Deliver Her from Evil

by M. L. Steinbrunn

  My phone rang, and on the line was someone who would be calling for only one reason.

  “Get here as quickly as you can. There isn’t much time left,” is all he said. Evan didn’t need to say anything else. My focus changed instantly. Leah would have to wait; my past was calling.

  I didn’t tell Lakin where I was going; I just grabbed the file and left.

  It took almost an hour to reach Sharon’s house. I drove as quickly as I could, hoping I would make it in time.

  But now, I’m sitting outside her house, the same house I left so many years ago, and I’m finding it difficult to leave my car and go in. When I got the news that her cancer was back and had metastasized, I knew this battle wouldn’t go our way this time. I knew this day would come, but now that it’s here, I can’t bring myself to face it.

  I barely remember my own mother, but Sharon has been the closest thing to a mother for most of my adult life. She helped me with the paperwork to get into college, she would be in the front row of anything I asked her to go to, and she was my biggest, and sometimes only, cheerleader. For many years, she was the only thing that resembled home for me.

  Her son, Evan, peeks through the curtains, and within seconds, he’s standing on the porch waiting for me to get out of my car. I swallow down my grief and exit the vehicle. As I approach, he offers a tight-lipped smile and a head bob as a greeting. He’s trying to mask his pain, but his red swollen eyes and disheveled hair tell a different story.

  “Thanks for coming, Cam,” he chokes out when I step up onto the porch. I don’t say anything; I just wrap my arms around him and squeeze all the love I have for this family into him. In the comfort of my embrace, he breaks down, sobbing into my shoulder. I can feel his hands gripping and twisting my shirt. I stand motionless, letting him grieve for his dying mother.

  After his parent’s divorce, he became her primary caregiver. All of the emotion that a son losing his mother feels, he had to push away in order to take care of her. He has had to be so strong through everything; I feel like I need to offer some semblance of solace to him.

  He takes some staggering breaths to regain control and nods in my neck when he’s ready to break contact.

  “She’s been asking for you,” he stammers, wiping the tears from his eyes.

  I cradle his cheek in my palm and nod. He closes his eyes and leans in briefly, looking for additional comfort. When I move my hand away and take a step toward the door, he reaches for my elbow to pull me back. “I think she’s been waiting for you…to say goodbye.”

  His words incite a wave of emotion that leaves a knot in my throat, threatening to combust. Unable to release the tears, I continue on through the door and down the hall to Sharon’s bedroom.

  Whenever I visited this house, it always smelled like cookies or pies or whatever Sharon had baking in the oven. The smell alone was so welcoming; it made everyone, including myself, feel at home. Now the smell is gone and has been replaced with a cold, sterile feeling that makes your skin crawl.

  The door is slightly ajar, and I find myself standing in the opening just watching her sleep. She’s propped up against a mountain of pillows, in what looks like peaceful slumber, but I know better. This woman, who I found so much strength, in has been reduced to a version of herself that no one should have to face.

  So she sleeps. Frail, tried, battered, and defeated, she sleeps.

  As quietly as possible, I enter the room and slide into the chair, which sits next to the bed. I would guess it has been Evan’s resting spot for these last few weeks, unable to leave his mother’s side. Tentatively, I reach for her bony hand and lightly lay my head on her legs. I close my eyes and let our silence engulf me, enjoying the few peaceful moments we may never have together again.

  “I am so glad you’re here, Cam,” she rasps, her free hand landing in my hair and stroking the tendrils. The sensation prompts me to quickly open my eyes and sit up straight.

  “There isn’t anywhere I would rather be, Shar,” I say with a smile.

  Sharon begins to adjust her blankets and the pillows surrounding her and I jump up to help her, but she holds a hand up to stop me. “I’m okay, please sit. I want to enjoy this time with you. What little time I have left, I want to feel like a mother again, instead of being mothered.”

  I slowly sit back down, watching her closely in case she struggles. “I need you to give me a job, Sharon. Tell me what I can do. I can’t just sit here and do nothing for you,” I tell her, feeling helpless to ease her pain.

