by Amy Clipston
The words offered me no comfort. It still didn’t make sense why he’d bestowed the incurable disease on her. I’d continue to cry and she’d tell me that her love for me would live on forever and would hold me close with invisible arms whenever I was sad. She’d kiss my cheek and say, “Now Emily, just remember my favorite verse, and it will get you through.”
That verse was Hebrews 11:1. She recited it often and even requested we have it engraved on her headstone. The verse floated through my mind: “Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” I understood what it meant, but I couldn’t put any stock in it.
She also told me that if I was ever sad, or angry, or lonely, I could open my heart to God and he would get me through. And when the waves of grief threatened to drown me, I tried to open my heart. I tried with all my might.
But I couldn’t.
It was as if my faith had evaporated and I was left an empty shell of the Christian I used to be.
Music from the organ brought me back to the service. I lifted a hymnal from the pew pocket and flipped it open. The series of chords flew together in my mind, and I realized what hymn was playing: “Beautiful Savior.”
My mother’s favorite.
At her request, it had been the last hymn the congregation sang at her memorial service.
My eyes filled, and I gnawed at my lower lip, trying in vain to stop the tears. A hand covered mine and I looked up at my dad, who gave me a sad smile as if to tell me he understood. I cupped my mouth with my hand to stifle a sob, but the tears flowed, betraying my efforts and rolling down my hot cheeks.
Consumed with embarrassment, I slipped by Logan. As I started down the aisle, I felt dozens of eyes focused on me. For a split second, I met Zander’s gaze and thought I saw a concerned expression.
My body shuddering with sobs, I pushed through the ladies’ room door and locked myself in the handicapped stall at the far end of the restroom. I leaned against the wall, hugged my arms to my chest, and cried, silently cursing myself for losing it in public. What was my problem?
The restroom door opened and slammed shut, and I held my breath, willing the tears and sobs to stop.
“Emily?” Darlene called. “Emily, dear? Are you in here?”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice thin. I snatched a handful of toilet tissue and wiped my eyes and nose.
“Are you okay?” she asked, alarmed.
Clearing my throat, I unlocked the door, and it swung open with a groan. “I’m fine.”
She clicked her tongue and pulled me into a hug. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. I wish I’d known we were going to sing that.”
“It’s okay.” I held onto her, thankful for her warm, comforting arms, despite her past criticisms. At that instant, I just needed a hug, and she provided it. “I should’ve kept it together.”
She pulled back, her eyes serious. “That’s where you’re wrong. You don’t need to be strong. Let God do that for you.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I’d been hearing phrases like that since my mom was diagnosed, and each time the words were like a placebo the speaker believed would cure me. If it were only that easy.
The door opened and banged shut again, and Whitney rushed over, looking panicked, with two girls about our age in tow. Leave it to Whitney to make this a social event.
“Are you all right, Em?” Whitney asked.
Her friends looked on, their eyes assessing me.
“I’m fine, thanks.” I moved to the mirror and examined my reflection. My eyes were red and puffy, leaving no way to hide I’d been crying. I ripped a paper towel from the roll and dabbed my face, hoping to conceal some of the emotion.
Darlene placed her purse on the counter and then rooted through it until she pulled out a compact. “Don’t you worry about the tear stains.” She opened it, producing a powder puff that she began to wipe on my face.
I stepped back. “No, thanks. I don’t wear makeup.”
Frowning, she shook her head. “Oh, but you should, sweetie. You’re a beautiful girl. You should accentuate those gorgeous eyes God gave you.”
“She’s right,” Whitney said, and her friends nodded in agreement. “You look great. That dress is fabulous. Green is your color.”
“Thanks,” I said.
The door opened and banged shut, and line of women filed in, glancing at me with worried expressions before disappearing into the stalls. I saw Darlene looking at them with an expression that read, “I know, poor thing,” like she was apologizing for me.
Anxious to exit this humiliating scene, I nodded toward the door. “Well, we better get back out there before my dad thinks I ran away.”
