Atheists Who Kneel and Pray

by Tarryn Fisher

  Ann comes out of the bedroom where she’s been watching one of her shows.

  “For David?” she asks.

  “Yes. What does my horoscope say?”

  It’s a joke between Ann and me. She makes up horoscopes for me. Ann’s horoscopes mostly say things like: You’re detached and emotionally stunted. Let love into your life when it comes knocking!

  Ann frowns. “An opportunity will come to make big changes. Take the trip. You don’t have a driver’s license, so be resourceful.”

  “Shit,” I say. “Do you have a driver’s license?” I sit up suddenly. “Come on, Ann, I can’t rent a car without a driver’s license.”

  “Can you even drive?” she asks, propping her hands on her hips.

  “Yes. Well…er—it’s been a few years for sure. And I’ve never driven on the left side of a car. Should be a piece of cake, right?”

  She shakes her head. “Take a cab.”

  “To Portland, Ann? Don’t be daft. That’ll cost a fortune.”

  “The train,” she says. “Don’t you do that sort of thing in London? I watched The Girl on the Train.”

  “Right,” I say, heading for the computer. “I’m a bloody idiot.”

  “Yes,” Ann says, watching me from the doorway.

  I’m looking at train schedules on Ann’s computer, biting my nails down to the quick when my phone rings. I find it sort of alarming whenever my phone rings. So few people have my number, especially since I change it so often. I expect it to be either Posey or Celine since I’m already with Ann, but when I look at the screen it’s a number I don’t recognize. I answer it despite my better judgment.

  “Yara Phillips?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  The voice on the other end of the phone is hollow like she’s calling from far away. I press the phone closer to my ear so I can hear her better and plug my other ear, even though it’s not noisy in the apartment.

  “Who is this?” I ask. Her accent is from home.

  “I’m calling from Manchester Regional Hospital…” My head jerks back involuntarily. It is never good news when a hospital calls you—never, ever, ever.

  “Your mother, Grace Phillips, was airlifted here this morning. She had a massive stroke…”

  My mother…?

  “How did you…?” I shake my head. Not the time for that. “Is she all right?”

  “I’m afraid not,” she says. “A friend found her; unfortunately, we don’t know how long she was like that. She’s in critical condition. We’ve stabilized her, but…you might want to come in to say your goodbyes.”

  “All right then,” I say. I hang up and I’m chilled all over. I sit down.

  “Why are you shivering?” Ann asks.

  She closes the window and drapes a throw over my shoulders. I’m shaking from the shock, but I don’t tell Ann that. The only one who knows about my relationship with my mother is David.

  “Here,” I say to Ann, handing her the throw. “Our plans have been thwarted. My horoscope was wrong this time.” She watches me sadly as I go to retrieve my passport from my bag.

  “But, you just got here,” she says.

  “I know, but I have to go. It’s complicated.”

  “Isn’t everything?” Ann sighs.

  “Word.”

  Instead of booking a train ticket to Portland, I book a plane ticket home. Some things are not meant to be. Perhaps I need to take the hint that the universe is sending me. I came to find David for closure, and instead, my mother found me. So off I go.

  I hug Ann goodbye and take the skyrail to the airport.

  My mother has brown hair, blonde at the roots. Her hands are those of a gardener’s, tan from the sun, with black dirt underneath her fingernails. As I sit next to her, holding her hand, I rub my thumb back and forth over her skin like David used to do to comfort me. I don’t know if she can hear me, but I tell her where I’ve been and what I’ve done over the years. I tell her about the song of David. I tell her that I forgive her. I tell her what I’ve learned. She dies forty-nine hours after I arrive, at 7:49 in the evening. I do not cry when they take her body away, nor when the kind nurse puts her arm around my shoulders. I cry when I see David getting out of a cab as I am leaving the hospital to go back to my hotel. I don’t have to question why he’s here. I know he came for me. When he walks toward me, I can barely hold myself up I’m crying so hard.

