Seasons Under Heaven (10 page)

“David, you’ve let me take the kids to church. You’ve even said it was good for them. Don’t start putting limits on that freedom now.”

He looked down at his feet. “Brenda, this is serious, what Joseph has. I don’t want anyone playing head games with him.”

“What do you want me to do, David?” she asked. “Prepare him to die?”

“No,” he bit out, his face reddening. “He’s
not
going to die. He’s going to be all right with this medication. You’ll see. With or without those people praying.”

She wept at the arrogance of that statement. Softening, David held her as she cried into his shirt, her eyes so raw and heavy that she knew sleep was nearby.

When David finally left, she made up the cot next to the bed and tried to sleep, but the sound of Joseph’s heart beating and stumbling, beating and stumbling, kept her awake. So she passed the time praying again for her little boy’s heart…and her beloved husband’s soul.

Cathy didn’t really know why she decided to take Sylvia up on her invitation to go to church Sunday morning. She supposed part of it had to do with the fact that her kids were going down the tubes. They needed some spiritual instruction. She had never been much for church herself. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in God. It was just that she couldn’t imagine why it was necessary to get up early on her only day off, don a dress and panty hose, and force her children to put on decent clothes and come to church with her.

That part had certainly been a challenge this morning. Annie had come out of her room looking like a runaway. Cathy had sent her back twice before she’d come out wearing anything remotely presentable—which had reminded Cathy that she hadn’t made it a priority to shop for dresses for Annie, except on the rare occasions when she had to wear them for a dance. And none of those dresses was appropriate for church. They’d finally settled on a skirt that was too short, and a hot pink blouse
that gave Cathy a headache. But it was the least offensive outfit Annie had come up with.

Mark and Rick had fought her tooth and nail about having to wear anything other than blue jeans, but she’d finally gotten them into khakis and dress shirts. When Mark came downstairs in filthy Nikes, she told him to go back up and change his shoes.

“I can’t, Mom. I don’t have any other shoes.”

“You have a pair of dress shoes, Mark. Now put them on.”

“You bought those last year! They don’t fit me anymore. What’s wrong with these?”

She looked helplessly down at Mark’s feet. “They’re dirty, and just not right for church. Are you sure the others don’t fit?”

“Positive, Mom. This is it.”

“All right,” she said, giving up. “Get in the car.”

They had argued all the way there that they didn’t know why she had to visit church on their weekend home, when she could just as easily have done it when they were with their dad.

“I want you to come,” she said. “I’m doing this as much for you as I am for myself.”

“Oh, so all of a sudden you think we’re heathens,” Annie said.

“Mom!” Mark shouted. “
I’m
not a heathen.”

“I don’t think any of you are heathens,” she returned. “It’s just that nice people go to church, and I want you to be nice people.”

“We can be nice people at home,” Rick complained. “Aren’t we nice people?”

His sister and brother agreed. Cathy couldn’t help laughing. “It’s not like I’m asking you to shave your heads. I just want you to go to Sunday school.”

“Sunday school? Come on, Mom!” Rick said. “We’re too old for Sunday school!”

“Is that so?” she asked, giving him a sideways glance. “I didn’t know there was an age limit in Sunday school.”

“So what are we supposed to do? Sit at a little desk and paste Bible verses on construction paper? Sing ‘Jesus Loves Me’?”

Had it been
that
long since she’d had her children in church? “I doubt very much that they still do that in your age-group.”

“Then what do they do?”

“They talk about God,” she said. “Believe it or not, it’s an important subject. You do believe in God, don’t you?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess.” That made her feel even more like a failure. “Look, Rick, I know I haven’t made church a priority in this family, but that doesn’t mean I can’t set things right now. I think it’s important that we all go to church.”

“Give me a break,” Annie said from the backseat.

She looked in her rearview mirror at her daughter’s scowl. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means the only reason you wanted to go to church today is that there’s a huge singles department at the Bryans’ church. You’re looking for a husband.”

