Masquerade (10 page)

“Try to get some rest now, okay?”    Barbara stood,

fastened her gaze on Amelia.

The three of them walked through the kitchen where Mother and Father wrapped leftovers and tucked them inside the refrigerator. After exchanging good-byes at the back door, Celeste moved back through the kitchen. Could she make herself invisible? Slip past her busy parents and into the bedroom without them noticing? All she wanted to do was lock the door against them and throw away the key.

“Here, dear, drink this. It’ll calm your nerves and help you rest.” The shrill voice spilled from her mother.

At the bedroom door, Celeste pivoted, dread threatening to drown her.

Her mother held a glass in one hand and a wine bottle in the other. She swirled the sparkling liquid, a frown etched on her brow. With lowered head, her father wiped the counter. He snuck a glance at Celeste, pity written all over his face. Why didn’t he come to her rescue? Tell her mother where to get off.

Celeste stepped forward and grabbed the glass, slamming it on the table as her mother stood frozen. “Wine. Is this your solution to everything, Mother?” Her hand beat the air. “Here, drink this. Make the pain go away. Is that the best you can come up with?”

Mother opened her mouth as if to speak.

“Well, the pain’s not going away. It’s never going away. Do you understand that?” Celeste swept the glass off the table. The container crashed against a cabinet and splintered over the floor.

Father’s nostrils flared as he studied the mess.

Her heart sank. She’d hurt her dad. She ran from the kitchen and shut herself in the bedroom. Pressing her back against the door, she slid to the floor in tears.

On the other side, clipped voices bantered back and forth, but she couldn’t make out the words. Probably for the best. She knew what they were plotting anyway, and she wouldn’t do it. She’d listened to her mother before. Never again.

###

Sitting in the church office beside Sam, Sonya studied the door where the pastor’s jacket and tie hung on a peg. She wanted to bolt, but knew she needed to stay.  

“How have you been doing since we last met?” Pastor Ron, slate-gray hair combed neatly to the side, sat in his velour wing-back chair, hands on his knees. Dressed in a 1970s’ polyester leisure suit, the man seemed one step behind the times, but right in sync with Sonya.

She’d never been one for fashion. Too practical. “Better, I think.” She nodded, as much to convince herself as Pastor. Warmth emanated from his eyes as he studied Sonya. For ten years he’d ministered to their family, beginning with a trip to the hospital to peek in on their firstborn son. He and his wife, Jill, had served as references when she and Sam applied to be foster parents. He’d prayed with them, taught them, and welcomed them into his home.

But  never  had  he counseled them. This was new,

and scary. The wings on her chair engulfed her, and she sank deeper into the cushion. A brass floor lamp stood between her chair and Sam’s. A box of tissues topped the glass of the attached table. She felt like grabbing every tissue and running out the door, not at all sure she could survive another session. The first one nearly killed her. The probing, though gentle, was agony. The hushed tones between Sam and Pastor outside the office door, like she was some kind of crazy woman.

She looked at her hands. Maybe she was.

“The food’s been wonderful.” Sam rubbed her clammy palm with his thumb. “The church ladies have outdone themselves this week.”

Oh great, she’d never live up to them.

“They’ve scrubbed the toilet, folded laundry, dusted, babysat, you name it.” Sam prattled on, glancing at her when she discreetly slid her hand out of his. “You’ve gotten some good rest, wouldn’t you say, Sonya?”

A tentative nod. If rest meant lying in bed, eyes wide open staring at the ceiling, wondering which woman was folding her husband’s underwear, then yes. At least her body was in bed. Her brain, well, it flew all over the place. But she’d not make a fuss. Not Mrs. Compliance.

“I’ve given your situation some thought.” Pastor twiddled his thumbs. “I think what you need over the long-haul is a survival plan, something that will not only help you cope, but will help you thrive.”

“What do you have in mind?” Sam leaned forward,  his fingers tented. The bulging flesh around his wedding band looked painful. She’d never noticed that before.

