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“I’M SORRY DINNER WAS late.” Katrina tried to break the silence with an apology. She and Greg hadn’t exchanged more than half a dozen words since she came creeping home from the church with her violin case strapped across her chest.
Greg shrugged and took a bite of hamburger casserole.
“I saw Nancy earlier,” Katrina said. “She was bringing over some food for the Christmas boxes.”
“Good.”
Katrina stared over Greg’s shoulders. She hadn’t finished the dishes from last night’s dinner yet. There was always so much to do, even though she hardly felt busy. Some days would pass by, and she couldn’t figure out what she’d done with herself. She knew there were enough hours to cover the basic things like dishes and laundry, but even if she had the time, she couldn’t find the energy.
Or the will.
Things had gotten worse since she stopped playing Dmitry regularly. What joy was there for her in a cold, dreary world devoid of harmony?
“You ok?” she finally asked tentatively. That was one of the worst parts about her fights with Greg. She never knew when they were over. She’d watch him for cues, but sometimes he’d stay cold and frigid for days. Other times he forgot about their arguments so quickly it left her head reeling.
Greg shrugged again. “Yeah. Just thinking about my sermon.”
So he wasn’t mad, then? Or he wasn’t bothering to waste his mental energy on her right now? Well, if he was ready to move on, so was she.
“What are you preaching about this week?”
“A lot of different things. It’s hard to explain.”
“What verses are you using?”
He scooped another helping of hamburger helper onto his plate. “Several.”
“I’m sorry I was in a grumpy mood earlier.” She kept her eyes on his face to check for signs of confrontation. “I’ve been really tired.”
He met her gaze a split second before she could glance away. “That’s what I’ve been hearing for the last two months.”
“It’s just ...” No, this wasn’t fair. She had apologized to him. Why was he bringing up the past? She hid her hands in her lap and fidgeted with her ring.
“Did you schedule your doctor appointment yet?”
Why was he doing this? Why was he changing the subject? “No.”
The doctor asked her to come back in a few weeks after the miscarriage, but she didn’t need another medical bill to worry about right before Christmas.
“So for all you know, you’re anemic or there’s some other problem and that’s why you’re so tired. Except we’ll never figure it out because you never scheduled your follow-up at the clinic.”
She played back the last few lines of their conversation. How had they gone from her apology about music practice to a fight over the doctor?
“It’s not anemia.” She was sure of that much at least. Greg couldn’t eat a meal without meat. Her vegetarian mother would die of shock if she came up to Orchard Grove and scrutinized their meal plan. If there was anything wrong with Katrina’s diet, it was that she wasn’t getting enough fruit. Washington was just fine in the summer, but in the winter there was hardly anything to buy except for oranges and bananas. And of course apples.
Plenty of apples.
“I just worry about you, Mouse,” Greg said with his mouth full. “You know that.”
“Yeah, ok. I’ll try to remember to call the doctor’s tomorrow.” She knew she would forget, but hopefully now they could at least move on.
Greg took a noisy gulp of lemonade. “By the way, I feel bad practice didn’t go as well today. I’ve just had a lot on my mind.”
She knew that much was true, at least. There hadn’t been a single day since they arrived in Orchard Grove when Greg didn’t have a lot on his mind. He could preach to his congregants about not worrying, but he was probably the most high-strung, stressed out person Katrina knew. If he could learn to relax every once in a while ...
“I guess I had a different idea in mind when I said we’d lead worship.” Greg set his elbows on the table. “I thought it would give us something to do together. Something we both enjoy.”
Guilt rushed through and heated her gut.
“You’ve been so sad lately,” he went on. “I hoped this would help pull you out of whatever funk you’ve been in. But I shouldn’t have forced it on you if you weren’t ready.”
They were both staring down into their laps. I forgive you. The words hung on the tip of her tongue, but she realized he had never actually said he was sorry. If she offered her forgiveness, would that just make things worse? Make him feel like she was blaming him?
It was her fault as much as his. She realized that now. He had been trying to help. You couldn’t blame him for his motives, at least. But music was such a simple thing to Greg. He could play his guitar just as easily as not. When he wasn’t practicing, he wasn’t pining away for his instrument, wondering what masterpiece he’d create when they were together again. He could go weeks, probably months, without making music. Dreaming about music. Listening to music. Take away his guitar, and he was still Pastor Greg.
She wasn’t like that. Back in Long Beach, if carpal tunnel made her slow down for a week or two, she was miserable. If she could only play one or two hours a day instead of the usual four or five, she felt empty, like a lonely, gaping chasm was waiting to suck her into its soundless void.
She had never gone a full two months without playing before. And Greg thought she could just pick up her instrument and accompany his little choruses for church like nothing happened? He didn’t know. He’d never experienced the sizzling fear that consumed her gut when she realized she might never play in an orchestra again. He didn’t understand the chaos that swarmed around in her mind as one silent day followed another. Like Beethoven trapped in a soundless world. Or Handel still trying to compose after a medical quack stole away his sight.
How did they do it? How did they keep from growing mad? Beethoven without his hearing was still arguably the greatest of the Romantic composers. Handel without his eyesight could still open the heavens and reveal God’s glory in a way that no other mortal ever had or would. But Katrina without her music? What was she?
A pastor’s wife, and a pathetic one at that. A reluctant nursery coordinator. A lousy cook. A deplorable housekeeper.
That was all.
“You know what this dinner needs?” Greg stood up from the table. “Some dessert.”
Katrina mentally inventoried the cupboards. “I don’t think we have much ...”
“Get your coat. We’re going to The Creamery.”