flowed through the laptop’s speakers and filled Jack’s small apartment.

  It didn’t belong there.

  He closed the computer and chided himself for allowing that other voice to speak in his head and convince him to listen to Jill’s archived radio program.

  He really did not want to listen to either his wife or his mother.

  As newlyweds, he and Jill had clashed over his preferential treatment of Katherine’s opinions and feelings. Jill helped him see that he needed to respond first to his wife rather than to his mother. It made sense, of course. It was part of God’s practical “leave and cleave” plan. With Jill as his loving partner—her heart even back then was passionate about good communication—he slowly but surely tuned out his mother’s voice.

  He did not know that the transition had been overly difficult until he read a well-documented account of it in Jill’s book.

  Had he simply traded his mother’s voice for Jill’s? He sometimes wondered. It seemed impossible. He first fell in love with Jill’s voice because it was not condescending or strident or bossy.

  But somehow along the way her voice had become louder than his own.

  I’m living my father’s life. Which was exactly what he had meticulously avoided.

  Or so he thought.

  Jack squinted at the clock on the microwave. It was after ten, but his dad was a night owl, unlike his mother.

  Jack checked his head. The spot he had banged in the accident throbbed as if it were a fresh wound and not a red line of new skin. He should tell Baxter about it, but what could he do for psychosomatic symptoms? Jack had been listening to Jill’s voice when he lost control of the car. End of story.

  Or just the beginning.

  He called his dad, who answered on the second ring.

  “Jack, I am so ticked at the mayor. Guess what he did today.”

  “Watching the news is not healthy for you, Dad.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You sound like your mother.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For sounding like Mother.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  Jack sighed to himself. “Is she asleep?”

  “Is the pope Catholic?”

  “Dad, I have a serious issue here. Just listen a minute. Why do you let her rule the roost?”

  “Her? The pope is a woman?”

  Jack waited.

  “Okay, okay. Turning off the television and getting serious. Now, what’s on your mind, Son? I’m listening.”

  He couldn’t hold it in any longer and he couldn’t rearrange the words. “All at once I’m so angry at you, Dad. So angry. I needed a masculine voice when I was growing up and all I got—all I’ve still got—is her voice in my head.” His throat closed in. He loved his father. How could he even insinuate that he’d been let down by him?

  “I taug
ht you how to fish and golf.”

  “Dad, please. Don’t you get it?”

  “Nope. Try again.”

  “You let Mother rule the roost.”

  “Yeah, so? She was better equipped than I was to run things. More vocal about it. Smart as a whip. Kind of like Jill.”

  “Exactly. I married my mother.”

  “Son, that sounds a little sick.”

  “I mean Jill can talk me into anything, like Mother does with you.”

  “Nah. No comparison. You’re a different generation. In my day, husbands didn’t concern themselves with what wallpaper went up or who had the best deal on pork roast. We were all about making hay. What is it you’re mad about?”

  Jack’s frustration fizzled and he laughed. “I don’t know. Right now I’m feeling like I want to hear more from you. I wished I had all along.”

  “Well, thanks. Can’t say that I heard much from my own dad, you know. Now that I think about it, I guess I married my mother too. Mom was a strong woman who could single-handedly take care of her family and stand up to a drunken fool. Goodness, you don’t think history repeated itself?”

  “Dad, you never got drunk and you made a good living.”

  “Details aside, I’m sorry if I let you down in any way.”

  Jack smiled. “I know. I’m just venting. I want out of my marriage but I’m going about it all wrong. I don’t know the right way. There probably isn’t one, is there?”

  Charles cleared his throat, uncomfortable as usual when talk slanted toward heavy. “I’ve always loved and admired Jill. She is an honest-to-goodness honey. But I can see how she’d get you all twisted into knots.”

  “That about sums it up. Any pearls of wisdom? I’ve seen changes in how you are with Mother.”

  His dad barked a short laugh.

  “It’s true. You let her win the bickering contest more often.”

  “That’s because we live in this eight-by-twelve-foot hole in the wall, and I don’t have the office to go to and she doesn’t have her clubs to occupy her time.”