Pastor Ron reached for a Bible on top of his desk, licked the tip of his finger, and flipped some pages. “Galatians 6:2-5 forms the basis for the plan I have in mind.” He cradled the Bible in his hands like a parent holding a beloved child. “Listen to this:
Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ. If anyone thinks he is something when he is nothing, he deceives himself. Each one should test his own actions. Then he can take pride in himself, without comparing himself to somebody else, for each one should carry his own load.”

He paused, mouth curved in a slight smile, gazing first at Sonya, then at Sam. “At the risk of sermonizing,” he chuckled, “I want us to consider several key concepts in these verses. First of all, the word
load
in the Greek refers to a manageable load.” He stroked his mustache. “Like what you might put in a backpack. Takes work to carry the load, but it’s doable.” He raised his eyebrows. “Make sense?”

Sonya nodded. Where was he going with this?

“The problem is, if a person keeps stuffing his backpack with more items, sooner or later, it’ll get too heavy to carry. That’s where verse two kicks in, the part about ‘carrying each other’s burdens.’ The Greek word for
burden
indicates a load the size of a piano.” He paused, licked his lips. “Ever move a piano, Sam?”

“Yeah. Moved one into our house.”

“How many men did it take?”

Sam looked at the ceiling. “Oh, I’d say we had about three or four helping out.”

“Meaning  you  had  help.   You  didn’t  try  to go it

alone. Right?”

Sam shrugged. “Right.”

What was she? A five-year-old? She knew this stuff. Get to the punch line. The part about the survival plan.

“How long did it take to get the piano into the house?” Pastor tossed out more bait.

“Maybe thirty minutes or so,” Sam said. “Of course, we weren’t lifting the whole time. Had to stop and catch our breath. Wiggle the thing this way and that, inching it into the living room.”

“So, it took concentrated effort by several men for a limited amount of time.” Pastor’s eyes twinkled. He closed the Bible and laid it back on the shiny desk, neatly arranged with blotter, an ivy plant, and a framed picture of his wife. No children.

“Yep, that’s about right.” Sam shifted. He wouldn’t last much longer.

“Ever see a person hoist a piano onto his back, then try to hoist someone else’s piano on top of that?” He slipped out of his chair and walked to a bulletin board covered with notes, calendar, and pictures.

Sonya squinted. It looked like one item was gifted by the primary department for Pastor’s birthday. Mia’s name was printed in wobbly lettering underneath a drawing of a little girl with red hair and a watermelon slice grin on her face.

Pastor unpinned a slip of paper. “Take a look at this.”

Sonya  and  Sam  leaned  forward, almost  bumping

heads, toward what looked like a cartoon.

The cartoonist depicted a man, bent over, sweat flying off his face, carrying three pianos. A player sat at the very top laughing and tickling the ivories. Walking by, a little boy held out a jacket and said, “Can you hold this for me?”

Sam coughed a laugh, replaced by a poker face when he saw Sonya’s expression.

Point well-taken, Pastor.
She stifled a sigh.

“That’s great, isn’t it?” He took the cartoon and pinned it back to the board. “Great, for everybody except the guy juggling three pianos.” He sat back down. “I know; I used to be that guy.” He brushed a hand over his pants. “Seemed innocent enough at first. Fulfilling the law of Christ, you know. Loving others as Jesus would want me to. But then I began to study Jesus more. That’s always a good thing to do, by the way. And you know what I learned?”

Sam’s jaw dropped. She wanted to reach over and snap it shut.

“Jesus never took on more than He could manage. In fact, He never took on anything without consulting His Father first. Even in the midst of a needy crowd, He got in a boat and sailed to the other side of the sea, because the Father had other plans for Him that day.” Pastor tapped his leg. “When it
is
the right time to help, love reaches out to the person with a piano-sized burden. But only temporarily and with others pulled in to help.”

“What are you saying, Pastor?” Sonya knew, but she needed to hear it.

“I’m saying your burden has turned into an unmanageable piano that you can’t carry alone. You’re trying to be all things to all people. Not possible. I suspect this need goes way back for you.”

