Promise Me

  Beth Cardall’s Diary

  New Year’s Eve was even quieter than usual—which, for me, is saying something. Marc and I had never really been big on New Year’s celebrations. For the first few years of our marriage we went to his company’s New Year’s Eve party, until one year Marc’s boss, Dean, had had too much to drink and hit on me while Marc was talking to one of the other salesmen. He told me the only reason he’d hired Marc was to get to me. I was mortified. “It’s never happening,” I said, “and if you ever tell my husband that, I’m telling your wife.” I went and found Marc and asked him to take me home.

  After that we never went to the company party again. I never told Marc about what had happened, I feared it would have broken his all-too-fragile ego. I just told him that I didn’t want to go again. He acted angry with me but didn’t put up much of a fight.

  Since then, New Year’s had become consequential only in that I bought a new calendar and we could sleep in the next morning.

  Charlotte had spent the day playing at the home of a neighbor, her best friend Katie. Katie’s mother, Margaret Wirthlin, was a sweet, matronly woman with eight children. She was always happy to have Charlotte around, and frankly, with that many children, I don’t think she even noticed an extra one.

  I picked up Charlotte on the way home from work. Again, she wasn’t feeling well. Once we were home she just lay on the couch as I made the enchiladas and fell asleep before I finished. I considered just letting her sleep, but I was so worried about her losing weight that I woke her for dinner. She took only two bites of her enchilada, then laid her head on the table. I carried her to my bed, where she had slept since Marc’s passing.

  I went back out to the kitchen and did the dishes, then lay down on the couch to read a book.

  This was it, the utter excitement of my life. As I thought of the new year, my heart was filled with dread. I don’t know when I had ever felt so vulnerable or hopeless. It seemed that I was assailed on every side. I was lonely, physically and mentally exhausted, spiritually numb, and financially I was walking a shaky tightrope that a small, well-timed breeze could knock me off of. My salary wasn’t enough to pay the mortgage and our expenses. Without Marc’s income, I knew that I needed to get a job that paid more, but doing what? I had no “marketable” skills, no résumé, and with all the missed days because of Charlotte’s health, who would keep me?

  In spite of my fears, in the back of my mind I harbored a far greater one—one I pushed down to the deepest recesses of my mind. What if Charlotte was fighting something bigger than anyone had guessed? She wasn’t getting worse, at least she didn’t seem to be, but she also wasn’t getting any better. What if it was something chronic? What if it was something terminal? I immediately pushed the thought from my mind. I couldn’t take that. Anything but that.

  It would be nice, as both Charlotte and Roxanne had wished for me, to have someone to take care of me. But I might as well be wishing for a fairy godmother. It wasn’t going to happen. I had built walls around my life and heart not because I liked the solitude, I didn’t; I built them to protect Charlotte and me. In spite of my claims to the contrary, I am one of those women who hates being alone. Even after the betrayals I had suffered by Marc, I still missed him. At least I thought I did, until it occurred to me that I didn’t miss him, I missed the delusion of him—the delusion of our love and family. Like everyone else, I wanted to be loved. I wanted to belong to someone. I wanted to be wanted. But at what cost? I feared that my emotional state was as precarious as my financial one—just one misstep away from disaster.

  My eyes filled with tears. When had life gotten so mean? Better question, when hadn’t it been? I’d been alone since I was eighteen, when my mother passed away during a routine gallbladder operation. My aunt stepped in for a while, but it was obvious to me that it was out of obligation, not desire. At eighteen you’re pretty much on your own anyway. I met Marc my sophomore year in college and jumped when he popped the question. I’m not saying I didn’t love him. I just didn’t love him as much as I hated being alone. And I paid for it.

  Was there someone else out there for me? My thoughts drifted to the man at the store. Matthew. Was I pushing away exactly what I was hoping for? Would it have killed me to let him in, just a little? To put my toe in the water? He seemed sincere. He seemed nice enough.

  Nice. I grimaced at the thought. Another nice guy. Like Marc. Maybe it’s the nice guys who aren’t to be trusted. Maybe it was the very façade of “nice” one should avoid; sheep’s clothing, right? Better the devil we know.

  The bottom line was, I didn’t know. I didn’t know whom, if anyone, I could trust. The only thing I knew for certain was whom I couldn’t trust: me. Or at least my sense of discernment. For seven years I had lived a charade. For seven years my husband, my best friend, my soul mate, had moved through a succession of women while I minded the home fires oblivious to it all. What a fool I was. I mean, really, how stupid could a woman be?

  I suppose that all I knew for certain was that I couldn’t be drained again. There was too little left—my heart too close to empty.

  At midnight I could hear the pop of firecrackers and Roman candles from across the street and the ruckus of Margaret’s clan beating pans together in their front yard. I looked out the window. “Happy New Year,” I said to no one. And I said it without hope. Happiness was a dark horse.

  This man just keeps coming back like a flesh-covered boomerang. I hope he’s not crooked too.

