Beyond I Do

by Jennifer Slattery

  Ignoring the fuming man catty-corner from him, Chris sat on the van bumper, waiting for Norma and her girls to meander out. Apparently, they’d enjoyed a bit too much punch and needed to use the facilities. Meanwhile, he listened to Gina share a story of a black-haired toddler with the “cutest lisp.” She began to mimic the child, alleviating the awkward tension with much-needed humor. She had just launched into a second tale when Norma approached with her girls, unlocking the van as she did so.

  Ainsley opened the back side door. “That was something else. I don’t know how to process it all.” She smoothed a loose curl from her forehead. “I loved being here, but it’s hard too. Know what I mean?”

  Chris nodded, climbing into the van behind her. “I do.” He’d never even considered all the children living on the streets. Or the joy he’d experience spending an evening with them, serving them. “This is what it’s about, huh? God’s pretty amazing, and to think, He allows us to be part of what He’s doing, right here in Kansas City.”

  Chapter 28

  he light turned green and Chris accelerated. He eased into the intersection, tiny specks of snow dotting the windshield.

  To his right, a woman in a thin, white nightgown shuffled down the sidewalk, head swiveling, shoulders hunched. The wind whipped through her hair. Chris slowed and leaned forward.

  His heart cramped. Mom! What was she doing out here?

  He veered to the curb and slammed on his breaks. Horns blared as cars swerved around him and into the center lane. His mom looked up with wide eyes. He threw the truck in Park, jumped out, and ran to her side.

  “Mom, what are you doing out here?”

  He reached for her, but she jerked away, her teeth chattering behind blue-tinted lips.

  “Who are you? What do you want with me?” She shifted right then left, white fingers touching her face. “Where am I?”

  Chris’s blood coursed hot, his muscles constricting. He cupped his mother’s elbow. “Why don’t we go inside to figure this out?”

  Lord, please don’t let her fight me on this. Give her a moment of clarity, or acceptance—anything to help me get her out of this cold and back to the nursing home. Before she catches pneumonia.

  With an extended pause, she looked at him, her chin quivering. Then she nodded and let him guide her to his truck. After securing her seat belt, he closed the door, rounded the truck, and hopped in.

  “Where are you taking me?” She shivered against the passenger door, hugging her torso.

  “Do you see that building over there?” He pointed toward the nursing home.

  She nodded.

  “The lights are on. I bet someone in there can help us.” Hopefully the nursing home lobby and staff would trigger her memory. Otherwise things could get ugly. His teeth ground together as a memory of the staff dragging his mother hitting and screaming to her room flashed through his mind. They said they wouldn’t restrain her, but God only knew what happened behind closed doors.

  He pulled into the lot, parked, and turned to his mom, still trembling beside him. How he longed to reach out to her, to hold her hand, to soothe her fear. But that might only frighten her more. So instead, he breathed deep and put on his best smile.

  “Here we are.”

  Lord, please, help me bring her inside.

  She studied the nursing home entrance, creases deepening the wrinkles on her forehead. “I recognize this place. Have I been here before? Where are we?” When she turned back to him, her eyes softened. She touched his chin with an icy hand. “My Chris, how good to see you. And look at you, all grown up. You’ve got your father’s eyes, you know.”

  He placed his hand over hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. “It’s good to see you, too, Mom. Shall we?”

  He hurried to her door before she had a chance to open it. The last thing he needed was for her to slip on a patch of black ice and break her hip. Cupping his hand under her elbow, he led her onto the sidewalk and up the front steps.

  Heather, one of the night staff, met them at the door with a frown. Her dull, brown hair draped from a loose ponytail, stray locks sticking out in frazzled clumps.

  “Mrs. Langley, where have you been?”

  Chris inhaled, his hands balling into tight fists. He didn’t speak until he knew he could keep his voice steady. “How did she get out?”

  Two other staff members joined them, talking fast, chastising his mom, making excuses for what had happened, talking about “wandering residents” who slipped past the staff. Meanwhile, his mom grew increasingly agitated, her gaze darting between them.

