Sarah's Choice

by Rebecca St. James

  The two blue-haired women in the pew in front of them obviously didn’t share his take on it. They turned and looked at Justin and Denise with their lips drawstrung in. Beside him Sarah’s body got so tight he thought rigor mortis was setting in. Talk about your domino effect.

  “Mary said, ‘I am the Lord’s servant. May it be to me as you have said.’ What courage. What faith. She was going to obey the vision the Lord gave her regardless of the cost, because she knew God would keep his promise.”

  “Right,” Sarah whispered.

  Matt looked at her in time to see the smile evaporate.

  He sure wasn’t going to ask her why.

  Chapter Seven

  Sarah and Matt arrived at her mom’s house in Elmhurst just minutes after Denise and Justin pulled up in a van Matt said needed a tune-up, but Sean and Tim, who had ridden with “Nana,” were already into the party hats and noise makers. As if they needed noise makers.

  Sarah gladly slammed the door on the church compartment and opened the family one. This was where her mother was at her best—as long as she could keep those two drawers from opening at the same time.

  Sarah’s mother smiled beatifically at her grandsons and slid a clove-dotted ham into the oven, then rearranged one of the six nativity scenes the boys had apparently already been into. Somehow Oscar the Grouch had shoved the angel off the top and Cookie Monster was in the hay with the Baby Jesus, but Agnes just kept beaming with not a wisp of salt-and-pepper hair out of place.

  “You weren’t this patient when we were kids,” Sarah said to her.

  “I wasn’t a grandmother then.” Her voice rose, songlike. “The ham just has to heat through. You boys want a cookie to hold you over?”

  “Oh, that is exactly what they need,” Denise said.

  But she laughed. Sunny Denise always laughed when Sarah would have been wailing and gnashing her teeth. Right now she tossed her mass of butter-blonde hair over her shoulder and called to Justin, “Whose kids are these? Can you take over until their real parents get here?” She shook her head at Sarah. “Those poor people.”

  Justin, a stocky, honey-haired Chicago native with a deadpan face and effervescent eyes, put down his camera and lifted both boys away from the heaping plate of sugar cookies on the coffee table. He tossed Sean to Matt, who proceeded to fly the kid around the living room and turn him into a machine gun—all accompanied by Tim jumping on the antique loveseat wailing, “My turn! My turn!”

  “Did you girls see the table?” Mom called from the kitchen.

  Sarah peered into the dining room, although she knew what she’d see: every Christmas plate and felt-holly–covered napkin ring and angel candlestick holder that had been on the Collins’ table in this very room from December 1 until New Year’s Day since before Sarah was born. Denise, four years older, could attest to that. Until three years ago, Sarah had craved the sight of it. Since then, it had just seemed . . . forced, as if her mother were trying not to notice that something was so achingly missing.

  “Come taste this sauce,” Agnes sang out.

  Sarah pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen, where Denise was gazing into a bubbling casserole of cheesy potatoes. Sarah’s stomach announced it was not pleased at the prospect of eating those. At least her mom hadn’t gone with the marshmallow thing.

  “Here.” Agnes held out a spoon brimming with hollandaise, but Sarah shook her head.

  “I’ll wait until it’s on the asparagus.”

  “Pilot to bombardier—pilot to bombardier!”

  The other door swung open and Matt swooped into the kitchen. Tim shrieked, “Get Aunt Sarah!”—a command Matt followed without hesitation, vibrating the “machine gun” close to her face with green stuff dripping from its nose like melted birthday candles. “Got her!” Tim cried, and Matt whooshed them out the other door where Justin was poised to catch it on his Minolta.

  “Matt’s so good with kids.” Denise wiggled her eyebrows at Sarah.

  “Don’t go there.”

  “Where are we not going?”

  Sarah kissed her mother’s cheek. “Nowhere. Not with all this amazing food about to go on the table.”

  Her mother beamed even brighter, and Sarah felt a pang of guilt. It took so little to make her light up like that. Sarah would do it more often, if she didn’t always have to pick through a minefield to get there.

