15 Tales of Love (7 page)

But the week before Christmas, Tom took Naomi to an expensive restaurant, much nicer than any place they had gone before. She sensed a suppressed excitement about him, and wondered if he had gotten a raise.

While they waited for dessert, something sinfully chocolate, he suddenly reached across the table and picked up her hand. “Naomi,” he said, “I love you. I want to marry you.”

Caught totally off guard, she said, “What?”

“Not now—when I have my degree next year—but I wanted to ask you now.”

He fumbled in his jacket pocket. “I know we haven’t known each other very long, but I’m sure.” He brought out a small object she recognized as a ring box. “It’s not very much,” he said, “but I’d like you to wear it. A promise ring, I think they call it, not a real engagement yet.” He paused, picked up her hand and held it. “I can’t offer you very much, but I want us to plan our future together.”

She looked with wonder, and some dismay, at the tiny diamond between two little emeralds, her birthstone. She said, “It’s lovely, but I can’t take it.”

“Why not?” He sounded genuinely perplexed. “It’s a promise for our future. My promise to you. I thought you loved me and would wait for me.”

Keeping her eyes on their clasped hands and a tight hold on her voice to keep from crying, she told him about Daniel and the baby.

He was quiet a long minute, still holding the little ring box. “That’s horrible,” he said, “but that’s passed, it’s history. It has nothing to do with us. Any more than my high school girl friends mean anything. This is the future, you and me.”

She wanted to believe, and she almost did. But she had built her heart’s wall too long ago.

“And the other reason I want you to wear it now,” Tom said, “is I got this great offer. I can spend the spring semester in Guatemala, working at an Indian clinic, learning all kinds of stuff first hand. It will work out great toward my degree.”

Her heart froze again. Tom was leaving her. Like all the others. No matter what he was saying.

“Oh. You’re going away.”

“But just for four months. I’ll be back at the end of April to finish the semester at the Tech.”

She said, and she heard the despair in her voice, “You won’t come back. No one comes back. Ever.”

He didn’t answer for a long moment. “You have to have faith, Naomi. The ring is my pledge to come back to you.” He paused again. “I love you and I want the best for our future. This experience will help with that. I have to accept it.”

In not much more than a whisper she said, “I loved my father, and Ben, and I think Daniel, and they are all gone. I love you, too, Tom, but I couldn’t stand it if you leave me.”

“But I’m not leaving you. E-mail is great stuff.”

“Ben said he’d write to me forever, but he didn’t.”

“I’m not Ben. I’m me, Tom.”

The creamy dessert no longer appealed to her. What should have been excellent coffee was suddenly bitter. She said, “Take me home. Please.”

He left her at her door. She did not invite him in. “Think about it,” he said earnestly. “Have faith in me. Trust me. Trust my love for you.”

Sleep came fitfully as she argued with herself. She did indeed love Tom. She had known that for some time but had not acknowledged it. She hadn’t dared. And now she would lose that small hope as well. In the deepest part of the night, that coldest and darkest hour before the dawn, she lay in her bed and cried. The tears were not a release; they were bitter and born of fear and despair as she waited for the night to end and bring her some relief. She had her job to go to, and nothing more that she was sure of.

She noticed the sky beyond her window had grown lighter with the coming dawn.
Morning,
she thought.
Morning always comes at the end of the night. We all know that. Have faith, Tom said. Is this the end of my long night?

She thought then of the bare trees, of the winter cold that was beginning, of the holiday season ahead that had lost what little appeal it had for her. With Tom gone, she would have no holiday cheer.

But she knew deep in her heart, that after the winter, the spring comes.
We have faith that it will happen and it always does. Is Tom’s going away just my winter? Is his ring like the promise of Christmas, of the New Year? That everything will turn out all right? Can I find faith enough to believe?

She had to have that faith. She knew she had to try one more time to believe, to trust her heart to another. If he would, indeed, keep in touch, call her as he said, she could survive the wait, perhaps even grow stronger. If he didn’t, she was lost forever.