  “Stop.” Chris spoke firmly. “Let’s take care of Mother first. We’ll talk about the situation once she’s settled.”

  The staff fell silent. Two left, muttering under their breath, leaving Heather and Chris to guide his mom back to her room.

  “Where are you taking me?” She pulled back, straining against their grip.

  “Sh. It’s OK.” Chris rubbed his mother’s back. “You’re cold. Let me get you a blanket and a warm cup of peppermint tea.”

  She nodded. As they continued down the hall, her quivering lessened. Air fresheners lined the ceiling, an overpowering aroma of gardenias and talcum powder mixing with the stench of dried urine.

  At the end of the hall, a man in mismatched clothes sat in a wheelchair, dried food caked in his beard and mustache, hair matted to one side. His head fell forward, his mouth slack.

  Chris stopped and turned to Heather. “Is anyone going to put that man to bed?”

  “Yes, when they get a chance. We’re understaffed today.”

  Which was probably why his mother managed to wander out into the cold. What if she did it again and he wasn’t there to find her? That was a chance he wasn’t willing to take. He needed to make different arrangements, but he’d have to move fast, before Matilda filed for guardianship and the courts got involved.

  Chapter 29

  onday evening Ainsley arrived at North Kansas City Ray of Hope ready to serve. She felt more alive during the few hours here than any other time during the week. And yet, she always left with a heavy heart, worrying about where the women and children would spend the night. Wondering if William and his mother would be among them. She checked the temperature on her dash. Thirty-eight degrees and dropping.

  “Holy Father, please watch over these ladies, and those who won’t make it into the shelter tonight. Please help them to find You.”

  A moment later, Chris pulled into the parking space beside her. She scrambled out, clutching the collar of her jacket as an icy breeze swept over her.

  He glanced around. “Where are all those pretty lights and wreathes strung through the Plaza? Guess the city forgot to decorate this part of town, huh?”

  “Funny how that happens.” She popped her trunk, stacked three large containers of pasta salad on top of one another then hoisted them between her forearm and her chin.

  Chris ran to her side. “You need help?”

  “I got it, but thank you. Did you bring your guitar?” Chris gave a thumbs-up sign. “I’m all over it.”

  Across the lot, a brunette emerged and held the door open. “Hey, y’all. Best hurry before that wind up and carries you away. Woo-wee, is it a cold one tonight.”

  Guitar case balanced on his shoulder, Chris turned to Ainsley and extended a hand. “After you.”

  Inside, they encountered a cluster of chattering voices surrounded by the rich aroma of warm bread, garlic, and basil. Ainsley paused in the hallway to inhale, her stomach, neglected since morning, growling.

  “My two favorite volunteers!” Rose emerged from her office loaded down with toilet paper rolls. “And tell that wonderful pastor of yours, many thanks for the tissue!”

  Ainsley nodded then moved aside to allow Rose to hurry past them toward a small bathroom to their left. Once out of ear-shot, Ainsley stepped closer to Chris. “One day our pastor came to drop off flyers for a life-skills class; he found Rose sitting in her office cutting toilet paper down
the middle.”

  His eyes widened. “Why?”

  “Because their supplies had dwindled, and she wanted to make what they had last.”

  “Toilet paper, huh?” He shook his head. “Sure puts life in perspective.”

  She nodded and led the way to the kitchen where a group of teens flowed in and out carrying cookie packages, brownies, plastic utensils, and napkins. Industrial-sized pots simmered on four burners, each manned by a different student. Two teens emerged from a back storage area hefting a bright-orange drink tub between them.

  Chris set his guitar down and dashed to their side. “I got it.”

  Ainsley placed her salad on a cluttered counter. She checked the clock—6:20. Soon, Rose would open the doors, allowing all the women gathered out front for food and warmth.

  Until then, she and Chris helped where needed. By the time the front doors banged open, food and drinks lined the tables.

