The Only Best Place (13 page)

The knot tightened as I tried to imagine bringing the kids there every time I worked. Not only did they live in the opposite
direction of Harland, they thought the opposite of me. Mothers should be home with their children twenty-four hours a day.
Ditto for farmers' wives. For a moment I wished I had gone to church with Dan the couple of times he'd gone. Maybe I'd dare
pray that God would help me figure something out.

“When do you want me to start?” I asked, pushing my worries aside for now. Who knew what would come up?

“Actually, next week Friday would be great. We can start with the basic procedures, standing orders—that kind of thing. I'd
like to introduce you to the staff while you're here, but I have an important meeting to attend.”

“I understand. I'll be here Friday—early.” A brisk handshake and she was off, her feet making only the barest whisper of a
sound. I waited a moment, taking in the gleaming floors, appreciating the cleanliness of the place.

A man shuffled past, holding onto his IV pole, his eyes resolutely on the large glass doors at the end of the hallway. Determined
face. Square outline jutting through a thin cotton house robe.
Smoker,
I thought sadly.

As I walked slowly past the emergency ward, I caught the palpable change in energy. Nurses tidied beds, restocked shelves.
A doctor leaned against the desk of the nurse's station, but instead of trading jokes, his eyes cut to the door. And then
I got it. They were waiting.

I heard the faint wail of the ambulance. The doctor shoved off, the nurses stopped, and my own heart started pumping.

Soon,
I reminded myself, resisting the urge to pull on a discarded gown and join the action.
Soon I'll be part of this, too
.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

There are two words I've come to dread: “Coffee” and “time.” Transmitted over the small intercom we have hooked up between
the house and the garage, those words can send my heart into palpitations of nervous angst. They mean that Uncle Orest and
his two sons are accompanying Dan to the house for coffee. This is the signal to boil water to make coffee, put out goodies,
and clean up the counter while kicking toys under the couch and trying to catch Nicholas so I can wipe his face. Then I have
to put out clean towels in the bathroom and a smile on my face. All this I can do. The weak link in the equation is goodies.
These guys go through a bag of cookies faster than you can say trans-fat. Don't know what Dan will do with Uncle Orest when
I start working. I guess that will be his worry. Haven't told Dan about the job. I'm waiting for the right time. Not sure
when that will be. I'll have to play that one by ear.

Logical Leslie with the Limited Larder

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Don't do that. U are tone deaf! Dan will get over it. Don't sweat it about the kids. Day care a couple of times a week won't
kill them. U R not a farmer's wife and it wasn't fair to Dan to expect U to quit UR job. Nursing is what U love doing. I still
remember that nurse kit I gave U for UR birthday. U practically wore that thing out. As for mixed motives, hey. Who does anything
out of pure motives these days? U have every right to be angry with Dan for siphoning money off the bank acount. And if mom-in-law
thinks that Charles Dickens wages are livin' large, don't blame U for going back to work. Don't apologize for doing what U
do best. But U better tell Dan before U put on UR uniform. U know U can't wait for candlelight and wine.

Smart Sibling Sunning in San Fran

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

I'm being such a radical these days. After I had my interview, I called the assessor. I didn't know which real-estate agent
to go with so I chose the one with the biggest advertisement. I'm a sucker for ostentation. He came yesterday. Dan tolerated
him, and I had no clue what he was supposed to do except come up with a figure at the end of the day that we would file away
with the assessment that was done after Dan's father died. I was glad to know it had been done before. I wasn't a flaming
radical after all. But the way Dan treated him, I was tempted to put a disclaimer on the bottom of the paper: No animals were
harmed during the filing of this assessment.

Leslie the Liability

I
don't want those cookies,” Anneke whined as I dropped a cellophane-wrapped package on her legs. She swatted it away and glared
up at me. “Honey, you don't even know what they taste like,” I said, curbing my impatience. Her drama-queen repertoire had
been on display all morning. Her blankets were scratchy. She didn't like the cute pink turtleneck I had laid out for her to
wear. At coffee time Uncle Orest had teased her and she snapped at him, netting me a reproving glance from Dan. As if Anneke's
antics were my jurisdiction and my fault.

“I want Oreos,”Anneke announced as I consulted the vast array of cookies before me.

