Four

Life must be lived forwards, but it can be
understood only backwards.

—Sren Kierkegaard

Monday was a day when nothing was going my way. I had scheduled an early meeting with one of my more important clients and was rushing out the door when Kate reminded me I’d promised to drop Hannah off at school that morning. Kate had to be at the hospital by eight and had asked me last week to take Hannah. I’d completely forgotten.

With traffic, I’d kept my client waiting for twenty-five minutes. He was none too pleased. As if that weren’t bad enough, I’d recently taken my car in to have the brakes worked on. Gwen had recommended a place on the edge of town that was supposed to do good work, and they’d quite cheerily told me to bring the car back if there were any problems. The car was running fine, but I’d just received the bill. Now, I had a problem, and they were going to hear about it. You drive an expensive car and people think you have money to burn. They assume you won’t notice if they pad the bill. On my lunch hour, I headed to the shop. I had better things to do with my time. I asked the receptionist if I could speak to whoever had worked on my car. She summoned a man with the name Jack embroidered on his overalls.

“Jack,” the receptionist began, “this is Robert Layton, and he has some questions about the work done on his car.”

“Thank you, Jeannie. What can I help you with, Mr. Layton?” Jack asked politely. By the look on my face, he appeared to be dreading the answer.

“Did you work on my car… Jack, is it?”

“Yes. Jack. I worked on your car along with Carl.”

“Who’s Carl?” I snipped.

“He’s one of the owners. He’s been doing Mercedes work for over twenty years.”

“Well, you’d think he’d know how to fix them then, wouldn’t you, Jack?” Jack winced every time I said his name. I was having a bad day, but, I reasoned, I pay good money for service, and I will make sure I get it. I won’t let anyone take me for a ride.

“If your car still isn’t running right, Mr. Layton, we’d be glad to fix it for you.”

“By looking at this bill, Jack, I don’t think I can afford to have you guys fix it again.” I threw the bill on the counter. Jeannie turned her head to her desk, looking as if she wished the phone would ring. “Do you mind explaining this bill?”

Jack carefully looked over the work done and all the specific charges. “Mr. Layton, everything seems to be in order here.”

“Everything seems to be in order, Jack?” I mocked. “Look at the total!”

“Our prices have always been below our competitors’,” Jack assured me.

“Below your competitors’?” I said, amazed, reading from the bill. “Two hundred and seventy dollars for front-brake work? You’re telling me that’s below your competitors prices? I should have just taken it to the dealership.”

Jack shifted from one foot to the other as Jeannie began rummaging through her desk drawers.

“You had warped discs on both front sides,” Jack explained. “We took the old ones off, cleaned everything up inside, and then put on brand-new rotors. Sometimes we can just rotate the rotors, but yours were too warped to do that. We even rotated and balanced your tires at no charge.”

“Oh, well,” I said, throwing my arms in the air. “If I’d known you’d done that, I never would have complained.”

Jeannie dug deeper into a drawer as Jack took a deep breath before attempting once again to appease me. “If your car’s still shaking when you brake, you can leave it with us and we’ll look at it again.”

“No, thanks,” I said sharply, yanking the bill away from him. “Like I said, I can’t afford to leave my car here anymore. I guess since it’s Christmas, you guys think you can jack up the prices on guys like me…no pun intended, Jack.” Throwing open the office door, I added, “Oh, Jack, be sure to tell Carl that he shouldn’t expect my business anymore,” and slammed the door behind me.

 

Sylvia was checking Maggie’s vital signs and gently caressing the thin arm resting on the bed. She glanced at the picture of Maggie up on the mantel and silently compared the image to the frail, gaunt shell of a woman lying before her. She changed the IV drip that administered medication through Maggie’s arm and gently massaged her hands and feet. That wasn’t part of her job description, but Sylvia felt that in more ways than one, tender touches were the most important part of her work. The redheaded nurse was ten or fifteen years Maggie’s senior and had a sweet, sensitive spirit. Maggie liked her very much.