“
What?
” Cathy gasped, appalled at how close to the truth Annie’s guess was. “Where do you get this stuff?”

“I hear things,” she said. “I happen to know that the Bryans’ church has one of the biggest, most active singles departments in the state, and they have it for all ages, even for older divorced people like you. And I’ve heard Miss Sylvia talk to you about it, so I know that’s why you want to go.”

“This may come as a huge surprise to you, my dear,” Cathy said sarcastically, “but it is not my aim in life to get tangled up with another man.”

Annie looked out the window. “I’m just saying that it’s a lot to put us through just for a date.”

Cathy had to hand it to her. Annie knew how to give her a one-two punch. “Look, we all need to go to church.” Her voice rose with each word. “So if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop complaining. Who knows? You may really like it.”

“Yeah, right,” Mark muttered.

As she drove, Cathy realized that there was a lot about the way she had raised her children she wished she could change. First and foremost, she wished she had started out making them
treat her with respect. Who would have dreamed when they were adoring toddlers that they’d ever turn on her this way? It was her own fault, she thought miserably. Now it was almost too late.

They pulled into the massive parking lot at the Bryans’ church, and she sat for a moment, looking at the crowded walkway that would take them across the street and into the huge building. “Look, kids, let’s just do our best not to embarrass each other, okay? I promise not to act like a floozy with the single men I encounter, if you promise you won’t act like little brats.”

None of the children said a word.

She got out of the car, and one by one they followed her, grudgingly, none of them walking together. They were a group of people who didn’t want to be seen with each other.

When they reached the visitors’ booth, she glanced back at her children to make sure they were put together properly.

“I hate being the new kid,” Mark said.

Personally, she didn’t mind being the new person, because she liked meeting new people. She just wondered if everyone in the Sunday school department would know instantly that she had come in hopes of meeting a decent man. If they did, was that punishable by death or eternal embarrassment? Would they all turn and look, point at her and hiss, like something out of
Invasion of the Body Snatchers?

She swallowed her anxiety and stepped up to the booth. As she did, she glanced at her watch. A little over two hours, and she could go home with her humiliated children and a clear conscience.

After a pleasant hour with other divorced men and women her age, Cathy rounded up her kids, and they sat with Sylvia and Harry during the worship service. The Bryans seemed proud that her family had agreed to join them for worship, though Cathy couldn’t imagine why. Mark scribbled a note on the church bulletin and tore it off, making a loud ripping noise
that caused the people in front of them to look over their shoulders. Cathy clamped Mark’s leg, warning him to be quiet. Mark passed the note to Rick, who passed it on to Annie. Cathy opened her own bulletin, found a blank space, and scribbled out, “Stop writing notes!” She started to tear it off, then stopped herself. Instead, she passed the whole bulletin down. By the time it got down to Rick and Annie, they were giggling quietly at the absurdity of her writing a note to tell them to stop writing notes.

She glanced at Sylvia and saw that she’d seen. Sylvia smiled, and Cathy wished she hadn’t come.

When the sermon was over and the choir director asked them to stand and sing hymn number 132, Mark muttered, “Stand up, sit down, fight-fight-fight.” Cathy had to admit that the constant standing baffled her. Why did they have to keep popping up like jack-in-the-boxes, just to sing a song? Couldn’t they sing it as well sitting down?

When the service was mercifully over, Cathy braced herself. She had made the mistake of raising her hand as a visitor, but she’d really had no choice, because Sylvia had been nudging her. Would she be greeted by a dozen well-meaning strangers before she could get to the door? Would they send someone to her home to talk to her about heaven and her responsibility to her children? If they did, she hoped they would call first so she could get the front room picked up.

She was on the way across the parking lot when she spotted one of the better-looking men in her Sunday school class heading toward her. She tried to look approachable.

“Hi, Cathy,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand. He was tall, blonde, and had intriguing brown eyes. “I’m Bill Blackburn. I didn’t get to meet you in Sunday school, but I’m glad you came. You from around here?”

“We live up on Survey Mountain,” she said.

“Nice area.”

