Jackson sucked in air through his teeth. “You might want to slow down there a bit, Pastor. Take it easy.”
Sharla took care of all the final paperwork, then they were off to the front entrance with a nurse pushing Mark’s wheelchair all the way. He’d grown increasingly uncomfortable with people waiting on him.
When Sharla drove up the circle in her Benz and opened the passenger’s door for him, it struck Mark that he couldn’t have driven home if he wanted to. He had no significant use of his right arm. He might have to master the art of steering with his left hand. Wait a minute—he didn’t even have a car. Was he still an insured driver?
“Watch your head,” the nurse guided him into the car.
He wanted to tell her he was temporarily handicapped, not a doofus. But then he lost his balance and ended up bopping his noggin on the window frame despite her warning.
“Mr. Carter, you’re going to have to take it slow,” she reprimanded him.
He grunted an “okay.”
At home, Rev. Jackson and Amani helped Sharla bring in his things while Mark took a rest on the couch. Just walking from the car into the house had taken the wind out of him. Why was he so tired? How could his legs be so weak when it only seemed like he’d been in the hospital a couple of days?
Mark reminded himself that it had been more than a couple days. It had been six days, actually, according to the calendar back in the hospital room.
Rev. Jackson brought in the last of the balloons and set them on the kitchen table. “That’s it.”
“Thanks, Rev.,” Mark said.
“No problem.”
Rev. Jackson sat alarmingly close to Mark on the couch. Any movement near the arm posed the threat of pain. Mark stabilized himself, putting a pillow beneath his arm.
“How you feelin’?”
“Fair.”
Mark watched as Rev. Jackson spied on the action in the kitchen. Sharla and Amani transferred items to the bedroom, beyond the Reverend’s view. When they were out of hearing distance, too, he leaned in and said to Mark, “Pastor, take all the time you need to recover.”
“Oh, no.” Mark shook his head. “I’m chomping at the bit to get back in the saddle. The sooner I get busy doing what God told me to do, I believe the sooner He will get to working on this arm. If I have to set up a webcam and preach by satellite, I’m ready.”
Rev. Jackson clasped his hands and looked away for a second. “Well…no…you don’t need to go through all that trouble. The church ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
“But just last week, you all told me that I couldn’t stop preaching. I mean, I know I’ve had a car accident, but look at what God has done. He spared my life. He gave me another chance to do what He told me to do before I backed away from it. No offense, Rev., but I realize now that I shouldn’t have listened to you. I have to preach Christ as the main course because He is. If that means people walk out of New Vision, so be it. They can roll out and take their itching ears with them.”
“Hold on there, Mark. You got to take into consideration…the circumstances.”
“What circumstances?”
Mark searched Rev. Jackson’s face for clues. There, in the slight tremble of his lips, lied the hint that a waterfall of bad news was just on the other side. “Give it to me straight, Rev.”
“I wasn’t going to mention this tonight, but since you brought up preaching again, I guess I have no choice. This whole incident’s got the church in a bind. We need to protect our image. The advisory board feels that right now, it would be best if you stepped down for a while.”
“Step down?”
He nodded. “Yes. Until this all passes. We believe it will. Soon as something else bad happens, the media will focus its attention elsewhere, you know how they are.”
Mark made the mistake of shrugging “Ow! Doggit!”
“Watch out there now,” Rev. Jackson gave a sincere caution.
After recomposing himself, Mark tried to make sense of Rev. Jackson’s words. “What do you mean—‘this whole incident’? It was a car accident.”
“A car accident with you and another woman,” Jackson added.
“Another woman who hopped into my car without invitation. I didn’t do anything wrong.” Mark wondered why he needed to defend himself with Jackson. If that man held something against him, Mark didn’t have a chance against the world.
“I believe you, Pastor. I really do. But you know the Bible tells us to avoid the appearance of evil,” he referenced. “This whole thing looks bad.”
“Is the media coverage really that serious? I only saw one report when I was at the hospital.”
Rev. Jackson ran a hand along his neck. “If it were only the few reports on TV, that wouldn’t be so bad. But it’s more than that—it’s…what do you call it? Blogs, stuff on Facebook. They say you got some tweetin’ stuff. You got your own pound sign.”
“Hashtag?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Hashtag.”
Mark turned his head toward the staircase. “Amani! Bring me my iPad!”
The boy’s steps came too quickly to have looked through the office, retrieved the tablet, then come downstairs.
He entered the living room empty-handed. “Where is it?”
“Uh, yeah, Dad…about that iPad. I’m pretty sure it was in the car when you had the accident, so…um…no luck with that.”
Sometimes, Amani picked the most inopportune times to try his hand at sarcasm. “Well, bring me your laptop.”
Horror gripped his face. “For real? Mine?”
“Yes, yours. And you’d better not have anything crazy on it.”
“Is this constitutionally legal?” Amani asked.
Rev. Jackson chuckled.
Mark gave his son a look that said he’d better bring that laptop down before he found himself without access to any computerized device for a long time.
Amani turned to go back upstairs.
“Now, before you go on the internet lookin’ at all the foolishness people been writin’, you need to know what we’re doing to counteract it while you’re…away. We got a crisis plan. Kind of like that show, Scandal.”