“Thank you, Sylvia,” Maggie said, smiling. Sylvia had seen some of her patients fight the dying process all the way to the end, kicking and screaming until the sheet was pulled over their heads. Then there were others who somehow managed to face death without fear, despite the sorrow they felt for those they would leave behind, people who could somehow meet death with a strange confidence…a knowing. People like Maggie.

“You’re welcome, baby. You feeling all right?” But Sylvia already knew what Maggie would say.

“I feel good.”

Sylvia had seen other ovarian-cancer patients die, and she knew they didn’t feel well.

“You’re not lying to me, are you?” she teased. “Because Sylvia does not like to be lied to.”

“I’m all right. Really.”

“Oh,” Sylvia exclaimed, running to the sofa. “I nearly forgot. I found this tucked away in one of my drawers last night,” she said, pulling a beautiful red and green scarf from her purse. “The colors of Christmas.” She pulled the blue scarf off Maggie’s bald head and tied the new one on, fashioning it into a knot so the tails hung down her neck. “Oh, my. This one makes your eyes pop. Let me get you the mirror.”

“Thank you, Sylvia,” Maggie said. She smiled as she examined her image in the glass. “Last night I dreamed I had hair.”

“You did?” Sylvia laughed. This wasn’t the first time a patient had dreamed of having hair.

“And this time it was long and red, just like yours,” Maggie said. Sylvia chuckled, adjusting the pillows behind Maggie’s head. “I was driving a convertible, and my long red hair was blowing in the wind.” Maggie stopped, realizing she would never have long hair again, knowing she would never get behind the wheel of a convertible. Sylvia brushed her cheek and squeezed her hand.

Rachel toddled to the bed and reached for her mother.

“Up,” she ordered Sylvia.

The little girl would often want to get up into the bed with her mother to snuggle. Maggie would scratch her back or tickle her arms. When Evelyn first realized Rachel wanted to be in the bed with her mother, she worried that the child would squirm too much and somehow hurt Maggie. When Sylvia set up the IV drip, Evelyn worried Rachel might rip the needle from Maggie’s arm. Evelyn tried several ways to discourage the baby from wanting to climb into the bed, but she would only persist, “Up,” she’d scold, her little fists thumping her chubby thighs. Maggie would say, “It’s all right, Mom. Set her up here,” and Rachel would burrow close to her mother, never fidgeting for a moment.

“All right, baby girl,” Sylvia said lifting the child onto the bed. “Get up there and love on your mama.” Maggie wrapped her arms around Rachel, proceeding with the story of Cinderella and her handsome prince.

Sylvia marked some things on Maggie’s chart, tucking it under her arm as she gathered her things to leave. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she told Evelyn.

“Thank you, Sylvia,” Evelyn replied, showing her to the door.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Maggie,” Sylvia yelled. “And you too, Little Miss Rachel!”

Evelyn closed the door behind Sylvia, wishing that they wouldn’t see her tomorrow or the next day or the next, because her frequent visits meant Maggie was getting sicker and sicker. One day Evelyn wouldn’t be able to care for her alone during the day, and Sylvia would be brought in for long shifts to help with Maggie’s medications, bathe her, and take her to the bathroom. Evelyn pushed such thoughts out of her head and busied herself cleaning the bathroom. Through the open door, she listened to Maggie tell one story after another to Rachel, her enraptured audience. As each tale ended, Rachel would touch her mother’s face and say, “More Mama,” and Maggie would launch into Snow White or Rudolph or Joseph and Mary, each story more intriguing than the last. Rachel sat up in the bed when she heard her daddy’s car in the driveway.

Jack had started going home on his lunch break as soon as Maggie told him she was ill. By the time he got home, ate, and went back to work, it was usually longer than an hour, but Carl, Ted, and Mike had all told him he should eat lunch at home, and if it took an hour and a half or two hours, it wasn’t a problem. Back when City Auto first opened, a large part of its winter business was putting snow tires on people’s cars, but now that everyone was driving four-wheel-drive vehicles, there was less of that. He was grateful for the extra hours at home.

Jack was untying his boots in the front hall when Rachel called out, “Daddy!” from the bed where she was lying next to her mother. Jack lifted her up from the bed as she reached for him, kissing her forehead. He sat her down and leaned over to kiss Maggie. “How do you feel?”

“Good. Not bad at all.”

Evelyn emerged from the bathroom, whisking Rachel into her arms. “Who wants lunch?” she announced.

“Me!” the little girl shouted, pointing to her chest.

Evelyn set Rachel down, donned a pair of oven mitts, and took out the meat loaf she had been keeping warm in the oven. She put thick slabs of meat loaf between two slices of wheat bread spread with mustard, placed two large spoonfuls of potato salad beside the sandwich, poured a glass of iced tea, and handed it to Jack on the sofa. Evelyn managed to get a few bites of leftover mashed potatoes and applesauce into Rachel before laying her down for her nap, something Rachel always objected to vehemently.

“She always fights a nap,” Evelyn sighed once the child was down. “Wonder who she gets that from?” she said, eyeballing Maggie. When Maggie was Rachel’s age, Evelyn would practically have to tie her down for her naps. Humming, Evelyn had started cleaning up what little mess there was in the kitchen when Maggie called for her.

“Mom, what are you doing?”

“Just cleaning up a little.”

“Could you come here for a second?”

Evelyn threw down the dishcloth, dashing into the living room. She had learned to act quickly over the last several weeks. Sometimes the pain left Maggie curled into a ball, begging for medication, but that was usually before one of Sylvia’s visits, not after.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I just want to talk to both of you while we’re alone.”

Evelyn sat next to Jack, and they looked uneasily at Maggie.

“I have something very important that I want both of you to hear,” she began.

Jack set aside his lunch and stood up to be closer to his wife’s side. “What is it, Maggie?”

“As I was telling Rachel stories today this popped into my head, and I knew you’d both have to hear it because if just one of you heard it, you’d tell the other one someday that I never said any such thing.”

“Well, what is it?” Evelyn asked, sitting up.

“I don’t ever want you to force Rachel to wear my wedding gown.”

Jack and Evelyn looked at each other.

“What?” Jack asked.

“I don’t want you to force Rachel to wear my wedding gown.”

“You got me all upset inside for that?” Evelyn protested.

“Yes!” Maggie laughed. “It’s important to me. Twenty-two years from now, I don’t want either one of you forcing her to wear my gown out of sympathy. She may not like that gown, and I don’t want her to wear it just to make one of you happy. I want her to wear what will make her happy on her wedding day. Now, promise me.”

“I promise,” Jack chuckled.

“Mom?”

Evelyn crossed her arms. She could barely think of Maggie’s death, let alone talk about it. And she would never consider laughing about it.

“You know, I don’t like talking about these things,” Evelyn said. “I may not even be around when Rachel gets married.”

“Well, I know I won’t be around, and that’s why I want to make sure one of you two won’t be forcing her to wear some old, ratty gown from the seventies.”

“Fine! I won’t make her wear it. You didn’t wear mine—why would I expect her to wear yours?”

“Well, I’m glad we got that cleared up.” Maggie laughed, noticing her mother had found no amusement in the conversation at all.

“For a minute there, I thought I was going to have to break you two up,” Jack said, taking his plate into the kitchen. He didn’t like to laugh about these things either, but if making light of them helped Maggie, then he was going to try his best to find the lighter side as well.

Maggie observed that her mother was obviously bothered by something. Evelyn stood up to follow Jack into the kitchen when Maggie stopped her.

“Mom, wait,” she begged. “I didn’t know that would upset you.”

Evelyn patted her daughter’s hand.

“I’m not upset. I just want to make sure Jack’s had enough to eat.” She attempted to make her getaway again.

“Mom, come on. Look at me. I can’t chase you down. What’s wrong?”

Evelyn sighed, trying her best to maintain control.

