Reinventing Leona (15 page)

“Give me a minute, David.” Leona stepped around the foot of the bed and came to the head. She focused on her mother’s serene face. The woman would be ticked if she knew anesthesia and the luminous hospital lighting had erased her frown lines far better than her last Botox injection. Leona leaned over the bed rail and placed her lips against the downy skin near her mother’s temple. The familiar scent of Olay and the pulsating sensation of life awarded her a peaceful reassurance. “I love you, Mother.” Leona tucked the blanket around her mother. “Take good care of her, Dr. Harper.”

Maddie grinned. “Will do, Momma.”

Leona slipped her hand through David’s arm. Surely God wouldn’t give her this second chance and then snatch it away before she could make things right.

Chapter Twelve

Leona twisted the corroded shower knobs, reducing the lukewarm water that pounded her aching muscles to a tepid trickle pooling over the rust stains around the slow drain. Plastic rings grated along the metal rod as she tugged on the vinyl curtain. The fragrant cloud of steam deserted her gaping cocoon and fogged the mirror. Her pruned skin prickled in the chilly morning air the gas wall heater had failed to warm. She dragged each dripping foot over the edge of the old claw-foot tub. Shivering on the fluffy bath mat, she lifted a towel from the rack and wrapped it around her moist body.

Several small squares of cold tile lay between her and the nearest floor mat. It made her tired to think of rallying the energy to make the crossing. Maybe she would just climb back in the shower, close the curtain, drown herself, and avoid the trouble. But she had been last to shower and the ancient hot water heater would need at least three hours to recover from the added strain of having David and Maddie in the house. Death by freezing cold water would be her absolute last choice, should the Lord give her a say. Which wasn’t likely. Although she was certain J.D. would have been pleased with his exit arrangements, she wasn’t going to hold her breath that she’d be given the same options.

Two elongated tiptoe steps and she landed on the mat in front of the sink. Resting against the vanity, she cleared the mirror with her forearm. She peered at the sunken face reflected in the blurry swipe.

Just as she feared, the lull in the storm had been short-lived. When the anesthesia wore off, her mother awoke confused and meaner than a bear emerging from hibernation. More than once these past couple of days, Leona had considered borrowing a couple of stiff hits from the old girl’s morphine drip. But the thought of managing Mother without every sedating drop in the clear IV bag outweighed any benefits of short-term relief.

Leona dug through the drawer and found a comb. She worked it through the tangles of her freshly shampooed locks, then tossed the instrument of pain on the vanity. Palming the tiled surface, she waited for the smarting to subside. J.D.’s death had stirred the fire ant mound of her emotions. With her children floundering, her mother raving, and her own fears nipping at her ankles, Leona felt her life was at the more-than-she-could-bear limit. Battling the tears pooled in the purple circles rimming her hazel eyes, she decided she’d let her hair air dry and hopefully in the process catch her death.

Clenching her jaw, Leona turned and slogged toward the bedroom. She opened her closet and stared at the four dresses hanging from the rusty rod. One of her husband’s pet sayings had been, “Sunday comes around every week, four times a month.” Rotating her limited church attire worked out fine, except for those pesky fifth-Sunday months. The dropped-waist floral print was up for this week, but that one had been J.D.’s favorite.

The flood of tears refused further restraint, spilling onto her cheeks. The dread she had held at bay now weighted her limbs and slumped her shoulders. How could she attend church without her husband? In the space of a heartbeat she had been removed from the Pastor’s Perch and relegated to Widow’s Row. Images of being crammed into the backseat of a car full of blue hairs on their way to the cafeteria flashed in her mind. She shuddered at the thought of having nothing better to talk about than her last doctor’s appointment.

Over the years, she had mastered the art of avoiding those needy women who, when asked, detailed exactly how they were feeling.

Bessie Wilcox had been the worst.

Show Bessie the slightest interest, and she would rattle off the long list of foods that kinked her antiquated bowels or worse, give every detail of the operations she’d undergone to unclog them. Her complaints kept her in and out of the emergency room on a regular basis. Leona remembered telling J.D., “Bessie’s hospital trips are merely ploys to garner attention. If we don’t run up there every time our resident hypochondriac calls, she’ll give up her diabolical schemes.” So the next time the gray-haired fossil was admitted, they didn’t go.

