The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [66]
Iona hates this. She knew she would. If Lori’s labor hadn’t been a false alarm, Iona would have had an excuse to miss this. Well, no such luck. Braxton Hicks strikes again. Lori is only two centimeters dilated, not yet ready for action. Iona feels like an old fool, letting Marie con her into coming here and now holding hands with Andrea on one side and Mystery Woman on the other, as if they’re some kind of human electrical cord trying to plug themselves into a higher power. It’s one thing to pray for strength for the family, for forbearance, even for healing. But for miracles? She was glad when Marie finally shut up.
Nine years ago, when Iona was getting her remodeling business off the ground, she’d ended up in the hospital with an infection from a bite she got while feeding a neighbor’s cat. When a clueless young doctor looked at her chart and said, “You could die from this,” Iona had thought, Good. Now I won’t have to pay the estimated taxes.
That was exactly what she had thought.
“We’re treating this aggressively with IV antibiotics,” the doctor had said, a kid half her age with what looked like the remains of teenaged acne. If he couldn’t get rid of his own pimples, how did he expect to cure someone of a cat-borne bacteria?
An infection from a cat bite seemed almost too embarrassing to die for, but the drugs they gave her put her so far into la-la land that she didn’t care.
Two days later she walked out of the hospital feeling pretty good. It was a miracle, the young doctor said.
“What? The miracle of antibiotics?”
“Antibiotics don’t usually work on this.”
“You shouldn’t talk about miracles,” Iona cautioned. “You’re supposed to be a scientist.”
The word miracle made her nervous. Where did the medicine stop and the miracle begin? Why waste the miracle on Iona? She had never really felt grateful.
She was relieved when Marie finally stopped shouting and being dramatic. Drama didn’t suit Marie at all. Iona was glad the house did not immediately catch on fire and burn to the ground.
Now they’ve gone most of the way around the circle and Andrea is praying, far more softly than Marie, but clutching Iona’s hand tighter as she says something about the immortal soul. As far as Iona is concerned, the jury is still out on immortal souls. Even after twelve years, she’d like to think of Richard floating around out there somewhere, stopping by to see her every once in a while. She wouldn’t mind communing with his soul, if he had one.
They had been married ten years when he died. She’s been a widow longer than she was a wife. Why is she still wishing they could be in contact? Some people really do mate for life, she supposes. Mate for life. It sounds like something animals do.
Well, of course, it’s more than that; she’d be kidding herself to pretend otherwise. For the ten years she lived with Richard, everything else in her life played out against the background of his presence—their careers, their troubles with Jeff, even her barrenness, which in no way diminished their love or their desire for each other. Their lovemaking always left her basking in a glaze of pleasure. The fact that he’d chosen her for his wife made her feel, over and over again, that a veil had been drawn over her imperfections, leaving her worthy and necessary in a way she hasn’t felt since. Even so, who would have imagined she’d remain monogamous all these years, after promising to love and obey only till death do us part?
She wonders if Mason will remarry. If he will be one of those men for whom one woman can quickly replace the other, providing she can cook and do laundry and offer sex.
She wonders if he will weep for Paisley, freely and honestly, right from the start. She doubts it. Too bad. She herself