She squirmed, shrinking into a little five-year-old girl again, sitting at the old upright practicing her scales. How hard she’d tried to please her perfect mother, but no matter how much she practiced, it never seemed enough. “That’s good, Sonya, but if you really want to play well, you’ve got to stop fidgeting, sit up straight, and get your fingers in proper position,” her mother said, tapping her hand with a ruler.   

“I’m going to give you an assignment. Is that okay with you, Sonya?”

“What?” She tried to focus.

“Some things I’d like you to think about. Actually a list to make.”

“What kind of list?”

“Before we meet next week, I want you to keep a log of your daily activities. I want you to get up each day and release everything and everyone into the Lord’s hands. Take a deep breath—”

“Oh, I do that all the time.”

“Good, that gets the oxygen flowing to every organ in your body. It’s almost impossible to be stressed when you breathe deeply, from your diaphragm.” His fingertips pressed his abdomen, right beneath his sternum.

The man sang; he should know.

“I want you to ease up on your expectations. Ask the kids to help more. No, it won’t be perfect, but the bed

will get made.”

Sam straightened, nodded at Sonya.

“And, I want you two to get out more often. I don’t mean to the grocery store, unless that’s really what you like to do in your spare time.”

Spare time? Hah! With all she and Sam juggled, she wondered when they’d fit in anything else.

“I want you to schedule a ‘Couple Date’ on your calendar every week, just the two of you.”

Sam massaged the back of his neck. “Now, Pastor, that sounds nice, but we can’t afford to hire a sitter, especially for all our kids, let alone go anywhere, like dinner—”

Pastor raised his hand. “I thought you’d fight me on that one. Your dilemma got me thinking: Why not ask the youth department to offer free babysitting as an outreach project? I know there are other couples in the church who could use this service, too.”

Her stomach did a tiny flip-flop. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been alone with her husband, other than in bed at night listening to him snore. But what about his schedule?

“I know what you’re thinking: ‘How in the world do we make the time?’ You can’t afford not to. Remember, we’re talking about a survival plan here. How can we thrive if we live such hectic, stressful lives, pushed beyond our limits?” He narrowed his eyes, as if preparing for round two.

Did he want her to answer that question?

“One other thing.”

There was
more?
How she wished this was over.

He smoothed his shirt collar with index finger and thumb. “I want you to honestly pray about whether you’re supposed to foster parent. I know you’ve had several children pass through your home in the last few years. Perhaps that’s an area you need to reevaluate.”

The room began to spin. She pressed her hands to her cheeks. If they stopped being foster parents, they’d have to give up Lily. Unless they adopted her. But that seemed unlikely with their financial situation.

“Sonya, are you all right?” Pastor leaned forward.

She rubbed her arm. “Yes, we’ll pray about it.”

“Good. Bring your list back next week and we’ll talk more.” He stood and walked to the door. 

Sam put his arm around her, nudged her out of the chair.

Maybe—and that was a big maybe—she’d pray about it. But she couldn’t let Lily go. She’d do whatever it took to regain her equilibrium. Her family, including Lily, was simply too important to sacrifice.

CHAPTER NINE

“What part of
no
don’t you understand, Mother?” Curled up in the recliner with a soft blanket, Celeste lowered her book and peered at the older woman over the top of her reading glasses.

It had been two weeks since the funeral. Although her boss urged her to take a six-week hiatus, she was more than ready to get back to her children. Especially if it meant escaping her mother. Father had returned to his life insurance business, saying he would pick up Mother in another week. Of all things.

Mother sat on the sofa hemming a skirt. After she clipped a thread, she reached in the sewing box and retrieved a brown spool. “It makes perfect sense to sell the house and move back in with us.”

“We’ve been over this. My life is here.”

“You’re grieving. You need support. Why, look at you? Even with all my cooking, you’re nothing but a wisp of a thing, bones protruding through your skin. You’ll blow away in the wind if I leave.”

She sighed and flipped a page. Had she been reading or merely staring at the book? Well, you’re right about  one   thing.   I  
am
  grieving.   I’m  
supposed
  to   be

grieving. I’m sorry if it doesn’t fit into your nice neat package of the way things should be. Grief is messy. But I’m a grown woman now. I have to deal with this in my own way and in my own time.”

