by David Lewis
Laura nodded, staring at it as if the phone had acquired super powers.
“I’m going to give you a different number for my cell phone. It won’t cost you anything, because the charges are automatically reversed.”
Laura’s eyes widened again.
“I’m your new friend. I can even be your big sister if you like, that is, until you get tired of me. And even if I don’t hear from you for months, you can always call me up out of the blue, if you want.”
“Anytime? In the middle of the night?”
“That’s the best time to call,” Jessie replied with a little wink. Laura’s face wrinkled. “But I don’t want you to go. Andy doesn’t, either. You should marry him and live here.” Jessie shook her head. “I can’t marry Andy, sweetie.”
“But why?”
“Well … for one thing, he hasn’t asked,” she said, thinking that such an answer should pretty much settle it for a ten-year-old.
“Maybe he will.”
“Probably not.”
“But you hope so, right?”
“Laura—”
“Oh! I know,” Laura squealed, “you could ask him!” Jessie laughed. “Girls don’t do that.”
Laura looked confused. “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard!”
“He’s my friend, that’s all.” Jessie sighed.
Laura looked a little dejected and then her countenance brightened again. “I know. Let’s just run away. You and me. Andy too. I could save you some time, you know. Instant daughter. Skip the diaper-changing stuff. I’m not a bad kid, most of the time. I have bad moods, but I can clean those up in a jiffy. What do you say?” Her thin voice had begun to tremble, and she was looking at Jessie expectantly.
Jessie pulled Laura close. “Hey, kiddo, crying is for later, remember?”
Laura nodded and wiped her eyes.
“Nothing would make me happier, but running would be wrong, sweetie. Just call me, okay?”
She felt Laura’s head nod against her chest.
Eventually they settled into a subdued conversation about Laura’s friends at school, her favorite movies, TV shows—too many in Jessie’s opinion—and her favorite mystery stories. Laura, obviously, had no guidance. It reminded Jessie again of how protective her own mother had been. Her mother had replaced the temptations of Jessie’s life with her own unreserved, unhurried presence. Jessie had never missed what she couldn’t have desired: an empty, fake world of nonexistent video relationships. The few movies they did watch were carefully screened, and they watched them together; Jessie was still amazed at her mom’s ability to apply a spiritual parallel to nearly every Disney story. Every rescuing prince was a symbol of Jesus. Every bad guy was a symbol of the darkness beyond. And every reconciliation or redemption had its place in her mother’s view of God’s reality.
But Laura, at ten, was already “beyond” Disney. She was watching material that wouldn’t have been appropriate for a teenager. Jessie just wanted to rescue her somehow, take her back into her own childhood, a world of pure innocence. But time was running out, and the road ahead was going to be difficult. Only unconditional love would save Laura now. The influence of Betty Robinette was going to have to work miracles.
Before long they were laughing and giggling. Eventually Laura announced, “I think I should try to go home.” She grabbed Jessie’s arm. “Will you come with me?”
Jessie agreed but worried that her presence would make Michelle angry again. “I’ll drop you off, sweetie.”
“Okay.”
Jessie opened her car door, and Laura jumped in, settling into the seat as if she’d been there a thousand times before. “This is really cool!” Laura said, studying the instruments. “Is this car fast?”
“Fast enough.”
Jessie removed a pen and paper from her purse and wrote down the toll-free number. Laura accepted the paper as if it were a huge candy bar.
When they pulled up in front of the house, Laura made no attempt to open the car door. Her little mouth was working and her eyes blinking. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
Jessie patted her leg with assurance and shut off the engine. She dialed Laura’s number and Michelle answered on the second ring, but when Jessie identified herself, Michelle swore into the phone.
“What do you want?”
Jessie looked over at Laura and smiled as if the conversation were pleasant. “Hi, Michelle, just bringing Laura home. Are you available to talk?”
“Drop her off and beat it.”
“Good. I’ll be right in.” Jessie said good-bye just as Michelle began to cuss into the phone again.
Jessie smiled over at Laura, who seemed stunned with the easy conversation. “Things are cool?”
Jessie shrugged. “I’ll be right back.” She slipped out of the car and walked up the steps to Laura’s house. Molly began barking before Jessie got to the door. Michelle was standing at the door, cigarette in hand. “I don’t need none of your lectures.”
“I didn’t plan—”
“Beat it.” Michelle’s eyes were full of rage and a discussion seemed pointless.
Jessie began to worry about something else. “Are you loaded, Michelle?”
Again, the fury in her eyes flashed. “Do I look loaded? Would I be this uptight?” Michelle laughed sarcastically. “Loaded is when you answer the door and say, ‘Oh hi, how nice of you to drop by. Feel free to steal anything you want.’ ” Michelle raised her eyebrows mockingly. “Get it?”
“Just give me a minute.”
“Give me my daughter or I’m calling the cops.”
Jessie crossed her arms. She glanced down the street, calculating the risk. “Okay, Michelle. Call ’em. I’ll wait.” Jessie had started to head back down the steps when she heard Michelle unlatch the screen door and kick it open. “You have two minutes, Goldilocks.”
