Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father

by Andrea Randall

  Roland extends his hand across the island and places it tentatively on my forearm. “I’m getting there,” he assures before removing his hand from my arm.

  “So,” he sighs, “then…she got pregnant.”

  I let out a sharp one-syllable laugh and wave my hand. He chuckles, but it doesn’t even reach his face.

  “I showed up at her dorm room in a stupor, demanding sex. She was in hysterics, which, miraculously, sobered me up a bit. I’d never seen her cry up to that point.”

  I swallow hard at the image of my broken and pregnant mother facing her alcoholic boyfriend. “What’d she say?” I whisper.

  “She told me she was pregnant, and she wasn’t going to have an abortion—even though she was pro-choice.”

  I smile, biting my lip at my mother never losing an opportunity to assert her political beliefs.

  Roland clears his throat. “She said that she couldn’t have a baby with an alcoholic, sex-addicted man. She said she wanted me to leave her alone, and that she didn’t want anything. She wanted me to sign away my parental rights as soon as possible so she could move on with her life without me.”

  “How’d you feel about that?” I ask, leaning forward on my elbows.

  Roland’s eyes stay glued to his hands. “Relieved. Like I got off scot-free.”

  His honesty stuns me, despite the fact that I just told him I admire it about him. My mouth hangs open, wordless.

  “I signed everything I needed to a week or two later and, as you can imagine, I failed out of school at the end of that semester. I went home to Michigan and continued my downward spiral.

  “Did you ever tell your parents about me?”

  Roland runs his tongue along his teeth. “Nope. Not till I got clean.”

  “So for years they knew nothing about their…grandchild? Well, I guess non-grandchild since I wasn’t legally yours… But…”

  “Kennedy,” Roland sighs, “all I thought about at that point was drinking. That was it. I woke up to drink and did so until I passed out. My parents kicked me out in short order, and I found myself first on the couch of my sister, then my brother’s when my sister didn’t want me around her kids anymore.”

  Cousins…

  “So,” I prompt, “Jesus…”

  “It was your fifth birthday.” Roland’s voice is so tight it barely classifies as a voice at all. It drops to a whisper. “Of course I didn’t know it was your birthday. I’d spent the previous five years with maybe six months of sobriety stitched together. One day here, two there, a week here… Anyway, at that point I was busy lying to myself that I was a functioning alcoholic. I’d been working on various local political campaigns at the time. Sure, I was getting the job done, but I made sure to drink before and after each project.”

  This doesn’t surprise me—Roland being a functioning alcoholic. Charisma, it seems, is stronger than the bottle at times. I can almost see him staggering around his house trying to piece together a clean outfit, but taking the time to check his hair and smile before heading out the door.

  “I’d been staying for a week at my parents’ house because my apartment was undergoing some renovations, and I got a letter in the mail. No return address.” As if out of nowhere, tears pour down Roland’s cheeks, making it uncomfortable for me to look at him. “I opened it, and out fell a picture of the most angelic little girl I’d ever seen.”

  I open my mouth to refute the angel claim, but he stops me. “I’m serious. You were playing outside in this bright yellow sundress that had white flowers on it. Your hair was in braids and the picture captured you mid-stride, running with a full-toothed smile.”

  I shift in my seat, uncomfortable that I never knew of this mail exchange.

  “There was a note folded up inside,” Roland continues.

  “What’d it say?”

  “It said,” Roland takes a deep breath, “‘I just thought you’d like to know.’”

  He stares at me quietly, and I shift again.

  “That’s it?” The words seem a little cold, even for my often cynical mother.

  He nods. “That’s it. I fell to my knees in the kitchen of my parents’ house. Thankfully they weren’t home, or they would have thought I was having a drunken psychotic episode.”

  “What’d you do?”

  Roland lifts his chin, but the tears still roll down his cheeks, off his jaw, and down his neck. “I reached into one of the lower cabinets—that held the liquor—and opened the first bottle I touched.”

  “Charming,” I muse and roll my eyes.