“It’s just one of those things that I never imagined I’d ever have to think about,” she said slowly. “I wish that Rachel would wear your dress. I wish that she’d want to wear it.” Evelyn felt her emotions swelling, but she held them back. Jack leaned on the stove. This was a moment he knew would come, but he was not prepared for talking about the reality of Maggie not being with them for track races or football games, cheerleading tryouts or senior proms, graduations or wedding days. He braced himself as he walked into the living room and sat on the chair next to Maggie.

“Listen,” Maggie started, looking at Jack and her mother. “We all know that Rachel’s too young to remember me.” A tear rolled slowly down Evelyn’s face. “It’s true, Mom. She is. But my things aren’t going to make me alive to her. I want her to know things about my personality. I want her to know why I fell in love with her daddy. I want her to know that I would nearly burst into tears when I’d carry her through Ferguson’s and people would stop me and say what a beautiful baby she was. And I want her to know that I thanked God every single day of her life for her. Those are the things I want to be kept alive in Rachel.”

Jack stared at the floor, wondering if there would ever be an easy conversation in his life again.

“Can you do that for me, Mom? Can you keep me alive that way?”

Evelyn wiped her face and nodded.

“I can do that,” she said convincingly. “I would love to do that.” Yet there was nothing inside of Evelyn that would ever want to talk about her daughter in the past tense. She wanted to wrap her in her arms as she did when Maggie was the child who pleaded “Up…. Up” and simply make it all better.

 

Six inches of snow fell the last week of school before Christmas break. Doris had learned over the years that there was no point in expecting her students to concentrate on anything when the holidays loomed tantalizingly near. As red- and green-frosted cupcakes were passed out, Doris asked the students to stand and each read their story of their favorite Christmas memory.

Joshua told the story of making the biggest snowman on his block, and how some crazy neighbor came over in the middle of the night and knocked its head off, smashing it into a bazillion snowy pieces and making his little sister cry for three whole days. Alyssa related a tale about the year she got a brand-new puppy and how it went potty on her mother’s brand-new sofa. Visiting Santa’s workshop was Patrick’s favorite memory. He got to see how all the toys were made and loaded into Santa’s sled. He even got to pet a reindeer, which, he announced to the class, smelled like doo-doo, and that produced a chorus of giggles from the audience of eight-year-olds. Desmond loved visiting his Grandma and Grandpa, and eating fudge till he got sick. Tyler liked the year he stayed awake until four in the morning and caught Santa sneaking in through the kitchen door instead of coming down the chimney. He even claimed he’d taken a picture with his camera but couldn’t find it to show the class. Of course, everyone was terribly disappointed. Nathan read a short tale about going sledding with his mom and dad, and then eating chicken and dumplings while his mom and dad danced around the house. When he was done, he quietly took his seat, licking the remainder of red frosting from the crinkled paper cupcake wrapper. Doris laughed and clapped after each student finished. Then it was her turn.

She recalled when she was also a child of eight, and on Christmas, her grandmother gave her a pair of shoes adorned with sparkly, pink beads. She put them on and twirled and curtsied and danced around the house, she said, feeling like a beautiful fairy princess until she fell asleep on her grandfather’s lap. When she woke up the next morning, she was in her own bed…but was still wearing her beaded shoes. “So I got out of bed and danced and twirled and curtsied some more!” she exclaimed, as her students giggled. “I had never felt so special in all my life.”

She led her students in choruses of “Jingle Bells,” “Frosty the Snowman,” and “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” even popping in Rudolph’s famous story in the VCR for a last-day-of-class treat. At the end of the day the students screamed in frenzied joy as they scurried to their locker cubbies at the back of the classroom to gather the things they’d crammed inside when they had arrived. Doris helped bundle them into their snow jackets, hats, scarves, boots, and gloves, each child looking like a plump, colorful goose when fully dressed. As the children embarked onto buses and into the waiting cars of parents, Doris couldn’t remember having more fun with one of her classes. There was an electricity, a joy, that buzzed through the classroom unlike any Doris had experienced before. Maybe it was because it was her last year of teaching and she was letting go. Or maybe it was because God had filled the room with incredible laughter and song to help one of His smallest children through the greatest sadness of his life.

Whatever the reason, Doris was grateful. It had been a wonderful day.