  “That ham should be done. Denise, would you check it?”

  Denise opened the oven and Sarah tried not to gag. If she got through this meal without at least one trip to the bathroom, it would be a bigger miracle than the loaves and the fishes.

  Ugh. Why had she thought of fish?

  Actually, she shouldn’t have worried. So much was going on at the table no one seemed to notice that she took half portions and basically just pushed everything around. Sean stole all the ham off Tim’s plate, which led to a reenactment of the Battle of the Bulge, and Matt got both of them going by showing them how to blow bubbles in their milk with a straw. Denise was still laughing when the froth spilled over onto the tablecloth, and Nana continued to smile like the Virgin Mary herself.

  “Welcome to my world,” Justin said to Sarah—and then joined in the competition. Give it two minutes and Matt would be laying bets.

  Sarah was grateful for the chaos so she could head for the kitchen and scrape her plate into the trash can. How she’d get through the birthday cake part she wasn’t sure.

  Justin brought out more party hats and horns that unfolded when you blew into them and made the obnoxious noises the boys obviously thought were as hilarious as burping. Denise produced the oversized sheet cake she’d baked, complete with fifty candles. Sarah’s father had always insisted on the correct number of candles.

  His last cake had had forty-seven.

  Sarah joined in the cacophonous singing of “Happy Birthday” with more zest than she felt, but it was too late. The vision of Dad was already there and it wasn’t going away. Him enthroned at the head of this very table, scalp hairless, face ashen, flesh sagging on his cheekbones, but his small, happy brown eyes shining with the hope they’d been given that once chemo was over, there was a chance he’d go into remission—that there would be more candles on birthday cakes to come.

  “Let me count,” he’d said that day. And made them wait while the wax spilled onto the frosting and he numbered every single one to make sure Agnes hadn’t cheated. Then with a rattled breath he attempted to blow out the tiny flames . . . and dissolved into bone-wracking coughs. Sarah leaned over his shoulder and puffed out the remaining forty. And wished from her very gut that she could breathe that air into him.

  “You okay, Sar?”

  Sarah opened her eyes at Matt, crouched beside her with his party hat posed rakishly on his curls.

  “As soon as the dishes are done,” she whispered, “let’s—”

  “Got it,” he said.

  When the presents were opened and the fifty candles were licked by little tongues and the ice cream was stowed back in the freezer before Matt could plop yet another scoop onto the boys’ plates, Denise and Sarah insisted their mother retire to the living room while they took care of the dishes. The quiet of running water and her sister’s unflappable voice settled both Sarah’s nerves and her stomach.

  “How do you stay so calm with all of that going on all the time?”

  Denise giggled like a tiny bell. “Getting worked up only escalates things. And I have Justin. He’s like a rock.”

  “Still . . .” Sarah stuffed the towel into a snowflake-etched glass and gave it a twist. “Do you ever wish you’d waited until you were a little better off financially before you had kids?”

  Another giggle. “Are you serious? Our civilization would have died off centuries ago if everybody waited until they could afford to have kids.”

  Sarah set the glass on its matching tray. “Well, I’m waiting.”

  “How does Matt feel about that? He looks like he could handle about four of them right n
ow.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Oh, come on. I see how you two are with each other. You’re not talking marriage yet?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Why not? He’s adorable.”

  “Because it takes more than ‘adorable’ to pay the bills. And besides, I’m not going to saddle him with all of mine.”

  Denise’s smile faded, and she kept her eyes on the dishwater. “You wouldn’t have bills if you hadn’t taken on—”

  “That was my choice, and I’m not backing out on it.”

  “We’re not as financially bad off as you think we are, Justin and I. We could help more.”

  “You’re making sure Mom gets her personal bills paid.”

  “But it’s her money.”

  “Look, you coming over here every single day to check her mail is huge.”

  Sarah didn’t add that doing that herself would qualify her for psychiatric treatment. It was hard to be snarky around Denise.

