The Face In The Mirror (32 page)

“Mona, I’m lost in wonder and hurt. You didn’t come on the cruise and you
haven’t called me. I called immediately, but you never returned my call. I don’t
know what to think. I wish you would let me know what’s happened. Talk to
me. I’m concerned.”

There was another hang-up and then the second message.

“Mona, I got your message, finally. Just to hear your sweet voice gave me
such peace. I am saddened to learn of your loss and I wish you could allow me
to be there with you, to give you the comfort you need.

“Mitchell, she saved his messages.”
“Go on,” he encouraged. The third message was a week later.

“I’m in Port and I wish you would call me back while I’m here. I was
disappointed when I returned and saw that you hadn’t called. I want to see
you; if I can’t, then I need to hear from you. Please.”

He called again the next day.

“I’m sad that I missed your call, once more. I’m leaving tomorrow, and then
I am taking an extra cruise for the week of Thanksgiving. Would you join
me? Call me and I’ll set it all up, all you need to do is call.”

The next message was eight days later.

“I keep waiting to hear from you. Mona, if all you’re looking for is
friendship then that’s what I will offer. Let me be your friend, but you have to
let me know. That fact that you aren’t returning my calls is killing me.
Selfishly, I am sad for me, but I’m worried about you. I’ll be out of range for a
few days, but if you leave a message I’ll call you as soon as I have a signal.”

“Mitchell, can you hear the sadness in his voice?”
He was quiet. I saw his clinched jaw, and the look on his face alarmed me.
“I can, Renee, and it hurts me to hear it. I know. I remember what that

feels like. I know that hurt when you reach out to someone you love and they
don’t respond. I know what it feels like to want to be with someone so bad that
you can’t think. You can’t sleep. You can’t eat. You can barely get out of bed. I
know what that feels like.”

He paused when he saw I was crying. I didn’t like when he called me
Renee. Renie was a term of endearment – it was special. When Mitchell said
Renee it was either something important or something that he didn’t like, and
this was the latter. This was him baring his soul, letting me really know how
very bad I’d hurt him. This conversation was deep, raw, and emotional for him.
He hadn’t really put it out there – not like this – until now.

“I don’t say this to rehash our past. I believe we’ve moved past it and I’m
glad, but I
know
that pain.”
“I’ve learned so much this last year, about me, about us. Mitchell, I
promise that I will never push you aside again. I’ve learned that you are
everything
to me, and I am nothing without you. I am whole again, because of
you.”
“Like peas and carrots,” he said in a very bad Forrest Gump voice. I know
he was trying to lighten the moment after his outburst.
“I love you, Mitchell Donovan,” I said and bowed my head. In that
moment, I didn’t know if I could look at him.
“I’m sorry about what I said. As we listened to the message, I suddenly
remembered my feelings of those first weeks after you left. It hurt like nothing
I can ever tell you. I can never put it into words to really explain it, but I
couldn’t make myself let you go. I love you that much, Renie.”
I turned to face him. I looked at the man before me, the man I loved.
Finally, he took the phone, turned it off, and put it aside. He took me in his
arms and whispered in my ear, “Come to bed with me. Renie.”
I rose from the sofa with him and put my arms around his neck. He lifted
me off the floor into his arms. I kissed him everywhere my lips could touch
him.
“I love you so much. I love ‘us’ even more, and like you, I can’t put into
words how much. Thank God for mulligans.”
“Thank God,” he repeated.
On Monday, Mitchell stopped on our way home and picked up the charger
he’d ordered, but the days were busy and the phone went untouched. I kept it
on, and plugged in – just in case.
Granny’s was hopping. We’d had a couple more spots on TV and a local
magazine did a full issue of “Who’s Best” and we were rated number one for
“Best Breakfast” and “Best Take-Out Food,” increasing our business even
more. The best take-out win shocked me - I guess we do provide take-out, I
just never thought of Convenient Cuisine being in the likes of Taco Bell and
McDonald’s.
We had three servers now, so that I could mingle, at Mitchell’s request. I
also hired someone else to help prep and pulled Cassie for office work - hers
and Granny’s. She was taking on some outside projects and I wanted her to
concentrate on that. I was on a mission to find and tweak recipes to keep our
selections fresh and new. I hired a cook to help with that, too. The only time I
really got to the stove any more was when Mitchell came for omelets, but that
was a labor of love.

