All I'll Ever Need Page 4

  It had taken months of counseling with Phil Carlson from Community Chapel to help them come to an understanding that would serve as a foundation for a new relationship. Kyle even showed some interest in faith, but struggled with the concept of grace, seeming more comfortable in his work-harder, work-longer-to-please-God mentality. Margo saw the same attitude mirrored in his relationship to her. He couldn’t seem to comprehend that she could be willing to give her love away.

  For Margo, forgiveness of her husband’s affair hadn’t come without tears. After drawing clear boundaries, she’d let Kyle back into her life and willed herself to love him again. In the end, it was as if her own belief in a forgiving God seemed tied in some way to her ability to forgive her husband. If God could really allow her to forgive Kyle, to really forgive him, then maybe God could forgive her too.

  So now, as she saw the flowers in his hand, she found herself wondering. Is it devotion? Or another installment to purchase my love? Or has he done something else to test my mercy?

  He kissed her.

  “You shouldn’t have,” she said, taking the flowers from his hand.

  “I know.”

  “We can’t afford it, silly.”

  Kyle opened the refrigerator and frowned. “Relax. Someday, you’ll inherit enough for me to bring home flowers every day.”

  “Do you know how much it costs for Wally to live in Pleasant View Home for just one week?” She placed the flower arrangement on the kitchen table. “We’ll be lucky if anything is left.”

  Kyle raised his eyebrows but didn’t reply.

  Margo sighed and watched him disappear into the den to read the paper. She didn’t question him about why he’d brought the flowers in the first place. She knew he had a debtor’s mentality. She worried he’d never get over it in his struggle to believe in a loving God.

  She leaned over and sampled the fragrance of the bouquet. Maybe I should stop worrying why he buys me flowers and start worrying that he might stop trying to keep me in love.

  Bracing for the next standoff she’d anticipated, she opened a bottle of beer, an offering to soften the impact. As she handed him the beer, she kissed his cheek. “I accepted an invitation for a barbecue with Claire and John at Mom’s on Sunday.”

  She scurried back to the kitchen as she listened to him groan. Opening the oven to retrieve a baking pizza, she heard him say, “At least Wally won’t be there.”

  Della’s hands were on her hips. “That’s it? That’s all he said?”

  “The only words he spoke during my whole visit.” Claire shook her head. “He’s depressed.”

  “Who wouldn’t be?”

  Claire thought of the life her father lived, trapped inside a body in constant motion. It had been months since he was able to walk, and years before that since he could walk and speak normally. Inevitably, when she thought of her father’s life, her mind traced a well-worn path to a dread of her own future. As a carrier of the same gene that produced his agony, every new misery he manifested thrust a dagger of fear into her own heart.

  Claire pulled herself back from the downhill slope of self-pity. “Is he still taking an antidepressant?”

  “I think so. Although the nurses say he doesn’t swallow the pills very well.”

  “He’s going to die soon. I watched him choke on his own spit today. It’s only a matter of time before he gets another bout of pneumonia.”

  “If he’s going to die soon anyway, why not — ”

  The phone interrupted Della’s thought. Claire held up her hand, not wanting her mother to finish the sentence. She watched as Della picked up the phone.

  “Hello.”

  Della’s hand went to her open mouth. “Oh, Jimmy, that’s terrible . . . When? . . . Okay.” Della seemed to hesitate. “Bye.”

  “Mom, what is it?”

  She replaced the phone in the cradle. “That was Jimmy Jenkins. His wife just died.”

  After sunset, Nancy Childress stopped by the Food Mart at the local Exxon to pick up milk, bread, and adult diapers. It was a special-order item, but Ned Brown had always been willing to go out of his way to help an old friend. On her way home, she swung by Hillcrest Drive and saw that Dr. Jenkins’s place was brightly lit. In fact, the whole block seemed abuzz. Cars lined the street like Nancy hadn’t remembered since the July Fourth fireworks display at the Ruritan Club.

