“I hate what’s happened, Kendy, hate it. But I love you.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I’ve concluded you’ve had every right to think I love my job more than I love you.”
This I wouldn’t listen to.
“Don’t, Luke. Don’t even think about taking any blame for this.”
“I’m not justifying what you’ve done. But I am saying I’ve made choices that have hurt you too.”
I closed my eyes and asked a silent question:
Did you leave
me for a snow globe world?
He stood up, scooted me over, and sat beside me on the lounger. “Now,” he said, “I’m going over to see Clay. I’m going to tell him you won’t be taking the third-grade job opening in his district, and I’m going to tell him why. Are you okay with that?”
“Yes. But what about Rebecca?”
“Rebecca’s working. This is between Clay and me.”
He was gone for over an hour, and when he returned, he began turning the study into a home office, and by Tuesday of the following week it was completed. That night he made love to me for the first time since my horrible confession, and when he did, he made it undeniably clear that I was his and he was mine.
He never told me what he and Clay said to each another. But Clay and Rebecca changed churches and had a series of obligations that kept them from the next few family gatherings. The following summer, however, Luke called and asked Clay and Rebecca to come to the party we were hosting for Miller and Anne’s fortieth anniversary. They shouldn’t miss that, he said.
We’ve had more than our share of happiness since the day he came home early and showed me restoration is possible not only with God but with mere mortals as well, at least with those who belong to and listen to and rely on God.
Did last night jeopardize restoration and the happiness that accompanies it? I hope we can survive Maisey’s pain and outrage.
The storm has subsided, for which I am grateful. I look at the clock, see it is midnight, plump my pillow, and roll over, determined to sleep.
I’m not making any progress when I hear a knock on the door.
“Kendy!”
I know that voice. He has braved the storm though he didn’t want me to. Throwing back the covers, I run to the door.
“Nice outfit,” Luke says when I let him in.
He’s carrying a small suitcase and an overnight bag. “I thought you might need some things.”
He has brought a nightgown, clean clothes for tomorrow, a hair dryer and straightening iron, and my makeup down to the three kinds of eye shadows I tend to use.
I tell him I’m thrilled with everything.
He picks me up and takes me to the bed, saying he has no idea why he bothered packing the nightgown.
Kendy
Fueled up and ready to go. That would be both the car and me.
I wanted to grab a cup of coffee and a doughnut at the convenience store where we got gas, but Luke insisted on a sit-down breakfast fit for two lumberjacks instead of two people marching down an aisle to give away a daughter tomorrow. Once the stack of buttermilk pancakes and three lovely strips of crisp bacon were placed in front of me, however, I put all hesitancy aside, drenched them in butter and syrup, and ate every bite. Luke said he was glad to see it. Both of us knew why: This day will require an inordinate amount of energy. For this same reason, he didn’t set the alarm last night, which allowed us to sleep much later than I intended.
We have just started for home in our separate vehicles when Paula calls at ten, saying she tried to time her call just right— after we had time to get ready and eat a decent breakfast, but before everyone began arriving. She tried the house for fifteen minutes before giving up and calling my cell.
“You had to call my cell,” I say, “because I’m almost two hours away from home. And I’m glad you called. Would you mind going over to the house to wait for any Blairs who show up early while Maisey retrieves Sarah from the airport?”
“Okay, what’s going on?” she says, sounding a tad miffed.
“Plenty,” I say.
“What?”
“You really don’t have to go to the house. I doubt Marcus went with Maisey to pick up Sarah; he probably hasn’t gone far. Besides, the Blair gang shouldn’t begin arriving before lunch; at least that’s the plan. And they won’t be at the house long. According to Luke, they’re dropping off a dog—long story— getting Marcus, and heading to the inn.”
“Where are you? This is just crazy.”
“You have no idea,” I say.
So as I-70 stretches out in front of me, I tell Paula about Mother and then give her a summarized version of what happened with Maisey. Several things that have upset Paula through the years should make a little more sense now.
“I can’t believe it,” she says.
“It’s really too horrible, Paula, to take understatement to the absurd.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I didn’t
have time.”
