“Hi, Mom,” Midge greeted her mother walking into the kitchen from the garage. “How was work?”
“Oh, same old, same old. Nothing too challenging, but I sure stayed busy all day. How was school?”
A short sigh. “Good. It’s kind of nice having a predictable routine again.”
Lou came over and gave her daughter a warm hug, then leaned back with her hands grasping Midge’s shoulders. “Back on the main road after a detour which was… quite a detour.” She looked kindly into her daughter’s eyes. Midge knew it was in an effort to get a true reading of her emotional status. She turned her head away.
“I’m not on the main road, Mom.” She glanced at her mother, and Lou grabbed her in a second embrace. Midge knew sympathy could easily evoke tears, and she opened her eyes as wide as she could to gain control of her emotions as she slipped out of her mother’s arms and walked over to the cupboard, removing a basket of teabags.
“Want some tea?”
“I’d love some, honey.”
“Peppermint?”
“Fine.”
Midge fixed the tea while her mother left to put away her jacket and purse. When she reentered the kitchen, Midge gave her a hot steaming cup and began fixing tea for herself. “I’m not sure I’ll ever get back on the main road. Every decision we make has an effect, but some effects aren’t even noticeable. They hardly surface, let alone last for any length of time. I guess that’s what I was counting on when I let Nick talk me into…. I mean so many girls do it all the time and get by with it.” She looked at her mother and took a deep breath, smiling. “But I got pregnant, and my life will never be the same.”
“Well…”
“No, Mom,” Midge said emphatically. “People might say that life will go on and I’ll be all right. I know that’s true. My life will go on, and I will be all right, but things will never be normal as in perfect.”
“Nobody has a perfect life,” Lou gently objected.
“I don’t mean perfect as in perfection. I mean perfect as in the average person’s idea of a normal life. Ideally, Nick and I—or whoever—would fall in love and get married because we wanted to be committed to each other, and then I’d get pregnant.”
“You’ll fall in love, honey, and you’ll get married, and you’ll have children.”
“Oh, Mom, you don’t understand.” Midge frowned at her mother as if a huge chasm between them had suddenly come into view. “I have a child already, but I can’t be with him, much as I love him. And, no, I’m not regretting my decision—it wasn’t yours, remember, it was mine—to let him be adopted, I mean. I wanted him to have a mother and a father. But it’s not like giving up a cat or a dog. I mean, you can always get another pet. I’ll have more children, but another child can never replace Nicky.”
Midge looked at her mother’s tender smile and the tears in her eyes, and the chasm disintegrated. She went on. “It’s a bitter pill to swallow, and I don’t think I could, Mom, if I didn’t believe in God and that He will take really good care of my baby. That’s the pillar I lean on.”
“And that’s the pillar to lean on, sweetheart. He will take care of Nicky—and you.” She reached across the table and took Midge’s hand. “John and I miss him too, you know. We can’t feel the same pain and estrangement that you do, but we miss our little grandson. And you know we pray for him every day. He will always be our very special, first grandchild.”
Midge tried in vain to suppress a sob. As if a whole reservoir of emotion had finally broken through a dam, she crossed her arms on the table and laid down her head, giving in to the pain that she had tried so carefully to contain for several weeks.
The door opened, and Midge’s father stepped inside. Midge didn’t look up, knowing it was her father. She felt his strong hand on her back in a gentle caressing motion.
“Sweetheart,” he said. “Sweetheart.” Midge could imagine the signals her parents were silently sending one another through their eyes over her head. She knew their profound love for her and realized in surprise that it felt good to cry in front of them.
Finally her sobbing subsided. “I’ll be OK,” she said, choking out the words. She felt her father helping her to stand up, and she took refuge in his embrace. “It’s going to be OK, Midge. It’s not going to be easy, but it will be OK. You keep doing your part, we’ll keep doing our part, and God will keep doing His part. It’s going to be OK.”
“Thanks, Dad. I love you guys.”
“We love you, honey. Very, very, very much,” her mother smiled.
