Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)

by Andrea Randall

  He hesitates, taking a deep breath instead of answering.

  “It’s okay to tell me, Matt.”

  “No.”

  “No what? No you won’t tell me, or no you don’t want to be home?”

  “I don’t want to be here. At all.” He says it all in one breath, sounding almost like he’s choking back tears.

  I sigh, my eyes filling with tears. His pain is palpable, and I doubt there’s anything I could do even if I were there, since he doesn’t tell me anything. “You’ll be fine. Stay out of the house as much as you can maybe?”

  “I plan to.” He’s terse, but doesn’t sound convinced it’s the tone he means to use.

  Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I pick up my shoes and carry them down the stairs with me. “Don’t worry about what I asked you. We can forget all about that, okay? I want to be your friend more than anything right now, and that’s what matters, okay? Matt?” I prod during his silence.

  “Thank you,” he exhales more than says.

  I lower my voice to a whisper when I reach the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll text you, okay? And I guess I’ll see you in, like, two weeks?”

  “Thank God for small miracles, huh?” He chuckles, and it sounds genuine enough. “Bye K. Sawyer.”

  And all is right with the world.

  “Bye, you.”

  The kitchen still smells of roasted chicken and red potatoes, but dinner was hours ago. Roland and his father “went into town”—an expression that will likely crack me up until the day I die—to get some groceries needed for breakfast, leaving Nora and I to talk over tea. Even though I’ve only been in this house for a few hours, I can promise you that Nora is the kind of homemaker that would not let breakfast groceries go un-purchased until the night before. I know a set up when I smell it. And, for this one at least, I’m grateful.

  Nora slides two freshly baked chocolate chip cookies onto my plate. “I put a drip of almond extract in them. Tell me if they’re awful.”

  No eggs, my left foot.

  Sinking my teeth into the gooey cookies, my eyes roll back in my head. “Oh my— you need to send me back to school with some of these. I don’t care if I have to work overtime to pay for a new, bigger wardrobe.”

  She wipes her hands on her World’s Best Grandma apron, unties it, and slings it over the back of her chair before sitting down and tasting one herself. “Not bad,” she says, smiling as she turns the cookie over in her hand, studying it.

  “Thank you for having me on such short notice. I don’t know what Roland told you, but I didn’t really think the whole thing through. Normally I think twice then open my mouth, but—”

  “Dean Baker is an oaf. Too big for his britches if you ask me.” She says it with the confidence of a person who’s heard plenty of stories.

  Still, I laugh. “If you’ve ever seen him in person, you’d know just how accurate that pants description is.” I try to stifle the chuckle, but it’s already escaped. “Sorry.”

  Nora sighs, seemingly in relief, then laughs herself. “He does look a bit like those toys you can knock over and they pop back up, doesn’t he? What are those called?”

  “Weebles? Right?”

  She slaps the edge of the table, clutching her barely-soft stomach. “Yes! Weebles! Tristan used to play with those.”

  “Tristan,” I say slowly, trying to piece the family tree together in my head. “That’s Julia’s oldest son, right?”

  Nora offers a sweet, wistful smile. “Yes. Julia is three years younger than Roland. She’s married to Carl, and they have Tristan, who is ten, Olivia—Livy—who is six, and Braden is three.”

  I point to the fridge where a picture displays a toothy, blond family huddling around a beach sunset. “That’s them, right?”

  Without looking, Nora nods. “They went to Hawaii last year.”

  “Geoff is the other brother,” I prompt, needing more of a refresher there.

  “Geoff is the baby.” Nora laughs quietly. “He’s thirty-two. His wife, Lindsay, is lovely.”

  I want to ask why there was no mention of Carl’s redeeming qualities as a child-in-law, but sit on that one.

  “Their children,” she continues, “are Marley—a girl who’s five—and one-year-old twins. Eloise and Jacob.”

