If The Shoe Fits. Marilynn Griffith
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regret, except for my secret, that somewhere in a nursing home in Mexico my son’s father slumbered in a coma like a male version of Sleeping Beauty. From the returns on my well-invested funds, I paid for his monthly care, each night secretly praying the same prayer, Let today be the day, Lord. Let Jordan wake up and come home.
Instead, Jordan’s sister Dana, who’d shared parenting chores with me since her teen years, and Tracey, another friend and former neighbor, filled much of my void for companionship. Though we’d spent time together online as the Sassy Sistahood, we became something more, sisters in Christ. When Dana found out last year about her brother and, worse yet, about me knowing about her brother’s condition and whereabouts, our relationship was a little strained. Okay, so a lot strained. We’re close still but in a different, more distant way. For one thing, she’s married now. Talk about changing relationship dynamics…
Anyway, about Jordan. Though I continued to pay for his care, Jordan coming home drifted away from me with all my other happily-ever-after dreams. Many times, I almost told Dana that I knew where her brother was and what had happened to him, but I never could find the right words. Last year, Jordan woke up and found the words himself, coming home to turn my son’s head and break my heart all over again.
Working too hard to keep a man had broken these feet in the first place, broken my heart. I couldn’t let that happen again. Not for anyone. Not even intelligent, handsome, aggravating Tad.
And He will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
The Scripture leaked from my mind into one of the puddles I passed on the way to my car. I paused at the trash can near my trunk and slipped off my shoes.
Afraid that some thrifty deaconess would rescue the yellow pumps and put them in the clothes bank, forcing me to see the stain of this morning on the feet of a stranger, I gripped the shoes to my chest along with my soggy Bible. Tomorrow’s trash pickup at home was a safer option, one that ensured I’d never see those sunshine shoes again.
Chapter two
My son, his father, my son’s girlfriend—the whole crew of fools—awaited me at home. I didn’t even get to squish the rest of the water out of my Bible before facing them.
“Hi-eeee,” Shemika said, waving with one hand and covering her watermelon-size belly with the other. She bowed her head quickly, nibbling one of the emergency croissants from my freezer.
I dumped my wet shoes beside the door next to the others. I took in the scene in disbelief. Not only had these folks invaded my home—with the help of my son’s key, no doubt—they’d kicked off their shoes and cooked themselves some breakfast, too.
The nerve.
Still armed with my wet Bible, I grabbed the empty plastic bag my croissants had come in and wrapped the Bible in it. It was a total loss, but I was too afraid to throw it away. I have a thing about Bibles, too. As ink blurred in the margins and bled across the pages, I bled inside too. I’d meant to get a new Bible sometime, but not now. Not yet. Everything was changing without my permission. Sort of like my unexpected guests.
I turned to my son’s father, eating eggs at my kitchen table as though he belonged there. As many times as I’d envisioned him in that seat, the sight bothered me now.
“How did you get in here, Jordan?” I knew already, of course, but I wanted to let all of them know that keying into my home and waiting for me was unacceptable.
“Well, we—”
“Leave Dad out of it, Mom. It’s my fault. I used my key.” My son, Jericho, stood, hands shoved into his jeans.
“Dad? It’s like that now? That’s rich.” About as rich as his father, whose gifts seemed to have worn away any of my son’s remaining brain cells. Sure it was great that Jordan was here today, but what about when he disappeared again?
“Can we not start with that? What’s with you anyway? Are those the sunshine shoes?” He pointed to my wet pumps by the door.
“That’s them. It’s a long story. Sunday school was, well, interesting. I had to come home.” I looked over at Shemika. “Your grandmother had a good time, though.”
“I’m sure.” Shemika shrugged and gave me the same guilty smile she’d worn since her pregnancy started showing. Today though, something different played around her eyes. Maybe the reality I’d been trying to describe to them was finally sinking in.
My son didn’t look as amused. “Church? Is that really it? You seem really out of it. And is that your Bible wrapped up over there? The one that you write in?”
Jordan stopped pushing his eggs around on his plate and looked at me with a concern that shook me a little. I must have looked like a fool in this wet blouse and rumpled skirt, but he looked at me as if I was wearing an evening gown. Tad was one thing, but Jordan was going to have to get out of here. They were all giving me puppy-dog looks now.
“We had an exercise in Sunday school and I got a little wet, okay? The question isn’t about me. The question is, what are you people doing here!” Whoa. Had that come out of my mouth? I was definitely going to have to check with the doctor about those perimenopause supplements. Kicking folks and screaming all before noon? And on a Sunday too? I needed a nap and some sugar-free chocolate.
Shemika piped up this time. “Well, coming here was my idea, actually. I’m not feeling so well, Mrs. Rose—”
“That’s Miss—Miss Gardner, same as Jericho.” I didn’t scream this time, but my meaning was clear. What had they been telling this girl? As long as she’d known us, hadn’t somebody clued her in on the whole horrible story.
“She was never my wife, Shemika,” Jordan said. “Though she should have been. I wasn’t as brave as Jericho, but she was as brave as you. And hardworking, too. She worked double shifts in the supermarket and picked up hours at the hospital until the day she went into labor.” He paused and stared at the floor. “Even messed up her feet to do it. I’m sorry about everything, but I’m sorry about that.”
I braced myself against the chair at the sound of Jordan’s voice. For years, I’d thought that marrying Jordan would have saved me, taken the shame of my teen pregnancy away. All these years later, listening to him, looking at him, I realized things could have been worse if he’d stayed. I couldn’t think of anything he could add to my life. Nothing I needed to think about, anyway.
Shemika tugged my son’s sleeve. “I thought they were divorced—”
“Shh.” Jericho squeezed her hand and gave me a look, one that I deflected. Sure it wasn’t the best way to explain, but since my son was so bent on marrying this girl, he should have told her himself. Suddenly wishing there was another croissant, but glad at the same time that there wasn’t, I backed up against the wall. My bare feet squeaked against the floor.
Even Jordan’s cold eggs called to me as images of the morning—kicking Tad, him washing my lumpy toes, opening the door to find everyone in my kitchen—melted across my mind. This had been a crazy year all around, with Tracey and Dana getting married and Jordan coming home, but this was a bit much. A bit too much.
“Shemika, if you don’t feel well, come into my room and lie down. I need to change my clothes anyway.” All eyes in the room had been focused on my feet since Jordan’s little speech and my words didn’t break the spell. I jetted through the dining room to my bedroom, daring even one tear to fall and hoping reality TV cameramen weren’t waiting behind my drapes.
Shemika followed and stretched out on my favorite comforter—the key-lime pie set I’d gotten from Austin, our newest member in the Sassy Sistahood, during our Christmas-in-July gift swap. The plump comforter plus my queen-size waterbed brought a smile to Shemika’s face.
“Nice,” she said, as I changed into a periwinkle sundress. Not my color exactly, but I wasn’t feeling myself.
I sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry