Rachelle turned on the cell and listened to Gabe’s messages with disgust.
He had been calling off and on for two days now, and she hadn’t bothered to respond. He hadn’t mentioned Veronica, so she was curious to know if he was aware that this nurse and girlfriend had contacted her.
Then again, knowing Gabe, he was playing innocent. He’d take whatever position served him best. Since the “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy had been working, he wasn’t going to alter it.
Rachelle still didn’t know if she loved him or whether that should factor into her decisions about the future. Had that mattered when she married him?
She had reached the conclusion that whatever happened to their relationship long term, they were going to have to develop better communication and some level of respect, for the sake of their children. She also realized that whatever doubts she had about her marriage, something was there, because when she allowed Veronica’s news flash to penentrate her defenses, it hurt deeply to imagine that Gabe had slept with another woman, and one she knew at that.
How would Mom tell me to handle this?
Rachelle smirked. She could hear her mother now—“What do you mean, what should you do? He’s a heart surgeon. Go shopping and get over it!”
And Alanna?
That one was trickier. Little sis seemed to be mellowing, so Rachelle wasn’t sure what she could expect—advice to forgive and try to work things out with Gabe, or an itinerary on when and where the beat-downs for Veronica and Gabe should occur.
Rachelle was leaning toward the latter, but she was pretty sure that wouldn’t make God happy, and she was glad that Aunt Irene, who sat in the passenger seat perusing a magazine, couldn’t read her mind.
She drove into the parking lot in front of Cynthia Bridgeforth’s medical office while she listened to Gabe’s fifth and final message.
“Rachelle,” he paused for a few seconds and sighed. “I’m calling to say I’m sorry. For everything. We have a lot to work through when I get home, but I want you to know that I’m ready to try. No more games.”
That was a first. Rachelle pulled the phone away from her ear, as if it were contagious.
Aunt Irene looked at her. “What?”
Rachelle shook her head. “Gabe left me a thoughtful message. I’m not sure what’s going on, but he sounded different.”
Aunt Irene smiled. “That’s a good thing,” she said. “Maybe he’ll come home to a different wife.”
Rachelle tucked the phone away without responding.
Maybe he would, and maybe he wouldn’t. She had thought about all that Aunt Irene had advised her a few days ago and all that Aunt Melba had shared last week.
Aunt Melba was right about Troy—Rachelle was playing with fire. And she was right about the need for Rachelle to stop living on someone else’s coattails. Rachelle couldn’t thrive and be the “daughter of,” “wife of,” “mother of,” forever.
Still, she was scared. Changing might mean losing the life she knew. She wasn’t sure she was ready to stop being Mrs. Covington, just for the sake of being more self-aware. She also wasn’t sure she could keep turning a blind eye to her husband’s transgressions, especially when they slapped her in the face.
“What are you so lost in thought about?” Aunt Irene asked.
Rachelle shrugged. “Everything, I guess.” She grabbed her purse and stepped out of the car. “Come on, let’s go in.”
Rachelle held open the door to Dr. Cynthia’s office and leaned against it, giving Aunt Irene plenty of time to enter with the assistance of her walker.
“This is a shame,” Aunt Irene said. “I look like a ninety-year-old woman!”
Cynthia was standing just inside the pediatric office, waiting to greet her.
“Oh hush! You don’t look a day over fifty,” she told Aunt Irene and gave her a hug.
Rachelle thought that was pushing it, but given that Aunt Irene was actually sixty, it was a compliment.
“Come on in and get comfortable,” Cynthia said.
They had agreed that Aunt Irene would spend two hours in the waiting room, greeting children and their parents when they arrived and offering to read books to the younger ones, if they were interested. Cynthia had positioned a straight-back chair for Aunt Irene near a small table that was stacked with a variety of books.
“The kids will probably come over to the table and tell you what they’d like to read,” Cynthia said. “Just play it by ear, and have fun, Irene.”
Aunt Irene smiled. Rachelle could tell she was nervous but determined to give it a try.
The cozy waiting room bustled with busy toddlers and tired mothers. Some were yelling at babies who could walk but weren’t yet able to articulate their thoughts. Some mothers seemed overwhelmed by several children they were trying to keep in line.
After observing for a few minutes, Rachelle asked the receptionist for the other volunteer smock and began rounding up the kids to steer them in Aunt Irene’s direction.
“Come on, sweetie,” she said with a smile to one busy little girl who was sucking her thumb and a lollipop at the same time. “Let’s read a book.”
The girl’s mother seemed baffled by the invitation.
“I’m going to take her over to the table so that nice lady sitting over there can read a story to her,” Rachelle told the woman. “Is that okay?”
The mother nodded cautiously and watched to see what her daughter would do. The girl, who was about three, took a seat at the table and squirmed until Aunt Irene began reading and pointing to the book’s colorful pictures.
“Where is the red ball?” she asked.
Before the girl could answer, a boy who was sitting nearby with his mother piped up. “Right there!” he yelled. “The dog has the ball in his mouth!”
The boy’s mother laughed. “I didn’t know you were even listening,” she told him. “Go to the table so she can read to you.”
Rachelle marveled at how quickly most of the kids became engaged as Aunt Irene raised and lowered her voice and made animal and car engine sounds to match the action and dialogue on each page.
About an hour into the session, Aunt Irene had read four books and was now sitting in a chair near the waiting room bookshelf, organizing the titles. She pulled out books that were torn or covered with teeth marks and put the others in alphabetical order.
“I know it won’t look like this for long, once the kids start searching for what they want,” she told Rachelle, “but for now, it makes me feel better.”
When a fresh round of youngsters filled the waiting room, Aunt Irene started the process over.
The door leading to the exam room opened and instead of a nurse emerging to call for the next patient, Cynthia stuck her head out and motioned for Rachelle to join her.
“Melba told me you want to volunteer too,” she said. “Come back here with me.”
Rachelle tried to appear unfazed, but she was thrilled. “I’ll be back, Auntie,” she told Irene.
She followed Cynthia down a short, brightly colored hallway, into a mid-sized room. Rachelle grinned when she saw the chart with letters on the wall, diminishing in size from top to bottom.
“I get to help administer eye exams?”
Cynthia nodded. “If you don’t mind. You’re still licensed, right? The nurse will bring the patients who need one back to you.”
“Sure,” Rachelle said. “I haven’t done this in forever, but I’ll give it a try.”
Cynthia smiled. “It’ll come back to you,” she said and stepped out of the room. She returned seconds later with a white lab coat and held out her hand to Rachelle. “Give me that volunteer smock, and you take this.”
Rachelle chuckled and complied. She positioned herself on the stool behind the piece of equipment she would look through to peer into a child’s pupils and waited for a nurse to bring a young patient her way.
She looked around the room—at the seaside mural that featured dolphins flying through the air, catching letters of the alphabet—and smiled. An excitement she hadn’t felt for a long time swelled inside of her. She was about to contribute something, and it felt really, really good.