  The teens hung back as women and children crowded into the eating area, hollowed eyes sweeping back and forth, toddlers running between them. They gathered in threes and fours throughout the room, some slumped forward, eyes downcast, others rigid, scowling.

  Ainsley wove her way through them, pausing to rub the back of a wide-eyed toddler before sitting next to an ashen-skinned woman engulfed in a ripped ski jacket. Chris followed a few feet behind and set his guitar near the front beside two folding chairs before joining her.

  “I’m Ainsley.” She smiled.

  The woman nodded, her gaze darting about. She rocked in her seat, arms wrapped around her torso.

  Ainsley’s heart ached for a connection, to find words able to break through the barrier this woman hid behind. After a few attempts, the woman grumbled and scooted further down the table, indicating she wanted to be left alone.

  Offering a silent prayer, Ainsley studied the wind-chapped faces all around her. A few she recognized. A woman with two elementary school-age children slouched on either side of her. A woman with waist-length hair and bright-red lipstick. Two chubby-cheeked, shoeless toddlers squirmed in the arms of a blonde with dark circles shadowing her eyes.

  Rose moved to the front and took the microphone. “Good evening.” Everyone grew quiet. “Many of you remember our dear friends, Ainsley Meadows and Chris Langley.” She motioned toward them, eliciting a chorus in the affirmative.

  “Mmm, hmm.”

  “You know that’s right.”

  “Sure do!”

  Ainsley studied her hands, cheeks warming. Her stomach knotted and she asked herself the same question she did every Monday night: Why do you do this to yourself?

  Because she loved the women and loved to sing—so much so, it overshadowed her shyness.

  “You ready?” Chris nudged her arm.

  She nodded and followed him to the front of the room. Settling onto a stool, she inhaled and repeated her favorite mantra. Just You and me, God. Just You and me.

  When Chris’s fingers strummed the guitar, filling her ears with the soft melody of “Amazing Grace,” peace settled over her nervous heart. She closed her eyes, lifted her voice in harmony, and lost herself in praise.

  “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now I’m found. Was blind, but now I see.”

  With each verse, memories surfaced—of the day she first heard the gospel message and the immense love that swept over her when she stumbled, quivering, down the aisle. Of the countless nights God met her as she lay in bed, broken and afraid, while her parents fought in the next room. How God had stayed with her, helped her find peace, when after her parents’ divorce, they attempted to pit her against one another. Her Savior had carried her through it all.

  Launching into the second verse, she reached her hands toward heaven, tears slipping through her closed lashes. With each line, God’s love penetrated deeper, until it filled her completely.

  When Chris played the last chord and the melody drifted into silence, Ainsley opened her eyes to see tear-streaked faces staring back at her, children wrapped in their mother’s arms.

  She turned to Chris, captured by his gaze.

  “That was beautiful.” He spoke barely above a whisper.

  Chris sat next to Ainsley, guitar tucked under his feet. A man with a gray T-shirt, the word Transformed printed on the front in fluorescent green letters, took the mike

  “Wow, amazing.” He smiled at Chris and Ainsley. “If you’re ever free on a Sunday, look me up. Our congregation would be blessed to have you.”

  Chris stole a glance at Ainsley who studied the ground, cheeks pink.

  The man continued. “I’m Pastor Jeffreys and that lovely lady in the back,” He motioned to a woman with short, black hair seated amidst a cluster of teens, “is my beautiful wife, Elaina.”

  Heads turned, followed by murmuring, which lulled to silence once he started to speak again. “You’ve probably heard the story of the boy with the richly decorated robe? Broadway created a show sometime back based on the biblical account. Joseph was the second youngest of twelve brothers, born to his father’s favorite wife.”