That night Bessie died . . . alone.

Shame pierced Leona’s conscience. What excuse could she offer for the way she had brushed off the lonely, avoiding them as if dead spouses were contagious? Leona crossed her arms over her damp towel and briskly tried to eliminate the gooseflesh pimpling her arms. In the deathly quiet bedroom, she understood the longings of the companionless . . . the need, the desperation to have the sound of their voice make contact with a human ear. Would happily coupled masses now divert their gaze or pretend they didn’t see her? Was she destined to be the token fifth wheel people invited to lunch out of pity?

Could God be punishing the smug way she flaunted her noisy life of devoted husband and children? She didn’t really believe the Lord to be spiteful, but remembering the biblical story of how God took out the braggart who built bigger barns struck a guilty nerve in Leona’s chest.

She thumbed through her dresses. Maybe she should stay home from church today. It’s not every week a woman buries her husband and nearly kills her mother. If anyone, other than the widows and widowers, had the nerve to fault her, they should watch their backs. Unexpected tragedy could head-butt them into her sad boat.

Leona turned to her shoe rack and took down the pair of fuzzy slippers David had given her years ago. She stuffed her bare feet inside the matted comfort. Hands trembling, she pushed back the louvered door on J.D.’s side of the closet. Except for the navy pinstripe he wore to his funeral, his three remaining suits hung in the order of their rotation. Today would have been the herringbone tweed. Leona ran her hand across the rugged Shetland wool. It had given her a great deal of pleasure to surprise J.D. with this expensive coat. The dear man was struck mute when he learned she bought the jacket with pennies saved by clipping coupons. Seeing the gratitude on his face had been worth every single thing she had done without. Come to think of it, what had she done without? Leona brought the woolen sleeve to her nose and inhaled. She couldn’t remember.

“Momma?”

Leona jumped, dropping the jacket sleeve. “Maddie, you startled me.” She hurriedly slid the door back into place.

Maddie stepped inside the master bedroom, crossed to the closet, and removed Leona’s floral print. “Wear this. Daddy loved it.”

Who was this insightful young woman standing before her? More tears stung Leona’s eyes, but she hurriedly blinked them away. Maybe she hadn’t totally screwed up the child’s life, but it was hard to tell for certain. Maddie had been so busy at the hospital the last few days, they had not had a minute to talk. Leona was anxious get their relationship repairs underway. “Good idea.” She took the offered hanger.

“Daddy would expect us in church.”

“That’s never bothered you before.”
Where had that come from?
Leona clamped her lips, hating the jagged barb she just hurled at her daughter. This was no way to make the amends she longed for. Then she remembered a magazine article Roxie had given her. The world-renowned grief expert claimed anger would not be far behind the shock and denial. Whatever the source of this raging desire to lash out, Leona didn’t want her child taking the hit.

“I’m sorry, Maddie. Of course, you’re right. Daddy would not let me feign illness after I told off the choir director, so I’m certain he would frown on my attempt to skip church today.”

But from her daughter’s blank expression, Leona could tell her apology and obligatory smile had come too late. With supersonic speed, Maddie had maneuvered her emotions behind the invisible force field she kept between them. Short of firing a laser, Leona didn’t hold out much hope of cracking the shield.

“I’m going to get the Storys their coffee. I’ll be back in five minutes, and I’ll expect you to be dressed and ready.” Maddie stormed toward the door like a doctor answering an emergency room page.

Feeling the need to do something, Leona blurted out, “Is Justin going with us?”
What is wrong with me?

Maddie stopped in her tracks, stiffened, then turned slowly. “No.”

Lord, please don’t let the look I see in her eyes be contempt.
Disagreement she could deal with, but disdain would put her in an early grave. She summoned strength from a reservoir she didn’t know she had and made another pass at peace, determined to make some sort of progress in filling in this rift in their relationship.

“I want your boyfriend to feel welcome.”

“Justin’s not big on organized religion.”

