The Secret's in the Sauce (29 page)
Doreen appeared to size up my words before answering. “I want to try to make some kind of amends to my girl. Donna, I mean. And I want to see both my girls come to some sort of relationship. But that’s going to take some doing.”
“It doesn’t have to.” I shifted a bit in the chair.
Doreen snickered. “My Velvet . . . now there’s a girl you’ll have to watch. I take no credit for her nasty side. That was her grandmother’s doings. Old Lady James and her son with his endless stream of women. Not to mention Mickey.”
So much for not asking. “Mickey?”
“I divorced Mickey when I found out that he had a bigger eye for Velvet than he did for me. Not that he ever touched her, but a woman can’t stand for a thing like that. My girl came first, and I left as soon as she told me how he’d been looking at her and talking to her.”
Something—I don’t know what it was—told me that Velvet had made it up. I had no reason to think that—plenty of young women today most certainly have been abused, even women in the church—but when it came to Mickey and Velvet, my intuition
said different. “Did you ask him about it?”
“He denied it. But what man would admit it, I always say.”
I took a deep breath, then stood. “Doreen, I have to go. Vernon
will be home soon. I just . . . I just wanted . . . well, you know.”
She shrugged. “I know. Okay. We’re good here. We can play nice from now on. I won’t bother you, and you won’t bother me, and . . . if you can . . . maybe drop a good word to my daughter about me every now and then.”
I only nodded, then turned and walked out the door without
saying good-bye.
When I got in my car, I thought, Poor Donna. Something told me she was up against more than she knew with Velvet James, and I had no way to tell her. Maybe later, I thought, I’d tell Vernon, and he could tell Donna.
I started the car and backed away from the trailer, knowing all too well I’d never admit to anyone what I’d learned that afternoon. Doreen Roberts’s secrets would remain my secrets.
Immediately after tea with Michelle, Adam, and Esther Peterson, and while following the happy threesome in Adam’s car to Lisa Leann’s bridal boutique, I placed a call to Lisa Leann from my cell phone and told her, in no uncertain terms, that I was greatly disappointed in her decision to trick me with the bridal gown choice, that I thought she was my friend, and that—as far as I was concerned— her keeping this secret from me was in very low taste.
“Why, Lizzie,” she said from the other end, obviously taken aback. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you speak like this.”
I took in a deep breath and attempted to steady my shaking, ever grateful for the hands-free phone system I’d recently installed in my car. “You most likely have not.” My voice held a bit of staccato. “That said, I cannot imagine that you—Lisa Leann Lambert—having been the mother of a bride yourself, would stoop so low, just to make a buck.”
“Lizzie, I—”
I shook my head as my foot pressed harder on the accelerator. “No, Lisa. I don’t want to hear any excuses. I’m furious and you may as well know it now.”
“My name is Lisa Leann.”
I had to admire her attempt to stay in control of the conversation, but it wasn’t going to work with me. I had raised a house full of children. I was the media specialist for a high school full of obnoxious teenagers. Staying in control of conversations was part of my on-the-job training. “I know your name. And don’t switch the subject, Lisa.”
“Why, Lizzie. I do believe you are upset.”
I felt heat rising in my body. I reached over and turned the heater down in my car. “I will say this to you now so as not to ruin anything for my daughter when I see you in a few minutes. I am disappointed. I am upset. I had plans with my daughter today. Not you and my daughter.” I took another deep breath. “In addition to this, and just so you know, I will not be serving at the shower—”
“I had always assumed you wouldn’t be—”
“Well, good. Because I’m not. I think that, at least on this occasion, I’ll simply enjoy being Michelle’s mother. Thank you for listening. I will see you shortly.”
And with that, I ended the conversation.
Lisa Leann bristled a bit around me at our “bridal gown” meeting, which Adam avoided by heading across the street to Higher Grounds for a chat with Clay, whom he said he had spied sitting at his usual table. “Tradition being what it is,” he said with a wink to me, “I have no intention of seeing my bride in her finery until the day she walks down that aisle.”
Tradition, my eye. Tradition is mother and daughter . . . oh, well. It is what it is,
I decided. And what “it is” is mother, daughter, future mother-in-law, and one clucking bridal shop owner.
