Bridge to a Distant Star (8 page)

“I knew it.”

“What?”

“I knew you wouldn’t listen.” Colleen pulled the bedspread up over her eyes and flipped over toward the wall.

“That’s not fair, Colleen. I did so listen. I just disagree.”

From beneath the covers, a mumbled, “Whatever.”

Maureen started to reach forward, longing to touch the top of her daughter’s head, but then hesitated. And decided not to. She stared down at Colleen for a few more moments and turned to go, softly closing the door behind her. Another quick peek into Aubrey’s room proved they hadn’t awakened her; she was still sleeping soundly. Then Maureen jumped at the sudden press of soft fur at her feet.

“Oh, Bobo. You up too?” She reached down to pick him up, felt him squirm in her arms, the telltale sign that he was happily wagging his tail. “Okay, we’ll cheat this one time. But don’t you dare let Daddy know what we’ve done or you’ll get me into trouble.”

Once more she walked softly toward Aubrey’s doorway. She tiptoed into the room, depositing Bobo on the bed where he immediately padded around in three circles and curled up in the bend of the back of Aubrey’s knees. Besides a lap, his favorite place to cuddle.

Maureen smiled, thinking how delighted Aubrey would be to discover him there when she woke.
At least maybe one of my daughters will be happy with me tomorrow morning,
she thought.

Back in bed, Maureen finally drifted off to sleep, but she still tossed and turned, waking nearly every hour to stare at the bedside clock that had become an enemy. And each time Maureen woke, she would turn to face the window and—stubbornly, even compulsively—search for another of those elusive stars.

May 2009

In the intervening weeks, Maureen’s very spirit felt as though it were slowly draining away. Every area of her life shouted that she had failed—as a wife, a mother, a friend. Her routine forced her to get up every morning and go through her day. Household chores that kept the Roberts family functioning adequately, volunteering at church and school, and her work at the beads shop all had lists of “to-dos” that at least provided form and purpose. Mentally crossing another thing off the list, she knew these tasks had no more meaning than buying a loaf of bread. But they kept her moving. Doing something.

Other events had also become routine, despite Maureen’s desperate (
pathetic?
she asked and subsequently convicted herself) efforts to prevent their reoccurrence: her own frequent bouts with insomnia (and staring out the window at stars), Colleen’s either silent treatment or open disdain for her
mo-ther,
Emilie’s steady decline toward depression, the gang’s ineffectual and listless get-togethers, and Maureen’s continued strained relationship with Bill. No matter what she did, it seemed Maureen couldn’t help any of those who appeared to need it most.

Only Aubrey’s usual delight with a day—any day, no matter how ordinary—provided occasions for Maureen to catch her breath. To get up and think
Maybe this will be the day that life changes. A turn to better days is inevitable, isn’t it? Just like the night watchman waits for the morning in the book of Psalms. He trusts the morning will come, eventually.

Unfortunately,
this
is not the day that will happen,
Maureen thought miserably, staring out at the car bumpers that stretched into the distance for miles. The drive to the shop was, for whatever reason, even worse than usual. Traffic was so backed up that she was creeping forward by mere inches, from block to block, traffic light to traffic light. Tempers flared, horns honked in aggravation and hand motions were in plentiful supply. Feeling short-tempered herself, Maureen’s thoughts drifted back to the heated discussion she and Bill had months ago when she first brought up the subject of “The Job.” How she’d mentioned it mostly on a whim, assuming it would be a fun distraction. Not thinking about the consequences of shuttling Aubrey around, that she’d have considerably less free time. Or that she’d be in the teeth of morning rush hour every time she drove to the shop. Bill had responded skeptically, insinuating it was more than she could handle. And with that gauntlet thrown, suddenly Maureen desperately wanted the job to prove that she could handle it quite well, thank you. Armed with the support and arguments the gang had supplied, Maureen had worn Bill down until he’d given in. But he’d made it abundantly clear he expected it to be a short-lived venture.

