by Stacy Adams
He frowned and glanced around to make sure no one was coming. “Veronica, what are you doing? We’re in a public place! And what are you talking about, ‘What’s up?’ We’re done, remember?”
She moved closer. “We don’t have to be, Gabe,” she said softly and nibbled his ear.
He felt his body betraying him and tried to move away. Veronica grabbed his arm. “I only broke it off because I was tired of being in second place, behind Miss Beauty Queen Rachelle. I didn’t mean what I said last month. I just wanted you to think I was going to the medical conference to find another . . . ‘friend.’ I was being silly and jealous. I’ll take you however you want—part-time, full-time, in between. We’ve been together too long to turn back now, Gabe. Haven’t you missed me?”
Before he could respond, she twisted her body and plopped on his lap. She leaned in to kiss his lips and pressed herself into him.
Gabe stood up quickly and she hit the floor with a thud.
“Ow!” She tried to stifle a scream. “What the—”
He scowled at her. “You must have lost your mind. We are on a mission trip, Veronica. With a bunch of Christians, and you are trying this? We agreed that it was over and it is. I . . . I love my wife.”
Gabe was surprised by his own admission, but uttering those words helped him realize they were true. He did love Rachelle; he’d just gotten caught up in life, and in acting out the American Dream, as defined by the world at large.
Just these few days away from that environment had begun to open his eyes to something more meaningful. And seeing the partnership Stevens had with his wife, Chrissa, made him wonder what he and Rachelle might be missing.
He glared at Veronica, still sitting on the floor. How had he allowed himself to get entangled with her? With her flawless ebony skin and high cheekbones, coupled with a voluptuous body that she took good care of, she was fine, for sure. A ten from head to toe. But she also was spoiled rotten. If life wasn’t going her way, it wasn’t going to go anybody’s way.
“Yeah, we’re on a mission trip, but you and I both said this was more about gaining professional clout than anything else,”
Veronica reminded him. “Now that you’ve arrived in this hot and raggedy place, you’re really beginning to care? Give me a break, Gabe.”
She stood up and dusted off the tight, designer jeans that accentuated her impressive curves. DKNYs seemed so unfitting in a Third World country, but he had realized Veronica was determined to turn heads wherever she could, no matter who she offended. Stevens would be furious when he saw her. He had repeatedly asked Veronica and other women making the trip for the first time to dress modestly, in deference to the culture they’d be entering.
“You don’t want this anymore?” she asked Gabe and ran her hand up and down the length of her body, as if she were a Price Is Right prize. “I’ve told you before, someone else will be happy to fill your shoes, baby.”
She rolled her eyes and strutted toward the door, where she paused.
“And by the way, if you aren’t afraid of what it means to ‘dis’ me, you need to be. I have your home number and your wife’s cell.”
24
Rachelle slid into the driver’s seat of her car and started the ignition. Where to?
Uncle Charles had ordered her out of the house for the afternoon to take a break from playing nursemaid, so she had some time on her hands.
She chuckled at her dilemma. How had she gone from scheduling her life around manicures, pedicures, and Pilates classes to serving as Alice from the Brady Bunch in a week’s time? She was beginning to wonder if she’d feel out of place when she went back to Houston.
After rising every morning to read Scriptures to Aunt Irene, she had decided that she too needed a routine. In her quest to fill her Top Ten List, every night at bedtime she reviewed her day and assessed whether something she had experienced, read, or heard about should become a personal goal.
She could accept returning home a few pounds heavier from lack of exercise and all of this cooking; she had a great personal trainer who would be eager to guide her back into shape. But going back without having done something for herself would equal defeat.
Rachelle pulled out of the driveway and paused at the stop sign.
Left or right? In a town the size of Jubilant, she could take a two-hour leisurely drive and just about cover its circumference.
A car whizzed by with an Everson College “Go Tigers!” bumper sticker plastered on the bumper.
Rachelle smiled. She would visit the campus.
Fifteen minutes later, she turned into the college entrance and slowed the car to a crawl. The changes on campus were amazing. With just ten thousand students, Everson was considered small, but enthusiastic alumni support insured that it continued to thrive.
Some of the streets that she remembered winding through campus had become cul-de-sacs. Plazas and gardens graced the landscape in areas where there had once been nothing but trees or patches of dirt.
Rachelle rounded a familiar corner and smiled when she saw one of her hangouts: the biology building. She had performed more than her share of experiments there and had struggled to cope with a range of interesting lab partners. By senior year, she realized that most of them were introverts who were passionate about their work. If she had been a career counselor, she would have advised them to look for jobs that allowed them to tackle solo projects and succeed.
Rachelle parallel parked next to one of the entrances and quickly unbuckled. She stepped out of her car and approached the door. She wasn’t surprised to find it locked. Few science majors took summer classes. Most spent that period gaining valuable experience as interns or on fellowships that could help them create long-lasting networks.
Rachelle returned to her car and pondered her next stop. It didn’t take long to settle on McPherson Hall. She had spent so much time in the building that a lot of the other students thought she was a music major.
