Paige Rewritten

by Erynn Mangum

  Preslee is swiping under her eyes as we bow our heads and a part of my esophagus suddenly feels like there’s a lasso around it.

  For all intents and purposes, I am the perfect daughter.

  I never smoked, never drank, never stayed out past curfew. If Mom and Dad told me to do something, I did it. My bed was always made, my teeth were always brushed, my clothing was always up to my dad’s standards for me.

  The closest I ever came to cussing was when I stepped on a scorpion barefoot in the seventh grade and said, “Oh my God.” Mom sent me to my room for a week, swollen foot and all, and I never took the Lord’s name in vain again after that.

  I never missed a birthday, never missed my parents’ anniversary, and I called my grandmother every single Friday at exactly four in the afternoon until she passed away three years ago.

  If I were to die tonight, my headstone would read:

  PAIGE ALDER

  LOVED BY HER PARENTS. ENVIED BY OTHER PARENTS. BORING BUT DEPENDABLE.

  I never realized how uninteresting I was as a child. While Preslee wreaked havoc, screamed, yelled, and gave my parents early gray hair, I had my name on the honor roll and a steady job since I was fourteen years old.

  I’m like the human equivalent of a Chevy truck. Though I hope to heaven I never hear anyone describe me like that. I’ll have to immediately go on a diet and get a tattoo.

  Preslee pokes me and I blink, suddenly realizing that everyone is up, milling around, stretching, and talking to the people around them. Somehow I missed the whole prayer and closing ceremony, which is just usually a bunch of announcements.

  It’s not like this is the Olympics or anything.

  “You okay?” Preslee asks me, frowning.

  “Fine. I’m fine.” Aren’t I always?

  There’s a thought needling the back of my brain, and as it surfaces and forms into something tangible, I realize that my problems with Preslee and Luke aren’t really with Preslee and Luke.

  I have problems with me.

  What if my issues with them aren’t so much because of what they did as much as me feeling … maybe, in a small way, potentially … jealous of them?

  Jealous.

  Rick was right.

  I’m jealous. I’m jealous of the apparent fun they had. I’m jealous of the way that everyone seems to just forgive them and move on, and I’m jealous that on top of everything else, now they apparently love God more than I do.

  “Well, where would you like to eat?” Tyler asks me. He looks over at Preslee. “We would really like for you to join us.”

  “Oh, that’s sweet, but I — ”

  “Good morning, everyone.” It’s Luke, looking for all the world like a team of professionals spent hours fixing his hair this morning.

  No one should look that good before noon.

  He looks at me and there is just straight-up, undiluted longing in his eyes.

  Another thing that shouldn’t happen before noon.

  I bite my lip and look away. Luke’s impassioned speech yesterday is hanging in the air like a big old toot that everyone can smell but no one can figure out the source of. Tyler is looking at me and then back at Luke confusedly, and Layla has apparently used her Spidey sense to figure out what happened because she is glaring so hard at Luke, I’m scared his perfect hairstyle is going to melt.

  Preslee, meanwhile, is looking at Luke, recognition flitting in and out of her expression. “Are you …?” she starts.

  He looks down and sees my sister. “Preslee!” He yanks her up into a big, huge hug like he’s been missing her for ages. “I haven’t seen you in years!”

  Tyler is still looking at me and I take the opportunity to attempt some telekinetic conversation.

  Nothing happened. Stop. He is just delusional. Stop. You can stop worrying. Stop.

  I don’t know the proper format for telekinesis apparently because Tyler is now just making a weird, confused face at me.

  Even so, I’m thankful that Preslee intercepted Luke’s attention for the moment.

  “How about that sandwich place a few blocks away?” I ask Tyler in a quiet voice.

  He nods. “Done.” He smiles slightly at me.

  “Well, Paige, I’ll see you tomorrow night. We’ve got a family lunch right now at Birker’s. Mom and Dad want to discuss the wedding details.” Layla overannunciates, looking pointedly at Luke.