Maureen sighed and her shoulders dropped. With the passing weeks—especially the last few—the novelty of the job had worn off.
But how do I quit now without looking like a failure this way also?
she asked herself.
I refuse to give Bill a reason to be smug. I’ve got to stick it out, no matter how much Jennifer grates on me.

Jennifer. Her coworker had been a sarcastic nemesis from the moment Maureen admitted she was a Christian. Openly skeptical and even critical, Jennifer never missed an opportunity to point out and gloat over the latest scandals, from the pastor caught at the adult-video store to the wealthy member at First Church who admitted to tax fraud. Jennifer rooted out hypocrisy with a devotion verging on addiction; the more she found, the happier she became. And the more intent she was to root out the next public revelation. It put Maureen constantly on edge, defensive. Carefully choosing every word she uttered, she had vowed to live beyond reproach.

Finally past the worst of the traffic and onto the short stretch of open road a couple miles from the shop, Maureen granted her building irritation full reign by ignoring the speed limit—which proved disastrous. The second she saw the flashing red and blue lights in her rearview mirror she knew it was too late to hit the brakes.
One hundred dollars. Bill’s going to have a fit.
Reasoning, pleading, even tears hadn’t guilted the officer into giving her a mere warning. And that meant she was even later getting to work.

By the time she used her key to open the shop’s door, Jennifer greeted her by quipping, “So you decided to come in today after all?”

“Sorry. I got stopped by a police officer.” The honest admission was out of her mouth before she could stop it.
Big mistake, Maureen.

Jennifer’s eyes lit up. “You got a ticket? Miss Goody Two-Shoes who never does anything illegal got a real ticket?”

Maureen stooped to put her purse behind the counter, decided to let most of the dig pass. “Yes. Happy?”

“Just surprised, that’s all.” She leaned forward on the counter, resting her head on the palms of her hands like a child eagerly waiting to be told a story. “What’d you do, anyway?”

Maureen sighed, responded as though she were already bored with the topic. “I was speeding.”

“By how much?”

“Is this inquisition really necessary? Fifteen miles over, if you must know.”

“Ouch. Bet the ticket’s a doozy.” Jennifer raised her brows in curiosity, waiting for Maureen to reveal the price for her indiscretion.

“Don’t we have a group coming in first thing this morning?”

“Yup.” Jennifer glanced up at the clock. “In about ten minutes. That’s plenty of time.”

“We’d better get busy.” Maureen went into the back room to do setup. Used her finger to count chairs around the table. “Only eight. Bring a couple more chairs from the closet, will you?” She began cleaning up leftover beads and wire from the night before, wanting the room to look neat for this morning’s party.

“Had a dental appointment yesterday to get my teeth cleaned,” Jennifer shouted from the other room. “This morning my mouth is
so
sore.”

Maureen ignored her. She wasn’t in the mood for chitchat.

“You know why?”

Maureen jumped in surprise, for Jennifer was now right behind her.

“Because I got one of those Christian hygienists with serious repressed anger issues.”

Maureen stopped working long enough to give Jennifer a dramatic frown.

“So what do we do? We put a dangerously sharp metal instrument in her hands—purportedly to clean the tartar off teeth—and essentially give her permission to—”

“Jennifer.”

“Bet she’s sexually repressed too.”

“That’s quite—”

The jingle of the bell over the door and laughing, excited voices interrupted them. Maureen immediately clicked into working mode. “I’m going to welcome them. Give them the instructions. You finish getting everything set up in here, okay?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned and went to greet the party of women.

They were an amiable group, ten neighbors from a nearby subdivision on a creative break from their weekly bunco game. Maureen gave them the usual tour of the shop, pointing out the various types of beads, patterns they could follow, the jewelry possibilities of necklaces, earrings, bracelets, or other options like bookmarks and key chains. Excited to start, the women weren’t especially attentive, but that was to be expected. Maureen knew they’d have more questions once they were actually making their projects; she’d be available and willing to help however she could.

