Desert Gift (35 page)

Jack flipped through papers. Normally he was pretty good with patients he saw regularly, even if the visits were scattered. People and their feet were his favorite pastime. He knew this woman did not want the hassle of surgery.

“Mrs. Stanton, when did I last see you?”

“How should I know? It was cold outside. It was winter. There was an ice storm.”

He found the page. His heartbeat thumped once in his throat. “February 10.”

“Whatever.”

February 10.

He read the notes he had taken. They weren’t copious.
Might do surgery!!
The exclamation points were because the woman had insisted for years she would never go through with it. She was fine managing the pain by wearing practical shoes and having calluses trimmed regularly. She hated, absolutely hated, the thought of surgery.

February 10.

With apologies, Jack sent Mrs. Stanton out to the scheduler and then made a beeline for Sophie’s desk. He put his elbows on the counter and leaned over it. “Will you pull my files from February 10?”

She stared at him. “The day of your accident.”

“Yes!” He spoke too loudly, too intensely, but couldn’t stop himself. “Please! I need the folders. Can you do it now?”

“Sure.”

“Now.”

“While you wait?”

“Yes, while I wait!”

“Dr. G, this will take a while. I have to pull up that day’s schedule and then—”

“I need them now. Right now. As in
yesterday
now.”

She glanced beyond his shoulder and called out, “Dr. Baxter.”

Jack gripped the edge of the countertop. He felt Baxter brush up beside him.

Sophie tilted her head toward Jack. “We have a situation.”

“Okay.” Baxter’s voice was full-on bedside. “What’s up, bud?”

Jack wondered how long he could hyperventilate and remain upright on two feet. There was probably a formula. Height plus weight plus—

Baxter grabbed his arm and began to steer him down the hall.

“I lost the day, Bax.” He exhaled the words, one at a time. “I lost the whole, entire, stinking day.”

* * *

Jack sat on the couch in Baxter’s office, his head between his knees. His breathing was almost back to normal, but the room kept spinning.

“Jack, didn’t you realize this after the accident? that there was this gigantic hole in your memory bank?”

“No. I don’t think I even gave that day a thought. I mean, it was probably like any other at the office.” He shut his eyes and straightened. “In the days after the accident I was a little preoccupied with a headache and the business of leaving town. Then with the business of not wanting to leave town. And then the actual not leaving town.” He opened his eyes. The room stayed put. “I did not revisit that day. Apparently I had nothing to revisit.”

“What
can
you remember about it?” Baxter’s jaw went rigid. “And tell me the truth this time.”

Jack sighed. “I remember Jill’s voice on the radio while I was driving. I remember that it upset me.”

“News to me. And when did you remember this?”

“That night you and I talked at my apartment. It came to me later, after you left. The next day was the MRI.”

“So you don’t really remember going to the dry cleaner’s or the accident itself, do you?”

“No, only what happened after the impact. I noticed the dry cleaning in the car and deduced where I’d been.”

Baxter cursed. “Jack, why couldn’t you admit that to me before? or to the ER doc? What is it with you? Always the facade. All is well with the Galloways; just ask them.”

We are perfect, the poster couple for happily married couples. Just ask anybody.

Baxter wasn’t finished. “You can’t even admit how angry you are at Jill. You just walk away from her.”

Jack tuned him out. Reading his own handwriting in Mrs. Stanton’s file and not remembering the act of writing the note scared him. Was his brain damaged?

Baxter paced. “These things happen. It may remain a black hole for the rest of your life. At least we’ve got files as far as your patients are concerned, so your professional side is covered. Other than that, it doesn’t matter what you ate for lunch.” He stopped in front of Jack. “Right?”

“I guess not.”

“Right. You do remember your life before that day. Childhood, mom and dad, wife, son?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay then.” He clapped Jack on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

“What you just described doesn’t feel fine. A black hole?”

The door opened and Sophie walked in carrying a stack of folders. “Dr. G, this should be all of them.”

