Leota's Garden by Francine Rivers Read Free Book Online Page B

put the phone down and gone to get him. A few minutes later, she’d come back on the line. Sounding embarrassed, she said George couldn’t talk to her right then. He was in the middle of something. Was there something she needed? Leota said no. How are you, Mother? Fine. Everything is fine. As fine as it ever was.
    George never called back. He wasn’t one to talk on the telephone unless it had to do with making money.
    Leota didn’t want to call Eleanor. She didn’t want to hear her daughter’s excuses for not calling or coming by only once in a blue moon or inviting her mother to her own house just over the hill. Leota didn’t want to pretend she believed the lies Eleanor spoke—lies that were never quite veiled enough to keep from stabbing at her heart.
    “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mother. I should’ve called before this, I know. Time just gets away from me. You know how it is. We have so many things going on. I just returned from taking Anne-Lynn down to see Fred’s family in Newport Beach. We stayed for ten days. It was wonderful. We had such a good time together. They always stop everything when Anne-Lynn and I come to visit. I thought Anne-Lynn might enjoy the beaches, but all she wanted to do was see the museums. She fancies herself an artist, you know. Oh, you didn’t. Well, I suppose she has some talent, but it’s just a passing phase. She’s going to Wellesley in the fall. On scholarship. . . . Oh, yes, Michael is doing very well at Columbia. He’s on the dean’s list. We just sent him a check for the new semester.”
    Eleanor and her subtle reminders of her own mother’s failures. Eleanor and her grudges. Eleanor and her wounds and endless whining.
    I’m sick of it, Lord. You know I don’t want to become a burden to my children. Sometimes I just wish You’d take me home.
    The silence closed in around her. She waited, motionless in her chair, for the still, small voice . . . for some sign . . .
    For a stroke.
    Nothing happened. No voice from the heavens. No flash of light in her dim living room. And she was still breathing. She could still feel her heart beating. She had a strong heart. She would probably live to be a hundred. What joy. Thanks a bunch. Tears pricked and anger bloomed.
    Everything I’ve done is meaningless. What did I get for all my hard work? The sun rises and sets and rises again, the same as it’s always done, the same as it always will. Not that I thought the world would stop, mind You, Lord. Just a little thank-you would have been nice. But no. The seasons come and go. The days pass. And what difference will any of what I did make to anyone when I’m gone? Did they even know? Did they understand?
    All I have will fall to my two children, Lord, and what will they do? Sell the house to strangers. Have a garage sale and collect a few coins for things I’ve held precious over the years. My clothing will end up in a ragbag, my garden will get torn out, the letters from loving friends will go in a trash can.
    It would have been better had I died long ago than live to see how pointless it all is.
    Was it ever thus?
    Oh, God, what is the point of life?
    Leota leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Waiting. Thinking.
    It might be better if I got Alzheimer’s, Lord. I had a happy childhood. It’d be nice to go back and live in it and forget what came later. What if I did forget everything? And everyone? Haven’t they forgotten me? But what if . . . ?
    Her thoughts galloped, leaping over hedges, tearing down hillsides, splashing through streams of water without even getting wet, and brought her back to her chair again, heart pounding as panic stirred. What would the future hold?
    Leota pressed her lips together. You know what else, Lord? I’m tired of one-sided conversations with You!
    She got up and turned on the television. Canned noise was better than none at all.
    It was early afternoon and the soap operas were on in full force. Oh, joy. Bold, restless youths, lecherous