Goodnight to My Thoughts of You

by Chelsea Rotunno

  Chapter Six

  The Pier

  He was right on time. I climbed into his car. I was excited. I had curled my hair, and I wore tight jeans and a black blouse that showed off my ballerina shape. He wore a jacket over a white shirt and jeans. We were going to dinner. This was officially an official date. Before I could feel completely comfortable, I had to clear things up.

  “When did you get to Denny’s last night?” I asked as he drove up the ramp, onto the 101.

  “Nine-thirty.”

  I knew that wasn’t right. But I forgave him.

  “Wow. I thought you flaked on me.”

  “I would never flake on you.”

  He looked amazing; his black hair was slightly gelled. When his blue eyes met mine, my brain buzzed and I couldn’t stop smiling. By the time we got to Santa Barbara, my face hurt.

  He parked, and when we got out of the car, the cool, salty beach air filled my being and increased my euphoria.

  He guided me up Stearn’s Wharf to Surfside.

  We went up a flight of stairs to the second floor. Our feet pounded on the wood steps, and the noise of the restaurant got louder and louder as we approached.

  “I’ve never been here before,” I shouted to Paul so he could hear me above the noise and music.

  “I think you’ll like it,” Paul shouted back. I felt important as we strolled over to our table, kicking peanut shells as we went. A pile of peanuts greeted us at our table, and Paul explained that part of the fun of Surfside was eating peanuts and throwing the shells on the floor.

  “Wow! I love this place already!” I shouted.

  We ordered cheeseburgers and sat and talked. We had to ask each other to repeat everything we said, so instead of talking, we started throwing the peanut shells at each other. Paul knew how to make me laugh.

  The food was great, but neither of us ate very much. I could hardly eat because I was so excited. He said he couldn’t eat because his mom had made him a big lunch that day. When he got up to go to the bathroom, I quickly moved his plate to the side and wrote him a note on the table using peanuts: “Hi.”

  When he saw my note, he smiled. He had a great smile.

  “Let’s go,” he shouted. “Let’s go enjoy the fresh air!”

  We walked outside to the edge of the pier, circled around, and then walked back and sat on a wooden bench below Surfside. It was cold. We were close together with our hands in our jacket pockets.

  After sitting silently for a while, he spoke. “I don’t want to go back to the sports ministry,” he said.

  “When do you go back?”

  “In two weeks.”

  “Are you kidding? You have to leave the country in two weeks?”

  He nodded and looked right at me. He put his arm on the bench behind my back, and I lost my train of thought. “It’s so dreary and lonely over there. I hate it.”

  I didn’t know what to say. We sat quietly for a while longer. I looked up at the night sky and remembered God’s presence in Mexico. That great, loving God was here with us as well. I said a prayer in my heart for Paul.

  He stood up and walked just ahead of us to the gray wooden railing on the pier. I got up and stood next to him, leaning on the splintered wood. I looked down into the dark water as it lapped and splashed against the sides of the black barnacle and mussel shell-covered posts shining below. I was filled with awe. This time. This place. This man by my side.

  Paul looked past me, across the water to the shore. Then he spoke. “I was in such a low place after Caroline got married. I thought about doing something really terrible. The most terrible thing.”

  “What?”

  “The worst thing possible.”

  I didn’t know what he meant. I thought he might mean suicide. I tried to imagine what could be worse than suicide; all I could come up with was the possibility of him wanting to sleep with a prostitute or any other woman for that matter.

  Whatever it was, I had to ask him one question.

  “Would you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Would you ever do that terrible thing?”

  He stood gazing across the water for what seemed like a long time. I couldn’t look at him, but I felt him leaning on the railing next to me. He took his time and answered very intentionally.

  “No,” he said confidently, pushing off the railing with both hands and taking a step back.

  It’s hard to explain what happened next.

  Right after Paul said no, I felt a sense of darkness. It swept over me, and my eyes opened to the realm of spirits. A large gray-colored demon, about 7 feet tall, sat perched on the railing in front of me, his wings folded against his back. Suddenly, I could feel its heavy hands clenching my throat, trying to plunge me toward the ocean. I had no voice, but I wanted to scream for my life.

  “Die!” the dark spirit commanded me. “Drown yourself!” it screamed. “Kill yourself!” A pressure pushed my head down and forward. Sounds of rushing water and cries of hopelessness filled my ears.

  “Jesus!” Finally, I was able to yell. “Jesus, Jesus!” I stumbled backward toward the bench behind me. It was gone. Whatever it was, it was gone. Tears streamed down my face and into my mouth. I sat on the bench hunched over, out of breath.

  “What happened?” Paul ran to my side and grabbed my hands. I was trembling. I didn’t want him to touch me. “Miriam, tell me what happened.”

  How could I explain to him? I didn’t even know what had happened.

  “Something wanted me to die. It was filled with hatred. It wanted to drown me—or it wanted me to drown myself. This has never happened before.”

  “Keep talking, tell me more.”

  “I don’t want it!” I cried, shaking my hands. “I don’t want this!”

  I hung my head and covered my face. I couldn’t pray; I was too angry. Yet I didn’t know why I was so angry. I was mad—at Paul. It was his struggle. This was his demon. I wanted nothing to do with it.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here,” he said.

  I walked stiffly to his car, and we drove up the street to a small coffee shop. He ordered some hot tea while I stared out the window. Everything seemed to be slanted diagonally. I watched a person walk by with a cat on a leash and strained to steady my senses. Could this get any weirder? I felt pressure in my head like I had water stuck in one ear.

  Paul sat down next to me and placed a cup of tea on the table in front of me. Surrounded by the smell of coffee and the strumming of an acoustic guitar, I began to warm up and settle down.

  “There’s one more place I’d like to take you—when you’re ready,” he said softly.

  “Can we go to your car and pray first?”

  “Of course.”

  So we took our tea to his car. I prayed silently. Then I prayed out loud. I prayed for a long time. I thought back to Mexico when I felt attacked, and Alli had prayed for me in the van. She had prayed and prayed. So I kept praying. Finally, I felt better. The oppression was gone.

  “Sorry if that was the longest prayer ever. You must be really bored,” I apologized.

  “No, it’s OK. I’m not bored,” he said. But I could tell that he was. We were both content to move on with our evening and pretend that nothing had happened.

  After a short drive we arrived at a dock with rows and rows of beautiful boats. No one was around. It must have been midnight. We got out and walked along the water. The breeze chilled my face, and I wanted to hug Paul just to stay warm. But I didn’t touch him, and he didn’t touch me.

  All the way to the edge of the dock and back we walked, silently. So many things came to my mind—flirtatious comments, ways I could make contact with him—but I kept my mouth shut. The awkwardness of what had happened earlier deterred me from doing anything daring.

  I looked up at the moon. Gorgeous, gorgeous night. If only he would take me in his arms and kiss me! If only God would let my dreams come true.

  On the way back to the car I was temp
ted to grab his hand. He went through all this trouble to bring me here, I thought. But he was still my church leader. I was still underage. I just couldn’t do it. He didn’t do it either.

  We got back to Denny’s around two in the morning. We both got out of the car and stood facing each other for a moment. Then I turned, and he escorted me to my car.

  “Thank you so much for tonight,” I said. “I had a great time.”

  “I had a great time too,” he said. “You are a very special girl. I know God has great plans for you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Your heart is good,” he said. “Your heart is His.”

  “You are . . . amazing,” I told him. “You know how to make me feel special.”

  “I’m sorry about what happened on the pier,” he said.

  “I hope we can both wake up tomorrow and forget that even happened.”

  “That sounds good to me,” Paul said.

  I took a step toward him so our arms were touching. Playfully, I leaned on his side and looked into his eyes. He took my hand and pointed to my purity ring.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “It’s my purity ring,” I said. “I got it after I got baptized. Do you remember when you baptized me at the lake?”

  “Yes.”

  “I read Passion and Purity by Elisabeth Elliot that summer. I decided not to kiss anyone else until my wedding day. And I wear this ring to remind me of my promise.”

  “That’s good,” he said.

  “You better stop being so sweet,” I said. “You’re making it hard for me to not kiss you.”

  “A friend once told me that kissing is one way to know if you are meant for each other. When you kiss the right one, you just know.”

  “I think I already know,” I said.

  “Do you?”

  “If it’s God’s will.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  When I got home, there was a note on my bed, written in my mom’s frantic scribble:

  “You are grounded! I forbid you to see Paul again!”

  “Perfect,” I said under my breath, and I plopped down on my bed, exhausted. But I couldn’t sleep. I sat up late into the night, writing in my prayer journal about what had happened on the pier. I stayed awake, crying quietly and writing poems until I knew that only Jesus was in the room with me.