“I guess you have the night shift.” I walk further inside, committing to this weird detour. It’s a small place, with rows of old school pews, maybe seating 100. It smells of hardwood floors that have soaked up over a century of visitors bringing their celebrations and burdens.
“Nightshift is my favorite,” Betty says. “Everything is so quiet and still.”
“I bet you don’t get many folks popping in after dark.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised.” She gestures to the pews. “Sit down and stay awhile. You’re safe here and won’t be bothered. I’m here to pray with you if you’d like, or you can just hang out, as you kids say.”
“Thank you. I think I’ll take a seat.”
Feeling more than a little self-conscious, I slide into the third pew from the front. “Just a Closer Walk with Thee” plays, an old song James’s church dusts off at least once a year. A weathered pulpit anchors the front of the chapel, and a scarred pine floor rests beneath my tapping feet. Stained glass windows glimmer from the outside moonlight, and I’m sure they’re stunners when the sun creeps in.
I close my eyes, trying to block out the fact that there’s a total stranger of a woman in the back probably watching me, and I’m all alone in this tiny church. Ten years from now, when others will share cool college party stories, I can say I visited an old church after dark. Completely normal.
God and I have talked in passing, but I’ve been too busy to participate in more than small talk. For lack of anything better to do and with a hope the Almighty listens extra close to prayers from mushroom-shaped places, I silently talk to Him like He’s my therapist.
God, I’m gonna assume your long-distance connection reaches to Hendrix. I don’t know why I’m here—at this school and in this weird place. I saw a Hallmark movie once where a distraught lady visited the hospital chapel and found some solace and thought I might try it. She also found a hot man there, but I’m not holding out for that. Nor do I need one more boy complication.
I pray for comfort for my mom. For peace. I pray I can be there when it’s her time, so she won’t be alone. Because being alone is the absolute worst. It’s pretty much what I feel here. Unseen. Overlooked. And worn out.
I mutter an Amen, feeling zero percent better.
I glance back at Betty, and when our eyes connect, I offer her an awkward smile. I continue to survey the church, until I have it memorized, strangely compelled to linger.
Betty must know a troubled soul when she sees one because she quietly approaches, her white tennis shoes carrying her stealthily to my pew.
“Tough night?” She scoots in beside me, her Bath and Body Works lotion a modern contrast to the antique setting.
“Tough week,” I say.
“What’s your name, hon?”
“Katie.”
“Cool. I have a granddaughter named Katie.” She angles her body until she’s facing me. “Schoolwork getting you down? Boyfriend problems? Sick of cafeteria hamburgers?”
I just let her have it. “My mom’s dying.”
“Oh.” Her eyes behind round glasses go large. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks. It’s complicated.”
“Death often is.”
“Actually, I’ve decided death is pretty straightforward. It’s life that’s so messed up.”
Betty’s voice reminds me of Millie’s—lightly seasoned with a Southern lilt and gentle enough to earn her a spot on NPR. “I lost my mom when I was eighteen.”
“I’m sorry,” I say back to her. “Was she a good mother?”
“The best.” Betty smiles, and I’m struck by this instant reaction. My own response would not be that positive. “I still remember the smell of her homemade cookies she’d have warm and waiting many days after school. She sewed all my dresses like a master seamstress. She taught me to love reading and encouraged me to aim to become anything I wanted. She was at every ballgame I cheered at, and all of my school plays.”
My mom has seen exactly zero of my plays. “She sounds great.”
“I bet your mom’s pretty great too.”
My fingers make work of tracing the hem of my T-shirt. Back and forth, back and forth. “She’s a little dysfunctional.”
“All people are.”
“My mom lost custody of me some time ago. I did the whole foster care thing and got adopted my junior year of high school.”
“Oh, that is complicated.”
“Yeah, Bobbie Ann wasn’t really into baking cookies and attending school events.”
“Do you have any brothers and sisters?”
