Be My Neat-Heart (16 page)

B
en's been acting very peculiar. It's difficult to tell when Ben's being odd and when he's just being Ben, but something is up. I stopped at his place to compare the framed photo Aunt Gertie had sent me with the one she'd sent to him.

Aunt Gertie frightens me sometimes. Ever since her contemporary “mood” started, she's been sending us strange and wonderful surrealistic photography. It's always beautifully mounted and for a while I thought that she was buying it at some wigged out art gallery she'd found. Recently, however, Ben told me that it is my aunt who is taking the pictures and her husband Arthur doing the framing.

It's been entertaining trying to guess what her subject matter is, because she zeros in on one point in an object and photographs it in great detail—like the pocket on a pair of Levi's jeans, a pomegranate, the bottom of the trash can and once, horribly, Arthur flexing a muscle. I was never sure
which
muscle, exactly, and didn't dare ask.

The latest offering is the weirdest yet. I have several guesses as to what it might be, but I want to consult with Ben, who usually “gets” Aunt Gertie before I do.

I knocked and walked into his house with my gift in hand. On the table in the foyer was the other half of my set, a photograph of…well…it could have been a close-up of a very tiny Rorschach test, an outbreak of black measles, something Gertie had grown in a Petri dish or age spots on an elderly hand.

“What do you think?” Ben walked into the foyer with a bowl of cereal in one hand and a spoon in the other.

I offered my guesses. He shook his head at each one.

“Nope. At first I thought it was a close-up of the back of old, mildewed wallpaper—the wicked looking decomposing spots and all—but I finally got it.”

“What is it?” I refuse to hang anything on my walls that might be in questionable taste—especially Arthur's bicep or oblique.

“I've got one going in the kitchen.” Ben waved his spoon in that direction.

I followed him into the room which looked much like it always did—a mad scientist's laboratory. There's never much actual food in Ben's kitchen but you can take your pick of weird strains of who-knows-what in his fridge. Actually, today there was more food than usual; a loaf of bread, a carton of orange juice and a bowl of moldy fruit.

I edged nearer the fruit and squinted. Something was coming into view. I glanced at my photo and back at the fruit. “It's rotting bananas!” I crowed.

“Bingo. That banana she photographed has some age on it, that's for sure. That Gertie, she's something, isn't she?”

Something, yes. What, I'm not sure.

“Are you going to the hospital?” Ben asked.

“Yes. I don't have another client this afternoon so I thought I'd stop by.”
And see Jared.

“Can I come with you? I made something for Molly.” He held up a device that looked like a portable headset with a flashlight hooked to it by a long piece of stiff wire. “Music,
light and color all at once. Or books on tapes.” He looked up hopefully. “It might work.”

I sank onto a chair but resisted the urge to bury my head in my hands. “The doctors are puzzled as to why she hasn't come out of this yet. She reacts negatively to loud noises, for example, and positively to her family's voices. The longer this goes on…”

My time with Jared at the Oasis seemed like it was a million years ago.

It had occurred to me—sometime in the night when Imelda and Zelda were jockeying for position in my bed and woke me—that if Molly didn't wake up and Jared continued to blame himself for not saving Molly from herself, there was no future for Jared and me, either.

“He has no mercy for himself, Ben. He won't forgive himself for firing her, for losing it over the damage she did to the company.”

“I thought he was a Christian,” Ben said bluntly. “That he knew God forgives him.”

“But he doesn't forgive himself.”

“So he thinks his word counts for more than God's?”

My head snapped up.

“If Jared won't accept God's forgiveness because he can't forgive himself, then he thinks his problems are too big for God, that he knows better than God, right?”

Wendy's friend Mike had learned that lesson. Just as we'd had to turn Molly over to God's healing hand, Jared had to surrender his guilt and regret to God, as well. As long as he held on to it, he was flying in the face of God's promise to forgive and wipe our sins away. While Molly was in a physical crisis, Jared was in a crisis of
trust.

“Come on, Ben, let's go. I want to talk to Jared.”

Ben gathered up his invention for Molly and followed me
toward the door. On impulse, I picked up my photo of Aunt Gertie's rotting banana and took it with me.

Jared looked up as Ben and I entered the room.

He'd lost weight. His belt was a notch tighter and his tailored white shirt seemed loose around the collar beneath his tie. He was also taking on the pallor of the hospital lights as his energy drained out the soles of his feet.