Jack took them from her. “Thank you. I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

“I understand. This must be frightening.” She sat beside him on the couch. “The sheet on top is that day’s schedule. You had a consultation with someone, but I can’t find any record of it except here.” She pointed to a line. “I fit her in between Mrs. Stanton and Mr. Childers. She did not make another appointment. I assume she required nothing further, so you didn’t start a file on her.”

Jack couldn’t bring the paper into focus. “Where is it?”

“Here.” Sophie tapped the sheet. “At 11:20. Mrs. Dena Wilson.”

Memory returned, a bolt of lightning slashing through him, illuminating every single crevice of his mind, annihilating the black hole. It tore his breath away.

“Ratatouille.” He looked at Baxter. “That’s what I had for lunch that day.”

Baxter stared at him.

“It was left over from Sunday. New recipe. Very tasty. I’ll make it again and share some with you two.”

Sophie said, “Dr. G, you’re white as a sheet. You should go home.”

He nodded and that set the room in motion again. “Yeah, maybe I should.”

* * *

They wouldn’t allow him to drive. Baxter drove Jack’s car; Sophie followed in hers.

Baxter walked him to his apartment door. “Shall I call Jill?”

“No. No thanks. Not yet. I need to get used to, uh, um . . .”

“To that day’s memories?”

“Yes.”

“Jack, who’s Dena?”

“My wake-up call.” He smiled crookedly. “Or death knell.”

“Jack—”

“Not literally. I’m good. Really. That’s the truth.”

“Don’t say that just because it’s what I want to hear.”

“I promise. No more of that.”

No more of that.

Jack repeated the phrase as he watched his friends drive off. He went inside. No more telling Jill what he thought she wanted to hear. No more responding to anyone in that way.

Jack greeted Sophie’s cat, who flicked her yellow tail and walked off in reply. He made himself a cup of Assam tea. He sat in his mud-brown recliner and put up the footrest.

And he revisited every single moment of February 10.

Chapter 54

Monday afternoon Jill sat at the dining room table in a sea of mail, the hard-copy sort of mail that came on paper and now littered her table and floor. Her laptop was open to the other sort of mail that came through cyberspace, untouched by human hands, hovering above her, waiting for a click of the touch pad to pounce on her head.

“Honestly, Gretchen,” she muttered into the phone, “whoever invented reality checks anyway? They should be locked up and forced to eat peas and liver morning, noon, and night.”

“You only have yourself to blame for these feelings.”

“Is this a pep talk?”

“Let me try again. Every cloud has a silver lining. The darkest hour is right before the dawn. Nothing succeeds like failure. If you have a field full of manure, you know there’s a pony in there somewhere.”

“Much better.”

Gretchen chuckled. “Call me if you need more.”

“Right.” She turned off the phone and picked up her coffee mug. It was empty. Did she need a third pot?

It was her own fault, yes. Reality checks overwhelmed her because she preferred not to engage in them on a regular basis.

“Back up, Jaws,” she spoke aloud to herself. “That’s not exactly the truth. The truth is you’ve never engaged in one, period. You only think you do because you equate them with taking notes on your marriage.”

Euww.

This nonstop in-her-face routine was tough business. She saw no other way to get on with her life. She could not know if it would be with Jack or without him. She just had to get moving, to take care of herself.

The Trudeaus, Viv and Marty, and the newlyweds left on Sunday. Before the overwhelming emptiness set in, she got to work putting the house back in order. Bedding changes, laundry, moving her office back into the office, pitching leftovers she would not eat. She even found Jack’s saucepan in the cupboard and set it out.

In case he wanted to take it back to his apartment.

The physical activity released the happy hormones. Well, maybe they were more like the not-as-wretched-as-it-seems hormones. Happy seemed a long way off.

Jack had not called, and it wasn’t because her phone batteries were dead or the lines disconnected. She knew that because she had checked them once or twice.

She woke up Monday morning to Connor’s phone call. They were in Rome. He sounded joyously ecstatic.

That was when Jill decided to have an official, honest-to-goodness Reality Check Day and not hide behind running errands and lunching with Gretchen. Her son lived in Italy. Her husband lived in an apartment. Her life needed attention.

And so she began to read accumulated mail.