The stench was excruciating as she entered the house. Molly was yelping from a back room. Michelle backed into the living room as if she were afraid of Jessie. She crossed her arms defensively, taking another drag on her cigarette.
Jessie was trembling inside but tried to hide it. “I’m not here to blame you, Michelle.”
Michelle was making mocking expressions with her eyes as if to say, Is that right?
Jessie took a deep breath. “You said you already know about me. So then you must know I lost my mother and my father. What you may not know is that I spent years in foster homes. I’ve learned the hard way—”
“So we’re trailer trash sisters, eh?” Michelle said, squinting with a ghoulish smile.
“No, that’s not—”
“You’re trying to convince me you ain’t some rich kid coming home to collect her inheritance?”
Jessie flinched. Michelle’s features had become stony and cold.
“It’s easy to forget what we have until it’s gone… .” Jessie stopped. She wasn’t doing very well.
Michelle shook her head with utter contempt. She nearly hissed her words, “If you ever come near my daughter again, both you and that ice-cream bunny will regret it.”
“I just wanted to—”
“But what you did was interfere.”
“Michelle, please …”
Michelle pointed at the door. “Your two minutes are up.”
Jessie was too stunned to move. They stood there a moment appraising each other, then Jessie reached for the door and slipped outside, walking down the steps to the car.
Laura was smiling as she looked out the car window. Jessie felt terrible. How could she let Laura live in an environment like that? Laura pushed open the car door just as the screen door slammed behind them. Michelle was standing at the top of the steps. “Laura, get in here now!”
Laura looked stunned. She turned to Jessie, who had knelt down in front of her. “Didn’t go too well, huh?”
Jessie made a sorry face. “Will you be okay, sweetie?”
Laura shrugged, and a look of resignation crossed her features.
I just watch this happen?
Laura climbed the steps and shuffled past her mother into the house as Michelle gave Jessie another look of contempt.
“I was only trying to help,” Jessie said softly, standing up. Michelle tossed her cigarette butt into a section of weeds, gave Jessie another squint, and retreated into the house, slamming the door behind her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
ANDY SPENT THE MORNING calling new prospects and consoling old customers. He left for home halfway through the day, too distracted to work any longer. Fortunately, his sales quota was beyond acceptable, and he could afford to slack a bit. His boss had even patted him on the back several weeks ago, saying, “Slow down, McCormick, you’re starting to make me look bad.” He spent the afternoon sitting on the couch in his apartment, staring at the empty fireplace.
… “Explain it again,” he’d asked his father last night, and his father had given a near-textbook description of the nature of dementia.
Dementia wasn’t an illness per se, but a description of symptoms that accompany an illness or degenerative brain disorder. Infections, alcoholism, or head trauma could cause dementia symptoms, and there were hundreds of other causes. All rare. Most lethal. And every year, new variations emerged.
According to his father, Olivia Lehman was believed to have a very unusual brain disorder—a form previously unidentified by neurologists. Generally classified in the category of early onset dementia, the unnamed disease apparently mingled the genetic aspects of Huntington’s disease with the complications of vascular dementia that involved ministrokes—and sometimes major strokes. It was these strokes that contributed to the unpredictable nature of the disease, affecting areas of the brain that differed from patient to patient.
Olivia’s brain disorder was passed genetically; her own father had died of a stroke related to this type of dementia. As with Huntington’s disease, there appeared to be a fifty-fifty chance of passing the errant genes to an offspring. If a child or young adult was found to be a carrier, the chances of exhibiting the symptoms of the illness were a hundred percent. It was only a matter of time. But while people with Huntington’s disease might live productive lives for decades, the vascular component of Olivia Lehman’s debilitating illness and eventual death indicated that her disease was far more fatal.
Finally his father asked him the question he’d been dreading: “Does Jessie exhibit any symptoms of dementia?”
“What, exactly?” he asked.
His father went through the list: confusion, difficulty speaking, memory lapses, poor coordination, headaches, and on occasion, hallucinations.
“Hallucinations?”
“Very rare with dementia but not unknown,” his father had replied clinically. “In view of her risk, any mental anomaly must be taken into consideration.”
Andy remembered Jessie’s altercation with the woman at the fair and her later explanation of it as an outgrowth of the strange dreams she’d been having for years. “I saw a woman in a yellow dress, and everything went crazy,” Jessie had said nervously, laughing it off.
His father continued. “People with dementia become ‘changed’ people. They become easily disoriented. Concentration is very difficult at the later stages. It’s just very hard to predict how someone will respond to this condition. In fact, I knew a gentleman with a similar dementia who couldn’t remember that his wife had died. A very deluded man indeed.”
Andy shuddered. Going from bad to worse. “Coming back has been very difficult for Jessie. She barely remembers anything.”
His dad wasn’t buying it. “So there’s something?”
“It’s nothing,” Andy insisted. “Stress does strange things to our minds. Isn’t that what you always say?”
“Nothing changes the fact, Andy. She must be tested, and soon. Remember, she has a fifty percent chance of not being a carrier.”