“Kendy, you had the five-hour trip to St. Louis and the three hours back to Effingham.”
“True. Maybe what I didn’t have was the wherewithal. The weather was horrendous on the trip home, which is why I stopped in Effingham, and as far as the drive
to
St. Louis—I was lost in a time warp. Since Wednesday night I think I’ve relived every traumatic experience I’ve had since birth—I even dragged my father into it before I was through. You know?”
“I can imagine. I wish you had called before you left yesterday so I could have gone with you.”
“I didn’t have time to think it through; I just had to get there. I think I needed to be alone for a while anyway. Besides, when Luke showed up last night, I was quite glad no one else was there. No offense.”
“Fortunately for you, I’m not easily offended.”
“Just one reason I love you so much.”
“So, what can I do to help you through this day?”
“Pray.”
“Count on it. What else?”
“That should do it.”
“Listen,” she says, “if you have time to kill before the rehearsal dinner, I’m there on the patio with my hat and sunglasses, soaking up some last-minute sun with you.”
She makes me smile.
After we disconnect, I call Mother. Phillip answers and says Mother’s doing fine. The doctors are in the room talking with her, so I ask Phillip to tell her I’ll be thinking of her even during the wedding rush and that I’ll be at her apartment Monday afternoon.
The one person I can’t call right now is Maisey. And while that makes me sad, I’m trying to remember that I have a lot to feel good about this morning: Paula is a friend who sticks closer than the brother or sister I never had; Mother is doing well, and a letter tucked in the outside pocket of my purse says in black-and-white that she loves me, that I am her
joy
, for goodness’ sake; and despite the convoy of semitrucks on the road today, I have a tenacious husband following me so closely I can see him, along with Maisey’s wedding dress, every time I look in my rearview mirror.
These things and almost nonstop prayers have given me courage. I need courage. Luke has talked to Maisey, and I’m glad, but now she and I must talk, and too many things can keep that from happening. I’m quite sure Maisey will jump at any chance to avoid speaking with me.
Dear God, that’s what she’s been doing for years, isn’t it?
And now, at long last, I finally know the real reason why. I’m not surprised Maisey blew up Wednesday night. Did we really expect her to come into my dark bedroom nine years ago, curl up beside me in my comatose state, and sweetly ask, “Why were you kissing Uncle Clay last week?” And when would have been a good time to say something? What words could she have used to tell me what she saw and how she felt about it?
She finally found some Wednesday night, didn’t she?
“I
hate
you!”
It is quite tempting to relegate to my subconscious her hurtful words and the look of contempt and rage on her beautiful face when she shrieked them at me. But I have no time for that. Instead I’ve been taking them out and looking at them from all angles. I’ve been asking God to help me think right.
I’ve been asking him to finally let me hear what has been so hard for my daughter to say.
Maisey
“Wake up—it’s your last full day to be Maisey Anne Laswell!”
I cannot believe it! Jackie has jumped into the middle of my bed, shouting this command with no restraint whatsoever.
Using both hands, I jerk the pillow from beneath my head and cover my face with it, a shield from her enthusiasm.
“Hey,” she says, grabbing the pillow and holding it out of my reach, “aren’t you glad to see me?”
“I can’t see
anything
,” I say, squinting in her direction. “What are you doing here?”
“I told you. We’re having a moment. One I didn’t exactly plan. But when I woke up this morning, I just knew I should get over here so we could have this special time together. After today, our lives will never be the same, Maize. That’s a big deal and—surprise, surprise—I’m aware of it!”
“How’d you get in here?”
“Well, your house is practically deserted. No one came to the door when I rang the bell, so I used the keypad on the garage to let myself in.”
Big mistake, giving her that code.
She jumps up and opens the blinds, flooding the room with light.
“Maybe you’d like to throw cold water on me while you’re at it,” I groan.
“Don’t even try to act like you’re not touched by this grand gesture,” she says.
