4

 

 

Scott stood at the window of his mother’s guest room and clenched his right hand into a fist. Neither the view of the colorful garden his mom tended with such care nor the brilliant light on this May Saturday penetrated the darkness within him that had stolen his appetite, his energy, his interest in life. Every day was the same. Get up. Get dressed. Sit around his room. Go to bed. Memorize the ceiling.

What was the point of it all?

He fingered the dog-eared paper in his pocket. The one he’d been carrying around since his last trip to St. Louis.

Should he give the shrink a call?

But the man couldn’t bring back his friends or his career. Nor erase the fact that his years of training and practice and work had been wiped out in an instant by a truck driver who had fallen asleep at the wheel.

All the psychologist could do was listen as he vented his rage and frustration and despair.

Why pay big bucks for a sounding board?

Lifting his left hand, he examined the once-nimble fingers, now stiff and numb. He’d done all the exercises, but there’d been minuscule improvement. At this pace, it would take years for full function to return—and until it did, performing was out of the question.

In the meantime, what was he supposed to do?

He didn’t have a clue.

“Scott?” His mother’s muted query came through the door. “Everything okay?”

“Yes.” A lie—but why should they both be depressed?

“May I come in?”

No. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

But if he refused to talk to her, she’d worry more.

Psyching himself up for a pep talk, he pivoted. “Yes.”

The door opened, and Dorothy entered. “It’s a beautiful day out. Perfect for a walk.”

Another plea for exercise, thanks to that library book about depression he’d stumbled across in a kitchen drawer. Physical activ­ity had been near the top of the “helpful suggestions” list. She’d stuck a slip of paper on that page to mark the spot.

“I’ll think about it.”

She hesitated, but to his relief she didn’t push. “I left salad and a piece of quiche in the fridge for your lunch. I also made those chocolate chip pecan cookies you like.”

“Thanks, Mom.” A healthy diet and regular eating schedule had been on the list too.

“I’m going to run a casserole over to the Ramseys’. Their son was injured in March, and it’s been rough for the whole family. I’m also going to pay a call on Margaret Montgomery from church. She had a stroke last month. Do you want to ride along? It might be beneficial to get out of the house for a while.”

The names of her friends meant nothing to him, and he had zero interest in venturing back into the world. Or hearing about other people’s problems.

“No.”

Instead of responding, she walked into the room and leaned over to kiss his forehead.

At close proximity, he could see new, fine lines on her once-smooth skin—put there by him, no doubt—and guilt gnawed at his conscience. He ought to expend some effort for her sake, if nothing else.

“I may take that walk instead.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Despite her upbeat tone, the strain around her mouth didn’t ease much. “I also wanted to let you know we’re having a social after services tomorrow. You’d be welcome to come.”

Making some concessions to please his mother was one thing. Going back to church was another. “I don’t think I’m ready yet to be around a bunch of people.” Or anywhere close to the God who abandoned me.

Based on the flicker of pain in her eyes, it was almost as if she’d heard his unspoken thought. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.” She touched his arm and exited.

A few minutes later, Scott heard the automatic garage door kick into gear as his mother pulled out. It rumbled again as she closed it. Then the house fell silent.

Summoning up the reserves of his ebbing energy, Scott leaned sideways to close the mini blinds and shut out the sunshine that often triggered headaches.

Darkness better suited his mood, anyway.

As the room grew dim, the outlines of the furniture became indistinct. Vision hazy, he shuffled to the bed and stretched out. Not that he held out much hope of sleep, thanks to the insomnia that continued to plague him—one more invisible aftereffect from the accident. Yet how he craved the blackness of slumber, where he could escape from the torment of his memories.

In fact, blackness in general held a certain appeal. A promise of release that beckoned to him. Tempted him.

But that decision was so final…

No.

He wasn’t ready to take that step.

Yet.

 

* * *

 

“You must be Val. I’m Dorothy Walker, from church. I stopped in to see how your mother is doing.”

As the jeans-clad, salt-and-pepper-haired woman on the other side of the door smiled, Val extended her hand. “Nice to meet you. Won’t you come in?”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“To be honest, I’d appreciate the company. I haven’t had a chance to talk with anyone but Mom in the past few days. I know she’d enjoy a visitor too.” A definite stretch. Her mother wasn’t the most amiable person even on her better days. But it wouldn’t hurt her to practice her social graces once in a while. “She should be getting up from her nap soon.”