Midge pulled away from her father’s embrace and sucked in a choppy breath closing off the tears. She wiped her eyes with the tissue her mother put into her hand and blew her nose. After inhaling another choppy breath, she picked up her mug of tea and took a couple steps toward the doorway. She turned around to address her parents.
“I wrote a poem last week. It’s about—about Nicky. I left it on the table in the family room if you want to read it.”
Lou smiled and looked at John, waiting for him to respond. “Well, we want to!” he said. His voice was assuring. “How about if you read it to us?”
“No. You read it. I’m going upstairs. I have a chemistry quiz tomorrow and a history test on Friday that I have to study for. Do you need help with supper, Mom?”
“Nope. It’s leftovers tonight. Six-thirty OK for you?”
“Great.” Midge climbed the stairs, feeling release from a huge weight of pent-up emotion. She sat down with her history book in her lap and turned to Chapter 12 and then glanced up. The picture on her desk of the Mackeys with Nicky brought her mind, all set to absorb history facts, right back to little Nick. Would he grow up loving baseball like his dad? How old would he be when he first caught a ball—any ball? Midge smiled, imagining his little face beaming with excitement. She sighed, but it was a contented sigh. “Bob Mackey is going to love playing catch with you, Nicky. I wish Grandpa could be there.”
……….
Gene Chemosh awoke with a shudder. “Blasted nightmare!” he said to himself. He glanced over at Sal, sleeping peacefully, and cursed to himself, angry that he had to contend with nasty nightmares that woke him up. He slipped out of bed and put on his robe, then walked to the den and quietly poured himself a drink.
“OK, Denspot,” he muttered under his breath. “I’ve tried putting off this ‘god’ stuff—it’s so juvenile. But I’m desperate enough to try anything, even if I think it’s a bunch of hooey.”
He sat down, exhaling his breath slowly, resigned to, but disliking the “exercise” before him.
“All right, God—if You’re there. I need help. What do You want me to do?” Immediately, Joe Denspot’s face came to his mind. He sat there for a moment, waiting for…whatever—he didn’t know. As he sat staring at the furniture, the image of Denspot remained, and he made the decision to call him in the morning. He felt as though he’d arrived at a resolution, but without even the slightest hint as to what the resolution was. All he knew was that he was ready to go back to bed with a strange confidence that he would sleep. His mouth twisted wryly as he remembered coming to this very same conclusion not so very long ago at Covella’s, after he’d bought lunch for the young stranger he’d met at the bar.
“Well, I’m not putting it off any longer. I’ll call that nut when I get up.”
But after a sound sleep the rest of the night, Chemosh felt refreshed and did not feel like calling the psychiatrist. Around three o’clock that afternoon, however, the same ominous feeling that had taken on the likeness of a morbid ritual in his life came on him again like a cold draft that demanded his attention. His first response was gratefulness for the brandy tucked away in the credenza. He could always count on it to take the edge off the churning uneasiness that came with the reminder of the nightmare. He stopped writing notes on the D&C he’d just completed and looked around thoughtfully.
He really didn’t want to do it, but he had put it off long enough. He found the number and dialed.
“Dr. Denspot’s office. May I help you?”
“Is the doctor in?”
“He is.”
“This is Gene Chemosh. If he’s not with a client, would you please tell him I’d like to talk with him?”
“Yes, sir. Actually, he is with a client, but he’ll be free in a few minutes, and he’ll call you immediately, I’m sure.”
“Thank you. My number is…”
“I have your number sir,” came the polite interruption. “Are you at your office?”
“Yes.”
“It will only be a couple of minutes.”
“Thanks.”
Chemosh hung up the phone and continued his notes, relieved and apprehensive at the same time. But by the time the phone rang, curiosity had prevailed over both the relief and the apprehension.
“Chemosh?”
“Yeah, doc.”
“What’s the status on the nightmare?”
“That’s why I’m calling. Nothing’s changed.”
“Did you do what I suggested?”
“Yeah. Last night, finally. That’s why I’m calling.”
“OK,” Denspot replied flatly.
“‘OK.’ Chemosh mimicked impatiently. His emotions were strained. “So what’s next?” Talking about supernatural stuff certainly didn’t come naturally for him, and Denspot wasn’t helping much.
