House Of Secrets
Page 15
“I love Limoges,” Judith interjected. “I’ve got a set of china that dates back to the 1880s. It’s a delicate blue floral print with beautiful scalloping and gold trim.”
Mark nodded. “I’ve seen similar pieces gracing our table at home.”
“So you didn’t just have it to look at,” Judith commented. “That’s exactly how I feel about antiques. If you aren’t going to use them, what’s the point of having them? They’re only things, and if their only purpose is to gather dust . . . well . . . I don’t need that kind of object in my life.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Mark said. “I want the things around me to have purpose and be of value. Utmost on that list, however, is to have people in my life.” He turned a smile on me and lifted up a forkful of French toast. “Especially ones who can cook.”
My cheeks grew hot, and I immediately grabbed my coffee to have something to do. I sipped at the brew for several minutes so that no one would expect me to comment. Mark had a way of making me feel so relaxed and nervous all at the same time.
We had covered a variety of casual topics by the time breakfast ended. Geena got to her feet first. “Piper and I can clean up since you fixed the food. That way you and Mark can get on the road.”
I looked at Mark. “Are you ready for a day among the Scandinavians?”
He laughed. “As long as you’re among their number.”
“You two have fun and don’t worry about us,” Judith said. “I have plans after painting to put together a nice dinner for everyone. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I’m always happy for someone else to cook,” Geena replied. “Come on, Piper. Let’s get these into the dishwasher.” She picked up several plates and headed to the kitchen.
Piper looked less than excited at the prospect, but picked up her own plate and cup. My eyes lingered, however, on all the food on her plate she’d barely touched.
“So you seem a little better,” Mark said as we drove north to Poulsbo.
“I feel a fool for having dragged you into this,” I said as I turned onto the 303. “You must think me really ridiculous.”
“Not at all. I know you want to be a pillar of strength—an island unto yourself,” Mark answered, “but that isn’t exactly how life works. At least not how it works successfully.”
“Oh, and when did you become an expert on such matters?”
He chuckled. “I never presumed to be an expert on it or anything else. I just judge it by my experiences. My guess is that your experiences have taught you to avoid people and relationships. It probably started early in your life—childhood, I’d say.”
His comment made me shiver. I made a pretense of turning down the A/C and refocused on the road.
“So why not just be honest with me about the past? Maybe I can help.”
Irritation edged out the fear. “And if I don’t want help?”
“Everybody needs help now and then. They may not want it, but needing it is entirely different. Kind of like a good storyteller needing an editor. God never intended for us to walk through life on our own, alone.”
I joined the traffic of Highway 3 and set the cruise control to sixty. “Did He intend for little girls to suffer because of the mental illness of the adults in their lives?”
Mark didn’t miss a beat. “No. I don’t think it was God’s desire at all. It’s simply a part of living in a fallen world.”
“A what?”
“A fallen world. A world that turned away from the perfection God intended. When Eve allowed the serpent to give her reason to doubt God, everything changed. The world became imperfect—fell away from God—because of sin. The happiness and love we could have had were corrupted.”
“Please don’t start in on that,” I said more sternly than I’d intended. “I’m not looking for a lesson in religion, and I’m certainly not looking for love.”
“I’ve never seen anyone look harder for love than you.”
His words took my breath. I turned and looked at him. “I suppose you think you know exactly what I need.”
He gave me that cocky smile. “You need to pay attention to the road,” he said, gesturing.
I glanced back in time to see that we were gaining rather quickly on the back of a semi. I slowed, changed lanes, and reset the cruise control.
“So what kind of mental illness were you exposed to?” he asked.
I’d come this far and decided to bare it all. “Schizophrenia. My mother.”
He nodded. “That couldn’t have been easy. Which type was she?”
“Paranoid.”
He seemed to consider this for a moment. “Was she delusional—hallucinating?”
“Yes.”
“Did she think people, particularly government types, were out to get her?”
I felt my breath catch. “Yes. The FBI.”
Again he nodded. “Refuse treatment and meds?”
“Yes.” I didn’t know what else to say. A part of me was relieved that he so obviously understood the situation, while another part wanted to pull the car to the side of the road so that I might run away from further discussion.
“How old were you when she was diagnosed?”
“About six. My sister Piper was born that year and things really went downhill after that. But . . .” I paused and bit at my lower lip. I focused on the tree-lined highway. “She was sick well before that.”
“I can imagine. Most folks go years undiagnosed.”
I shook my head and looked at him. “How do you know so much about it?”
It was Mark’s turn to look a little embarrassed. “I minored in general psychology with a strong emphasis in abnormal studies.”
I gave him a sidelong glance. “Yet you became an editorial director?”
“Well, I majored in English. Where better to use such a combination but in working with crazed writers and mad geniuses? I think every editor should have a degree in psychology.” He winked, and I laughed in spite of myself.