“You watch Scandal, Rev?” Mark teased.
He denied unconvincingly, “No, not me. The Misses.”
Amani returned with the laptop. Mark clicked on the icon that would take him to the worldwide web. With only one hand, it took him longer to conduct a search of his name, but in only a fraction of a second, he got over forty thousand results. The headlines were wretched. “Another Pastor Bites the Dust”, “A Call for Change in the Church”, “Pastor Mark E. Carter—the Apple Doesn’t Fall Far From the Tree,” “Pastor Has Accident in Car with Baby Momma”.
Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet Rev. Jackson’s, who could do nothing more than apologize. “I hate things have come to this. But I think you see now why we have to take precautions to save the church.”
“Do people believe this crap?” Mark asked, though he already knew the answer. People who aren’t full of the love of Christ love strife and salacious news; and that wasn’t just his opinion. He already knew the Bible said so in Proverbs 17:19, a fact he’d tried unsuccessfully to preach to Sharla so she’d stop watching all those strife-filled reality television shows. Somehow, she didn’t get that feeding herself, that drama was a problem.
“Unfortunately, they do. Some of the members have already let us know that they’re leaving, and we got a lot of people who opted out of the newsletter.”
“That’s all it takes, huh? One car accident. One circumstantial lie from the enemy.” Mark chewed his bottom lip.
Jackson cleared his throat. “Look here, Kit…we think if you maybe make an apology, take off a month or two, things will work out fine.”
A spasm of irritation jerked Mark’s body. “Make an apology for what?”
“For…this fiasco? The appearance of evil? Whatever you want to say so the people know you’re sorry the church is going through this.”
“
Rev., we’re believers. We have an enemy in the land. We shouldn’t have to apologize to one another for being attacked—we all go through it.”
“This is what the advisory board recommends,” Rev. Jackson rephrased his words. “Besides, you need time off to rehabilitate. Recuperate.”
Rev. Jackson gave a fake sigh. “Of course, with attendance going down…in your absence and all…and with everybody stepping up to fill your role…it only makes sense the salaries should be more…spread out…at least for the next few months, you see.”
“Yeah, I see,” Mark echoed with a trace of sarcasm. The money thing wasn’t a surprise. Maybe they’d all been waiting for him to split their beloved pie more equitably all along, for all Mark knew.
Both men sat in silence as Mark rolled the “recommendation” around in his head. If he did what they asked him to do, including the apology, he’d be admitting guilt at some level. If he didn’t follow their suggestion, he’d put himself in an awkward position—up preaching to people who hadn’t had the time to digest what had happened. It was bad enough trying to reach them when he wasn’t under a cloud of suspicion. Getting in front of them now might do more harm than good.
Mark wasn’t sure. He couldn’t make such an important decision without praying first.
“So,” Rev. Jackson pressed, “what do you say? Agree with the recommendation?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“When?”
Mark didn’t appreciate being strong-armed, even though he knew it was Rev. Jackson’s style. “I’ll let you know as soon as I know.”
Chapter 19
The only thing worse than being pressured to step down was the fact that he’d been told to step down previously, but hadn’t obeyed. All that time, Mark had been thinking God was preparing him for some wonderful promotion. Some promotion this is, he thought.
Should he go to New Vision on Sunday? He’d already skipped out on Wednesday, partly because his arm was bothering him. What about advisory meetings—could he still attend? How often should he get in touch with Jonathan?
Mark also wondered if it would be appropriate to contact the family of “B,” the woman who’d been riding with him. He’d been in a life-or-death situation with this woman. He’d seen her bleeding, possibly breathing her last conscious breaths, sitting less than two feet away from him. No one in their right mind could move on from a situation like that without looking back, checking on the other person— especially knowing this person was most likely a blood relative to his son.
Cutting the French toast with his left hand was awkward and tiresome, but he wouldn’t let Sharla or Amani help. The sooner he mastered doing things with his weaker arm, the sooner he’d be able to get back to himself while the Lord continued the long-term process of healing the right.
“These are good,” he complimented Sharla.
“Thank you.”
Amani hadn’t thanked his mother with words. The way he inhaled the breakfast showed his appreciation. “I’m ready.”
“Okay.” Sharla stood and took Amani’s plate to the sink while he went back to the living room to grab his backpack.
Mark wished Sharla wouldn’t baby him so much. He could put his own plate in the sink—wash it, too, though Mark had never actually seen Amani so much as lift a finger to clean up anything around the house. The boy needed some chores, but Sharla had that territory all sewed up. From the housekeeper to the gardener to the pool serviceperson, all domestic duties were outsourced.
“Baby, I might stop at the post office after I drop Amani off at school, but I won’t be long,” Sharla said.
“Wait up.” Mark had had enough of wrestling with his food. “I’ll ride with you.”
Both Sharla and Amani looked at Mark like he was crazy. “You want to ride with me?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with that?” Mark laughed.
“You’ve never ridden with me to take Amani to school.”
“I’ve never been home with a messed up arm, either, have I?”
Amani gave a smug nod. “This is true, Mother. This is true.”
She glanced at her son, then back at her husband. “If you say so.”
Mark didn’t take for granted the fresh spring air whipping across his face. The sunshine, the sound of birds calling for mates. All of this could have been taken away in an instant. As they sat at the stop light waiting to leave their subdivision, Mark declared, “This is beautiful.”
“What?” Sharla asked.
“Everything God made is beautiful.”
“Except snot and farts,” Amani blurted out.
Mark couldn’t help but laugh at his son’s ill-placed humor. He’d certainly learned how to enjoy getting on his mother’s nerves. There’s just something about being able to irritate a woman ever-so-slightly…lets a man know he’s still got his place in her heart.
Sharla scolded, “That’s gross, Amani.”
Mark took up for the boy. “It’s a man thing. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I don’t want to understand,” she bit into both of them, rolling her eyes.
They dropped Amani off at school. Sharla actually made three more stops before returning home: the post office, as she’d already mentioned, as well as the cleaners and the office supply store so she could purchase toner for Amani’s printer. Mark waited in the car while she handled her pressing tasks. All of this kept them out for an extra hour.
“Mamasita, is this what you do all day? Rippin’ and runnin’, as my grandmother would say?”
“This is just the beginning,” she informed him.
“What else you got to do this week?”
“Turn in books at the library, buy toiletries, go grocery shopping, couponing, go to the farmer’s market to pick out the best fruits and vegetables. Then there’s me. Gotta keep myself up by going to the gym, getting my nails done, getting my hair done.”
Mark couldn’t object to Sharla doing things that kept herself appealing.
“I do take care of things at home as well. I have special projects I do once every few weeks—might be painting the baseboards, defrosting the freezer, or taking down all the blinds so I can hose them off and let them dry in the sun. And on top of all that, I have to straighten up between housekeeping.”
Mark squinted. “Straighten up between housekeeping? That makes no sense. What’s the point in having a housekeeper if you still have to straighten up?”
She laughed. “Because things still get messed up in between visits. How do you think our bed gets made every day? You think we got little fairies that go around picking up socks and shoes that some people leave all over the house? And for your information, the housekeeper does not clean up your office. I do that myself.”
He gave an exaggerated frown, impressed. “Really?”
“Yes. What do you think I do all day—sit on my behind?”
“I plead the fifth.”
Her mouth dropped. “I cannot believe you.”
“Hey, I didn’t know.”
“Obviously not. I think the bigger question is what do you do all day?” Sharla retorted playfully. “You only preach on Sundays and Wednesdays. What else do you do, Pastor Carter?”
This, of course, led to a never-to-be-settled bet about whose life was more challenging: a pastor’s or a mother’s. Mark had to acknowledge that Sharla presented a pretty good case. He’d never given much thought to the fact that there was always soap in the dispensers and a new toothbrush magically appeared in his holder every three months.
Though he hadn’t done much more than wait in the car and deny Sharla’s claims, Mark needed a nap by the time they got home. “Baby, there must be something in the medication the doctor prescribed because I get tired real quick.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, “the label says it might make you drowsy.”
He yawned. “They ain’t never lied.”
She parked in the driveway without raising the garage door. “Let me get you settled in. I’ve got some more thing
s on my to-do list.” She hopped out of the car and came around to his side to open the door for him.
“What time are you coming back?” he wanted to know.
“I don’t know.”
He hoisted himself out of the car. “Why don’t you know?”
She led the way inside the house. “Look, I don’t clock in and out when I run errands, okay? I do what I have to do and juggle it with playing taxi to Amani. I don’t need you messing up my groove here, okay?”
Sharla fluffed up Mark’s pillows and made sure he was comfortable on the couch. She gave him his morning dose of medication, then kissed him on the forehead. “Call me if you need me.”
“Um…” Mark stalled. “What am I supposed to eat for lunch? Will you be back by then?”
Sharla put a hand on one hip, obviously holding back a smile. “Maybe. If not, you do still have one good arm. All you have to do is press a few buttons on the microwave.”
“I’m calling the people on you,” Mark joked.
“What people?”
“The treating sick people mean people.”
“For your information,” she sashayed back to him, “I’m actually helping you today while I’m out. I did a little…let’s just say I really, really think it was Bria’s boyfriend who was chasing and shooting at your car. I’m going to the station to share my suspicion with Detective Rozanno.”
Mark stared into his wife’s face. “Bria.”
Sharla hung her neck forward. “Yeah?”
“Bria—you said her name was Bria. You’re right.”
Sharla squeaked, “You said her name was Bria.”
“No,” he disagreed, “I didn’t remember her name until just now, when you said it.”
“Oh.” Sharla jiggled her keys. “Whatever. All I know is her boyfriend’s nickname is Boomie. I hope they already have him on file for something. I’ll let you know what they say. Bye.”
She rushed out the door as though suddenly panicked.
Mark’s gut quivered with the realization that his wife was hiding something.
Chapter 20
Sharla collected her wits in the car. How stupid was that? She’d said Bria’s name aloud before Mark did. Shouldn’t have surprised her, though, for as much as she’d been thinking Bria’s name.
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