  She slowed, noting the extra cars in the driveway. Richard always loved a good party.

  She looked at the stack of diapers on the passenger seat, conscious of a growing lump in her throat. She inched along, watching as a man escorted a woman carrying a casserole dish across the lawn. Then she sighed and sped off into the night.

  Chapter Four

  The last guest left condolences and a casserole at eleven, leaving Jimmy amazed at the speed of small-town hospitality. He’d cared for the whole town for so long, it seemed that half of them had shown up just to let him know they cared.

  He looked at the dining table and shook his head. He had enough food to feed the football team at Ashby High School. Patsy Underwood, a patient he’d seen through twenty years of hypertension, left country-ham biscuits. Jimmy stretched plastic wrap across the plate. I told her to cut back on the salt. Barb and Sam Stackhouse, both of whom had been on twelve-hundred-calorie diets since he’d retired, brought three dozen cookies. “It’s nothing,” she said, resting her hand on her generous waist. “I keep ’em in the freezer so I’m always ready.” No wonder all the diets I prescribed never worked.

  He walked from room to room aware of every little noise. The creak of the old oak kitchen floor. The ticking of the grandfather clock. The barking of the neighbor’s dog. How often had he walked these same rooms after Miriam had gone to bed, and yet now, the rooms seemed larger, empty without her. He touched the edge of a picture frame. Miriam posing next to the door of the motor home they’d purchased, but not yet used.

  At one, he hung his pants and shirt on a hanger, just as Miriam would have wanted. Then he lay on their king-sized bed, pulled her pillow to his face, and wept.

  Claire startled awake at two, launched into alertness by nighttime terror. She reached for the pistol and pulled it to her side, gripping it tightly until the feeling passed.

  Eyes open, she traced the outline of her small room. Ceiling, corners, furniture, all the same as it had been for years. Except for the absence of posters on the wall, this room hadn’t changed significantly since she’d left home nearly a dozen years before.

  She set the gun aside and sat up, rubbing the back of her neck. A memory long pushed away, buried by will or her own defenses, seemed to perch beside her, just beyond reach. She touched the surface of the bed, the same bed where just a few weeks before, she had been brutally yanked from slumber by a man in her employ. Although his attack had been unsuccessful in its violent intent, it had wormed its way beneath the cap she’d kept on a bottle of old hurt.

  Something else had happened here, something dark, which whispered its pain from a lost time. A violation of trust? She closed her eyes and stared into the darkness of her eyelids, willing herself to see images from the past that held the secret to the dread that floated within her.

  Nausea prodded her to her feet. She walked to the bathroom and lowered herself over the commode. After she surrendered her stomach’s contents to the bowl, she was struck again by a sense of familiarity with an event long hidden. I was sick here that night too.

  She remembered the pain. A throbbing headache. The fuzziness of a hangover. Feeling the strain in her lower abdomen from vomiting so hard. Or was it more than that?

  It was an evening of teenaged rebellion when her disdain for her father’s drinking was overcome by her own desire to escape the torture that her home life had become. It was before she’d dropped out of school. Before she’d moved in to take care of Grandma Newby.

  Claire looked around the bathroom from her position with her head just above the commode. From that angle, the room felt small, oppressive. She r
emembered seeing that the undersurface of the blue cabinet had never been painted. She remembered vowing that she’d never ever lose a night in the fog of drink.

  She walked back and studied her room from the doorway. I remember going out with Tommy Gaines and Shelby Williams. Shelby’s brother Grant was old enough to buy beer. He gave me cheap wine and told me he had things he wanted to teach me.

  Claire rubbed her eyes. I remember giggling out of control. Kissing Grant while lying in the bed of their pickup.

  I remember slapping him and telling him to quit.

  But I don’t remember getting home.