“Did you get some direction when you asked for it?”
“Yeah—to call you. That’s what I just said.”
“Oh, I see. All right. You want to come in to the office? I’ve got time on Friday morning—say around 10:30.”
Chemosh laughed. “No way. I don’t want to come to your office. It was risky enough the first time. I don’t want one of those anti-abortion idiots seeing me there; they’d jump at the chance to say I was having emotional problems because of what I do. Nope, that won’t work.”
“I understand. Well, how about meeting for lunch on Friday, say, one o’clock?”
“That’s good,” Chemosh replied. “Where would you like to go?”
“Covella’s?”
“Fine. How much time can you spare?”
“My day’s yours, Gene.
“Come on, doc. How much time will it take to solve my problem?”
“That’s up to you. But they might not appreciate our spending much more than two hours in one of their booths.”
“Friday then?” Chemosh reiterated.
“OK. Keep your ears open if you get up in the night.”
“What? Oh…sure.”
……….
Bonnie Chadwell walked into her kitchen carrying the mail and grabbed the letter opener from the catch-all drawer. No bills today, some junk mail, and one envelope with Ferguson in the upper left hand corner. She opened the envelope carefully so as not to rip the letter inside. It was a copy of a poem signed by Midge Ferguson and entitled, “For My Grandparents.”
From the beginning I was loved
When my life was in the balance
Though hearts were closed against me
Yours were open wide.
I was focusing on life
And I had no fear of violence
No trouble reached me
I was safe inside.
I comprehended only
My growth so full of changes
Constantly endorsing
Ever reinforcing
The silent but profound
Proclamation of my life.
Who dare ask the question
If my life’s worth all the trouble?
Who deems his own life worthless
When the question’s turned around?
Who regrets his advent
To seize annihilation
Or deny another’s chance
For precious sight and sound?
You—you skirted hurtful questions,
Confident of answers.
For you, hope was inherent
Somehow, someway.
Hope springs eternal
In lives eternal—
Hope for the future,
Hope for today.
Now I am here
And I won’t be leaving
Today, nor tomorrow,
If I have my way,
Enjoying spring and summer,
The colors of autumn,
The crisp sleep of winter—
Yes! I’m here to stay.
Dearest Grandpa and Grandma,
Through all of life’s seasons
I will rejoice
That you perceived
The awesomeness
Of the gift
I—I had been given.
Thanks for your respect
For my life
I will always be
Your Nicky
Bonnie read the poem slowly, desiring to glean from it every nuance of meaning that Midge had so carefully woven into it. The poem left her with a peculiar sadness in its poignant expression of profound appreciation. She sat for a while, picking up the poem and reading again whole verses and then specific lines. She had a completely new concept of the word ‘respect.’ Funny how often she’d heard it and used it—probably thousands of times in her fifty-one years.
She put the paper down again and covered her eyes with both hands. Many thoughts raced through her mind. She relived that afternoon when she’d walked into the waiting room at Lou’s work. She hadn’t wanted to go. Most would have counseled that it was none of her business. But Susie had told her of Midge’s plight, and she had made her decision based on the Golden Rule applied to herself had she been in Lou’s shoes. What if she’d chickened out? Tears filled her eyes in gratefulness to God.
“God, I remember when Bill died—how I clung to Your promise that You work good out of everything for people who know You and respond to You. Now you’ve done the same thing for Lou. Thank you, God, that little ‘Nicky’ is alive. Please watch over Midge and Lou and John. Watch over the precious couple who are caring for Nicky so lovingly as their own little son. You know all the hardships ahead. Let Your love always abound, that Nicky can one day appreciate and know You, and know and love all his family—even Nick—especially Nick, God.”
She took her hands off her eyes and only then noticed the note remaining in the envelope.
Bonnie—
How can I ever thank you for sharing your heart that afternoon in the park? The scripture about the Shunamite woman is very precious to me. Not every day is easy, but I look to the future and know—and say—‘All is well,’ because He is indeed causing it to be.
My love and appreciation,
Lou