I wasn't about to indulge her. In lieu of me baking we were at minimum going to choose wholesome goodness. She would thank
me later when she had strong bones and teeth instead of rickets and dentures and bad knees from overindulgence in trans-fat-crammed
snacks.

As I put the package in the buggy, she crossed her arms and slammed them against her chest, her lower lip dropping in a pout
that would make Angelina Jolie jealous.

In
Parenting Plus,
smart parents were told to simply ignore bad behavior. To focus on the good. So I chose to ignore her and focus on Nicholas,
batting the bar in front of him with his pudgy hands as he blew happy spit bubbles. He grinned up at me and I bent over to
kiss his shining apple cheeks.

“You love Nicholas most,” Anneke wailed.

Yes, my dear child, at the moment I do.
And the guilt I didn't feel was freeing. I gave Nicholas another kiss.

“I don't like you. I don't, I don't, I don't!” Anneke shouted.

A woman sidled past our cart, casting nervous glances from me to Anneke, who now stood in the cart and rocked it with all
the vigor of a frat house boy. I gave the woman a feeble smile as I teetered between ignoring Anneke and simply taking Nicholas
out of the cart and walking away.

“Hey, Leslie, how are you?”

I sucked in an embarrassed breath, then turned to face the unfamiliar voice calling my name. Kathy—the woman from the auction
a few days ago. Today she wore a loose T-shirt and blue jeans tucked into cowboy boots. Today her hair looked like a hedgehog
on steroids.

I discreetly inventoried her grocery cart. Organic juices and yogurt alongside plastic bags filled with lentils, oatmeal,
beans, and various nuts. I glanced at my own cartload, which leaned heavily toward the processed-foods section of the store.
At least I'm getting healthy cookies,
I reassured myself.

Kathy glanced at Anneke, unfazed by her antics. She reached behind her and pulled forward a little girl who had been clinging
to the back of her legs. The girl's hair covered her eyes in a tangled mess. A ring of brown circled her mouth. She wore a
T-shirt with an orange stain down the front and baggy pants that couldn't seem to decide if they were shorts or Capris. “This
urchin is Carlene. My youngest. I'm going to make a sign for her that says ‘I dress myself,’ just so people don't get the
wrong idea.”

“I see.” I wanted to make intelligent conversation, truly I did, but my cart still rocked, Anneke informing me and the entire
world of her feelings for me.

“So, how are you managing? It must be hard to come down here,” Kathy said, absently stroking Carlene's sticky hair out of
her face. She half-turned away from Anneke.

“To the store?” I stole a covert glance at my daughter. To my surprise Anneke had stopped rocking and yelling. She watched
Kathy, puzzled.

“No, you nut—to the country. From the city.”

Just then a boy slightly older than Anneke hurried over full of self-importance, holding two bags of the self-same cookies
I had denied Anneke seconds ago. He dumped them in the cart. “These are the bestest ones I could find.”

Kathy stroked his head. “Good job, buddy.” She must have noticed my puzzled stare. “Cordell is my cookie and cereal expert.
One week he gets to pick which cookies we're going to have, the next, it's cereal.”

“That's cute.” So I
was
wrong in denying Anneke a chance to pick out her own cookies. Why didn't kids come with a manual? How was a mother supposed
to wing it through the myriad of decisions required every day?

“So, how is the dryer working out for you?”

I pulled my attention back to her. “Good. Though I did get the helpful suggestion that if I hang my clothes outside they'll
dry faster.” Wilma generously gave me this comment, accompanied by her usual patronizing smile.

Kathy clucked her disapproval of Wilma's household hints. “I call that cultural warfare and a direct insult to those of us
who prefer to aid the cause of global warming by chucking our clothes in the dryer and enduring the thrill of shrinkage through
ever-changing heat settings.”

This woman was my new best friend. “Not to mention the fact that our overuse of natural resources will spur the government
to increase corporate subsidies to companies seeking alternative energy sources,” I countered.

Kathy clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Lady, you are speaking my language. I think you should come over for coffee.”

I had told Dan I was coming right back, but I figured it wouldn't do Dan any harm to wonder where I was for a while. Maybe
he would miss me and worry about me and when I came back he would enfold me in his arms and tell me that he treasured me and
that he was wrong and that we would move back to Seattle as soon as possible.

