Beautiful Star of Bethlehem Page 6
“No, it’s just us tonight, Mom.”
“My Jack is gone,” I say. “He’s waiting somewhere for me. Can you take me there?”
Steven straightens, holding tight to the little girl now. On closer inspection I see the priceless child isn’t so small. She must be four or five years old. “Look, Mom. I’ve brought someone to visit you.”
My gaze skims the beautiful child dressed in Tinker Bell green, her tiny shoes, a wand clutched in her slightly chubby fist. I reach and tenderly adjust the tilted crown sitting atop her golden hair. “What an angel. Who is she?”
“This is Ella, Mom.”
“Ella.” I stand and admire God’s perfect work. “I have a granddaughter. Ella Parker.” I glance up and smile. “She must be four or five months old now. Did I mention that’s where your father and I were going when we had the… train wreck?”
I swallow back a lump with the fresh reminder of Jack. Each time I think of the senseless loss, I break into tears. “Steven, where is—” I catch back my question. I promised someone that I wouldn’t ask about Jack anymore. Somehow, deep down where it counts, I know that he is somewhere safe, unaffected by the accident, and I no longer worry so much about him. I will see him soon.
“Ella, can you give Grandma Arlene a big hug?” Julee urges the child’s affection. The little girl obediently bends down from Steven’s arms, and a noisy smack lands on my cheek.
“Oh my!” I fondly touch the icky substance clinging to my face. Chocolate? Tootsie Pop. “What a lovely kiss—why, I believe such affection deserves two pieces of candy.” I drop the additional treat in the child’s bucket.
The line is backing up, and Steven and Julee are forced to move along. My gaze follows the little girl until her parents round the corner and I can no longer see her. My cheek feels faintly warm from gluey lips. Everyone’s in such a hurry these days. Smiles come and go, coloring my life briefly, but when I climb in bed after a “family event,” I feel empty.
I remind myself that my family sees me when they can; I can’t be selfish. But days—and nights—here can be very long.
You can imagine my surprise when I return to my room later and Steven is waiting there, sitting on my sofa. My eyes search for the little girl.
“It’s way past Ella’s bedtime,” he says. “Julee took her home and put her to bed.”
“I’m so glad that you stayed, Steven.” I sit down opposite him, feeling a bit foolish in my Cinderella costume. The garb suits my peculiar life perfectly. Everyone here seems to be seeking carefree, youthful days and to do and say things they wouldn’t have thought to do or say in earlier years. Like dress as Cinderella and Little Bo Peep.
“The little girl is lovely. I hope you’ll bring her again soon.”
We chat for a few minutes, and I focus on the tight lines around my boy’s eyes. Jack calls those “responsibility lines.” I ease to the front of my chair. “Is everything okay with you, Steven?” Steven is my quiet child. The thought just pops into my mind. Jack Jr. can talk a leg off a chair, but Steven rarely does or says anything without purpose. “There’s something worrying you, isn’t there?”
Call it motherly instinct—though I am a pitiful shell of a mother—but I know something is amiss. The unspoken guilt in his eyes reminds me of when I had been a much better parent. “What is it, darling?”
He squirms and leaves the sofa. Stuffing his hands in his trouser pockets, he walks to the window. “I’ve done something that I don’t want Julee to know about.”
Some persistent devil tears at him; I can see anxiety in his expression. It’s the same look he had on his face when he broke his arm and two ribs in a motorbike accident. Scraped, bloody, bruised arms wound around my neck after Jack and I burst into the emergency room and rushed to the gurney.
“Go on.”
He swallows, his Adam’s apple working in his throat. “I’ve wanted to buy a new motorcycle for some time now.”
That doesn’t sound like the end of the world. “Julee doesn’t like motorcycles?” I’m grasping now. Maybe if he’d get to the point I could help. I’d never encouraged the machine.