“No. My adoptive parents have an older daughter, but she’s at some rehab place up north.” See? Complicated. “I’m crazy about my parents, though. I love them so much. They’ve shown me what it means to be loved unconditionally and taken care of. But…”
“But your mom is your mom.”
“Yes.”
“She’s part of your DNA and memory bank.”
“Exactly.”
“What I can tell you is, it’s always hard to lose a parent, no matter your relationship status. When they go, so does a part of you.”
“That’s what I fear. And there’s still so much left undone, unsaid.”
“You know, sometimes people in comas can hear us. Why don’t you talk to her and tell her how you feel?”
“It’s not like she can respond.”
“But she’ll hear. Maybe she needs to know you forgive her.”
“I don’t have those words yet.”
Betty reaches for my hand. “So you tell her that. Or tell her you love her and that you’re taken care of. Talk about some happy times. Did you have any of those?”
“A few.” I haven’t really let myself dig into the cob-webbed archives of my mind to see how many pleasant memories are stored there.
“Katie, the death of a parent completely throws your equilibrium. It’s learning to walk again, talk again in your new world without her. It’s living life in this bubble of grief, and maybe for some—anger and sadness. Grief takes on many forms. Don’t block it and don’t fight it. It will never be about getting back to how things were, but about eventually living fully in your new normal.”
My new normal. When can I expect to arrive at this place?
“Do you have friends you can talk to about your mom?”
“Most of my friends are at other colleges and all wrapped up in the business of their freshman year.” I think of Frances, who’s texted me a 100 times, but I’ve only given her the black and white facts. Then there’s Charlie, who got to hear it all.
“Is there a reason you don’t want to share this with others? Maybe taking care of yourself is a habit?”
“It is. But…” I look behind us, as if afraid someone I know might be listening in. “For the last three years, I’ve lived a very normal life with my parents. All I’ve ever wanted is normal—a calm life without drugs and drama. My parents have jobs and cars that run and real beds with clean sheets.” I check Betty’s face to see if she thinks I’m crazy. Only curious concern stares back at me. “I’ve started over with a new life and even a new last name. With my mom in prison, I’d disconnected from that old me. If I tell people about what’s going on, I have to explain my mom.” I wipe at the tears that have escaped to my cheeks. “I know it’s awful, but I’m ashamed of her. I love her, but I don’t want to step back into the role of a druggie convict’s daughter.”
Betty nods like a sage. “You have your story, and your mother has hers. You don’t have to tell hers right now. Maybe one day you can appreciate some of your old life too. We are who we are because of where we come from. Even the bad stuff makes us stronger, better.”
“Right now, I don’t see that.”
“And that’s okay,” Betty says. “When the time is right, you can do whatever you want with your mother’s story. But for now, you live your own.” Before I can tell this woman I don’t understand her counselor-speak, she throws out another idea. “Would you like me to
pray with you?” She sees my look of apprehension, and her thin lips stretch into a kind smile. “It’s part of my job description. I don’t want to brag, but I’m kind of good at it.”
I want to tell her no, but that seems rude. “Sure.” Knock yourself out, lady.
So, Sister Betty of the Hendrix Chapel rests her hands on one of mine and softly prays. She asks God for comfort, for direction, and for loved ones to hold me up when I want to fall. Then she prays that one day I’ll love my mom—and myself—with all our flaws and failures. It sounds like quite the order.
“Amen.” Betty stands, adjusting an earring as she regards me. “Katie, I know you might feel alone, but you never are. God is always near, even when we don’t feel it. And He’s okay with the pace you set to heal—not just from the possible loss of your mother, but from all you’ve endured and overcome. There’s no shame in where you come from.”
“It’s never felt that way.”
“I hope one day soon you’ll look back on your life and that shame will be replaced with acceptance and peace.”
“That’s quite the tall order.”
“Then I’ll keep praying for just that.”
I thank Betty again, then sit back down. “I think I’ll stay here a bit.”
“Take your time.” She squeezes my hand that rests on the back of the pew. “In all things, take your time.”
