A Sundog Moment Read online

  Coming back to the family room, she didn’t turn the lights on; instead she looked out over the darkness, seeing the line between night and the rolling body of water that never slept.

  Memories were washing over her and she could feel the past floating, just out of reach. Suddenly, a memory, unbidden and unwanted, vividly appeared. It was of a New Year’s Eve party at the company headquarters. They had danced and laughed, and then escaped into his office for privacy, to celebrate the new year alone. There was no place she wanted to be but in his arms; he was the half that made her whole—but now? It was just a memory, things had changed, she told herself, and then the tears started. There was no going back . . .

  Finally, there was nothing left; she was beyond tears. Elizabeth slumped against the sofa and wondered how she would ever endure.

  “Did they really take you to see the woman with no feet?” Carol was fascinated.

  Elizabeth shook her head. She was at Carol’s house because she had not wanted to walk into her empty home. Michael had called her early this morning to let her know when he would be home and not to do anything about dinner, he was taking care of everything. Elizabeth wanted to talk a little about yesterday.

  “No. It was the implication,” Elizabeth said, “but it sure put things into focus.”

  “Did she really look at you and say ‘Race you’ when you got to the door?”

  With a faint smile, Elizabeth nodded. “She cocked one crutch at the door as she said it.” Carol fell back against the chair, roaring with laughter.

  “What a hoot! I haven’t even met her, but I like this woman.” Carol cackled. “A Washington lobbyist and a college English professor? Here I thought ‘rivah’ country was made up of only ‘rivahnecks.’”

  “You’d be surprised,” Elizabeth said.

  There was a comfortable pause between them. Finally, Carol spoke. “Thank you for not blaming me. I had no idea . . .”

  Elizabeth shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Carol could tell she was very tired, and who could blame her? “Maybe you should go home and rest, or you could go upstairs and lie down in one of the bedrooms? Then you can tell me if you’ve come up with an answer to those questions that Ian guy asked.”

  Elizabeth responded with a tiny shake of her head. There was no more conversation until finally Elizabeth checked her watch, stood up, and said a brief good-bye.

  Back at home, Elizabeth entered her kitchen, surprised to find that the table was already set. Fresh roses perfumed the air, candles provided the only light. Michael met her and then lifted her hand to his mouth and lightly kissed it. Earnest eyes sought hers, his apology simple. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Beth. Please forgive me.”

  The dinner he provided that night came from one of their favorite restaurants. Crab bisque, blackened salmon with a fine, fresh salad on the side, and crusty rolls with sweet butter. White wine to sip along with the sparkling water freshened with slices of lemon. There was fresh fruit for dessert.

  Elizabeth sat down across from him and saw his face was anxious. After he had asked her forgiveness, the hug he gave her was long, as if he could press away the recent bad moments. “I missed you last night,” he said, looking down at her with a troubled face, kissing her cheek. “Here, sit down; let me do everything.”

  And he did. He had created a beautiful picture with enticing food. He had thought of everything that was tangible to please her.

  He kept a flow of conversation going about inconsequential things, smiling at her and touching her arm as he went back and forth from the counter or the oven, doing his best to make her understand how important she was to him.

  He was thoughtful and made a conscious effort not to notice the brace or the cane. It was that small thing, more than anything else, that caused her finally to relax and begin to enjoy herself. For the rest of the evening they let their feelings for each other overcome the hurts. They laughed over nothing and loved despite everything. That there was no resolution over what he had done created a mutually unspoken decision not to talk about it.

  They fell into this because neither one knew the right words to say. So they enjoyed the moment and each other and let the rest drift away with the scent of the flowers.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Father Joe!” Elizabeth embraced the priest. “Thank you for coming.” He stood inside the foyer, his cleric’s white collar and black shirt a nice foil for the dark brown sports jacket he wore. Elizabeth couldn’t help but notice that the navy shoes didn’t match. “How’s Estelle?” she asked.

