by C. S. Lakin
“Hon, I’d like to start taking the children to church on Sundays. I know you’ve said you don’t want to go, and I respect that. But I think it would be good for them.”
He turned to her and stood, now that she was dressed and ready to leave. He opened the door for her. “You’ll never get Simon to go.”
“Leave that to me. But I need your support. They won’t go unless you encourage them.”
She heard Jake sigh behind her as she walked down the hallway to the reception desk. The last time she’d brought this up he almost raised his voice, complaining he didn’t want his children brainwashed, being made to memorize Bible verses and pounded with religious doctrine at an early age. When he realized he had offended her, he apologized. But she understood his sentiments. She couldn’t tolerate religious hypocrisy and mindless indoctrination either. She argued that God had given them all brains capable of reasoning, of weighing truth from fiction. But, ultimately, you couldn’t prove conclusively God’s existence and omnipotence. At some point you had to take a leap of faith. That’s what Jake objected to—the leaping. He said it was like closing your eyes and running headlong off a cliff into thin air. Not faith, he said. Stupidity. She had dropped the subject and bided her time.
She knew Jake didn’t like to be pressured or coerced. He’d had enough of that with Leah. So she waited in silence as he took care of her appointments and filled her prescriptions. Even as they got in the car and he drove her home, she silently prayed, asking God to open his heart, make a little room—for the children’s sake. For, she thought, if perhaps she could get the children used to going to church, in time Jake would join them. Then he’d see. Her parents longed for grandchildren, and although they had not been keen on her marrying Jake and inheriting an unruly, needy bunch of kids, they trusted God’s direction in her life. They were the ones urging her to bring the children to church, where they could be led to salvation. Through them—her father had told her with conviction—Jake would encounter God. “Take it one small step at a time, Rachel. Trust God to open his eyes.”
She thought how happy her parents were going to be. Finally, their first grandchild. Abby had tried to get pregnant, and then Russ died in the war. Rachel knew her sister harbored some bitterness and envy, but she couldn’t blame her. She knew her sister was suffering, missing her husband so much. Russ had been a wonderful man, deeply dedicated to God. It broke Rachel’s heart thinking about it but she prayed God would heal Abby’s heart and bring her another loving husband in time. When she was ready.
Jake pulled into the driveway and opened her door. As he helped her stand, another overwhelming wave of nausea washed over her. She couldn’t help it. She bent over and vomited on the driveway as Jake took a step back to avoid the mess.
“I’m so sorry . . .” she said.
Jake wrapped an arm around her, steadied her. “Don’t apologize. You can’t help it. Here, let’s get you inside, have you eat something and take your pills. Then to bed.”
Rachel wiped her mouth and gave Jake a smile. “Thank you, hon. You’re so good to me.” She added, “And thanks for saying it’s okay to take the children to church. That means the world to me.”
Jake smiled back but it was void of warmth. “If it makes you happy . . .”
“It does.” She leaned into him as they walked to the front door and sent a silent prayer of thanks up to the heavens. One small step at a time.
When Jake fastened the final piece of lattice with his nail gun, he stepped back and surveyed his handiwork. He tried to think of the last thing he actually built and recalled the toolshed lean-to alongside his parents’ house. He and Ethan up on the small roof, hunched over as snow dumped on them, his nose running, fighting off a cold that turned into a long-lasting barky cough, threatened pneumonia. But his dad had insisted they get it done then and there. Quit complaining, toughen up. You don’t get sick if you put your mind to it; push it out of your thoughts. His mother, though, had taken one look at his flushed face when he came in and stomped snow of his boots and shook out his coat, nearly fell over. She sent him to bed and made him hot soup. He had heard hushed angry voices downstairs, his mother chastising his dad, like it would make a difference, teach him something.
