Showers in Season Page 13

  “Of course, I do,” he said. “Of course.” He turned away from her, wiped his face, and wilted over the hood of their car. “I don’t know what to do.” She watched his back rise and fall with his anguished breath. “Have you thought about this with anything other than your emotions and hormones, Tory?”

  “Of course, I have,” she admitted, knowing it would cost her. “I’ve thought how…disappointed I am. I wanted people to stop in aisles and tell me how precious she is. But they’ll be looking away, pretending they don’t see.” He looked up at her, and their eyes met. “We have beautiful children, Barry.”

  He straightened, and whispered, “They have a beautiful mother.”

  She shook her head. “All the work on my looks. My hair, my makeup, my weight…I put so much into it. Perfection, it’s my stock—and trade.” Her voice broke off, and she looked at her reflection in the car’s window. She didn’t like what she saw. “Do you think this is how God’s punishing me? Giving me a child who isn’t perfect, so I’ll learn?”

  “Learn what?” Barry asked.

  “Learn that it isn’t what’s on the outside that’s important. It’s what’s on the inside. Maybe perfection really has to do with the heart. Maybe this baby will be the most perfect one of all our children. Inside, where we all need to learn to look.”

  “It’s more likely that she’ll be the most miserable.”

  The vulnerability she had begun to share fled as that rage erupted in her again. She slammed her hand on the fender. “I don’t know that. But if I did, I’m not sure it could change anything. You shouldn’t be able to choose whether to abort a baby or not based on whether you think she’ll have a good life. If we did that, we’d think we’d have to go around to all the povertystricken families and abort all of theirs. We’d kill anyone who isn’t born in America, or in an upper-middle-class family, or in a family with high IQ’s and beauty awards.”

  He didn’t seem to know what to say to that.

  Weary, she leaned back against the garage wall. “I miss my mom.”

  “I do, too,” he said. “I miss her for you.” Her mother had died of breast cancer just a few months after their wedding. She had never seen her daughter pregnant with even her first child, had never been able to teach her how to change a diaper or bathe an infant. She had never been there to talk her through marital problems or adult crises. Tory needed her now.

  Sylvia had done a lot to take her mother’s place. She had been there, the older, more experienced woman who had already walked the ground that Tory was walking. She had been so full of wisdom and patience, had always had such good advice. Tory wished she could pick up the phone and call Sylvia in León, and have her drop everything and listen to Tory for a while. “I miss Sylvia, too,” she said.

  He drew in a deep breath, let it out in a rugged sigh. “Go on over there,” he whispered finally. “Listen to her letters. Maybe it’ll make you feel better.”

  She hesitated, wondering how their marriage would ever recover. “What about you?” she asked quietly. “What’s going to make you feel better?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll pray for a while.”

  “Good,” she whispered. “That’s good.”

  He crossed the garage floor, took her hands, and bent down to kiss her wet cheek. “Making everything all right is my job in this family,” he whispered. “I’m trying to do that.”

  “If you keep trying to talk me into ending our baby’s life, Barry, nothing is ever going to be all right again.”

  “And if I just let things go, leave it all to chance, nothing will, anyway.”

  “God is bigger than chance,” she said through her teeth. “I thought you trusted him more than that.”

  “I trust him to lead me in making the right decision.”

  “Wait a minute.” She jerked her hands away. “Did you say ‘me’? Are you telling me that this is your decision? One of those ‘spiritual leader of the family’ decisions?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” he said.

  “You said, “lead me into making the right decision.’ Like it’s your decision. Period. Think again, Barry! You can make all the decisions you want, but this is my baby, too. And if God doesn’t want it born, he’s going to have to decide that on his own.”

  With that, she slammed her hand on the button that would open the garage and darted out under it before it had the chance to rise all the way. She heard it closing behind her as she took off across the lot between hers and Brenda’s homes.