  “I heard you and I’m coming,” Luke says, shaking his head at Preslee. “I’m not sure why I need to be present for wedding detail talks, though.”

  “I’m just telling you what Mom said.”

  Sometimes Layla and Luke don’t act too different from how they were as kids in high school.

  And yes, to the unasked question about their parents being Star Wars fans. Apparently a lot of people were in the 1980s. I think they changed Layla’s name just enough to not make people too weirded out.

  Or maybe to save her from a life of wearing cinnamon-roll buns over her ears. The jury is still out on that one.

  “Well, it was good to see you guys again,” Preslee says. “Have a good lunch.”

  Layla gives me a tight, one-second hug around my shoulders and simultaneously whispers, “You’re welcome!” in my ear as she leaves.

  Luke gives me one last, long look and then follows his sister and Peter out of the sanctuary.

  Tyler stares at me with a quizzical, somewhat sad expression and then wipes his face clear before turning to Preslee. “So, I think we’re going to go to a little hole-in-the-wall sandwich place that both of us like. Would you like to join us?”

  Preslee looks at me and I nod. “I’d really like that.”

  “Then sure. Thanks, Tyler.”

  We end up all riding in Tyler’s truck together and get to the sandwich shop a few minutes later. Preslee walks in, inhaling. “They make their own bread?”

  “Yep. Aren’t you glad you came?” I ask her.

  We order our sandwiches and Tyler finds an empty booth in the far corner of the restaurant. It’s not busy yet, but the last time we came here after church, the place filled up within minutes of us getting our food.

  “So, Preslee, Paige tells me you’re engaged,” Tyler says.

  She nods. “Yes. We are planning the wedding for the end of November.”

  I don’t think I’ve heard a date yet. Guess that would be good to know as the maid of honor.

  “Congratulations.” Tyler gives her a genuine smile.

  “Thank you.” She looks at me and tears build up in her eyes as she grips my wrist. “Paige is going to be my maid of honor.”

  He only smiles at me, but the way that he does makes everything in my rib cage get warm.

  “Order for Tyler!”

  He stands and walks over to the counter to get the order. Preslee squeezes my wrist again. It’s an awkward place for her to hold.

  “Oh, Paige, he is just the sweetest guy,” she whispers. “I like him a lot.”

  “Me too,” I say. And I mean it.

  Tyler sits back down with our tray of food and looks at Preslee and me. “Can I pray for us? Lord Jesus, I thank You for this meal and for these dear friends. Watch over us today and bless this food. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Preslee and I echo.

  “Thank you for lunch,” Preslee says to Tyler.

  He shrugs. “My pleasure. So tell me about Waco. You’ve moved there? Are moving there?”

  Tyler is a master conversationalist at lunch. He only hits on the good topics, sticking with the future and staying away from the past. He tells stories about his work that make us laugh and then bemoans the fact that he’s the only engineer in his office who knows anything about football.

  “I promise I did not know this before I majored in engineering.”

  “Oh please.” I roll my eyes.

  “I honestly didn’t. I didn’t know any engineers at all. My computer-lab teacher in high school suggested I look into software engineering and I did.”

  “Sorry about that
. I imagine it was a rude awakening.” Preslee grins over her sandwich at me.

  “Very rude.”

  I just shake my head and laugh.

  I cross my arms and just stare at my Bible that night, pillows stacked behind me so I’m sitting up in bed, covers up around my waist.

  I do not want to open it.

  I know what it is going to say.

  So I sit there. Staring at the brown leather cover.

  On the plus side, things are going great with Preslee. She gave me a hug when she left this afternoon, and for the first time in ten years, it wasn’t awkward or rushed or out of some guilt-ridden desire to please our mother.

  For the first time in forever, I’m almost excited to get to know my sister better. Where there was once a hard, cold knot of pain in my heart, there is now something soft and squishy.

  Hopefully that isn’t the sign of some sort of awful heart disease.

  I finally sigh and pick up my Bible, turning to Galatians.

  “For the whole Law is fulfilled in one word, in the statement, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’”

  Luke’s chocolate-brown eyes begging me to forgive him fill my brain and I close my Bible hard. I toss a couple of the pillows off the bed, mash the remaining one under my head, yank up the covers, and flick off the light.

  “You ask too much, Lord,” I whisper into the pitch-black darkness.

  Chapter

  20

  Monday night Layla arrives at my apartment at exactly six o’clock, holding a huge bag with a panda bear on it.

  “Good night! How much food are we eating tonight?” I gape at her. “Everyone knows Panda makes the worst leftovers.”

  She shakes her head sadly. She’s got her hair up in a sloppy bun and she’s changed into baggy sweatpants, an old T-shirt, and fuzzy blue slippers.

  I’m willing to bet she walked into Panda in those slippers.

  She comes in, sighing. “I can’t commit, Paige. I was standing there in the line, planning on getting the orange chicken and Beijing beef and then, all of a sudden, I just started thinking. What if the mushroom chicken is better? What if I really don’t want meat, what if I only want fried rice and spring rolls? What if I should have worn real shoes in here? What if I should have had my hairstylist put some blonde in for the summer? What if I shouldn’t marry Peter?”

  She sets the bag on my kitchen table and covers her eyes.

  “What if you stopped overreacting long enough to eat some of this feast?” I start pulling boxes out of the bag. “There’s like nine entrees here, Layla.”

  “What if this is all just a big sign?”

  “Layla.”

  “Like if I can’t even decide what I want to eat, how in the world am I supposed to be able to decide who to marry?”

  “Layla.”

  “Woe woe to me.” She collapses in one of my kitchen chairs, crosses her arms on the table, and lays her forehead on them.

  I sigh. I have too many major life decisions to make myself. I can’t be making Layla’s too.

  “Layla,” I say again.

  “What?” she moans.

  “Do you love Peter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you enjoy being around him?” My voice is a monotone.

  “Not if he just ate a chili-cheese dog.”

  Too much information about Peter. I rephrase the question. “Do you have a good time with Peter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have similar beliefs about God, the Bible, raising kids, and how often carpet should be cleaned?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then marry the poor man, Layla.” I pop open the lid on a huge container of chow mein noodles.

  “Oh.” She raises her head. “He’s not poor. He’s not rich, but — ”

  “I meant poor in the sense that he has to live with you for the rest of his life.”

  She levels a glare at me. “Mean head.”

  “Crazy one. We’re going to have to be rolled out of here after dinner tonight. Probably on a stretcher.”

  She shrugs. “You know how Chinese food is. You can only eat so much and then you’re stuffed for an hour and then you’re starving again.”

  I find a few paper plates in the back of one of my kitchen drawers, and we load up our plates with food. “Thanks for dinner, Layla,” I tell her, carrying my plate over to the couch.

  “Thanks for calming me down.” She joins me with her own huge plate of food.

  “Cute slippers.”

  She looks down at them. “Thanks. They’re really comfy. And they’re nice because you don’t have a definite right or left slipper. They’re unisex.”

  I choke on a chow mein noodle. “I don’t think that’s the word you’re going for, Layla.”

  “Uniform? Uniside? I don’t know, I just think they’re comfy.”

  I look over at my best friend slurping noodles up with a fork, set my plate on my lap, and hook an arm around her shoulders. “You’re crazy, but I love you.”

  She grins at me. “Right back atcha.”

  The rest of the week crawls past. I walk into work on Friday and just stand there for a second at the door, taking a deep breath, trying to mentally prepare myself for the day of filing and paychecks.

  Yay.

  Tonight is also the night that Rick wants an answer from me on the youth worker job. And I still have no answer. I’ve been scouring my Bible every night for the past week during my evening devotional time, skipping time in my new least-favorite book called Galatians, and I’ve come up with nothing.

  Last night, I didn’t even turn on HGTV when I got home from meeting with Nichole at Starbucks. I just sat on the couch, opened my Bible, and looked up every reference regarding careers I could think of. The word job just got me a bunch of verses about Job and work didn’t have too much either, other than letting me know that if I wanted to eat, I’d better work.

  I learned that within the first three weeks of living away from Mom and Dad.

  I open the agency door and walk inside, set my stuff on my desk, pull the call logbook over, and mash the blinking red light on the answering machine as I pick up the phone.

  “Hi, yes, I was just calling to get some information on adoption. My name is Cindy and my number is 972-555-1276. Thanks!”

  There are three more messages just like that, which means I’ll most likely be spending the morning talking on the phone and working through my lunch break to get paychecks out by three when Candace has to leave.

  I write down everyone’s messages and then I make a pot of coffee so the clients coming in this morning have something for me to offer them to drink beyond water. Fridays are typically big counseling days for Peggy and Candace.

  Peggy’s office door is open so I take her messages down to her. She’s checking her e-mail when I walk in.

  “Morning, Peggy.” I set a small stack of paper slips on her desk.

  “Happy Friday, Paige.” Peggy grins at me over her bi-focals that she has to wear to read anything on the computer. “Busy weekend ahead?”

  If I do take Rick up on the job, I will miss working with Peggy the most. She’s like my second mother.

  “Not really,” I tell her. Tyler texted me yesterday about maybe getting lunch tomorrow, and part of me is bracing for Luke to show up with some kind of breakfast and another tearful rendition of “Return to Me.”

  Sadly, Luke, while he does have a decent voice, does not sound like Dean Martin.

  That could have tipped the scales in his direction, though.

  I am so shallow.

  I look at Peggy and the next thing I know, I’m plopped down in one of the chairs by her desk, pouring my heart out.

  “So I have another job offer. And on top of that, Luke Prestwick has been asking me to be his girlfriend again, Tyler hasn’t made anything official, Preslee is back in town but we’re actually getting along now, Layla’s getting married, and did I mention the job offer?”

  Peggy just looks at me
and then slowly takes her bifocals off. “Okay,” she says, drawing the word out. She pulls out a big three-ring binder and starts making some notes. Apparently I am officially on the clock. “Let’s start with this job offer.”

  I sigh and cover my face with my hands, probably messing up my eye shadow, but I really don’t care at the moment. “I don’t know what to do,” I say quietly. “It would be working as a youth intern at my church.”

  Peggy nods, writing. “Sounds like something you’d enjoy.”

  “I think it would be.” I pull my hands away from my face. It’s the first time I’ve ever really thought about whether or not I’d even like the job. “I’d get to meet with girls. I’d get to take them out to coffee, dinners, whatever, and talk to them. I’d get to use my major. And as annoying as Rick can be, I honestly think it would be fun working with him.”

  Peggy keeps nodding. “I’m not seeing any downsides here, Paige.”

  My voice is quiet. “I hate quitting.”

  “Jobs?”

  “Everything. I don’t quit. If I start something, I finish it.” It used to make my mom nuts when we were trying to leave for somewhere and I would beg to stay so I could finish whatever book or puzzle or imaginary plaything I was doing. I never leave the theater until all the credits are done rolling, and milk never expires in my house because if I open a jug, I finish it.

  “So, you were planning on just being here until you die?” Peggy asks, hands folded together, eyes on mine.

  “I don’t know.” When I’d taken the job, there were several references to me someday becoming a counselor with the agency and working alongside Peggy and Candace in that capacity. Which is why I originally took the job.

  “And then there’s the clients,” I say.

  I do love the people who come in and out of here. I love seeing the prospective parents coming in for the first time, looking for all the world like lost little puppies and leaving a few months later, joy spilling from every pore in their bodies as they carry out their new baby. I love the birth mothers, each of them with their different stories, different heartaches, different reasons to change their destinies.