Darlene looped her arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. “Whitney and I are here for you. And if you want help with your makeup later, just let me know.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. But yet again, she’d shown her understanding was limited to a few seconds before she peppered with me unsolicited advice and criticism.
We stepped out into the hallway and were swallowed into a crowd moving from the sanctuary toward the large meeting room at the other end of the hall.
“Where’s everyone going?” I asked.
“Fellowship Hall for coffee hour,” Darlene said, steering me toward the room. “You should get something to eat.”
“I think I just want to go home. Where’s my dad?” I tried to turn around, but she pulled me forward.
“Nonsense.” Darlene steered me into the Fellowship Hall and over to a table with a white tablecloth covered with an array of cookies, pieces of chocolate cake, bowls of fruit, bite-size pieces of bagels smothered in cream cheese, small slices of sticky buns, and a pile of napkins. “You should eat something, Emily. It will make you feel better.”
In order to appease her, I fixed a small paper plate with a few pieces of fruit and a bagel and then smiled politely while Darlene introduced me to a few of her church friends, who discussed the weather at length. I frequently glanced toward the door in search of my dad. I wondered what on earth could’ve caused his journey from the sanctuary to the hall to take so long. Perhaps he’d gotten sidelined by a conversation with someone. My dad was one of those social types who made a friend wherever he went.
Darlene touched my arm and pulled me over to a young, pretty woman with warm brown eyes and dark hair that fell past her shoulders.
“Jenna, this is my niece I was telling you about.” Darlene gestured toward me. “Emily, this is Jenna, our fabulous youth director. Whitney is very active in the youth group, and you should join her.”
The woman held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Emily. Welcome to our church family.”
“Thank you,” I said, shaking her hand.
Jenna’s smile was kind. “I hope we’ll see you at youth group when you’re ready to join us.”
“Sure,” I said with a shrug, even though I doubted I would ever join the youth group. I was certain I would never fit in — my inability to pray would probably get me placed on the missions list.
Darlene looked across the room. “Oh, there’s Marilyn.” She glanced between Jenna and me. “Excuse me. I must catch up with her about our women’s circle potluck.” She took off, her heels clicking across the tile floor.
I gave Jenna a forced smile, wondering what on earth I could chat about with this woman.
“We do have fun at youth group,” Jenna began. “You might be surprised if you check us out. We’re very laid back.”
“Sounds good.” I spotted my dad walking into the hall with Pastor Keith. “Oh, there’s my dad. Well, it was nice meeting you.”
“Wait.” Jenna touched my arm. “If you ever need someone to talk to, you can call me.” She pulled a business card from her pocket and held it out to me. “Call me anytime, and I’ll listen, no matter what you want to share.”
Surprised, I examined the card and then looked up. “Thanks,” I said.
Her eyes were serious. “I mean it, Emily. Call anytime.” Sh
e then turned and joined a group of teenagers standing near the soda machines.
I shoved the card into my purse and weaved through the crowd. I finally sidled up to my dad, who was standing at the door with the pastor.
“Hey, Emily,” he said, resting his hand on my shoulder. “Have you met Pastor Keith?”
“Yes,” I said, nodding. “We met before the service, remember?”
“Are you doing okay, Emily?” Pastor Keith asked, concern clouding his face. “You looked upset during the last hymn.”
“I’m fine, thanks.” I forced a smile.
He looked skeptical. “Okay. Good to hear. I was concerned.”
“I’ll see you Thursday,” my dad said, shaking the pastor’s hand. “Thank you again.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Pastor Keith said. “Call me anytime you need to talk.” He looked at me. “I’m here if you need me too, Emily.”
“Thanks,” I said, wondering if he could truly help me find my way. Did he know how to instantly fix everything that was wrong with me?
“Take care.” My dad steered me toward the door, and we hit the hallway just as Logan and Zander approached the door.