  “Visiting her sister for a few days, so I’ve been on my own.” He followed her into the living room, saddened by the cane and at seeing her walk so stiff and slow. Elizabeth was grateful he didn’t try to take her arm and help.

  He already knew about the shoes, the leg brace, and the cane. He had been given the details of what had taken place by Virginia Mae, who had been to see him twice already. Virginia Mae was desperately worried about her daughter. And worried sick that Elizabeth would stay mad at her forever. There were times when Father Wells felt she wanted absolution. Just give her a penance to do, or even better yet, a dispensation, so she could get on with her life. She wasn’t Catholic, he pointed out during their last conversation, and her church didn’t work that way. Virginia Mae had fussed strongly about that, putting the blame squarely on Martin Luther and his Reformation. No, Father Wells had corrected her again, the Reformation wasn’t his, it was God’s.

  They sat and he turned to her. “I’m glad you called. I have also heard from your mother about what happened. She’s very upset. I know it’s a mess but, Elizabeth, remember: They did everything because they love you.” His eyes were focused on hers, warm and caring, and she vaguely wondered why Michael couldn’t look at her like that.

  “I know, but . . .” She waved a hand feebly. “Frankly, I wonder what their real motivation was—to make themselves feel better or to help me? Because it didn’t. They never asked, and I feel they went behind my back. Like they betrayed me.”

  He nodded. “It’s hard, I know. You are, all of you, in a new place, and no one knows how to act. That’s understandable. But I also understand that regardless of the way they made you feel, it is still your responsibility to forgive them.”

  She frowned. She didn’t feel forgiving. “How do I make them understand that as awful as these changes have been for them, it’s even harder on me? And all they seem to do is make it worse.”

  “I’m praying for all of you, but perhaps you need to pray together,” he suggested, but immediately she dismissed it. She didn’t think so. Michael was certainly a good man and did whatever was needed at the church and for people, but pray together?

  “From the time I was in the hospital over a year ago, I haven’t stopped praying, but . . . I’m not getting any answers. It’s like the phone in heaven is off the hook.” She sounded frayed.

  “I know that’s maybe how it seems, but He always answers. Oftentimes it may not be what we want, but there is always an answer.”

  She sighed. There was so much more. “The bigger question is, Why is this happening to me in the first place? I keep remembering when you and I talked about the sun dogs and faith. You mentioned Jacob wanting a blessing so much he was willing to fight God for it. And he was left lame for the rest of his life. Father Joe, I don’t want this—I don’t want to have to use this brace or cane for the rest of my life. I feel . . . caught.” Tears suddenly stung her eyes.

  This was always so hard, he knew—unwanted, unpleasant changes that couldn’t be controlled. It all hurt. “Of course you don’t want any of this,” he assured her. “None of us want the awful things, but they do happen. And by the way, don’t ever let anyone tell you this is your fault, that you did something wrong and you’re being punished for it.” He saw her surprise. “Oh, yes, there are plenty of Job’s friends still around, ready and eager to convince you God is punishing you. Nonsense. Nonsense! Bad things happen to wonderful people. The
difference between a believer and a nonbeliever is that God is faithful and will never leave you. You, Elizabeth Whittaker, have the company of heaven with you at all times. Believe it, because it is true.” His voice was pulpit loud, as if sound would strengthen the content. It didn’t.

  Her face froze. “You sound like you’re preaching.”

  Surprised, he stopped, then chuckled. “It gets my blood flowing, and I just can’t help it. Occupational hazard, I suppose.” He reached down and took some papers from his briefcase. “I won’t preach anymore, but I did bring you some things to read, some words I hope will be helpful.”