Jake shucked off the memories of that cold day and turned his eyes to the sky—pristine blue, radiant, as if the whole universe was in celebration. He marveled at how he felt. Truly. Reborn at the birth of his new son. Joseph. He’d been scared there for a while, more scared than he’d ever been in his life. With Rachel hemorrhaging and wishing he could pray, believe someone up there really listened as he watched, powerless, as the paramedics whisked her into surgery a month too soon, unsure his wife—his precious, sweet wife—would even survive the ordeal. Hadn’t even considered the baby. All he cared about at that moment was saving her life, whatever it took, whatever the cost.
But now that fearsome day was like a wisp of cloud, a vapor of a dream, fading until it no longer lingered. Gone, now behind him, whereas before him unrolled the rest of his days, a bright-red velvet carpet of joy.
“That looks wonderful, Jake.” Rachel looked up from where she lay stretched out on the lounge chair, nursing Joey, the warmth soothing in this patio enclosure, the concrete fountain in the middle gurgling water in soft symphony.
“I’m putting up the cross timbers next. So you can grow those vines you like and they can hang overhead—like the hanging gardens of Babylon.” He went to her side and kissed her head. Then touched Joey’s cheek. So tiny. The smallest baby he’d ever seen. But so perfect. Soft downy hair, almost white. Every tiny finger and toe beautifully formed, skin like marble. As if he had never seen any of his other children as babies. Why did this one seemed bathed in light? Not just from the glorious August sun streaming down into their backyard, but from something inside the baby, some internal brilliance, as if his son were made of light beams. Born on the summer solstice—the day of the year containing the most daylight. And the love he felt pouring out of his own soul—where had that come from? This love that made him so hungry, made him want to stare for hours at this masterpiece, this life embodying his passion for Rachel, his gratitude and relief for her recovery, his changed luck.
He chuckled at his imagination. But his luck had changed with Joey’s birth. Not even a week after they’d brought him home from the hospital their landlord called about wanting to sell the rental house, needing to move back East, and Jake asking what he’d take for the place and watching the deal all come together without a hitch. He never thought he’d be able to afford a home, yet here he was, now a homeowner. And two days later, his boss calling him into the office, commending his hard work and giving him the position of supervisor over the lumber department, which came with a substantial raise and an extra week of paid vacation a year.
Rachel had told him God was behind all his good fortune, and he didn’t want to say anything, jinx the way things were now going, finally in his favor. Nor hurt her feelings, seeing her face so full of peace and relief. Maybe it was God, making all his dreams come true. Maybe Rachel’s faith and all her prayers carried some weight with someone high in the sky—how could he know? Better to hedge his bets and keep quiet. Still, it irked him a little. How religious people gave God all the credit but none of the blame. Why was that?
Regardless, he did feel a shift, a tilt in his orbit, a leaning closer to the warmth of the sun, invigorating him with desire, with drive. Just yesterday he’d blown through the garage, with Reuben’s help, tossed out old boxes, glass bottles, broken bikes, warped and cracked pieces of plywood, a crushed trash can. Cleared a place and rebuilt the worktable, installed some better lighting. Even unpacked his carving toolset, fingered each tool. The array of gouges. The flat scraper, a firmer chisel with the double bevels, his well-used fret saw, two rasps and a riffler, a scorp to hollow out things like bowls. Like running into old friends, long time no see. Reuben asked questions and Jake had felt his own excitement flare, the questions blowing on the fire o
f his desire to once again work with wood, tame it under his touch. A forger’s fire that maybe could burn away the marred and scarred surfaces, attack the dross of pain, reduce elements back to their essentials, eliminate the extraneous. He could take some night classes or something on the weekends, maybe. Furniture making, wood sculpting. He knew UCLA offered such extension classes. Maybe the local JC as well. He would search their catalogs. School would be starting up soon.
Funny, Leah had kept telling him to pursue his dreams, but at her side they withered and died, as if the moment his dreams blazed she drowned them out with her needs and cares. Being around Rachel was the opposite. Every little seed of an idea, of hope or inspiration, felt the tickle of heat and light and fresh air, the way a long-buried seed in the earth might sense spring and waken riotously, having no other thought but to emerge and reach to the heights unhindered. He would build a wood shop and start carving again. He would watch his family grow and blossom under Rachel’s tending. And he would see—his own scabbed-over heart would heal, and the pieces of life would fall into place, comfortably, easily—for once.