  He grabs me before I hit the ground and he holds me up.

  Two mornings later we pick up her things from the hospital: the clothes and jewelry she was wearing when they found her, and her house keys, which a nurse tells me her neighbor dropped off.

  I tell him that she died forty-nine hours after I got there and he raises his eyebrows. We’re sitting across the table from each other in a little coffee shop. Neither of us has eaten much in days and we decide to split a sandwich.

  “I still have it,” I say, pulling the piece of paper from my purse. I slide it across the table and he picks it up.

  He starts to laugh.

  “What, David? What does it mean?”

  “The lady at the bar,” he says. “—She told me to write something random on the paper and leave.”

  “What?” I say, shocked. “Penny?”

  He nods. “She said that if you give a random object to a person who is searching for something they would create their own meaning around it, and that meaning would reflect the deepest desire of their heart. It was a way for the person to find their way back to you. Even if it took a lifetime. There was no way I could have said anything to make you realize it was me you were looking for your whole life. You had to realize that on your own.”

  “Let me get this straight,” I say, frowning. “Penny told you to leave me a random something—something that had absolutely no meaning—to torment me?”

  He nods.

  “Why the number forty-nine? You could have left me a toothpick or a...shoelace.”

  David shakes his head. His hair is under a beanie even though it’s warm outside. He wears hats to disguise himself, though it’s hard to miss him. Even as we sit in our little corner table people turn to look.

  “It was the first thing that popped in my head,” he admits.

  “It did torment me,” I say in wonder. “I would lay awake at night turning the possibilities over and over in my head. A scrap of paper with the number 49 written on it. She’s a bloody genius, that Penny.”

  “It’s always the eccentric ones who have the most wisdom,” he tells me.

  I roll a piece of napkin between my fingers. “I don’t know how my mother had my phone number,” I say. “I change it so often…”

  “I gave it to her.”

  “How did you have it?”

  He sips his coffee and studies me over the rim. “Posey.”

  I nod. “She never used it…”

  “I think she would have eventually. She was working up the nerve. When I gave it to her I wrote it on a notepad she had on her fridge, so it was right there—your name and number.” I nod. This was all so hard to talk about.

  There’s something I want to ask him that I’ve been putting off.

  “Did Petra tell you that I went to your houseboat?”

  “Yeah,” he says. I wait for him to say more but he just stares at me. Fine, I’ll play.

  “Um, where is she now?”

  He leans back in his chair and puts his hands behind his head as he stares up the ceiling. “She’s still there. We ended things shortly after we got back from Paris. She’s staying there until her new place is ready. I moved into the Four Seasons.”

  “Nice view,” I say. “Did you end things because of what I did?”

  He repositions himself so that his elbows are resting on the table and he’s leaning toward me. “Are you talking about that one time you went on live television and announced to the world that I was yours? Yeah, that caused some problems between us. Especially when I watched it and she caught me smiling.”

  I put a h
and over my face, shaking my head. “That’s just awful. I was being vindictive, acting on impulse, per usual.”

  “Well, I enjoyed it,” he admits. “I waited for years for a sign that you loved me, and there it was. Go big or go home, right, English?”

  His laugh warms me. I squirm in my seat as tiny cliché butterflies fly around in my belly.

  “Yara, I’m just a man, you know? I lost hope and Petra…”

  “It’s all right,” I say quickly. “Let’s worry about today, not yesterday or tomorrow. We’ll leave tomorrow to worry about itself, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” he smiles.

  We eat our sandwich in silence and then he says, “There’s something I have to tell you that’s unrelated to us.”

  I set down my mug of coffee and look at him warily.

  “When I was looking for you I Googled your name. That’s how I found your mother. I came to see her, but she knew less about you than I did.”

  I press my lips together. Posey had already told me, but it was still unsettling to hear it from him. He’d spoken to her before she died and I had not.

