I laughed. It felt good to be wanted.
“Wait! Wait! Wait!” Connor burst out of the house with a sword in each hand and ran down the steps toward me. “I’ve got a booty for you!”
I looked at Mona.
“Have you been letting him watch the Kardashians again?” Grant asked.
She smacked his arm. “We’ve been reading books about Blackbeard and they use ‘booty’ for treasure, so . . .”
“You may need to address that before he gets any older.”
Connor leapt into the air and landed beside me in a defensive pose, feet planted wide and weapons crossed. “What’s this booty you speak of?” I asked him.
“It’s a present,” he said, holding the pose.
“Hurry it up, young man,” Mona said. “Aunt Jess needs to get on the road.”
“You can’t leave!” he growled in his best pirate imitation, showing a smile missing one more tooth since yesterday.
“Buddy,” Grant said. “Your present.”
“It’s a secret,” he whispered.
“Well, it won’t be anymore once you give it to her.”
“No,” Connor said, rolling his eyes. “The present is a secret I’m supposed to tell her.”
Mona looked at her son, head tilted to one side. Then she turned to me. “We’ve got a drawing for you, too, but let’s get this out of the way first—whatever it is.”
Connor dropped his swords and crooked a finger at me so I’d bend down to his level. I crouched in front of him and he leaned close, placing his hands on either side of my face.
“You ready?” he asked, eyes wide.
I nodded.
“Shiny ninja says believe in gold,” he whispered.
He let go of my face when I pulled back. His eyes were sparkling, peaceful, and intense.
“Shiny Ninja said that?”
He nodded.
I felt something fluttering closed. “Is he gone?” I murmured.
The freckle-faced boy made a whooshing sound and raised his arms toward the sky.
I fought back tears and stood, my eyes lingering on the world I’d found by running from myself. I saw the beauty of the place that had cradled my remembering and the kindness of the strangers who had buffered my renewing. I visualized all the “ifs” laid out like paving stones behind me, leading from the scene of one of France’s worst mass killings to the threshold of this moment and its luminous beginning. The orchestration of it all, in retrospect, felt overwhelming.
I looked into the faces of the family I’d found and saw it clearly now—the layering of light over the darkness of my past. The flecks of gold that shimmered in the debris of my loss.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
*WARNING: DISCUSSION QUESTIONS CONTAIN SPOILERS!
1.After the Paris attacks, Patrick tells Jessica that fleeing back to the States would just be yielding to the terrorists. In your opinion, where is the line between caution and resistance? What would you have done?
2.When Jessica finds the sewing box, it feels like a coincidence. Only later does she realize how important that item will be to her healing. Can you think of “coincidences” in your own life that turned out to be divine appointments?
3.Why did Jessica’s subconscious need Patrick to be alive?
4.What different responses to grief are demonstrated by the characters in The Space Between Words? Are some healthier than the others? If so, why?
5.What compels Grant to pursue the Baillard’s fate? What compels Jessica to do so too?
6.When they drive past La Jungle, the large refugee camp on the coast of France, Jessica feels herself struggling, but can’t really identify the source of her emotions. Given her recent history, what do you think it is that gets to her as she sees those stranded children looking at her through the chain link fence?
7.Mona states that “broken finds broken,” implying that those who have been wounded or traumatized by life tend to associate with those who have experienced similar pain. In your opinion, is this true and is it always a detrimental thing? What does the novel indicate on that topic? Do Jesus’ incarnation and life contribute to our understanding of broken identifying with broken?
8.Adeline stays behind to teach her students rather than fleeing into the hills with her parents. Is this misplaced loyalty?
9.Most of the Huguenots showed tremendous courage and faith in the face of unthinkable persecution. Adeline mentions that some did recant their Protestantism in order to save themselves and their children. How do you view them? How do you think God does?
10.Connor’s Shiny Ninja sightings bring comfort to Jessica. Have you known people who’ve had similar glimpses of loved ones after they passed away? How do you explain them?