  Since the day I left her house, I have done nothing but try to help others the way she showed me I could through her example. My friends, who are like my family, look to me to smooth out rough situations, to help. That makes me feel worthy of their love. Being unable to do anything for Sharon, only makes that self-doubt intensify. I need my deeds to reflect my appreciation for her.

  “Oh, sweetheart, you being here is what I needed,” she whispers.

  I smile, knowing Sharon isn’t going to let me push the issue. “Thank you, Sharon.”

  She tilts her head in confusion. “I can fluff my own pillow, hun,” she attempts to jest, but begins to cough, causing her to struggle for air. I grab the cup of water on her nightstand and bring the straw to her lips, encouraging her to drink.

  I can see her relief as the cool liquid eases her dry throat. When she’s finished, I place the cup back on the nightstand next to her beloved collection of poetry. The green cover is faded and worn from years of love; the pages earmarked with her selected favorites.

  “I see this hasn’t gone far,” I say, laying my hand on the cover and running my fingers along the spine. “I always liked when you read these poems to me.”

  “I want you to take that with you today. I know you’ll love those words inside just as much as I have,” she says.

  I shake my head adamantly, “No, I can’t do that. These mean so much to you.”

  “That’s how I know they will be taken care of; you know the value of those words,” she adds with a faint smile. She hesitates for a second before continuing. “I need to tell you something, Cam.”

  My eyebrows furrow.

  Tears begin to build in her eyes. “I need to apologize to you,” she finally stammers.

  “Apologize to me?” I question. “You have done nothing but be supportive of me, all these years, when you had no reason to be.”

  “That’s just it, Campbell. I consider you my daughter. I have been proud of you, sad and happy for you, encouraged you, but I know I failed you.”

  I begin to argue, but she cuts me off. “Let me finish,” she demands, her raspy voice barely able to choke out the words. “I had several years and several chances to adopt you and make bringing you into our family legal, but I never did. I was scared of that permanent commitment. I thought I wouldn’t be able to do a good job being a foster parent if I took that on; I wanted to be able to help as many kids as possible. But looking back at everything, I didn’t take the right path, and I’m sorry for that. I should have been your mother.”

  Emotion builds behind my eyes and I struggle to breathe past the constriction in my throat. “You didn’t have to make it legal for me to know you care about me. I knew I belonged here,” I tell her.

  “Whatever the paperwork said, you belonged here,” she whispers through tears as she places my hand on her heart. “You are loved, Campbell. I’m so thankful you came into my life.”

  I nod, unable to speak from the pain that is tearing apart my insides. I squeeze her hands, hoping she feels every ounce of admiration and gratefulness I have for her.

  A weight has noticeably been lifted from her. For several minutes, we let the silence hang in the air, both of us settling into the peace of the moment. I slowly flip through the pages of her poetry book, taking note of the highlighted passages, notes in the margins, and a few of her favorites that she insisted I read at different times over the last decade and a half.

  “Will you read your poem for me?” she f
inally asks.

  I look up at her, almost surprised at her request. “Just that one? I would be happy to read some of your favorites.”

  “I’m getting tired, Campbell. I would like to hear it one more time. I want you to say the words one last time,” she murmurs.

  I turn the pages until I reach the poem she has requested and take a deep breath, staring at the words on the page. She made me read this William Wordsworth poem so many times over the years; there really is no need to actually read it. The words are burned into my memory, but I need to keep my eyes and mind distracted. As soon as the first words leave my lips, her eyes close and she relaxes into the rhythm of the poem. My voice trembles through the first few lines until I can find comfort in the words.

  SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS

  BESIDE THE SPRINGS OF DOVE,

  A MAID WHOM THERE WERE NONE TO PRAISE,

  AND VERY FEW TO LOVE.

  A VIOLET BY A MOSSY STONE

  HALF-HIDDEN FROM THE EYE!

  FAIR AS A STAR, WHEN ONLY ONE

  IS SHINING IN THE SKY.