  “But how did searching for me on the internet lead you to my mother?” I ask him.

  “Have you ever Googled yourself, Yara?”

  I shake my head.

  He smiles. “I didn’t think so.”

  My hands are fisted on the tabletop, knuckles white. He reaches out a finger and touches each of my knuckles with his fingertip until I stop squeezing and relax my hands.

  “I found a website,” he tells me, looking into my eyes. He hesitates for a moment. “The website was called Dear Yara.”

  I blink at him, confused.

  “There were letters, written to you. Dozens of them. The posts dated back three years. They were written by your mother.”

  There are cliché things one can say about moments like these, things I would never think to say out loud, but in this moment I feel them all.

  “She was trying to find you. As a last resort, she started a website and wrote letters to you on it.”

  He waits for me to say something, but I have nothing. I stare at my hands, my mind blank.

  “Yara, your mother was trying to find you. I thought you would want to know.”

  “What was she like?” I ask.

  “Soft-spoken…contrite. When she spoke about you, she cried…”

  “What did she want from me?” I can’t look at him. I look at my coffee instead.

  “Forgiveness. To know you.”

  I shake my head. I’m trembling.

  “English…” he says, softly…pleadingly. He reaches for me and touches my cheek with only his fingertips, running them to my lips then chin, his tanned fingers against my pale skin.

  “I told her that I forgive her,” I say. “Before she died.”

  “That’s good. You don’t forgive because they deserve it. Most of the time they don’t. You forgive to keep your heart soft. To move forward without bitterness. Forgiveness is for you.”

  “What the fuck?” I say. “Why are my eyes burning?” I shake my head and David laughs at me.

  “Tears are this thing,” he says. “Saltwater eyes.” Something on his face changes. I know that look.

  “Oh my God,” I say. “You’re writing a song about it.”

  “Shit,” he says. “Yeah…”

  “Saltwater eyes,” I mouth while I watch his face. For a moment I forget my mother and the pressure on my heart, and I try to be in his head, listening to the song he’s writing.

  His eyes are closed. I reach out and touch his hand.

  “David,” I plead. “Tell me some of the words…”

  His eyes open suddenly and I regret my request. Soft eyes on fire. It’s a combination I’d rather not stare directly into.

  “She won’t let go,” he says softly. “She’s been here before. Folded, worn, drowning in the saltwater. Someone grab her before she’s gone. All she wants is forgiveness, all she wants is to forgive. She’s gone. In the saltwater. It’s in her eyes. She’s died alone without you by her side. Somebody grab her. She’s gone.”

  I let go of his hand.

  “I have to go,” I say.

  I don’t look at him. I don’t want him to know that I’m on the verge of tears. He doesn’t try to stop me. He knows what I need and in this moment it’s aloneness. I walk back to the hotel, stopping at the off license for a bottle of wine. I wander around the lobby until I find a small business center near the vending machines. There are five computers set up in upholstered grey cubicles; two of them are occupied by men wearing seriously large headphones. I choose the cubicle furthest away from them and settle into the stiff-backed chair.

  I type my name into the search bar just as David said, and wait. I have no nails left to bite, my fingers are swollen and tender. The site is third down on the list. I click on it and then press my fingers to my eyes. Do I really want to do this? No. But I am curious and I need it more than I want it. If someone wanted to apologize, it was only fair to hear them out. I screw the cap off my wine bottle and take a swig.

  Dear Yara,

  I live in a small house in Manchester. You’d hate the color, beige. But the front door is bright blue, a cobalt. It looks like a home, a home that I never provided you with. There is more than Frosted Flakes in the pantry, and there are pictures on the walls. I’m not very good with art, but I’ve hung things that I think you’d like. There is a jacaranda tree out front, and I think of you every time I look at it. I keep my curtains open, even at night when people can see into my living room—just so I can always see it. That tree is you. It sounds so stupid, doesn’t it? It doesn’t matter. That tree is you, Yara. My lost daughter. Do you remember how you loved jacaranda trees? How you always wanted to run through the blossoms when they fell to the street. All of that purple.

