“Your Bible? Isn’t there something else you’d rather read?”
“Oh no, dear. My Bible is first, then the other stuff.”
I stand and walk across the room, completely flabbergasted as to why this lady would continue to read her Bible when the God she prays to has allowed this to happen to her.
Still, I cater to her wishes and head for the large-print, leather-bound Bible she requested. It’s massive, a good four inches thick, the binding frayed from overuse. A few stray pages slip out as I carefully pick up the fragile copy. Returning to my seat, I cradle the book. I may be agnostic, but even I have some reverence for the Bible. Any book that can withstand so much scrutiny over thousands of years deserves a little respect.
“Okay, where do we start?” I ask.
“Luke. It’s my favorite.”
“Really? Why’s that?” I flip past a few silky pages and find the table of contents. It takes me toward the back.
“Because it’s all about forgiveness, and my heart doesn’t feel a whole lot of that right now.”
The comment is so similar to her daughter’s that I nearly reveal the reason I came. But for some reason, I feel this pressing on my throat to keep silent, so I do and instead turn to the first verse. “‘Many have undertaken to draw up an account of the things that have been fulfilled among us . . .’”
I’m actually a little disappointed when my phone dings that our time is up. We switched from the Bible to a fictional story about a young Egyptian girl who’s sold into slavery, and I’m right at the part where she meets her new master.
I set her e-book reader on the chair as I stand. “I’m afraid I have to get back to work, Mrs. Cox.”
“Will you come back soon?” She reaches out for my hand again, and I feel a surge of affection this time when I take it.
“Yes, ma’am. Tomorrow at the same time.”
She exhales and smiles. “You, my sweet Jan, are an answer to prayer.”
The words bring a scowl to my face. She’s the second person who’s said that to me this week and I don’t like it. “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. I’m just trying to do a little good in a very rough world.” And heck, if Mom is right about karma, it’s time to turn some of it into the positive.
“We don’t always know when God is using us, my child, but I guarantee He is.”
I pull my hand away. This is one side effect I hadn’t anticipated when taking the job. All these people ever talk about is God doing this and God doing that. Well, so far my life hasn’t exactly been roses and cupcakes, so even if I were to believe in their lunacy, I’d certainly have a few choice words to say to the man, none of which would include a thank you.
“You have a nice day, Mrs. Cox. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She’s still talking when I escape from the room. The air feels hot now and weighted, and all I want to do is get back in my car and drive and drive until the feeling goes away.
I make it down the hall and nearly to the exit when I see a flash of curly orange hair that’s too familiar to ignore. I press my back against the wall and slide out of sight. Ralph is here, and while my need to hide makes no sense, I want to shrink into the walls. Sandra Cox’s words burrowed under my skin, and now I feel as though my deception is plastered all over my face.
“You can’t just show up here, Ralph.” It’s from the nurse who gave me the bandages. The one who looked as distraught as I feel.
“What do you expect when you don’t answer my calls or my texts?”
“What’s the point? Nothing has changed. And I refuse to be second in your life. Not anymore.”
His sigh holds that same frustration I heard when he asked Eric for more help. “You know I can’t do what you’re asking. There’s expectations. My reputation to consider.”
“Is your reputation more important than me?” Her voice is so broken I know tears are coming, and I feel sick eavesdropping on their conversation. Sicker still that their back-and-forth sounds clandestine, especially since I know that Ralph is married.
I glance around for any sort of escape and realize the entrance to the women’s restroom is only inches away from me. I push through the door and immediately go for the sink, my stomach turning so hard I think I might start retching.
Ralph is a cheater. Just like my ex. And my three stepfathers.
Heck, just like every other man in this stupid, twisted world.
I turn on the faucet and am splashing cool water on my face when the bathroom door swings open. It’s the nurse, and there are tears streaked down her cheeks and red rims around her eyes. But none of the friendliness I felt toward her earlier is there. I want to yell at her, remind her that families are devastated when a partner strays. I know this truth far too intimately.
But I don’t say any of those things, just watch as she goes to the sink next to me and grips it like she might throw up.
“I saw you duck in here,” she says quietly, though her throat sounds constricted. “Thank you.” She looks at herself in the mirror. “Twenty-six years. You’d think I’d know by now that he will never change.”
Twenty-six years? My brain throbs as if it knows it’s missing something critically important. That’s when I catch her reflection and see the bright red nametag she’s been wearing all day. Victoria O’Neal. Ralph’s last name. Ralph’s wife.
He’s not cheating after all.
The responding relief makes no sense, but I want to crumple to the floor and burst into tears myself. I know I shouldn’t hold him to a higher standard for working at a church, but I do. Just like Cameron and Eric and even ultra-perceptive Margie. I want them to be better than the rest of the world. Need them to be.
Victoria is still looking at herself in the mirror when she says, “I left him a week ago. Packed a bag and went to stay with my sister. I thought it would wake him up.”
My head spins, yet so much of what I saw in Ralph now makes sense. The rumpled clothes, the frustrated, bottle-tight responses, the plea for Eric to give him some relief. That poor man is losing his wife. No wonder he seems ready to break down.
“Well, he did come here.” It’s the best I can offer without telling her I’m his temporary assistant. That would probably not go over too well at this point. “And from what I saw, he looked pretty upset.”
“Not enough to go to counseling. Or enough to work less, or even enough to do something as simple as bring me flowers.” She shakes her head again and looks back at the sink. I see another tear fall. “It’s just time to accept that we don’t know each other anymore. Not since our kids left.”
I don’t answer because I really have nothing more to offer. Longevity in relationships has never been something my mom or I have been able to achieve, whereas Victoria has over two decades of experience. But it does seem especially tragic that a marriage can sustain that much time and still fall apart.
“My mom’s been married four times. None of them to good guys.” I don’t know why I’m telling her this. I never talk about my mom, or my childhood for that matter. “If you’ve made it twenty-six years . . . I don’t know, but if it were me, I’d fight like hell to make it last.” I realize as soon as I speak that the h-e-l-l word isn’t really accepted in Christian circles. Or at least Doreen used to fuss at me when I’d use the term as a kid. Always cracked me up, because if she’d walked down the halls of my school and heard the language there, she’d probably go into cardiac arrest.