by Bonnie Grove
Took off. Just left, a clean cut, taking everything with her, Jack’s future, the baby, everything. I stared at my shoes, suddenly shy to look at him. Lost everything. “I’m sorry. But it doesn’t explain—”
“My father,” he finished.
I nodded.
“I was in seminary at the time all this happened. A guy in seminary with a pregnant fiancée—” he looked wide-eyed, “—not good.”
“But it wasn’t your baby. And she left you.”
He didn’t seem to hear me. “My Dad … Wow. I thought he would have a heart attack.” An easily envisioned event for a man his size, I thought, but kept it to myself. Jack grabbed the front of his own shirt and shook it, an imitation of his father’s hand. “‘Admit your sin like a man,’ Dad said.”
I slapped my hand on the table. “That’s not fair. You hadn’t done anything wrong. How could he not believe you?” What was the matter with that man? It was as if he were part bulldozer.
Jack frowned. “Like I said, Dad’s world is black and white. Helene was a beautiful woman; there was never any doubt in my father’s mind that the child was mine. He said he’d always suspected I was morally weak.”
I’d never met anyone more upright than Jack Slater Jr.
I pictured my father’s face, no minister of the gospel, no churchgoing man, but I couldn’t imagine him saying anything so cruel to me—or anyone else. I reached across the table and laid my hand over Jack’s. He placed his other hand over top of mine.
“We argued,” Jack said, “more than once. Then one Sunday morning, Dad stood in the pulpit and announced my ‘sin’ to the church.” Jack fell silent for several seconds, then, “I was beyond shocked. As soon as the words left his mouth, people turned in their seats to look at me, craning their necks to get a good look at the disgraced pastor’s son sitting in the back.” He rapped his knuckles on the table. “And I saw my father and his church for what they were.”
“Your father is a beast,” I said, horrified by the story.
Jack nodded, but said, “I can’t say that. He’s just a man who cares more about his image than anything else.”
The intercom crackled to life and, for the second time that day, my name was paged. I checked my watch. It was time for medication, a process I didn’t want Jack to witness. “I have to go.”
I walked him toward the public exit, the boundary that separated me from the rest of society, for their protection. “Your life was like a soap opera,” I said on the way.
A grin flashed then faded. “Everyone’s life is a soap opera sometimes. No one is exempt—not you, not me, not even my father. It’s taken me a long time to untangle the mess left by that time, but through it I came to understand God was with me in the middle of my chaos. He was there, helping me make sense out of it.”
“That’s not what your father would think. He’d say you were being punished for your sins.”
He nodded. “I know. But over the last ten years I’ve come to realize that I’m not responsible for my dad’s relationship with God. Or for how it plays out in his life. I pray for him and trust God is with him just like I believe God is with me.”
I stared hard at the gold sign that read Reception, thinking about his words. All I knew was that if I were God, I would have abandoned The Reverend years ago. “I have to go,” I said, my voice tight.
“I’ll come again?” he said, seeking permission.
I nodded. “Yes.” Then added, “Thank you.”
I told the receptionist to buzz Jack out. She pushed a button and the locked door clicked open. Jack pulled it open.
I stepped toward him. “How did you forgive him?”
He chewed his lip. “I’m still working on it.”
I had entered that place an expectant mother.
I left empty, body and soul.
I’d proven beyond all doubt that my marriage—Kevin—is the only thing that matters. I’m a hallowed saint in the tabernacle of our marriage. A martyr in the church of Kevin.
I had stayed overnight, an expensive precautionary step, but Kevin had insisted. He said he wanted to be certain there was no infection or side effects. Now I’m home, and it’s two days before Christmas.
Kevin speaks into the phone. “Kate has the flu. We’ll still have Christmas morning here, she insists, but we’ll need to scale it back.” He listens, making “uh-huh” sounds every few moments. “Sounds great. See you then.” He hangs up and turns to me. “Your mom said she’ll make the waffles Christmas morning so you won’t have to.” He pauses. “She said she wants to have as normal a Christmas as possible.”
I wrap my arms around myself, shivering. Normal. Dad gone, taken by a swollen river—this is our first Christmas without him. I feel his absence like a heartbeat. I’m wearing a warm red sweater, so soft it feels like a hug. I nod, but say nothing. Everything hurts. I look at my husband, marveling at how easily he lied to my mother just moments ago. The lies dropped from his mouth with such ease, it was like an art form.
But who am I to judge? I don’t want my mother to know—not now, not ever. “I’m going upstairs,” I say, and make a slow getaway on unsteady legs.
I awake in the middle of the night. It’s dark, but the blind hasn’t been drawn. Kevin’s side of the bed is smooth and empty. I’m sweating. My body feels like it’s on fire. I go into the bathroom and run cold water, splashing my face again and again. I look down and see blood. On my clothes, on the floor between my feet. Without thought or feeling, I strip my clothes off and rinse them in the tub.
