The Other Side of Darkness (4 page)

The girl hands me a stack of three large pink boxes, and as I walk to the car, I feel certain that I bought too many pastries. Good grief, what was I thinking? Perhaps I can take the leftovers to the teachers’ lounge. I’m sure they’d appreciate a treat.

I put the boxes in the backseat and cover them with a blanket. I tell myself this is to keep them from sliding onto the floor, but I know it’s to prevent Rick from seeing them. Although I doubt he’ll be up this early.

It feels so good to finally take a shower. And, as usual, I soap up and rinse off three times. I try to limit myself to three times, especially when I’m in a hurry like today. But sometimes, if I’m not paying attention or if I feel a desperate need for cleansing, I will stay in the shower until the hot water is all used up. And even then I won’t feel totally clean.

I asked my sister about this once, back when we were teens and she was complaining about how long it took me to shower. “How many times do you soap up and rinse?”

“How many
times?
” She looked at me as if I were from another planet. “What are you talking about, Ruth?”

“Oh, nothing …”

Since then I’ve learned to keep my personal hygiene habits to
myself. But still, I don’t understand how other people can jump in and out of the shower for just a few minutes and consider themselves clean. It just doesn’t make sense.

To my relief, Rick is still sleeping soundly, snoring like a chain saw, as I tiptoe into our room and into the closet to retrieve some clean clothes. I pick a nice gray skirt, white blouse, navy sweater, and my good black pumps. A respectable outfit I often wear to church, but it seems appropriate for an important meeting as well.

I don’t normally use any cosmetics, not since I heard Cynthia teaching at a women’s seminar a couple of years ago. She said that “according to Scripture, it’s sinful to use makeup.” Of course, Colleen said that was bunk. Well, not to Cynthia’s face. But I’m still not so sure, and when Lynette talked me into getting a department-store makeover with her last June before a cousin’s wedding, I actually caved and purchased some concealer and a few other things. I use them occasionally, like when Rick and I go out, which is very rare. I’d be tempted to put on a bit of concealer today since I’m really not looking my best, but images of sitting under bright fluorescent lights and Cynthia’s intense gaze are enough to intimidate me. Better to look old and frumpy than to be considered sinful.

“Where you going, Mom?” Matthew asks when I come into the kitchen and find him making a sandwich as well as a mess. Why is it that something as simple as peanut butter and jelly can create such chaos in my kitchen?

“A meeting.” I frown at the sticky countertop.

“Don’t worry, I’ll clean it up,” he says quickly, as if reading my thoughts. “It must be a church meeting.” He licks the knife.

As I put the lid back on the peanut butter jar, I look away, fearful that he’ll slice his tongue in half. Why are children so careless?

“Don’t have too much fun.” He chuckles.

“Do you work today?” I reach for a paper towel and use it to wipe the greasy jar clean before I set it back in the cupboard.

“Yeah. But not until noon.” He sits at the breakfast bar and begins to devour his sandwich, jelly dripping off the edges. “And I don’t get off until closing,” he says with a full mouth.

“Did you ask your boss about Sundays?” We’ve been going round and round about how much church he’s been missing since he started this job.

Matthew just shrugs. “He said if I wanna work, I gotta stick with the schedule.”

I glance at the clock. “Well, I’d better go. Have a good day.”

He tells me good-bye, and I head out to the minivan and the camouflaged pastries. And for some reason the sight of those pink boxes partially covered with a plaid wool blanket fills me with guilt, and it reminds me of the three-hundred-dollar check and the deep, dark hole I seem to be climbing into.

W
e need revival!” Pastor Glenn pounds his fist on the table, causing the overloaded plate of pastries to jump. “And we need it now!”

“Amen!” says Cynthia.

Carl and Marie both echo her
amen
, and not wanting to be a misfit, I chime in as well. I continue to nod and to smile as Pastor Glenn reveals his strategic plan to our small group, drawing on the whiteboard charts and graphs that I pretend to understand as I look at the squiggles.

“We’ll kick this whole thing off with a big concert. A local Christian band has agreed to perform for free if we allow them to sell their CDs in the lobby. I thought that was more than fair, and hopefully this will draw in some younger folks. The concert will be on Friday, October 21, and I want the auditorium packed.”

I am curious as to why there are only five of us at this meeting. I would assume that something of this importance would be much bigger. But as Cynthia points out, “This is only the beginning.” I am also a little surprised that besides Carl Schulman, no other church elders or councilmembers are present. More than anything, I’m surprised that I’ve been included in what seems a somewhat spiritually elite group. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. Perhaps after nearly twenty years someone—maybe even Cynthia—has
taken notice of my desire to serve at our church. Or maybe it has something to do with my unintentional donation of three hundred dollars yesterday.

Maybe what I mistook as a blunder was actually ordained by the Lord. I sit a bit straighter in my folding chair, nodding and smiling as if I completely understand Pastor Glenn’s intricate plans, but I’m actually remembering Rick’s negative reaction last night to my generosity. Of course, it makes complete sense now. I was simply being persecuted for doing good. There’s that twenty-twenty hindsight again. I wish I had realized it sooner. Suffering for the Lord isn’t the same as suffering for our own stupidity. I can handle this.

The meeting is coming to a conclusion as we’re all assigned various tasks. Although I’ve never been very comfortable speaking on the phone, I agree to do some phoning, taking a long list Cynthia has printed out, along with a written dialogue prepared by Pastor Glenn. I console myself with the fact that I can do this in the evenings when Rick isn’t around to listen, question, or make fun of me. Then we bow our heads, and Pastor Glenn wraps up the meeting with a fervent prayer.

“You certainly got plenty of doughnuts this morning,” Cynthia says as we put the remains back into the pink boxes.

“I figured we could share any leftovers with the teachers.”

She smiles. “Oh, that’s so generous of you, Ruth. And since I’m heading that way, I’d be happy to take them over there for you. Thank you for coming today. It’s so good to know that I can depend on you at times like this. There seem to be fewer and fewer women who are truly committed to serving the Lord wholeheartedly these days. Everyone is too busy or too lazy.”

I smile back, but part of me wants to inquire about a possible
reimbursement for the pastries. And another part of me, the selfish and sinful part, wants to deliver the goodies to the teachers myself. After all, I’m the one with children attending school here; I could afford to make some brownie points with the staff. But that’s not going to happen today, so I just thank Cynthia for inviting me to the meeting and say good-bye.

As I drive through town, I’m hammered with doubts. What am I going to do about my checkbook? What will Rick say when he learns I’ve written another check—this one for
doughnuts for the church?
He’ll be furious. He’ll be indignant. Spending grocery money on doughnuts? What was I thinking? Maybe Rick is right. Maybe I should get a job. But who might be hiring? My experience of waiting tables and a couple of years of random college classes hardly seem enough to build a résumé on. But somehow I’ve got to start bringing in some income—and soon. I need money! I’ve heard of people selling their plasma, but that seems a bit extreme.

Dear Lord, help me figure this out. Help me. Help me. Help me
.

I’m astonished to see that I’ve driven all the way across town. So focused on my monetary worries, I don’t remember driving past my own intersection. And now I’m approaching the neighborhood I grew up in. I remember how I used to go to my dad for financial help in times like this. But my dad passed away four years ago, and that door is firmly closed now.

I feel a lump in my throat, wishing he were still around, blaming myself for not taking better advantage of the times we had together. Not that my dad and I ever spent much time together. He never did much with any of us kids—or my mom for that matter. She used to claim he was married to his job. Despite the fact that she nagged him for years to retire, he refused to give up his dentistry practice until he
turned seventy-one. Within a year of retirement, he suffered a heart attack and died on his way to the hospital.

But I still miss him. And even though we weren’t close, I always felt more comfortable with him than my mom, and occasionally he would come to my defense. I think he felt sorry for me. I think he somehow understood my plight. Maybe he’d been a misfit too. As I drive past their old neighborhood, I chastise myself for not taking the time to know him better. And I feel certain that if I could go to him now and ask him for help … I think that he, unlike my mother, would be there for me.

Suddenly I am filled with indignation. What right does my mom have to make me feel this way? Like I’m not worthy to ask her for help when I really need it, when I know that my father would’ve been happy to reach out and lend a hand. Is it fair, just because he is dead and gone, that I shouldn’t ask for some parental assistance?

I know for a fact that both my brother and sister have gone to our mother for money over the years. Who knows how many times? Lynette “borrowed” money for the down payment on their new home a few years ago, and Jonathan went to Mom for money to start a florist business—a business that’s still floundering, last I heard. And although I would never dare to inquire about my siblings or their debts, I feel fairly certain that neither Lynette or Jonathan has repaid the money or ever will.

It makes no sense that I’m afraid to go to Mother for money, especially when it was Dad who worked so hard, literally worked himself to death, to earn their income. And it was his death, or rather his life-insurance policy, that made my mother so comfortable that she could afford her fancy new house and vacations in places where Dad never had time to travel to. So why is it fair for
her to just sit there like some tight-fisted queen, denying me not only her love but any financial help as well? It is wrong! I pound my fist on the steering wheel. Again and again I pound it. Wrong, wrong, wrong!

Then I realize I haven’t exactly asked my mother for help. Oh, I considered it last summer after I decided to put the girls in Christian school, but I just couldn’t bring myself to that humiliating place. Instead we used our savings—our nest egg, our cushion.

I turn down the street toward the expensive subdivision where Mom lives. Maybe it’s time to humble myself and actually ask her for help. What could it hurt? After all this woman has already said and done to me, how could she possibly inflict any more pain on my heart? Surely I must be impervious to it by now. Her words should slide over me like … like water off a duck’s back. This is what I use to assure myself as I park in front of her house.
Like water off a duck’s back, like water off a duck’s back
.

But my knees feel rubbery as I walk down the paved path to the oversize front door. I know she’s home since her blue Cadillac is parked in the driveway. At night she keeps it safely locked in the garage, but she must’ve already been out this morning. Probably meeting friends for coffee or taking a golf lesson at the club.

“Ruth!” she calls from the side of the house. With a bamboo rake in hand, she waves as she walks toward me. “You’re just in time.” She’s wearing a pale green velour jogging suit, her favorite form of leisurewear.

I study her carefully. “In time for what?”

“You can help me rake up all these leaves.” She grins, then nods to where the old maple tree has already dropped what appears to be several bushels’ worth of leaves.

I look down at my nice gray skirt. “But I’m not really dressed for yard—”

“You can wear something of mine. You know, I’ve put on a few pounds since your father died; we’re probably just about the same size now.”

“That’s okay. I don’t want to change.” I take the rake from her. “I’ll be just fine.” And then I start raking.

“What about your shoes?”

“I’m fine.”

So she goes off to retrieve another rake, and I spend the next two hours helping her rake the leaves in both the front and back yards. But I can’t help but notice that while I’m raking, she’s mostly talking. And whenever a neighbor passes by, she takes a break to chat, ignoring me as she discusses everything from the weather to the neighborhood association to the high-school football team’s recent winning streak. Finally I am done. There doesn’t seem to be another leaf in sight. But my black pumps are coated with dust and leaf debris, I have a run in my stocking, and my skirt will need to be dry-cleaned. Other than that I’m fine.
Just fine!

“Come in and have a bite to eat.” Mother sets aside her rake and heads into the house through the front door. I follow somewhat reluctantly. “But take off your shoes!”

This house has immaculate white carpeting that she keeps spotless. Respecting her wishes, I set my dusty shoes on the entryway’s white marble floor and follow her to her kitchen—a kitchen I try not to envy, with its sleek granite countertops, stainless steel state-of-the-art appliances, and smooth hardwood floor. It’s like a page out of
House Beautiful
.

“Have a seat,” she says.

I pull an expensive-looking metal barstool out from under the island and sit down.

“I have some leftover lasagna.”

“That sounds good. Your lasagna was always my favorite.”

She laughs. “Well, I had Lynette and Jeff over last night. And little Sammy said it tasted like doggy-doo.”