That evening—when it had been what it had been and when everyone except Samuel and I had gone to bed—I said, “What do you think God thinks about Christians who drink?”
We were sitting on the sofa of the family room, the fire in the fireplace giving off the only light in the rustic setting. Samuel had brought an ottoman over and placed his feet upon it while I curled up nearby.
“Where’d that come from?”
“Do you have to answer every question with a question, Samuel? Can’t you just answer?”
His face twitched a bit. “Well . . . I know Christians who have the occasional drink. Some of the guys from the bank—who I know all love and serve the Lord—will have a beer during a football game or a glass of wine with dinner.”
“But what do you think God thinks? Not what do you think they think.”
He took a few moments to ponder before answering. “Well, God’s Word says nothing about drinking per se, but quite a bit about drunkenness.”
“So then if a Christian—a solid believer—wanted to come home at the end of the day and have a drink, or, let’s say, sit by a fire”—I nodded toward the fireplace—“and have an Irish coffee, or perhaps a nice glass of wine before bedtime to help relax before turning in . . . you think that would be okay with God.”
Again he paused before answering. “I haven’t thought that much about it, Liz. I’ve never been one to drink. Just never cared for the stuff. Even when I was in college and my frat brothers would throw parties, it just wasn’t my thing. With it not being a part of my everyday life, I guess I just haven’t thought much about what God might think. Like I said, I know where he stands on drunkenness. But this is . . . well, I don’t know. I suppose one could argue that it’s being ‘like the world,’ versus apart from it. But, I imagine Jesus is more interested in the heart of the situation than the action. What the motive is and that sort of thing.”
I nodded as though in agreement, but inside my mind I fought to rationalize my own feelings and recent behavior. Not to mention my desire at that moment to have a nice glass of wine and then go to bed.
Then Samuel spoke again. “Now, you know Frank Holmes, right?”
“From the bank? Yes.”
“He was telling me once that his doctor actually advised him to have about four ounces of red wine in the evening after dinner. Frank was having some digestive problems at the time, and he tells me it has cleared right up.”
“So, for medicinal purposes? Like Paul said to Timothy?”
Samuel crossed his arms over his abdomen and scootched down on the sofa, then looked at the fire. “You know, Lizzie, I think we—even we Christians—can justify pretty much anything if we work at it hard enough. Maybe not everything, but just about.” He closed his eyes. “I’m getting sleepy. Fire’s nice and warm. My beautiful wife by my side.”
I leaned over and put my head in his lap, closing my eyes as well. I shivered a little when he began to play with my hair, and—without opening my eyes—I smiled up at him.
“Hey,” he finally said, so whisper soft I might have imagined it.
I opened my eyes and looked up at him.
“I know you were disappointed about Michelle and the dress today, but I think you handled it well.”
I frowned. “I didn’t tell you the part about telling Lisa Leann off.”
He chuckled. “That might have been worth the price of admission.”
The fire crackled and popped. I looked over at it, watched as a burning log shifted, then turned to ash and fell. “I’m not going to work the shower.”
“I would think not.”
We remained silent for a few moments before Samuel asked, “Is that what this is about? Drinking at the shower?”
I felt breath escape my lungs. If I were honest, I would say, “No, this is about the fact that to ease my personal pain and frustration of late, I have been enjoying a drink and some quiet reading in little out-of-the-way places you know nothing about.” But, the shower was a good “out.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Just wondered how you felt about it, that’s all.”
I called my brother the following day. If my timing could have been any worse, I don’t see how. “Lizzie,” he said as soon as I’d identified myself. “I was just about to call you.”
“Really?” With any luck, I thought, it would be to say that he and Mildred were ready to take on Mom’s care again.
“Mildred had another small heart attack last night. Nothing like the last one, but she’s back in the hospital.”
I felt my shoulders droop. I was in the laundry room, sorting stinky socks from damp towels that smelled faintly of mildew and sweat. I dropped my sorting and walked out of the room, then up two flights of stairs toward my bedroom. “Oh, Charles,” I said as I went along. “I’m so sorry. What do the doctors say?”