After I dress in clean nightclothes, I go downstairs in search of Kevin. It’s dark, and for a moment I think Kevin must not be home. But where would he be in the middle of the night, with his wife bleeding and feverish upstairs? I turn down the hall and see light peering out from his closed den. I walk over and press my ear to the door. Kevin’s voice. He’s on the phone.
“I don’t know,” he says in response to a question I can’t hear. “She’s weak, lost a lot of blood. But she’ll be fine in a few days.”
I silently panic. Who is he talking to? Who else knows what I’ve done? I clutch the walls for support.
Kevin says, “She needs me here. There’s no one else. Everyone thinks she had the flu. I don’t know when I’ll be able to call you again. I’ll do my best.” There is a long pause, then, “I love you too.”
I hear the click as Kevin hangs up the phone. I hear his breath, a long sigh, like a man with problems, a man who has decisions to make. I pad up the stairs and go back to bed.
The room was dark around me. The shower was running; my roommate’s loud humming filled the space. Flat on my back in bed, I watched the pictures of my past swirl around me. They were outside of me, but close, nearly touching. They dipped and pulsed, danced and swayed like lovers. I watched them, feeling calm.
The images linked, creating a chain I could follow from start to finish. Soon they were whole, spelling out my life in crisp detail. I wanted to close my eyes against the glare of them, but instead I watched, unblinking. Soon I would invite them in, collect them, let them return inside my skin. But for a moment I held them at bay.
“Kevin?” Where was he now? Heaven or hell, or some other place? Was he with our child? The question burned, so fresh was the knowledge that I’d lost her (a girl, yes, I was sure, a brown-haired girl).
“Kevin, I need to know,” I whispered. I couldn’t let go of him. I saw his face in every memory, every hope, everything I’d tried to accomplish. I had gone through with the abortion to prove not just my love, but that my life was in his hands. So when he died, I’d lost everything: Kevin, our child, and all my reasons for doing what I had done. All my striving had come to nothing.
“What did I do to make you leave me?” His face danced before me, moving in time with my memories. How does something go so wrong?
The shower turned off, the humming stopped. Anger rose up in me, bent and fruitless. The memories washed me in truth. My truth. I could deny them no longer. I cried as my body filled with the pictures of my past, and the self-loathing they brought with them.
40
“Why do you keep coming here?” I said to Jack. I’d been in the assessment center nearly three weeks and Jack had visited nearly every day for the past week. We would walk the grounds, taking the same route as the first time he’d come.
I didn’t mean to sound blunt, but the events of the past months had stripped away my ability to engage in polite conversation.
“I like the coffee,” he said, his tone teasing, conversational. Then he said, “We’re friends. It matters to me if you’re okay.”
I watched his profile as we walked. He’d recently had a haircut, a dark semicircle of hair rimmed his ear. Friends? He barely knew me. And what he did know of me he’d discovered by sheer determined effort on his part. How had I come to matter to him? Why had he decided to care about me? I didn’t know the answer to that question any more than I knew why Kevin had decided to stop caring about me. Maybe Jack just didn’t know enough about me to scare him off. Maybe he needed to know.
“I’m going to tell you the whole story. Then you can decide for yourself,” I said.
“Decide what?”
“If we’re friends or not.”
He was quiet, then said, “Okay.”
I started with the day of the funeral and I told him everything—Kevin’s voice, Blair, my lost memories, Donna, Heather, and lastly the recovered knowledge of my abortion. It was a confession, a purging. When I finished, I was in tears. I kept my head down, stared at the grass, waiting for Jack to say something. He was a pastor, and for all his caring, I felt certain that some part of my story would disturb him—like hearing Kevin’s voice. Or disgust him—like my abortion. I couldn’t be certain.
He was quiet for a long, long while. Then he wrapped his arms around me and held me.
His comfort felt like a homecoming. He stood very still, like a tree with deep roots, unmovable. His arms were tethers, holding fast so I couldn’t fly away. His silence filled the empty spaces with acceptance. He didn’t shush me, didn’t tell me everything would be okay, didn’t ask me to explain myself. He simply held me up.
“We’re friends,” he whispered in my hair.
Dr. Alexander’s face was a painful red. He said he’d gone sailing the day before and gotten windburned. That was putting it lightly. His entire face was burned except for the glimmering white flesh that had been shaded by his sunglasses. His nose was already peeling. He looked tired and feverish as he sat across from me in the therapy room and scribbled in his notebook. “I’m sure you’re anxious to hear what the judge had to say.”
I hadn’t attended the hearing that had taken place that morning. Dr. Alexander felt it was in my best interest to stay away. And since my presence wasn’t required, I was happy to wait it out at the assessment center rather than sitting stiff and helpless on the hard bench of a courtroom. Better to be helpless far from that place where I couldn’t hear the debate over my life.
But looking at Dr. Alexander’s bright red face, my bravado failed. What had they said about me? What decisions had been made? Where was I going from here? I managed a warbling smile. “Well, I haven’t accosted anyone lately, so that must have counted in my favor.”
