Sometimes a blessing is disguised as despair
present
Sometimes I drive to our old neighborhood. I never drive by the house Miranda and I owned. I go to the library and mill around. Or I sit in the park and watch toddlers feed stale bread to the birds. Or I go to the grocery store and buy a jar of pickles.
Today I’m doing all three because it makes me feel closer to my kids. I picture them so clearly in my mind when I’m in a familiar setting we used to go too often. I hit the library and park first, and I’m walking into the grocery store when a voice stops me, “Seamus? Seamus McIntyre?”
I turn and don’t recognize the woman staring at me until she smiles. It’s a smile that turns a puckered, sour, resting face into something friendly and warm. I nod. “Justine, it’s good to see you.” Justine was Miranda’s assistant for years. I talked to her a lot, mostly on the phone because she was the easiest way to relay messages to Miranda if I needed her while she was at work. Justine was audacious and outspoken, which is probably the reason she kept her job, Miranda recognized and liked another viper in the pit. The thing she failed to notice was that Justine had a heart behind the tough exterior. It wasn’t a soft, endearing heart that gained her friends and admirers; it was an honest heart that was selective about what, or whom, it showed concern. And that concern was hard-edged, sometimes hard to hear, but untouched by evil intent. She always asked me about the kids when I called. When I was diagnosed with MS, she fussed over me like a domineering mother during every conversation. And the last time I talked to her, the day after Miranda told me she was leaving me, Justine said, “Sometimes a blessing is disguised as despair.” I was shell shocked by Miranda’s announcement and didn’t give Justine’s words much thought, but they’re echoing profoundly from my memory now.
She shakes my hand. “It’s good to see you, too, Seamus.” It’s firm and professional, but she adds a pat on the back of my hand to soften it. I’ve always imagined the pat was her attempt at connection. Her no-nonsense temperament hinders physical interaction; it’s like a barrier to ward off the unwanted. Which makes the pat that much more genuine, because I have a feeling it’s hard for her to translate her heart into her actions. I think back to Faith alluding to growing up never being hugged. I wonder if that’s how Justine grew up too. “How are you holding up? You look like hell. Tired. You’re not taking care of yourself, are you?” There it is, the caring heart blended with no filter.
I shrug. I can’t lie to her. She can smell bullshit like a bloodhound.
She shakes her head. “How are the kids doing?”
“They live in Seattle with Miranda.” The words feel traitorous coming out.
She looks knocked for a loop; her face has never been one to hide a reaction. She blinks several times before her eyes go wide and she asks, “Pardon me?” The question isn’t asked to clarify the information I relayed; it’s an exclamation of shock.
I nod in agreement. “Yeah. She fabricated a nice little case against me and took my kids a few months ago. I haven’t seen them, and she barely lets me talk to them.” I swallow hard because I haven’t talked to anyone about this, except myself when I have too much to drink late at night.
Her eyes are still wide. “I could never understand why a man like you put up with a woman like her.”
“What do you mean?”
Her eyes have settled into the motherly expression she usually reserved for me. “You’re good. She’s not. Like water and oil, you never should’ve come together.”
“She did give me three beautiful kids.” I’m not defending her, not in the least, but it’s true.
She pulls both of her lips in between her teeth, and her eyes are looking just over my right shoulder like she’s thinking something over. Something important that she’s not sure she should share. When she meets my eyes again, her mouth is drawn into a hard line. “May I have your address, Seamus?”
My eyebrows draw together in confusion, and I question, “Why?”
There’s resolve in her eyes, but there’s sadness too. “I need to write you a letter,” she says it like it explains everything, so when I don’t react or answer, she continues, “There’s something you should know.”
I’m still confused, and I can’t deny the heat creeping through me, uneasy pulses generated by the twisting that’s begun in my stomach. “Tell me,” I urge her. My voice sounds stronger than I feel.
She shakes her head and the motherly smile returns, but it’s crestfallen and apologetic. “I can’t. My heart might be made of stone, but I have some compassion. This needs to be delivered in privacy, not standing in front of a grocery store for the world to see. You deserve that.”
“Tell me,” I plead again.
She takes a deep breath, and her lips drop into a frown that matches her eyes. “I don’t…” I think that’s where it’s going to end, but it doesn’t, “want to see your reaction. I don’t want to be the one who hurts you, Seamus.”
“But you’re just the bearer of bad news.”
“It doesn’t matter whether I’m the one who did the act, or I’m only the one informing you of the act—the bearer of bad news is always the unfortunate person to absorb the shockwave of intense emotion immediately after impact. I don’t do well with intense or emotion. I’m sorry, Seamus. May I have your address?”
I suddenly feel nauseous. I reach into my pocket and pull out a gas receipt, scrawl my address on the back, and hand it to her without another word.
She takes it from me, folds it precisely in half, sticks it in a pocket on her purse, and then extends her hand to me.
I take in the shake, hand pat and all. I know it’s an apology.
“Take care of yourself, Seamus. Your kids belong with you. See what can be done to make it happen. And have some faith.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t say anything. When her hands leave mine, she enters the store. I decide I feel too sick to look at pickles and turn around and walk to my car.
And I drive home and wait for a letter that I’m sure will break my heart.
Again.