They both looked concerned, and my cheeks flared with embarrassment. Maybe I should have touched up my face in the bathroom after all.
“Are you okay?” Logan asked me.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I smiled. “I’ll see you at the house.”
“Hi,” Zander said. He opened his mouth to say something else, but was called to the other side of the room by his father. “I’ll see you later. My dad’s calling me.” He hurried off, and I felt a huge sense of relief. Having his eyes focused on me made me nervous.
Logan looked confused. “You’re not going to J2A with Whitney?”
“What’s J2A?” I asked.
“It’s like Sunday school for high school kids,” he said. “It stands for Journey to Adulthood.”
“Well, I —,” I stammered, glancing at my dad, who shrugged.
“It’s up to you,” my dad said.
“I have a lot of homework, so I’d better not,” I said quickly. Logan frowned.
“Remember, I blew off my homework to go to the movies with Chelsea last night.” I glanced at my dad. “Let’s go, okay?”
My dad and I walked out to the Suburban in silence. I wondered if he felt the same overwhelming grief I did after sitting through that service.
“What were you and Pastor Keith discussing?” I asked as he steered out of the parking lot.
“I’m going to start meeting with him this week,” my dad said, his eyes focused on the road.
“Why?” I asked.
“I guess you could call it counseling.” He tapped the steering wheel to the beat of the music serenading us through the speakers.
I turned down the radio and studied him. While my dad insisted I see the counselor at school after my mom died, he’d never spoken with anyone. This sudden change shocked me. “How did that come about?”
He shrugged, his eyes still on the road and avoiding mine. “I feel like I may need to work through some stuff, I guess.”
“About Mom?” I asked, wanting to hear him say the words.
“I guess.” He glanced at me sideways. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine.” I smoothed my dress over my thighs.
“Do you want to talk about anything?” he pressed on. “You know I’ll always listen. You can say anything to me.”
“I know,” I whispered.
“If you’d rather talk to someone else,” he continued, “you can always meet with a school counselor or talk to Pastor Keith or the youth director at church.”
“Yes, Dad.” Facing the window, I rolled my eyes. I was tired of counseling. Tired of being told what to do, what to wear, what to think. I wanted to disappear into our tiny old garage back home and work on a car. No, I wanted to work on my car, the Camaro I was forced to sell before we moved.
We drove in silence back to the neighborhood.
“It was the hymn, wasn’t it?” he whispered as we pulled into the driveway. “That’s what got to you.”
Tears filled my eyes as I looked at him. I nodded.
He patted my knee. “Me too.”
“Do you miss her?” I asked, my voice quavering.
“All the time, Baby Doll,” he said with a sigh. “All the time.”
“But you don’t talk about her. You never say her name.” My voice was thick and shaky.
His brown eyes were sad, and I had to hold my breath to keep from crying again.
“I think about her,” he said, “but I can’t always say it out loud.”
When we got inside the house, I ate a quick lunch with my dad and then retreated to my room. After changing into denim shorts and a blue tank top, I unbraided my hair, since the braid was so tight my scalp was throbbing. My hair fell in a mess of curls and frizz, more wild than usual. I sprayed it with water, finger combed it, and then pushed it back with a thick, black headband.
Later, I turned down Whitney’s offer to join her and Kristin for an afternoon at the mall, including manicures and pedicures. Instead, I spent the afternoon in my room doing homework, unpacking the remaining boxes, and alphabetizing my CDs. I was straightening the books on my shelf when a knock sounded on the door.
“Emily,” my dad called. “Supper’s ready.”
“Coming.” I stood and followed him down to the kitchen, where Darlene was placing platters on the table. “It smells delicious, Aunt Darlene.”
“Thank you, dear.” She brought a large bowl of salad from the refrigerator. “I love making chicken cordon bleu.”
I went for the cabinet containing the glasses. “I’ll get the drinks.”
“Actually,” she said, “it would be helpful if you tracked down Logan.”
I glanced toward the deck. “Is he outside?”