Mother snipped another thread and stuck the needle in a pin cushion. She surveyed her work. “Father can pull strings. He knows people. He’d get you a good job.”

She pushed up her reading glasses. “I
have
a good job, and I fully intend to keep it.” She stared into space. “Joe would want that.”

Draped over a hanger, the skirt now lay on the sofa. “Joe is gone, Celeste. Time to take care of yourself.”

“You never did like Joe, did you?”

Mother squared her shoulders, stuck her chin in the air. “That’s water under the bridge.”

“Whose bridge?” Her arms turned to jelly.

Lips compressed, Mother stood and gathered the sewing kit and skirt. “You’re not thinking straight right now, dear. I’ll leave you to get some rest.”

Yes, you do that. Bail. Leave the room. Why not just leave altogether? Book a flight on the next plane out.

Deep breath. Father would arrive in a few more days and whisk the woman away. Good. She was ready to be alone. Work through this horrid grief that tore at her heart. Just her, and Joe, and their wonderful house. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. The recliner squeaked, and she trudged to the bed, slipped between the sheets, and pulled the covers over her head.

Days  later,   she  braced  herself  against  the  cool

October wind as she stood on the stoop and waved goodbye to Mother and Father. A tenuous parting. Few words and fewer tears. All stoicism and business. She turned to cry the tears her mother couldn’t.

When the door closed, she inhaled deeply, then released a gush of air. Freedom at last. No one breathing down her neck, looking over her shoulder, insisting she do this or that. Her life was her own now, without even a husband to answer to. She wilted at the thought of life without Joe. Dread gnawed at her insides. She crept to the bed, slithered under the covers, and wept with full abandon. Gut-wrenching sobs into the stillness. Only the ticking clock to keep her company.

The phone trilled. Surely, Mother wouldn’t be checking on her this soon. How long had she been in bed? She thrust the covers back and padded to the kitchen.

“Hello?” Holding the phone, she peered out the kitchen window. Shadows crept across the driveway. Seven-fifteen by the wall clock.

“Hi, it’s Barbara.”

Her shoulders relaxed as she eased onto a chair. “Hi, Barbara.”

“I’ve been thinking about you. Need anything?”

“No, I’m fine.” She raked a hand through her hair.

“You sure? You’d tell me if you needed something, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah.” That sounded weak. “Mother left enough food in the freezer to last a year. And Father scrubbed every appliance we . . . I mean, I own.” She coughed. “He likes to stay busy.”

“When did they leave?”

“This afternoon.”

“Oh, you must be feeling the gap.”

Eyebrows arched, she searched for words. “Let’s just say, it was time.”

“Speaking of time, the kids wonder when you’re coming back.”

She straightened. “I miss them. How are they?”

“Good. They miss you.”

“Sub giving them a hard time?” The utility room floor creaked. Her stomach flip-flopped. Was that Joe? She slumped against the back of the chair. Of course not.

“They get along with her okay, but it’s not the same. Oh, and we got a new student this week.”

“Yeah?”’

“A little girl, seven-years-old. Lily’s her name.”

“Sub worked up an assessment for me?”

“Hmm . . . she thinks she’ll fit nicely in the educable group.”

Celeste exhaled. “I’m coming back, Barbara.”

“I know you are.”

“No, I’m coming back Monday. I’ll call Sue tomorrow.”

“Don’t rush if you need more time.”

“It’ll be good for me.” She twirled a pencil on a scrap of paper. “And my kids need me, especially Lewis.”

“Okey, dokey. I’ll get off for now. But know I’m praying for you.”

Even though she didn’t believe in prayer, she’d humor Barbara. “Thanks. Bye.”

Food. She really should eat something. All those one-helping dinners arranged in the freezer. But no appetite. And no Joe to share a meal with.

Rising, she inched toward the bedroom. Her head jerked when she passed the bathroom door. Joe! She shook herself. Just a phantom image. Yet so real.

So surreal. Was all this really happening? This horror? How could her husband, her lover, her best friend, possibly be gone?