“We like it. My next-door neighbor invited us to visit. Sylvia Bryan?”

He didn’t show any sign that he recognized the name. “Good, good. I’m outreach chairman of the Sunday school class you visited today,” he said. “Did you like it?”

“Sure, it was nice.” Behind Bill, Annie leaned against the car with her arms crossed and a smug I-told-you-so smile on her face. Cathy began digging into her purse for her keys.

“I heard you were a vet,” he said.

“That’s right.” She glanced at Mark and Rick over his shoulder, hovering behind him like judges, mentally recording the tangible proof that she had come here to meet men.

“Would you mind if I called you sometime?” he asked. “Maybe you’d like to go to the social with me this Saturday. We try to have one every weekend. I could introduce you around.”

She thought of telling him no just to shoot down her kids’ theories about her intentions, but she did want a life, and the kids needed to get used to it. “Maybe,” she said. She jotted her phone number on the bulletin, tore off a corner, and gave it to him. “Just call sometime this week and tell me more. It sounds fun.”

“Good,” he said. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You, too.”

He turned back to the children, eyed them one by one. “Greatlooking kids you got there,” he said, as if they couldn’t hear.

“Thank you,” she said.

When he’d gone, they got into the car one by one, and she cranked the engine. “So what do you think?” she asked.

“I think you dragged us here so you could meet men,” Annie said again.

Cathy pulled out of the parking lot. “I mean about your Sunday school class. Did you like it or not?”

“Not,” Annie said.

“How about you, Rick?” Cathy looked across at her big, lanky son. He had already put his Walkman headphones on and was listening, no doubt, to Jimi Hendrix. She gave up on him and glanced at Mark in the rearview mirror. “So Mark, how was yours?”

“Okay,” he said. “I knew a couple of people.”

She took that as a ringing endorsement. “Did you really?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Who?”

“Brad Lovell. He’s pretty cool.”

“And he goes to church,” she said. “Imagine that. So you’ll want to come back?”

“No,” he said. “Not unless I have to.”

She looked over her shoulder at Annie. “Did you know anybody?”

“Yes.” She looked out the window, uninterested in this conversation.

“Who?”

“Sharon Greer. I can’t stand her.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s after Allen Spreway. She used to date him, and she thinks he’s still hers. And she’s not a nice girl, Mom, but she sits up there in Sunday school answering all the questions with those hypocritical church answers that the teachers are looking for, and they’re like, so out of it, that they don’t know she’s a fraud.”

Cathy’s hopes wilted. “Anyone else?” she asked weakly.

“No, that was plenty.”

Cathy sighed and thought that maybe they were right. Maybe she needed to attend church on weekends when they were with their dad. She wasn’t sure all this pain was worth it.

Monday morning story hour at the local library was a blessing for Tory, and she never missed a session. Brittany and Spencer loved sitting at the feet of the grandma-like librarian in the children’s section and hearing picture books. Tory loved it because it allowed her time to linger alone in her favorite sections. For months, she had spent this time researching her book, reading countless articles on France, World War II, and the nurses and doctors who served in the war. Her head was a smorgasbord of little-known facts, enough to fill a dozen-novel saga.

Deciding that it was not research but motivation she needed today, she floated through the self-help section, searching for the perfect book to inspire greater progress toward her goals. She lingered over a book on personal organization—then realized that if someone could return to her all the hours she’d spent reading books on organizing, she would have written three novels by now.

She moved to the self-esteem section, with books running the gamut from knowing thyself to discovering past lives.
When nothing there appealed to her, she moved to the fiction section and scanned the spines for the names of her favorite authors. Someday, her name would be up here, she promised herself. Someday she would have a book that people would ask for in libraries and go into stores intending to buy. She pulled out a book, scanned the blurb on the back, decided against it, then pulled another one. When she had put that one back too, she looked up and noticed a display of brand-new novels. The name of one of her favorite authors caught her eye, so she crossed the room.