“I suppose you have me there.” I sobered, realizing he’d have a very clear understanding of what I was up against. “So now you understand.”
“What is it you want me to understand?”
“That I can’t risk a relationship with anyone. I can be your friend, but more than that and you open yourself up to all sorts of problems.”
He was very quiet for several minutes. We weren’t far from our destination and I wondered if maybe he would ask me to take him back to Bremerton.
“I’m not afraid to risk a relationship with a woman whose mother was mentally ill,” he finally said. “However, I am afraid to set out to woo a woman who wants nothing to do with God.”
That hit me hard. Maybe harder than if he’d said he couldn’t deal with the schizophrenia. I had heroically thought I was saving the world from the possibilities of my own mental illness by not having a mate and children, but never had I considered that someone might reject me based on my religious views. The very idea made me defensive, which in turn made me angry.
“So why did you bother to come out here?”
“Because I felt it was what God wanted me to do.” He looked at me, and I couldn’t help but glance at his well-chiseled features. Why did he have to be so good-looking? “I can’t lie, Bailee. I want very much to have a relationship with you, but more than that, I want you to finally realize that God wants one with you too. And frankly, His is more important.”
I fought to keep from saying anything harsh. It dawned on me all at once that the reason I was so offended by his statement had more to do with the past than I had originally thought. If I blamed schizophrenia and my mother’s behavior for my inability to have a decent relationship, then I didn’t have to be responsible for the matter. To say otherwise—to say that my own choices and outlook on faith and God were putting a halt to someone being able to connect with me—well, that was entirely different. That made it my responsibility, and I didn’t particularly care for that.
Chapter 16
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nbsp; Arriving in Poulsbo gave us a nice diversion and reason to end our very serious conversation. I was determined not to fall into another trap of hearing how much I needed to get right with God. But even while avoiding Him, God made His presence known.
While in one of the many antique stores, I found an old framed painting of Jesus knocking at a wooden door. Later in the same store, I saw an old leather Bible. Something in me suggested I buy it, but I refrained.
During our walk around town I found myself constantly inundated with plaques, wall hangings, and cards that suggested God was either with me or wanted to be. It was annoying. After a couple of hours looking around and shopping, Mark suggested we sit on a bench and watch the water for a while.
I fidgeted and tried to focus on a family to our left. The mother and father had their hands full with three rambunctious children, none of which could have been older than four or five. They seemed happy. The children were laughing at the dad’s antics to entertain them with a Frisbee. The youngest stumbled and fell, and the mother quickly helped her back to her feet and kissed away her tears. How perfect they all seemed. Why hadn’t God given me a family like that?
There He was again. God. Imposing His way into my thoughts—demanding that I recognize His presence.
“All right,” I finally said, giving up the fight. I turned my attention back to Mark. “I don’t know what to do with God. He deserted me when I needed Him most. He allowed my mother to avoid getting the help she needed. He let her commit suicide. I won’t even get into how the people at church reacted to her and to us girls. And then there’s the way my mother treated me.”
“Free choice is pretty painful to those of us who’d make other decisions for the people we love,” Mark replied.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“God allows us to make our own choice. Your mother was no exception to that just because she had mental problems.”
“But she wasn’t in her right mind,” I countered. “And because of that—” I leaned in close and lowered my voice—“because of that she often endangered my life and those of my siblings. Her free will or ‘choice,’ as you suggest, nearly cost us our own lives.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he answered. “I am, however, really sorry that you had to endure so much. It wasn’t right, Bailee. You and your sisters shouldn’t have had to go through all of that. I wish it could have been different for you.”
“God could have made it different.” My bitterness was laid bare for him to see. “People—Christian people—could have been more loving and kind.”
“Mental illness frightens most people,” Mark admitted. “I’ve seen it firsthand at my church. A few weeks back someone brought in a couple of homeless men. They were clearly dealing with mental issues. People didn’t want to sit near them or even say hello.”
“For fear it might rub off,” I said, remembering all too well how church congregations had treated my mother.
“One of the older men suggested to me that the men were demon-possessed.”
That roused something in me that I had very nearly forgotten. “They tried to pray schizophrenia out of my mother at one church. It was awful. They said my mother was being held in bondage by the devil.” I shuddered. “They read all those stories in the Bible about Jesus casting out demons.”
Mark reached out and touched my hand. “Satan has his power and there’s no doubt he torments the minds of some, but not all mental illness has anything to do with demon possession. People suffer from bad choices like drug use. They fry their brains and destroy their ability to function normally. Some are born with problems that interfere with mental stability. Some are abused and mental illness develops. And, I truly believe some are demon possessed. I won’t say that isn’t possible.”
“But they didn’t help her,” I said, remembering that particular church. “They prayed over her . . . badgered her . . . and finally asked her to leave. They said she was in sin and wasn’t willing to be delivered from her sickness.” I looked at Mark. “How could they be so cruel? How could God?”