He turned and imagined the flat dirt beds he’d spread around the perimeter of the enclosed patio filled with a profusion of plants. Pictured Rachel digging and planting, her sun hat on her head, little Joey pushing seeds into the loamy earth, like Jack and the Beanstalk, giant vines springing up overnight, reaching to the heavens.
He looked down once more at the infant in Rachel’s arms. He could hear the swings rocking back and forth outside the enclosure, Levi and Dinah slicing through the air, pumping their small legs. Sunlight bathed Joseph’s face and in that moment Jake believed he had never seen a more sublime sight in his life. It nearly took his breath away. He wished he could freeze time, capture this moment and put it in one of those glass globes to set on the desk of his memory, always there to remind him that in the strife of life there were these precious gems, sparkling under a bright sun, partially hidden in the dust of haste and inattention. You just had to bring life to a screeching halt and make yourself look, allow gratitude and contentment to gain a foothold.
Rachel spoke, her words soft in his ears. “God’s not done with you yet, Jake. You’re a work in progress. We all are. He has a purpose for your life. Let him mold you into the person he wants you to be.”
Jake looked at her, and she smiled with that knowing glance. He often thought she could read his mind, or else translate his expression into something she could name. He wanted to believe with all his heart he had some purpose in life. Whether God had something in mind wasn’t for him to say. But he knew he had to heed this yearning, that burying it like he had almost destroyed his spirit. Tomorrow he would buy some wood. Mahogany or walnut or white pine. Something he could sink his knives and spirit into, begin carving again. Let the wood speak to him, guide him, show him the way.
He just had to bring life to a screeching halt and listen to its whisperings.
Simon flicked the lighter, watched the flame pop out, held it close to a rack of puffy pink girls’ coats. He inched it closer, just close enough until the fabric started bubbling, waiting for a hole to appear, first a pinprick, which would grow into a larger hole as it ate outward. They put flame retardant on stuff like this. No smoke, no fire. Still. He liked to see the monster gobble away the material, knowing no one could see him—
“Hey, Si. W-what are you d-doing?”
Simon jerked and stood upright, pocketed the lighter. “Levi. Are you following me?”
Levi reacted at Simon’s tone the way he always did—with fear and worry. “N-no. Just bored. Mom’s taking t-too long picking out cl-clothes.”
“She’s not our mom. How many times do I have to tell you that, dumb head?”
Levi looked confused—as usual. “But she t-tells us to call her that. And sh-she’s our mom n-now, isn’t she?”
Simon snorted and grabbed Levi’s arm, pulling him close. “She’s Joey’s mom. The rest of us kids are just burdens she’s inherited. She doesn’t really care about anyone but him.”
Levi tried to yank his arm away but Simon held on tight. He could almost count the seconds before his little whiny brother would start crying. One . . . two . . . three . . .
“Simon, leggo!” His eyes filled up with water. “She’s gonna be m-mad if we don’t go b-back. Don’t you want n-n-new clothes?”
Bribery, that’s what it was. And their dad dumping the job on his new wife. Because he couldn’t care less about taking them shopping and buying them what they needed to start the school year. “Go with your mom. She’ll take you. Just pick out what you want.” He wanted to slap his dad in the face. Really. If he called that woman his “mom” one more time, he just might do it. Did his dad really think if he shuffled them off to the mall, saying they could buy whatever they wanted, that would make it all better? Well, it didn’t. His dad was an idiot. Walked around like a blind man stumbling in the dark. And now with that new baby. Joey. Sometimes he wanted to strangle him. What a perfect baby, they kept saying until Simon wanted to scream. Never cries or fusses, such an angel, cooing over him and holding him. Even his dad walking around with him in his arms, humming, cuddling him like a doll. Never did that with any of his other kids, did he? Never.
Simon fumed and pushed Levi away. He strode toward the boys’ section, aware of Levi lagging at his heels. He spun around. “Scat, brat!”
