Authors: Sally John
“You mean,
again
.”
“Yeah, again.” She began to cry. “Am I only saying yes now because he’s gone?”
“Maybe.” He kissed her eyelids while she wept. “But that’s okay. It’s over. We’re here now. And if you ever get around to opening this box, we can declare on the record that we are engaged.”
Calissa only cried harder and buried her face in his neck, hoping he wouldn’t change his mind before she released about twenty years’ worth of pent-up regrets.
Topala
“Do you know what I adore about this old church?” Padre Miguel glanced at Sheridan seated in a pew beside him.
She eyed his profile as he gazed toward the altar. “I imagine your answer could take all day.”
He chuckled.
They were alone in the church. It was the middle of the week, late afternoon, the village clear of the daily tourists. Since returning to Topala ten days before, she had gotten into the habit of sitting quietly on a pew for a short while as often as possible. If nothing else, it was a surefire way to take a break from the tensions of home.
But she hoped for more than respite. She hoped to be rid of the guilt that clung to her.
Why had she married Eliot?
Why did she consider leaving him?
In her consternation she had even begun reading the Bible, too, her mother’s red one. Surely there was a passage that hinted that leaving a husband was acceptable in the sight of the Lord if the marriage was a mistake in the first place? Surely He would give her a sense of release as she sat in His house?
So far she’d only gotten the respite. Nothing so far indicated a free pass on separation or divorce. He hadn’t revealed everything about himself. The relationship had turned sour. She was denied her life’s work. He was physically and—as far as she was concerned—emotionally handicapped. He was not interested in intimacy. She was not sure she loved him.
Nothing fit. Nada. Maybe she could find a nonbeliever to convince her that guilt was a figment of her imagination.
Instead she got the priest.
Every now and then while she sat in the church, he slipped in and out, sometimes speaking, sometimes not. Today he had sat right down with her.
She turned her attention back to him. “Tell me, Padre Miguel, what do you adore about this old church?”
“That the faithful have not abandoned her. Not once in over five hundred years. They have taken care of her needs, cleaning her and clothing her. They’ve filled her with their prayers and tears. They’ve blessed her with their presence, just like you sitting here today.”
“It’s a building.”
“Ah yes, you are right. Mere walls. Stone and mortar. However, the idea reminds me that we ourselves are mere bodies. Bones and skin. Unless the faithful attend to us, unless we are cared for, we wither up inside and die, even if we continue to breathe.”
Okay, she would ask. “Who are the faithful?”
“The ones placed with us, the ones expected to care for us. Mothers, fathers, sisters, spouses. When they don’t—when God’s order is not maintained—then we are abandoned. And the thing is, in this imperfect world, His order is never maintained. We are always, every one of us, abandoned.”
She shut her eyes. Was this little homily personalized just for her? Was he saying it was a wife’s duty not to leave her husband? that her duty was to stay put and take care of Eliot no matter what?
“Señora, sometimes the faithful leave us because they do not know how to stay. Either literally or figuratively. A mother dies. A father ignores. A sister dominates.” He paused. “A husband copes with inconceivable pain. He keeps old secrets.”
He wasn’t preaching wifely duty.
Eyes still closed, she felt the air shift as Padre Miguel stood.
“Tell Him, señora. Tell your Lord how much it hurts. He understands. Everyone abandoned Him, too.” The priest’s footfalls grew softer as he walked away.
Sheridan slid to her knees and bowed her head.
Eliot talked long and deeply with Bram Carter in the study. Sheridan wasn’t home yet from what had become her daily visit to church. Calissa was in the kitchen with Mercedes, preparing dinner.
Over the past ten years, on the rare occasion he had visited with Bram, Eliot enjoyed his company. He respected the accomplishments of the newspaper magnate who was a bit younger than himself and already white haired. Unlike Sheridan, Eliot never pondered the man’s longtime love for Calissa. What better way for him to sharpen his wits than against her abrasive personality?
“Bram,” he said, “you haven’t mentioned the elephant in the room.”