I hadn’t heard a peep from my dad, and I was relieved. I didn’t want to go
through any of that with him again. If we were meant to figure it out, I prayed
that it would be a good, peaceful experience. Derek had called several times in
the last few days, always pleasant, always asking if there was anything I needed
help with. I felt sad that he realized too late that the ‘Big Guy’ wasn’t the best
guy. I prayed that no part of him followed in my dad’s footsteps. But anytime
our conversation leaned toward Dad I steered him away. I didn’t want to know.

n

I’d had a chance to throw a new recipe in the crockpot today and was
looking forward to giving it a try. In the truck on the way home I swear
Mitchell was slobbering at the aroma.

“Wow! What’s in this thing?” he asked as he carried it inside.
“It’s a Cuban recipe that I found. Cassie and I had a taste earlier and she’s
already gone ‘crazy-ass-brochure-woman’ on a description.” I paused a moment
and then said. “I know I’ve said this before, but I gotta tell you, I love her,
Mitchell.”
He set the crockpot on the counter. “Me too,” he said. “We need to have
another ‘family’ meal’. It’s been too long.”
I loved that idea. I had a love-family now. Not the one I was born to - this
was family that came together in kinship, not blood. “Soon,” I said.

We showered and then returned to the kitchen. Mitchell fixed a salad while
I threw one of the bags of yellow rice in the microwave to cook. 90 seconds
later, the beeping sound indicated that it was ready, and Mitchell was standing
behind me, like an anxious child, to see what his meal would be.

“Ready?” I asked, turning to look over my shoulder at him.

“For just about anything,” he laughed. He nuzzled my neck and pressed
closer and I felt him.
“Dinner first!” I teased. “I’m hungry!”
“Me, too,” he growled playfully.
I served the meal, and as we sat down to eat, Mitchell cupped his hand,
waving it quickly toward him to capture the aroma.
“I’m getting pretty good at this, so let me ponder a minute. Don’t tell.”
I waited, watching him, smiling as I did, at the man who sat across from
me. The man that I loved so much that it almost hurt. The man who’d believed
in my dream and supported me, and loved trying the recipes I tried.
“I know its hamburger, and I see green olives?”
“Yes.”
“Bell peppers, I see all the varieties, yes? Celery and onion – what do you
call that, the Trinity?” I nodded. “Tomatoes, and diced carrots, too.”
“I smell some chili-like seasoning and garlic. I can’t stand it any longer,” he
said and scooped up a big bite. He rolled his eyes back and I heard those
‘mmm’ sounds he made when he liked something. He opened his eyes and
smiled.
“Wow, Renie.”
“Picadillo. The recipe called for potatoes, but you know how I love yellow
rice. OK, ‘cuz I need to know. Would something like chuck roast be better
than hamburger? You know, the shredded type beef, and I think we could do
pork, too.”
“I think the beef and pork would be different, but not better. This is
incredible.”
“Cassie said we should come up with another idea or two for serving it and
send a double batch, two meals from one,” I said and he nodded. “We’re
working on an Italian meat sauce to try, too.”
“Good thinking. Now quit talking so I can enjoy this,” he grinned.
We cleaned up after the meal and made our way to the sofa to get back to
the phone. It had been a few days since we’d had a chance. We got
comfortable, sat back to listen, and I hit play. There was a hang-up and then
another message from the Captain.

“Since I’ve not heard from you, I’m taking a Mediterranean cruise for a
friend who is ill. It’s easier to get a relief captain here than it is there. I’ll be
out of the country for four-weeks. Service will be questionable, but I’ll check
messages often, and call you when I can. I hope to hear from you, Mona.”

A week later, there was another message - an emotional plea for her to
contact him.

“I am deeply saddened that I missed your call. I hope someday we actually
reach each other. Mona, you sound so blue. It breaks my heart. I am in range
for only a few hours, so please try me again. We will dock in Greece in two
days. If you’ll call me I’ll make arrangements to fly you here to join me. I want
to see you.”

Several days passed before he called her again. The timing of the call was
gut wrenching. We believed that she had called him the day before she died,
and his words lead us to think that she was finally reaching out to him.

But his return call was too late… the message came the day after she died.

“Oh, my dear Mona, your messages explaining your absence and your
sadness break my heart. I want to be there with you to give you the comfort and
love that you need. I can’t say that I’m sorry to hear this news about your
husband. I know that even though things weren’t good, it’s hard to move on,
but now, it’s your time. You are free from the chains that held you back.
Whether you choose friendship, or more with me, you are free to find what
you’ve been missing. I’ll be back in the states next Wednesday. I anxiously
await for your call.”

We listened to hang-ups or short messages asking her to call, until we got
to the last message he left just a few weeks before we found the phone.

