Authors: Allie Pleiter
“I know, and I’m not even sure why, but I just know I’m not ready to write her off.” The tone of that woman’s letter echoed in her heart. There was something there. Something that had grabbed at her and refused to let go.
Meredith looked at her. “Are you sure that’s wise?”
Darcy had to be honest. “No, not at all. But I just want a little time to mull this one over.” Which was, of course, a lie. Darcy knew exactly what it was that she needed to do, and it wasn’t wise at all. As a matter of fact, it was downright terrifying. Unavoidable, unignorable and wildly uncomfortable.
That’s what you get, Darcy chided herself, for hushing up and letting God do the talking.
Which is why, after saying goodbye to Kate and Pastor Doug in the parking lot, Darcy walked right back into the Center, and right back into Meredith’s office.
“Meredith, I think I need to visit Michelle.”
G
lynnis was delighted to hear all the good news of TRP’s first successful pilot recipient. You’d think it was her own project, the way she cheered and smiled at Darcy’s report. She listened just as carefully when Darcy shared how she was planning to meet with Michelle Porter. Glynnis seemed so confident that Darcy was doing the right thing—Darcy wished some of that confidence would rub off on her.
“But Glynnis, there doesn’t seem to be any good reason for me to see Michelle Porter. I don’t know what to say to her. Why on earth would God plant such an idea in my head without any hint as to what I’m supposed to do when I get there?”
“Because sometimes, honey, all you need to do is show up. He’ll take care of the rest.”
“How am I supposed to call up a woman I don’t know, who’s in the midst of a heartbreaking crisis, who wrote me a nasty letter and ask to come by and chat? Who’d say yes to such a dumb request?”
Glynnis scooted the plate of cookies closer and selected one. “Her response is God’s problem. Your job is just to do the asking.” She considered the cookie. “What’s your favorite cookie, Darcy?”
Darcy didn’t see how this was relevant. “I don’t know, it’d be a toss up between Oreos and Mint Milanos, I suppose.”
“Why don’t you take Michelle a package of each when you go?”
“Cookies? Store-bought cookies? Shouldn’t I come bearing a bundt cake or something?”
Glynnis laughed. “Bundt cakes. I didn’t think people your age even knew what a bundt cake was anymore. Do they even sell the pans still?”
Darcy cocked an eyebrow. “Do I look like the kind of person who would know? You’re talking to the queen of slice-and-bake here.” She straightened in her chair. “I do, however, make a mean quiche.”
Now it was Glynnis’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Would you have been as happy if Kate picked you up in that little red car of hers after the funeral with a
quiche?
”
“You’ve got a point there.” Darcy reached for another cookie herself. “If God has been so blunt about asking me to go, I figure I can trust Him to be just as clear about what to do when I get there. And you’re right—if He wants me there, He’ll get me in the door. Right now I suppose I just need to trust and pick up the phone, huh?”
“Bingo.” Glynnis smiled. “Now that we have that settled, Ed tells me you and Jack are going to see one of our financial advisors, Craig Palmer.”
“Yeah.” Darcy didn’t bother to hide her lack of enthusiasm.
Glynnis shot her a look over the top of her glasses. “I’m glad you agreed to see him, Darcy. I do think it’s a smart
move. God tells us to be ‘wise as serpents,’ too. If nothing else, you owe it to Jack. His sense of security is important to who he is. You should respect that. God’ll respect it, too. Craig is a fine man. A good Christian, and a smart advisor. Ed wouldn’t have recommended him if he didn’t think so highly of him.”
“I don’t like it. I told him so.”
“Then he’ll appreciate your going all the more.”
Darcy changed the subject. “Hey, the next recipient gets her ‘day’ next week. It’s Anne Morton, the woman whose father-in-law has Alzheimer’s.”
“Ugh.” Glynnis recoiled. “Nasty disease. I don’t think I ever want to be found somewhere confused and in my bathrobe. I love my little gray brain cells, and I don’t want them going anywhere anytime soon.”
Darcy couldn’t think of too many people sharper than Glynnis Bidwell. “Relax, I think yours are all in fine working order. But it’s sad, isn’t it? Meredith said it’s like taking care of a ghost in the body of somebody you once knew.” She ran her finger around the top of her glass. “Dad’s dementia was bad near the end. It was frustrating. His eyes would get this incredibly vacant look, and it was like he wasn’t even there. I had so much to say to him, and he wasn’t even there to hear it.”