11.Mona states that “God layers good over the bad” and Grant expands on that by saying, “I want to believe that there’s a force for good in this world and that that force won’t let the bad have the final word. It doesn’t explain or undo the darkness, but it somehow covers it with light.” How does the Bible support this view? Looking back over the worst episodes in the world’s history, how do you see God layering light over the man-wrought darkness civilization has known?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
KATHLEEN M. RODGERS: WHEN A FIRST ATTEMPT AT BOOK #4 became mired in writer’s block, I wrote to an author I’d never met before, prompted by the wisdom of her posts on social media. With kindness and grace, she led me back to the magic of passive inspiration and gave me the courage to pause with expectation.
Renée Grubb: This kindred spirit sat with me at her dining room table, just after I’d abandoned a previous draft, and countered discouragement with hope. The only nuggets of story I had in mind at that time were “Bataclan” and “Huguenot,” but somehow she knew that if we just did some Googling, The Space Between Words would emerge. As it has so many times, her excitement galvanized my efforts.
Sally Phoenix: My travel companion and trespassing accomplice took the next step with me, happily ditching our established itinerary to track down a piece of Huguenot history hidden away in a small church in Kent. Two days later, we climbed over a fence (placarded with warnings) to explore the remnants of an old silk mill. This is my mom—fearless adventurer, my fiercest champion and dearest friend.
Pastor Ken Slater: This humble keeper of a Huguenot treasure welcomed us warmly, then introduced us to the historic item hanging on his church’s wall. A few minutes into our encounter, we were astounded to discover that we’d already met twenty-six years before… Shaking our heads at the serendipity of it all, we left his small town having found the clue that would become a driving force in The Space Between Words.
Alan Wharton: It was Alan’s clerical collar and persuasive skills that granted us access to Canterbury’s Black Prince Chantry, a sacred place for the Strangers who fled from France to England under threat of extermination. Nelly Durand and Captain Corb exist in this novel because of that rare privilege.
Greg Tharp: This trusted advisor and lifelong friend was the first to set eyes on the finished manuscript. I held my breath for days… When it came, his response assuaged my hesitation and elevated my confidence. His steadfast support, instinctive understanding, and wise counsel have been integral to every book I’ve written.
Becky Monds: I can’t imagine writing without this masterful editor’s guidance. Her enthusiasm is an empowering force and her humble command of mechanics and story are peerless. My favorite editor’s email of all time came from her and simply read, “NOOO!!!!!” (I knew exactly where she was in the book from that exclamation.)
Chip McGregor: Without the support and savvy of my agent extraordinaire, this novel would have found neither publisher nor bookshelf. I am blessed beyond words that he saw something in my writing that was worth endorsing and promoting.
AN EXCERPT FROM OF STILLNESS AND STORM
ONE
FEBRUARY, PRESENT DAY
THE SOUND OF THE FAN COMING ON BROUGHT ME OUT OF A HEAVY SLEEP. Its initial slow cli
cks accelerated into a whoosh that covered the growls of dogs facing off by the pasal outside our gates. I squinted at the battery-powered alarm clock on Sam’s side of the bed, its numbers barely illuminated by the moonlight shining through the window. Just after two in the morning.
When the moon wasn’t out, nights were black in our part of Kathmandu. No street lamps. No lighted signs outside shops, along empty streets, or on deserted corners. When the electricity went off—and sometimes stayed off for ten hours a day—the windows of Nepali homes hung like empty eye sockets from the brick walls that held them.
Living with unpredictable power was a skill I was still trying to master. Even after two years, I’d leave a light switch or two in their on position after the bulbs had flickered out. So when the fan hummed on and the old fridge shuddered back to life downstairs, I’d set off on my nearly nightly game of turn-off-the-lights. From the darkness of the house, I could tell that I’d done better than usual tonight, but I assumed the bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling in Ryan’s bedroom would be on when I got there.
As I reached for my robe, I wondered where Sam was, what he would see when the sun crept over the mountain peaks four hours from now. Though the weather was unusually warm for February in Kathmandu, I knew it was much chillier at the altitude where he lived during his weeks away from us. But the cold never seemed to bother him. Wherever this trek had taken him, he’d be lying in his tent or under the stars on his side, arms crossed, a thin blanket pulled shoulder-high, impervious to the temperatures, filth, and hunger that would have daunted lesser men.
Though I’d gotten used to waking up without him, I missed the sameness of living alongside Sam. His routines were as familiar to me as my own. Every morning he was home, his eyes would open at dawn—those pale blue eyes that stood in stark contrast to the ruggedness of his features. He’d glance up and gauge the time from the brightness of the sky, ignoring the clock that sat on the nightstand next to him. Then he’d throw back the blanket and swing his legs out of bed in one smooth movement, pulling on the baggy Nepali pants he’d left stacked on the floor like a fireman’s uniform the night before.
The lights and fans turning on in the middle of the night wouldn’t have woken Sam. They never did, when he was home. Nor was he bothered by the ringing of copper bells at six o’clock each morning, attempts by the pious to earn the favor of their gods. He slept like a sated baby, with two folded T-shirts for a pillow so he wouldn’t get “soft” during his days with us.
I glanced at Sam’s picture on the dresser under the window. How little he’d changed in nearly twenty years. With age, his features had become sharper. His cheekbones more prominent, his mouth set off by deeper creases at its corners. The youthful glow of our first encounter had tightened into something less naïve—something more lived-in.
Sam would be home in a few days. Back under this roof. Back in our lives. Back in my bed. I tried to muster up the swells of anticipation that had preceded his returns in the early stages of our life in Nepal. But I couldn’t manufacture the longings. Not anymore. They’d faded gradually, in almost imperceptible ways. On nights like these, I feared that I had too.
I ran my fingers through my hair as I left the bedroom, expecting to feel sleep-tangles, but was surprised—again. The cropped hairstyle had been more resignation than aesthetic decision. It had underlined a shift in my worldview. A relinquishing. A submitting.
“Cut it all off.”
It was three months into our Kathmandu transition. I’d just stepped out of the shower and had called to Sam to bring me a pair of scissors.
“Cut it all?” He looked puzzled. “Lauren, are you sure?”
Appearance was utterly unimportant to Sam, but he knew my hair, thin and straight as it was, was one of the few features I actually liked about myself.
“It’s too hot. And too much hassle. And it never really feels clean.” I gathered it, wet and dripping, into a tight ponytail and took stock. I looked different without its fullness framing my face. My skin looked paler, my neck thinner. I felt exposed, but I knew this moment had been weeks in the making. Months, perhaps.
“Cut right above where I’m holding it,” I instructed Sam, “and I’ll fix it when you’re done.” My hand shook where it gripped the ponytail.
Sam positioned the scissors, but his expression was still uncertain. “Lauren, are you absolutely sure?”
I nodded. “New life, right?” I said, attempting optimism, trying to make of this action a decision—not a capitulation. “New life, new look.” The knot in my stomach contradicted my self-deception.
Sam smirked. “And fewer hair products to pay for.”
How typical of Sam to measure this moment on a financial scale. I stared at my reflection and felt a chapter slamming shut. There was a flutter in my chest that might have been excitement or dread. “It’s just a haircut,” I said—a feeble assertion. Then I nodded at Sam to begin cutting.
I didn’t feel any freer as I took the scissors from his hands minutes later and saw the approval on his face. I combed my hair straight and snipped the ends into an even bob as change seeped its uncertainty into my resolve. Then I snipped some more. Out of victory. Or maybe spite. Resignation. When I was done, the bob had become a short, spiked cut that symbolized more than I was willing to admit.
With a flashlight lighting the way, I crossed the threshold to Ryan’s room and tried the door. He lay spread-eagled under his pile of blankets, his mouth slightly open, one hand dangling off the edge of the mattress. With sleep softening his features, he looked his age again. Thirteen and vulnerable. He stirred as I turned off his overhead light and reached for his alarm.
“Electricity came on,” I whispered.
“What time is it?” His voice was sleep-rough and bothered.
“A little past two. Try to go back to sleep.”
He groaned and let his head fall back onto his pillow. “Can you make baked oatmeal?” Semiconscious and still thinking about food.
“For breakfast?”
“Yeah.” He burrowed deeper.
“Sure.”
He turned toward the wall and pulled the blankets close around his face, the way he had since he was a child. I smiled and resisted the impulse to find the edge of his bed in the darkness and sit there, listening to him breathe. I wanted to run my hand over his hair until he fell into a deeper sleep. But I couldn’t do that anymore, not even in the middle of the night, when slumber weakened his resistance.
Though there were still moments of connection between us, they’d grown scarcer with each of Sam’s returns, and every time he left again, I lost more of our son. Ryan pretended not to miss his dad and went out of his way to let me know how little he cared. About anything. It wasn’t so much in words as in the absence of words—overfull silences.
But he’d spoken to me without scowling just now. I felt my heart constrict as I pulled his bedroom door shut.
There was no need to tiptoe as I headed downstairs in my rubber-soled slippers, though I did anyway. The floors and stairs were made of cement. No creaking boards or sagging steps—only cold concrete and colder feet. I circled through the living room on my way to the kitchen, pulling a blanket off the back of the couch and wrapping it around my shoulders to ward off the February chill.
After two winters, the penetrating dampness still surprised me. We had no central heating, just a small electric radiator we used on rare occasions, when the cold got bad enough to warrant the power usage. Even then, it was only effective in the tiniest of rooms. I’d taken to wearing layers inside the house—sweats, long-sleeved T-shirts, zip-up sweaters, and fleece jackets. Sometimes, I’d add fingerless gloves to the vagrant look. All three of us slept with hot water bottles in our beds. Anything to ward off the creep of shivering discomfort.
For our twice-a-week showers, we’d drag our radiator into the downstairs bathroom and use it just long enough to hop in and out of the cement tub. We kept mouths and eyes closed to the bacteria in the thin t
rickle of water drawn by gravity from a cistern two stories above.
I flipped the switch that pumped water to the roof, knowing we would run out if I didn’t take advantage of our hours of electric power. Then I placed an empty pitcher under the filtration system that hung above the kitchen sink and turned on a slow stream to fill it, lining up several other pitchers for later use. I set a pot of filtered water on the gas stove to heat for tea and installed myself at the dining room table, lifting the laptop’s lid.
One of my middle-of-the-night activities was using my laptop when the faster Wi-Fi signal from the NGO next door had fewer users sharing it. I knew Sam disapproved of my “borrowing” it, but I told myself the occasional midnight usage was harmless.
I didn’t spend much time communicating with the past. It seemed healthier not to keep too connected to what had previously fed and defined me. But on nights like these, in the silence of a sleeping house and with much-needed water refilling our rooftop cistern, I had time to spare and nowhere to go.
I opened my Gmail account. A couple of promotional e-mails about discounted photo books and vitamins. The weight loss ads I’d started receiving after clicking on a site hocking raspberry ketones. And a note from Sullivan.
Sullivan.
We’d met in Austria—her Southern belle exuberance an odd match to my Midwestern wallflower reserve. And for reasons still mysterious to me, we’d become friends. She was as self-promoting as I was self-effacing. As flamboyant as I was restrained. As outspoken as I was measured. She quoted Steel Magnolias like I quoted C.S. Lewis. And somehow, in a tiny Bible school perched on a mountain in a town named Sternensee, where our presence was as illogical as it was providential, we’d recognized in each other an odd-shaped missing piece.
If someone had told me when I started college that I’d get to spend a semester in Europe studying theology in a chalet with twenty students from around the world, I’d have doubted the prediction. Granted, my growing-up years had been steeped in youth groups and church services and prayer meetings and outreach projects. But as I grew into my teens, my faith had become more circumstantial than intentional. There were moments along the way when something indefinable hinted at a soul connection. A flutter of spiritual yearning. A dependence on the divine. But those occurrences had remained mild and fleeting until college, when a new circle of believing friends had awakened my desire to learn and experience more.
The Space Between Words Page 24
