The thought of her pain at so young an age overwhelmed me. “How old were you when Granddad came home from Korea?” I whispered.
“Not quite twenty.” She still did not look at me. “I was dead inside with Henry gone. I became the Bradleyville old maid, not courting, just workin’ behind the counter in the Albertsville dime store. That’s where I eventually met your daddy.”
A realization dawned upon me, the cycles of life more enveloping than I could have dreamed. “But you hadn’t gotten over Henry.”
She looked up at me slowly, sorrow filling the lines on her face. “No.”
“And you married Daddy anyway.”
“What else was I to do?” She raised her shoulders. “I was twenty-five when I met him, still livin’ with my folks. It took me three years to say yes. I’d never have Henry back. I told William everything; I wanted to be honest. He told me he’d take care of me. And that in time maybe I’d forget.”
“But you didn’t,” I said softly.
She sighed deeply. “Time has a way of healing things you never thought could be healed. I’m not sayin’ the hurt completely goes away, but life goes on.” She gazed at me. “Don’t think I don’t love your daddy; I do. I’ve been with him so many years now, I’m scared to death to think of being without him. But Celia—” She hesitated. “There’s so much for you to understand. Maybe I should’ve told you long ago, but you were too young then. Soon after we married, I got pregnant with you. I was still so sad. Henry had been dead eleven years by then, but it was like it was yesterday. Watchin’ Daddy and Henry go off to war had changed me. I was determined that nobody was going to make decisions over my head again. Your daddy was always easygoing and quiet. But then you came along, feisty, stubborn, talkin’ your own mind practically the day you were born. We just got off on the wrong foot from the very beginning. I prayed and prayed about it; I tried to be the Christian mother that I should. But my prayers just seemed to fall to the ground. I couldn’t find much in myself to give; my heart had closed up. By the time you started school, things were set between us.”
My tea had grown cold. I had no taste for it now; her story flowed bittersweet. I remembered Mama arguing with me over Danny, and for the first time pictured the scenes in a new light, their shadows dispelled by a warm, amber glow. “You knew how I felt about Danny.”
Her smile was sad. “You were the same age I was when I fell in love with Henry. Oh yes. I knew.”
“Then why wouldn’t you let me be with him?” The question spurted from me, streaked with hurt.
“I tried, don’t you see?” She leaned toward me. “That’s why I let you see him at the river every Saturday, when I never should have, even with Kevin nearby. That’s why I had him over for supper; that’s why I gave him a chance when I knew the whole town was talkin’. I saw how much you loved him, and I saw that Danny had grown into a good boy, despite his daddy’s drinking. But then he started talking of travel. And when I saw that yearning in his eyes, I knew he’d hurt you. Maybe he wouldn’t run off to war and get himself killed, but he was goin’ to leave you someday for the world and medals of his own, whatever form they took. I wanted to spare you that. Because I, of all people, knew the pain.”
I picked up my mug and swirled the tea. “You fought me so hard. It hurt so much.”
“I never meant to hurt you. God forgive me for what I did; I only meant to help!”
Her voice was tinged with desperation, and discernment stunned me as I looked into her soul. She had carried guilt for years, as I had. Seeing this, even so I couldn’t quell my bitterness. “You wanted me to marry Bobby when I didn’t love him! You were assigning me the same kind of life you had with Daddy.”
“And I was heartsick over it. But Celia, after what you’d done, it was the only right thing to do. I could only pray that God would bless that marriage and you’d learn to love him, as I’d learned to love William.”
No, I couldn’t believe that. “You knew Henry would never come back, Mama, but it was different with Danny! I dreamed of finding him; I dreamed things would change. I had just lost him, Mama; think of it! I was dead inside, like you were dead when you heard about Henry. Could you have married Daddy then? It took you eleven years to get to that point!”
“Celia, believe me, I was tryin’ to spare you those years. And I’m so sorry!” Her voice trembled. “You don’t know how often I’ve asked God for a chance to tell you so. I set things in motion and we all paid for it. Most of all Kevin.”