The corners of Dr. Alexander’s mouth twitched in a near smile, but he pushed his lips together. “Indeed. Based on my reports to the court, and my recommendations, the judge ordered your release from the psychiatric hospital.” He held up a cautionary hand, as if I’d leaped off the couch and shouted Hallelujah. “The severity of the offense, however, warrants disciplinary action.”
I closed my eyes, waiting.
“One year probation, including community service.”
I let out a long breath, sat back, and let the news wash over me. “I can go home?”
He nodded. “But there are a few more conditions. You must keep all scheduled appointments with me—and I’m requiring that we meet twice a week for the next month or so. And you must return to group therapy until the group disbands in December.”
A small price, one I should have paid before ever coming here. But that was in the past. Now I could go home, start again, get on with my life.
His eyes fluttered closed, then opened slowly. “There’s the matter of where you’ll serve your community service. They have provided a list of approved programs, or, you can submit a request to serve your time at a suitable program not on the list.”
One name jumped to mind: Jack. “Actually … I know a pastor—Jack Slater—who runs a center in the city. Youth programs and Sunday services.”
“That may work fine,” he mumbled, scribbling notes.
“And I’ve made a decision.” I clasped my hands on my lap, waiting for him to ask What is it?, but his red face just looked at me with the professional patience that I had grown accustomed to. I thought of offering him the cream I had in my purse for his face. It was expensive and made from the essence of some rare tropical fruit that only grew on one tiny island off the coast of Samoa. Instead I kept my hands in my lap.
“I’ve decided to sell my house in Greenfield and move to the city,” I said.
He tapped his pad of paper with his pen, but otherwise didn’t move. “That’s a big move. I wonder if you’re ready for such a drastic change.”
I held my empty hands out to Dr. Alexander. “I know it’s big, but I’m ready. And I’m not running away, either. I’m going to take my time, put the house up for sale, clean it up.”
He doodled in his notebook and muttered, “Good, good.”
“I’ll find a small place, a condo maybe.”
He closed his eyes in a long blink. “Go slow, Kate. You have your probation to fulfill, community service, and appointments. That’s enough to keep you occupied for a long while.”
I nodded an enthusiastic agreement. “Yes, all here in the city. Moving means I’ll be closer to all of my obligations.”
He touched two fingers to his forehead. “Yes, well, go slow.”
I reached in my purse and handed him my lotion and two aspirin. He took them both without comment.
The next morning my mother picked me up in front of the psychiatric center. For once I hadn’t called Heather to come to my aid. I didn’t know when I’d be able to talk to her again.
Mom and I hugged in silence, neither of us sure what to say.
Once we were out of the maze of the city, she said, “Am I taking you home?” She threw me a quick sideways glance. “I mean, do you want to go home, or would you like to come to my house for a while?” She chewed her lip. I could see she was agitated, hesitant.
I shifted until I faced her. “Home would be good. Thanks, Mom.” She looked older somehow, the skin under her chin wrinkled and loose. A year of grief had gathered on her face.
It was October. Dad had gone into the river a year ago. She and I had walked such different paths in the past year. She had absorbed the swift loss of her husband. Grieved hard, and yet, in time began to live a little too. I had gone in as much of an opposite direction from her as possible. Down a rough path and straight into the rabbit’s hole. But I’d been given a second chance.
I watched the countryside whirl by. “Things are going to be better. Dr. Alexander thinks I’ve turned a corner.”
Mom patted my knee. “I’m so glad, Kate. You have a whole life ahead of you.”
Greenfield looked smaller somehow. We drove past the same homes, business, and shops that had always been there, but Main Street see
med shorter, the storefronts tiny. When we stopped at a red light beside the bank, I looked away.
At home I invited Mom in for tea, but she said she’d come by later after I’d gotten settled.
I unlocked the door, but didn’t go in. I put my suitcase down on the stoop and walked around the house. I examined the siding, noticed a crack in the downspout and that the flowers had dried and withered. Not too bad, considering …
Finally I went inside. Just like the town, it seemed as if the house had shrunk. The rooms I had roamed through for weeks now looked cramped, cloistering. I had some work ahead of me if I wanted to get this place in shape to sell. But that would have to wait a while. In my bag I had a stack of paperwork to fill out, all related to my release from the center and my obligations. I had to call my probation officer, arrange appointments with Dr. Alexander, file for permission to serve my community service time at Glen Hills—and then there were the insurance forms.
I plunked the kettle on the stove. The forms could wait for one day. Maybe I would call Maggie, or go for a walk—I certainly needed to pick up some food. And a new set of sheets for the bed. I would sleep in my own bed tonight. I smiled, then a giggle jumped from my mouth. I was free to do whatever I pleased.
41
The following Wednesday, my first day of community service at Glen Hills, I stood in the gym of Glen Hills Community Center, transfixed by a huge banner hanging on the wall. Big Tim’s smiling face looked down at me. Under his picture were the dates of his birth and death and the slogan: Let No More Children Die.