  SHE LIVED UNKNOWN, AND FEW COULD KNOW

  WHEN LUCY CEASED TO BE;

  BUT SHE IS IN HER GRAVE, AND OH,

  THE DIFFERENCE TO ME!

  I recite the final stanza and slowly close the book. My gaze finally rises to see Sharon, peaceful in her bed, no longer struggling to breathe….gone.

  For the second time in my life, I’ve lost my mother. I’m just thankful that this time, I had the chance to say goodbye. A sob breaks free and I unleash the tears I have been straining to contain. Barely able to catch my breath, I grip onto the book, rest my head on her legs once again, and let my blended heart spill out.

  Campbell

  My mind, my heart, screamed for a distraction. I needed something to pull me away from the pain of my loss.

  I will be the first to admit I’ve struggled with Sharon’s death. I didn’t tell anyone about it, and allowed Evan and I to grieve alone, together. She had all of the funeral arrangements in place; all we did was make the announcement of her passing. It was a beautiful ceremony with so many people in attendance that there was no more room in the pews at the church. Previous foster children, who now had families of their own, community members, family, all there to celebrate how valuable her life was to them.

  I listened as Evan spoke about his mother and how she loved so deeply and was adored by many. I listened and wished it to be over; I wanted to walk out of the church and be able to let that part of my life go. I wanted to not miss her, not love like I had, because I faced the same pain and grief I had when my parents died.

  My wish didn’t come true.

  So the distraction of my birthday was a diversion I gladly welcomed.

  The girls planned such a nice birthday lunch for me, and I loved them for it. However, tonight has been what I have been most looking forward to. Lakin has been extremely persistent about spending time together, and I haven’t been strong enough to ward him off. The exact opposite, in fact. I find myself looking forward to our time together, even if it’s just as friends. I’ve kept my blossoming friendship with Lakin a secret, and I would love to share our relationship with the girls, but I know better. It would upset Brooks, it could make things awkward with Vivian, and it could strain those friendships. So for now, he stays a secret. Now more than ever, I need that friendship.

  I wasn’t surprised when he demanded we spend time together on my birthday. I cleared my evening and he commandeered the available time.

  When Lakin told me what we were doing tonight, I admit I was more than excited about it. I’ve only been bowling once in my life, the girls took me back in college, and I was worse than terrible. Thank goodness for the bumper pads that kept my granny-throws in the lane.

  As horrible as I was, I had so much fun. I love getting to do things I didn’t get to as a kid. I never willingly let myself wallow in the fact I missed out. A childhood with sleepovers, birthday parties, and trips to the zoo isn’t what I had. So now, as an adult, it always feels extra good to make up for those things.

  As I pull into the parking lot of the bowling alley, I park in the open space next to Lakin. He sees me, steps out of the car, and hustles to my spot to open my car door. My brain becomes mush and I have trouble concentrating for a moment. Lakin is a very attractive man, young, but attractive. I’ve managed to box him into a certain category, one with suits and business transactions. Tonight, when he stepped out of his car, he kicked through the square I pegged him into and now he stands before me, a man after my own heart.

  Faded jeans hang on his hips, paired with a vintage t-shirt, which looks like it might have actually been at Woodstock, and a pair of black Converse. He reaches out his hand to help me out of the car and smiles when he notices my own purple Chuck Taylors.

  “Cool shoes,” I slyly say as I take his hand. His strong grip feels nice wrapped around my fingers. I fight the urge to thread our fingers together and enjoy the idea of us as a couple.

  “Shoes?” he asks dumbfounded. “I thought it would be the shirt that won you over. It took forever to find this Led Zeppelin shirt. I dressed up for your birthday.” He squeezes my hand and closes the door behind me.

  “Don’t worry, I’m impressed by the shirt, too. You did well, Lakin,” I tell him, lightly pulling my hand away from his. I feel the loss instantly and regret the decision. Without skipping a beat, he places his hand at the small of my back and leads me into the bowling alley. It feels very couple-like, even though we are not a couple. If Brooks ever found out we were even hanging out as much as we do, he would be livid with Lakin. Since that first semester at college, Brooks has always been that older brother figure to me and he would expect the same treatment from Lakin. For us to venture into the realm of dating, would throw that relationship off kilter, and Brooks wouldn’t stand for it. For the sake of keeping the peace, I keep Lakin at a friendly, but appropriate, distance.