“In that case, I’ll stay for a few minutes.” Dorothy held out a bou­quet of roses, peonies, and daylilies. “I thought Margaret might enjoy these. They’re from my garden.”

“Those are gorgeous!” Val took the tissue-wrapped blossoms and motioned the older woman into the living room. Lifting the flowers, she inhaled an old-fashioned, heady scent that evoked images of white picket fences and garden parties and lazy sum­mer afternoons. Of an era when the pace of life was slower, and neighbors met for lemonade and a chat on wide front porches. Of a time when families sat in the deepening dusk of a garden, sharing laughter and stories as the fireflies flickered to life.

A time she’d never known but had always longed to experience.

Somehow she managed to hang on to her smile. “Have a seat while I find a vase. Can I get you a soft drink or some iced tea?”

“No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

It took Val a few minutes to scrounge up a suitable container from the recesses of her mother’s pantry. Rejoining Dorothy, she placed the bouquet on the coffee table. “You must have quite a garden.”

“It’s lovely, if I do say so myself—and digging in the soil, watching plants grow and flourish…it soothes my soul.” She plumped a cushion into a more comfortable position on the rigid sofa. “Are you a gar­dener?”

Val perched on the arm of a chair. “No. I live in a high-rise condo in Chicago. My horticultural efforts are confined to growing a few herbs in pots. But I know what you mean about finding satisfaction in helping things grow. I teach drama at a high school, and working with young people, watching them develop, is gratifying.”

“I’ve heard Margaret talk about her theatrical daughter, but I didn’t realize you were a teacher.”

No surprise there. Her mother had always been more impressed by her stage work than her teaching. “You said you know Mom from church?”

“Yes. My husband and I relocated to Washington three years ago, after he retired, and we joined the congregation. It’s a very close-knit faith community, and I feel guilty it’s taken me this long to get over to see your mother.”

“People lead busy lives these days.”

“I’m afraid mine’s been busier than usual in recent weeks. My son was in a serious car accident a few weeks ago, and he’s come home to recover. It would be easier to deal with if my husband was here to provide moral support, but he died two years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. We all have our crosses to bear. Fortunately, God walks with us on our journey.”

As Val tried to think of a diplomatic response, her mother’s strident voice rang through the house.

“Val? I’m ready to get up.”

Saved by the yell.

“Coming, Mom.” She rose. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll bring Mom out for a visit. Do you mind waiting?”

“Not at all.”

As Val had suspected, however, Margaret wasn’t the least bit happy about entertaining an uninvited guest.

“I look a sight.” Margaret peered into the mirror over her dresser and patted her hair, twin crevices carved in her brow. “You’d think a person would call first rather than drop in unexpectedly if some­one is ill.”

“I think it was very thoughtful.” Val handed Margaret her cane.

“That’s because good manners are about as rare today as piecrust made with lard—and the world is a worse place as a result.”

“But much healthier.”

“Also less tasty.” Margaret smoothed a hand over her skirt and took her arm. “We may as well get this over with.”

As Val helped her mother into the living room, Dorothy rose and held out her hands. “Margaret, it’s wonderful to see you.”

Her mother extended her functional hand in an excellent imitation of a queen condescending to meet with a peasant. “Thank you.”

“Dorothy brought you some beautiful flowers.” Val motioned to the coffee table.

Margaret adjusted her glasses and scrutinized the table. “You better put a saucer under that vase. I don’t want it to leave a water ring.”

So much for graciousness.

“It’s dry.” She nudged her mother. “Aren’t they lovely?”

Margaret bristled but got the hint. “Very pretty. You always were quite the gardener, Dorothy—though all the effort it requires seems a waste for such a brief return.”

“But the flowers give such pleasure while they’re here.” Dorothy’s upbeat attitude didn’t flag. “I’m glad to see you looking well.”

As Margaret gave a long-suffering sigh, Val decided her mother was the family member with the real dramatic talent. “I suppose I’m improving, but illness is a trial.”

“That’s true. On the plus side, you’re blessed to have such attentive care from your two daughters.”

“Yes, well, families should help each other.”

“I agree—but young people are busy these days.”

“I know. I don’t see much of Karen now that Val is here.”