Glynnis shook her head. “That woman needs a break, sure as anything.” She smiled, a warm, enormous smile that seemed to fill the whole room. “And you’re going to be the one to give it to her. Doesn’t that feel
scrumptious?
”
“Yes.” Darcy laughed, once again baffled by Glynnis’s choice of words, “that’s exactly the word I’d choose.”
“Is not.” Glynnis poked her gently. “If you’ve got that school meeting at eleven-thirty, we’d better get to praying
or we’ll run out of time.” She pushed the cookie plate out of the way and took Darcy’s hands in hers. “Where do you want to start?”
“With Mrs. Anderson. That school meeting is with Mike’s algebra teacher. It can’t be good.”
“I know we probably made you anxious by calling you in here this morning, Mrs. Nightengale, but I think you’ll actually find this a good meeting.” Evidently Darcy’s surprise—or perhaps concern was a better way to put it—was clear on her face when she walked in to find Mr. Tortman alongside Mrs. Anderson.
Ms.
Anderson, actually. Her first impression of the woman, from when they were introduced at parents’ night in October, still held: she looked about nineteen years old. How young
were
college graduates these days? She was young and hip and frighteningly perky. Darcy thought she looked more like a flight attendant than an algebra teacher. Oh, now there’s thinking that will really help the situation, she silently scolded herself. Come on, Dar, stop judging and see what these people have to say.
“Good morning, Mrs. Nightengale,” said Mr. Tortman formally. Don’t call him Torture Man, don’t call him Torture Man, Darcy pleaded with herself. For a man who commanded such fear among eighth-grade boys, he looked rather harmless. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who could torture anyone—not even his own conscience. A small, lean man with unfashionable glasses and thinning hair. The stereotypical Vice Principal.
“Good morning, Mr. Tortman, it’s nice to meet you face-to-face.”
You said Tortman, good.
“And nice to see you again, Ms. Anderson.”
“Thanks for coming in. Can I say first, Mrs. Nightengale, that I’m sorry for the loss of your father. Mike tells
me it was a long illness.” Ms. Anderson had warm, caring eyes. Framed in a lot of mascara and eye shadow, to be sure, but warm and caring nonetheless. She imagined lots of mascara and eye shadow probably looked pretty cool to the majority of eighth-grade boys.
“Yes, it was, thank you for your concern. We’re all handling it as best we can.”
“As you can imagine,” Mr. Tortman began, “we’re here to talk about Mike.”
“I gathered that.” Darcy folded her hands in her lap, trying to look like a committed, involved parent. Appearing cooperative and duly concerned. Which she was, of course, but wanted to make sure it showed. She leaned in a little, to show interest. She hated these kinds of meetings: they always made her so nervous.
“Mike has exceptional skills in mathematics. He’s been chewing through the high school math books we gave him last month. And Mr. Davis tells me he’s showing the same promise in science. You should be very pleased.”
“We are. We’re delighted that he has such a fine mind.” Fine mind? What kind of thing is that to say?
“His behavior, however, has been a bit more—shall we say—difficult. I think it’s safe to say we all agree that Mike needs more challenge than he’s getting. Better channels for his talents and energy.” Mr. Tortman was making sure he got all the educational buzzwords in, that was for sure.
“I thought things were getting better in that department.” Darcy pushed her hair behind her ears, trying to hide her anxiety.
“Actually,” offered Ms. Anderson, looking at Mr. Tortman, “they are. But I think we’re going to see cycles of this.
He’ll be good for a couple of weeks, then he’ll get tired of things and the behavior starts up again.” She directed her gaze to Darcy again. “It’s a rather natural pattern for boys of his age and abilities.” Somehow Darcy was sure she was going to cite some textbook called
Questionable Algebraic Behavior for Gifted Young Men.
Mr. Tortman didn’t look like he much agreed. He looked like the textbooks on his shelf read more to the tune of
Advanced Discipline for Rambunctious Upstarts.
“In any case, Mrs. Nightengale, I called you in because I’d like to make a few suggestions to help Mike along in his studies. I don’t know what the family resources are, but I think you may want to consider…”
And thus it began. A list of private tutoring programs, three computer software programs, four community college courses and one very ritzy summer math camp.