  It was also hard to bring up tough subjects. She focused on the next snowflake glass.

  “I hate to bring this up,” she said, “but somehow Mom saw an old bill for Dad that came through here. I don’t know why we both got it, but she was about to call them on her own.”

  Denise’s eyes widened. “I am so sorry. It must have gotten stuck in with some catalogs or something. I’m going to have to start going through everything page by page.”

  “Don’t even think about doing that. I’m just giving you a heads-up.”

  “I feel bad—”

  “Oh. My. Gosh. What is that?”

  “This?” Denise held up one of the small plates with the reindeer in the center, its face currently smeared with a gelatinous glob of everything that had been on the table. “It’s Sean’s version of a train wreck. Matt taught him how to do that at Thanksgiving.”

  “Excuse me,” Sarah said, and took off for the bathroom at a dead run.

  After that it was definitely time to go home. She pried Matt away from his sales pitch to Justin—who wouldn’t want to make money while talking on his cell phone?—and asked him to get the coats.

  “Sarah, you’re not leaving, honey?” Mom said.

  Sarah was sure her mother would have gotten up and dragged her bodily away from the door, but Tim was asleep in her lap in the kid-rocking chair, drooling on her embroidered Christmas sweater. Grandchildren apparently trumped everything. But that didn’t stop her from taking Sarah where she didn’t want to go.

  “Did you enjoy the service?”

  “It was fine, Mom.”

  “Then you should come to our Wednesday night Bible study.” She spoke as if Sarah had just gushed that the whole experience had been life-changing. “So many prayers have been answered.”

  “I don’t think so, Mom.” Sarah brushed her mother’s hair with her lips and took her coat from Matt.

  “But you’ve always loved Reverend Smith.” Agnes looked at Matt. “He was so good to us when Sarah’s father was sick—”

  “Bye, Mom.” Sarah took Matt’s arm. “Happy Birthday.”

  “You’re coming to decorate the tree, aren’t you? We can’t do it without you.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Friday,” Mom said, looking at Matt again. “I’m making a pot of vegetable soup. We always have that on tree-trimming night.”

  “Sounds awesome,” Matt said.

  Sarah nearly whimpered. To her mother, that was as good as an affirmative RSVP. In writing.

  “I’ll expect you then!”

  “Mom, if you wake that kid up I’m taking back your present,” Denise said.

  Sarah was grateful for the attempt on Denise’s part, but her mother was like a homing pigeon.

  “We’ll start at about six. Does that give you enough time after work?”

  Matt planted a smooch in the exact middle of Agnes’s forehead. “Now I know where Sarah gets her gift of persuasion. You’re irresistible.”

  Her mother was actually blushing as Sarah tugged Matt through the front hall and out the door.

  “You’re shameless,” she said as they hurried through the just-starting snow to the Camaro. “But thank you. Thank you for the whole day.”

  “Hey, when have I ever turned down ice cream and cake?”

  She tucked her hand into his. “I made you miss your football game.”

  “I’ve been following it.” Matt held up his cell. “Thank God for smart phones and a four-point spread.”

  “Could we not talk about God any more today? Please?”

  Matt grinned. “Then how about: thank the Steelers for the hundred bucks I just won.”

  “That’ll work,” Sarah said.

  Matt turned on the radio in the car so he wouldn’t miss the next game. Sarah didn’t ask if he had any money riding on this one. She was actually glad not to have to talk. It was going to take all the mental energy she had to get things back into their respective compartments.

  As usual, her mom had managed to bring up church again. But at least with Matt there she’d been able to avoid the usual dialogue, the one that went something like:

  AGNES: I don’t understand why you stopped going to church when you moved out.

  SARAH: Because I need some space, Mom.

  AGNES: You don’t need space from God, Sarah!

  (SARAH bites down on the inside of her cheek so she won’t say, “No, I need space from you!”)

  That wasn’t entirely true, though. It was space from her mother’s religion that Sarah wanted. Space from those people with the clichés they’d delivered with the casseroles when her father died.

