{"id":4245,"date":"2016-11-28T22:27:33","date_gmt":"2016-11-29T04:27:33","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/?p=4245"},"modified":"2020-09-05T03:41:41","modified_gmt":"2020-09-05T08:41:41","slug":"comfort-no-joy","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/comfort-no-joy\/","title":{"rendered":"Comfort, No Joy"},"content":{"rendered":"

Patricia Crisafulli<\/a><\/h2>\n

Holiday Fiction<\/h4>\n

<\/p>\n

\n

T<\/span> he patio door slid closed with a click, soft enough not to be heard, but firm enough to seal her outside. Anna\u2019s breath clouded around her, and she regretted grabbing Jim\u2019s cardigan off the back of a kitchen chair instead of sneaking into the closet for a coat. Inside the house were fourteen people, all loved and welcome, but she couldn\u2019t stand there one more minute in her Christmas Eve hostess uniform: ankle-length black skirt; ruffle-trimmed white blouse; red suede flats embroidered in gold metallic thread. She\u2019d made the roast, mashed the sweet potatoes, filled the soup taurine, toasted the almonds to top the fresh green beans; old favorites so familiar, she didn\u2019t have to glance at the recipes any more. Not even for the homemade tiramisu.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

When did she become this woman? Anna asked herself. Not that she wasn\u2019t happy\u2014she was, most of the time. She and Jim were good. Their kids were good. Her brother and sister and their families\u2014all good. Rare for an adult child over the age of fifty, she could boast that both of her parents were alive and active. She had a nice house, a secure job, and a twenty-four-year marriage that rolled with the ups and downs, most of them minor. Her life was, by all counts, comfortable.<\/p>\n

That word hit her like a stubbed toe.<\/p>\n

Not so long ago, she\u2019d been a college graduate with no immediate plans, who joined the Peace Corps and worked on a public health project in Ghana. She remembered being so uncomfortable\u2014overwhelmed with homesickness and the futility of good intentions stacked up against the enormity of deeply entrenched problems. But she\u2019d soldiered on, pushing her limits toward small progress. She\u2019d stayed even when she\u2019d come down with a tropical fever.<\/p>\n

Now she had a no-chip manicure in a neutral color.<\/p>\n

The patio door rolled back and Jim stepped out. \u201cYou taking up smoking?\u201d<\/p>\n

Anna gave her husband a smirk. \u201cJust checking on the\u2014\u201d She pointed in the general direction of the cooler on the back deck filled with extra white wine and sparking water, because there was no room in the refrigerator, then gave up the pretense.<\/p>\n

Jim crossed his arms. \u201cYou took my sweater.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMy escape plan didn\u2019t include a wardrobe change.\u201d<\/p>\n

In the dim light, he still looked like the lanky, good-looking guy who\u2019d been sleeping on her friend Darla\u2019s sofa twenty-five years ago. She\u2019d been back from Ghana about a month, and was visiting Darla for the first time since college. Jim was a childhood friend, Darla told her, and needed a place to stay.<\/p>\n

Anna can still remember Jim opening his eyes and squinting at her because of his myopia until he found his glasses. She\u2019d been tall, a little too thin from Ghana and the fever, her blond hair long and worn in a braid. \u201cWow,\u201d he\u2019d said. \u201cI thought I was dreaming.\u201d<\/p>\n

Now they lived near Cambridge in a brick house with twin dormers and a pair of columns flanking the front steps. Jim worked for a tech startup\u2014the only team member north of fifty\u2014and she did community relations for a hospital in Boston.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou ever think of what we used to be? Who we used to be?\u201d Anna asked. The question made her throat tighten.<\/p>\n

\u201cPoor, unemployed, thin\u2014in my case, that is.\u201d Jim patted a slight paunch, almost affectionately. \u201cYou still look the same.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHardly. But you know what I mean. We used to care about things\u2014discuss things.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe still care about things.\u201d<\/p>\n

Anna knew what would come next, and there it was\u2014Jim drawing her into a hug, then keeping one arm around her shoulder as he opened the door and drew her back inside.<\/p>\n

She\u2019d been gone about 10 minutes; no one seemed to notice. Anna\u2019s sister, Beth, who lived an hour away, cleared the table with the help of her husband, Gary. Jim\u2019s brother, Josh, in from Delaware with his family, flipped through the channels while Charlotte, Anna\u2019s mother, kept saying she wanted to see hear the Vienna Boys Choir. Josh\u2019s wife, Joelle, popped K-cups in the Keurig.<\/p>\n

Anna rejoined the women in the kitchen. \u201cHot flash,\u201d she said, explaining her absence.<\/p>\n

\u201cTell me about.\u201d Joelle launched into a list of homeopathic remedies\u2014sage tea, peppermint oil\u2014all tried with minimal amounts of success. \u201cCaffeine doesn\u2019t help.\u201d She pointed to a stream of coffee coming out of the Keurig into a mug.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s sugar.\u201d Beth raised her wineglass. \u201cTwo sips of this, and I\u2019ll put off more BTUs than an industrial boiler.\u201d<\/p>\n