  At 6:00 a.m., a dull ache in John Cerelli’s left hip nudged him from sleep. Although the acute pain from his femur fracture was gone, he had more stiffness in his hip than before the accident. If he tried to sleep more than six or seven hours, he had to get up and move around to work it out again.

  He made strong black coffee and sipped while he logged on to check his e-mail. He had six e-mails from an AmiAmi@aol.com. They were from Ami, his secretarial assistant. Two were work related, reminders to the sales force of upcoming meetings. One was a forward, a stupid message he was to send to five friends to ensure good fortune. Three were personal. One was a wish for his rapid recovery, one a positive thought for the day, and one just said “thinking of you.” John highlighted each letter and pressed delete.

  Then he held out his father’s digital camera at arm’s length, took a mug shot of himself with a goofy grin, and downloaded it on an e-mail to Claire. He entitled it “My new haircut” and typed a quick note to “My dearest fiancée” and signed it “Love, John ‘the Barber’ Cerelli.”

  He smiled. That should brighten Claire’s morning.

  Claire opened her eyes to the sound of Della in the kitchen. The night was over. She took inventory. The tightness in her gut was gone, but the impression of suppressed pain remained. She looked over at the array of weaponry on her nightstand and felt a stab of remorse. We’ve been through so much together, God. You’ d think with each new trial I’ d begin, instead of just ending, by trusting in you. “Forgive me,” she whispered as she unloaded the pistol and returned it to a box on the shelf of her mother’s closet.

  With that, she returned to her bed and opened her Bible. She ran her fingers over the inside cover where she’d copied something from C. S. Lewis. She’d dated the quotation two weeks before she learned she carried the Huntington’s disease gene. “We are not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.”

  She had penned a reference beneath it. Isaiah 64:8. Claire turned to the passage and prayed the words she read there. “I am the clay. You are the potter. I am the work of your hands.” She paused, and then added, “Give me strength to accept your way.” She read for a few more minutes until a renewed peace settled into her road-weary soul.

  When she walked into the kitchen a minute later, Della smiled. “You look rested.”

  Claire shrugged. “It wasn’t the hours in bed that did the trick.” She set her Bible on the table. “Trust.”

  “That’s it?”

  Claire poured creamer into a tall mug of steaming coffee. “What do you mean, that’s it?” She laughed. “Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever face a difficulty without the anxiety that comes from taking it on in my own strength.”

  Della shook her head. “Not if you’re like your mom, you won’t.”

  Claire leaned over and kissed her mother’s head. “I’d be thankful if I turned out like you.” She lifted a strand of hair. “What’s this? The bombshell Della McCall is finally going to gray?”

  Della batted her away. “Oh, stop.”

  Claire laughed again as she pulled out a loaf of bread to make toast.

  “I want to visit Jimmy Jenkins today. Shall I wait until after work so you can go with me?”

  Claire thought for a moment. “No. Go without me.” Now that I know just what you two went through, I find it hard to talk to him.

  Kyle finished his morning coffee, picked up his keys, and had his hand on the doorknob when he heard Margo. “Do you mind stopping for a few things after work? There’s a list on the refrigerator.”

  He groaned. “Whatever.”

  “Kelly has a soccer game in Carlisle at six. I suppose I could go after that.”

  “No. I’ll stop.” He hesitated. “Maybe I’ll see you at the game.”

  He looked back at the bouquet on the kitchen table. Would she forgive me if she knew?

  He grabbed the list from the refrigerator door and glanced at the items. Maybe I’ ll grab another bunch of cut flowers too. That’s bound to please.

  Midmorning, after two well-baby checks and a hypertension medication adjustment, Brian Dickson interrupted Claire’s schedule. Brian, a twelve-year- old extreme skateboarder-wannabe, performed a 360 face-plant onto the edge of a Fisher’s Retreat fireplug. After thirty minutes, Claire smiled at her job and pulled off her gloves.

  “How many stitches did I get?”

  Claire counted. “Fourteen.”

