I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know Deals had threatened Braden about me. I took Braden’s hand under the table. He was already talking about a job interview and what he would do next week. But I didn’t let go of his hand the whole time he talked.
Delia left that boy standing in the light of a streetlamp as if they had never met. I walked her over to the valet stand in front of P.F. Chang’s. She said good-bye to me before heading home, back to Boiling Waters. “You love Braden now, don’t you?”
“There have to be love stories, Delia. It’s how we complete our dreams as women.”
“You’re not mad at God anymore then,” she said.
“I never said that, Delia.” But she could know things too without my telling her.
“You can’t love Braden without God. Love comes from God.”
“We’re working things out. God and me. Braden and me.”
“You and Braden still going on a trip?”
“We’re going to sail a boat up the coast.”
“No flying.”
“I prefer the sanctity of tides.”
The valet driver pulled the Miata into line behind a string of waiting cars.
I had inherited much since my father’s passing. A quirky sister and a do over of my life were at the top of the list. I had set out to change Delia, but instead I had changed. The last thing I would give her was permission to be herself, not that Delia needed my permission. God would keep her, and I would trust him to watch over what my grandmother had called the little lambs.
Delia would go on being Delia. But I would go on and let those who told lies take them to their graves, if that was their greatest wish. Misery could tell lies too. I had to learn to tell the difference between my own misery and the possibilities that existed beyond its wake. I could forgive as I had been forgiven. It was proof of God, as far as I could tell. I would know him better, I decided. There was more to my pilgrims journey than the small painful path I had just stumbled out of. As Tim said, he was more than a swirling mass of mystery. God had involved me in my search for answers, and the answer I discovered was that there is more to me than what my mother had covered over. “I love you, Delia,” I said.
She skipped all the way to her car.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
WHEN I FIRST STARTED the journey that evolved eventually into Painted Dresses, I was also celebrating having been accepted into one of the finest creative writing programs in the South, the Queens University of Charlotte Writing M.F.A., led by Fred Leebron and Michael Kobre. I owe a debt of gratitude to the earliest readers, the Queens podmates and peers to whom I am grateful for their readings, late night coffee gatherings, and general writer’s angst talks that helped me rethink my story and make it the best possible story for my readers. Thanks to Sherry T, Dolores A., Hannah H., Rachel M., Peggy C., Charlie R., James M., Henry “Brabham” S., Blaise W, Brook C, Dan B., Hershella S., Sam G., Moyette G., and Claudine G. Also to the faculty authors, Elissa Schappell whose generous eye helped me guide this novel, and to Jane Alison, Dan Jones, Helen Elaine Lee, Naeem Murr, and Pinckney Benedict for wise counsel.
And to those who helped along the way with research assistance, Gayle Jones at the Brunswick County Library, Robin Vore and Jeff Cloud with airplane lingo, and Linda Thornton with facts about the east coast jails. A special thanks to a special young artist, Jarrett Ernest, for telling me about your painted dresses.
And to the editorial team who tenaciously read and re-read and, along with many diet colas, kept me going and believing we could shake the truth out of covered over lives: Shannon Hill, Lauren Winner, and Pam Shoup.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Patricia Hickman grew up in Arkansas where she studied creative writing at the University of Arkansas. Later she moved to North Carolina where she earned an M.F.A. in creative writing from Queens University. She has written fifteen novels for major publishers such as Random House and Warner Books. Her writing is critically acclaimed by publications such as Publisher’s Weekly and Library Journal. She’s taught writing at UNCC and in workships around the country. She frequently speaks on national radio programs. She and her husband live in North Carolina.
Please visit www.waterbrookmultnomah.com
for the Readers Guide
for Painted Dresses.
Dear Reader,
Because this story was birthed out of such a personal and spiritual journey, I thought it would be helpful to share why I wrote Painted Dresses.
I grew up in a household guided by a mother who felt that covering up the past was the best gift she could give her two daughters. But I lived my life under the cloud that something was wrong. The questions I asked my mother caused such a reaction in her that it made me suspicious I wasn’t hearing the whole truth. She used to say, “You ought to be an attorney when you grow up.” She felt cross-examined by me, I guess.
How I knew as a very young girl that something was off-center is a mystery that defies explanation. Then later, as an adult, night terrors and regressive memories became a terrifying reality and left me asking questions. Does the human soul possess its own memory, a kind of invisible truth, or does it know things beyond our present consciousness? And if the invisible truth about each one of us is beating its way to the surface, would that explain the compelling power of human yearning? It is certainly that yearning that becomes the story we writers tell again and again as we pick through our desires, looking for the realities that shaped us.
The yearning that caused me to leave behind my hometown eventually dragged me back, prompting more questions, and causing me to wonder if the people living around me were privately asking the same things. Who am I really? Do I have to be in the shape designed for me by human hands or is there some great mystery at work reshaping me, re-parenting me, offering me a respite from a pain-stained life? Of course, I came to know that great Mystery as the Savior, who I discovered was as much in hot pursuit of me as I was to uncover my covered-over life. It took years for me to reach the place where I could live with some of the conclusions drawn from my past, while realizing that most of us live much of our lives with our questions unanswered. Instead of answering them here in this novel, I wanted to encourage us all to ask out loud the questions inside of us that seem to have been planted in our hearts on purpose, as Gaylen begins to.
But I wanted to take this moment to tell you that one question has been answered for me beyond any doubt. Jesus Christ, my Rescuer, never abandoned me, even when I accused him of abandonment. He sees every detail of what happened to me, what has happened to you, and he will not fail to take those things—no matter how awful or scandalous—and give you the strength to rise above them, as well as the purpose to understand why you should.
If this story or my story has caused some questions to stir inside you, that’s a good starting point. Don’t stop looking until you find the answers you’re seeking.
Love and hugs,
Patricia Hickman
www.patriciahickman.com
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