  CHAPTER Twenty-Six

  Brenda and Cathy were already on the porch when Tory launched across the yard. A cool breeze whipped up from the valley, teasing and ruffling her hair, but it did nothing to quell her anger. The life she had known was coming quickly to an end, and she had no power to stop it.

  Both women saw the distress on Tory’s face and reached out to hug her.

  “How are you doing, honey?” Brenda asked.

  “Fine,” Tory lied.

  “How’s Barry?” Cathy asked.

  Tory shook her head. She couldn’t make herself answer the question.

  “Want to talk?” Brenda whispered.

  Tory shook her head and swiped at the tears on her face. “Not now. Just read me Sylvia’s e-mail. I think she sent me a copy but I haven’t had time to turn on my computer.”

  Reluctantly, Brenda began to read, and Tory welcomed the chance to think about problems other than her own. Sylvia was suffering a trial, and she had given them a way to help.

  When they had finished reading, Cathy’s eyes were glowing. “Well, now we know what we can do,” she said, as if they’d all been looking for new endeavors. “We can have a clothing drive. Heck, everybody gives away their old clothes. All we have to do is get people to clean out their closets.”

  “How would we get them to Sylvia?” Brenda asked.

  “I don’t know,” Cathy said. “But my church would love to help Sylvia, since she went there all her life, and as big as it is, I’d bet somebody could donate the use of a plane.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can,” Brenda said.

  Cathy started rolling up her sleeves, as if she was ready to start work here and now. “It’ll be fun, knowing we’re helping Sylvia in some way. But Tory, you don’t have to help if you don’t want to.”

  “Why not?” Tory asked with dull eyes. “It’s not like I can do anything to solve my own problems. I might as well be doing something for someone else. I was just thinking that some of Spencer’s old clothes might fit the little girl with Sylvia.”

  “Good idea,” Brenda said. “But are you sure you won’t need them for the baby?”

  Tory’s face slackened. “No, it’s a girl. I’ll keep Britty’s things for her.”

  “A little girl,” Brenda whispered with awe. “I forgot you told us that. How wonderful.”

  Tory looked at her feet and nodded. They both stared quietly at her for a moment, neither knowing what to say. “Tory, are you sure you’re all right?” Cathy asked again.

  “Yeah,” she said. “As all right as I can be, under the circumstances.” She looked up at Cathy, seeking a way to change the subject. “So when do we get started?”

  “Tomorrow,” Cathy said. “I’ll tell Steve tonight and get him involved, and he’ll have flyers printed and distributed by morning. The man’s amazing. And he has a heart as big as Survey Mountain.”

  Tory smiled. She loved watching Cathy’s romance develop. “So, how are things with you two?”

  “Pretty…fabulous, actually. We would have gone out tonight, but I keep having to go back to the clinic to take care of the million-dollar dog.”

  “The what?” Brenda asked.

  “This poodle that got hit by a car the other day. He had about a one-percent chance of pulling through, even with all the best technology. If there’s ever been such a thing as a canine ICU, I’ve got one set up at my clinic now. I had to rent all this extra equipment. It’s costing his owner a fortune, but she�
�s willing to pay whatever it takes to keep him alive. And if he lives, he may never walk again…”

  Something inside Tory snapped as Cathy’s words sank in. She couldn’t explain the unmitigated rage that began to rise inside her. A dog was being rescued with every resource available, while Tory’s own husband was lobbying for the quick, easy death of their child? “Unbelievable,” she said.

  “What? The cost or the effort?”

  “Both.” She got to her feet, trembling. “This much energy can go into saving a dog, but when it’s a human who’s in jeopardy, the doctors are so quick to suggest the easiest options.” She touched her temple with a trembling hand. “You know, I hate that word,” she bit out. “Options. It sounds so sterile. Did you use that word with the dog’s owner, Cathy?”

