by L. G. McCary
I pick at the seam of my blouse. “Do you really think she’ll be able to dance again?” My voice catches in my throat.
“She's a fighter, Charlie." David says, rubbing my shoulders. "You heard Dr. Wentz, the sports medicine guy? He didn’t hurt her ankles. That’s the most important thing. You stopped him in time.”
“We should go to the lake,” I say suddenly.
“With Rylie?”
“She can skip rocks sitting down. We need a normal afternoon, David. We have time before the party tonight.”
“I’ll go ask her.” David goes to tell his mom our plan. She says she’d rather take a nap, but Rylie says the lake is officially the best idea ever. She chatters the whole drive about the ballet studios in Colorado and snow. I’m glad she’s excited about moving. It was a battle I wasn’t looking forward to fighting. We pass the park where I used to take her as a toddler, and I shiver at memories I can barely see.
David carries her to our favorite seat on the hill above the small rocky beach. Rylie leans her head against my shoulder and half-heartedly tosses a handful of seeds.
“He’s staying in jail, right?” she says, watching a duck foraging near our seat. I think she’s been afraid to ask what will happen to Greg after all the meetings with the police and lawyers. She’s stayed so strong through all of her surgeries and treatments. I hope this means she finally feels safe enough to let her guard down.
“He will.”
“Like for sure?”
“He has so many charges against him, honey. There are a lot of things that have to happen, but you were so brave when you talked to the lawyers. I don’t think he’ll get out of jail for a long time.”
“Pinkie square?” she says.
“Pinkie square.” I crook my finger and kiss the top of her head.
“I wish I’d never gone to that stupid lock-in.” Her breath hitches. “I wish I’d just stayed home.”
“I know, honey,” I whisper. David sits on the other side of her and hugs her neck.
“What about Aunt Tori?” she asks.
I look at David. We’ve been trying to shield her from as much as possible, but she has read the news reports online.
“He’s in trouble for hurting her, too,” David says. “But she’s safe.”
“She lives with her mom now, right?”
I nod. I haven’t spoken to Tori. I sent her a few text messages after the charges were filed against Greg, but they’ve gone unanswered. Our pastor explained that she’d left Greg when he hit her the night of Rylie’s last recital. After years of yelling, threatening, and breaking furniture, he put her hand through a wall and shoved her to the floor. She packed up and left the next morning while he was asleep. I can’t imagine how she survived his emotional abuse for so long.
I keep thinking about that day when Tori came to Bible study crying and said the china cabinet fell over and destroyed Grandma Patty’s dishes. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t because of a cracked leg.
I told her in my messages that I didn’t blame her and that she can call me anytime. I hope she believes me. I hope time can heal us somehow.
“Why did God let this happen?” Rylie says, her voice small as if she’s scared to ask the question.
I’m afraid to answer her. David shifts on the bench and sniffs away a tear.
“I have spent most of your life asking God that same question,” I say slowly. “I kept wishing I could change things and wondering why He let me make all these mistakes instead of stopping me. Or I worried about mistakes I was sure I was going to make. Worrying if I was too strict or not strict enough.”
It may not be the right answer, but it’s the only one I have.
Rylie looks up at me with surprise. “Really?”
“Yes. Sometimes it was so hard that I couldn’t get out of bed.” Is it too much for her to hear? I don’t think so.
“Your headaches and stuff?” she says.
“Some of them.”
Rylie buries her head in my shoulder, fighting tears.
“We can’t change what has already happened, no matter how much we might want to.” I squeeze her shoulders and wipe the tears that are streaming down my cheeks. “But I don’t want to spend my whole life thinking about everything I would change. I don’t want to miss what’s happening right here, right now. I don’t want to lose more time with you and your Daddy.”
David wipes his eyes and nods at me. “Your mama is right,” he says.
“All I know is,” I falter, “we can ask God to show us what He’s doing in this big mess.”
“Did you ask Him?” Rylie looks me in the eyes, searching my face for what I believe.
“Every day.”
“What did He say?”
I watch the ducks fight over seeds on the sandy promontory below. “That He’s here with us. And He’s big enough to heal you. And me. I think that’s all I need to know for now.” I brush my fingertips against her soft brown hair. “We may not understand all of it until heaven, honey. But I know I wouldn’t have been able to save you without Him.”
“Love you, Mom,” Rylie whispers.
“Love you, too.”
We tease and feed the ducks until David signals that we need to go. We hurry back with the excuse that we want to go out for pizza and need to pick up Nana. I sneak into Rylie’s room to get her ballet shoes and team jacket for everyone to sign.
Her room is partially packed. The wood floor is scuffed, and the barre is dirty from so many years of hard use. I hope it will be a selling point to new owners anyway. I shiver and watch the ghost of the old Charlotte try to plié and relevé against the barre. I remember Rylie laughing at me and telling me that I needed to listen better. The memory hurts because it didn’t happen often enough. I should have played with her more. I should have danced with her. I should have talked to her, especially when Liana stopped being her best friend. I’m grateful we can catch up on lost chats while she does her physical therapy.
The shoes and jacket are in a bag in the closet, so I sneak them back to my room to put them in something less conspicuous. I pass another ghost of myself in the hallway, remembering a day we had nothing but fights over homework. I hated fifth grade.
Even when I don’t see Her, I feel Her. I think I will always feel the Other Charlotte when Rylie gets mad at me or doesn’t want to do her homework. Or when my leg hurts. I know She will be hanging over me when Rylie is finally well enough to start pointe. I doubt the cold down my spine will ever go away and never come back, but I think I will learn to keep moving in spite of it.
I look at myself in the bathroom mirror that I’ve avoided since my infamous haircut. Subtle wrinkles are forming around my mouth and eyes. A few streaks of silver have penetrated my hairline. The years have left their mark.
A shampoo bottle falls in the tub, startling me, and I lean into the shower to pick it up. A shadowy memory of a pregnancy test sends a single pinprick of cold into my hand, and I feel Her right next to me. I’d forgotten that shiver at the first moment I knew about Rylie. The cold doesn’t frighten me anymore. It fills me with a sad longing I don’t have a name for.
I replace the shampoo bottle and turn off the bathroom light. I walk into the living room and see another Charlotte on the couch. Rylie, David, and my mother-in-law are waiting in the car, but I stand still, unable to leave this memory.
That day was a bad day. I was so depressed and anxious that I couldn’t cope with life. I’d thrown up my lunch as nausea gnawed at my stomach, so I claimed I had a migraine. I scared myself then, and the memory scares me now.
I notice a piece of paper sticking out from under the couch and shiver. I gently pull it free and stare at my scrawled handwriting: Don’t let Rylie go! The tangible crinkle of paper under my fingertips brings tears. I fold the paper in half again and again until it is tiny in my hand.
“I can’t fix it,” I whisper to the barely visible ghost lying on the couch. “I can’t change anything you did. I tried.”
&n
bsp; I know She can’t hear me. She wouldn’t believe a word I said even if She could. But I tell Her the truth anyway.
“You have no idea what’s coming, and everyone will think you’re crazy when it does.” I breathe in slowly and close my eyes. “I think maybe you were sometimes. Maybe I was.”
My heart breaks for that hurting younger me on the couch.
“You were so afraid that you couldn’t see straight,” I whisper. “You didn’t…I didn’t listen. So many people loved me and tried to help me, but I was in too much pain to hear them. Even now, on the other side of it, I’m still struggling.”
I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye and sniff. I’ve made so many mistakes, but Rylie and David have forgiven me. They’ve given me grace. I look at the Other Charlotte on the couch and know what I need to tell Her even though She can’t hear me.
“I forgive you,” I whisper. “For all of it. I forgive you, Charlotte.” The ghost shimmers for a moment, lifting Her head as if She heard me. Then She shudders and vanishes like a breath in winter.
Author’s Note
Charlotte’s story was written out of my own experiences with postpartum depression, anxiety, and post-traumatic stress. I know firsthand how paralyzing these conditions can be. I was blessed with a supportive husband, a wise counselor, and good doctors who worked to find treatments that were right for me. This story reflects my own mistakes in that I did not seek support for my postpartum issues and suffered unnecessarily. It wasn’t until years later after some threats to my physical health that I sought help and treatment. I will always regret that I waited so long.
I believe this needs to be said clearly: You are not “less than” if you need medication to support and regulate your brain’s neurotransmitters. God can bring healing and work miracles through a pastor’s prayers, a counselor’s wisdom, or a psychiatrist’s prescriptions.
If you are experiencing symptoms of anxiety or depression, please don’t be afraid to ask for help from a counselor or clinician. If you don’t know where to start, call the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration helpline at 1-800-662-HELP (4357) for free, confidential, 24/7, 365-day-a-year treatment referrals and information.
Tori’s story of abuse is all too common, even in churches. No one should live in fear of his or her spouse or partner. If you or someone you love has been the victim of domestic violence or spousal abuse, call or text “START” to the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE (7233) or visit thehotline.org for free 24/7 resources and support.
Acknowledgments
I would not have interesting characters to write if I did not have so many wonderful friends who inspire me. To Dan and Mendy, Doug and Lori, Daniel and Michelle, Glenn and Mary, Matt and Amy, and Rachael, whatever made you smile or laugh in this story probably came from you (and anything you didn’t like came from someone else).
To the Damascus Blades, the Austin Christian Fiction Writers Mastermind group, my awesome beta-readers, the Stellar Stewart Sisters, and everyone at Lorehaven, I’m so grateful for your fellowship, encouragement, and goofy memes as I’ve walked this journey to publication.
Dr. Watson, Dr. Roark, Dr. Longest, and Dr. Camp, your courses taught me how to mess with readers’ heads, and I hope you are proud.
Brittany, this is your fault. Thank you for making me submit my manuscript.
S.E. Clancy, I think our matching tattoos should be the crying laughter emoji. Can’t wait to hug your neck in real life and celebrate all that God has done.
Corrie, you are my favorite labor and delivery nurse. Thank you for sharing your medical knowledge and for the blessing of over thirty years of friendship.
Becky, thank you for speaking truth, spurring me toward righteousness, and beta-reading a very messy book. I hope you love the finished version.
CH Ramsey, thank you for opening doors and pushing me to walk through them.
Thank you to the whole team at Monster Ivy who worked so hard to make That Pale Host a reality. Every one of you needs a sparkly fairy godsister wand because you made my dreams come true. Cammie, I know I will never again find such a fierce advocate for my vision as a writer, and I cannot thank you enough for your support and advice.
Steve, Diane, Mal, Shauna, Bekah, DiJon, Sarah, and Tim, you’re all getting copies of this book for Christmas, so start practicing surprised faces! I’m so glad I married into the McCary Clan.
Mary, thank you for saying my book was art. I hope it doesn’t give you nightmares.
Sarah, it means so much that you want to read my book. I hope it doesn’t give you nightmares either.
Dad, I’m officially a finisher. You can start busting those buttons now.
Mom, thank you for teaching me to hold a pencil. This book is about a mother’s love for her daughter, and without you, this story could not exist.
To my boys whose escapades made Rylie adorably ridiculous, I hope you won’t be embarrassed when you can read this for yourselves. And to my precious girl who arrived unexpectedly after I thought Rylie might be my only daughter, I’m so glad God gave me you because He’s much more talented at creating little girls.
Caleb, you tolerated an exhausted wife after late nights of writing, argued me out of quitting countless times, and kept the kids out of my hair so I could finish one last paragraph instead of dinner. You are relentless in giving me grace. You are my favorite, and I love you.
And thank you to my savior, Jesus Christ, who has mended my broken places with gold. I am humbled You entrusted me with the task of telling Charlotte’s story. If this book pleases only You, that will be more than enough.
About the Author
L.G. McCary is an old-school Whovian (Fourth Doctor is her Doctor) and a lifelong Trekkie. She has a bachelor’s in psychology which means she knows enough to mess with readers’ heads but not enough to diagnose their problems. She globe-trots as the wife of an Army chaplain, homeschooling four rambunctious kids along the way.
She writes supernatural and science fiction with intense emotional cores, complex characters, and intricate theological themes. Her Christian faith fuels every creative endeavor, from short fiction and novels to art and music.
Her short story, “A Recipe for Disaster,” won Editor’s Choice in the 2021 Sensational anthology from Havok Publishing. Find L.G. at her website lgmccary.com.
About the Publisher
To learn more about Monster Ivy Publishing, the premier Christian publisher of “Edgy, Clean” fiction for kids, teens, and adults, please visit www.monsterivy.com. Don’t forget to sign up for their mailing list! And they also absolutely love connecting with readers and reviewers via Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.