Shaking his head negatively, he says softly, “I don’t know why I’m bothering you with this; you won’t remember our conversation tomorrow, but I need your wisdom tonight, Mom. I’m scared to death.” He turns from the window to meet my gaze. “She’s going to kill me.”
I think about the response and gather he’s exaggerating. Julee doesn’t seem the violent sort.
Opening my arms wide, I offer what little I can because I know that my baby is scared—or hurt—and I won’t kill him. The thought is so gratifying after endless weeks of confusion and uncertainty. Tonight I am Momma again. Steven steps into my arms, and I just hold him. Once I held a fragile child; tonight I hold a man. Is he a good man? Kind? Dedicated to his wife and family?
“Everything will be fine,” I say, giving what I assume is a mother’s expected reply. I know nothing about his angst, and I’m aware that I am his mother only in heart. But for this precious moment, I throw everything left of Arlene Santana—which isn’t a lot—into comforting my boy.
“Why are you so worried, Steven?”
“Mom, I don’t know what happened. I was in the motorcycle shop today—and before I knew it, I bought another machine.”
“And Julee doesn’t like motorcycles. I recall those dangerous, deafening things.”
“She’s okay with them, and we’ve talked about me buying a new bike, but Julee thinks it’s a waste of money. She reminds me that I don’t have time to ride the one I have and we don’t need another one sitting in the garage. But today I was in the bike shop, and I saw this one—Mom, you’d have to see it to appreciate it. Before I knew it, I’d bought it.” He turns sad eyes my way. “I have to tell her when I get home.”
“Oh my.” I can’t help him. God might.
“She’s going to kill me.”
I spring to my feet. “Is it a matter of money? I think I might have some tucked away—though I’ll have to ask Jack Jr.” Jack Jr. said to tell him if I need anything.
“It isn’t money, Mom. Julee told me a month ago if I brought another motorcycle home she’d divorce me.”
“Really?” I give that some serious thought, not fully understanding the conversation but willing to find a solution. I dig deep in the recess of my mind.
Reason it out, Arlene. If a person has money, but his wife doesn’t want him to spend it…
“She’s going to be upset. She’s wanted to remodel an upstairs bathroom, and you know how frugal she is with money.”
I spring to my feet. “Return the motorcycle to the store.”
His expression turns dark. “I don’t want to return it; it’s a SuperLow 1200, Harley.”
“But if you have another one—”
“Not like this one.”
“Well, then.” I sit back down to ponder the dilemma. “I suppose you’ll just have to put your foot down.” That’s Jack’s answer to any problem. “Just put your foot down, Arlene.” I sit a moment longer and then casually slip my foot over his.
He focuses on the tip of my shoe on top of his boot. “What are you doing, Mom?”
“Putting my foot down—that’s what I need to do.” Though honestly, I can’t see a bit of sense in taking this approach. What possible difference can it make if Steven smashes Julee’s foot? The response will only further infuriate her.
We talk a few moments longer, but then he says that’s he’s spent a long day wiring something. Finally he says good night, and I rise to walk him to the entrance, sensing that the last thing my son wants is to face an irate wife.
Faintly lit corridors are empty when we step from my room. No trace remains of tiny tots with sticky hands and impatient cries other than an occasional bright yellow discarded M&M’s bag. I walk beside Steven, gripping his hand as though we are about to enter a crosswalk. Or is he holding my hand to prevent a fall? I don’t walk as even as I once did.
When we round the corner, I notice Dr. Important leaning against the reception desk, studying a chart. Shiny brown loafers glisten with a coat of wax, and a hint of brown sock peeks above the sides. The two solitaire players are at their usual observation post. When Steven walks by, I nudge him closer to the center of the hallway, giving the women a warning look. Busybodies always trying to butt in on other people’s company.
Nodding coolly, I accompany my handsome guest to the front door.
“Tell Jack Jr. and Melissa that I would like to see them soon.” I button the top button on Steven’s leather jacket. He’s inherited his daddy’s good looks, streaked blond hair, and blue eyes.