Congratulations on your boy’s fine young mind, but it sure is gonna cost you.
Oh, Jack was going to have a field day with this.
N
o one was allowed to throw up today.
No one was allowed to break, sprain or deeply cut anything, no cars or refrigerators were permitted to malfunction, even hair was warned to behave.
Darcy needed every ounce of energy and brainpower she had to meet the tasks at hand. There were only three tasks, but they were whoppers. This morning, she was going to visit Michelle Porter. Sure enough, the woman had said yes. Darcy could not remember a single snippet of the conversation because she had been so incredibly nervous and unsure of herself when she made the call. She’d rehearsed three different versions of the call, none of which actually took place. Darcy was thankful she’d written down the address and directions to Michelle’s house, because she could remember nothing else from the exchange. Nothing except the general impression that the woman had been baffled, reluctant, but agreeable in the end.
Darcy thought back to the days when Mike was a baby. He’d been a good baby. Agreeable, a cooperative nurser, able to sleep anywhere, anytime. Except, of course, at night. Jack often referred to Mike as “the nocturnal animal” because of his exasperating habit of waking up happy and playful at 3:30 a.m. On the dot. Almost every night.
Darcy smiled. Where was that internal alarm now? Getting him out of bed took superhuman effort these days. Get him to
go
to bed took negotiating skills worthy of the United Nations. Back then, it had seemed both so much harder and so much simpler.
The desperation of too little sleep came back to her, as if her body instantly remembered what it was like to walk the upstairs hallway with a squirming nocturnal beast chewing on her shoulders. The swaying, the wet sleeves, the sounds. Yes, when Mike was a baby, and she was a new mother, she remembered saying yes to
anyone
who came calling. Adult conversation was priceless, even someone to hold the baby so she could actually go to the bathroom by herself. Maybe it wasn’t so strange that Michelle had said yes after all—especially with such a challenging baby as hers.
Such a visit was enough to fill anyone’s day, but Darcy had to ferry Mike to the orthodontist for a lunchtime appointment, then meet Jack at the finance guy’s office. Jack was so eager to set this up that he actually arranged to take the afternoon off. “That way,” he had said, “we can go grab a cup of something and talk it over.” Jack was pulling out all the stops on this one.
The day’s final task was to remain focused on the first two, knowing that Mrs. McDylan had her “day” today. Recipient number two. The one who would prove recipient number one hadn’t been a fluke. Jean had been close to her demographically, but Noreen McDylan was a much
different woman. Plus, there were all the child-care logistics to deal with, all the people who were involved in covering that end of things. So many places for children to get sick, people to be late or no-shows, things to go wrong. Just looking at the plan for the day had driven up Darcy’s blood pressure.
When Jack mentioned he’d scheduled the financial appointment for today, she’d wanted to wave a white flag. Then Darcy decided to surrender to the odd symmetry of it. If you’re going to freak out, she told herself, you might as well confine it all to one day.
Still, it could all come crashing down in one “Mrs. Nightengale? This is the school nurse calling…” phone call.
“And that’s the way it is with motherhood,” Darcy lectured a squirrel standing in the driveway. “One wrong phone call and you’re sunk. At any time, any day, they can just pull the rug right out from under you.” She pointed at him with her cell phone, just for emphasis.
And she was sure it was a him. You could tell by the unsympathetic way he simply turned and ran away. A momma squirrel, Darcy reasoned, would have eyed her in universal maternal sympathy.
Darcy pulled the car door shut and looked skeptically in the rearview mirror. “Big day, and I’m talking to squirrels. Not good.” She roared the engine to life, warning it not to show one shred of disobedience today. “Might as well get on with it.”
Michelle Porter’s home was small and unassuming—the classic New-Family-Just-Starting-Out model. The Christmas decorations were still up in the yard, and the newspaper hadn’t been brought in from the front steps when Darcy went to ring the doorbell at ten-thirty. She remembered those baby days, when the mail sometimes wouldn’t
make it inside until dinner, and the newspapers might pile up for days on end. Actually, she didn’t ring the doorbell, but just knocked softly, as there was a Shhh—Baby Sleeping sign posted in the door window.