  Roland holds up his hand, as if asking me to withhold judgment. “I kept looking at your picture out of the corner of my eye. It had fallen from my fingers to the floor and I was sitting there, next to your picture, glass bottle to my lips. Before I knew it, the bottle was sailing across the room, and it hit the wall on the other side, breaking into a million pieces as I screamed ‘Jesus Christ!’ as loud as I could.”

  I jump, because in the midst of telling the story, Roland actually screams Jesus Christ. He grips his hair with both hands and lowers his head as if relieving the moment.

  “I screamed it over and over again. I’d grown up in the church, but hadn’t ever been a regular. But as my knees dug into the cold tile…my curse changed into a petition.”

  “How?” I whisper, fighting tears of my own.

  Roland shrugs. “The longer I looked at the picture, the tighter my stomach twisted. You were looking directly into the camera and, it felt, directly into me. You have my eyes, Kennedy. Your mother was so beautiful, and my drunken twenty-year-old mind assumed that you’d end up looking exactly like her. But, in that picture, it was me. I couldn’t deny it. And every single day of your life I’d failed you. A little, innocent, blissfully happy child that deserved way more for a father…even if I would never meet her.”

  I sniff and stand. Needing to move for a moment, I walk to the sink and get some water. “But…how?”

  Roland turns to face me. “How what?”

  “How did Jesus reach you in that kitchen? How?” While I’m familiar with my own God moments, I’ve never had one as powerful as the one Roland is describing. I can’t wrap my head around the idea that in one moment he was in a downward spiral, and the next he was pastoring to millions. I know there were a few years in between the two. But how did he know it was God?

  A bittersweet smile touches his lips. “Jesus is always reaching for us, Kennedy. Every single one of us, all the time. In that moment, it wasn’t my brain choosing. Something within me—my soul—screamed. In that moment, in your eyes, I reached back.”

  The vision of my broken father in the fetal position on his parents’ kitchen floor, screaming for Jesus and crying over me is too much. Tears sneak out of my eyes. I lift my chin and manage words, finally.

  “I kind of wish you’d reached out sooner,” I admit out loud for the first time in my life.

  A gasp mixed with a choked sob breaks through Roland’s soft smile. He slides from his stool and squares himself in front of me at the counter.

  “Kennedy…” His eyes—my eyes—pour into me and I don’t fight him as he reaches forward and pulls me into a tight embrace. It’s as warm and comforting as I’d imagined it to be. “I’m so sorry, Kennedy. Please. Please forgive me.”

  I bury my face into his shoulder and sob, not knowing what to say. Not knowing how to start, or if I want to. Instead of talking, Roland and I stand in his kitchen, crying and hugging until our food is delivered.

  Lunch is quiet, as it’s always been. But, this time, I’m praying in my head.

  God… Please. Show me what to do. I don’t want to hurt my mom, but I want to give Roland a chance. He’s asking me to forgive him and I don’t know how. Help.

  “Are you okay?” Roland calls me out of my conversation with God, which I’m sure registers as a daydream on my face.

  I nod and offer a half smile before biting into my turkey sandwich. “I should have gotten the roast beef,” I say with my m
outh full.

  By the time we’ve finished eating, I’m feeling horrifically exposed. Not only did I hug Roland, which I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do, but I cried in front of him. On him. I briefly wonder if it was that “something” inside me—my soul, maybe—that directed me toward that hug and the tears, similar to what guided Roland to reach out from the kitchen floor. Maybe that tug happened for him, I reckon to myself, but God speaks to me differently. God wouldn’t make me hug a stranger that’s caused a series of hurt in my life by way of his absence. Would he? We stand in his doorway as I mull this over in my head.

  “You’ve been quiet,” Roland remarks. He hasn’t tried to hug me since our own kitchen scene and I’m grateful for that, for the time being.

  I shrug “It’s been kind of heavy today. Don’t talk to my mom about today, please,” I add quickly.

  Roland looks puzzled for a moment, but I cut in before he can speak. “I just…I don’t want to hurt her, or whatever, when I can’t really explain what’s happening here.”