“Thanks, Mom.” He bends to kiss my cheek and then exits, walking to his truck, shoulders bent.
I feel bad for him. Common sense tells me that Julee is still going to make him take the bike back.
I’m practically bowled over when the two front-entrance doors fly open and a young, harried man bursts inside. “My wife’s having a baby in the cab!”
The chart flies in the air, and Dr. Important grabs a gurney. “This isn’t a hospital!” he calls.
“We don’t have time for a hospital. Quick! She’s about to have my boy!”
I right myself as the doctor shoves the stretcher through the open doorway.
Shortly afterward, the entrance doors fly open, and in walks a woman madder than a wet hen. Fury mars her face. She clutches her unbuttoned skirt tightly to her waist. “I never!”
“Ma’am.” Dr. Important trails her in, his eyes as round as cup saucers. “I swear I would have never ripped your skirt off if I had known!”
“What kind of doctor are you?” she screeches. “I am going to report this—this travesty!”
“Ma’am.” Doctor glances at the gathering crowd. “I… he said… in the cab… baby coming!”
“There are two cabs sitting at the curb, jerk! Are you blind?” I, though naughty, can’t help but snicker. Dr. Important is still trying to explain his rash actions as he trails the aggravated woman down the hallway.
See Arlene, some days it does pay to get out of bed.
Chapter Ten
Every now and then, something agreeable happens in Sunset Gardens of Buckhead. Some little ditty comes along that starts the day off with a smile.
Una spends nearly the whole day with me. Our visits are what keep me going. Few around me know their names or the time of day—not to mention proper etiquette—but Una knows everything. Etiquette. Manners. Knowledge of foreign countries. She must be well traveled. And goodness knows that I’m not looking forward to one more egg or dry piece of toast, so her longer-than-usual visit this morning is welcomed with open arms.
Una and I talk about our problems, and I realize again why I like this woman so much. We have nearly everything in common. She likes solitude; I like solitude. She thinks the facility where we’re expected to call “home” is nice but much prefers her lovely home where everything has its place. In this place, we agree, we can’t find a blessed thing. Laundry gets mixed up, personal items disappear, and I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve seen my pair of comfortable white sneakers.
We visit so long today that I’m late for breakfast, but this morning I can talk of nothing else but my new friend.
“Is she a saint or something?” Eleanor asks. My tablemates have dwindled. Gwen’s caught a bug, and Frances’s chair is vacant. She must be skipping meals again. Ninety-some-odd years, and the little lady still fights on to maintain her trim waistline. Me? I would give up and order a second dessert.
“I don’t know how long Una’s been here, but you would like her. She’s interesting and makes me laugh a lot.”
Amusement is often hard to find in this place. I overhear two nurses talking about wishes. I had forgotten the word exists. If I had two wishes, I would only use one. Home. I wish I could go home and leave this monkey cage, but that’s never going to happen. I will be rolled out on that stretcher Gwendolyn mentioned the first morning we met.
I finish my toast and pat my lips with a napkin. “Una and I are going to be friends forever.”
Eleanor spills her coffee, and her sleeve drags through the mess as she reaches for a clean napkin. I have taken her to task about the worrisome habit, but she doesn’t listen. “Why not invite her to sit at our table? Tell her she can—we can make room.”
“Una takes her meals in her room.” With a mental sigh, I wish it wasn’t so; she would be a welcome addition to mealtimes. On the other hand, I think a small part of me doesn’t want to share her with my other friends.
Excusing myself, I leave the table and wave down a worker.
“I’ll take Gwendolyn’s breakfast to her on a tray this morning.”
The smiling woman brushes the offer aside. “We’ll do that, Mrs. Santana.”
I straighten, pulling to my full height. “If you don’t mind, I’ll do it.” Rarely do I talk back, but if I don’t feed Gwen, what else would I do this early? I’ve fed the birds, and toilet-roll art doesn’t start for two hours.
Shrugging, the nurse walks away, and I take the gesture to mean that she doesn’t have time to argue.