Michelle had put on a clean shirt and pulled her hair back in a tortoiseshell barrette for the occasion. Darcy recognized the this-is-about-the-best-I-can-do uniform—she’d donned it herself dozens of times. The house was on the edge of neat, with baby toys and laundry baskets stacked in corners. The kitchen counter held a plastic box containing at least two dozen prescription bottles. A daily regimen was taped to the fridge. She recognized all the caretaking details from Dad’s early days at home.
“Robby’s asleep,” Michelle offered. “This is a good time.” She moved a laundry basket from off the sofa and motioned for her to sit down. Michelle looked wary and very tired.
Come on, God, I’m going to need a bit of help here….
You’re a mom. Be a mom.
Was the cryptic response that came to her.
“There’s never really a good time with a baby, though, is there?” Darcy commiserated. “Here, I brought you
my
version of the Mommy Survival Kit.” She passed over the gift bag she’d recycled from the now famous tiara.
Michelle let out a surprised little laugh when she opened the gift, drawing out the several bags of cookies. “Oh, this is great. These are really great. I swear, I was thinking we were going to drown in booties and casseroles.” Her expression was one of sincere thanks. “Why does everyone think people need macaroni in a crisis?”
“Everyone’s got to eat, I suppose,” Darcy offered.
“Well, I’d much rather eat
these
any day.” She picked up one of the bags. “Shall we?”
“Twist my arm,” replied Darcy. “But you don’t have to share. You could hide them and eat the whole lot in the bathtub later if you wanted to.”
“A bath? What’s that? Ever since Robby started crawling I haven’t had a bath. Ever since Robby started
breathing
I haven’t had a bath.”
“Keeps you running, hmm?”
“Between the standard baby stuff and all Robby’s medical business, this is a full-time job.” She handed the bag to Darcy after taking two cookies for herself. “There’s no breaks.” She saw the woman’s defenses raise ever so slightly. “And I wouldn’t want one. I need every moment I can get with Robby. Every scrap of time.” You could see emotion well up inside her. “I need to be here. There can’t be any breaks. Not with…” Michelle broke off, not wanting to finish the sentence. If you could draw a definitive picture of someone who
needed
a break, Darcy felt like she was sitting in front of it. This woman was worn raw, and bone tired.
Darcy took a deep breath. “That’s sort of why I’m here, Michelle. I know you don’t like the idea of The Restoration Project, but I wanted you to see that the Project isn’t the idea of a bunch of big-haired beauty queens who think a good makeover can change your life. I’m a mom, just like you. Only instead of watching my son die, I watched my father.”
“It’s not the same,” Michelle said sharply.
No, it wasn’t. The pain of losing a loved one was bad, but to compound it with the injustice, the sheer unnatural act of burying one’s child, well Darcy couldn’t begin to know how it would feel. “I won’t pretend that it is.” She answered after a pause. “I can’t imagine what it’s like. I don’t know what I’d do in your shoes. But I think I have
an idea of how tired you are. How much it hurts. How people don’t have a clue—even though they think they do. How this kind of thing eats away at your family before you even realize it.”
Michelle grew tense. “I don’t know why I let you come here.”
I do, thought Darcy, determined to get her thoughts out before the door of communication with this woman slammed shut. “I felt like I was dying right alongside my dad. And you know what? I thought that was the right thing to do. I poured everything I had into taking care of him, tried never to miss a minute, put him before everything else. I didn’t want to regret a single missed chance. I wanted to do the right thing.”
Michelle’s glare wavered. She shifted focus to the cookie in her hand.
“And what I regret most, now that it’s done and Dad is—” Darcy was surprised at how much she choked on the word “—gone, is just how
much
I poured into it. Because I discovered, Michelle, that if you pour everything into it, there’s nothing left over.”
That wasn’t the comment Michelle was expecting. Darcy knew it, because it wasn’t the outcome she had expected from the hospice, either. Darcy took a deep breath. “Robby’s going to die, isn’t he?” she asked very quietly.
Michelle nodded, sniffling.
“No one ever dares to ask that, do they? Nobody ever wants to talk about it. It’s too scary, too messy. But you and I—we know it. We live with it, every day. So we try to be noble and selfless and muster up hope, and all the time we’re dying inside, too. And everyone’s so focused on Robby. And they should be. He needs it. But what about you?”