The time for sleeping is beyond retrieving, so I get up to wash my face and brush my teeth. When I return to the bedroom, she is sitting on the bed, waiting impatiently for me. She wants to know what I did yesterday, and I join her on the bed, sitting cross-legged as I fill her in, leaving out the parts about my fight with everyone Wednesday night and the talks with Dad yesterday. But I do tell her about Gram’s heart attack and Mother’s being somewhere in Illinois with my dress.
“Wait a minute!” she says. “If your gram isn’t coming, does that mean my bedroom will be vacant tonight?”
I don’t follow.
“
My
bedroom,” she says, pointing across the landing.
“Oh, I guess it will.”
“So, Sarah and I can stay here instead of the apartment. Is that not perfect?”
Marcus comes through the open door then, looking as sleep-logged and dumbfounded as I must have looked when Jackie landed on my bed a few minutes earlier.
“Hey, big boy, don’t look so disappointed to see me,” Jackie says, glancing in his direction. “I know you didn’t come in here to spoil your record with only one night to go.”
I knock her off my bed.
Marcus helps her up, saying he is glad to see her and that I talk too much. Then the three of us traipse downstairs to find something to eat, surprised that Dad isn’t already stirring up something. The kitchen is eerily empty. “Where do you suppose Dad is?” I ask even as Marcus reaches for an envelope leaning against the bowl of lemons on the table. He hands it to me.
“This is becoming a habit,” I say. I read the short note aloud: “ ‘I’ve gone to be with your mom. We should be back by noon tomorrow. Have a good morning. Love you—Dad.’ ”
“Well, that’s good for your mom,” Jackie says, “but bad for us.”
“We’re college graduates,” Marcus says. “We’ll come up with something to eat.”
“No problem,” Jackie says, “Maisey’s a chef.”
Marcus looks at me. “True.”
Chef or no chef, I allow Marcus to fry the bacon, and that, along with cereal and fruit, constitutes breakfast. Then Marcus sends Jackie and me upstairs. “Chat,” he says, “while I clean the kitchen so well Kendy will think we went out for breakfast.”
Jackie and I have almost two hours together before I have to leave for the airport.
“Come with me,” I say as we stand by my car in the driveway.
“No can do,” Jackie says. “I have things to do. You’ve had a shower; I haven’t. I’ve got to do something with myself. One of my
good friends is having a wedding rehearsal and dinner tonight, you know.”
“Oh, well, get on it, then.”
“Besides, the drive from Indy may be the only time you have to spend with Sarah one-on-one.”
“You’re sweet,” I say. “Really sweet.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” she says, waving and heading for her car.
I get in my own car, thinking how glad I am Jackie showed up so early this morning. She startled me awake before the daisies around my window frame could mock me with their cheerfulness. Or worse, rebuke me with their mere presence.
“Here’s what I envision,” Mom said a month before my twelfth birthday. She had finished tucking me in, but instead of turning out the light, she had scooted me over to lie beside me.
To envision something sounded rather exciting.
I sat up and looked at her. “What?”
“We probably should have done it before now. Last year at least, when you started fifth grade.”
“What?”
She patted my pillow so I would lie down again. “Don’t you think it’s past time for the teddy bears to go?”
I’d always liked the border—groups of bears in their pastel frocks, dancing in a conga line. But I was rather tired of pink, and now that Mom mentioned it, I
was
ready for something more grown-up.
“So what do you ‘envision’?” I asked.
“Golden yellow walls,” she said. “
Maize
yellow, to be exact.”
“Like bananas?”
“Like the sun.”
“Like yield signs?”
“And the tassels topping a field of ripened corn.”
“And school buses.”
“Like the center of a daisy,” she said, kissing the tip of my nose.
With that one, she won.
“That, in fact, is part of my plan,” she said. “If you approve, of course.”
Several weeks later she had gathered everything she needed for the transformation. “It’ll be done for your birthday,” she said.
We moved the furniture to the center of the room, taped off the woodwork and ceiling, and laid down plastic tarps on the carpet. Mom did the bulk of the painting, especially the trim, but I rolled the middle of the walls, and we agreed the golden yellow paint was much more suitable than pink paint and teddy bears for a girl only one year away from becoming a teenager.