Monday Morning Faith (10 page)

Before heading for the shower that evening, I took a long look in my dressing table mirror, turning my head from side to side to experience the full effect. Now that I'd had time to adjust to the change, it didn't look so bad. In fact, I rather liked it. I looked … chic. Nothing like the drab Johanna — the outdated and behind-the-times mouse. This was the new me. Everyone had been harping for change. Well, change was on the way, and if they didn't like it, they could deal with it.

Sunday morning I hurried into church as the organist played the opening hymn. Mom and Dad were already in their places when I squeezed past them. Mom glanced up when I slid into the pew. “I'm sorry, this seat's taken. Our daughter sits there.”

I turned to look at her and her mouth fell open. “My word! What have you done to yourself?”

Now there was a response guaranteed to inspire confidence. “I changed my hairstyle.”

“I'll say you did. Put a pink bow in your hair and you'd look like a poodle.”

I opened my hymnal and concentrated on the words.
A poodle
. How insulting. “I think it's very chic.”

Mom gave Dad
the look.

A woman in front of her turned around and frowned, and Mom dropped her voice to a whisper. “Are you going through a midlife crisis or something?”

Not. “Can't I change my hair without throwing everyone into a snit?”

“Well … if it suits you, it suits me. Where are your glasses?”

“I'm wearing contacts.”

Mom's jaw dropped a second time.

“I have to. I had the mole removed.”

“What mole?”

“The one … you know. The one where my nose pad fits.”

I showed her lest she doubt my claims.

“I didn't know you had a mole.”

“Well, I did, but I don't now.” My chin lifted.
My hair, my contacts, and my icky mole.
If they could move to assisted living, I could come up with a few bombshells of my own.

After church I asked if they wanted to go out to eat. Providing Mom could bring herself to sit at the table with my new look. She shook her head. “I'm sorry, Johanna, maybe next week. We've been invited to go with a group from The Gardens. They're trying out a new restaurant every week, and this time it's that new Chinese place.”

Chinese. I waited for my invitation; it didn't come. They were taking this cutting the apron strings serious.

Sunday afternoon and I had nothing to do and no one to do it with. I took Itty Bitty for a drive, which he enjoyed and I didn't.

I hoped Mom and Dad were happy.
Some
body should be.

Monday morning Nelda was speechless. She stared at me, mouth open and eyes wide. “Yowser. Were you electrocuted?”

“I took your suggestion and saw my stylist.”

She circled me, eyes appraising. “I like it. Sassy.”

“Mom thinks I look like a poodle.”

She snorted. “That's funny.”

“You favor the canine look?”

“Shake it off. People will get used to it, and the style knocks ten years off you. Tell you what. Come shopping with me tomorrow night and we'll go to Dillard's and get a makeover.”

I started to say no, then caught myself. At this point what did I have to lose? “Sure. Sounds like fun.”

I dealt with comments all day Monday at work. Some liked the new hairstyle, some didn't, and some pleaded the fifth. I was never so glad to see a day end. After work, Nelda and I went for the makeover — as though I hadn't done enough. Sam hadn't called or stopped by the library. Though I didn't even know if he had returned yet, I had his reason for not calling me all figured out. He'd had time away, time to think. And he'd realized he wasn't interested in a plain librarian. So I wasn't so plain anymore; I was still a woman who didn't share his mission passions.

A woman who looked like a poodle.

The woman behind the cosmetics bar wore a white smock and thick layers of makeup. She greeted us with open arms.

“Just let me get things together. This is going to be so much fun.”

While she was arranging her samples, Nelda nudged me. “Wait until she finishes with us. We're going to be knockouts.”

I bet.

The clerk returned and started on me. I wasn't comfortable with someone messing with my face, but I forced myself to relax. She smeared on foundation, and then she started on my eyes. “Don't blink.”

I sat frozen in place, terrified to move a muscle while she worked. She tilted the mirror to where I could see. A complete stranger stared back at me. The woman in the mirror had smooth, perfect skin, cheeks touched with blush. The eyebrows were more defined, the eyes shaded with dark blue in the creases, lighter shade on the lids. The eyelashes were long and sweeping. Deep rose lips curved in a smile.

“Well?”

I blinked. “So who is it?”

Nelda laughed. “Girl, you are going to knock Sam Little-ton's socks right off.”

I gave her a dirty look.

The total bill was staggering — a month's rent plus — but I paid without a whimper. Where had that woman in the mirror been all my life?

Nelda was next, and the results were just as dramatic. We walked out of the department store clutching our purchases, feeling like a pair of Cinderellas. Nelda swayed her hips. “You see the way people are staring at us?”

“Do we look good, or what?”

“This calls for a celebration. How about a double-decker rocky road ice cream cone?”

“How about a salad with no-fat dressing?”

She sighed. “Party pooper.”

We stopped at the food court and ordered salads. Nelda speared a piece of lettuce. “You know what? I can't wait for Sam to get back and see what he thinks of the new you.”

“He should be back by now. But he won't bother to come to the library again.” Regret hit me hard. Why had I gotten my hopes up? I was old enough to know a dalliance when I met one.

“Don't you believe it, girlfriend. He'll hit the door as soon as he gets home, and that man is in for a shock.”

I hoped she was right. Not about the shock, but about the door. And him hitting it. Regardless, I hadn't made the changes for him. I hadn't.

I
had
not.

Later I sat in front of my mirror, face washed clean of the makeup and looking more like Johanna. Little packets and containers littered the top of my dressing table. Beauty in a bottle. A new Johanna was unfolding. Maybe she'd been there all along, hidden beneath responsibilities and inhibitions. Was this the real me? Somehow I didn't think so, although now that everyone had gotten used to the way I looked, they were quick to praise the new and improved me.

But what did God think? Did he care how I looked? Did he approve this new emphasis on appearance? I didn't know the answer, and I wasn't sure I wanted to.

All I knew was that the new me seemed sort of phony.

Thanksgiving Day I ate dinner at The Gardens and played spinner dominoes all afternoon. Sam was not back — or at least he hadn't called. The following Thursday morning I glanced up from the return desk and froze when he breezed through the doorway and headed in my direction. He looked good. Thinner, tanned, a little tired, but confident. Had he grown in his faith even more in the time he'd been gone?

He stopped in front of the counter, peering past my shoulder to my office. “Is Miss Holland in?”

“Sam?”

He scanned the area, turned to look away, then looked back. He frowned. “Johanna?”

I nodded.

He clutched his heart, staggered, pretending to study the new me. I never dreamed the man could be so theatric.

SEVEN

D
octor Sam Littleton stared at me as if I'd grown antlers. He flashed an even white grin, his face tanned as brown as a berry. “Sorry, you took me by surprise.”

“I had my hair styled.” I touched the spiral mound enhanced with molding putty. Did he like it, or was he (like me) searching for a plausible comment? The style looked great on a twenty-year-old, but on me? I still had my doubts.

He sobered, courteous as always. “It … looks … well, I think change is always good.”

Generic compliment — never good. “Did you have a nice trip?”
Nice? What's with the
nice
? Johanna, get off it.
I managed a more savoir faire comment. “I trust your trip was successful?” I tilted my head, blinking back at him through the thick Revlon eyelashes I'd added to my morning makeup routine.

“It was good, Johanna. I wanted to be back for Thanksgiving, but we had plane delays for a couple of days.” He broke into a smile. “We had three people accept Christ and baptized nine in the Rio Frio. I want to tell you all about it. Are you free for dinner tonight?”

My savoir faire remained intact. “Tonight?” I pretended to review my social calendar. When it came up empty (as I suspected it would, seeing as I had no social life), I replied, “I think I could join you tonight.” I noticed he was focused on my eyelashes and hope surged. He liked the new look — the hair, the makeup, the contacts.

I'd even managed to shed a couple of pounds the last two weeks. With Mom and Pop gone, I didn't want to cook.

“What's a good time for you?”

I blinked, still unaccustomed to looking through six inches of thick black mascaraed femininity.
Johanna, you are flirting with this man.

Johanna, I don't care.

“Six thirty.” That would allow me time to go home and change into one of my new dresses and matching shoes (a Nelda thing). I gave him my address and he left, promising to meet me later.

Nelda materialized at my elbow with the subtlety of an elephant at a Tupperware party. “See? I told you he'd be back. What did he say about the new you?”

“He was speechless.”

She smacked her hand on the counter. “I
knew
it. So dazzled he couldn't find the words to express his appreciation.”

I preened on the inside. Smugness is a terrible thing in the hands of the wrong person. A squiggle of discomfort that was becoming all too familiar hit me. Was this trim and toned woman with corkscrew curls and sophisticated makeup me? Did I recognize myself anymore?