by Hope Lyda
Marcus taped a picture of the house he bought with his grant money—the site of the soon-to-be Chicago Urban Youth Center. He wrote the word Future in blue marker. Below this image is a shot of Marcus and me sitting on a park bench. Jon is standing by Marcus, tugging on his sleeve, and Elsa is leaning against me. It was during our field trip to Williamsburg. Marcus is looking at me and smiling. I am laughing with my head tilted toward Marcus. Beneath this is the word friend.
Friend.
I stare at the word and the image. Then I focus on the one who was always there to make me happy, to work by my side, to serve the same beliefs and purpose that I did. This is what I will write in his Bible. I retrieve it from my bag and start my inscription—You have been by my side for so many important moments. May this encourage you along the rest of your journey.
I am about to write “your friend, Mari,” but my hand stops moving across the page.
The word “friend” looked strange earlier, and now it sounds funny in my mind. It doesn’t fit what I feel inside.
You can trust the heart God gives you, Mari.
What Is Normal, Anyway?
Can it really be this easy?” Caitlin’s words come back to me. Can all the pieces suddenly fall into place? Are we given moments of clarity and understanding after years of denial?
These are my thoughts as I rush down the stairs and out the front door. Bernie is raking the leaves beneath a maple tree, wearing headphones and nodding to the beat.
I stand before him in the dress and my tennis shoes, looking what I imagine to be a bit maniacal. Bernie slips his headphones off. “You are a bit overdressed for yard work.”
“When Dad called, did he say what time they would return?”
“They are at the retreat until tomorrow afternoon,” he says, rubbing his chin.
I look around at my vehicle choices. The 15-passenger van is parked at the curb. I could change clothes, pack a bag, and get to Virginia in no time. I’ll tell them all I’m not getting married and then I’ll ask Marcus if we can talk. Really talk. About matters of the heart and forever after.
“But your dad didn’t call. I was there, just this afternoon.”
“Why?”
“To pick up Marcus.”
I glance around like a frantic bird. “So what’d you do with him?”
“He decided to go to Chicago early. I hope you won’t take this wrong—but I think after your folks announced your engagement, he seemed eager to get moving.”
“He’s gone? Gone without saying goodbye?”
“I think that was the idea.”
I step backward and my foot hits a divot in the ground. I nearly fall into a pile of leaves.
“I don’t usually have this effect on women,” he chuckles. As Bernie puts out a hand to steady me, he holds me for a few seconds and looks into my eyes. “When I dropped Marcus off at the train, he looked downright sad. He almost got rid of the poster with the photos, but I convinced him you’d want it.”
I’m nodding. Yes, I do.
“After all, the guy put a lot of work into it. Just because you are getting married, it doesn’t mean…”
I do.
Slowly I return to the present moment and interrupt Bernie midsentence. “Train?”
“Yeah. I just dropped him off at Union Station.”
“I’m not getting married, Bernie. We broke up!” I shout loudly, raising my hands and the Bible I am still clutching in the air.
“I think there is someone who would love to hear that.” Bernie pushes a space between his work gloves and his sweatshirt sleeve. “Train doesn’t leave for another thirty minutes,” he says this with a crooked smile. “If you left now…”
I glance at the dress, as does he. There is no time to worry about looking like an idiot if I want to catch Marcus. I run into the house to grab my purse and the van keys.
“Miss! You cannot go past this point without a ticket.” A male security guard stops me before I head to the tunnel for the train to Chicago. He and his female partner seem glad to have an obvious person to pull from the crowd and question.
“I’ll buy a ticket. I have my purse. How much? I need to get down there.” I am flustered and barely able to get my wallet open. The emptiness of it is a fast reminder that I gave Edmond every last bit of money I had.
The heat of tears makes its way to the corner of my eyes. “I’m not a crazy person. I’m normal. Or pretty normal. I need to get to the tunnel or I’ll be too late and…”
“Are you part of that Vera Wang photo shoot?” The female security guard asks a bit dubiously.
“Yes!” I point to her with a shaking finger. “And I’m late. And nothing against Vera, but for such a petite woman she is really tough. She might hurt me. I’ll definitely lose my job. Please.” I curtsey and beg. It seems the thing to do.
The man pulls at his ear lobe and looks me over. He shakes his head. “When did the grunge look hit the bridal scene? What’s with the tennis shoes?”
“It is for next year’s fall lineup,” I say while scanning the crowd on the other side of the gate.
The female winks at me and pushes a button to let me through the ticket-operated door. “Men don’t understand fashion, honey. Better go before Vera slaps you around.”
“Thank you.” I go through the turnstile but my dress gets caught on the metal arms. A couple rough-looking boys in black leather gently wiggle the mechanical pieces until I am freed. “Thanks, guys!” I wave at them backward and keep running.
The crowd parts as they let the crazy woman in a wedding dress make her way through the station and toward the train about to depart.
“Marcus! Marcus!” I’m hollering like a lunatic and cannot believe my fabulous luck in not getting arrested yet.
I see the photographers and the actual Vera Wang models. They all wave to me and watch me pass by. One photographer starts taking pictures, and I see the models point and talk among their skinny selves, probably about how hard it must be for overweight bridal models to get these jobs.
I see Marcus about to board. He hears his name and turns to look. He has a big duffle bag in his hand, which he drops in shock. He squints his eyes beneath the rim of his Chicago Cubs baseball cap as if unable to put this image into a normal context.
“I’m not getting married!” I give a celebratory shout.
It is then that I recall my dream of being surrounded by a white cloud, and I am happy. I’m running as if my lungs and legs are used to the pace. But in this real-life version I know what I am running after, and it is something important—it is my future. And there is no denying it.
About the Author
Hope Lyda has worked in publishing for ten years and is the author of the One-Minute Prayers™ series in addition to several gift books, including Everything I Know I Learned from Home Improvement. Her first novel, Hip to Be Square, introduces Mari and her journey toward love and self-discovery.
When not journaling or aspiring to write and travel, Hope enjoys her work as an editor helping others reach for and achieve their dreams. She and her husband, Marc, live in Oregon.
Hope can be reached in care of:
Harvest House Publishers
990 Owen Loop North
Eugene, OR 97402
Or by email at:
[email protected]
www.HopeLyda.com