  Macaroni and cheese and It was God’s will.

  Broccoli and chicken and Now Bill’s with God.

  Three-cheese lasagna and Aren’t you just grateful he was saved?

  Every time her mother started to weep in front of them, someone was tacitly designated to say, Agnes, be strong. Let your faith hold you up.

  Sarah recrossed her legs with a vengeance. Matt gave her an only slightly startled glance and went back to the Forty-Niners. Or was it the Raiders?

  Mom did stop crying. And the minute she did—the food stopped coming. Couples she and Dad used to spend time with stopped including her. Only the single women called, all with the goal of “getting her mind off of her grief.”

  Sarah tried to shove the rest of it into its mental drawer but as usual, it wouldn’t go. Every time it came out she had to wrestle with it. Let me get this straight: you just lost the absolute love of your life—you’re so vulnerable a cross-eyed look would knock you over—you’ve suffered from emotional instability in the past and you can’t work, so you’re living on disability, and the life insurance policy your husband left you has to be used to pay some of his medical bills, and you won’t get Social Security for another twelve years if there’s any left—and you’re supposed to help raise money for a mission in Haiti?

  Were they serious?

  Why weren’t they raising money to help her pay off what Dad’s insurance didn’t cover? Why didn’t anyone from the church ever come over and shovel the snow from her walkways? For that matter, why didn’t anybody just let the poor woman grieve?

  “What’s going on with you?”

  Sarah turned from the side window to look at Matt. They were at a stoplight and he had his head cocked at her. The lights from the sidewalk winked playfully across his face, but his eyes were serious.

  “Why?” Sarah said.

  “Because you look like you’re about to take somebody out.” His eyebrows came together. “It’s not me, is it? You want me to turn this off?”

  Sarah conjured up a nose wrinkle. “It’s not always about you,” she said, and pulled out a smile to go with it.

  Behind them a horn blared.

  “I’m drivin’ already,” Matt said into the rearview mirror. “Can’t you see we’re bonding here?”

  He grinned at Sarah and turned up the radio.

  He’d taken some of the fire out of her conve
rsation with herself, but a few flames still flickered.

  Like the one where that one woman—what was her name? the one with the endless supply of sweater sets—had the nerve to say to Sarah’s mother the Sunday after her father’s funeral that she hoped she could still count on Agnes to bake five dozen cupcakes for Vacation Bible School—that it would do her good to serve others. That from the woman who hadn’t so much as sent a sympathy card.

  The months of going to church with her mother so Agnes wouldn’t shatter into small pieces was one thing Sarah was glad to leave behind when she realized her living at home was costing her mother money she couldn’t afford and moved to the studio apartment. That was when she’d learned how to keep the angry things in little drawers so she could focus on moving forward.

  She just wished her mother would stop opening them.

  Chapter Eight

  By the time Sarah pulled into the parking garage the next morning, she’d arrived at an undeniable conclusion: her mother had not sneaked jalapeños into the scalloped potatoes.

  Yeah, well, duh. Two bouts of hanging over the toilet since she got up and one near miss when she wound up behind a delivery truck spewing out who knew what from its exhaust pipe? And on Day Four? That wasn’t like any virus she’d ever had.

  Through a tangled thread of thought, she had come to another conclusion. It had gone something like:

  This is worse than when I used to get sick with my period those first couple of years.

  And it’s not even time for my period.

  No, wait, maybe it is. I don’t exactly mark it on my calendar.

  So what’s it been since I had one? Six weeks? Longer?

  Before Halloween.

  Longer.

  She sat now with her head on the steering wheel and tried to snap off that thread. There was no way. Matt might be let’s-live-in-the-moment about everything else, but he was religious about using condoms. And they’d only been sleeping together for a couple of months. And . . .

  And oh, as her mother would say, holy bad word.

  Megan tapped on the passenger window and Sarah unlocked the door. She slipped into the seat beside her and said, “More jalapeños?”