  Beth Cardall’s Diary

  I was glad for the holidays to be over and for things to get back to normal, whatever that was these days. I was pressing suit coats when Teresa minced her way back to my station. Teresa was Prompt’s token bombshell, a stunningly beautiful nineteen-year-old blonde—former homecoming queen, head cheerleader, you know the type. Roxanne opined that Teresa’s main purpose for existence was to remind her of how old and undesirable she’d become.

  Teresa had pulled her Walkman’s earphones down around her neck, and her face was bent in a wide smile. “Beth, someone sent you flowers.”

  I looked up from the press. “Me?” I couldn’t guess who would be sending me flowers.

  “Yes, you. They’re beautiful. And, by the way, you can keep the flowers, I’ll keep the deliveryman. He’s hot. I told him he could just leave the flowers with me, but he said he needed to deliver them personally.”

  The dry cleaner had a two-way mirror behind the front counter so that when we were shorthanded we could work in back and keep an eye on the lobby. I looked around my rack of coats to see this deliveryman she was talking about. Matthew was standing at the counter holding a vase of sunflowers. I went back to the suit coat I was working on, lightly sighing. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Teresa looked at me in astonishment. “Aren’t you dying to find out who sent them?”

  “I know who sent them. They’re from the man holding them.”

  She looked at me incredulously. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing,” she said quickly. “Nothing. So, are you coming or should I send the Disney Prince away?”

  I hung the coat I was pressing on the rack. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Then I’ll give you some space. Have fun.” Teresa ran off to the bathroom. I looked back through the glass. Matthew stood patiently, swaying a little to the lobby’s music, the large blue vase clasped in his hands. I shook my head then walked out to the front. He smiled as I came through the door. “Hi, Beth.”

  “Hi.” I put my hands on my hips. “I told you—”

  “I brought you these,” he said, thrusting the flowers toward me. “I told you I wasn’t going to give up.”

  For a moment I just looked at them, unsure of what to do. Taking them was counter to what I had convinced myself was right, but when you’ve been on a diet sometimes you just have to have a little chocolate, if you know what I mean. Besides, I rationalized, what kind of woma
n rejects a man offering her flowers?

  “Thank you,” I said, taking the bouquet and setting it on the counter. “I love sunflowers.”

  “I know.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “You just seem like the kind of woman who would. Roses are pretty but sunflowers have meaning.”

  I looked at him quizzically. That was something I had often said to Charlotte. Sunflowers look to the sun, I told her. They mean hope.

  “What do sunflowers mean?” I asked.

  He looked at me and a knowing smile crossed his lips. “Hope.”

  As I looked at him, I couldn’t help but think how handsome he was. My eyes moved back and forth between him and the equally beautiful bouquet of flowers. Finally, I sighed. “What do you want?”

  “Just one date. If you hate it, or me, I promise I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  His eyebrows rose with surprise. “Really?”

  “Well you’re not going to give up until I go out with you, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Then what choice do I have? One date. When?”

  “When’s good for you?”

  “My babysitter is usually only available on weekends.”

  “How about Friday?” he asked.

  “This Friday?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “Babysitter willing, Friday it is. What time?”

  “Seven P.M.?”

  “Friday, seven P.M. I’ll plan on it.”

  He smiled broadly. “Great.” He started to leave, then turned back. “I don’t know your address.”

  I pulled a sheet of paper from the order pad by the register and scribbled my address on the back. “It’s the home with the blue door.” I handed it to him and he looked at it, then folded it up and shoved it in his pocket.

  “See you then.”

  I watched him leave, then I carried my flowers to the back. I was such a sucker for flowers. Always had been. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder if I had done the right thing.

  Roxanne was standing next to the press waiting for me. Teresa had alerted her to my caller, and the two of them had watched the exchange from behind the mirror. “Now I know why you didn’t want to come over on New Year’s.”

  “What are you talking about?” I set the flowers down on the counter behind the press.

  “You’ve been holding out on me, girl. I’ve been telling you to get back on the horse and you’ve been bronco busting all along.”

  “Bronco busting?”

  “I saw that man. Why didn’t you tell me about him?”

  “There was nothing to tell.”

  “Nothing to tell? How long has it been going on?”

  “We just met.” I went back to work, putting a coat on the press.

  “Where?”

  “At a 7-Eleven.”

  “Wow, all I ever get there is Diet Coke. Who made the first move?”

  “Who do you think?”

  “What did he say?”

  “If you must know—”

  “I must,” she inserted.

  “He head-butted me.”

  “What?”

  “It was an accident. I dropped my gum.”

  “I don’t care. A man that fine can head-butt me up Main and down State. So why aren’t you acting thrilled about this?”

  “Because I’m not thrilled about this. It doesn’t feel right.”

  “Because of Marc?”

  “Yes, but it’s more than that. I mean, look at this guy.”

  “Yeah, I saw him. He’s gorgeous. What’s the problem?”

  “Have you ever been sitting in the stands at a ball game and someone turns around and waves at you and you smile and start to wave back when you realize they’re waving to someone behind you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s how I feel.”

  Roxanne rested her hands on her hips. “Well, girl, look at those flowers. He’s definitely waving at you.”

  “It just doesn’t feel right. He’s younger, painfully handsome, and nice.”

  “What a nightmare . . .”