“Is he big on you?” As soon as the words left her lips, Leona wished she could retrieve them. What in the world had gotten into her? It was not Maddie’s fault her father died. Why did she persist in making it seem so? Maybe she should reread Roxie’s article.

When Maddie was a teenager, she would clam up when Leona pushed her. Traces of that hard-shelled kid still remained in the silent glare Maddie shot across the room.

Rifling through years of archived Scriptures, Leona ransacked her brain for a balm she could apply to this festering sore between them that refused to heal. But not a single memory verse came to mind. Not a single song. What good was the Word of the Lord if it could not be recalled?

Unwilling to admit defeat, Leona insisted her mind find something suitable to say. “Today is going to be rough. Sitting on the Harper pew without your father . . . I just thought you could use the support.”

“Momma, I don’t want support, and I don’t want to fight. Let it go.” With that, she was gone.

Leona sagged, disappointed her honesty in the ambulance had not accomplished a thaw, disappointed her loose lips had once again managed to alienate her daughter.
I don’t know what to do.
Pushing open J.D.’s closet door, Leona willed herself to face the row of left-behind suits. Carefully she slid the herringbone tweed from the hanger. She threaded her arms through the sleeves, the cool silky lining gliding over her skin. Leona shoved up the sleeves, then buttoned both leather-covered buttons below the anguish in her chest.

Closing her eyes, she waited for the wool to trap her body heat and tame the needle-sharp prickles running up and down her spine.

Examining herself in the full-length mirror, Leona noticed J.D.’s jacket covered her from neck to knees. She was modest, just like a good preacher’s wife should be.
I should wear this to church.
That would give Maxine Davis something to talk about.
Realization froze the spiteful reflection staring back at her.

Leona Harper was no longer a preacher’s wife, who had to worry about what other people thought. If she owned a halter top and a red feather boa, she could sashay up the sanctuary aisle and not give a flip about who whispered what.
But would I want to?

The magnitude of the question boggled Leona’s mind as she grappled with the buttons. Hot tears wet her cheeks. She’d been Mrs. Harper or someone’s momma for so many years, she couldn’t imagine being anything else. Without the labels she’d worn longer than her husband kept a suit, who would she be? Leona unbuttoned the coat and returned it to the empty hanger. Accepting her daughter’s determined indifference didn’t even scratch the surface of the letting go she had left to do.

* * * * *

David eyed the cluster of biddies pecking their way through the foyer crowd to get at the Harpers. Momma’s insistence that they attend church the first Sunday after burying his father rubbed him as raw as the starched collar of his pinpoint oxford shirt. If another person declared his father blessed to be in a better place, he planned to say something Momma would classify as un-Christlike. And he did not plan to feel guilty about how embarrassing such a blunt retort would be. He clutched the stubborn woman’s floral-print-clad elbow. “Where do you want to sit?”

“In my usual place.” Momma’s voice cracked.

He clenched his jaw and whispered in her ear, “You sure?”

“I’m positive.” His mother’s tired eyes were girded with determination. “You get Cotton and Maddie, then meet me up front. I want to stop by the Storys’ pew and say hello.”

“But the sisters just left the house.”

“It won’t hurt to greet them again.”

David shrugged, chalking up Momma’s irrationality to residual shock. Who knew how long it would take for things to level out . . . or if they ever would?

“Mrs. Harper?” The female voice came from behind.

Momma stopped, her body tensed beneath David’s grasp.

David cringed, recognizing the voice. Fighting the urge to bolt for the door, he did an about-face. “Good morning, Amy.” The credit for his cheery greeting belonged to his momma because his own sinful nature found nothing good about the morning and would have preferred to avoid this woman.

“David.”

Amy’s sterile hospital look had been scrubbed away to reveal a soft blush that matched the angora sweater clinging to perfect curves. Sunlight streaming through the foyer windows showcased the blonde curls framing her face and hanging loosely about her shoulders. Except for the unflinching gaze, laced with the red streaks of someone who had worked the night shift, the nurse appeared . . . angelic.

What am I thinking?
Biting his tongue, David reined his aroused curiosity. This was no angel.

“How are you, David?” Her disconcerting eyes were locked on his.