Gwendolyn is still in bed when I elbow the door to her room open. The interior is dark as pitch. Stale air meets my nose. Something on the bed stirs. “Who is it?”
“Good morning, dear, I brought your breakfast.” When I told the chief cook what I needed, he stopped long enough to assemble a breakfast plate. I picked up a small vase with a plastic blue flower on my way out of the dining room and set it on the tray.
Struggling to open her eyes, Gwendolyn mumbles, “I don’t have an appetite this morning.”
“Oh, sure you do.” I set the tray on the table and help her find the remote that raises and lowers her bed. Giving it a punch, I watch Gwendolyn’s body go up, up, up until she says, “Whoa. You trying to break me in two?”
I proceed to straighten her tumbled sheets and light blanket. To me, the cover is too thin. “Did you get cold last night?” The wind blew and rattled windows till dawn.
“Yes, so cold. I punched my light, but nobody came. So I yelled for someone to bring me an extra blanket, but nobody came.”
Hiding a smile, I sympathize, but I know from experience that Gwendolyn is a yeller. She yells for everything, day and night, and one would be hard pressed to know if her problem needs immediate attention. “Perhaps it only seemed like hours.”
The staff is overwhelmed at times. Lights glow over doorways; bells go off at the nurse’s station. It doesn’t matter if it’s light or dark, the staff operates at a dead run.
I move the bedside tray closer and lift the stainless steel cover. A poached egg meets my inspection. Dry toast, a bowl of Cheerios, orange juice, and a pot of hot water for tea.
Gwendolyn is on corridor three, and the dining room sits near the front entrance, so it took me awhile to deliver the heavy tray. The egg has to be stone-cold. Gwendolyn’s skeptical eyes sweep the offering, which makes me think that she fears the same. “I’ll just have tea and whatever’s in that bowl.”
I carefully tuck a napkin beneath her chin and set the cold egg aside. “Maybe you’ll feel more like eating at lunch.”
“I doubt it.”
Arranging her tray for more suitable access, I ask, “Can I keep you company while you eat?”
I can always go to the small sunroom in corridor one and listen to Doreen Masters play the organ. She isn’t bad—but in my limited understanding, I suspect she isn’t good either.
Gwendolyn fumbles, knocks over the glass of orange juice, and spills a couple of packets of artificial sweetener before she manages to pour enough hot water in her cup to make tea. Her hand trembles as though she’s shaking salt on watermelon.
Old age is brutal.
By the time I manage to change Gwendolyn’s gown, her tea is cold, and we have to start over. I make the trek to the kitchen for more hot water and return as Gwendolyn concentrates on her bowl of Cheerios.
“Well”—I sit down and cross my hands—“I guess the holidays are coming up.”
I’ve stopped counting Christmases. There have been so many, and the way time passes makes my head swim.
“Yes, suppose they are.” Gwendolyn’s hand pauses in midair. “Never cared for this time of the year.”
Frowning, I lean closer.
“My deceased husband, Pete, was a no-good, and what brings excitement to most brings dread to me. Even my youthful memories are those of hard work and little to eat.”
I listen, shaking my head. The holidays are joyfully celebrated in my home. Baking, hanging wreaths, wrapping presents in the basement until early dawn. “Jack and I rarely lift our voices to one another, though we often have sharp differences.”
Gwen spoons whole wheat Os into her mouth. “Heard Orville Myers took off his number-two diaper and hurled it at his nurse last night. No call for such ugliness.”
I have to work to keep up with the abrupt change of subject. What does Orville and dirty diapers have to do with wrapping presents? “No, I haven’t heard. He’s a cranky old man.”
Pausing, Gwendolyn lifts a spoonful of cereal and studies it. “I’ll never understand why they feed us butter beans for breakfast.”
I ease to the edge of my chair, peering at the fare. “Butter beans?”
“Butter beans. See?” Gwendolyn’s eyes motion to the spoon. “Butter beans. Have you ever seen the likes?”