  As soon as we pass through the entrance, I take a deep breath and let the stale beer and dirty shoes smell that’s wafting through the breeze from the ball return fans infiltrate my nose. I find it weird how bowling alleys have a specific odor to them. Jen would be throwing a fit at being subjected to such an aroma, but it brings a smile to my face. It’s the smell of people who are here to let off steam; it’s the smell of families who are out for a G-rated night on the town. Tonight is no different. Laughter occasionally interrupted by the sound of pins being knocked down, echoes through the place.

  We gather our rented shoes, bowling balls, nachos, and sodas before finding our open lane.

  “What are you staring at?” Lakin asks, noticing how I’ve centered my attention on the family one lane over. The children next to us squeal excitedly every time a pin falls. The parents provide high fives and hugs to each child as they return from their bowling attempt. I can’t pull my eyes away from the scene before me.

  It’s pure bliss. It’s a family. Something I can’t remember ever being a part of, nor do I foresee ever having.

  “I’m just glad we came here tonight,” I tell him as I finish lacing my red and brown leather bowling shoes. “Thank you for inviting me.”

  “I can think of a million and a half ways you can repay me,” he says suggestively, wiggling his eyebrows and scooting closer to me on the bench.

  “Oh my word. You’re terrible,” I chuckle, pushing him away from me. “Go bowl. You obviously have some pent up tension you need to let out.” He lets out a bellowing laugh and stands to retrieve his bowling ball.

  “I guarantee bowling isn’t going to help with that.”

  I pick up the nachos and shovel a chip into my mouth. “Well, if you keep it up, we won’t have to worry about anyone finding out about us hanging out. Brooks will let Jen neuter you, and then you can join us as one of the girls during our coffee get-togethers.”

  He brings his hand up in surrender and laughs. “Mercy. I give up; even I know well enough to stay clear of Jen.”


  Turning away from me, he slides his fingers into his bowling ball and hauls it up into position just in front of his face to line up his roll. Taking three long strides, he swings his arm back, and just as he slings it forward again to release it down the alley, I announce, “Then again, sex usually fixes most things.”

  Startled, Lakin’s forward momentum stalls and he drops the bowling ball. It loudly crashes onto the pine floor and rolls into the gutter. It doesn’t even make it halfway down the lane before the ball stops completely. He spins around to look at me, and his stunned expression quickly morphs into a scowl.

  I burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it,” I croak out between giggles.

  “That’s not even fair. Mocking my weakness, have you no shame?” He plops down next to me and swipes the nachos from my hand. “You’ve lost your right to the nachos,” he pouts.

  “Oh come on now. I’m only kidding. That was funny, you have to admit.” I try to cushion his souring mood and finally a small smile breaks through.

  “I don’t think you should ever joke about having sex with me, Cam. It’s an experience that will certainly leave you with a smile, but no one will be laughing.” He glides his hand across my cheek and pulls me closer to him. I can feel his breath against my neck provoking a shiver that wakes all of my senses. I feel my breath catch and I’m waiting for his next words to rescue me.

  “It’s your turn to bowl,” he murmurs. He then pulls away and pops a sloppy chip into his mouth, a wicked grin plastered across his face.

  My stalled breathing pattern is now in overdrive and I feel like I may hyperventilate. I’m not sure if I’m turned on or angry. It’s entirely possible that I’m slightly both. My mind swirls as to what to say, how I should respond to recover.

  “Sir? I brought your ball back,” the child from the nearby lane interrupts, handing Lakin the ball. He’s young, maybe six or seven, and I’m shocked he can even carry the bowling ball. “Don’t worry, mister, I couldn’t keep it in the lane when I first started either. I don’t think I was that bad, but just keep practicing and you’ll hit a pin.”