Chapter Sixteen
The only way to follow-up the fun of sitting with your morbid thoughts in a chapel until it’s creepy-o-clock is to do some laundry. Don’t say I don’t know how to party it up in college.
The thing nobody tells you about doing your own laundry is that it multiplies on you. When someone else is handling it, it seems very manageable. Living with my mom, I was washing our laundry at an age most girls were playing Barbies and hopscotch. It didn't take any time before I adapted to Millie's weekly offer to be my personal laundress. In the meantime, I'd forgotten all the necessary rules. Don't wash lights with darks. Check the pockets before you throw things in the wash. Never, and I mean ever, wash a red shirt with the whites. Tonight, as if studying lines in the dorm’s basement laundry room wasn’t bad enough, a stray red shirt jumped into my load of whites, ruining my clothes. And basically my life. I'm at the point in my stress level where everything is a mountain, and nothing's a molehill.
It’s 1:00 a.m. when I sniff and sniffle through my laborious climb up the stairs to my room, the basket of pink laundry weighing a hundred pounds in my tired arms.
At my door, I feel hot panic as I pat the pockets of my shorts and realize I don't have my key.
Shoot!
What do I do? If I wake up Jemma, she'll probably assemble her nerd hooligans and make me disappear. Later they’ll find my body wrapped in biodegradable material with a note that says, “She broke the last rule.”
I gently rap on the door, hoping like mad Violet will hear. Two minutes later, I'm still standing there. Though my dorm is safe, it's an odd feeling to be in the hallway by yourself this late. Dim lights illuminate the hall, but it's so quiet I can hear an echo of my own breathing. I keep watching towards the stairwell as if some predators could jump out any second. This has got Stephen King written all over it.
I tap on the door one more time, this time a little louder, a little harder. I mumble a prayer, pleading with God to either magically open up the door like some sort of holy open-sesame or to rouse Violet from her sleep. I finally get the brainy idea to send her a text hoping the ding of the notification will wake her.
Ten text messages and one desperate phone call later, the door opens.
But it's not Violet.
An angry Jemma stands there. Her black hair looks like it's been caught in a wind turbine, and her eye mask is shoved on top of her head. “What do you think you're doing?”
“I was trying to do laundry. But the only thing I successfully did tonight was forget my key.” I also forgot some popcorn I threw in a microwave, but I’ll starve before I walk downstairs and get it. It’s a tight squeeze as I slide between Jemma’s shoulder and the full-bodied presence of her seething anger.
Jemma spins on her heel. “It's one in the morning.”
“I know,” I whisper. “I'm sorry.
“You woke me up, and I have a test tomorrow. Some of us take those things very seriously.”
I take them seriously. I also seem to fail them quite seriously. “I'm sorry. I didn't leave my keys on purpose. Go back to sleep.”
“Oh, yeah, like it's that easy.” Jemma sails up the ladder to her loft and crashes onto her mattress as if wearing a jet pack of fury.
Using the flashlight on my cell phone, I navigate my way to my side of the room, smothering a shout when I stub my toe on the desk chair.
“Sssshhh!” Jemma hisses. “And turn off your light. What are you doing, trying to blind us?”
I would say I am sorry, but that’s getting kind of repetitive. I angle the light into my chest of drawers and put away my newly pinkened socks.
“Katie?” Violet sits up from her bunk and yawns. “How was your weekend?”
“Seriously?” Jemma blasts. “Talk about it tomorrow. Both of you are in violation of rule number seventeen. No sleep disturbances after eleven p.m.!”
I forego putting away my laundry and set the basket down. “It was good, Violet. Thanks for—”
A loud honking alarm blares from the hallway, sounding like we’re under attack. The noise intensifies, gaining in volume, and I have to cover my ears.
“Fire alarm.” Jemma scurries from her loft. “Let’s go.”
Violet throws a jacket over her t-shirt. “I’m sure it’s just a drill.”
We join the bleary-eyed crowd in the hallway and form orderly lines as we traipse downstairs. I follow Jemma because I can’t remember where we’re supposed to go. We had a drill the first week of school, but I was so busy having a text argument with Tate, I didn’t pay attention to where we were assigned to gather.