First world problems, Anna wanted to say, rolling the sour thoughts around like a mint in her mouth. She helped clear the rest of the table. Then dessert was brought into the living room on trays. The tiramisu dazzled everyone, just like every year.<\/p>\n

\"Christmas<\/p>\n

Jim\u2019s broad back rounded the covers into a mound on his side of the bed. Still sleepless, Anna put another pillow under her head and stared into the cottony darkness of the ceiling. Maybe she shouldn\u2019t have stayed up another hour after Jim, but she hadn\u2019t felt tired and wanted to put away the holly-trimmed serving dishes only used once a year, and the wineglass charms that looked like miniature bells with tiny clappers inside. In the silent house, she heard the distant hum of the washing machine churning the table linens through the rinse cycle.<\/p>\n

Lying awake in this house, wishing for sleep but knowing it was still a long way off, Anna tried to keep her mind occupied with grateful thoughts. The house felt full, with Laurie and Jon both home from college, and sleeping in their old rooms. To think Laurie was twenty-one already and Jon turning twenty in March. She was just two years older than they were now when she\u2019d headed to West Africa for a three-year stint. She couldn\u2019t see Laurie doing something like that\u2014she was too focused on going to law school; maybe Jon, given his unsureness of what would come next.<\/p>\n

Had uncertainty taken her into the Peace Corps? Was it all a desire to put off the grownup life of getting a job and navigating through the hierarchy? She didn\u2019t think so, not then and not now. She\u2019d wanted something that made a difference\u2014that made her different. But it hadn\u2019t lasted. In the end, she wanted the same things everyone else did; pursued the same goals as the rest.<\/p>\n

Anxiety flopped like a fish inside her chest.<\/p>\n

Two hours later, the phone rang. Jim grabbed the receiver, his voice croaking. \u201cWhen?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

Anna got out of bed before hearing the answer to that question, knowing it could only be bad news.<\/p>\n

Jim repeated everything he\u2019d heard from Beth, who\u2019d gotten the call from Don, Anna\u2019s father. Charlotte had awakened a little before four with chest pains and Don called 911. Paramedics were taking her to the hospital. Anna dressed in the first clothes she could grab\u2014jeans and turtleneck\u2014and shoved her sockless feet into the Christmas pumps left by the closet door. She thought of waking Jon and Laurie, but they hadn\u2019t heard the phone and were still so tired from the end-of-term rush, plus the plunge into the holidays. She left a note on the kitchen table and promised to call later.<\/p>\n

Jim\u2019s hair stood on end as he backed the car out of the garage. Anna sat silently beside him, telling herself that Charlotte probably had gas pains\u2014the late night, the big meal, the excitement. They\u2019d check her over and release her by noon. But when they got to the hospital and saw Charlotte, frail and small in the pastel gown, with monitors on her chest, Anna suspected the worse: her mother had a heart attack.<\/p>\n

It was her fault, Anna shrieked silently\u2014her thoughts about being too comfortable. She\u2019d tempted fate, and fate slapped back with something real to worry about, and not just her mother, but also her father, looking lost and confused.<\/p>\n

\u201cMom\u2019s in good hands,\u201d Anna told him.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe had a heart attack,\u201d Don said, his voice shaky. \u201cHow is that possible?\u201d<\/p>\n

Anna patted her father\u2019s hand. \u201cWe\u2019ll see what the doctors say.\u201d<\/p>\n

They sat in the waiting area while Charlotte was taken for more tests. Gary dosed in a chair, while Beth paced and stopped frequently at the nurses\u2019 station. Josh and Joelle came a little while later with a tray of lattes and some muffins. By nine, Laurie and Jon arrived, sullen with their phones, fingers flying over text messages. Laurie had been furious at not being awakened as soon as they got the call about Charlotte. Anna had tried her best to soothe her children with explanations\u2014it was so early, they needed their sleep, it wasn\u2019t that serious.<\/p>\n

Looking over at her daughter now, Anna knew that Laurie would warm up to Jim first, then to her. At some point, they\u2019d take a walk together, going the long way down the hallways to find a bathroom or get something to eat.<\/p>\n

\"Christmas<\/p>\n

Charlotte stayed in the hospital until December twenty-eighth with a diagnosis of unstable angina. She came home with a new diet, a regime of baby aspirin, and follow-up visits that would likely lead to having a stent. Full recovery was likely, the doctors assured them. New Year\u2019s came and went with a small, quiet dinner at Charlotte and Don\u2019s house, which Beth and Anna cooked. Leftovers were packaged for easy reheating. They lounged in the living room, watching yet another college bowl game. Charlotte sat in the recliner, her feet and legs elevated, and clucked in protest over being fussed over like this. Don clasped and loosened his hands, over and over, as if he were afraid he\u2019d fumble them like a football.<\/p>\n

The first week of January, Charlotte received a stent implant. Everything went well\u2014better than expected. Anna relaxed, unclenched her jaw, slept through the night, and used the massage gift certificate she\u2019d received as a Christmas gift.<\/p>\n