Discovering she had a knack for putting together pretty jewelry came as a surprise to Maureen. Women always noticed when she wore one of her own creations, exclaiming over its uniqueness and coordinated colors. Working with the beads and the constant possibility of new designs fueled Maureen’s desire to be at the shop regularly. What she hadn’t accounted for was the tedium of the job itself: keeping the shop clean, including the monotony of putting hundreds of beads into the correct storage areas. Dealing with customers with limited or no talent at creating something remotely pretty or wearable. Dealing with … Jennifer.

Most of the women were seated around the table, quietly working when one of them snickered. “Some juicy news. Many of you know Ed Esteban, don’t you?”

Maureen immediately stiffened and held her breath. She could feel her face flushing, so she busied herself with a project, looking down.

“I heard. Appears Ed’s found himself … well, a newer model, shall we say?”

Titters of laughter followed. Maureen’s flush deepened, her heart noticeably pounding in her chest.

“Divorcing?”

“In the works, I hear. Wonder if he’ll marry this woman and have four more kids?”

“He’s leaving her with four kids? The louse.”

“Oh, yeah. Four little Estebans—all with names beginning with an
E,
after Ed and Emilie. Dedicated father. Upstanding church member and leader.” The speaker looked up, and Maureen caught a spark of delight in her eyes. Maureen noticed Jennifer was now hanging on every word too. “Only this time he’s backed up the alphabet by one letter. Any more kiddos gotta have names beginning with a
D
this time around.”

Laughter erupted, with several exclamations of “Oh, Jan. You’re terrible.”

Maureen had been threading beads onto a wire, but her movements were so unsteady that, after three unsuccessful tries at threading a single turquoise bead, she was intensely aware of those near her, worried they might notice. She put the bead and thread down and rising from her stool, leaned over to whisper in Jennifer’s ear, “I’m not feeling well. Think you can handle this?” Without giving Jennifer a chance to respond, she went on, “Call Mrs. Sandler if you have any problems. And please tell her that I got ill. That I had to leave.”

Jennifer looked puzzled, opened her mouth to respond, but Maureen immediately turned on her heel. After grabbing her purse, she was out the door before Jennifer could get out more than, “Maureen? Can’t you—?” Jennifer turned to the group of women and shrugged her shoulders.

Not until Maureen had turned the keys in the ignition and pulled out of her parking place did she let the dam break. She allowed the pent-up tears to flow, and her heart pounded even harder, though she wouldn’t have thought that possible. Her hands were shaking so badly that she gripped the steering wheel as hard as she could, hoping that would make the involuntary movements stop. Instead, when she lifted one hand off the wheel to test it, the entire hand shook as if she were elderly and frail.

She quickly donned sunglasses to hide her tears and turned the air conditioning on high to drown out the accentuated hiccups that accompanied her staggered breathing. Though traffic had thinned considerably, the drive home felt interminable, mostly because she was alone with her thoughts.
There was nothing you could do,
she told herself.
You work there; it wasn’t appropriate to interrupt.
But the more she attempted to reassure herself, the faster the tears came.

Once inside the relative safety of her kitchen, Maureen leaned against the door—appreciating the solidness of it—that she could symbolically shut out the world. She finally calmed her breathing and tears simply because she was emotionally and physically spent. Immediately searching for the new bag of coffee in the pantry, she went through the mindless motions of making a pot. Then, gratefully plopping into the soft cushioned chair at the kitchen bar, she clutched a mug in her hands, breathing in its rich aroma before sipping. The soothing quiet of the house was a rare gift, and Maureen knew she needed to make the most of it while she could. Too soon she’d need to go pick up Aubrey. And Colleen.

Mechanically, she reached for her Bible and the devotional book she’d been dutifully reading, turning to the selected passage for the day, 2 Peter 1:19–21: