Cocoon (12 page)

They scooted to comply. Seana stood planted between them, like a rigid, straight pine.

“Smile, Seana,” Billie Jean ordered.

When hell freezes over, Barth thought, then felt distinctly disloyal.

Seana's face never relinquished its grim mien. But the picture wasn't too bad, they all agreed.

“Thanks again, Nana,” both Ashley and Peyton spoke at once, truly grateful for the smidgeon of praise. A crumb, but in this case, Barth knew for a fact, it was like the widow's mite to those two.

Zoe came over and smiled at Barth and Billie Jean. “Thanks,” she said softly. Then to Seana, “Love you, Mama.”

“I want to go home,” snapped Seana and spun toward the door.

Barth, Zoe, and Billie Jean looked at each other, shrugged, then burst into laughter. As Barth and Billie Jean followed Seana's frantic stride out the glass door, they high-fived each other.

Thank God, Barth thought. Seana didn't break their hearts.

• • •

Barth had earlier dropped Seana off at Joanie's Homecombing Queen Salon for her weekly appointment. Then he went to his church office for the next hour to review his music selections for the week. Due to his home commitments, Pastor Keith only asked the choir to perform for the Sunday morning service. That required less rehearsal time that took Barth from home.

He checked the hymn lineup and mentally went through the special arrangement of an Andrae Crouch song, “My Tribute
.
” The melody and words flowed through his brain … “
How can I say thanks for the things you have done for me? Things so undeserved
 …” and for the first time ever, completely bypassed his heart.

He stopped mid song, closed his eyes in frustration, and sat back in the executive desk chair, hands clasped across his midriff. Looking out the window into a golden, sun-washed day, he reflected on his uncharacteristic barren response to his music-soul connection.

Had he so tamped down his emotions in order to survive Seana's constant dismissal of him that they had withered away? He dragged in a deep, cleansing breath and willed his frustration to ride out on its release. For long moments he sat there, absorbing the tranquility of the setting.

Barth's office offered a quiet sanctuary for his battered spirit. His gaze moved upward, beyond the buttermilk, frothy clouds back-dropped by azure infinity.
Please? Help me,
he prayed. Nothing profound happened in that moment, but he was able to put away his music paraphernalia and go pick up Seana.

He was able to smile and speak to Sadie Tate who sat in the pink waiting room chair at Joanie's salon, texting on her Smartphone.

“Barth,” Joanie called from the back. “Come here; I want to show you something.”

Curious, Barth approached the styling station. Joanie turned Seana around and whispered, “Look behind her ears.”

Joanie gently pulled the hair back behind one ear. Barth nearly gasped at the red, crusty skin. Crud.

“Just thought you'd want to know,” Joanie whispered. “She still giving you a time about bathing?”

“Yes,” he muttered, feeling his face begin to burn. Barth wanted to slide through the floor. Embarrassment didn't begin to define what he felt. “I'm sorry, Joanie. I'll be sure this doesn't happen again.”

Joanie gave him a sympathetic smile and patted his arm. “Don't worry about it. I understand. I was just afraid it would become infected over time.”

Barth managed somehow to get Seana out the door and into the car before exploding. “You've not been washing behind your ears, Seana. Can you imagine how embarrassing it is to have that pointed out to me? In public?” Of course Joanie had kept it quiet so Sadie didn't hear, but it still galled him.

Seana didn't respond. Not even with a blink of her eye. That made him even madder. “Well, from now on, your ears will be clean before you leave the house. I'll see to it.”

And Barth kept his word. Not only did he scrub behind her ears for several days to insure the buildup was gone, but he checked them regularly to make sure she kept them that way.

Seana? He knew by now that as long as Seana could hibernate in her blasted cocoon, curled into a fetal knot on the sofa, she was content.

On second thought, he
hoped
that she was content.

He had no way of knowing.

That was the hardest thing to deal with.

• • •

Zoe marched with the choir into the loft that Sunday morning. She noticed that Billie Jean wasn't at church. She was on Seana-sitting duty today, no doubt. Zoe loved music, any way or shape. So, despite Barth assuming the music ministry, requiring her to suffer his presence even more, she remained a faithful choir member.

Behind her, tall and uniquely male in his own white robe with navy-blue yoke, towered Scott Burns. Somehow, he managed to sit directly behind her, within touching distance. She stifled a smile as she inhaled his spicy Halston Cologne. She'd recognize that fragrance anywhere.

Today, it tweaked something inside her, something distinctly feminine. She pushed it away.

From her alto, third-tier section she was able to watch the congregation during the hymns and preliminaries. Chelsea Brown, dressed to the teeth in her Glad Rags Shop finery, winked at her and gave a fluttered-fingers wave as she moved her well-endowed self to a seat in the sanctuary, alluring hips swinging without any effort and looking entirely too good to be middle aged. Her black bob never seemed to muss, Zoe noted with a grin. And those Cleopatra eyes. Ahh. On Chelsea, not overdone. Simply appealing.

Zoe loved Chelsea, one of her mother's lifelong friends, like Joanie who sat beside her in the alto section. Peyton seated himself at the piano for the special Andrae Crouch arrangement. He would also play the offertory hymn, next on the program, a style mixture of traditional and his own improvisations. Today it was “Rejoice Ye Pure in Heart,” a majestic song of praise.

Zoe's heart swelled with something more than pride as he added his master's touch to the keyboard. It was that, too, pride, of course, but something beyond. Something pure and maternal and unconditional. Something blood related and forever. She swallowed back a knot in her throat as he ended the piece on a grandiose crescendo.

Barth, looking a bit pale today in his robe, stood and adjusted his music podium as he faced the choir. He nodded at Peyton, who slid into the soft arpeggios as fluidly as a harpist's ripple over strings. Zoe noted Barth's wan appearance. And the dark circles beneath his eyes. But she also noted his press toward excellence as his baton swung down and the choir came in on cue.

Barth's mouth moved in unison with theirs while he strode back and forth before them as the song ebbed and flowed, his energy and exultation pumping out his hands as their cadence drove and harnessed the music into magnificence. When they came to the chorus, Zoe heard Scott's mellow baritone behind her rise with emotion, raising the hair on her arms.
“To God … be the glory … to God … be the glory
 …
to God be the glory … for the things He hath done
.
With his blood he has saved me
 …
with his po-wer
,
He has raised me
 …
to Go-o-o-od be the glory
 …
for the things He hath done
.
”

Zoe watched in awe as Barth began to weep, silently, never missing a beat. She felt her own throat begin to close, so touching was his response to the powerful praise song. He began to smile even as tears coursed down his cheeks. Dimples appeared as he began singing again with the choir. It was the first time Zoe had really noticed them. The dimples. Her mother had talked endlessly about them in the beginning ….

And somehow she knew that this was spiritually momentous for Barth.

Lord knew the man needed something, what with the load he carried while caring for her mother.

Her singing halted in that second. Listen to me, she thought. But there he stood, like the Apostle Paul, that 200-watt smile of his that stole her mother's heart beaming through the tears.

She blinked back tears and finished the number with the choir. In the moment of silence just before the congregation stood to their feet and applause erupted, she heard a snuffle behind her. She looked over her shoulder. Scott's face was tear stained, too. Yet – he looked so … manly. Her smile burst out of its own volition. .

For a heartbeat, he looked a bit startled. Then he smiled back and what she saw in his eyes shot through her like a silken Taser, flooding her with a peculiar warmth. She quickly turned her attention to the front.

Whew.
What a jolt.

This is silly
, she thought as they remained standing for Pastor Keith's reading of the day's scripture.

Stupid. That's what it is. She sniffed.

After all, it's only Scott, for crying out loud.

• • •

Another trip to the doctor.

“They still suspect your HRT might be playing a part in your illness,” Barth told Seana. He shrugged. “May as well rule it out or be enlightened.”

Seana suffered the supervised shower and ear check before she and Barth traveled to see yet another doctor, this time an OB-GYN endocrinologist at Memorial Hospital Medical Center.