Fifty percent chance? Andy’s spirits were hitting rock bottom.
Not good odds.
“Tell her the truth, Andy. Tell her what I’ve just told you. We can arrange the initial blood test here at my clinic if that would help her feel more comfortable, but eventually she’ll have to be referred to a neurologist. They’ve come a long way in a decade.”
“No cure?” Andy asked.
“Not for a genetic carrier,” his father confirmed, then hesitated.
“Andy, I need to speak as a father now, okay?” And then his dad said something he’d rarely said before. “Don’t get mixed up with this girl, Andy.”
“Dad …”
“I’m serious, son. You remember how it was with Olivia. Eventually she lost her coordination completely and became bedridden. Her last days were lived in total confusion with rare moments of lucidity. A few years with Jessie would be a living hell.”
Andy felt his ire rising. “She’s already been there and back, Dad.”
“That’s not the point. Her sickness doesn’t obligate you.”
“I can’t just abandon her.”
“You just met her.”
I’ve known her my entire life, Andy thought but didn’t say. His dad wouldn’t have understood.
“Dad, this is the girl who took care of her mother for years. She even had to remind her alcoholic father to take his depression pills. Who’s looking out for her?”
“Just don’t marry her.”
Andy was flabbergasted. “I never said—”
“I know how you like to help, but …” His father’s words trailed off. Silence filled the room at that point and the space felt like a closet. When his father spoke again, it was to ask a completely unrelated question about Jessie’s father. “Did you say Frank was an alcoholic?” …
This morning the whole interrogation had begun again. His mother had called, begging him to reconsider.
“Reconsider what?” Andy asked, initially confused.
“You deserve someone healthy,” she said.
“Mom, you’re way ahead—”
“You can’t save this girl,” his mother interrupted.
“We don’t know anything for sure, Mom.”
“There’s nothing you can do.”
“I can help her,” Andy replied impulsively, and his mother nearly cried. Then his dad got on the line again, obviously pressured by his mom. “Don’t be rash, son.”
“I have to go to work,” Andy finally said, realizing there was nothing he could say to counter their impression. Their memories were dominated by the old Jessie, who must have appeared as quite the curmudgeon at age twelve. They were doing what any protective parents might do—they were looking out for their son. They’d seen the terrible tragedy of Olivia Lehman up close and personal.
But none of that mattered now. Meeting Jessie again had been like finding something he had long forgotten but had been searching for his entire life. His mother would have said, “Take an aspirin, Andy. It’ll pass.” His father would have given him the old advice he’d offered Andy at least three times a year: “Men can fall in love in a moment. It takes women much longer.” As if that had much to do with anything.
But he shuddered to think what they would say when they discovered Jessie wasn’t a Christian anymore. That, of course, would lead to a bigger question….
No, his parents wouldn’t understand. They don’t even know the truth about me, he realized. How could they understand my heart?
Does God even know my heart? he thought suddenly, still staring at the fireplace.
For years he’d been praying what seemed like hopelessly desperate prayers—Help me understand—but it seemed as if God had turned His back. “God doesn’t answer the prayers of the infidel,” his mother might have said bitterly.
“What about the prodigal son?” he might ask. According to Scripture, God would be eagerly looking for him to return. “Come home, son,” his father would s
ay. But that begged the question, “What if I can’t return?”
“Then you will die in your sins,” his mother would say and then begin crying again. “Just believe, Andy! Just believe!”
He’d long ago stopped attending the Wednesday night services at his church. Everyone would stand and sing and clap their hands through nearly forty minutes of exuberant praise and worship. He used to observe his friends and other churchgoers bouncing like jumping beans, singing with their arms outstretched, lost in a spiritual frenzy, and ask himself, What is wrong with me?
Why can’t I believe? Andy asked himself again, pondering a question that had haunted him for years.
At the very minimum, he believed in a God who’d created the world. That much had always seemed obvious. It didn’t require scriptural authority. The truth of God’s existence was written on the hearts of man. Isn’t that what the apostle Paul said? Evidence of divine design was everywhere you looked.
But then what? Andy thought for probably the hundredth time. He sighed and leaned his head back, and in spite of his turmoil, a reassuring warmth filled his soul. In a few hours, he’d see Jessie again. At the very least, I can stop thinking about myself. I can do something right.
The sense of despair over Jessie kicked in again. There was no way out of this. From his own observations, she was either in need of extensive psychological therapy or the undiagnosed symptoms of dementia had already begun, in which case she would have a few very difficult years to live.
He pondered yesterday’s religious discussion and shuddered. If the latter were true, how would she feel about God then?
After waiting a few minutes, Jessie put her car in reverse and slowly backed up, settling in front of her old house. Her phone rang and Jessie nearly jumped. It was Laura. “Why are you still here?” Jessie looked up at Andy’s window. Laura was holding the curtain back with one hand, holding the phone with her other. “I was worried,” Jessie replied.
“What’re you going to do?”
Jessie shrugged as if Laura could see her. “Visit my old house again.”
“Oh …” Laura dropped the curtains and disappeared into the room, but her voice continued. “Aren’t you scared?”