“Mona, I’m not begging or pressuring you, but I am worried. I just know
something is wrong. Nothing from you in such a long time… no hang-ups, no
missed calls, nothing. Even a friend returns phone calls, and I know you well
enough to feel sure that you wouldn’t just disappear without a call. I fear
something is horribly wrong. I wish I knew how to reach Midge or Renee.
Please. Just a call to let me know you’re all right. I care, and I feel helpless.”

I rose from the sofa and began pacing. Mitchell was watching my struggle
as I decided what to do next, feeling somewhat helpless himself.
Finally, with trembling fingers, I picked up Mom’s secret phone and dialed.
It went to voicemail. I chose not to leave a message. The phone number would
let him know who called. I also figured it would cue him to return the call. I put
the phone on the coffee table and waited.
It was after ten and we were watching TV when the phone rang. My heart
was racing as I picked it up; I could barely catch my breath. Mitchell reached
for my hand and I flipped the phone open.
“Mona, finally,” he said and there was such relief in his voice that I felt sad
for him. “Finally. I’ve been frantic, worried, waiting to hear from you.”
“Captain, it’s Renee, Mona’s daughter,” I painfully croaked out the words.
There was awkward silence on the other end, and after a moment I said
what I needed to say. “I’m sorry to tell you that my mother passed away last
May.”
There was nothing but quiet for what seemed an eternity. “Captain?” I said
finally.
“But, how did you know about me?” he asked.
“Sir, it’s a really long story. If we could get together I’d like to sit down and
talk to you about that.”
He started to cry, and my heart broke all over again. Mitchell was squeezing
my hand so hard it hurt, but I never wanted him to let it go.
“I’d like it very much if we could meet, so that we might talk about my
mother.”
“We?” he asked and I smiled. I knew then that she’d told him about me
and was thinking I was single.
“My husband and I. I’ll explain when we meet,” I said, the smile still in my
voice. We made plans for him to come and before we hung up, I told him, “I’m
looking forward to meeting you.”

n

We wanted to read through the rest of the journal before the Captain came,
but it was so hard. Knowing these were her last words, and the sadness they
held was so emotional.

Her words were so sorrowful, writing that she wanted to talk to Robert,
but the timing was never in their favor. She wrote about hoping to see him
soon, and it brought me the relief and knowledge that she had not intentionally
taken her own life. She had felt hopeful.

The last words she wrote were the day she died.

Renee, my sweet Renee, I feel so alone this evening, so sadly alone. I know
you’re working. I wish I could know that you were with a man instead. I’ve
reached out to the Captain, but I haven’t been successful in my efforts. It seems as
though our stars are not aligned to be in the same galaxy at the same time. I
would love to hear his real voice instead of a message on my phone. He’s a good
man, Renee; I want to know him.

I feel so tired. I’ve been thinking about you and Mitchell this evening. I pulled
your wedding picture from the drawer to remind me how much you loved each
other.

Find him Renee.
I love you so much, and I want you to be happy. I know you and Mitchell
could be happy again.
As I read her last words, I cried just the same as when we read her first
ones.
n

As it drew nearer to our meeting with the Captain, the more anxious I
became. It was dread. It was fear. It was excitement.
I threw one of Mitchell’s favorite dinners in to cook that morning and we
were sitting on the patio enjoying the day when the doorbell rang.
“Here goes,” I said, and made my way to the door.
“Renee?” he asked as I opened it.
“Captain, please come in.”
“I’ve never seen a picture of you, but I believe I would have known you
anywhere. It’s the eyes. Not the same color, but you have her eyes.”
“What a lovely compliment, Captain.”
“Robert. Please call me Robert.” As he said the words, I remembered
reading the same in her journals.
“Robert, this is my husband, Mitchell Donavan.”
“But, I thought…”
“I know,” I interrupted him. “Mitchell is a gift that my mother’s passing
returned to me.”
“Sir,” Mitchell said, extending his hand. “Please come in. Have a seat.”
“I believe we only know you as ‘Captain’, and ‘Robert’,” I said.
“Murphy. Robert Murphy. A good Irish name like Donovan,” he smiled.
“It means ‘sea warrior’.”
“Donovan means ‘dark-haired’,” Mitchell said and laughed.
“I did not know this,” I replied and playfully ran my fingers through
Mitchell’s hair. “Your accent, sir?”
“Irish. Galway.” he replied. “I am still in shock, reeling over all of this. I
never had a chance to…” He hesitated. “What happened?” he asked, changing
the subject.
“Well,” I began…