“I get to live.” Michelle whimpered after a long silence. “And that’s not fair.”
“It rots, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, it does.”
“I can’t make that part better. There isn’t any ‘better’ to be had in all this. But The Project is a way that I can help people get one day where it
is
about them. Where you can remember that you still have friends and your body will feel normal again one day and you are stronger than it feels right now. This isn’t about hair color or any of that spa stuff. None of that is what really matters. I’d pay for twelve gallons of ice cream delivered straight to your door if I thought
that
would make a difference. It’s mostly about giving care to what’s been neglected. Giving you a day—just
one
day—away from all this, with someone you probably haven’t had lunch with in months, is a start, a foothold toward having something left over. And I know it is because I’ve been where you are. And ‘nothing left over’ is an awful, awful place to grieve. I just wanted you to know that. You can still say no, but I just wanted the chance to tell you myself.”
There was an awkward stretch of silence. Darcy reached down slowly for her purse. Perhaps she was wrong in coming here. Michelle was entitled to her bitterness; life had handed her a raw deal. The acme of all raw deals. Who was Darcy to think she had any answers to coping?
“Tony won’t choose a color,” Michelle said quietly.
Darcy froze, her hand still reaching toward the floor. “What?”
“We can get Robby a custom casket, painted with sailboats and whales—he loves boats, Robby does.” Michelle still stared down at her cookie. “There is a woman who’ll paint a special casket just for him, and I want him to have it, but Tony won’t let us choose a color.”
Darcy couldn’t find words. She didn’t think the whole English language had the words for this. All she could do was just put her hand on Michelle’s arm.
“Tony says I’m wrong to give up on Robby. But I’m not giving up on him, I…just want him to have a pretty casket.” She started to cry, and Darcy could feel the tears running down her own cheeks. “He’s not going to get a pretty life, so I want…I want him to have a pretty death. Is that so hideous? Why does everyone think it’s so awful that I want that?” Her voice took on the bitter edge Darcy heard in the letter. “Why can’t I want that? He’s my son, why can’t I want to give that to him? Why?” Michelle tossed the half-eaten cookie down on the coffee table and swore. “It’s bad enough that I have to be picking out caskets at all! Why can’t I have the one I want?”
“I think boats sounds nice,” Darcy offered, trying not to sob. “I think I’d want them, too.”
“Why can’t we have blue boats?” The question trailed off into a sob, and Darcy simply pulled the woman onto her shoulder, letting her cry.
“Blue boats sounds nice.” She repeated, stroking Michelle’s shaking shoulders. “I think blue boats would look beautiful.”
Even after she returned Mike to school, Darcy had yet to remove the lump from her throat. The mournful wail of Michelle Porter’s questions seemed to hang inside her chest, aching there, keeping Darcy on the verge of crying for hours after she left that home. Death was such a lousy business. She wondered about the people who said they envied her chance to say goodbye to her dad. Did they know the cost of that good long goodbye? The toll it took? The wide swath of pain it left?
With a sigh, Darcy thought that she might be safer with someone throwing up today. The tasks at hand were proving just too huge. She fished in her purse for the address of the financial planner, and took the car out of Park.
Stay close, Lord, I’m going to need you.
Craig Palmer’s office looked surprisingly like the orthodontist office she’d just left. A small, one-story, redbrick structure with plate glass front windows. Palmer and Associates was painted on one window in trustworthy white lettering.
The finance magnate inside, whom Darcy was certain would be wearing a sharp dark suit and a trust-me expression, ended up being an ordinary guy in a broadcloth shirt and a pair of Dockers. A round-faced, balding man about ten years older than Jack, with bright blue eyes and wire-rimmed glasses. Friendly. Decidedly nonpredatory. Definitely an Ed Bidwell kind of guy, Darcy thought, remembering from whom the recommendation had come.
“Jack’s filled me in on the basics,” he said as he brought in three cups of coffee and a little china box filled with sugar packets and those tiny creamer tubs. “Jack also told me you drink tea, and I thought we had some, but evidently we’re out. I hope coffee’s okay until I stock up again.”
After today’s events, a stronger brew seemed like a good idea. “Coffee’s fine, thanks.” Darcy chose the chocolate-flavored creamer, though, and used two of them.