“Leaking Harrison’s story to the press.” His dark eyes twinkled. “Pulitzer material, eh? I can’t say I haven’t thought about it. I’ve even considered which journalist I’d want to interview you; which angle we’d take; how many sidebars between Harrison, you, and other young diplomats; the history of smuggling worldwide. But, Eliot, I’d never impose upon our relationship and expect you to talk to us on the record.”
“As far as I’m concerned, you can have exclusive rights to an interview with me. If you personally do it yourself.”
Bram studied his face for a moment. “All right. You’ve got a deal. Not that it’s imminent. Working with Traynor has given me some new insight into national security. I’m not about to leak what I know. They’d lock me up in a heartbeat.”
“The story may never be allowed for public consumption. There could easily be repercussions still in motion from Cole’s work. And it does seem a little late to expose him. What would be the benefit now?”
“Only one: I’d sell a few papers. That’s it. Calissa and Sheridan would suffer. Politicians would get yet another black eye. And Harrison Cole’s positive work would be forgotten.”
“Not worth the Pulitzer?”
“Not when I’m married to the guy’s daughter.” Bram rubbed his beard in a nervous gesture.
“Is that an engagement announcement?”
“Uh. Sorry. Nuts. Whoops. I wasn’t supposed to tell.”
“Congratulations.”
“Oh, we’re not engaged.” He smiled sheepishly. “We’re married.”
Eliot grinned. “Married! That’s even better. Congratulations.”
“Thanks. Act surprised, okay? Calissa wants to tell you and Sheridan together.”
Sheridan and him. Together.
Now wouldn’t that be an answer to prayer?
* * *
Already privy to Calissa and Bram’s surprise, Eliot sat back and watched Sheridan receive their news.
She smiled. She giggled. She laughed. She clapped her hands. And then she fiercely hugged them both, tears streaming down her face.
How he loved her. How he missed her.
True to the beautiful character she was, in the week and a half since she returned home, Sheridan still treated him with respect, still saw to his needs, still spoke in her forthright manner with grace.
But she altered their daily routine. That was partially due to giving Mercedes a lot of time off and partially due to Calissa’s presence. He suspected, though, that it was only the beginning of change.
Although she administered his physical therapy, she refused to work with him on his writing. She left the house often and without telling him what she was doing or how long she expected to be gone. Sometimes she took her paints with her. Sometimes a handbag. He knew about the daily church visits only because Padre Miguel mentioned it as a way of encouraging Eliot. A wife who turned to God in her hour of need, he said, would turn back to her repentant husband.
Eliot doubted it.
More often than not that peculiar expression was on her face, the one that pinched her mouth, her eyes, her forehead, and that snarled his insides. The one that filled him with fear. The one that obliterated the sparkle.
The sparkle that Calissa and Bram now shared.
How he loved her. How he missed her.
* * *
“Eliot.” Sheridan approached his desk, pinched expression in place, with a shade of hesitancy that now laced her tone whenever she wanted to talk. She cocked her head, a new habit, as if reading his face for clues before speaking.
Clues to what, he didn’t know.
“Can we talk?” Her eyes still danced, most likely from her sister’s news.
“Of course.”
She sat across the desk from him. “Liss and Bram have gone down to invite Javier and Padre Miguel to dinner.”
He smiled.
“Are you okay with that?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
The gold flecks in her eyes went dark, as surely as if a candle had been snuffed out. “Let me count the ways.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“No, Sher. We’re all about trying to be open these days. What did you mean?”
“Eliot, for over a year we’ve avoided people like they all carry the plague.”
“True, I haven’t felt up to company, but this is your sister.”
“We moved here so neither she nor anyone else could bother us.”
He slumped back in his chair. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s just the way it is. I understand. We were in agreement on our living situation a year and a half ago. I felt the need for anonymity and safety as much as you did.”
“We were recoiling, in recovery.”
“Yes.” She leaned forward. “But is that time over?”
Images flashed through his mind. Reina, Sheridan’s friend and coworker, grinning over her shoulder at them, reaching for the door handle of their newly opened center. Her body arching, jerking backward. Himself, reaching out and shifting violently sideways, intuitively, before Reina hit the ground. White jagged streaks. Total darkness.