“Kevy?” No, no, I thought. She could have her guilt for withholding love from me, for fighting about Danny, but she could not claim the guilt over Kevy’s death. That was mine alone and I would not share it. A tear fell on her cheek. I felt rooted to my chair. I had so rarely seen my mama cry. “If I hadn’t been yelling at you,” she said, her voice breaking, “if I’d only paid attention to Kevin instead, our whole lives would have been different.”
“Mama”—disbelief etched my words—“what are you talking about? I did it; I’m the one who yelled at him! You blamed me for that; I saw it in your eyes.” My own filled with tears. “I had taken Kevy away from you. If anyone had to pay, it should have been me, but it was him. I couldn’t face you after that; that’s why I left.”
Her cheeks blanched. “I thought you blamed me,” she said, choking on tears. “I took Kevy from you, and you wanted to punish me for it. So you waited until we were at his funeral, for God’s sake! We came home already dressed in black to find our only other child gone, and for six years we didn’t even know if you were alive or dead! Maybe I deserved that, but your daddy didn’t.”
“No, that’s not true.” I leaned forward with intensity, clasping her arm. “I wasn’t even thinking about you when I left; I was in shock. Then the longer I stayed away, the harder it was to pick up the phone. Finally that Christmas I just . . . did it. And you sounded so distant, I thought you still hated me.”
“Distant?” She snorted a laugh. “I’d just learned my only remaining child was still alive! I can’t begin to describe my feelings. I thought that call would never come. I’d blamed God for years for losin’ you. But Celia, by the time you did call, you’d hurt me so much, I couldn’t let you hurt me all over again. I had to hold back.”
Hold back. Is that what we had done our entire lives? I from her, she from me, our miscommunications intertwining until they squeezed our very hearts? “Oh, Mama.” I slipped from my chair as she rose from hers, and we reached for each other. “I’m sorry,” I said, sobbing, and she said it, too, crying. I didn’t know all the things she was crying for. I cried for a colored sidewalk and Granddad’s medals, for Kevy’s abandoned fishing pole, for no more suppers with Danny, for a child’s unreturned I-love-you’s, and misunderstandings and chilled silences. I cried for her pain, too, for her nightmares while her daddy was off to war, for burying the man she loved and burying her son, for enduring Granddad’s tales of the very war that had taken Henry from her, for living one life and dreaming of another, as I had done the past seventeen years.
When we were done crying, we collapsed, exhausted. “Oh, now my head hurts,” I moaned and she said, “Mine too.” She fetched aspirin from a cupboard and doled out two apiece. We washed them down with cold tea, smiling weakly.
A voice in my head told me very clearly that Mama was right—this was a miracle from God. This time I could not push that voice away.
It was nearly dawn before we trailed off to bed, hoping for a few hours’ sleep. I paused in the kitchen doorway, fighting with myself. “Mama, mind if I take a drive while you and Daddy are at church?” I hoped I sounded nonchalant. “I have a lot of things to sort out. Can you get him up the porch steps?”
She smiled at me and my conscience twinged. I told myself that going to see John had nothing to do with the miracle that had happened tonight.
“’Course I can. You go ahead; you’ve been stuck in this house too long.”
“Okay.” My hand lay against the doorpost, which still smel
led vaguely of fresh paint. A bird hailed the new morning in one of our front yard oak trees. Before I slept, I would thank God for all he had done. “I love you, Mama,” I said, feeling the words on my tongue.
“I love you, too, Celia.”
chapter 56
Mama had unveiled so much to me that I’d only begun to grasp it as I sank onto my bed that dawn, crooking my arm around Cubby as if I were six years old again. My perceptions of past years shifted inside me as I replayed her words over and over. One revelation after another filled me, until I thought I would burst. One of those revelations was about Granddad. Thoughts of him were painful; he’d always been my hero. To hear he had deep faults that a young granddaughter could never see was hard to accept. His medals, his victories—these were some of the things I cherished most about him, and these were the very things that had hurt Mama most.
Mama.
Thank you, thank you, God, I breathed, for giving her the strength to come to me. Thank you that we narrowed the gap between us so much with just one conversation. Mama and I had already wasted so much time. Just as Danny and I had wasted so much. But with Mama, God had given me another chance. Please don’t let anything hurt our new relationship now, Jesus. I couldn’t bear it.
I hadn’t talked to Jesus in so long, yet the words seemed to flow from me. I hugged Cubby tighter as I began to see God’s plan. In rapid succession the pieces of this plan sifted through my being, each one more awesome than the last. First, that God had been the author of my conversation with Mama. Second, that he had brought me back to Bradleyville for that express purpose, just as Carrie had declared. And third, that God had planned this healing long ago—before my flight from Bradleyville, before Kevy’s death, before I lost Danny. Even before those tragedies, God had known. Known enough to promise Granddad on his deathbed that he could rest easily, for one day I would heed a call beyond the self-centered, guilt-ridden world I’d built in Little Rock and return to the town of my childhood.
My mind could barely hold these revelations. How amazing, Jesus, I prayed, that you could show me so much in just a few short hours.
I, who had held a dead brother in my arms, knew all too well that a cataclysmic moment could alter a life forever. But as the sunrise of thirty-five years cast an ever widening ray through my curtains, I felt the impact of an internal life-changing event designed by God. At the mere raising of his finger, new meanings, ancient discernments, tucked among the shadows of everyday occurrences, had suddenly revealed themselves, emerging to gleam brilliantly like fragments of gold. Even as I marveled at this discovery as one would hold glimmering ore to the light, I marveled at the planning and time he had taken to create it. The sands of minutes, days, and years, of conversations, events, and choices, funneling, hardening into nuggets of wisdom yet to be revealed until the moment he enabled me to distinguish them from the sediment of dreams gone awry.
Now that you understand, God nudged me, will you let me lead you?
What was I going to do with my life now? I asked myself. Continue down the same dark path or allow Christ to light it for me? For some reason God’s invitation did not bathe me in emotion. Perhaps I’d been drained of tears already. Instead it was gentle, quiet. Considering it, I saw how hopeless my future would be if I turned him away after the mercy he’d shown me. So ultimately I made my choice. I prayed from the depths of my neediness, giving Jesus Christ my life, asking him to guide me from that moment on. I needed his help in so many areas. Further healing with Mama, energy to help Daddy, release from the guilt I’d borne for so long. I was so tired of the guilt. I wanted to just take it off, like taking off a lead coat. But the heart clung to what the mind would shed. God, I prayed, I give the guilt to you. Please heal this too.
And, most pressing as the sun rose higher, I needed God’s help with John. For I knew what I should do, but the right action seemed more than I could bear. “I don’t know how to do this, Lord,” I whispered. “I’m like a newborn, and you’re asking me to make an adult’s decision. Please show me another way. Please let John and me be together. Please. . . .”
Finally I fell asleep.
chapter 57
Exhaustion sat as a lump in my chest as I drove out Route 347 toward John’s cabin a few hours later. A gentle breeze blew through my open window, like the breeze the night I had returned to Bradleyville. Following the narrow road with one hand on the wheel, I held John’s directions, lips moving silently as I read. I turned from 347 onto another Kentucky back road, which looked much the same as it wound through the forested hills. Five more minutes and I should see the private road that led to his cabin. “If you pass a large red barn on your left, you’ve gone too far,” he had written. My veins flowed with a thick, sleep-deprived adrenaline as I thought of seeing him, of what I would say and how he would respond. For the hundredth time since early that morning I asked God for strength. I pictured John waiting for me and felt my arms tremble.
I rolled to a stop underneath dense trees, the shade cool. Turning into John’s long gravel driveway, I’d had to close my windows against the dust. He had heard my approach and was standing in front of his small porch, his A-frame cabin of natural wood nearly blending into the forest. He smiled, expectant, clad in jeans and a red knit shirt. I’d never seen him in jeans before and he looked wonderful. I felt my heart turn over.
“Hi,” he called, opening my door. “You found me!”
“Yes,” I said quickly. “But John, we have to talk.”
He paused, studied my face. “Okay.”
“I . . . I can’t—would you just sit in my car for a while?”
“Sure.” He walked around the front, patting the hood, and got in, rolling down his window. “Good thing we’re in the shade.” He started to reach for me but stopped at my expression. Leaning against the passenger-side door, he rested a hand on each knee, concern creeping across his forehead. “What is it?”
He looked so handsome in his jeans and shirt, arms tanned and strong. I could almost feel him kissing me, his chest filling my arms. God, I prayed, I can’t do this. “I have a lot to say,” I began, “and it’s not easy. So I just want you to listen. And I hope you’ll understand.”
“Okay.”
I took a long breath. “Something happened last night between Mama and me. We talked deeply for the first time. I . . . don’t know where you are with God, John. But I know without a doubt that he made that conversation happen. Now I understand the hurts in my mother’s life. And in understanding those hurts, I can finally begin to forgive her past coldness to me.
“After we talked, I lay awake most of the night, thinking about lots of things. And I realized some incredible truths. I realized that all my life I’d judged Mama when I didn’t know the whole story. I could only see my little piece of it. Then I thought about my granddad’s life, his mistakes. And my choices as a teenager—some of them terrible mistakes that I’m still paying for. And I realized that Granddad’s wrong choices and Mama’s and mine were all made because we only focused on our little perceptions of what had happened and what was to be done. When we focused on our hurts and wants, we all did foolish, foolish things that caused other people pain. And we all knew better. We all knew that Jesus was there and willing to lead us, but we just didn’t want to follow.”
I paused, amazed at the words flowing from me. John remained silent.
“What I’m trying to say is that for the first time in years I have finally promised Jesus that I’ll listen to him. Because I know if I don’t, I’ll just mess things up again, and he gave me too much understanding last night for me to want to chance that. So here’s the hardest part.” My breath caught. “I can’t feel at peace about what you and I are doing. Even with my promise to God, I tried to deny that uneasiness. I can’t tell you how much I tried. I want to see you, John. I want so much to be wanted. But my conscience won’t be quiet. It’s telling me that the way we’re going about it is deceitful and that God’s got a better plan for us.”
“I see.” His voice held a defensive edge. “And just what would you suggest?”
I gathered myself. He wasn’t making this easy. “I think we should hold back for now and pray about what to do.” Pray. The word felt so rusty on my tongue. “There’s a lot to consider. I won’t be in Bradleyville much longer. It would be hard to see each other once I’m gone. Maybe we’re just not meant to be at all. On the other hand, maybe you’re not supposed to marry Sharon. But we need to ask God about this, because if we rush ahead, all of us could get hurt. And even if you and I worked out, our relationship would have started in such a negative way.”
He gazed at me intently. “Do you want us to work out?”
“So much.” My throat tightened. “I’m very needy, John. Maybe too needy for you.”
“No. No, you’re not,” he said gently, taking my hand. “But come inside with me now, out of the heat. We’ll talk about this more.”
I knew I couldn’t. I knew I dared not even get out of the car, because if I did, no matter the sincerity of my promises to God that morning, I wouldn’t have the strength to keep them. I wanted John too much. And in my frailty it was all too clear what would happen once we were inside his cabin. “You’re not hearing me, John,” I replied softly. “We can’t do this today.”
“I am hearing you, Celia.” He gripped my fingers. “And I know you’re right; you’re not telling me anything I haven’t thought about many times over. I know I have to tell Sharon. But just . . . not yet. It’ll break her heart.”
“It’ll break her heart more if she hears it from someone else.”
Color the Sidewalk for Me Page 33