On the cover was a woman in a nurse’s uniform, and behind her were flames as if something had just been bombed. Frowning, Tory grabbed the book off the shelf and turned it over to read the blurb. “World War II…Annabelle Hopkins serving as a nurse. France…”

Tory heard a chuckle and looked up—a woman down the aisle was grinning at her. With a touch of embarrassment, Tory realized she’d been reading aloud. She looked at the woman with annoyance, then turned back to the book, whispering the words with a rush of dread. “Will Annabelle’s heart be forever buried with the soldier she loves—”

Her stomach plunged and her heart began to race. Her hands trembled as she bit out the rest: “—or will she find love again in the arms of Dr. Frank James?”

She thrust the book back onto the shelf and backed away as if it had burned her.

How could it be? How could this novel have the same plot she was trying to write—only this one was finished and published, and already a best-seller?

Her chest constricted into a tight fist, and a scream of rage rose up in her, though she knew she would never let it out. She grabbed the book again and began flipping through the pages. Yes, the story was similar to hers—but so much better. She turned page after page, searching for something to reassure her that she wasn’t wasting her time, that no one would even suspect the similarities between the two stories. Instead, as she
skimmed the pages, she became more and more convinced that this book would make hers seem like a rip-off.

Returning the book to the shelf, she backed against the bookshelf opposite it, closed her eyes, and began to cry. It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t had
time
to write her book, and now someone else had done it, someone with a famous name and a following of millions of devoted readers.

The door to the children’s room swung open and a dozen kids burst out, chattering with excitement. Her kids’ homing devices zeroed in on her immediately. Brittany looked up at her tears. “Whatsa matter, Mommy?” she asked loudly, and three mothers turned around to look.

“Nothing, honey,” Tory said, still shaking. “Come on, let’s go.”

“But can I get a book? Please?” Spencer was holding two huge hardback books that he’d grabbed off a table. One was a coffee-table book on antique cars. The other was a picture book about merry-go-rounds.

“No, honey, put them back.”

“But you said—”

“I didn’t say.”

“But we always—”

“Please, I’ve got to get out of here!” She wiped her eyes, and Brittany kept staring at her. She hated to cry in front of them. It wasn’t fair.

She put the books back, then escorted them to the car. They marched like little soldiers beside her, wondering what they had done to upset their mother now. There were no computers or horses close by, no Kool-Aid disasters, no cats in the tree…

She got them into the car, hooked their seat belts, slid behind the wheel, and peeled out of the parking lot.

“What is it, Mommy?” Brittany asked again in a small voice.

“Just something stupid,” she said.

“I like stupid things,” Spencer spouted, leaning up on her seat back.

“Spencer, hook your seat belt!”

“It is hooked. See?”

“Spencer, if you can sit on the edge of your seat, it’s not tight enough. And if you keep this up, I’m going to make you use the car seat again.”

Spencer moaned and sat back, and she heard him pulling it tighter.

“Mommy’s okay,” she said finally. “I just had a little surprise. See, the book I’m trying to write? Somebody’s already written it.”

In the rearview mirror, she saw that both children stared at her as if trying to figure that one out. What were they picturing? A balloon floating around in the air with a book’s worth of words in it, and the first one to let the air out got to publish it? She wished that was the case.

“It just makes me feel like my work is a waste of time,” she told them. “All the research I’ve done, and all the ways I’ve developed the characters. Finally, I’ve got three whole chapters, and what do you know? Somebody else has done it! So I guess I should just give up and get real. What do you think of that?”

The children seemed to consider it for a moment. Finally, Brittany spoke. “Can we go to McDonald’s?”

Tory shoved her sunglasses on, hoping to hide the tears. She thought about Brittany’s innocent, selfish request. Did she really want to go home, fix them tuna sandwiches, and look at that mocking computer screen with her three pathetic little chapters? “Yes,” she said. “We’ll go to McDonald’s.”

The children cheered.

They went to the McDonald’s with the playground in the front. And as the children bounced around on the balls and in the tunnels, Tory sat on a bench wondering why she’d ever thought she could be a writer in the first place.