“It wasn’t God who kicked her out of church,” he countered. “It wasn’t God who treated her . . . you . . . cruelly. It was the choice of people whose nature was sinful and human. Just like you and me. They made mistakes, Bailee. That doesn’t mean God did.”
“But He could have stopped it.”
A golden retriever came bounding up to us, acting as though we were lifelong friends. Mark laughed and gave the animal a scratch behind the ears. “Hey, there.”
“Sorry about that,” a young woman said as she bound up to our bench. She was dressed in running shorts and a T-shirt and held out the leash as if offering an explanation. “Buddy managed to take off before I could hook him up.” She snapped the leash onto her dog’s collar.
“No problem,” Mark told her. “I enjoyed the interruption.”
The woman smiled and gave the leash a tug. “Come on, Buddy.” They took off jogging down the sidewalk.
I almost hoped Mark would have forgotten my last comment, but I knew he hadn’t. Maybe if I headed him off at the pass—stopped him before he could begin his barrage of questions—we could end this conversation and move on to something else.
“I told God He could have kept it all from happening, and He questioned me. I know it doesn’t make sense, but God agreed that He could have kept it from happening—then He asked me what I would do with Him now. I guess that’s the place I’m in. I don’t know what a person does with someone who could have kept bad things from happening, but didn’t.”
Mark nodded. “I’ve been there myself. It’s a hard place to be in.”
“Maybe it is time you told me more about your life, then.”
“Seems only fair. And I’m glad to share with you, Bailee . . . but I get the distinct feeling that what you’d really like is to get an answer for your own issues.”
With my effort thwarted, I considered my response for a moment. “Sometimes there aren’t answers, Mark. Perhaps it’s just as well if we let it go. God is God, after all. We can’t hope to understand why He does the things He does.”
“And that’s the end of that?”
I forced a nod. “Yes. Seems logical to me.”
“And you’re all right with that?”
I shrugged. “What does it matter? Whether I’m all right with it or not, God will do as He wishes. Believe me, He’s never asked my permission for anything. My safety and provision aren’t as important as running the world.”
“But that’s where you’re wrong, Bailee. They are. The Bible says they are, so I believe it with all my heart. God isn’t a father who leaves His children without protection. You may have had close calls—bad things may have happened—but what about being grateful for the blessings you’ve also had? What about cherishing the wonderful life God gave you beyond your mother and her schizophrenia? Why do a few bad years and horrible events cancel out the wonder and beauty of a lifetime of good? Why let it keep you from years of love and happiness?”
His questions troubled me. Why should a few bad years ruin the rest of my life? Why did they have that kind of power? I had no answer. I looked up and found Mark watching me. I didn’t feel like fighting with him anymore. I just wanted to take comfort in his presence. I wanted to be happy that he’d come—that he cared enough about me to make a coast-to-coast trip at the drop of a hat.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have an answer for you.”
He smiled in his charming way. “Well, at least you’re being honest with me.”
I thought about that for a minute. Honesty was critical. Our relationship, be it as boss and employee, friends, or something more, necessitated honesty. I knew where secrets could lead.
“Honesty is important to me. Maybe now more than ever,” I finally said. “I want to be real with you, but that means being vulnerable. And that frightens me more than I can say.”
“It frightens me too, Bailee.” His words were barely more than a whisper.
Smiling, he pretended to lift an imaginary glass. “To vulnerability.”
“And honesty,” I said.
“Now I suggest we find a place for lunch. Better yet, we could just skip to the dessert. I saw a great looking bakery on the main street. I want to get some treats to take back to your family.”
I was surprised that he was willing to drop the subject, but grateful too. “I think they’d like that.”
The next morning, with Mark and Dad off exploring the nearby state park, I was surprised to find Judith on the deck, painting. I watched her for several minutes, impressed by her attention to detail. She was quite good.
“How long have you painted?” I asked.
“Since I was quite young. My father was a painter—at least for a time.”
“Only for a time?”
“My father had MS. His abilities went downhill as the disease took over.”
“I’m sorry. When was he diagnosed?”
“They knew about it before I was born. I just sort of grew up with it.” Judith dabbed the brush in a mixture of white, sand, and blue, then touched it to the shoreline in the painting. “My father was determined to live his life as normally as possible. He even endured a lot of painful experimental treatments.”
“Did they help?”
“I don’t think so.” She put the brush in a nearby jar of solution, then turned back to me. “There were medications that seemed to ease his pain. Other times the meds only served to put him in a stupor.” She motioned to the deck table and chairs. “Want to sit with me for a while?”
I nodded and pulled out a chair. The morning light was uncommonly brilliant. The sky was void of clouds and the water glimmered exquisitely against the sun’s rays. I’d forgotten how peaceful it could be to just sit and watch the day pass by.