Life, Etc. -- Eleven

          About 8:30 that evening, Megan had just kissed Emily goodnight, when the phone rang.  “Hi, this is Diane,” Megan heard before she could say hello.  “Have you got a few minutes?  I want to tell you about my visit with Isabelle Fisher.”

          Megan smiled.  “I’ve got al-l-l night.”

          Diane started out by saying that the woman told her it would be OK to tell Megan about the visit.  “She’s not really much older than we are.  She likes our book club and wants to become a part of it.  She wanted to know if anyone could come, was there a cost to join, and if she’d be welcome?”

          “All those questions after she came unannounced her first time?”  Megan figured there must be some agenda.  She felt more than a little paranoid—after all she WAS Roland Fisher’s wife.

          “Megan, wait until you hear her story—it’s incredible!”  Diane hesitated, then a deep sigh and spoke, “You know, I should not be the one telling you all this.  Isabelle needs to do this herself.  I want to bring her over myself tomorrow.  I’ll try to make it when Chris is working so he can watch the store while we go upstairs.  Can I make arrangements and call you tomorrow?”

          After Megan hung up, she felt suspended or was it the sensation of waiting for the other shoe to drop?  Perhaps again she might just be feeling paranoid.

 

          She laid the phone down and it rang again.  As soon as she heard the voice, Megan wondered, Will my heart ever just relax when I hear Jonathan’s voice?  “Megan, I’d really like to have Emily for Thanksgiving.  Do you think that can happen?”  The plan was that Emily spend both Thanksgiving and Christmas this year with Megan since Emily had spent an extra week with him last summer.  But Jonathan was never satisfied with status quo.

          “I’ll have to let you know, Jonathan.”  Megan handled his changes in schedule better when she took time to think them through.

 

          “Aw, come on, Meg.  You’ll get her all Christmas break.  I’m going to be out of the country then.”

 

Hmmm…  Where is he going?  Impressing one of his girlfriends with a trip?  “Jonathan, I said I’d let you know.  Give me some time.  I’ll call you on Saturday.”  Megan hung up quickly.  She didn’t want to get into a conversation with him tonight.  For the most part, they got along well.  They both made an effort for Emily’s sake, but it still hurt to have Emily come home from her visits and talk about women who went places with them.  Jonathan wanted to be a good father, but had trouble doing it alone.

 

            At 2 p.m. the next day, Diane and Isabelle Fisher walked through the front door of the shop.  Megan went to greet the women.  “Hi,” Megan tried to sound cheerful and welcoming.  “Let’s go upstairs.”  She called Chris, “Come on out front, Chris, so you can keep an eye on the door.  I’ll be upstairs for awhile.”

          Diane and Isabelle were sitting on the couch as Megan brought in tea and scones.  She set the tray on the coffee table.  “Do you mind if I call you Isabelle?” Megan looked as cheerful as she could at the very pale Isabelle Fisher.

          “Oh yes, please do.”  she said with a smile as she looked around the living room.  “Your home is really pretty.  I love your bright colors.”

          Megan was surprised that someone so colorless would notice.  “Thank you, I think it’s cheerful.”

          “Megan,” began Diane, “Isabelle gave me permission to talk about my visit with her, but I think she needs to tell her own story.”

          Again Isabelle smiled shyly.  “Well, if you want me to.”  She shifted in her chair and took the cup in her hand.

 

          Megan sat on a chair across from the couch.  She felt incredibly uncomfortable—what was Diane thinking, putting this woman on display like this?

          Isabelle took a sip of her tea and then looked at Megan.  “I guess my story begins a long time ago.  I was raised by missionary parents.  We lived in Belize from the time I was four until I turned 12.  My father was pretty hard line about Christianity—very conservative in his thinking and believed if you spared the rod, you spoiled the child.

 

“I was about 11 years old when I became very ill.  My parents took me to a doctor in Belmopan, the capitol of Belize.  I had terrible stomach pains and vomiting.  The doctor gave me some medicine, but the pain just got worse.  Mother wanted us to come to the U.S. for better medical treatment, but my father said it was probably the flu and wouldn’t allow us to go.

          “During the time I was ill, he had to travel to another area for two week long evangelistic meetings.   We lived in a small village, so our home was much like many in the area—quite shanty-like—a couple of rooms, natural lighting and no electricity.  We burned candles in the evenings.  Mother worked hard to keep it neat and clean.  Most cooking took place out of doors.

    

"After my father left for the meetings, I got no better and Mother became terribly worried.  She talked to some of our neighbors and they suggested she take me to a bush doctor who lived in another village.  My father thought that kind of thing was of the devil and would have been furious if he knew his daughter was being treated by a local doctor.  But my weakness and weight loss left Mother desperate.

          “One morning, a couple of days after my father left, two men from the village came to take us to Benque to see a doctor there.  One of Mother’s friends accompanied us.  The men had a rusty old truck.  I lay on a pile of blankets in the back with Mother.  It was hot.  The road was bumpy, and I was terribly weak.  The trip took about an hour.  When we arrived, one of the men carried me to a hut and laid me on an old table.  The hut had no electricity, and it looked dirty.  I could see Mother’s worried face as she looked around.

          “An old woman came into the hut and talked with Mother’s friend.  Mother spoke Spanish but the two women spoke in Mayan.  Our friend asked Mother to explain all of my symptoms and she translated them for the bush doctor.  While they were talking, I fell asleep.  I woke up as the old woman was washing my body with something that had an odd but pleasant smell.  Then she gave Mother some ground up leaves and told her to make tea and I had to drink the tea several times a day.

          “The short story is that by the time my father returned 12 days later, I was better.  Of course, my father said that he’d been right—I’d had the flu.  He never found out about my trip to the bush doctor.”

          Isabelle looked at Diane and Megan with a sheepish smile.  “I’m sure I know what you’re thinking.  ‘You definitely married your father!’ And, in many ways you’re right.”  Megan only smiled.

             The story continues...