“Dr. Schnereger is her physician right now. He hasn’t given me a complete report yet, but I’m hopeful for a good one. Mildred’s color was back this morning when I was there. Last night, when the episode happened, she went ash white then a weird shade of blue. I’m telling you, Liz, I’ve never been so scared in my life. Not even the last one prepared me for this. I thought we were home free.”
I felt for my brother; truly I did. How could I possibly tell him about Mom now? I sat on the bed, then laid back and stared at the ceiling.
“How are things there? Michelle getting ready for her big day?”
“The bank is having a very lavish shower. It’s constantly one thing and then the other. Samuel is doing much better. Back at work, praise God.”
“Be thankful, Liz.”
I was. Truly I was.
“How’s Mom?”
I allowed myself the privilege of answering mentally in two ways:
She’s fine. Good days and bad days. But mostly good. “That’s good,” Charles would say. “I know you can take care of this.”
Or, I could tell him the truth.
Not so good, Charles. In fact, the administrator of the assisted living facility says we need to discuss a nursing home. So what do you think? Can you get away any time soon so we can visit a few because, quite honestly, I don’t think I can handle this by myself. “You’ll have to, Liz,” he would say. “I can’t do any more than I’m doing right now.” And then I would say, “Neither can I, Charles. What do you think I’m made of? What, in the name of all that is good, do any of you think I’m made of?”
“She’s fine,” I finally said. “Good days and bad days. But mostly good.”
I heard my brother exhale. “That’s one less thing I have to worry about. Thank you for taking such good care of her. I have no idea when I can deal with Mom again. You’re a good daughter. A good sister too.”
I smiled, but I wasn’t very happy.
That night, after everyone had gone to bed and I found myself unable to sleep, I slipped out of bed and went to the kitchen, where a bottle of red wine was now hidden in the back of the pantry. I poured myself a tea glass to nearly full, then shuffled into the family room. I turned on a small table lamp, curled up on the sofa with a book that had been sent to the library for me to review but that I’d yet to touch, and began to read.
And drink.
I woke with another headache. Samuel stood over me, shaking my shoulder, calling my name as though I were in a coma. “Lizzie. Lizzie, do you hear me?”
I opened my eyes. The room was bleary—even for so early in the morning—but after several blinks I was able to bring it back into focus. Samuel was in his pajamas and a robe, the sash untied. “What are you doing sleeping down here, hon?”
I attempted to sit up, but my head had other ideas. I moaned a response, and Samuel sat next to me. I watched in semi-horror as he picked up the empty wine bottle sitting on the end table next to the sofa and brought it to his nose. He frowned. “Liz?”
I made my best effort to wet my lips, but my tongue was just as dry. “What?” I finally croaked out.
“Is this what the questions were about? Are you drinking—how do they put this—in the closet?”
I closed my eyes. “I suppose it’s according to how you look at it.” I opened my eyes again.
Samuel held the bottle up a bit higher. “This is how I’m looking at it.”
“I just needed something to help me sleep.”
His eyes bore into mine. “And so you turned to liquor?”
I pushed myself up against the armrest of the sofa. “Oh, Samuel. Don’t be so melodramatic. It’s not liquor. It’s wine. You yourself said you didn’t see anything wrong with it.”
“I don’t think that’s exactly what I said.”
I pushed my fingertips deep into my forehead. “Samuel, you act like I’m ready for AA or something. With everything going on in my life, I just need some help shutting down. I need some quiet time and a way to relax during it.”
“That’s a far cry from a glass of wine with dinner.”
I pulled my knees close to my chest so that I could slip my feet around his body and escape the line of questioning, but he was too fast for me. Especially this morning. His arm locked around my knees and held me in place. “Stop it, Samuel. I need to go to the bathroom, and I need to get ready for work.”
“Lizzie, we aren’t finished with this.”
I wrestled free of his grip and stood, albeit very slowly. “We’re finished. You don’t want me to have a glass of wine here in the privacy of my own home, fine. I won’t.” I practically growled at him, something I—in all honesty—had never done before.
“Liz . . .”
I touched his shoulder with my fingertips and said, “I’m sorry, Samuel. I’m fine, really I am. Everything is fine.”