Levi froze in place, glanced over at Rachel holding a dress up to Dinah. Simon could see her chattering happily at his sister, Dinah’s hair all tied up in ribbons, another Rachel doll. Should just change Dinah’s name to Barbie. Rachel treated them all like dolls, as if she could position their arms and heads and make them say and do what she wanted. Like that was really gonna happen. It was one thing to have Rachel babysitting. But now, with precious Joey, what chance was there that his dad would ever get back together with his mom—his real mom—when she came back? None. Zip. This really sucked. All of it, everything. He’d run away if he knew where to go, if he knew where she’d gone, where she was living. Just get on a bus or thumb or sneak into the backseat of someone’s car.
He’d started saving money—money he swiped out of his dad’s wallet and Rachel’s purse. Just a little here and there, but soon he’d have enough. He didn’t know how much a private investigator cost, but he planned to go talk to one. There were plenty listed in the phone book. He could just ride his bike over, say he was meeting friends, going to the park. What did they care anyway? He came and went as he pleased, although both his dad and Rachel made a production out of pretending to be mad. They set curfews and rules. Call at this time. Be home by that time. No going over there. Like he’d really listen? He had his dad twisted around his finger. His dad always gave in. Jake Abrams wanted to be nice, show he was a good father, tried hard to listen but his eyes would just glaze over.
And now his eyes were always on that stupid baby. Like they really needed more kids in this family. Their own Brady Bunch. At some point he’d have trouble remembering all his kids’ names. Already forgot his birthday this year, even though it was the day after his dad’s. How hard was that to remember? But because Joey had been born early, due to the emergency and Rachel’s health, and they’d almost “lost her,” his dad had said, tears gushing, had to cut her open and save the baby, two weeks went by with his dad fussing over Rachel, fussing over the baby, who wasn’t supposed to come out that soon, and they just plain forgot. He spent that day, his birthday, waiting for someone to notice. Not even Reuben had cared, away at camp, rock climbing, of all things. Didn’t even think to send him a postcard. Well, what did he expect? Nothing, and that’s what he got. So what?
At least one good thing came of all that baby drama. The doctor had told Rachel no more kids, not ever. This one almost killed her, and a part of him deep down kinda wished she had died, but he knew that was a stupid thing to wish for. Making wishes like that always backfired. His friend Tommy had wished for his babysitter to die—a mean woman who always yelled at h
im. Then, suddenly, she did die! And now Tommy walked around expecting a lightning bolt to strike him for wishing something like that. Tommy called it bad karma—whatever that was.
Simon felt a tug on his arm. Levi. “What do you want, brat? I thought you headed back to cry on your mommy’s shoulder.”
“Y-you’re wrong, Si. You are. Rachel is n-nice, and you shouldn’t be m-m-mean to her.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Levi turned and started to walk away. Simon grabbed his arm. “Listen,” he said, stooping down so Levi could see his face. “I’m gonna prove it to you. You go hide—over there—and don’t move or say a word. I’m going to tell Rachel I can’t find you, that I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Let’s see what she does, see if she cares. Okay?”
Levi hesitated, then nodded. Simon stifled a laugh. His brother was so gullible.
He waited until Levi was well hidden, then wandered across the huge department store to where Rachel was piling clothes on the counter, one hand holding tightly to Dinah’s hand. He grunted.
Rachel turned at the sound of his arrival and smiled. One of her sappy happy smiles, as he called them. She had Joey in a pouch slung across her front, like a kangaroo.
“There you are. Have you found any clothes yet? Do you want to look at sneakers?”
Simon shook his head, looked away.
“Really, Simon, you need some new clothes. Nearly all your jeans have holes in them—”
“I like them that way.”
“Well, your school has a dress code, and they don’t want holes in the knees. And you can’t go barefoot. You’ve grown a lot over summer, and none of your other shoes fit now. Please stop being so difficult—”
Simon plastered on a serious expression. He did want some new clothes, badly. But he sure wasn’t going to let on. “Okay. But not here. This stuff is tacky. Can we go to Big 5?”