  Brian closed his fist. “Cool.”

  His mother sounded alarmed. “Fourteen?”

  Claire nodded and pointed to a fine line above her patient’s right eye. “But most of his scar is going to be hidden here in his eyebrow. No cosmetic worry for a tough guy like Brian.”

  She handed Ms. Dickson a prescription for an antibiotic and checked the chart to see that Brian was up-to-date on his tetanus prophylaxis.

  Outside the room, Claire’s nurse drew a line through a name on the daily patient list. “Good news,” Lucy said. “We had two no-shows, so you’re still on schedule.”

  Claire nodded. Whereas she might make most of the clinical decisions, she counted on Lucy to point her in the right direction. She raised her eyes in a question.

  Lucy answered the unspoken request. “Yes, you can have five minutes.” Then she whispered, too quiet for the patient in the next exam room to hear, “The coffee’s fresh.”

  Claire cleared her throat. “You’ve worked in this community a lot longer than I have. Do you know of a Joanne Phillips?”

  Lucy nodded. “Dr. Jenkins referred patients to her for counseling. I know he liked her, but I never had a chance to meet her.”

  Claire mouthed a silent “Thank you” and retreated to her office. If this counselor was good enough for Jimmy Jenkins, she’d be good enough for Claire. She sat at her desk and called the number on the business card labeled “Women Care.”

  “Hello, Joanne Phillips.”

  “This is Dr. Claire McCall. I received a letter describing a new counseling service for victims of sexual assault.”

  “Is this about a patient referral?”

  “Well, yes, but, well, it’s for me.”

  The voice sounded young. Too young. But soft, concerned. “Oh, well, I’d be glad to set up a time when we could talk.”

  “My work usually occupies me up until five. I could make it to Brighton by six if you ever set up evening appointments.”

  “Why don’t I come to you? You’re over in Stoney Creek, is that right?”

  “Yes, but — ”

  “I like seeing physicians on their own turf. As a rule, they feel more relaxed. I’d like to come to your office, if that’s okay.”

  “Sure.”

  “Is Thursday alright?”

  “Anytime after five.”

  “I know the area. You’re at the Stoney Creek Family Practice Clinic?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Great. I’ll be there.” She paused. “And, Doctor, don’t worry. This will all be very low-key.”

  Claire nodded, willing the knot in her gut to dissolve. “Okay.”

  Chapter Five

  Della arrived on Jimmy’s doorstep just as he opened the door. “Oh,” he said. “I was just on my way out.” He paused, then stepped back. “Come in.”

  “I don’t want to interfere.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. I was just �
�� ” He took off his hat. “Well . . .” He motioned her inside. “Maybe I should explain.”

  She held up a plate of cheese and crackers. “I thought maybe you’d have guests to feed.”

  “I think you hit a lull in the parade.”

  “I just came to say how sorry I am.” Her eyes met his.

  He nodded and cleared his throat. “Sure.”

  She walked to the kitchen and put the covered plate in a crowded refrigerator. When she looked up, he was staring at her from the entrance to the dining room. “So how are you?”

  He seemed to know better than to just say “fine.” He looked down. “Shocked.” He looked around. “I can’t believe she’s gone.” He looked at his watch.

  Della didn’t know what to say. “I should go.”

  He seemed to be puzzling over something. “Maybe you could help me.”

  Della smiled. “Of course.”

  He sighed. “I was on my way to see Richard and Nancy Childress. Maybe you could go with me. Help me think through something.”

  Della sat at a wooden kitchen chair. “I don’t understand.”

  He placed his hands on the back of a chair. His knuckles trembled, then blanched as he gripped the chair back. “I promised I’d go to see them yesterday, but then, well . . .” His voice weakened. “Anyway, in the midst of everything, I forgot about my commitment. I need to get out, to think about something else, so I thought I’d just go see them. I was going to take Miriam yesterday.”