Molly, on the other hand, looked wonderful. Geneva made sure her hair was always fixed and had even given her daughter a manicure. Mrs. Hamilton said that Molly would be furious if she woke up and realized she looked a mess.

“Hey,” Jared said as he lifted a hand in greeting. “Thanks for coming.”

I walked over and kissed Molly on the cheek. “It's me. Sammi. I brought something for you to look at.” I propped the photo of the rotting banana skin on the bed table. “I'll bet you can't figure out what it is. Of course, you'll have to open your eyes to see it.”

Then I heard a paroxysm of throat clearing. “And I brought you a playmate. Ben is here.”

I suppose it was wishful thinking, but I would have sworn that one corner of her lip tipped in a smile.

Ben loped over to the bed and whipped his new contraption out of his pocket. “I made this for you, Molly. I think you're going to like it. And I have the most amazing magic tricks to show you….”

Jared and I escaped into the hallway.

“Thanks for bringing Ben,” he said as he wearily rubbed his neck. “I can't say why, but I feel like Molly must enjoy him—or she would, if she could.”

“Then she's in good hands. Want to take a walk?”

We headed for a small park on the hospital grounds with a few scattered picnic tables, grills and a cover of trees.

Jared rolled his shoulders as we walked. “Feels good to move. I've been frozen over Molly's bed. I suppose I think if I sit there, willing her to wake up, she'll do it.”

“And what does the doctor say?”

“That the swelling in her head is going down slowly. That now would be a wonderful time for Molly to open her eyes.”

I leaned back against a big oak tree, savoring the feel of something solid and real against my body. Nothing else about trips to the hospital ever felt real anymore. We were all living in a surrealistic dream from which we wanted to wake.

Jared put his palms against the oak over my head and looked down at me. Then he leaned down and kissed my forehead so gently it felt as though a butterfly had landed there.

“You've been awfully faithful, coming here every day, keeping our spirits up. Mom and Dad think you're the best thing since, as Dad says, ‘sliced bread.'”

“Your parents are amazing. I know now why you and Molly are so wonderful.”

“But it's taking a toll on them. They aren't young. I wish they would stay home and get more rest. I've told them that I'll be here for Molly.”

“What about work? You have to go to the office.”

“I can work on my laptop in Molly's room.”

“Jared,” I ventured, feeling my way gingerly along this slippery slope, “what if…”

His eyes emptied of life.

“We have to face it, Jared. Molly may not come back to us.”

“Sammi, there's something I want to talk to you about.” His voice sounded hollow to my ears. “I don't want you to be saddled with this. You didn't buy into this scenario when we were…you know, back at the Oasis. You don't have to stay….”

“Is there something wrong with
your
head, too? What are you talking about?”

“Sammi, I love you. But it's becoming clearer and clearer that it might be more loving to let you live without me and this enormous responsibility….”

“Get a grip, Jared. I'm not running away from this.”

“I know. You wouldn't do that. You'd stick with us because you are considerate, caring, courageous and strong….”

“You're describing a Girl Scout, Jared, not a woman in love. I
want
to be here—for you, for Molly, for your parents. I
want
it.”

“I can't let you….”

“You can't stop me, either.”

Jared scraped his fingers through his hair in frustration. “It would be so much better for you if…”

“If you quit talking nonsense.” Then I remembered the conversation I'd had with Ben. “Jared, you just don't
trust.
You don't trust me, you don't trust God….”

“What do you mean, I don't trust God?”

“You think that God can't forgive you…or won't….” I struggled for what I wanted to say. “No, that's not it. You think that God
shouldn't
forgive you! You don't trust Him to be God. You're making Him small by filtering Him through your finite understanding. Don't you see?”

I wondered if he even heard me. He was so far into his own thoughts that I was probably like a noisy chickadee, chattering background noise in this depth of despondency.

“Thank you, Sammi, but we can't ignore this.”

“No. But we can get through it. Together. Us. You, me.
Together.
”

I was having about as much effect as a ping-pong ball bouncing against a skyscraper—none.

He took me by the elbow and steered me back toward the hospital. “We'll talk about this again, Sammi. When you aren't so emotional.”

Me? Emotional? It takes one to know one!

As we walked together, Jared's hand firmly on my arm, I began to realize that, if Jared thought he was protecting me by pulling out of my life, he would do it.

