Page 25 of In a Word, Yes

Nor will I forget what came next.

My pleading. And my promise.

Oh God! If somehow I manage to live through this—if you’ll help me to merely survive—I will serve you with everything in me. Until my dying day,I will serve you.

As if he knows just where I’ve traveled, Roger cues up his best attempt at a soothing voice. “Oh, Carly. If you don’t mind me saying, it seems to me like your check engine light is on. If you were a computer, I’d say let’s run a troubleshoot.”

I stiffen. “For heaven’s sake, Roger, I haven’t got time for that, and you know it! I can’t shut down for service. I’ve got too many metaphoric tabs open!”

“Now, now. Don’t be getting all discombobulated. Forget what I said, babe. It was a lame thing to say. You’re not a machine. And, actually, that’s more to my point. You’re a living thing, is what I’m sayin’. A beautiful garden, in fact, and—”

I lift my brow. I shouldn’t tease, but, well ... “Very poetic, babe.”

Rog looks wounded. “Please don’t dismiss this as a joke. I’m just sayin’, seems like there are rhythms in life. Intentional rhythms. Times we’re meant to push hard and times we’re meant to rest and let God fiddle with us.”

“Oh, he’s fiddling alright.” I gulp past a lump in my throat. That pressure behind my eyes—tears? I won’t have it. Maybe later I’ll cry my heart out before the Lord.Maybe.Because, of course, any fool can see there’s truth in what Roger’s saying.

I left Oregon with those very thoughts stuck to me like pine sap.

“Well then, maybe you oughta consider letting him have his way with you. Maybe he knows what he’s doin’.” Because my husband’s no dummy, he knows to soften unsolicited advice with a wink.

All this congeals inside me like one of those horrific Jell-O salads my friends’ non-Italian mothers used to serve in the 1970s.

Nope. Can’t go there. Not now.

“HowcanI help?” he asks.

“Just ... commiserate. That’s all.”

“Okay, you got it, babe. I’m commiserable.”

I nearly smile. Draw a ragged breath. Roll my shoulders a few times. “Hey. Here’s an idea. What’s say you and me boogie on down to Chester’s for a burger and sweet potato fries?”

Rog levels a patronizing scowl at me. Clearly, he’s exasperated with my refusal to sit with the seriousness of this conversation. But I know how to smooth things over.

I have my ways.

I do a slinky little come-hither walk over to where he sits in the recliner, drop my rear end into his lap. I rake my fingers through his sparse, silvering hair and knead his neck muscles. Boy, they’re tense. Man, he’s warm. And still so strong.

“C’mon, big guy,” I say. “Applewood smoked bacon ... Guinness fried onions ... Swiss cheese ... you know you want it.”

I’ve got him.

“Oh, alright, fine,” he says dolefully, as if I’ve just suggested we go clean the kitty litter box. But I know better.

“Hey,” I say, in as alluring a tone as I can pull off. “I may be a hot mess, but I’m a fun hot mess. Right, babe?”

Nine

quiddle(v.): to busy oneself with trivial tasks as a way of avoiding the important ones

Lucy

“Oooh, look at you!” Dot says when I arrive the next morning.

“What? What about me?”

“You. In that cap. All pointy and green and adorable. Love the puff ball.”