  He continued to lay out Joseph’s history, explaining the mounting tension filling Joseph’s home and the hatred his brothers felt toward him. “Then one day, they saw their chance for revenge. While tending their father’s animals, Joseph approached them, wearing his richly ornamented robe. Fueled by rage, they plotted to kill him.” He turned to his Bible and read Genesis 37:18–36, then continued his paraphrase. “These traders brought Joseph to Egypt where he was sold to a man named Potiphar, an Egyptian officer. So, here was Joseph, betrayed by his brothers, stripped of everything he cared about, living as a foreigner. Just as things began to turn around, Mrs. Potiphar accused him of attempted rape, and he was falsely imprisoned. So what’d he do? Turn bitter? Hateful?” He shook his head. “Young Joseph became a beacon of light in an incredibly dark place.”

  Chris focused on a kid who looked to be twelve or thirteen, slumped over the table, and a lump formed in his throat. Memories of his junior high years surged to the front of his mind. Surviving eighth grade was hard enough. What increased difficulties did this young man face, shuffling from one shelter to the next? And where was his father? In prison? Or kept at bay by a restraining order?

  When the message concluded, everyone migrated toward the food lined along the back wall.

  Standing, Chris gave Ainsley a smile. “Shall we?”

  She nodded and they wove through women and children until they reached their stations behind the salad bowls.

  Mrs. Jeffreys waddled over and slid behind a pan of garlic bread. “You two were something! Rose said you have your own café, said you were trying to set it up as a believers’ retreat. Ever think of singing live, for your customers?”

  “Actually, yeah. Just haven’t launched the idea yet.” He looked at Ainsley. “What do you say? Think you could pop in for a few hours next Saturday for a duet?”

  She blinked. “I . . . Next Saturday?”

  “I’ve got an idea!” Mrs. Jeffreys snapped her fingers then turned to a teen standing beside her. “You got this? I’ll be right back.” The girl nodded, taking Mrs. Jeffreys’s place as the woman hurried to where her husband manned the dessert table.

  Chris chuckled. “If that idea of hers generated that much excitement, I gotta admit, I’m rather intrigued to hear it.”

  Ainsley scooped a mound of salad onto a plate extended in front of her. “I’m not so sure. Something tells me it won’t be in my comfort zone.”

  “Which means it’s probably from God.” Chris winked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Last thing God wants His children to do is settle into the comfortable. Nope. He’s in the stretching, growing, teaching business.”

  Ainsley frowned, her delicate forehead creasing above deep green eyes. His pulse quickened as he watched the color spread through her cheeks, fighting against a sudden urge to draw her close.

  Whoa, time to step it
back.

  Looking away, he focused on the task at hand—feeding the long line of hungry, broken women and children God placed before him.

  A moment later Mrs. Jeffreys returned, out of breath. “What do you think about hosting a benefit concert at your café?”

  “What do you mean?” He plopped a scoop of potatoes onto a little boy’s plate.

  “Nothing fancy.” She flitted her hand. “Just you and Ainsley, unless you know of other musicians. We could take a love offering at the end to support the mission. I know they’re running low on funding.”

  Chris grinned. “Love it! And 15 percent of all sales could go to the shelter as well.” He turned to Ainsley, nearly chuckling at her furrowed brow and flushed face.

  Finally, her contorted features smoothed into a smile. “Guess it’s time for a bit of spiritual aerobics, huh?”

  Chapter 30

  hris pulled into the North Oak Landing apartment complex. Matilda’s periwinkle four-door sat across the lot beneath a long, multislot steel carport.

  Lord, give me the words today. Please help my sister understand the urgency of Mom’s situation.

  And yet, even as he prayed, one question nibbled at his gut—what if his sister was right? Would Lily of the Valley really take better care of their mother, or were they merely putting on a show for potential clientele?

  Thick clouds blanketed the sky, mirroring patches of snow melting on the winter grass. Gray and tan rocks lined the empty stream bed, bare trees swaying in the crisp midmorning breeze. A man in a blue ski jacket and heavy knit hat strolled down the sidewalk, leash in hand, while a snowy white poodle scurried behind him.

  Chris grabbed the brochure for Lily of the Valley and got out, the wind biting at his ears and cheeks. Turning up his jacket collar, he strode toward his sister’s apartment.