  Cathy’s face fell, as if she’d been wrongly rebuked. “Well, I don’t know. I think I told her what could be done…”

  Tory’s eyes stung with tears, and her lips stretched thin across her lips. “And the poodle’s owner thought it was worth it. Spend the money, utilize the resources, take the little paralyzed animal home and love him no matter what shape he’s in, no matter what he can contribute, no matter what his potential may ever be, this…this poodle who is so wanted!” Blood pumped furiously through her face, punctuating each word with her own fury.

  Cathy and Brenda both stared up at her, stricken and speechless.

  “It kills me,” Tory went on. “I’m carrying a human being, and my husband thinks she’s not even as valuable as that poodle in your clinic!”

  Cathy swallowed. “I shouldn’t have brought it up, Tory. I’m so insensitive.”

  “No, you’re not,” Tory wept. She walked down the porch steps and stood in the grass, looking furiously up at the stars. Finally, she turned around. “You’re the one keeping the poodle alive. You’ve assigned value to that life, even if it isn’t human. They fight for whales, and baby seals, and tuna, for heaven’s sake. I just don’t understand how people could assign less value to a little baby…”

  Brenda looked heartbroken as she got out of her chair and came down the steps. She reached for Tory, and Tory went into her arms. Helplessly, Cathy got up and joined in the hug.

  “What are we gonna do without Sylvia?” Tory asked.

  Brenda pulled back and wiped her own face. “We’re not going to do without her,” she said. “She’s still one of us.”

  “I just want to talk to her,” Tory said in a high-pitched voice. “I want to tell her about the baby. I want to ask her what to do about Barry.”

  “Well, I’m no Sylvia,” Brenda said. “But I know where she gets her wisdom. We could go to the same source tonight, Tory.”

  “You mean pray?”

  Brenda smiled. “Yeah, we could pray. Take all these things to God. He’s the only one who can help, anyway.”

  Together, the three neighbors spent the next hour talking to the Lord, pouring out their hearts for Tory’s and Sylvia’s problems.

  When Tory finally went home that night, she felt calmer, and thought that she and Barry might be able to navigate their way through these decisions now. But Barry was already in the basement. She went to the steps and creaked down them, crossed the concrete floor to the couch. He was already sound asleep, fully dressed, with a blanket thrown over him.

  She thought of waking him up, resuming their conversation, but she didn’t know what more could be said. They would never agree on this. Never.

  Defeated, she went back up the stairs and to their bedroom, and slept alone again.

  CHAPTER Twenty-Seven

  The death of the poodle, Shish-kabob, made Cathy late getting home on Monday, Mark’s first day back at school. The distraught owner had detained her for more than an hour as she wept on Cathy’s shoulder. Cathy didn’t know how to tell her that her pain needed to be cut short, because Cathy needed to be home when her son got off the bus. So she had held the woman and let her cry as the moments ticked by.

  The fact that Mark was out sweeping the driveway when she drove up clued her that something was wrong. He looked up at her as she pulled her car into the garage, and she saw the trepidation on his face. She left everything sitting on her seat and braced herself as she got slowly out of the car. “Mark?”

  “Hey, Mom,” he said in a dismal voice. “How was your day?”

  He never asked her how her day had been, and had never cared. She didn’t think he cared now. “Mark, what’s wrong?”

  He looked offended. “Why do you think something’s wrong?”

  “Because you’re sweeping. You asked me how my day was.”

  “You act like I’m lazy and don’t care about anybody but myself.” He threw the broom against the house, as if giving up. “I just thought somebody needed to sweep.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said skeptically. “Thank you. Now what’s wrong? Come on, Mark. You have to tell me sooner or later.”

  He sighed and headed into the house, and she followed, dreading whatever was going to be thrown at her next. He grabbed his backpack from the floor and jerked out an envelope.

  “From the principal?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “It’s my stupid report card.”

  Now it all made sense. She opened the envelope and watched as Mark went to the refrigerator and stood perusing the contents. She had a feeling that he didn’t have an appetite, despite his feigned interest. She probably wouldn’t have one, either, by the time this was all over. She unfolded the card and looked down at the grades lined up on the right side. The blood drained from her face. “F, F, D…” Her voice got louder with each letter…“D, F, C.” She looked up at her son’s back. He seemed very interested in a shriveled orange that should have been thrown away weeks ago. “Mark, what in the world…?”

  He swung around. “I’m sorry, Mom, okay? I thought I was doing better than that…”

  “You’ve never had an F in your life. None of you have. Even D’s…”

  “Don’t overreact, okay? I mean, they’re just grades. Some states don’t even have them anymore, and I think that’s a good idea, because it’s not right to judge people like that. Some kids get messed up for life because their grades make them feel so bad about theirselves. Besides, I did good in PE, and it wasn’t easy because we had to run two miles…”

  She gaped back down at the report card. “Your C was in PE?”

  “Well, I forgot to study for a couple of tests about nutrition and muscles and stuff. If not for that I would have had an A.”

  A million reactions filed through her mind as she stared helplessly at the report card. Some were illegal. Others were controversial. All were justifiable.

  “Now, Mom, I knew you were gonna blow a fuse, but if you’ll just calm down and think about this…”

  She closed her eyes and held up a hand to stem further conversation, and he stopped midsentence. “I think you’d do best,” she whispered, “just to go upstairs…and keep a low profile for, say…a year or two…until I decide what to do with you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He was gone before she opened her eyes.

  She was shaking, almost as badly as she’d been when she found out about the marijuana. She sat down and covered her face with both hands.

  The door flew open, and Rick stepped in, dropped his backpack on the floor, and headed for the refrigerator. Annie flew in behind him. “Mom, I made honor roll! Check out this report card.”

  Cathy took it numbly, wondering what the joke was going to be, and saw the letters lined up down the side of the computer printout. “Great, honey. This is great.”

  Annie frowned. “You don’t look like you think it’s great. What’s the matter with you, anyway? You look kinda pale.”

  “No, really,” Cathy said. “Great report card. You’ve come a long way.”

  “Do I deserve something for that? Like those new shoes I want? Mom, you know how hard I worked for those grades, and those shoes are all I’ll want between now and Christmas, I promise, and you always punish us
when we have bad grades, so doesn’t it stand to reason that you should reward us when we have good ones?”

  “Yes, maybe,” she said, still thinking about all those F’s. “You do deserve a reward. What about you, Rick?”

  Rick turned around, as if he hadn’t noticed his mother was in the room until she called his name. “Oh, yeah. In the backpack.”

  “Do I have to dig it out?”

  He sighed as if he didn’t have time to be bothered. “Guess not.” He pulled the report card out and thrust it at her. “Now, before you say anything, that one C was in calculus, and it was really hard, and ninety-five percent of the class made a C or below…”

  She studied the grades and saw that most of them were As. One B. Not a single D or F. She wanted to fall to her knees and thank God for his mercy. “This is good, Rick,” she said. “Really good.”

  “Really?” he asked, shrugging. “Cool.” He saw Mark’s report card folded in her hand. “Boy, Mark’s must be really bad.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, you usually go ballistic over C’s. What did he have?” He grabbed at the report card, and she tried to snatch it back. But he had it open before she could stop him. “F’s? I can’t believe it! Look at this, Annie! F’s, all over the place. The kid is flunking out of seventh grade.”

  Before her eves, Rick and Annie became best friends as they shared a laugh over their brother’s plight. It was probably the first time they’d spoken cordially to each other in days. “Man, is he in trouble!”

  “What are you gonna do to him, Mom? First pot-smoking, now this? He’s just asking for it, man!”

  “Shut up!” Mark cried from upstairs.

  Annie and Rick let out a howl of laughter, and Cathy jerked the report card back. She wondered if God had been thinking of teenagers when he said that every intent of man’s heart was only evil continually. “Upstairs, everybody,” she said. “To your rooms.”