I have to get it through his loveable, altruistic, thickheaded skull that the only way to protect me was to bring me closer, not to push me away.

I
t was a relief to have multiple appointments today. That kept me from obsessing too much about what I was going to do about Jared and his insistence that I would be better off without him.

First of all, stubborn and independent woman that I am, I want to decide that for myself and not have him make up my mind for me. Secondly, the man is under a great deal of stress and is currently operating with tunnel vision. Supporting and sustaining his parents, keeping himself together, working at Hamilton and Hamilton and all he is doing for Molly are the equivalent of four full-time jobs. I don't want to be the fifth but nor do I plan to go away quietly.

Fortunately, Amelia Vicars was a remarkably effective diversion.

A slender, timid-appearing woman with pale brown hair, pale gray eyes and wearing a pale yellow dress that resembled an overgrown canvas sack or small pup tent, she greeted me at the door with tepid enthusiasm.

“Mrs. Vicars? I'm Samantha Smith.”

“Yes.” Apparently she agreed with me on that one.

“We have an appointment today, is that correct?”

“Well, yes.” Worry flitted over her features.

“Is there a problem?” There must be since I still hadn't made it past the front door.

“I'm just not sure you can help me….” Amelia wrung her hands like they were soggy dishcloths. “I'm very disorganized.”

“Then I'm in the right place. It says in my notes that you want help with your kitchen, is that correct?”

She stepped away from the door and I walked directly into the room in question.

The kitchen was a large, lovely room filled with sunshine. A pair of parakeets put up a noisy ruckus in their cage when we entered. There was not a thing wrong with this kitchen except that every counter, every surface, every square inch of space was filled with food. There were cans of soup, vegetables, fruits, coffee, tuna, beans and juice stacked three high. Cereal boxes were piled five and six high. Rice Krispies was the front-runner. I could count seven boxes from where I stood. Pad thai noodles, vinegar, macaroni, ketchup and wasabi peas need room beside jars of pickles, preserves, pimentos, mayonnaise and peanut butter, mounds of cleaning supplies and an entire case of lemon curd.

“I tend to over-purchase groceries. It's gotten so I don't know where to put them. I thought maybe you could help me.”

“Yes, I see.” The only quick fix for this would be to serve a week's worth of meals to the men of the United States Army. That might clear it out a bit. “How many people are in your family?”

“Just my husband and me. We have two grown daughters who live in California.”

“So this is just for the two of you?” I tiptoed carefully toward the counter. I didn't want to produce any vibrations that might start an avalanche.

“It's a little problem I have. I'm working on it in therapy, but my therapist suggested I call someone like you as well. Can you help me?”

“How long have you been collecting food, Amelia?”

“I quit work three years ago and it seems to have gotten out of hand since then.”

“Uh-huh. Three years. Do you have any idea where the food is that you purchased back then or has it all been used up?”

“Well, I really couldn't say.” She wrung her dishrag hands again. “I used some, of course, but I always put the new in front so it got mixed up.” She stared in horror at her own fecund counters as if they were whelping canned goods as we spoke.

“I suppose I didn't realize how much I had until I ran out of room.” She paused in self-amazement. “I had no idea canned goods could fill up a bathtub quickly.”

Okay. Calm down, we don't need to go there—yet.

I glanced around the room again and made a quick decision. “Amelia, today I'm going to teach you how to read the expiration dates on canned goods.”

We spent the next two hours on the floor pulling out cans, reading the expiration dates and either tossing the old food, putting the newer food in boxes for the food shelf and putting “use by” notations on the rest. Visions of botulism were still dancing in my head when I opened the door under the kitchen sink.

I screamed so loudly as the thing jumped out at me that I think I broke two jars of applesauce and the neighbor's window.

“Spider! No… Tumbleweed! No…” I garbled as I scooted backward to get away from whatever was blooming out from beneath the sink. Then I got a whiff of the most foul odor known to kitchens, that of the
rotten potato.

What I had opened the door upon was a basket full of potatoes, each of which had sprouted and grown a Medusa-
like head of potato hair. The long wormy tentacles reaching for me were nothing more than potato sprouts. Or, more accurately, potato sprouts on steroids. Then, having produced this mass of tentacles, the potatoes had melted into smelly little puddles and begun to give off their wretched, odiferous smell.

“Oh, dear,” Amelia said behind me. “I'd forgotten all about those.”

