nine

I’m ashamed to say I fell into the worst kind of female stereotype. Not only did I get up an hour earlier than necessary to carefully blow-dry and curl my hair, but I also wore completely impractical shoes and a silky jumpsuit that is far too dressy for the casual atmosphere at Grace Community.

So you can imagine how silly I felt when I found out that Cameron doesn’t come into the office on Wednesdays. At least not until six, when they have praise team practice.

Now my feet and my pride hurt. Worse, I can’t get it out of my head that I don’t know Cameron’s eye color and yet practically melted into Dillon’s. I examine every picture on the wall in the band room, but none of them gives me any clue. They’re either in black-and-white or Cameron has his eyes closed, lost in whatever private place he goes to when singing.

I run my finger along the glass, tracing the line of his cheek, until I realize that someone could easily walk in and catch me obsessing. I’ve done it once again—leapt from one crush right into another one. And worse, this one is wrong on so many levels that I can’t even list them all.

Frustrated, I grab my keys and lock the office door behind me. It’s close enough to lunch that I can leave without apology and hobble to my car, because two blisters have already formed on my big toes.

I looked up Serenity Hills Nursing Facility last night and discovered it’s only ten minutes from the church. Kicking off my shoes, I start the car, determined to do something positive with my day.

The words from the prayer request cascade through my mind as I drive, the details flashing as if on a TV screen. Sandra Cox, pulled from her home of fifty-five years, loves to read, thinks her daughter is a traitor.

At least I can relate to that last one. My own mother hasn’t spoken to me since I told her I was staying in Midlothian with Doreen. She thinks I’m picking sides when really I’m just trying to survive. And since neither of them will tell me exactly what the fight is about, it’s a little unfair to expect me to shut out the only stable person in my life right now. But Mom doesn’t listen and she doesn’t forgive . . . not even her only daughter.

I take my final turn into the parking lot and find an open space. The Serenity Hills Nursing Facility is actually pretty lovely, though smaller than I expected. The building is red brick trimmed with white wood, and despite it being the middle of winter, fresh mulch and bright green shrubbery line the entry. This place obviously keeps a paid landscaper.

The thought immediately jolts me, and I lean closer to the windshield, checking each side of the parking lot for the distinctive white Kyle truck and logo. My relief is almost enough to make me not cringe when I put my shoes back on. Almost.

I manage to make it down the sidewalk and into the building without painful tears but have every intention of begging for a couple of bandages. It is a medical facility, after all.

Or at least that’s what it looks like. A large nurses’ station is the first thing I see, beside two office doors marked Admissions. I force my feet to move until I can lean on the counter. A nurse looks up and smiles. Her canine teeth are crooked while all the others are straight and white. And while the wide smile might seem warm, the lack of makeup and glimmer of moisture in her eyes makes me wonder if she’s having the same kind of month I am.

“Hi, I’m here to see Sandra Cox. But first, would you happen to have some Band-Aids?”

Her brows move, and I can tell I’ve surprised her with the question.

“New shoes,” I say, and since she’s a woman, it’s all I need to say.

She stands and pulls a first-aid kit from the cabinet behind her. “Is there a special occasion?”

“Nope. Just trying to impress a guy.” I have no idea why I’m being so open and honest, but something about this woman reminds me of Doreen, though she’s probably only in her fifties.

“Were you successful?” She hands me three bandages, and I immediately go to work on my feet.

“Not at all,” I sigh. Destiny has given me a cold slap in the face. Whatever stupid romantic notions I dreamed up yesterday need to be crushed.

The nurse is back in her seat when I straighten, the pain substantially lessened now. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome. Sandra’s in room 205. It’s down the green hallway.”

“Green hallway?”

She points to her right, and I realize that once again I failed to notice the most obvious thing about the interior. The nurses’ station is a hexagon with four hallways, the entrance, and a large dining room feeding into it. Each hall is a different color: blue, green, yellow, and an orangey-red. It’s on the walls, the carpet, and even the room signs that jut out from the doorways.

“It helps the residents find their rooms easier,” she explains.

“Makes sense.” I point to Sandra’s hall and wish I could just once be a little normal. “Green, got it.”

I follow the carpet until Sandra’s room number appears and carefully knock on the door.