  “Come on, Rox, you have to admit that it doesn’t make sense.”

  “No, you need to admit that it does. Why can’t you just accept that someone might find you desirable?”

  I frowned. “I don’t know. Probably because I feel like damaged goods.” I went back to pressing. “Besides, my heart tells me not to trust it. It’s the first rule of love and money—if it sounds too good to be true, it is.”

  “You’re too cynical.”

  “I’m just trying to be smart for a change.”

  “If running from happiness is smart, then I’d rather be dumb. Better dumb than lonely.”

  “Well, I’m both.”

  “Just give it a try, Beth. You’ve had a rough year. Have a little fun for a change. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

  I looked up at her. “I could like him.”

  We rarely worry about the correct things.

  Beth Cardall’s Diary

  Friday morning Matthew came by the cleaners. Roxanne was up front when he came in.

  “Is Beth here?”

  “She sure is,” she said. “You’re Matthew?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “My mother is ma’am. I’m Rox. I’ll get her for you.” She ran back to get me, her face bright with excitement. “He’s here.”

  “Who’s here?”

  “Him. Matthew.”

  “Oh.” I looked up through the glass. He was standing there, his hands in his pockets. I hung up the trousers and walked up front.

  He smiled when he saw me. “Good morning.”

  “Hi.”

  “I was just making sure we’re still on for tonight.”

  I nodded. “I found a babysitter.”

  He smiled. “Awesome. Then I’ll see you at seven.”

  “Seven it is.”

  “Do you like Italian food?”

  “I love Italian.”

  “Great. I was thinking dinner and a movie.” He just stood there awkwardly, then said again, “Well, great. See you at seven.” He turned and walked out.

  Roxanne walked in before the front door closed. “Girl, that boy is smitten.”

  “Will you quit spying on me?”

  “No way.”

  I shook my head and walked back to the press. Roxanne followed me back.

  “So what are you and the hunk doing on your date?”

  “Dinner and a show.”

  “No show—bad choice for a first date. Movies are for old, boring couples who have run out of things to say. Like me and Ray.”

  “It’s not my choice.”

  “You’re the woman, it’s always your choice. Just take your time at dinner and then suggest something else. Trust me, smitten as he is, he’s eager to please.”

  “Suggest something else, like what?”

  “Girl, you’re almost thirty. Think of something.”

  I shook my head. “No. Absolutely not. Nothing physical. Not even a kiss.”

  “Are you really trying to run him off?”

  “Maybe. Besides, he said he just wants to be friends.”

  She looked at me incredulously. “He didn’t say that.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “He really said that?”

  “Yes,” I repeated. “He really said that.”

  “When?”

  “At the supermarket.”

  “Then he’s a liar. Men never want to just be friends. And if he does, then you should really worry.”

  “That’s what I told him.”

  “Good, you’re not completely numb.” She touched my hair. “When was the last time you got a cut?”

  “Five weeks ago.”

  “It’ll pass. So here’s what you do. After dinner, get a coffee to go, drive up Millcreek Canyon and just sit in the car and talk.”

  “Why don’t we just get a coffee at the restaurant?”
>
  “This isn’t about food, it’s about strategic placement.”

  I held up my hands. “Stop right there. This isn’t about strategic anything. I have no place in my life for complications. If he can carry a conversation, we’re fine. If not, then lucky me, I dodged a bullet.”

  Roxanne sighed. “Okay, fine. You’re right. Boring as all get out, but right. What time is he coming over?”

  “Seven.”

  “Jan will be over at 6:45. And I expect a full report in the morning.”

  “That I can do. Now let me work, boss.”

  “Okay, okay.” As she walked back out front, she shouted after me, “Remember, full report.”

  I smiled. I love that woman.

  Jan arrived around six-thirty. I had just gotten out of the shower when Charlotte let her in. I came out wrapped in a towel.

  “Hi, Mrs. C.” Jan was dressed in a maroon baby-doll dress with black tights and a denim jacket.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought I said seven.”

  “You did,” Jan said brightly, “I’m off the clock until seven. You know, I just love hanging with my Char.”

  “Thanks, honey. I made Charlotte some Ramen noodles for dinner. I’ll be in the bathroom getting ready.”

  I went back and got dressed then started on my makeup. It had been a while since I’d put that much time in at the mirror and it made me happy. It felt good to feel pretty again. I was putting on my mascara when I heard Jan scream, “Mrs. Cardall! Mrs. Cardall!”

  I dropped my mascara and ran out to the kitchen. Charlotte was lying on the kitchen floor shaking. Her eyelids were fluttering and her body stiffening. Jan was kneeling beside her, pale as milk. I dropped to Charlotte’s side. “She’s having a seizure. Call 911!”

  Jan popped up and ran to the phone while I held Charlotte’s shoulders. “Honey, it’s Mom.”

  “It’s 911,” Jan said. “What’s your address?”

  “Twenty-four twelve Oakhurst,” I said, “tell them to hurry!”

  Jan repeated the address. “They want to know what’s happening.”

  “She’s having a seizure.”

  “They want to know if she’s had one before?”

  “No. What do I do?” I said, trying to stay calm.