Rachelle drove the few blocks to that building and parked in the adjoining lot. This section of the campus was surprisingly quiet too. She entered through the familiar arched set of double-paned doors, surprised to find this building as she remembered it. Little had changed since her graduation.
She scanned the long hall, which featured row after row of trophy cases on each side.
Her two-inch open-toe sandals produced a staccato rhythm as she strolled down the path and paused to read brief summaries about the Everson students who had won choir competitions across the South. She knew if she looked closely, she’d find her name and photos. She had helped win at least five awards.
The trophies and plaques spanned generations, as did the pictures—from black-and-white images to color photos that highlighted gospel and choral singers sporting hairstyles and fashions from the ’40s, ’50s, and ’60s through the present.
Rachelle heard voices as she neared the end of the hall and grew excited. Maybe some of her former professors were here today. She waited for whomever it was to round the corner and nearly choked when three people came into view.
Troy and Chaundra approached her, along with a woman dressed in business attire.
“Oh, hello,” the woman said and walked toward Rachelle with her hand extended. “Carla Wesson, executive secretary of the music department. May I help you?”
Rachelle found her voice and shook Ms. Wesson’s hand. “Hello. Rachelle Covington. I’m a former student, visiting town, and thought I’d stop by.”
Chaundra giggled. Rachelle and Ms. Wesson looked her way.
“I saw you on some of those old choir photos with Uncle Troy,” she told Rachelle. “Your hair was funny!”
Ms. Wesson looked curiously from Troy to Rachelle. “You two sang in one of the choirs together? You know each other?”
Rachelle nodded. “Isn’t it a small world?” she said. “Would it be okay if I continue to look around? I haven’t made it to those photos yet. And are any of the professors here today?”
Ms. Wess
on shook her head. “No, no one’s here today. Wednesday is usually pretty low key in the summers. But help yourself. Look around. And welcome back, Ms. Covington.”
Ms. Wesson turned toward Chaundra. “Did you still need to visit the ladies’ room? I’ll show you where it is.”
“Yes, please,” the girl said. She looked at Troy. “I’ll be back. Will you be waiting here?”
“Either here or in front of the building, where we came in,” Troy said.
When they were gone, he stuck his hands in his pockets and turned toward Rachelle. “How’s your Aunt Irene doing?”
Rachelle glanced at him, then focused on one of the trophy cases. “She’s at home, but she has a long way to go. Emotionally and physically.”
Troy nodded. “That’s understandable.”
He walked closer and peered at the photo that had captured her attention. Their former choir director, Mr. Pearson, was scowling at the choir and bending toward them, as if he could pull the notes from their throats.
Rachelle and Troy laughed together. Troy leaned against the case and turned to face her.
“I don’t believe in coincidences anymore,” he said.
“Really?” Rachelle said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She looked into his eyes and looked away. The longing there scared her.
Troy reached for her hand, but she pulled away.
“Don’t,” Rachelle said.
She turned and walked down another hallway. Troy caught up with her and reached for her hand again. This time she didn’t resist.
Rachelle paused and looked up at him, trying not to get any closer than she already was. What would Ms. Wesson and Chaun-dra think if they returned right now?
Troy didn’t seem to care. He held on to her hand and stared at her.
She thought about the pictures behind them, displaying proud moments and memories made years ago. She wished they could be transported back, to a time when what they both were feeling right now was nothing to be ashamed of or to fear. She wished she could lean into him and hug him, instead of straining in the opposite direction.
Troy kept her hand tucked in his and led her to the end of the hallway and around the corner. “I want to show you something.”
She allowed him to guide her.
In the very first case at the edge of the corner were photos from their years at Everson. She recognized the student choir directors in the images. She saw several photos of herself, and one in particular caught her eye. Troy zoned in on it too.
The two of them stood side by side, with their shoulders touching as they smiled and lifted a large trophy in the air. The choir stood behind them cheering.
Troy turned to Rachelle and raised her chin with his forefinger. He held her in that pose for what felt like an eternity. “How did I go from first place with you to last?” he asked. “Why did you leave me, Rachelle?”
He wiped the solitary tear that slid down one of her cheeks with his thumb and leaned in closer. She should have been telling him to stop, but she didn’t.
She let him kiss her, tenderly and slowly, as if he wanted to make it last for a lifetime. She should have pulled away, but she kissed him back.
In a split second, however, she realized she had gone too far. There was no way this could last—no need even faking it. Rachelle pushed past him and trotted down the hallway, toward the main entrance.
“I’m sorry, Troy,” she said without turning to look at him, “I can’t do this. You can’t either. You have too much to lose.”
She exited the building and tried to see past the tears that were blinding her.
As much as she resented her husband’s lack of attention and affection, Rachelle didn’t want to sink lower than he had. She also didn’t want to hurt Troy a second time. If he wasn’t going to think straight and consider all that he had at stake, she would love him enough to do it for him.
25
Mosquito netting had become Gabe’s best friend.
Without the mesh covering to relax and sleep under every night, he was certain from the constant buzzing that filled his ears that he would be returning home with a war story about surviving malaria.
This evening, as most of the other members of the mission team prepared for bed, he and Stevens sat on a screened porch, under a wide swatch of insecticide-treated netting, with the door latched. That had been necessary, because the Ugandans were so fascinated to have Americans staying with and serving them that they rarely gave them time alone, unless it was explicitly requested.
Stevens pulled out an oversized, black leather Bible whose spine seemed nearly gone. He had taped it with masking tape several times; even so, the leather had continued to crack.
“’Bout time to trade that in for a new version, isn’t it?” Gabe asked.
Stevens shook his head. “Can’t. It holds more than words.”
He opened the Bible and slowly flipped through the pages, revealing sections highlighted in yellow or blue, and words or phrases scribbled throughout in ink or pencil. There were dates and partial prayers. Underlined words and question marks.
Gabe snorted. “Is this a textbook or a Bible?”
“Both. I thought the same thing when my grandmother gave it to me just over three years ago, when I got serious about my faith. Most of these markings were made by my grandfather. But when I received it, I bought the highlighter to keep track of passages that spoke to me or that I needed to study more.
“I’ve found that I’m learning and growing each time I read the same passages,” Stevens said. “This book is also a constant reminder of God’s goodness and grace.”
Gabe folded his arms across his chest.
“What are you thinking?” Stevens asked.
Gabe had questions he didn’t know how to pose. How could he be a renowned surgeon and not know these things? Yet, what did he have to lose, thousands of miles from his real world, in a place where time slowed to an ancient pace and joy resulted from one-on-one personal connections rather than being well connected?
“I’m wondering what the difference is between grace and mercy, in the religious sense. You hear Christians spouting those words all the time,” Gabe said. “And how can the words in a book change your life?”
Stevens leaned back in his chair. They were so near the equator that the setting of the sun hadn’t caused the temperature to dip much. He wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow and stared at the starry sky.
“Grace and mercy are pretty similar,” Stevens said. “Grace is God’s unearned gift. It means he loves you, he blesses you. He gives you chances you don’t deserve.
“When God has mercy on us, he’s deciding not to hold a grudge for all of the stupid, mean, or conniving things we’ve done. It means he gives us a fresh start, with no strings attached, when we ask for forgiveness with a sincere heart.”
Stevens glanced at Gabe. Gabe nodded to let him know he could continue. Stevens briefly waved his Bible.
“This book, here,” he paused and his voice quivered. “The words in here shook me up, man. When I asked God to take over my life and I read the stories of the early Christians, and about how God’s unconditional love was available to me thousands of years later, it changed me.”
Gabe looked at his friend. “Is this a white boy thing?”
Stevens frowned, then laughed until he was red in the face. Gabe watched him intently until he composed himself.
“Jesus was born to Jewish parents, had wooly hair, and loved all mankind, Gabe,” Stevens said. “I’m laughing because I see that you’re serious. You’re worried that if you decide to become a Christian here in Africa, you’re going to get back to Houston and have to face your friends and family and explain what happened to you. That’s it, isn’t it?”
Gabe gritted his teeth. Stevens still knew him too well.
“What about all those ‘brothers’ in Houston, or for that matter, around the world, who profess a love for the Lord?” Stevens said. “Come on, Gabe. You know bett
er.”
Stevens was right, Gabe acknowledged. He did know better. But he wasn’t about to become some wigged-out Christian, handing out pamphlets and selling all of his goods to move to Africa just because . . . just because . . . He squirmed when he couldn’t finish the thought.
Stevens flipped the pages in his Bible until he reached Colos-sians 3:23–24.
Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving.
Stevens looked at him. “Serving God doesn’t mean you have to change who you are, Gabe,” he said. “You just have to allow him to change your heart. When he does that, you can’t help but alter the way you treat others, and you’ll long to pick up the Bible and know more about him, without having to wait for a Sunday morning sermon. Have I changed that much?”
Gabe thought about it.
Stevens was a different person, but not in an offensive or overbearing way. Instead, he had become more patient and focused on his work, he had become the calming center of the practice when the pace got too frantic, and he seemed much happier.
“You’ve changed for the better,” Gabe acknowledged.
“I’m not required as a Christian to stalk people with my faith, and I hope you’ve never felt that I’ve done that with you,” Stevens said.
Gabe shook his head. If anything, he had been forced to pull out of Stevens why he seemed content, even when things weren’t going smoothly in his personal life or when a patient didn’t survive.
“I don’t take this big Bible with me everywhere and whip it out for someone in need of a good word,” Stevens said. “Some people may do that, but that’s not my style. I’ll offer to hold their hand, or listen, or pray, when it’s appropriate. And sometimes I’ll invite them to join me on a mission trip.”
Gabe laughed. “I fell for the okey-doke, huh?”
Stevens shook his head and stood up. He laid the Bible on the table in front of him. “I’d never trick you into anything, man. I wanted you to come and help these people that I deeply respect. I wanted you to get a taste of what it’s like to live outside your world and your life and your blessings. This experience in and of itself can be life changing.
