Lost and Found

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  I don't respond. Instead, I turn and walk away. I can't fight him. I lie on the sofa, knees curled to my chest, and tears still falling. Soon, Jason is kneeling in front of me, wiping my tears with a tissue. He sets the box of tissue on the sofa in front of me and leaves it there. He watches me for a few minutes and then sits down on the floor, turns his back to me, and leans against the sofa in front of me. He stretches his long legs out and crosses them at the ankle as though he intends to stay put. Then he turns his head, and over his shoulder he says, "Andee, I love you."

  You love me? What is wrong with you? I reach for one of the pillows on the sofa and hold it tight in one arm and reach for a tissue with my other hand. I've kept a lifetime of tears dammed up, and now they flow? Give me a break.

  By the time the tears stop, I'm exhausted. Just on the fringe of sleep, I reach for Jason and put my hand on his shoulder. He reaches back and takes my hand in his and holds it there, over his shoulder. His thumb rubs my hand—his stroke gentle.

  I fall asleep like that, with my hand in Jason's, and him sitting on the floor, leaning against the sofa in front of me.

  WHEN I WAKE LATER, I'm covered with a blanket—the angora throw I keep draped across the back of the leather sofa, and Jason is slumped at the other end of the sofa, his head leaning at an odd angle against one of the sofa cushions.

  I lift my head, confused for a moment, and then I remember . . .

  Great.

  I lift the blanket and move it aside and then get up, without, I hope, waking Jason. Once standing and sure that he's still asleep, I walk to the bathroom where I remove my smeared makeup, wash my face, and brush my teeth. Then I return to the living room.

  I nudge Jason on the shoulder. "Hey, wake up. You're going to have a terrible neck ache." I nudge him again, "Jason, wake up."

  He stirs, rubs the back of one hand across his eyes, and then focuses on me. "Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine."

  I see the doubt in his expression.

  "Really. But you need to get up—you need to go. Get some decent sleep."

  "I'll stay—"

  "No, Jason. I'm fine. I . . . I need some sleep too. I have to work tomorrow. I have meetings."

  He stands, turns his head from left to right, and then reaches up for his kinked neck. "Okay. I'll call you in the morning. May . . . may I . . ." He reaches out his arms to give me a hug.

  I give him a quick hug and then step back.

  He watches me. "Call me if you need anything. Anytime. Or if you want me to come back."

  "I'm fine."

  He nods and then heads for the door.

  Once he's gone, I go to the kitchen and make myself a cup of espresso. I don't want to sleep. Don't want to go where my dreams may take me tonight. I take the espresso and go to my desk. I sit, reach for the mouse, and watch as the computer screen comes to life. I stare at the screen for a long time, my eyelids swollen and heavy.

  I sip the espresso as memories play like a horror movie.

  The night it happened, my brothers had gone their separate ways—to different friends' houses. We'd all learned not to hang around unless we had to. I went to Stephanie's, but she wasn't there. So I wandered the streets until I was too cold to stay out any longer. I thought, hoped, I could sneak back into the apartment. Hoped he'd passed out. And I almost made it.

  But just before I reached my bedroom, he grabbed me from behind and shoved me into my room . . .

  I shudder. This is the first time I've recalled the details. I mean, why bother, right? But tonight, I can't seem to help it.

  I tried to fight him. I screamed for help. Screamed for my mother. But she didn't come. Even though she was in the bedroom next door.

  No one came.

  In our complex, a scream heard in the middle of the night wasn't uncommon.

  I get up from my desk and go to the living room and stand at the window. I look beyond the bay toward Alameda. Toward my past. And I allow the most disturbing memory to take form . . .

  I didn't smell alcohol on my father's breath that night. The words he hissed into my ear weren't slurred nor did he stumble when he pushed me into my room and onto my bed.

  He wasn't drunk.

  No, the rape took place during one of his attempts at sobriety.

  Maybe, somehow, I could have excused it or at least made sense of it in some way if he'd been drunk. But no.

  My father may have won the battle that night—I wasn't strong enough to fight him off. But it never happened again. I saw to that. The next time, I was ready for him and told him I'd slit his throat if he touched me. I held a knife at the base of his neck, and . . .

  He believed me.

  I took care of myself.

  I still do.

  I turn from the window, closing the door on the memories. The past is best buried, where it's always been.

  And where, from now on, it will stay.

  You do not experience any major results because you are not always ready to receive them.

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Matthew

  "REMEMBER WHEN WE talked about the park, during our first meeting?"

  I nod. Buckle your seat belt, buddy. We're takin' off. Her question comes as I'm lighting the candle. No time of silence today.

  "I left here that day and went there—to the park. I wandered around the botanical gardens for a while and was awed, again, by the different species that thrive there. Then I went to the bookstore and bought a couple of horticulture books. I went home and had just picked one up to read when"—she shakes her head—"when Gerard had his heart attack."

  I nod again, not wanting to interrupt her thought process.

  "Anyway, I had some new thoughts in the park that day—thoughts I didn't consider again until last night, after coming back to . . . After returning from the valley."