  She settled back against the couch, her chin propped up in her hand, watching him ruffle through the sheets of paper. “Always, when bad moments happen to faithful people, I’m reminded of what Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote when he was imprisoned by the Nazis. He later died in a concentration camp. His words speak to me about your desire for faith, as well as the situation you now find yourself in.” He cleared his throat. “He wrote that it is only by living completely in this world that one learns to have faith. To me that means fully immersing yourself in everything—the good and the bad. Find God in all of it by living unreservedly in life’s duties, problems, successes and failures, experiences and perplexities. In this way, we throw ourselves completely into the arms of God. That, I think, is faith . . . That is how one becomes a human being and a Christian.”

  He held out the small book to her. “His other writings might speak to you, also. And I have one other thing for you.”

  “What is it?” The wrenching fact Bonhoeffer was imprisoned in a concentration camp made her own problems shrivel by comparison. She suddenly remembered the woman with no feet, and a faint smile hovered in her eyes.

  “Lynne Sears Howard was one of my daughter’s best friends growing up. She was over at our house so much she became like a second daughter. Last week, my daughter sent me this. Lynne wrote it. They still remain in touch, though they live far apart. It turns out Lynne has been dealing with the same illness you have. Although she is about ten years younger, she has had it far longer. This is a very moving essay she wrote about life, her faith, and this disease. I would like very much to share this with you.”

  He held it out and she reached for it eagerly. Would things be clearer, she wondered, wanting so much for the confusion to be smoothed away and everything to be made crystal clear.

  “Can I read this while you’re here, or would you rather I do it later?” she asked, not wanting to be rude.

  “Read it now, Elizabeth. I’ll wait right here, make some notes on my sermon, and afterward we can talk.” He smiled. “I think you will find some comfort in her words. She has been right where you are.”

  It was titled “Life on the Edge.” An unusual title, Elizabeth thought.

  The children are visiting their grandmother, and I sit here in the silence of a rare, solitary afternoon pondering the randomness of life. Sun filters through white shades and softens the edges of some of the hardest memories that stain the past.

  Gingerly, peering over just a few at a time, I still feel traces of emotions shiver down my spine, and I am so grateful, so relieved to be merely looking back. Whatever the future holds can take care of itself. The present is the only thing that can actually touch me now.

  Still, as I gaze over my life, it’s not what I expected. This tapestry isn’t the disjointed patchwork of frayed and broken threads I supposed it would be.

  Instead, its form and depth show logic and meaning, with an almost mystical continuity.

  I know with certainty there was nothing I did to achieve this. I was simply a bystander, watching, waiting, utterly defenseless. My life has unfolded this way because I was forced down a path I never wanted to travel. Daily I am reminded how little command I have over my destiny. And yet something, somehow, is directing. I know it is nothing I did.

  When I was younger, control and career were the two things most important to me and, like most who don’t have years of experience to refute it, I was invincible.

  I was in charge, and I intended to have a brilliant career.

  Even during college days while studying for a journalism degree, the details of my future were hazy, like trying to squint past the sun. But it just didn’t matter. I was consumed with ambition and half-formed plans. As long as I raced forward, the dream and I would collide and happiness would be waiting.

  It didn’t work.

  Looking back in safety from this midway point, I wonder at my naïveté. Reality has stamped the years with such irony its flavor makes me flinch as much as it makes me laugh. It is so bittersweet its twang overwhelms at times, like fingernails scraping across a blackboard.

  Simultaneously, laughter is ever present and gurgles up with the force of a geyser because I know, I know I taste joy in depths far richer than I could ever have discovered on my own.

  If my vague plans had been fulfilled, there would have been neither room nor time for children. The saddest part is, I never would have known enough to miss them.

  All my haughty proclamations that started with “I will never . . .” have been raised up as demons that tweak me over and over then run off in riotous laughter.

  I was never going to be tied down in marriage.

  This is my second-plus decade of being wedded to a man whose name I have never shared, yet whose presence intensifies the good moments in unforgettable and countless ways. He remains steadfast despite the many, many bad moments, the wrenching tears, and ultimately the changes.