Obviously. And I'd forgotten my fumigation suit.

This, I thought, as I helped Amelia carry the contents of the entire cupboard on its plastic shelf paper out to the garbage, is why I am going to raise my prices.

Still, by the time I left with nine boxes of food for the food pantry, Amelia was happily arranging what was left of the food and taking the kitchen organizer's oath—

The oath is tough, I know, but, hey, it's a dirty business. Somebody's got to lay down the law somewhere.

As I drove home, I felt a smile bubbling up from inside me.
Thank You, Lord, for the opportunity to do what I love. I can't believe it, but I even love the smelly stuff. The looks of relief on my clients' faces are so rewarding. Bless Amelia and all her foodstuffs and free her from her compulsion to buy whatever is on sale. You certainly created complex creatures when You created human beings, Lord. The things we can think up! It's just one more sign of how awesome You really are.

And Lord, as always, keep Your hand on Molly and her family. If You want Jared and I together, I know You'll make it happen. Show me Your will.

 

Zelda was playing jungle cat again. When I walked in the door, I saw her crouching on the top of my armoire, tail flicking, eyes narrowed, scanning the Serengeti horizon for a juicy wildebeest. I saw disappointment in her eyes that I was not the wildebeest she was craving, but she quickly resolved that I would have to do.

She came squealing and yowling off the top of the chest in a launch that would have made Evel Knievel drool, and landed on my shoulder. She nearly gave me a whisker burn with her stubbly shoulder and latched her little white teeth on to the shoulder strap of my purse, the closest thing she could get to wildebeest hide.

“Hi, Zelda, playing again, I see.”

Wendy, who was already in the kitchen, clanged two pots together. “She's been on safari ever since I got here. Your plants look like someone took a hedge trimmer to them and there's not a mouse in the house or she would have scarfed it up for you by now.”

“I'm glad she entertains herself,” I said, plucking the cat off my shoulder and putting her on the floor.

“Imelda entertains herself, too. Did you know she can turn on the television?”

“I taught her.”

“Then do you know she likes soap operas and
Judge Judy?
She's crazy about
Wheel of Fortune
and can't stand reruns of
Friends
or
Seinfeld
.”

“Oh, I didn't know she didn't like
Seinfeld
. That must be something new. I usually find her watching
Animal Planet.
” I threw my mail down on the counter.

Wendy, wooden spoon in one hand, stared at me. “I'll never figure out why you want everything so tidy and yet you
encourage
your wacko pets to do whatever it is they do during the day—and you put up with me and Ben, besides.”

“Organization is to make life easier, not more difficult. We don't organize for the thrill of it. We do it so that we can enjoy the people and things we have in our life without having our environment be troublesome.” I walked across the kitchen and gave Wendy a hug. “I've got my priorities straight, you silly girl.”

“And how is Jared doing with his?”

I told Molly about Jared's ill grandfather and the scene Geneva had witnessed, the scene where her father passed the torch to her son, the incident she called “the commissioning.”

“At eight years old, Jared was appointed his sister's keeper by a man he loved, a man who was dying,” I told Wendy. “That's pretty heavy stuff for a little kid.

“Geneva also told me that her mother always used to remind her husband that, ‘If anyone does not provide for his relatives, and especially for his own family, he has disowned the faith and is worse than an unbeliever.' She said Jared was all ears.”

“That's an example of using the Word as a club rather than a beckoning hand,” Wendy commented. “Responsibility and duty were drilled into him early.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “How would you feel if you believed that you had been ‘commissioned by' God—and felt
you had failed Him? Jared believes he's failed Molly, his grandfather and even God. He's forgetting, of course, that we've all failed God. Romans 3:23—‘All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.'”

Suddenly I thought about my favorite disciple, Peter. If you want to talk about a guy with a directive from God who still managed to fail his Lord, there's one! After that bluster, those good intentions and a somber promise to never deny Christ, what did Peter say when asked if he was one of Jesus' followers? “I do not know what you are talking about… I do not know the man!”

Talk about dropping the ball!

Yet Peter, by God's grace, picked himself up, dusted himself off and became the rock of the church that Christ promised he would. If God could do that for Peter, Jared's issue would be a piece of cake for our loving Lord. But how to convince Jared of that? How to unwind the obligation of a lifetime and put it into God's hands?

I could think of only one answer. By starting to pray for it myself.