  She looks at me to see if I'm tracking with her. I nod for her to continue, but she is silent. I wait and watch as her eyes widen and fill with tears.

  She takes a breath. "I'm not like the park, I'm not . . . thriving."

  I see the shadow of shame cross her face again, and man, I hate that. I wait for the Spirit's lead and I'm taken back to the question I asked her during our first session. "Jenna, did all the vegetation planted in the park thrive?"

  This time, she shakes her head. "No."

  "Why?"

  "The conditions were too harsh for some. . . . Through the years, as they replanted the trees of the park, they chose varieties that endured the harsh conditions. Those trees became the overstory—the covering that protected the understory—the smaller, less resilient plants. They needed a protector in order to thrive."

  "And you're also living in harsh conditions." I pose it as a statement, not a question.

  Her nod is almost imperceptible. "But that's . . . that's where the metaphor breaks down."

  "How?"

  "I'm not a plant." She smiles, the first since she arrived tonight, though her lashes are still wet with tears.

  I chuckle. "Thanks for the info."

  "Any time." She smiles again and then looks down at her lap. "Uhm . . ." She sighs.

  She's working hard and I know it's intense for her. The humor gives her a moment of relief.

  "It breaks down because . . . I should be thriving regardless of my circumstances. Like I said last time."

  "Why?"

  "Because . . ."

  She doesn't offer the pat answer she gave last time. Then I see her shoulders droop. "I don't know. I thought it was because I should be content in all circumstances. But maybe, as you suggested, I'm leaning on my own understanding. It seems like everything that used to make sense to me, doesn't make sense anymore. I'm so confused."

  "What else
isn't making sense?"

  "All those verses about taking up your cross."

  Jesus' words in Matthew and Luke. Tough words. Vital words.

  "For so long, I've thought my circumstances, the . . . harsh conditions . . . were my cross to bear, you know? But what if"—her brow furrows as she orders her thoughts—"what if I misunderstood?"

  Was that hope I saw flash in her eyes?

  I reach for my Bible and turn to Matthew 10. "Mind if I read a few verses?" I look at her and she shakes her head—she doesn't mind. I start with verse 38.

  "'Anyone who does not take his cross and follow me is not worthy of me.'"

  She leans back in her chair. "Exactly. That's one of them."

  "Okay, let's back up a few verses—read it in context." I look back to the Bible on my lap, and take a deep breath to steady myself. Because, man, God is working. Here and now. These are the exact verses God led me to after Tess told me about Jenna's mother-in-law. And now, just a few days later . . . Awesome!

  I pick up the passage at verse 34.

  "'Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I have come to turn . . .'"

  Whoa. I look at her and then look back at the Bible and continue.

  "'. . . a man against his father, a daughter against her mother, a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law—a man's enemies will be the members of his own household.'"

  I look up. The tears are running again. I keep reading.

  "'Anyone who loves his father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; anyone who loves his son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me; and anyone who does not take his cross and follow me is not worthy of me. Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.'"

  I stop there and look back to Jenna.

  "What did you hear in that passage?"

  She sits very still, tears still streaking her face. "That Jesus didn't come to bring peace. That sometimes He's divisive. That even the members of our family may become our enemies?"

  "What else?" I can see her cogs still spinnin' but then she looks away and shrugs.

  "I . . . I don't know."

  Give her time.

  "But Jesus also said that we're to love our enemies."

  I see the confusion on her face. Lord, confusion isn't of You. Bind the enemy.

  "So . . . that seems like a contradiction. I mean, I know it isn't, but . . . I don't understand."

  I open my mouth to explain, but man, I feel the Spirit holding me back. He's got a bit in my mouth and dude, He's pulling tight on the reins.

  So I wait.

  Then she whispers, "'Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding . . .'"

  "What does that mean to you in this circumstance?"

  "To wait. To trust Him. He'll make it clear . . . in His time. Not mine."

  Her wisdom is not her own.

  "You okay with that?"

  "I am." She looks down at her hands resting in her lap and then back at me. Those big baby blues stare me down. "I don't think I'm ready for more."

  I respect her honesty.

  I respect her.

  After she's gone, I wonder about her harsh conditions. She hasn't shared them with me, but she did admit to them today. Man, I'm bummed for her, but also, in a weird sort of way, I'm also excited. I bow my head and pray. "Lord, infuse her with courage. Surround her. Prepare her. Shield her." In my mind, I see a battalion preparing for war. I let the image inform my prayers. "Strengthen her, Father—Your strength, through Jenna. This is Your battle, Lord . . ."

  I pray for a long time.

  When I say "Amen," I'm filled with a sense of anticipation.

  God is working.

  And I'm stoked!

  Let me urge you to allow your spirit to be enlarged by grace. If you do not yield, your spirit will shrivel and hinder the openness you should have toward everyone . . .

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Andee

  AT 7:12 A.M., I drain another cup of espresso, and get up from my desk to go shower and dress for the day. I glance at my calendar first. A lunch meeting, and then my meeting with Brigitte at 3:30. I need to make a final decision before this afternoon on how I'll handle the Azul deal with Brigitte.

  I stretch, trying to loosen muscles that haven't rested, but instead spent most of the night hunched over a desk. Just as I turn to head to the bedroom, my cell phone, sitting on my desk, rings. I turn back and look at the screen.

  Jason.

  I listen as the ringtone plays again. And again.

  Then I turn and head for the shower.

  By the time I reach the bedroom, my home line is ringing.

  I grab my robe, walk into the bathroom, shut the door, lock it, and turn the shower on full blast. I stand under the steaming water and clear my mind. Then I refocus on my goals. Drive determines destiny, Andee. Don't lose sight of what's important to you. By the time I turn the shower off, I'm clear on what I'll present to Brigitte.

  In fact, I'm clear on a lot of things.

  After I dry my hair, cover the circles under my eyes with concealer, apply the rest of my makeup, and dress, I return to the office where I turn my cell phone to silent and turn the ringer off on my home phone. When the intercom at my front door buzzes, I ignore it. Instead, I pick up my phone, and call the doorman.

  "It's Andee Bell. Please tell whoever is here to see me that I'm working. I won't be accepting visitors."

  "Yes, Ms. Bell. I'll relay the message. But the gentleman seems concerned."

  "I'm fine. Thank him for his concern."

  I hang up.

  There is work to do.

  AT 3:30, I CLIMB the stone steps to the Bouvier residence and ring the bell. A maid answers the door and escorts me up the stairs to Brigitte's home office, where Brigitte greets me.

  "Andee, right on time. Please, have a seat." She motions to a round table in the corner of the office. "Coffee or tea?" There is a sterling coffee and tea service set on her antique French desk, along with a plate of . . . cookies?

  "No, thank you." I pull a file folder and a yellow legal pad from my briefcase and set it on the table in front of me. I'm here for business, not a flippin' tea party. But Brigitte turns to the desk and pours herself a cup of tea and then leans against the desk while sipping said tea.

  She lifts her cup and says, "Mariage Fères—a French tea. Just a hint of vanilla."

  I look at my watch. "I'm on a tight schedule this afternoon."

  She raises a manicured eyebrow and clicks her nails on her china teacup. "Well, I'd hate to keep you."

  What is this? She's the one who called the meeting. Her son isn't even cold yet and she wants to socialize? You're a piece of work, lady. I take a pen from my briefcase, and sit poised for business. "I was under the impression this was urgent?"

  She looks at me and her eyes narrow.

  I better watch myself. I have a stake in this meeting too. "I want to devote all the time I have this afternoon to your interests."

  "Merci, Andee." Her tone is as tight as her smile. "Let's get to it then." She takes a leather portfolio from her desk, reaches for her trademark Montblanc pen, and sits across from me. "I want information on Azul."

  "I thought you might." Now we're on the same page. I open the file folder and pull out a sheet of information I've prepared. Before I hand it to her, I say, "There will be a stipulation we need to agree on first."

  She eyes the sheet that I've laid facedown on the table.

  "Such as?"

  I lean back in my chair, and wait until I see her shift in her seat. She is anxious. Perfect.

  Time to reveal what I'll
require from her before sharing the details of the plan.

  Do not torment yourself because you do not always feel that you trust Him or feel His presence with you.

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Jenna

  AFTER LEAVING MATTHEW'S office, I check my phone and notice I have a message from Jason. I listen to the message while sitting in the cab.

  "Hey, Jenna . . ." He sounds tired. "I know you have enough on your plate right now, but I wonder if you'd have time to grab a cup of coffee. I could use a listening ear. Call me." I glance at my watch and call him back. He answers on the first ring.

  "Jenna . . ."

  "Hi, what's up? Are you okay?"

  He hesitates. "Yeah, just tired and . . . puzzled. I could use a female perspective."

  "Okay, do you have time to meet now? I'm out—just leaving an appointment."

  "Sure. Starbucks on Fillmore?"

  "Okay, I'll see you there in fifteen minutes."

  "Thanks, Jen."

  I hang up. Is it Andee that Jason wants to talk about? I lean forward and tell the driver to drop me on Fillmore rather than at the house.

  As the cab flies over the city hills, I think about Jason. Five years older than I, Jason was on the cusp of his teens when our mother died. He entered high school just a year later. He was a kind big brother and I adored him, but by the time I reached high school, he was off to college. Our lives didn't intersect much. It wasn't until we reached adulthood that we became friends.

  Jason is comfortable with himself in a way I've never experienced. He was neither drawn nor intimidated by the Bouvier wealth or affluence, as I was. He enjoys simplicity, but seems to fit in wherever he is. His group of friends is a diverse bunch.

  We grew up attending a small Baptist church in Napa. My parents were married there, we were both dedicated there, and my mother's memorial service was held there. Jason is still involved and spends most weekends in the valley just so he can attend church. I miss the little church—the hymns, communion, and the fellowship of other believers. I still attend with Jason, when I can, but Brigitte never approved of the church. Or any church for that matter.