“Come in.” The voice is shaky and deep, but definitely feminine.

I step inside, only now considering that this woman doesn’t know me and I don’t know her, and explaining myself is going to be very interesting.

The room is single occupancy, with a small hospital bed on one side and a sitting room on the other. Sandra’s in a pink recliner with a blanket draped over her legs and a Velcro strap around her waist that appears to be hooked to some kind of machine. An alarm, I decide.

“Hi, Mrs. Cox, my name is Jan.” I consider mentioning the church, then decide not to. There’s probably some kind of protocol when visiting, and knowing my luck, I’m doing it all wrong. “I’m here to read to you for a little while.”

Sandra turns my direction, and while I can tell she has some vision, there’s a vacancy in her eyes that highlights her blindness. “Oh, how sweet. Please . . . please . . .” She reaches out her hand, wrinkled and trembling.

I see she wants me to take it, so I do. The skin is remarkably thin and soft, yet her grip is firm. She pulls me to the chair next to her.

“I’ve been ever so lonely,” she says, her hand still a vise on mine. “But I won’t be here too much longer. My daughter is coming to take me home any day now.”

I feel the same pressure in my chest that I did when I first read the prayer. I know Sandra isn’t going home but have no intention of saying so. “Do you have a favorite book?” I ask instead.

“Yes. My Bible. It’s in the nightstand by my bed.” Her voice turns more eager while dread layers mine.

“Your Bible? Isn’t there something else you’d rather read?”

“Oh no, dear. My Bible is first, then the other stuff.”

I stand and walk across the room, completely flabbergasted as to why this lady would continue to read her Bible when the God she prays to has allowed this to happen to her.

Still, I cater to her wishes and head for the large-print, leather-bound Bible she requested. It’s massive, a good four inches thick, the binding frayed from overuse. A few stray pages slip out as I carefully pick up the fragile copy. Returning to my seat, I cradle the book. I may be agnostic, but even I have some reverence for the Bible. Any book that can withstand so much scrutiny over thousands of years deserves a little respect.

“Okay, where do we start?” I ask.

“Luke. It’s my favorite.”

“Really? Why’s that?” I flip past a few silky pages and find the table of contents. It takes me toward the back.

“Because it’s all about forgiveness, and my heart doesn’t feel a whole lot of that right now.”

The comment is so similar to her daughter’s that I nearly reveal the reason I came. But for some reason, I feel this pressing on my throat to keep silent, so I do and instead turn to the first verse. “‘Many have undertaken to draw up an account of the things that have been fulfilled among us . . .’”

I’m actually a little disappointed when my phone dings that our time is up. We switched from the Bible to a fictional story about a young Egyptian girl who’s sold into slavery, and I’m right at the part where she meets her new master.

I set her e-book reader on the chair as I stand. “I’m afraid I have to get back to work, Mrs. Cox.”

“Will you come back soon?” She reaches out for my hand again, and I feel a surge of affection this time when I take it.

“Yes, ma’am. Tomorrow at the same time.”

She exhales and smiles. “You, my sweet Jan, are an answer to prayer.”

The words bring a scowl to my face. She’s the second person who’s said that to me this week and I don’t like it. “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. I’m just trying to do a little good in a very rough world.” And heck, if Mom is right about karma, it’s time to turn some of it into the positive.

“We don’t always know when God is using us, my child, but I guarantee He is.”

I pull my hand away. This is one side effect I hadn’t anticipated when taking the job. All these people ever talk about is God doing this and God doing that. Well, so far my life hasn’t exactly been roses and cupcakes, so even if I were to believe in their lunacy, I’d certainly have a few choice words to say to the man, none of which would include a thank you.

“You have a nice day, Mrs. Cox. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She’s still talking when I escape from the room. The air feels hot now and weighted, and all I want to do is get back in my car and drive and drive until the feeling goes away.

I make it down the hall and nearly to the exit when I see a flash of curly orange hair that’s too familiar to ignore. I press my back against the wall and slide out of sight. Ralph is here, and while my need to hide makes no sense, I want to shrink into the walls. Sandra Cox’s words burrowed under my skin, and now I feel as though my deception is plastered all over my face.

