Chapter 21
Twenty-One
flabbergast (v.): to overwhelm with shock, surprise, or wonder
Minutes later, I all but float over the threshold of the Messenger. I am a woman unfettered, learning to accept things as they come. Ready to write about it all.
Each boot step makes a hollow sound as I cross the lobby’s weathered floor. The cowbells echo eerily behind me. Something feels off.
Dot pops her head out of her office, coral lips cinched together in a tight line. With a vigorous shake of her stubby pigtails, she gestures to Sam’s closed door.
What in the . . . You’d think Sam’s bear mount came back to life and was on the loose in there.
Straightaway I prop my rear on the corner of her desk and cross my arms. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. Something’s up. He’s being super . . . well, hold on to your elf hat. When I got here this morning, he’d done the dishes. Scoured every mug—with baking soda. The man is out of it.”
“Interesting. Not his own cup, though.” It’s a statement, but maybe a question also. Cleaning Sam’s coffee mug is a capital offense. It’s like he thinks his mojo is all tied up in the coffee-stain buildup.
At Dot’s slow nod, I raise my brow. “Maybe he’s just extra high on life?”
“And he’s too quiet. Hasn’t spoken a word. I’m worried, Lucy.”
“Something to do with Noleen, maybe.”
“I’m wondering.”
Dot doesn’t have to wait long for an answer, even if I’m left hanging. At 9:00 a.m., Sam summons her into his office. I hear his low mumble just before she tugs the door closed behind her.
And then, silence.
Shifting my focus to something less anxiety-laden, I review notes from my interview with a group of local citizens organizing a volunteer ride-share program. How cool is this—drivers donating time and gas to make sure seniors can get to their medical appointments. My heart tingles.
A deep scraping noise behind me. The editor in chief’s door being muscled open. Ugh. The handyman isn’t coming to fix the door until next week. Dot exits red-nosed, dabbing her eyes. She shoots me a pained look and heads to her office.
A moment later, Sam’s voice blares over the phone system, summoning Brad. A much shorter meeting, this. Within minutes Brad reemerges, glowering, and retreats to his cave down the hall at a speed I didn’t know he possessed.
Next, Sam pages Meg. Between this and the fact that Dot remains uncharacteristically buttoned up about whatever is going on, I conclude that Sam (a) plans to speak to each of us in order of seniority, and (b) expects confidentiality.
By this measure, my own meeting should come next.
Meg’s meeting lasts an excruciating twelve minutes. By 9:35 a.m., when she forces the door shut behind her, I’ve already gone through a week’s worth of cheesy pretzel mix.
Minutes tick by. Finally, Sam’s office door thuds open and I flinch. Here it comes, my summons.
Except that instead, he clomps across the lobby without even doing me the courtesy of a side-glance and disappears out the front door. The bells are still clanging a split second later when Sam sticks his head back in.
“See you tomorrow,” he says without making eye contact. “Take care, Lucy.”
I stare after him. It feels as if the timeworn floor planks beneath me have opened up and are swallowing me whole. Sam scouring his coffee mug is a minor matter compared to this.
Never in five years has Sam suggested I “take care.”
***
One by one my coworkers bail early, leaving me little to do.
Seeing as the day is an emotional bust, with no one at liberty to discuss things, I follow suit.
I skitter from room to room, turning off lights, adjusting the heat setting.
In Sam’s office, my eyes catch on the photo of his sizable extended family.
I’ve lost track of the current total of Sam and Noleen’s grandchildren.
Here they’re all fanned out in front of a lake sparkling like a thousand diamonds.
Everyone looks relaxed and tan and happy.
It’s been a long time since I saw Sam so unburdened. For all the man does, his salary is a pittance. For decades this paper has been a labor of love.
I run my eyes over the wall of framed certificates and awards the Messenger received over the years.
Circling back to the lobby, I slide the strap of my bag over my shoulder and then pause in front of a bulletin board layered with cards and letters representing a million thank-yous.
Grateful readers. Starry-eyed teenagers given the chance to intern here.
Recipients of the Messenger’s coveted college scholarship.
Some of these kids went on to pursue their journalism dreams.
Pride swells in my chest, as I count myself part of something so integral to the richness of life in this tight-knit community. My community.
Is it all coming to an end? Is that what’s happening here?
I feel like I’m grieving, but I don’t know what for.
And yet, this is my chance. Here is where the rubber meets the road.
Will I choose to trust that no matter what comes next, there’s a greater plan?
I’ve mastered my current job. My current life.
Doing the same things day in, day out doesn’t demand much of me.
Is it really even faith if it costs me nothing?
Chase’s hugs are few and far between. Oh, how I crave one now. I want to be honest with my son about life’s challenges. Still, until the facts are out, there’s nothing to be gained by allowing him to see me carrying this weight.
A bit of tension melts away when I walk past the message board outside the veterinarian’s office.
Free belly rubs
Sorry, pets only
After retrieving my car from home, I’m still in possession of a luxurious slice of time to kill before picking up my guy. Thoughts churn as I drive aimlessly through town. Moments later, I look up to find that I’ve parked outside one of my happy places.
From the ginormous bin of carving pumpkins in front of Homer’s Hardware, I select one that’s adorably round and squat. The Danny DeVito of pumpkins. Next I pluck a few bright orange mini pumpkins from a basket. This here is my definition of retail therapy.
But if there’s a single messed-up shopping cart in the bunch, I’m sure to find it. This one crabs to the right. Inside Homer’s, I’m about to force the cart left at the tall gumball machine that looks like it belongs in an arcade when Silas pops his head up from behind the paint counter.
“Lucy . . . Lucy . . . Lucy . . .” he croons, a decibel or three louder than is generally considered appropriate. The owner’s grandson is gawky and loud, but no one seems to hold this against him.
He’s also Dot and Tony’s son.
Silas makes a finger gun. “’Sup?”
“Hey, Silas,” I say, turning toward the display of batteries. One can never have too many double-As.
I blink, and inexplicably Silas is now in front of me. Single vault over the paint counter? The dude is well over six foot and as slim as a number two pencil, so . . . maybe? He’s a funny one for sure.
“So, I hear we’ve been two ships passing in the night,” he says in typical deadpan fashion. Which always makes him hard to read. Harmless, just hard to read.
“We . . . what?”
Silas slips off his wire-rimmed glasses. He looks like an altogether different person. “I’m just messin’ with ya, Lucy. Mom says you guys came for dinner.”
I can’t seem to look away even as he spits onto the thick lenses and then polishes them using the bottom of his plaid Western snap shirt. “That’s right,” I say. “Too bad you couldn’t join us.”
“I know, right? Me and a buddy were way out past Prineville, geocaching.”
“Sounds fun.” Note to self, this seems like an activity Chase might someday enjoy. “Hey,” I say in a low if-you-know-you-know voice, “got any of the good stuff today?”
Silas is in the know, even if he doesn’t share my definition of “good stuff.”
He scrunches his forehead. Frowns. At least I think he’s frowning. It’s hard to distinguish on a guy who wears a permanent pout. “Nah. Just the usual junk. But you’re welcome to take a gander.”
How anyone could overlook the glorious hidden potential in the far reaches of Homer’s garden center is beyond me. Already the dopamine’s kicking in. Forget the batteries. I’m on mission. I could also use a bag of potting soil.
Oh, and one of these cute fall-themed doormats.
The more I add, the more my shopping cart protests. It squeaks as I shove it along outside, Silas trailing after me.
Here’s a secret unbeknownst to the greater population of Charity Falls: Should you ever venture beyond the displays of wheelbarrows and landscape trees, past the huge stacks of mulch, and then make a right, you’ll find yourself standing before a dumpster.
Here is where employees toss the less-than-desirables.
Scraggly looking bedding flowers that still contain, if you’re willing to see it, potential for thriving.
And here’s where I come in.
“What do you want with all that trashy stuff anyhow?” Silas says in his mopey way.
Trashy? Let’s consider the definition. There are certainly trashy novels, trashy movies, and trashy attire. What I do here is rescue living, breathing things struggling for a foothold in a harsh world.
I am a salvager of botanical castoffs. Not exactly flashy superhero stuff. But still.
“Well, have at it,” Silas says, leaving me to my madness.
The likelihood of finding good pickings this time of year is low.
And yet a little bit of digging turns up the holy grail—perennials!
A couple of half-gallon bloomed-out Shasta daisies and a somewhat crusted-over salvia.
These should recover nicely. Digging around in the bin some more, a crushed six-pack of marigolds surfaces. Four of the six show promise.
It would be fair to ask what a woman with a second-story apartment and little room for flowerpots does with all this.
Aside from a quiet old man named Edsel, I am the (unofficial, uncompensated, and thankfully very much unnoticed) garden-keeper of Sun Country Apartments.
Pockets of time spent brightening and weeding the strip of soil around our parking lot are moments of quiet joy.
Any time my fingers are buried in cool soil, I get lost in it.
This is when I’m most aware I’m not alone. Doing nothing to earn approval. Yet feeling as if God likes simply hanging out with me while I’m doing the things that make me happy.
Edsel gets me too.
After all, it’s one thing to grow a singular plant in a pot, quite another to sow new life directly into solid ground, where roots ramble and intertwine with others. One is autonomous. Portable. The other, a living, breathing neighborhood.
In Eden, God cultivated a garden. A vibrant tapestry where resources are shared and every plant contributes something beautiful and necessary. Something otherwise lacking. A metaphor that isn’t lost on me.
For too long I’ve fought to remain a silo.
“Lucy?”
At the soft voice over my shoulder, I turn to find Jen Moncado standing close. I feel my face flush. Mind you, there’s no shame in being a flower savior. Even so, what are the chances Jen Number Two saw me rummaging through the dumpster?
I rush our greeting.
Jen lingers. “It’s actually kind of funny I ran into you,” she says, pushing her sunglasses up on her head.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I was hoping to talk to you about something. I don’t mean right now—I mean, I’m sure you have things to do. But maybe sometime . . . soon?”
I open my mouth to speak, but my brain is no help.
“Honestly, Lucy,” she says, laying a hand over her heart, “I’m not sure the best way to go about this, or even how to say it. It’s, well, it’s about my youngest, Liam. He just started pre-K—”
“Wow, already?” Furtively I reach down and reposition the doormat to conceal the mangled marigolds.
She beams. “Right? I know. It flies by. Anyway, it’s just . . . well, sometimes Liam reminds me a little of your son.”
“Of my Chase?”
She laughs breathily. “Yeah. There’s actually been some .
. . some question about Liam’s learning style and his, you know, mannerisms, and anyway—gosh, I hope you don’t mind me bringing this up.
It’s just that Chase seems like a great kid, very comfortable in himself, even though some of the kids maybe don’t know how best to relate to him. ”
Some of the adults, too, I don’t say.
Jen palms her forehead. “Oh, I’m making a mess of this.”
“No, you’re fine, Jen.”
She holds my gaze, and her eyes fill. I wait.
Jen swallows. “Would you be willing to meet me for coffee sometime?”
“Oh. I—”
“It’s just that I’m getting conflicting advice about Liam—”
I nod. “I get it, Jen. I’m sure everybody has an opinion about it.”
“Exactly. You know. I knew you would understand. Anyway . . .” She bites her bottom lip. “I’d really love to pick your brain.”
We exchange numbers, and I shove my stubborn cart forward.
But then, “Jen?” I say, turning back. I find her still standing in the same spot, watching me. “It’s going to be okay.”
I can’t tell her it won’t be hard. But if indeed I do get the chance, I will for sure tell her this:
Just because a thing isn’t easy doesn’t mean it’s not what we’re called to.