“Eliot!”
In the time it took to refocus on Sheridan seated before him, he felt himself travel a million miles.
“Eliot, where are you?”
“What?”
“Where are you when you do that?”
He stared at her, not comprehending.
“It’s like you go somewhere far away, like you check out. The lights are on but nobody’s home. What were you thinking just now?”
He shook his head, trying to clear it. “I don’t have words—”
“Eliot! Stop avoiding it. I asked if that time is over and you went into your deaf-mute act.” Sheridan was near tears, her voice strained.
“Deaf-mute?”
“I’m sorry. It’s not an act, but that’s what you resemble. You can’t hear or speak.”
He tuned her out and then realized what he was doing. “Sher, I don’t want to share my horrors with you.”
“You were thinking about Caracas.”
He nodded.
“You went through all this with the counselor. Remember? He said flashbacks would come. He said let them out, talk about them. Don’t bottle them all up inside.”
“I talked with Padre Miguel. He said to let the light shine on them. Tell God because God has the power to heal my memory—”
“You told Padre Miguel about them?” There was hurt in her tone. “I’m here with you day in and day out and you don’t tell me. Instead you just go inside yourself.”
“I burden you with enough.”
“I am not a hothouse orchid.”
“No, you’re not.” Eliot studied his wife’s face and saw the delicate hothouse orchid he’d always seen. “But in a sense you are to me. I’ve always wanted to protect you from harm. It’s one reason why I didn’t tell you about my past.”
“You were protecting yourself on that one. If I’d known that you knew who I was, or if I’d had to go through this mess about my father’s extracurricular activities back then, our relationship never would have gotten off the ground.”
“Yes, I protected myself. But I also protected you. I could not bear to see you hurt. Perhaps I overcompensate trying to keep you safe emotionally because I can’t protect you physically anymore. I can’t tell you how devastated I was when you went to Chicago with Traynor, a man who could do what I can no longer do.”
Compassion softened her face as if she understood. “Eliot, it’s not your fault you were shot.”
“You know that’s beside the point.”
“Yeah. Why is it that when I left town, you came alive? You started talking to the priest, whom you avoided all those previous months. You made an unscheduled trip to Mesa Aguamiel and even shopped for a gift for Mercedes. You went to the weekly dance.”
“I—I don’t know, Sher. I can’t explain it.”
“It’s as if I’ve been in your way, holding you back.”
“Perhaps I put you there, in the way. In all my trying to protect you, I shut down.”
“But by that you stopped letting me inside, Eliot. That’s what hurts so much.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know you are. You can stop saying it.” She sighed. “So you still have flashbacks. Are they less frequent as time goes on?”
“Yes, thanks be to God.”
“And I see progress in that you don’t mind visiting with locals and you don’t mind having company for dinner tonight.”
“Correct.”
“I’m okay with those things too.”
He didn’t point out that she was obviously okay with much more than those things. She had traveled to Chicago and back.
She went on. “I’d say we are beyond the season of recoiling. We no longer have to make every decision based on fear. It’s time to move forward, to make decisions based on hope. Don’t you think?”
He met the real question in her eyes. It threw him into the struggle again. Should he protect her heart by not speaking his own?
No, she wanted him to let her inside, all the way through to his inner heart.
He had to admit that fear was still very much a part of his daily life. Fear that pain would overtake him. Fear that he might fall. Fear that he could not finish writing his book. Fear that his work in any capacity was over, that his life from here on out was shuffling across the floor and taking the next pill. Fear that God found him unworthy. Fear that he would let his wife down time and time again. And still, fear that there would come a physical situation in which he would be unable to keep her safe.
Debilitating fears, each and every one. They formed the answer to her real question.
“Sheridan,” he said, “I’m sorry. I can’t leave Topala.”
She closed her eyes for a long moment, and then she looked at him, her expression unreadable. “I’ll go help with dinner.”
Sheridan frowned. “Liss, I am not ready for you to leave.”