In the morning she called Tom. “I’m sorry I spoiled your evening, your plan for me.”

“You’ve changed your mind?”

She heard the hope in his voice, the love she wanted, and warmed to it. “I will wear your ring,” she said. “I will trust you with my heart.”

MYSOPHOBE

Mysophobia: the morbid fear of dirt

Elenora Watson felt the rising panic as a tightening in her chest, the constricting bands that signaled the beginning of the asthma attack that would force her to use her inhaler. She knew the reason. This was Thursday, the day for washing floors, and she hadn’t done it yet. It was her bedtime, and she had had a long day.

I knew I shouldn’t have started reading that new mystery. I should have done the floors first. That’s what they always told me, do the work first.
She repeated to herself what her therapist had worked with her on
. I don’t have to do that anymore. I can do what I want.
That didn’t help, as she knew it wouldn’t. No matter what her counselor said, it had been too long and the rules too sternly enforced, too many times.

The floors did not need to be washed—she had washed both the kitchen and the two bathrooms last week—and she kept them swept. She knew the panic was unreasonable. Her therapist, Ruthie, had told her that. But Ruthie also told her that knowing something wasn’t enough. She had to believe it.

I do believe it! I’ll just go to bed and wash them tomorrow
. But she knew she couldn’t and that she would have to wash the floors before she could sleep, but she would probably need the inhaler anyway. Besides, Friday was the day for baking, not doing floors.

Reluctantly, she found the mop and the pail, and washed the floors so that she could perhaps sleep without the medication. She couldn’t skimp by not moving the table and chairs or by paying special attention to corners. She could hear her father’s voice. “If you are going to do something, do it right the first time!”

Or else!
Too many times she had redone a job with him standing behind her while she did it the way he thought it should be done
.
She sighed
. You’d think, at twenty-eight, I could manage on my own.

Elenora knew much of her problem had been caused by Aunt Edie. She knew now what she hadn’t known then: Edie was a compulsive housekeeper, the result of suffering from mysophobia, a morbid fear of dirt. Edie, her father’s much older sister, had lived with them for two years when Elenora was five and six, serving as a live-in babysitter while her parents worked. Edie’s desperate need for absolute cleanliness, combined with her parents rigid rules, left Elenora with an irreparable scar. Even if Ruthie did say it could be fixed.

When Edie had finally been committed to a home, Elenora was almost as afraid of dirt as Edie was. She had gradually gotten over most of it, but the residue was still there, combined with her mother’s cleaning schedule, designed for a large house, not Elenora’s little apartment.

Ruthie asked her once about pets. “Having a pet, a cat for instance, can reduce a lot of stress,” she said. “Did you ever have one?”

“No, no, never!” Elenora was surprised at the instant revulsion she felt, but then recognized it as Edie’s horror, not her own. She had secretly wished for a kitten. Elenora said, more calmly, “No. Aunt Edie nearly screamed at my mother, ‘Cats are filthy!’ And after she left, we never got one. Too much trouble, I guess.”

Finally done and in bed, her panic symptoms eased, she lay on the edge of sleep and considered what Ruthie had said at their last session. Ruthie Law was comforting, supporting, and understanding. She was an older woman, but in no way motherly, always professional. Elenora had been seeing her for several months at the suggestion of her doctor.

“Most of your problems seem to be caused by stress and depression,” Dr. Hawley had said of her headaches and asthma symptoms. He had suggested a counseling agency. “Your divorce and changing jobs seem to have been too much all at once.”

Elenora delayed going for a while, not seeing any point in it, but finally she had been assigned to Ruthie. She gradually told the therapist of her strict upbringing, her cold and demanding parents, the lack of love that she saw lavished on her younger sister Jacqui—she couldn’t think of her as Jacqueline—although Jacqui, too, complained occasionally of their parents’ rigidness. Jacqui was a blithe spirit, and had escaped as soon as possible, going to college in a distant state. She had married, had two adorable children and lived life apparently happily with no ill effects from their childhood. She very rarely came home.