“He’s probably next door at the Stewart’s.” She pulled a glass pitcher full of iced tea from the refrigerator. “He likes to go over there to pretend to work on cars with Zander.”
“Oh.” I stood at the sliding glass doors and stared out. My brain was telling me to just march over to Zander’s garage and introduce myself, but my legs were stuck, nervous about making a fool of myself after my display in church or intimidating him with some car comment.
“Go on, Emily,” Darlene called. “I don’t want the chicken to get cold.” She glanced toward the driveway. “I hope Whitney gets home soon. I told her supper was going to be at six.”
I stepped out onto the deck and my hands absently flew to my hair, smoothing any renegade curls. Why was I worried about how I looked? I was only stopping over to collect Logan. Right?
I took a deep breath and followed the path to the gate, my flip-flops smacking the concrete. The gate opened with a squeal, and as I stepped over to the garage the air compressor sputtered and hissed, followed by the whirling of an air ratchet. I scanned the garage, taking in the row of toolboxes and workbenches scattered with tools. The walls were dotted with posters and calendars featuring sports and muscle cars of various eras and makes. Zander Stewart was a true car lover.
Was he a kindred spirit? Maybe even a true friend? Did I want to risk finding out?
Logan sat on a stool by the front end of the Dodge while Zander leaned under the hood, ratchet in hand, taking apart the top end of the motor. The air compressor rattled and hummed, vibrating off the surrounding walls.
I stepped over to the hood, crossing my arms over my chest. I tapped Logan on the shoulder, and he jumped, screeching with a start.
Zander saw me and smiled before placing the ratchet on the toolbox and killing the air compressor. “Hi,” he said, pushing his sweaty hair back from his forehead. He wore a grease-spotted T-shirt featuring a drawing of a Pontiac GTO, along with jeans that were also stained.
His eyes mesmerized me for a moment, but I fought through it and cleared my throat. “Hi.” I turned to Logan. “Your mom sent me over to get you. Supper’s rea
dy.”
“Already?” Logan glanced at Zander. “I gotta go.”
“No problem, dude.” Zander grinned. “Mom’s meals are always the best.” He glanced at me. “I’m Zander, by the way. We haven’t been introduced, but I’ve seen you around.” He glanced down at his hands and wiped them on his jeans. He then looked up at me. “I’d shake your hand, but I’d cover you in grease.”
“I’m Emily,” I said. “And I don’t mind grease.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t?”
I nodded toward the car. “Have you fixed that tick yet?” The question escaped my lips before I could stop it, and I wanted to kick myself. I hoped he wasn’t put off.
“How’d you know about the tick?” He continued to look surprised.
I laughed. “Are you kidding me? I could hear it plain as day when you drove by the house last week. It was hard to miss.” I craned my neck and examined the engine, resisting the urge to move next to him and help with the project. “You’ll have to completely rebuild the top end of the motor. There’s no way around it.”
Nodding, his eyes widened. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”
Logan slipped off the stool. “She’s a total motorhead.”
Zander looked intrigued.
“I know an easier way to fix it, though,” I said, a smile curling up the corners of my lips.
“Oh yeah?” Zander snatched a red shop towel off the workbench and began to wipe his hands. “I’m all ears, because it’s giving me a fit.”
“Trade it in for a Chevy,” I said.
Zander gave a bark of laughter. His laughter was authentic, and his smile was contagious. I couldn’t help but grin along with him.
“You got told!” Logan yelled, laughing along with us.
“Logan! Emily!” Darlene’s impatient voice rang out over ours. “Supper!”
“We better go,” Logan said, heading for the door. “Bye, Zander.” He waved before disappearing down the path.
“See ya,” I said, heading out the door.
“Hey,” Zander said, coming up beside me. “Wait.”
I faced him, his proximity causing my mouth to dry. He tossed the shop towel onto the workbench, and I spotted the glimmer of the gold chain around his neck. I felt myself reach for my own necklace.