  I work for a Catholic primary school. I am the headmaster’s secretary. I see all of those little faces every day and I think of your little face—all of that white blonde hair. You would look at me like I wasn’t a terrible mother, like you were waiting for me to look back at you. I never did. It hurts me so terribly. What can I say, Yara, except that I was a selfish, depraved woman and I didn’t know how to be a mother to you. I had another baby. You were about seven years old and I don’t know if you understood what was happening. It was a boy. A couple from Ireland adopted him. I held him once before they took him, and I remember thinking how much he looked like you. Only he had black hair, Yara. So much of it. He found me about a year ago, showed up on my doorstep with a handful of daisies. His name is Ewen and he lives in London. I often wonder if the two of you pass each other on the street. That is if you still live in London. I hired someone to find you with no luck. I don’t know where you are, but I can feel you. I was wrong, my love. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I pray you will. I pray one day you will come find me so I can look into your eyes and ask you to forgive me.

  Your mother,

  Grace

  I close out the internet window and turn off the monitor. I can see my reflection in the dark screen. My lips and teeth are stained purple from the wine. My heart is stained with hurt. If you love me, why’d you leave me? It’s the question that nags at me even though I know the answer. I suppose it’s a sad song that a lot of women could relate to. I wasn’t the first woman in history to have a lonely childhood, and certainly my childhood wasn’t the worst. She didn’t leave me physically, she left me emotionally. I did the opposite to David, fleeing across the sea to get away from what he made me feel. In the case of both my mother and me, it boiled down to our insecurities. That we couldn’t be enough. And instead of staying to fight, we shriveled up, defeated.

  I have to forgive her so that I can forgive myself. Sometimes people just get stuck and they need a David Lisey to break them out of their stuckness. My mother never had a David Lisey; so many women don’t. And that is the saddest thing of all. I pick up my phone and dial his number.

  “David,” I say when he a
nswers. “Will you come? I need you.”

  “I’ll be right there,” he says.

  He drives me to my mother’s house. I know which one it is before he pulls the car against the curb, just the way she described it. We sit outside in the car for a long time; me with my arms wrapped around my knees, staring at the little single story with the jacaranda tree outside. Her window boxes are filled to the brim with flowers. I inherited her love of plants but not her skill with them.

  “Finished looking for today?” David asks.

  I look at the clock. Twenty minutes have passed since we pulled up.

  “Yes,” I say.

  He drives me back to my hotel.

  “How did you know I just wanted to look?” I ask later when we’re lying in bed. My head is on his chest and he’s been holding me like this for the last hour without moving a muscle.

  “I know.”

  “Yes but—”

  “I know,” he says, firmly. “And I’m sick of you not knowing that I know.”

  “Fine,” I say. “I know that you know.”

  “You don’t.”

  I lift my head to look at him. He’s frowning. I suppose we have a lot to say to each other.

  “Okay,” I say, “let’s talk about things.”

  “Now’s not the time. We’ll have this conversation when you’re done grieving,” he says.

  I sit up. “We’ve been grieving each other for years. Now’s the time.”

  “No. You think you can handle this right now, you always think you can handle everything. And then you know what happens? Tomorrow morning I wake up and you’re gone. Off to serve caipirinhas on a beach in Brazil.”

  He stands up and walks toward the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

  “Can we at least have sex?” I call after him.

  He opens the door. “No.” And then he shuts it again.

  I fall back against the pillows smiling.

  For the next week we do the same thing every day. We have breakfast in the hotel room and then David drives me to my mother’s house where we sit outside for exactly twenty minutes before I ask to leave. We spend the rest of the day walking. Very few words are spoken, and I know he’s giving me quiet for my thoughts. On the morning of the eighth day I decide that enough is bloody enough. I want to have a conversation.