  Elizabeth stopped, seized by an emotion so virulent she couldn’t breathe. Without expression, she turned carefully to Father Joseph, who was engrossed in his own reading. She hesitated, unsure of what to do. She felt horrible and while she couldn’t understand it, she knew she needed to be alone. Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Do you mind if I read this later and call you? All of a sudden I’m feeling very, very tired. I think I need to rest.”

  Immediately, he stood up. “Of course, I’m sorry I tired you. Read it today, next week, whenever the mood strikes you. And call me anytime. We’ll talk, okay?”

  She nodded and began to stand up. “No, don’t get up, Elizabeth. I’ll see myself out. You just go on and rest,” he insisted. “I’ll talk with you very soon.” He made the sign of the cross and said with sincerity, “May God bless you as only He can do. Amen.”

  Within moments she was alone, but instead of going to her bedroom she went into the kitchen, fixed a cup of tea, and reread the last sentences.

  This is my second-plus decade of being wedded to a man whose name I have never shared, yet whose presence intensifies the good moments in unforgettable and countless ways. He remains steadfast despite the many, many bad moments, the wrenching tears, and ultimately the changes.

  Envy drowned her, its taste so bitter it took away all breath. A husband who remains steadfast! How? How had they accomplished that? And his presence intensified the good moments? Her stomach clenched. And they cried together?

  Elizabeth had cried alone last night. She had come to the end of the day overwhelmed by what she could not do. At the library where she volunteered, she had stumbled more than once, and everyone near had jumped to help—but she didn’t need it, didn’t want it, and felt horrible to be the recipient of not only helping arms and hands but also—pity.

  Michael was out of town, and within the safety and silence of her bedroom she had thrown the brace against the wall, angered at how much she needed it. After the awful day she had discovered too late that she couldn’t wear it with slippers. She had dissolved into tears and cried hard for a long, long time . . . alone.

  She couldn’t imagine crying in Michael’s arms. Instinctively, she knew he could never allow it; he’d be too busy trying to talk her out of it. Suddenly, crying in her husband’s arms seemed far too intimate.

  Thinking of that new couple she had just met, Adrienne and Ian Moore, she recalled a snippet of their conversation at the restaurant.

  �
�What did you do when you first heard the diagnosis?” Elizabeth asked, curious.

  Adrienne and Ian had looked at each other. “Cried our eyes out,” Adrienne said. Ian nodded, now, incredibly, smiling at the memory. “And after we finished getting each other’s shoulders wet, Adrienne promptly told me—”

  “You look like hell. Well, Ian, you did.” She turned to Elizabeth. “You should have seen him. His hair was sticking up on end, his face was blotched, and his nose was running.” She chuckled. “But to me, really, at that moment he looked like my white knight in shining armor, a rock in a sea of disaster. Of course, I would never tell him such a thing, it might cause him to get puffed up, you see.” She grinned, hearing his accompanying snort.

  These two had a closeness that seemed much like the one Lynne Sears Howard had with her husband. What was the secret? Elizabeth was desperate to know it.

  After another cup of tea, she had managed to compose herself enough to start reading again.

  I was never going to get sick; a chronic illness caught me nineteen years ago and never let go.

  I was never going to have children; my sons were both born the same October day four years apart.

  I never wanted anyone to support me because I was going to succeed, by my standards, and in the world I intended to conquer.

  Now if I make it through a day or perhaps a week without too many bruises or falls, without too much exhaustion, I have lived the true definition of the word success.

  Elizabeth shuddered. Was this what her life would be like? It was still too new to think in terms of living this way forever . . . but could it be possible? Surely her future wouldn’t darken . . . would it? Her eyes dropped to the next line.

  This bizarre, unpredictable illness has left invisible scars that have only in the last handful of years become noticeable. The limp. The balance that weaves and wavers like an autumn leaf caught in the wind. The visual impairments and sensory deficits. So much of it silent to others, yet so deafening and abrasive to me.