“You can’t just show up here, Ralph.” It’s from the nurse who gave me the bandages. The one who looked as distraught as I feel.

“What do you expect when you don’t answer my calls or my texts?”

“What’s the point? Nothing has changed. And I refuse to be second in your life. Not anymore.”

His sigh holds that same frustration I heard when he asked Eric for more help. “You know I can’t do what you’re asking. There’s expectations. My reputation to consider.”

“Is your reputation more important than me?” Her voice is so broken I know tears are coming, and I feel sick eavesdropping on their conversation. Sicker still that their back-and-forth sounds clandestine, especially since I know that Ralph is married.

I glance around for any sort of escape and realize the entrance to the women’s restroom is only inches away from me. I push through the door and immediately go for the sink, my stomach turning so hard I think I might start retching.

Ralph is a cheater. Just like my ex. And my three stepfathers.

Heck, just like every other man in this stupid, twisted world.

I turn on the faucet and am splashing cool water on my face when the bathroom door swings open. It’s the nurse, and there are tears streaked down her cheeks and red rims around her eyes. But none of the friendliness I felt toward her earlier is there. I want to yell at her, remind her that families are devastated when a partner strays. I know this truth far too intimately.

But I don’t say any of those things, just watch as she goes to the sink next to me and grips it like she might throw up.

“I saw you duck in here,” she says quietly, though her throat sounds constricted. “Thank you.” She looks at herself in the mirror. “Twenty-six years. You’d think I’d know by now that he will never change.”

Twenty-six years? My brain throbs as if it knows it’s missing something critically important. That’s when I catch her reflection and see the bright red nametag she’s been wearing all day. Victoria O’Neal. Ralph’s last name. Ralph’s wife.

He’s not cheating after all.

The responding relief makes no sense, but I want to crumple to the floor and burst into tears myself. I know I shouldn’t hold him to a higher standard for working at a church, but I do. Just like Cameron and Eric and even ultra-perceptive Margie. I want them to be better than the rest of the world. Need them to be.

Victoria is still looking at herself in the mirror when she says, “I left him a week ago. Packed a bag and went to stay with my sister. I thought it would wake him up.”

My head spins, yet so much of what I saw in Ralph now makes sense. The rumpled clothes, the frustrated, bottle-tight responses, the plea for Eric to give him some relief. That poor man is losing his wife. No wonder he seems ready to break down.

“Well, he did come here.” It’s the best I can offer without telling her I’m his temporary assistant. That would probably not go over too well at this point. “And from what I saw, he looked pretty upset.”

“Not enough to go to counseling. Or enough to work less, or even enough to do something as simple as bring me flowers.” She shakes her head again and looks back at the sink. I see another tear fall. “It’s just time to accept that we don’t know each other anymore. Not since our kids left.”

I don’t answer because I really have nothing more to offer. Longevity in relationships has never been something my mom or I have been able to achieve, whereas Victoria has over two decades of experience. But it does seem especially tragic that a marriage can sustain that much time and still fall apart.

“My mom’s been married four times. None of them to good guys.” I don’t know why I’m telling her this. I never talk about my mom, or my childhood for that matter. “If you’ve made it twenty-six years . . . I don’t know, but if it were me, I’d fight like hell to make it last.” I realize as soon as I speak that the h-e-l-l word isn’t really accepted in Christian circles. Or at least Doreen used to fuss at me when I’d use the term as a kid. Always cracked me up, because if she’d walked down the halls of my school and heard the language there, she’d probably go into cardiac arrest.

Victoria doesn’t seem to care about my terminology. She just keeps sniffling and looking down at the sink.

I don’t know what else to say, so I simply pass behind her and offer to give her some privacy. Doreen would have prayed for her. Would have held her hand and spoken some great wisdom or truth. I don’t have any of that to give; if I did, I wouldn’t be staying in a wedding cabin, licking wounds from one relationship while wearing completely ridiculous shoes for another one.

Suddenly everything about Cameron feels stupid and silly. We have nothing in common. And like Dillon so ineloquently pointed out, anything that does start will be based on a lie. Been there, done that, and it never ends well.

When I get to my car, I’m feeling more defeated than I have in days. If people like Ralph and Sandra, who have devoted their entire lives in service to their God, are struggling this much, how is there any hope for me?