  “She’s afraid of you and me developing a relationship?” It doesn’t really sound like a question, though he does a heck of a job raising his voice at the end of his sentence.

  “I think so. I’ve told her I get to decide, but I just don’t want to blindside her.”

  Roland slides his hands into his pockets. “What do you want out of us, Kennedy?”

  My eyes fill with tears. “I wanted you to rock me to sleep when I had nightmares in kindergarten. I wanted you to take me to the father-daughter dance in fourth grade. I wanted you to cheer me on at my basketball games and piano recitals…”

  At my words, Roland bites his lip and looks to his feet.

  “I’m sorry,” I add, reaching for his arm. “I’m just being honest. I know I can’t have those things with you. I know I had many of them with my stepdad. I didn’t know until this very moment that I’d wanted you there. I’m…I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt anyone.” The emotional implications of my decision to come to Carter are slowly choking me, like ivy around the trunk of a tree.

  Roland shakes his head softly from side to side and puts his hand over mine on his arm. “I understand. All I ask is you and I keep talking.”

  I nod, thinking how I feel Joy is always watching me and seems eerily skeptical of any interaction Roland and I have had in her presence. Even though that could easily be my own paranoia, I offer up what I consider to be a comfortable solution. “I start working at the coffee shop next week. Give me a week or two to get comfortable with the operation and then why don’t you come down on a Saturday night or something and we can talk while I work, or when I’m on break or whatever.”

  His face lights up and his hand tightens around mine. “I’d like that. See you soon, then.”

  “Well,” I say as I reach for the door, “next Sunday for sure, but, yeah. See you soon.”

  I take several deep breaths on my way back to campus, waiting to hear from God regarding my earlier prayer.

  What do I do?

  Nothing but silence. I guess God’s not operating the express lane today.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Flood

  The past two weeks have been far more normal than anything I ever thought I’d get at Carter. Between classes, studying, and staying in touch with family and friends, three-times-a-week chapel services feel more like just another thing than they do an imposition. I make sure to call my mom at least every other day, because if I don’t she’s certain that I’ve run off and joined a convent. Which isn’t even something people from here are inclined to do. That I now know that distinction makes me smile. Yes, it certainly seems that the initial culture shock is wearing off. Or into me. I’m not sure which, but Parents’ Weekend is a mere two weeks away, and I can rest assured that if I’m a wildly different person than Mom dropped off, she’ll tell me.

  “You’ve caught on really quickly,” Asher remarks as I tie on my apron and prepare for my fourth shift at Word.

  “Thank you.” I smile as I fill in the timesheet.

  “Things going okay up on the hill?” He follows me as I make my way from the back room to behind the counter.

  The hill is often used by Asheville locals to refer to Carter University. It does, in fact, sit up on a hill, which opens it up to all sorts of Biblical jokes. City on a hill, and all that.

  Quickly, I scan the cafe, grateful for the lull in customers so I can have a chance to converse with Asher. “It’s going well so far,” I answer, picking up a rag and looking for something to clean.

  Asher’s mouth turns down in that surprised, interested sort of way as he nods and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Cool.”

  I stop what I’m doing and lean my back against the counter. “Why are you being weird?” For the last two weeks, Asher’s been completely business-like, never mentioning my enrollment at Carter except when making out my schedule or in shooing me out the door if I’m running late so I don’t miss my curfew. His sudden interest seems a bit out of place.

  He lets out a laugh, throwing his head back, giving me full view of his Adam’s apple. His neck is so thick it’s a wonder his shoulders can support it. “I’m not being weird.”

  “Look,” I sigh, “if you want to pick on me about going to Carter, just do it. I’m used to it.” I gesture to the cafe, indicating my new resilience to the matter, thanks to the patrons of Word.

  Of course, as the new girl, I’ve been subject to lots of “get to know you” questions from the rest of the staff and regulars at the coffee shop. I try to get my educational institution out of the way immediately, so they can get on with their “Hey, angel,” and “Thank you for my blessed coffee,” remarks.