Anna and Beth both checked in on Charlotte and Don, although Beth, who lived closer to their parents, was there more frequently. Occasionally, the two sisters came to the house at the same time. They were friendly, but never close\u2014even as children. In marrying Gary, Anna thought, her sister had found her real family\u2014the Rybersens. They all had matching sweaters, she used to joke to Jim; then she saw the Rybersen family reunion pictures on Facebook and her sister smiling with Gary\u2019s clan in her t-shirt festooned with an \u201cR.\u201d There it was.<\/p>\n

Now, working side by side with her sister in their mother\u2019s kitchen, seeing the crumbs in the drawers that, even a year ago, would have been pristine, Anna listened to the stories of vacationing with Gary\u2019s parents, going on a cruise with Gary\u2019s siblings and their families. \u201cSounds nice,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

Anna studied her sister\u2019s profile, seeing their father\u2019s face but not her own. She didn\u2019t look like any of them, Anna thought, although a picture taken when her maternal grandmother was young looked like it could have been her in vintage clothing. Maybe that was the divide between her and Beth, Anna thought: not enough overlapping DNA.<\/p>\n

The cupboard below revealed a jumble of pans and mismatched lids. \u201cDid you ever wonder what you might have done differently\u2014you know, the road less traveled sort of thing?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou mean do I have regrets?\u201d Beth\u2019s voice rose in pitch and volume. \u201cNone. And neither should you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Anna knew better than to try explaining herself, especially not to Beth. She didn\u2019t have regrets, but the feeling lingered that as she and Jim built a life together\u2014good jobs, nice house, kids on the right track\u2014they\u2019d left something out.<\/p>\n

Lining the pans on the counter, Anna matched them up with their lids. Two metal covers were left over. Why had her mother kept the lids after the pots were scorched or the non-stick coating was scratched away? Anna put them in the recycling bin, imagining the metal being melted, reshaped, and remade into something useful.<\/p>\n

Later that night, Jim put his arms around her in bed and wouldn\u2019t let go until she told him what was wrong. She tried to explain, but her words knotted and tangled into a litany of complaints over small things that really had nothing to do with it at all. \u201cAre you tired of me?\u201d he asked quietly. \u201cI don\u2019t want to lose you.\u201d<\/p>\n

“No, I love you!” Anna buried her face against his neck. \u201cI\u2019ve lost me\u2014somewhere along the line. I don\u2019t know where I went or how to get me back.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Christmas<\/p>\n

On a Sunday in early February, Anna put on a suit and a pair of sensible shoes and accompanied Jim to a church three suburbs over, where the infant daughter of one of his direct reports was being baptized. They sat toward the back, leaving the prime spots for family and closer friends. The church was modern, filled with rows of chairs with thick blue seat cushions instead of pews. The windows were colored blocks without any scenes.<\/p>\n

As the minister preached briefly, Anna out of boredom picked up a soft-sided prayer book and leafed through it. A paper fell out from the pages in back \u2013 a bright yellow half sheet printed with the words \u201cHelping Hands, Joyful Hearts.\u201d It was an announcement, from before Christmas, about volunteers needed for the township food pantry, collecting and sorting donations, and delivering meals baskets to shut-ins.<\/p>\n

Anna elbowed Jim and showed him the paper. His eyebrows drew together in question.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m doing this.\u201d She stabbed the paper with her finger.<\/p>\n

On their first weekend as pantry volunteers, Jim helped unload cases of dented canned goods donated by a local food distributor, while Anna joined the team sorting and shelving them. They came back on four of the next six weekends. Then Jim\u2019s company funded the purchase of 250 canned meats. Anna read the labels, wishing the sodium content wasn\u2019t so high, but the long shelf-life and no need of refrigeration made this product a godsend for recipients, some of whom were transient. The following weekend, they packed care packages and loaded them into a borrowed church van.<\/p>\n

Anna and Jim rode in the back through a neighborhood reputed to be unsafe. But their driver knew it well, and assured them the church van was recognized on these streets. Out the window, she saw windows boarded up and kids played on the broken sidewalk. An elderly woman leaned on a grocery cart as if it were a walker.<\/p>\n

Did they resent the help that parachuted in every month or so and then disappeared, Anna wondered. Or did a sincere desire to help and the greatness of the need form a bridge across the divide?<\/p>\n

The van hit a pothole that pitched Anna into Jim, sitting beside her. \u201cYou okay?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

She laughed as she righted herself. \u201cNever better.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Image Credit: \u00a9 Dymax | Dreamstime.com – Nice Crimson Female Shoes Isloated On White Closeup Photo<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Patricia Crisafulli Holiday Fiction<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":4258,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_exactmetrics_skip_tracking":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_active":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_note":"","_exactmetrics_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2,18,1],"tags":[6,100,38,96,122,25],"class_list":["post-4245","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-original-online-fiction","category-patricia-crisafulli","category-uncategorized","tag-christmas","tag-family","tag-holidays","tag-marriage","tag-melancholy","tag-short-story"],"yoast_head":"\nComfort, No Joy | Faith Hope & Fiction<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/comfort-no-joy\/\" \/>\n<meta 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