And she did not—as she usually did—toss or delete the negative ones.

She flinched and argued out loud and explained herself to the unseen finger pointers, but she did not destroy their letters. Instead she printed the e-mails and put them in a plastic tub with the other paper mail. She saved every unequivocal declaration that her work was worthless, that what she wrote and taught and spoke was sheer nonsense.

Nonsense? More like abominations. Or worse.

The cordless phone at her elbow rang and she jumped. She turned it over to see the caller ID.

Jack.

Jack. All the proof she needed to say that her work was indeed worthless.

The phone rang again.

Not now, Jack. Not now. I have enough going on here.

She set the phone down. The man could have called twenty-four hours ago when she was dealing with an empty house. She didn’t want to hear from him now.

She counted ten rings before it quit. Two more and voice mail would have picked up.

Jill carried her mug to the kitchen sink and saw the stray letter she’d left on the windowsill. The stationery was pretty enough to frame, lavender curlicues at the top and bottom. The lovely handwriting hinted at gentleness and thoughtfulness. The content wormed its way into her heart, where she imagined it might stay forever, word for word.

Dear Mrs. Galloway,

I’ve been a faithful listener to your program since the beginning. Was that eight years ago or so? I still remember your voice—fresh, young, eager, and a little unsure. I adored the sweet blend of spunk and vulnerability in it. I felt I could trust you.

And trust you I did. When you agreed with the expert you were interviewing, I did as well. When you disagreed with one, so did I. You always backed your opinions with Scripture. What was there not to trust?

I recently found out. It was the underlying message of your programs. You never said it in so many words but it was always there. “If you do such and such, your husband will be happy and faithful.”

My husband left me. He wasn’t happy. I don’t blame you. I don’t blame myself. I don’t blame God. I don’t even blame my husband.

I do blame that underlying, subtle message that suggests a wife is responsible for her husband’s happiness and therefore the success of a marriage. For me that twists the truth of our call to respect into a call to manipulate husband, self, and God. If I behave a certain way, God is bound to make this man happy and keep him just the way I want him: at home, taking care of my desires and needs.

God is larger than that, don’t you think?

I pray you will never feel a hint of the despair that is now my life.

Anonymous

Anonymous with no return address, postmark too faint to read.

She should thank God for it.

“Thank You, Lord,” Jill whispered and then she tried more loudly. “Lord, thank You for this Anonymous.”

And the others. And the others.

She sighed.

“All right. Yes. And the others. I do thank You for all of them. Bless each and every dear heart who tried to show me I was wrong or incorrect or, at the very least, off base. Thank You for speaking to me through them, for adjusting my lenses and giving me a clearer picture of the great God You are. I am sorry—”

The phone rang again.

Jill closed her eyes. “I am sorry for losing sight of Your awesomeness. I am sorry for thinking I could explain Your ways like I have an inside track. I am sorry for being so totally, self-righteously, priggishly black-and-white.”

The phone stopped ringing.

“It’s not that I expect everyone to agree—well, maybe I did. I won’t anymore. And I won’t tell You how to do things. I take my hands off of Jack and my work. I give everything and everyone up to You.”

The phone rang.

Jill sank to the floor and covered her ears. She needed to hear from the Holy One who loved her and liked her and would never let her down—before she heard from her unhappy husband.

* * *

Late the afternoon of her Reality Check Day, Jill washed her face. Her reflection in the mirror showed an extra five years settling into under-eye bags, sallow skin, and tired hairstyle.
Help me, Lord.

Her stomach rumbled and she headed downstairs to the kitchen, determined to finish out the Reality Check Day with dinner by herself. Both Gretchen and Nan had offered to meet her at a restaurant, but she felt the need to complete the day as she had begun it: alone. No time like the present to get accustomed to that new reality.

The doorbell rang.

She went perfectly still, bent over, eyes level with a carton of milk inside the fridge.

It was dark outside but early yet, a cold, early April evening. Maybe kids were selling something, raising funds for school. Maybe a neighbor needed a cup of flour. Maybe the teen across the street wanted Jack to look at his ankle again.