Elenora had not escaped. Her father had chosen a local college for her, insisted that she live at home and commute, otherwise he wouldn’t pay for the education, and had chosen her course of study. Elenora was to have an associate’s degree in business science. “There is always a job for a good secretary,” her father had said, although she wanted to study creative writing
.
“Nobody makes a living as a writer.”

Jacqui had simply gotten a job, transferred her credits to a liberal arts school several hundred miles away, and gone. She had refused to accept any further help, with its myriad strings, from her parents.

Elenora had lacked both the will and the strength to do that. She tried to escape into marriage, but that had been even worse. Clive, whom she adored for his handsomeness, his strength and sense of purpose, had proved to be a copy of her father. Once married, he, too, had enforced a rigid schedule.

“You are too scatterbrained,” he said. “You get involved in a book or something and forget to clean the bathroom, or change the sheets. You need a schedule to get everything done.” She was working full-time, of course, which limited her free time. She soon had none at all.

Her mother’s schedule of days was enforced: on Monday you do the wash; Tuesday, clean and dust the upstairs, but she now had only four rooms plus the bath and a half, so she did the bedroom and dining room on Tuesday; Wednesday, clean and dust the living room; Thursday wash the floors; Friday do the baking for the weekend; Saturday do the shopping and take care of the trash in addition to any yard work or outside chores. On Sunday, she could go to church or maybe visit a cousin or a girlfriend, but most of them were married and wanted weekends for family.

She realized she had made adjustments with the small apartment, but she held to the schedule as best she could. She had to.

Elenora’s decision to file for divorce had been forced on her. She knew the woman’s name was Olivia. Clive had been seeing her prior to their marriage and had apparently seen no reason to give her up. He contested the divorce up to a point, but he did not deny his relationship with Olivia.

Privately, Elenora thought Olivia must be a prostitute, although no one had ever said so. Clive had married Elenora, he said, “Because I want a respectable woman from a good family to mother my children.”

It all left Elenora devastated, barely able to function, and her asthma worse. Her parents deplored her divorce. “How could you do that to us? All that talk and gossip! And after all we did for you. Clive was such a good catch, of good family, and had a good job. You have to make some allowances, you know, for a successful man!”

That parental condemnation, followed by their withdrawal of all offers of help or support, had forced her to move to a cheaper apartment and find a new job.

Elenora was now working as a receptionist at the local newspaper, answering the phone, taking orders for ads and subscriptions, and sometimes filling in as a proofreader. Once, with no reporters available, she had even covered a small local event and the editor had been pleased.

“The doctor was right,” Ruthie had said from the beginning. “You have been depressed for years, and no wonder in that, but I think you are making progress. You have adjusted to your new circumstances very well, and now,” she said at the most recent session, “you need to move forward a step.”

That step was to join a group session. “Listen to what others have to say. You’ll find out you aren’t alone.”

Elenora had demurred. “I can’t talk to a group.”

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. Go and listen. See what happens. There will be others who don’t take an active part.”

Elenora had reluctantly agreed to go.

Going to a Friday evening meeting required Elenora to make a change in her routine, and perhaps that was what Ruthie had intended. She baked a pan of brownies before leaving for work instead of after supper as she usually did, and that required that she get up earlier. She considered that a small victory.

The therapy group met in the adult reading room at the town library. “This is a less threatening environment for our newcomers,” the affable, middle-aged leader told the dozen people who gathered in the comfortable chairs. “There’s coffee over there,” she added, pointing to the back of the room, “and Jane has brought some goodies. Help yourself and get comfortable.”

Elenora unobtrusively got a cup of coffee, found a seat to one side, as far as possible from the leader, and studied the group. There were about equal numbers of men and women, aged from their twenties to elderly. She was asked to introduce herself, and then take part if she chose. She sipped at the coffee, listened to the stories, the triumphs and slips by many of those present. She did not feel inclined to join in, and at the end of the hour, she wandered out into the library stacks to find a book to read, preferably a good mystery.