  “Wait.” I hold up my hand, and Nora bites her lip as if she anticipates what I’m about to say. “They have a child named Jacob and one named Marley? How will they ever survive a Christmas season when they get older?” For some reason, I know I can let my hair down around Nora, so I skip social restraint in favor of asking how she feels about grandchildren seemingly named after A Christmas Carol characters.

  She clears her throat, making a show of trying to maintain composure. With a chuckle, she sighs. “We don’t talk about the names. What is it?” Nora tilts her head to the side. She caught me staring into space.

  “I knew Roland was—wait, is it weird for you that I call him Roland?”

  “Honey, as far as Roland is concerned, I gave up qualifying weird long ago. I’m so grateful to meet you; I don’t care if you call him that guy. Well, maybe not that …” She trails off into nervous laughter, so I wave it off and continue.

  “Anyway, I knew he was the oldest, but I didn’t really think about how weird that must have been when he dropped out of college and came back here … you had high school students still. And he was all—”

  “Belligerent.”

  My eyes shoot to Nora, who doesn’t look an ounce hurt by my questioning.

  She shrugs, and continues. “It was what it was. We gave him tough love, soft love, kicked him out, brought him back … all of it.”

  “Why?” I ask. “Why keep bringing him back?”

  She eyes me as if this is the weirdest thing she’s been through in a while. “He’s my son, Kennedy. Letting him go was just as loving as bringing him back as far as the times were concerned. Tim and I did what we felt was best in each circumstance. I think the bringing him back was harder, but that was more for us than him. We had to practice forgiveness and healing … I’m rambling,” she announces. “What I mean to say is, it was a period of learning and growth for the whole family that I wouldn’t change for anything.”

  “How so?” I peel the staple out of the paper teabag, letting the leaves fall in a clump into the empty cup.

  “We all had a lot to learn about God, and I guess that was the only way he felt he could get our attention.”

  While Tim offered a pleasant, standard rendition of grace before dinner, I haven’t picked up an evangelical scent since I walked in the door. Roland did tell me his parents practiced like him, but it hasn’t felt weird in here. Of course, I take that to show the new normal that’s sunk into my brain since attending CU.

  “Were you, like, church-y before all of this?”

  Nora nods, slowly. “Sure. Christmas, Easter, and grace every single night. We’d say nightly prayers but I don’t think any of it sunk in. We were talking the talk, but only walking every few steps, or so. God called us to the carpet when he delivered a slumped over drunk of a son on our doorstep.”

  Hearing her frank description of Roland is all at once hard to hear and a relief. It comforts me that she operates in reality and isn’t going to gloss over the story, even while she’s on her way to revealing God’s plan for her in all of it.

  “Sorry,” she says as if she’s heard my thoughts. “I don’t know how much you—”

  I hold up my hands. “Trust me, I know a lot. Maybe not everything, but I have listened to his sermons for a few years.”

  “And your mother?”

  I know what she means. “She never said anything bad about him unless I pushed. And, even then, it was more her hurt, I guess. She was always careful, though.”

  It’s like I’m hearing it for the first time as I’m saying it. I had friends whose parents went through nasty divorces and there was so much mud slung, even the neighbors were in the splash zone. That was never the case with my mo
m and Roland. She loved me enough to keep the worst at bay unless she had no choice. But, it seems as though my stepdad’s words are coming back to me … she must have loved Roland enough to protect the truth about him she knew was in his heart somewhere.

  “This has been too much,” Nora interrupts my thoughts again, seeming to sense I’ve slipped away. “Let’s have more cookies.”

  “With any luck,” I reply, accepting another pair of delicious cookies, “I’ve inherited your slender genes.”

