“How many times did you tell us that when we were kids?” Joan says, grinning. “‘Everything will look different once you eat dinner!’ Or, ‘Come eat these cookies. They’ll turn your whole day around!’”
Alice chuckles. “Well, it’s true!”
“According to you, anyone who has a bad day just hasn’t had a good meal.” Joan leans her head onto her mom’s shoulder. “I never thought I’d have a hard time eating what you’ve cooked. You were the best mom.” Alice’s eyes fill at the words. “You still are.”
Alice uses her index finger to dab under each eye. “I didn’t come here to blubber. That’s not helpful at all. My mission is to fill your stomach with good food and put weight on you!”
“That’s my mission, too!” Gigi says from the floor.
Joan chuckles. “So many people on the same mission around here!” She looks at her mom. “Stay with me while I eat?”
Alice lifts Joan’s hand and kisses it. “Of course! I love to watch people eat my food!”
November 2012
“What in the world are Braxton Hicks contractions?” Heddy asks inside Gloria’s office.
“False labor,” Lauren says. She thinks for a moment. “If those were false, what do the real ones feel like?” Gloria, Miriam, Andrea, and Heddy laugh out loud. “Why are you all laughing?”
“You’ll laugh someday,” Heddy says. “Not at the moment of contractions, though.”
“No,” Gloria adds. “At that moment you’ll want to kill Travis.” The women cackle again, making Lauren nervous.
“The doctor, too, for that matter,” Miriam says.
“I wanted to break the TV,” Andrea says. The women all turn to look at her for an explanation. “I was sitting in a wheelchair while I was being admitted and the news was blaring from a TV set behind me. The most annoying newscaster in the history of news! What I would have given for a baseball bat to bust open that TV and shut that guy’s mouth.”
Lauren joins them as they laugh, and Gloria puts her arm around her. “We can’t wait to hear your story, babe. It really is one of the best days of your life.”
As the women leave Gloria’s office to head back into the big room, Lauren stops, looking at her. “Gloria? What do you think the percentage is of kids who eat a meal with their parents or whoever has guardianship of them?”
Gloria raises her eyebrows, looking up to the ceiling. “Hmm. I’ve never thought about that in percentages. Some do. I don’t know how many.”
Lauren leans against the door. “Do you think any of them cook with their parent or guardian?”
Gloria shakes her head. “I don’t know. I imagine that some do. Why?”
“Andrea said something to me a while back and I’ve been thinking about it. Is it possible to have some sort of cooking class here? You know, small things like how to scramble an egg, how to bake a potato, cook rice, or boil an egg, or how to make cookies. Things I didn’t know how to do.” Gloria ponders the thought. “I know. It’d be too expensive. We’d need a stove and an oven and a sink and…”
Gloria raises her hands in the air. “Hold on! Hold on! I haven’t said anything yet.” She nods. “Yes, there would be some expense, but we have generous donors.”
“But is it a good idea?” Lauren asks, uncertain.
“I like it, and I think it’s needed. Who knows how it could inspire one of our kids here?” Lauren smiles. “Let’s talk it through with Dalton, Heddy, Miriam, and even Marshall. Let’s hear what they think.” Lauren begins to leave the office. “Who would teach the classes?”
“Me,” Lauren says. “If you’ll let me.”
TWENTY-FIVE
November 1972
John examines the fourth table leg and sighs. “Finally! All four legs.” The doctor has scheduled Joan’s surgery four days from now, firmly believing that her weight is close enough. Between work, helping with the children, and grocery shopping, he manages to sneak in an hour or so of work on the table every few days. He hopes, even prays that he can have the table finished by Christmas for Joan. He has taken his family to church for the last two months, and if Joan is able following her surgery, he envisions taking them to the Christmas Eve service and then coming home to put Gigi and Christopher to bed. He and Joan can put the presents beneath the tree and then he can make sure that she is resting comfortably in bed before he brings the table inside from the workshop. He can only imagine Joan’s face when she sees it on Christmas morning.
He looks at the pieces of the table and wishes again he could remember the name of the man he met in the hospital cafeteria following Joan’s surgery. He would love to talk to him about the table and even more. He would love to talk to him about Joan’s surgery, about prayer, about why cancer exists in the first place, and about doubting all that he’s learned to believe in the last few months. Even with a few extra pounds, Joan is weak; he knows that, and the surgery scares him. He presses the palms of his hands into his eyes to hold back the tears. In the last several months he has tried to be strong for Joan and his family in every way, but fear spreads across his chest.
Tears fall over his face and he swipes them away. “Don’t!” he says to himself. He picks up one of the pieces of wood for the tabletop and examines it. He needs to glue these pieces together. Another tear falls, and John brushes his shoulder against his cheek. “Stop it!” he yells. “Stop!” He throws the tape measure, pencils, and clamps from atop the workbench across the room and slides to the floor. “I’m trying to believe,” he whispers. “She’s my world. I’ve loved only her. She’s the only one.” A knock at the door startles him, and John hurries to his feet. Who would knock? Joan, Alice, or the kids would march right in. He uses the tail of his shirt to wipe his face and hears another knock. He walks to the door and opens it to a man he’s never seen before.
“John?” The man is in his late sixties or early seventies, with thinning brownish gray hair and glasses. “When I knocked on your front door, your mother-in-law told me you were out here. I’m Ed Grassle from church. I was told about your wife and wondered if I could come visit with you. Is that okay?”
John feels a lump in his throat and nods. “Sure. Come on in.” He leads Ed into the workshop and points at a metal stool. “You’re welcome to sit there.”
“Maybe in a minute,” Ed says, noticing the pieces of wood on the workbench. “Are you making a table? Beautiful wood. Black walnut.”
John nods. “Yeah. I started it a few months ago. You know it’s black walnut?”
Ed picks up one of the table legs. “I’ve been dabbling for years. This is beautiful work. You’re very talented.” John smiles. Ed holds the leg higher, examining it.
“I don’t know about that. I spend a lot of time just standing here and staring at the wood, it seems.”
Ed smiles. “Then you’re a craftsman through and through!” He holds the table leg closer to him and runs his hand up and down it. “Have you ever thought about a piece of wood? Or even a tree, for that matter?”