“We're going to test you for possible endocrine problems, Mrs. McGrath,” Dr. Price told her.

Her mind could not wrap around that. So she watched the clock. Magazines she'd once devoured no longer held any appeal. The tests didn't take but a couple of hours, and they were able to leave. Seana was relieved to get back to her sofa and blanket.

And her pimento cheese sandwich for lunch.

Within the week, Barth told her, “The tests revealed nothing wrong. Dr. Price put you back on Estratest. You've taken it for years so we know you won't react unfavorably to it.”

“He also said that you should be getting up and moving around. He suggested you do simple household chores, like washing dishes and dusting. And reading your Bible.”

Seana curled over, turning away from Barth, facing the back of the sofa. That was her reply.

She heard Barth sigh deeply and slough out of the den. Presently she heard the back door shut and the sound of him descending the deck steps. She felt a frisson of fear. She was beginning to hate being alone. Yet she hated crowds. They terrified her.

Why did she have to feel this way?

Why? She rolled back over and divided her attention between the wall clock and the television ball game. Her med time was coming up in forty-two minutes. Barth only measured out her ration of meds for the day now and locked the rest up. So even if he wasn't back, she could take them herself. He watched her like a hawk because she had gotten mixed up a couple of times and taken them early, throwing the whole thing off kilter.

Feeling restless because med time was near and the aloneness was getting to her, she got up and walked around inside the house a few laps. She'd done this off and on for the past two years when fear and apprehension built up.

She was still walking when Barth came back in. “Getting cold out there,” he said. “Winter's setting in. Hey! Where are you, Seana?” he called out, a note of worry in his voice.

“Walking,” she called, now getting winded. She tired easily.

“Say,” Barth's eyes lit up behind those thick lenses when she completed the circle through the upper level quarters and returned to the den. “That's great, honey. You need to move more.”

Seana avoided his outstretched arms and returned to the sofa. She pulled the blanket up to her chin and settled down to watch the clock.

• • •

Joanie met Barth in the vestibule that Sunday morning. “Barth, thanks for getting me off the hook.” She rolled her contacts-enhanced turquoise eyes. “I'm no teacher by any stretch of imagination or prodding. So I appreciate you filling in to teach Chelsea's first and second grade Sunday school class today. But I
can
help till Jesus returns.”

“What's wrong with Chelsea?” Barth asked, still wondering how he ended up subbing for the usually robust woman.

“Stomach flu. Bad bug. In fact her regular substitute teacher, Elsie, has it, too.” She made a face. “I can take over about ten minutes before class ends so you can leave early to get into your choir robe before the main service.”

Barth frowned. “You've got to get into your choir robe, too.”

Joanie smiled but shook her head. “I'll have to play hooky today, Barth. If one of us is sacrificed for the cause, it'll have to be me. You can do with one less alto this one time.”

He gave a reluctant nod. Later, after a chaotic trip through Jonah's experience of ending up in the whale's belly and being spat out, they corralled the kids to individual work tables to entertain themselves with colorful paper, kindergarten scissors, and a bottle of carefully monitored glue.

The two of them spent time rotating between different students, helping them create something faintly recognizable. Barth managed to fit his long frame into impossibly small chairs, knees nearly to chin, and was feeling immensely pleased with himself when an ear-splitting scream froze him.

“Aaiiiah!”

He knocked over the dwarf-sized chair and pivoted to see second grader Harry Woodall standing next to Judy Smith, holding up what appeared to be straw. Joanie reached them before Barth. Judy began to cry in earnest.

“Harry did it!” She sobbed, pointing at the straw.

Déjà vu. Barth felt like Looney Tunes had dropped from the sky.

Harry cringed as Joanie reached to touch the pale straw. “Oh my Lord,” she moaned and cast Barth a look of utter desolation.

His heart skipped a beat. “What?” He really, really didn't want to know.

“This,” Joanie brought it close to his face, “is hair.
Judy's
hair.”

That's when Barth saw them. The scissors. In Harry's other hand, with silken strands still sprouting from them.