  She laughs, and we toast our cookies mid-air before consuming them. We sit in cookie-filled silence for another half hour before Tim and Roland return, a bag of unnecessary groceries in Roland’s arms. Within another half hour, Tim and Nora turn in for the evening, and I’m washing the dishes I insisted Nora let me handle, since she spent all day keeping me well fed.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Roland pretending to read the paper. I like that this family has just enough WASP in it to make me feel at home. Conversation starters between us are still awkward, but here in Nora’s home, I feel a surge of calm confidence. I slide a plate with the last three cookies on them in front of Roland, and then return to the sink to dry the last few dishes.

  “There’s almond extract in them. Nora wants to know if they’re awful.” I slide the damp dishtowel through a drawer handle and sit across from Roland. He pushes the paper aside.

  With half a mouthful, he gives his verdict. “Taste amazing to me.”

  I nod, my eyes wide. “Right? That’s what I told her.”

  “What’d you two talk about while I was gone?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” I tease.

  He grins. “Sorry for leaving you two alone.”

  “No you’re not. But, it’s okay. I really like her, Roland. She’s just …”

  “A lot like you,” he blurts out, then looks down as if he wishes he hadn’t said it.

  Sitting back, I take a moment to consider his words. “I guess you’re right. She’s a bit gentler though, huh?”

  “That’s a recent development thanks to so many grandchildren.” He polishes off the third cookie and leans back in his chair, running a hand over his stomach.

  “She must have gotten along well with Mom. Wait, they met, right? I know you met my other grandparents …”

  Roland nods, sitting forward again and folding his arms across the table. “A few times. And, yeah, they got along famously.”

  “Did your mom ever try to, like, call her when you two broke up?”

  He shakes his head. “I didn’t tell them for several months. And, even though they liked her, I think once they saw the condition I was in they just let it go.”

  “To focus on you.”

  He nods.

  “She loves you a lot.” My voice doesn’t usually sound this young. It’s startling.

  He nods again. “I know. I love her a lot, too. I could have had different parents and it might not have worked out quite this way. They gave me a place …” he trails off, eyeing me concernedly.

  I’ve started tearing up. The thought of different parents hasn’t filled my thoughts so much as it has since walking in this house. I could have been a part of this family, maybe. But, reality pushes those thoughts aside. I wouldn’t have had this family. I would have been plunked in the middle of a couple of high schoolers who were watching their older, anti-hero brother detox from his latest bender while his lovely parents vacillated between doting and tough love.

  No thanks.

  I fake a yawn and stand. “I’m going to get to bed. Night.”

  “Night,” Roland calls after me after I’ve already left the kitchen.

  I know he wants more from me. And I want more from him. What I don’t want, though, is more shit from my mother about what more I want from Roland. I wish Roland and I could develop our relationship in a vacuum, free from lookers on. Free from pressure and expectations.

  Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, I turn back for the kitchen. Roland is heading toward me, rubbing his tired eyes.

  “Forget something?” he asks, yawning and stretching his arms overhead.

  There’s no pressure. Just you and him, Kennedy. What do you want?

  I shake my head, my eyes moving to his face, trying to read it. But, as always, it’s friendly, warm. Nothing evil. Nothing double-minded. No alternate agenda. Just Roland. My birth father.

  “Just,” I start with a whisper, “I …”

  Roland’s forehead scrunches. “Kennedy?”

  My two-thousand pound arms lurch forward from my torso and wrap uneasily around Roland. A second later I fully commit and step into the hug.

  He’s safe, Kennedy. It’s okay.

  “I …” Roland starts to say something, but settles for a long exhale, squeezing my body into his.

  “Goodnight,” I repeat into the worn print of his UCONN t-shirt before climbing the stairs. My arms still heavy, but my heart somehow lighter.

  “Night,” he whispers.

  I don’t hear his feet on the stairs until long after I’ve tucked myself into bed. I don’t wonder what he was doing all of those minutes at the bottom of the stairs, because somehow I know it’s the same thing I’ve been doing laying in my bed.

  Processing what the hell just happened.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Get Back Up

  Kennedy.

