Take a Chance
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Spend
five bucks or even one hundred on a lottery ticket. Why not take a chance? You
might win. Really, there is no risk. Once you spend the money you know it’s
lost, gone forever. Taking a real chance
means accepting a substantial risk. Reveal a past indiscretion to someone means
you’re open to being hurt. That’s a real risk, a risk that Jill, in my novel, Baggage
burdens., could not understand. How can anyone do that?
Reduced
potential harm. Choose a person you can trust. Boyfriend Joseph, employer and friend Mary,
and acquaintance Bill, saw Jill as an
understanding, caring person. They took
a chance. They revealed a sensitve incident in their past.
“You know,” begins Joseph.
He pauses and swallows. “You know, Uncle Mike left me two-thirds of his land.”
Surprise crosses Jill’s face. “I only visited him a few times, and he gave me
two-thirds of his land! I was only twenty-one. His will said I was like a son
to him. Uncle Mike never married.”
Tears flood Joseph’s eyes
again. They stop walking. Jill wraps both her arms around Joseph and holds him
until she hears him whisper her name.
He steps back. “I’d like to
tell you something.” He pauses. “It’s very, very personal, and I’m afraid it
may turn you off. If it bothers
you, promise you’ll pretend I never said anything?”
Jill provides a cautious
response. “I’ll try. What is it?”
Joseph holds both her hands
in his. “I’m afraid I might end up like Uncle Mike. I’ll die alone, unmarried,
without children.”
Jill shakes her head. “No,
you’re too nice a person.”
“So was Uncle Mike.
“You
remember when Ed and I said we missed you at our Thanksgiving dinner?”
Jill
nods, wishing that incident had been long forgotten.
“We
had hoped you felt like we were like a family. To us, you’re like the daughter
that I almost had.”
Mary
pauses, takes a deep breath, and wipes the tears that unexpectedly well up in
her eyes. Jill waits patiently not knowing from where this is coming or how to
respond. Mary takes another deep
breath before she continues with her story.
“Before
Ed and I started going out together, I became pregnant. The father-to-be dumped
me. He wanted nothing to do with me anymore. I was afraid to let my parents
know. They’d have been devastated. I had no one to turn to. No one to talk to.
Then Ed, who I hadn’t really paid much attention to, guessed I was in some kind
of trouble. At the time I felt I just had to talk to somebody. He was there for
me. He was so understanding; so accepting. He agreed to secretly help me get an
abortion.”
Jill
takes a deep breath.
“I
lost what would have been my daughter, but––” she pauses to wipe more tears
away. “But I also lost the
opportunity to ever have a child again.”
Jill
slides her chair next to Mary. She wraps her arms around Mary. For a while they
sit quietly absorbing the pain of Mary’s secret. Finally, Jill finds her voice.
“I
take it this is a secret that only you and Ed have?”
“Until
now. You’re the only other one who knows what really happened long ago.”
“At first I didn’t want to come to this conference.” Bill
stops and breathes deeply. “Pastor Williams said it was best for me and for
Donna.”
Jill can’t imagine leaving any of her children alone
in a hospital bed. Her first instinct is to challenge the pastor’s recommendation.
Looking at Bill’s fragile state, she says, “How could he say such a thing?”
Bill takes so long to respond that Jill wishes she could withdraw the question.
“When I visit Donna, I can’t just sit there and do
nothing. I feel so useless. She almost never talks so I do all the talking. I
tell her about what’s growing on the acreage and what I still need to do in
terms of up keep. I tell her about my work at the Wellness Center and what I
hope the people I counsel will do.”
Bill falls into silence.
“I told Donna about the church announcement of the
Family conference. I guess I sounded too excited about it.”
After several deep breaths he begins. Words spill out
in short phrases punctuated by deep inhaling.
“Every now and then––Donna gathers all her strength––like
she has something important to say. A week before the registration deadline no
one from our church volunteered. Donna said, ‘Go.’ I couldn’t believe it. She
repeated––‘Go.’ I tried–– I tried to tell her my place was with her. She closed
her eyes––I think she was pretending to sleep––she didn’t want to hear any
more.” He shakes his head and looks down.
“I felt so guilty.” Tears interrupt Bill’s
explanation. “Some how I must have indicated I’d really like be at the
conference.” He still stares at the floor. His hand wipes his tears. “Could she
have thought I preferred the conference to being with her? I couldn’t get rid
of that suspicion.”
As Jill had done when Mary shared her abortion
experience, she moves to the chair beside Bill and puts her arm around him.
“When I left Donna, I went straight to my pastor’s
house. I told him what I had done, what Donna said. You know what he said? He
said I should listen to Donna.”
Bill faces Jill. Looking into Jill’s eyes he searches
for a sign of disapproval. How could he follow the pastor’s advice?
“Reverend Williams said there was nothing I could do
to improve her situation. In fact, my very presence at Donna’s bedside everyday
was more than likely a testimony of how her illness was crippling my life. He
said, how do you think she feels about
cutting into the joy of your volunteer work, of yard work?”
Bill shakes his head slowly. “I still wasn’t going to
go. Then he promised he’d visit Donna everyday and phone and let me know if
there was any kind of serious change in her condition.”
Bill pulls a way from Jill embarrassed. “I feel so
selfish. Was I wrong?”
The instant Jill shakes her head he bows his head and
cries.
The risk Jill’s friends took in trusting her, she
could not return.
Her
childhood experiences would not allow it.
haiku capsule:
personal secret
just between the two of us
now vulnerable
Next blog: Church Diamonds
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