The Doctor's Perfect Match. Arlene James
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cry, but then she blinked, stiffened her already straight spine and said, “I blame your mother for your brain tumor.”
Eva literally reeled backward. “What?”
“I blame her for your terrible taste in men.”
Gaping, Eva sputtered, “H-how dare you!”
“I could even blame her for your sister’s cancer. It’s often hereditary, after all.”
Blazingly angry, Eva fisted her hands, a vein throbbing painfully in her head. “That’s not fair! You take that back!”
“But you blame God for the failures of His children and the problems of a fallen world,” Magnolia pointed out, shrugging.
Eva’s eyes narrowed, and some of her anger waned as she caught on to Magnolia’s game. “That’s different,” Eva grated out. “My mother was human. God is all-powerful.”
“Is He?” Magnolia returned. “All-powerful but stupid, I take it.”
“Of course not. I never said that. Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“Then, cruel.”
“Yes!” she crowed triumphantly. “Absolutely.”
“Cruel enough to let Himself be crucified to pay the sin debt for the whole of humanity,” Magnolia said. “Cruel enough to give that same humanity the free will to reject His sacrifice.” She clucked her tongue. “You have a funny definition of cruel, Ms. Russell. I suspect your definition of cruel is simply not getting what you want when and how you want it.”
Eva was still grasping for a reply when the door closed behind her hostess. She was still standing there several moments later, clutching that old flannel robe, when the thought occurred that Magnolia Chatam didn’t need the excuse of a brain tumor to speak her mind, and as hard as she tried to be angry about that, Eva couldn’t help admiring the old girl.
She made sure that she was in the tub when Magnolia returned with the pajamas, and she stayed there until her skin puckered and pruned. Then, dressed in the Chatam sisters’ father’s nightclothes, she stuck her head out of the door to her room and made sure that the landing was deserted before she padded on bare feet to the dumbwaiter and fetched the tray laden with a steaming pot of apple cider, the most scrumptious muffins imaginable and a selection of cheeses and fruit.
Pigging out, she ate as much as she possibly could. After all, she assumed that there would be more where this came from, but after she left here, who knew when she’d eat again? She lay back on the bed, utterly replete, and contemplated her next move.
The medication she’d received earlier had relieved the pressure inside her skull and probably bought her some time. Otherwise, her language would still be messed up. It had frightened her to hear herself speaking gibberish again. She’d known it was a possibility, of course, but because she’d been getting dizzy and even blacking out, she’d assumed that she’d simply continue on that path until she just wouldn’t wake up one day. She supposed she’d have to find a way to fill her prescriptions again, at least until she found a permanent place to crash, but she could make that decision later. First she had to think about transportation—and decide whether or not to call Ricky.
She’d promised herself that she wouldn’t, not until she’d found a permanent place to let it end, but without the van, that place might be closer than she’d anticipated. She checked the time, saw that it was fairly late, and told herself to let it go another day, but somehow she found herself with her phone in hand, her thumbs punching in the familiar numbers.
Ricky himself answered on the second ring.
“Allenson residence.”
He wouldn’t know it was her because she’d blocked the number, but she imagined that she heard a hopeful tone in his voice.
“Hey, Ricky. How’s it going, big guy?”
“Mom! I knew it was you. I knew it.”
She tried not to choke up. “You sound good. How’s it going, hon?”
“When are you coming home?” he demanded, ignoring her question. “I hate it here. I want to go home.”
His complaints hit her like blows to her chest. She closed her eyes and fought to keep her tone light. “Ricky, your dad would be crushed to hear you say that.”
“I don’t care. I hate Tiffany. She treats me like a five-year-old.”
“That’s because she’s a mental five-year-old,” Eva muttered. Louder she said, “Give her a break, Ricky. She’s never been a mom, and she’s still learning.”
“You say that like she can learn. Mom, I want to go with you.”
Eva’s throat clogged, but she cleared it and said, “Son, you’re better off with your father now.”
“He’s never here! Neither of them are.”
Eva sat up. “They’re leaving you unsupervised?”
“No,” he admitted reluctantly. “Donita’s here.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, Eva slumped back onto the bed. Donita was the housekeeper that she and Rick, her ex, had employed before their marriage had ended so ingloriously. If Donita was there then Rick must have recouped some of his financial losses.
“That’s good,” Eva said. “That’s very good.” Donita was trustworthy and loyal. She would look after Ricky. She had kept in touch when Eva had struggled to keep a roof over their heads and study, too. “You do what Donita tells you,” Eva instructed, “and tell her that I said ‘Thanks.’ Will you do that?”
“I wish you’d just come home,” he whined.
“I know,” Eva told him. “I would if I could, son.”
“But why can’t you?” he asked.
“I just can’t. It’s best for you that I don’t.”
“Adults always say that when they just don’t want to explain,” he complained.
She chuckled, trying to sound carefree. “You think so, do you? Well, you’ll figure it out one of these days. You just remember that everything I do, I do to spare you misery. Okay?”
“Making me live with Tiffany isn’t sparing me misery,” he told her grumpily.
She laughed. It was either that or sob. “I love you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he groused, but then he muttered, “I love you, too.”
She could barely speak again after that. Managing to squeak out a “Good night,” she broke the connection, clutched the phone to her chest and wept until sleep at last overcame her.
* * *
“Poor girl,” Odelia opined, tears glistening in her eyes. She glanced longingly at the door that connected the sisters’ sitting room to the suite she shared with Kent. Strangely, marriage had somehow enlarged Odelia. She was no less scatterbrained or flamboyant—indeed, she seemed rather more so, as Kent encouraged her shamelessly—yet, she had somehow grown more confident and knowing.
“Poor Brooks,” Hypatia said. “The last thing he needs, with Morgan now happily married, is a reminder of all he has lost.”
“This is true,” Magnolia admitted, “and yet, if we’ve learned anything over the years, we’ve learned that God has plans and reasons for what and whom He brings into this house.”
Her sisters murmured their agreement, nodding.
“Our first concern,” Magnolia went on, “must be Eva herself. Perhaps my fear that she is dying is unfounded, but her spiritual condition is not. She blatantly admitted her lack of faith.”
“Brooks originally stated that she would be staying only until her stitches could