Val resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Leave it to her mother to gloss over all the years of Karen’s diligent care.

The chime of the doorbell interrupted the conversation, and Val helped Margaret into a chair. “I’ll get it.”

Glancing out the sidelight as she released the lock, she throttled back a chuckle.

Perfect timing.

She called toward the living room as she opened the door. “Guess who’s here, Mom?”

Karen walked in, several packages tucked in one arm, a load of clothing in clear plastic dry cleaning bags draped over the other.

“Why, Karen, your ears must be burning. We’ve been talking about you.” Dorothy gave her a sunny smile.

A ruddy hue suffused Margaret’s cheeks, but she masked her chagrin with annoyance. “Why aren’t you at the office? You always work the last Saturday of the month for closure, or whatever you call it?”

Karen arched an eyebrow at Val.

“Mom was saying how she hasn’t seen much of you lately.” Val did her best to tamp down the curve of her lips.

Understanding dawned in Karen’s eyes. “We finished the closing early, so I stopped to get your prescription and a few other odds and ends on your list on my drive home. I also picked up the clothes you left at the cleaner before your stroke. I thought I’d save Val a trip.”

“Hmph.” Her mother inspected Karen. “I see you still have that pink blouse. It’s not your color, you know. You ought to get rid of it. Too bad some of Val’s style sense didn’t rub off on you.”

A few seconds of awkward silence crawled by, and Dorothy tapped her watch. “I’m afraid I have to be running along—but I must say I wish I was staying for dinner. Whatever you’re cooking smells delicious.”

Margaret sniffed and sent Val a suspicious look. “What is that?”

“Ratatouille.”

“Rat a what?”

“Ratatouille. It’s a vegetarian dish made with eggplant, toma­toes, green peppers, and squash—you’ll love it.”

“More health food.”

“It’s good for you.”

“But I’m losing weight.”

“Also good for you.”

“As far as I’m concerned, you could take a few culinary lessons from your sister. She knows how to cook real food.”

Dorothy picked up her purse. “Well, I’d better be going. I’m also stopping at the Ramseys’ to drop off a pan of lasagna.”

In light of all the negativity pinging around the room, Val didn’t blame their guest for wanting to escape.

Too bad she couldn’t join her.

“Lasagna. Now that’s real food.” Margaret directed the com­ment toward her unappreciated chef.

Dorothy jumped in, saving her from having to respond. “I make it with turkey.”

Shock flattened Margaret’s features. “You put turkey in lasagna?”

“You can’t tell the difference, and it’s much healthier than ground beef.”

For once, Margaret was speechless.

Val was tempted to give their guest a high five.

“How’s your son doing, Dorothy?” Karen draped the clothing over the back of a wing chair.

A shadow seemed to pass over the older woman. “Thank you for asking. It’s been tough for him. His physical progress is slow, and the accident left invisible scars I suspect will take even longer to heal.”

“I’ll keep him in my prayers.”

“Maybe we’ll see him at church.” Margaret folded her hands in her lap—meaning she was about to issue one of her platitudes. “The Lord gives great comfort in periods of trial.”

“Yes, he does.” Dorothy pulled her keys out of her purse.

Margaret transferred her attention to Karen. “Are you planning to go with me next Wednesday to that travelogue Mary Nissan is doing at the library, about her trip to Africa? I have to call in a reservation.”

“No, Mom. I have choir practice that night, remember?”

She gave a dismissive wave. “I don’t know why you bother. Val got all the vocal talent in the family. I’m sure you wouldn’t be missed if you took the night off to spend a few hours with your mother.”

A flush rose on Karen’s cheeks, and Val’s blood pressure spiked. That crack had been downright mean.

Before she could spit out the retort poised on the tip of her tongue, Karen spoke. “My Wednesdays may soon open up. Marilyn told us at the last practice that her husband has been transferred. They’re leaving in two weeks.”

“Really?” Dorothy’s eyebrows rose. “I hadn’t heard that.”

“There hasn’t been an official announcement yet. I think Reverend Richards is planning to let everyone know at services tomorrow.”

“Does he have anyone in mind for the music director job?”

“Not that I know of.”

“I hope he finds a replacement soon.” Margaret leaned over to the coffee table and wiped up a nonexistent speck of water with a tissue from her pocket. “Services won’t be the same without music.”

“That’s true.” Dorothy stood.

Val took the hint, accompanying the woman to the foyer as she fought the temptation to walk Dorothy to her car—and keep walking.

“I’ll keep you on my prayer list.” Dorothy paused on the thresh­old and spoke once more to Margaret.

“Thank you. I can always use a prayer or two.”

Amen to that.

And as Val closed the door behind their guest, she hoped God was in an answering mood.

 

* * *

 

At the sound of a key in the kitchen door, Scott set his empty water glass on the counter and swiveled around to greet his mother. “You’re late. I was getting worried.”

Dorothy closed the door behind her, crossed the room, and dropped her purse on the table. “I stayed to talk with Reverend Richards after the service. Did you eat any­thing yet?”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“Could I tempt you with some pancakes? Remember how we used to have them every Sunday after church?”

“Sure. That would be fine.” Though he tried to put some en­thusiasm in his voice, the reply came out flat.

She opened a drawer and withdrew a mixing spoon. Dropped it on the floor. A moment later, a plastic bowl met the same fate.

At her uncharacteristic jumpiness, Scott frowned. “Is every­thing all right?”

“Of course.”

“You seem on edge.”

She measured the flour. “I suppose it’s related to my conversa­tion with Reverend Richards. You’d like him, Scott. His sermons always offer practical advice about how to put faith to work in everyday life.”

“What did you two talk about?” Scott homed in on her first comment and dismissed the rest as he began to set the table.

For a brief second his mother’s hands stilled. Then she resumed beating the eggs she’d cracked into a bowl. “You.”

He froze. “What about me?”

“About how you’d be the perfect temporary replacement for our music director, who had to resign without much warning.” She said the sentence fast, in one rush of breath.

Scott tried to digest that as she added milk to the mix and stirred with more force than necessary. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“I’m dead serious. He is too. The job is yours if you want it.” She cut a slab of butter to melt on the griddle.

“I’m not ready to go back to work yet.”

“It’s not like digging ditches. I doubt your doctors would have any issue with this, but you could discuss it with them if you’re concerned.”

“Doesn’t the music director have to play the organ?”

The griddle was beginning to sizzle, and Dorothy spooned batter onto the surface. “We have a piano, not an organ.”

“Fine. A piano.”

“Yes—and direct the choir.”

“What about my hand? The one that doesn’t work right, re­member? I can’t play the piano.”

“I’ll bet you play better with one hand than most people do with two. You were always excellent on the keyboard. The congregation won’t expect concert quality, and it’s possible playing would help restore some dexterity to your fingers.”

A one-handed church music director—who didn’t attend church.

The whole notion was ludicrous.

“Does your pastor know I’m not the most religious guy around?”

“I discussed it with him.” Dorothy flipped the pancakes. “He said the Bible is filled with stories about how the Lord sought out those who had fallen away.”

Checkmate.

But while that description fit him to a T, he had no interest in being a music director.

“It wouldn’t work out, Mom.” He placed the utensils on the table and retrieved the orange juice from the fridge. “Besides, I’m not ready for anything like that.”

“In that case, consider it from a practical perspective.” She slid the pancakes onto plates and joined him at the table.

“What do you mean?” He upended the syrup container and squirted a generous amount on top of his pancakes.

“The job will provide some income until you decide what you want to do. I know the truck driver’s insurance company is taking care of all your medical bills, but some discretionary income couldn’t hurt.”

That was a harder argument to fight. He’d managed to pay all his bills and put a bit of money aside playing full-time, but music wasn’t the kind of career that made you rich unless you hit it big. His meager savings were already taking a hit.

Only the faint ticktock of the clock on the wall broke the silence as he watched the widening pool of syrup expand to the edge of his golden pancakes and drip over the sides. His mother had always made excellent pancakes—and given excellent advice. Often over meals like this one.

The truth was, he could use the money—and after all her sup­port, it wouldn’t kill him to agree to take the job if it made her happy.

He raised his head to find her watching him, her own food untouched.

“I suppose I can fill in until they find someone else.”

Her sigh of relief was gratifying…but it didn’t counter the sudden panic that swept over him.

Despite her encouragement, he wasn’t ready to venture back into the world yet. To interact with people. To act as if everything was normal when it wasn’t, and never would be again.

But she’d pushed him into a corner.

And he couldn’t think of an excuse to back out.