I shouldn’t. I get into trouble when I start reading. But Ruthie said to do what I want to do.

She found the collection of mysteries and stopped to read titles. A Nevada Barr she hadn’t read caught her attention and she reached for it.

“Hey,” a masculine voice behind her said. “That’s my favorite author.”

Startled, she turned to look at him, a total stranger, probably thirty-something, grinning, and boyishly handsome with sandy-brown hair. She said, “What?”

“Nevada Barr. I haven’t read that one.”

“Oh, here, take it.” She held the book toward him.

He stepped backward, holding up both hands in negation. “I wouldn’t dream of taking it first.”

She smiled, relaxing a little. It had been a long time since she had had this kind of chance encounter. “All right then, I’ll bring it back next week.”

“I’ll be here waiting with bated breath.”

Elenora laughed. “I’ll believe that when I see it, but I will return it.”

Elenora had a week that was bad, bordering on awful. The late August weather was hot and muggy. It affected her breathing and made doing her housework difficult. Her hoped for chance to do another story for the paper didn’t happen when the event was postponed, although the editor half-promised that it was still hers. It deepened her depression and produced a migraine.

On Thursday both the heat and humidity went up, her air conditioning couldn’t cope with it, and one of her two window units failed. She retreated to her not-really-cool bedroom and again didn’t do her required floor washing. “There are extenuating circumstances,”
she told herself firmly, but she couldn’t believe it because her father had allowed for none.

In the middle of the night she awoke from a dream of suffocation, thinking she was locked in a small dark room with no way out. She gasped, trying to draw a breath as the constriction tightened around her chest. She kept an emergency albuterol inhaler in her bedside table and she was able to reach it, groping in the dimness of a nightlight from the hall. The medication usually worked almost instantly.

She drew in a lungful of the medication, shook her inhaler again, and sucked in a second dose. She sat on the edge of the bed, gulping mouthfuls of air. The tightness eased a little, but not enough. She didn’t want to call for help. That was a sign of weakness.

If two puffs aren’t enough, take some more, her doctor said; it won’t hurt. She inhaled the medication again, two more puffs. She couldn’t lie down, afraid of again feeling suffocated, so she moved to a chair by the window, still trying to breathe normally and forget the terrifying dream.

It was almost a half hour before she felt confident enough to go back to bed. She lay still, breathing raggedly but at least getting enough air, and eventually she relaxed enough to go back to sleep. She awoke a little groggy and determined not to let it happen again. She wouldn’t break the routine. It was way too scary.

Elenora would have stayed home from the group session on Friday but she had to return the library book. She had managed to read it during odd moments and had thoroughly enjoyed it
. I managed that one, so I’ll get another. I deserve that much! I wish I could just sit down and read.

She knew she could. She just had to believe she could read the book instead of doing the wash on Monday. But she couldn’t.
I can’t risk another bad night.

But she did take one more step toward freedom; she made baking powder biscuits for supper on Thursday, telling herself that counted as Friday’s baking since she would enjoy them for several days. She liked to split a cold biscuit and put it under the broiler topped with a slice of cheddar cheese, leaving it until the last moment as the cheese bubbled and toasted a golden brown.
Not only are they great with my after-work coffee, they are baked.

So she went to the session and again sat at one side and listened. Some of the stories were interesting, a couple even inspiring, suggesting some strategies she might try, but she didn’t feel motivated to join in
. I have no successes to talk about.

She had almost forgotten about the man who had wanted the Barr book and was therefore surprised to meet him by the circulation desk.

“See,” he said, grinning, “I told you I’d be here.”

“How did you know when I’d come back?”

“Easy.” He gestured toward the room where the group met. “Last week I saw you come out. They meet here every week.”

Elenora didn’t comment, suddenly afraid of him and what he might think about her.

“I brought my sister down for a while. She was in a car accident and was afraid to go back to driving. I drove her until her broken arm healed.” He glanced at Elenora. “Once her arm healed she had to drive again to go to work so she got over it.”