  By the time Christmas rolled around, Mom and I had an actual, normal conversation. She apologized for seeming so short with me, once again conceding to my desire to see this “Roland journey” through. I think sometimes she gets her Roland journey mixed up with mine, and has a hard time processing that there might be a different outcome for me and him. Sometimes I have that difficulty, but its less now than it was in September.

  Roland’s siblings and their kids arrived at their parents’—my grandparents—house the day before Christmas, and it’s been a whirlwind ever since. It was a blast watching the kids open their presents, and I was surprised to find a few under the tree for me. Safe gifts, but thoughtful nonetheless. Gift cards to iTunes and Amazon came from Roland’s brother and sister, and Roland purchased for me a set of hardcover C.S. Lewis books.

  His writings were always highly regarded in my church growing up, but I never made it past The Chronicles of Narnia. For the life of me, I can’t remember ever telling Roland of my interest in Lewis, but I’m heartened that he paid attention to whatever signals I gave off.

  Also, spending Christmas in Kentucky does have its advantages as far as the weather is concerned. It feels like late March, rather than late December, and I’m able to take a few minutes to myself out on the back deck while the little kids bask in their day-after-Christmas toy hangovers. The blue ceramic mug filled with cocoa warms my hands as a dry breeze blows a few flurries across the frozen ground.

  “Quieter out here,” Nora remarks, sliding the glass door shut behind her.

  I smile and nod, sipping the cocoa. “It’s so quiet here. Peaceful.”

  Nora wraps her scarf around her neck a second time. “Is it noisier in your town?”

  “Sort of. I mean, there’s not a lot of traffic or anything, and the town sure boasts its exclusivity but … there’s just a lot of people. And money. And people showing off their money.”

  Nora chuckles but says nothing more. I love the privileged upbringing I had in Greenwich, don’t get me wrong. But the more distance I have from that environment, the more it’s making me question the culture all together. Sure, I grew up in the church, but what did I learn? What did I internalize? I know for a fact that Dick Watkins, who always sat two pews in front of me and Mom, was a corporate litigator. The kind that went to bat for big companies and smushed non-profits under his heel with little more compassion than he’d show a bug.

  On the flip side, there was my mother—purveyor of justice against social wrongs. Still, in order to make any money fighting for the underdog, you’ve got to be good. And to be good means you sometimes have to play dirty. She n
ever did anything illegal that I’m aware of, but her battles often ended up being more about mudslinging than the morals for which she was sent to fight.

  “It’s confusing,” I blurt out to Nora mid-thought. “I’ve lived my whole life surrounded by people who are faithful, whether Christian, Jewish, or whatever else, but I don’t think I spent a lot of time around really nice people, except for my immediate family and a few friends, until I came here. I mean, I know that doesn’t sound fair because I know very little about most of their personal lives …”

  “Whose personal lives?” Nora asks, turning to rest against the rail of the deck.

  I twitch my lips. “Good point.”

  “I’m serious,” she presses.

  “I meant the people in Greenwich. All cut-throat business folk or actors looking to hide in their modest five-million-dollar homes. They throw lots of money at causes from time to time, but it’s rare to see any of them board a plane to help the starving children.”

  “There is that one actress and her husband that do that … she’s too skinny though, isn’t she?”

  I laugh at Nora’s accurate and refreshingly real insight. “Yes. But I don’t think the Jolie-Pitts have a place in Connecticut. I could be wrong though—it is kind of hard to keep up sometimes.”

  “And the people at CU. You thought they were full of it too when you first got here, didn’t you?” She grins. I like her more by the second.

  I nod. “I still think some of them are. But … it’s different. I feel like where I came from is a caricature of how America is, and where I am now is one of how it should be. Why is this so complicated?” I put my hands on my hips and chuckle a little, though I’m not so sure what’s funny.

  Nora waves her hand. “People, dear. People are woefully complicated. It’s hard to see hearts, but I see yours loud and clear.”