  Asher’s face darkens, however, and rather than spearing me with well-crafted Bible quips, he goes on the defensive. “What makes you think I’d want to tease you about where you go to school?”

  I arch an eyebrow, unconvinced of his wounding at my words. “Because it’s ridiculous.”

  “Then you shouldn’t go there,” he challenges. “Frankly, I haven’t figured out why you are there.”

  Both eyebrows raise as I drop my mouth open. “Why? Because I don’t wear a Jesus pin or try to save your customers? There’s a lot more to being a Christian than smacking people over the head with your Bible, Asher.” While I haven’t seen a ton of evidence of this among the students of Carter, it’s there. Especially in my super gentle RA, Maggie, who constantly motivates me to do the right thing, quoting scripture to encourage, rather than condemn.

  Asher’s face breaks into a smile and he smacks my shoulder. “There she is. I thought you’d gone soft on me already after three weeks on the hill. Keep that fight, girl. It looks good on you.”

  My cheeks heat, though I’m certain he’s not flirting with me. Asher is far too professional to engage in anything like that. “Thanks,” I mumble.

  He tilts his chin. “Customer.”

  Turning, I find Jonah at the counter, All-American heartbreaking smile on his face. “Hey! I was wondering if I’d ever see any of you while I was working. Who’s with you?” I crane my neck to see if I spot any of our “group,” but don’t see anyone I recognize.

  Jonah points to a far table, where two guys wave. “John and Matt. They’re on my floor, too.”

  “What,” I chuckle, “Mark and Luke were busy studying?” I slap my hand over my mouth as Jonah cracks up over my very own Gospel joke. “I promise I’m not that funny,” I assure him. “You just bring it out of me, I guess.”

  “Well, I like it.”

  Jonah orders and moves to the end of the bar while I get busy making the drinks. Things with Eden and Jonah are in a holding pattern until Eden stops being twelve. No, really. The poor girl is awfully insecure for being such a freaking knockout, and each time we’ve discussed me moving forward with setting something up between her and Jonah, she begs me not to. “Not yet,” she says. Apparently she’s not ready.

  In my high school, a girl like Eden
would not only have her pick of guys—she’d take that pick of guys. While I appreciate the naiveté around the whole dating scene here at Carter, Eden seems to truly believe she’s not good enough for Jonah, and that ticks me off. Because, while Jonah may walk and talk like a perfect Son of God, I know he’s not. He can’t be. He’s just a confused kid like the rest of us. To Eden, though, Jonah is perfect. Maybe it’s best that they’re not currently dating after all. It’s an esteem neither of them would be able to live up to. An almost too-perfect couple.

  “Here you go.” I hand Jonah the lattes and a smile.

  He smiles back and thanks me politely.

  Sigh. He and Eden really would be perfect together. If such a thing were to exist, it would be between them.

  I’m so certain of it, I decide to act. “Jonah,” I call after him just as he turns away.

  “Yeah?” He turns, still expertly balancing three cups of hot coffee.

  “Oh,” I wave my hands toward him, “go drop your drinks and come back.” In the meantime, I fill another two orders, and when they’re up, Jonah is standing patiently for me at the end of the bar.

  “What’s up?” he asks.

  I take a deep breath. “I, um, have something I need to ask you.” I fiddle with my fingers, suddenly feeling twelve myself, and not blaming Eden one bit. Jonah’s quite disarming, what with his confidence and smile and insanely unmoving belief in God. So, yeah, if you like that sort of thing, Jonah is aces.

  He chuckles. “What is it?”

  One more deep breath for courage, and I finally look up. “She’ll kill me if she knows it started with me, but Eden really wants you to ask her out on a date.” I say all of the words at once.

  It seems like it takes Jonah a minute to put them in correct order in his brain. He scrunches his eyebrows and clears his throat while a mysterious look swirls through his eyes. “Eden?”

  He sounds surprised and I laugh. “What is it with you people?”

  “You people?” His eyes bug out in amusement.

  “Yes. You people as in you and Eden. Haven’t you known each other for, like, a hundred years?”