Jemma stops near a giant oak near the street, so Violet and I do the same. Everyone mills about, and within no time two firetrucks rush past us and park at the front of the building.
I rub my tired, dry eyes. “If this is a drill they’ve added some very authentic touches.”
“Some moron must’ve caught something on fire.” Jemma scans the crowd as if she’s looking for someone who might fit the description.
I’m just grateful I hadn’t changed into my pajamas yet. Some of these poor gals are braless and in dire need of support. The girls sport lots of t-shirts and shorts, with a few short nightgowns thrown in. A handful wear little robes and fuzzy slippers, though flip-flops seem to be the most popular shoe of choice for the event. Some guys walk recklessly without shirts, while others have donned tees with imagery they probably assumed would never see the light of day.
“Nice Sesame Street shirt,” I call to a guy walking by. “I love my mom, too,” I say to another.
A tall boy whose waist circumference is equal to one of my legs pushes his hand through his frizzy, blond hair and ambles toward us with all the unbalanced grace of a newly walking giraffe. “Hey, Jemma,” Skinny Boy says. “How’s it going?”
Violet and I exchange a look. This is interesting.
Jemma regards Skinny Boy like he could be the moron who started the fire. “It’s one in the morning, and I’m not asleep. How do you think it’s going?”
“Yeah.” He gives a nervous laugh. “Crazy alarms. They never go off at a good time, do they?”
Jemma snorts. “If there’s a fire, I would probably consider that a good time.”
“Right.” His chuckle is loudly boisterous this time as if she’s told a hilarious joke.
“Hi.” I wave my Tide-scented hand. “I’m Katie. And this is Violet.”
He acts almost pained to take his eyes off Jemma. “Alex.”
“How do you know Jemma?” Violet asks.
“We have a few classes together.” Alex turns back to Jemma. “How about that a
stronomy test, huh?”
Jemma’s forehead pinches in a frown. “What about it?”
Alex visibly swallows, his Adam's apple running the length of his throat like a rickety elevator. “Crazy hard, right?”
“If you're referring to last Friday's test, I found it simplistic and barely adequate in its coverage of the material.”
Instead of taking a step back from the heat of Jemma’s dragon-fire scorn, Alex’s face lights up. “See, I was hoping you would say that. I'm really struggling in that class. I…I, um, wondered if you might know anybody who could help me.”
One of Jemma’s black eyebrows rise. “Help you with what?”
His voice cracks like a twelve-year-old’s. “Like tutor me.”
Jemma huffs a dismissive breath. “Is this appropriate fire alarm conversation?”
Alex doesn't seem to know what to say to that, and I can almost see his heart break into a hundred Lego pieces right in front of me.
“Jemma, that’s right up your alley,” I say.
“Yeah,” Violet adds. “That stuff’s so easy for you. Maybe you could help Alex.”
Alex grabs onto this life preserver we’ve thrown. “That would be so great. I think I'm pulling a C in astronomy now, and my mom's gonna kill me. I've got a scholarship on the line. I’ve got to maintain a B average.”
Jemma repeats his wish with her robotic monotone. “You want me to tutor you.”
Violet and I stand behind Jemma and nod encouragingly at the poor boy. Keep going, dude.
“Yeah.” He chews on his bottom lip. “What do you say?”
“I don't know,” Jemma snaps. “I'll think about it. Teaching is not really my thing.”
“I thought you wanted to be a professor?” I say to my cantankerous roomie.
“Yeah. I do.” Her cheeks bloom a vivid blush. “But—”
“Then it’s perfect!” I smile.
“Yeah,” Violet says. “An ideal match. Jemma, you can tutor Alex, and Alex will give you some practice. Teaching practice, I mean.”
Alex wears a silly grin, and I think he must be the bravest boy on campus. To approach Jemma the dragon and not only engage her in conversation, but live to tell about it? That takes guts.
Something to Believe In Page 9