Or maybe he wouldn't even notice. He and his uncle had their heads buried in the bowels of the tractor ever since the auction
sale.

“Sounds like a great idea,” I said, giving Kathy a quick grin.

Kathy's house was only a few miles out of the way on my way home, situated close to the Interstate where the valley was wide
open and more populated. As the mailboxes flitted past, I read the names. Brouwer, VandeKam, Huttinga, Flikkema, VanDyke. I
sensed a pattern here. Pretty much pretty Dutch. Then we came to Greidanus and I followed Kathy down the driveway to her house.
Kathy's yard and home surprised me. From her lackadaisical attitude and tough demeanor I expected something less, well, froufrou.

The house was an older scaled-down Victorian—white with green gingerbread trim. It looked like the kind of place a grandmother
with an apron would inhabit. Flower beds lined the sidewalk, tulips and lilies poking up through tidily cultivated dirt.

She must have caught my expression as I followed her up the walk, holding Anneke's hand, Nicholas resting on my hip.

“You seem surprised,” Kathy said, juggling her groceries and Carlene's clinging hand as she pulled open the wooden screen
door.

I knew I couldn't fake it with her and at the same time knew I didn't have to. “I didn't take you for the flowers-and-gardening
type.”

“It's the hair,” she sighed dramatically, as she held the door open with one foot, motioning with her head for me to go in.
“I should wear it long and loose, and drape myself in Eddie Bauer socks, Birkenstocks, and L. L. Bean clothes, too.” She slipped
her boots off on the bootjack and strode into the house. “I've been accused of giving people mixed messages, but hey, in a
place like Harland with so much tradition, it never hurts to keep people guessing.”

“Well, you had me on the run.”

And as my eyes took in our indoor surroundings, I had another surprise. Dishes sat in precarious stacks on a small, old-fashioned
countertop. The table, pushed against a long wooden bench, held a pile of bread crusts and beside it an opened pot of peanut
butter with the knife still in it. A jumble of clothes lay in a heap on one of the chairs. A plaque above the table caught
my eye: “Condition of kitchen variable. Hundreds of people have eaten here and gone on to lead normal lives.”

Kathy dropped her plastic bags by a large floor-to-ceiling cupboard and waved her hand in the direction of her kitchen. “Housekeeping
and me—not friends. Barely nodding acquaintances.” She pulled open the door as Cordell and Carlene heaved cans and boxes out
of the bags and put them away.

“Hey, Nicholas and Anneke, you want to help?” she asked my children, whose mouths hung open in wonder at the freedom these
children enjoyed.

She didn't have to ask my daughter twice. In seconds Anneke dug into bags asking where things went and putting them away like
she was handling the Crown Jewels.

Nicholas had been squirming to get off my lap from the moment I sat down with him. I looked at the floor, then at the fun
the kids were having and set him on the floor in the middle of bags and groceries and kids.

“You put this one away, Mommy.” Anneke pushed a can in my hand.

Cordell pulled out a bag of boxes of raisins with a gleeful yelp. “Let's make a raisin-box tower.” He ripped the bag open
and spilled the boxes out onto the floor. Kathy didn't even blink.

“Yay, a tower,” Anneke called out, though she didn't have the first clue what to do.

“Here, Anneke,” Kathy said pulling the plastic bag out of Nicholas's reach with one hand while showing Anneke what to do with
the other. “You have to be really careful when you pile them up so they don't fall. Carlene, you help Anneke. Here, Nicholas,
here's some boxes for you.”

“I've been had,” I said to Kathy as I helped Anneke balance a box on yet another tower. “All this time I've been spending
a fortune on educational toys when fun and games were right in front of me in the form of boxed raisins.”

“Welcome to Groceries R Us.” We made a couple more towers and then Kathy clapped her hands. “Okay, Cordell, Carlene, Anneke,
let's put the boxes away. You go to the playroom and keep yourselves busy for a while,” Kathy said in a tone suggesting that
no protest would be forthcoming. And none was. When they were done, Cordell picked up Nicholas as if he had been doing this
all his life and carted him down the hallway, Carlene and Anneke trailing along behind him. I looked at Kathy with new eyes.
And wonder. How did she do this so effortlessly? An artist, that's what she was.