3
WHERE ARE U?
Amy doesn’t answer the text. It’s maybe the two-hundredth one she’s let go. They’ve been coming more and more frequently, leaving her to wonder what’s going on with Marc. But she knows that’s exactly what he wants.
I’m alive and well and he wants to go back to the way things were.
I just want to talk.
It’s not anger that’s making her not respond. It’s clarity. It’s the memories of those days and nights battling the cancer alone. On her own, by herself, with no one else, all by her lonesome.
I’ve become a country ballad.
Her ex—the ever-successful, ever-into-himself Marc Shelley of the big-name brokerage Donaldson & Donaldson—is too slick to ever start singing country. But now that Amy’s still around and hasn’t died after all, it seems like his tune is starting to change.
Silly metaphors aside, Amy can’t forget Marc’s blunt response the moment she told him she had cancer. He had been too busy telling her about his promotion to partner at his firm. When she told him about the cancer, he actually dismissed it by continuing to share his good news.
“This couldn’t wait till tomorrow?” he had the audacity to say.
Maybe telling him about it could wait, but the cancer wasn’t going to wait. Not one second.
The news didn’t take long to sink in, even through Marc’s thick skull. They had just sat down at the table in one of those expensive, four-star restaurants they always ate at. Marc hadn’t even ordered his drink yet. The decision didn’t take long. None of Marc’s decisions ever did.
“Look—we had fun,” Marc told her. “You were my hot girlfriend with a chic-if-not-overly-financially-rewarding career. I was your charming, successful, upwardly mobile boyfriend. We were together because each of us got out of our relationship what we needed. It was good—no, it was great. But now . . . it’s over.”
Amy was almost more stunned by Marc’s reaction than by the news of the cancer itself. “Don’t you know I might die?” she tried to make him realize.
“Yeah, and I’m sorry about that. But I’m not going to be around to see it.”
With that he simply walked out of the restaurant and her life.
She knows now all the things she failed to see before then. It’s easy to be swayed by a handsome mug and an endless income. By the thought of being this couple others would envy. Of living in their own little universe.
But that little universe was created for one person only: Marc Shelley.
Can you at least talk to me?
In the silence of her one-bedroom apartment, Amy simply looks at the screen of her phone. The fact that she’s even considering calling him is ridiculous. But being alone, full of questions and full of want, will make anybody a little open for disaster. Isolation can make a person a bit ridiculous.
I’m not going to be around to see it.
That’s what he told her.
It’s been nice sharing your time and your energy and your affection, but I’m sorry I can’t share your grief and your passing.
Amy puts the phone on the kitchen counter and goes into her bedroom. She might be desperate for someone in her life now, but she’s not insane.
God allowed her to live for some reason she doesn’t understand. But she’s sensible enough to know he didn’t save her for Marc.
4
THE OFFICE SMELLS like McDonald’s. I swear they put some kind of special odor on the fries to always make their presence known, even a couple of hours after they were eaten. I’ve come in to get the details on the church-and-state case. Len Haegger sits across from me, the folder on his desk opened and barely visible amid stacks of papers and reports. I see a certificate on the wall with the image of an apple—the logo for the Arkansas Education Association.
“Her name is Grace Wesley,” Len says, reading from the file. “Twenty-eight years old. Lives with and takes care of her eightysomething grandfather. History teacher at Martin Luther King Jr. High School for the last six years. Voted teacher of the year last year.”
Len’s pudgy face looks up at me with a sort of aha glance. I nod and grin but am not sure exactly what I’m reacting to.
“She was in class talking about Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr. and then casually slipped in a Bible verse and some thoughts on the Christian faith.”
“What sort of thoughts?” I ask.
Len finds another sheet on his desk and hands it to me. “This is the initial text one of the students sent out.”
I look at the photocopied sheet that shows a reproduction of a series of texts going back and forth.
Ms. Wesley just said something like Jesus is the spirit and Gandhi is the method.
Why are you texting in class?
Obviously the return message was coming from a parent.
I’m just saying, is this class or church?
What did she say?
She said something about Jesus saying in the Gospel of Matthew love everybody and be in heaven and shake it off.
Did she really say all that?
Not the Taylor Swift song. But yeah.
“This student sounds really offended,” I say.
“We know the kid—he’s just a goof. But his mom put this nice post on Facebook, and it only took an hour before it began to explode.”
He hands me another printout, this one of a Facebook page. There’s the typical random thought with a lengthy list of comments below it.
Can’t believe my son’s junior history teacher is talking about Jesus and the Gospel of Matthew in her class. #OversteppingBoundaries
“Don’t people realize that Facebook isn’t the proper venue for hashtags?” I ask, trying for comedy.
Len looks at me like I just sang the Danish national anthem. In Danish. I keep scanning the page and read some of the comments.
Was this Ms. Wesley?
Did Zack send this to you?
There’s nothing wrong with talking about Jesus he was a historical figure what’s wrong with that?
Church/State lookitup
I give the page back to Len. “So she got suspended over this?”
“About twenty comments down, there’s one that stands out. Just reads, in all caps, ‘ABSOLUTELY UNACCEPTABLE.’ One of those parents we just love.”
“And what did the teacher say?”
“She admitted everything. Said she gave an answer to a question involving the teachings of Jesus. But said it was within the context of the lesson she was teaching.”
“How long ago did this happen?” I ask.
“A couple of weeks ago. The wheels have been turning since then. The superintendent and the school attorney got involved. The board pushed it to the AEA and it got to me. We tried to work with the parents and the teacher, but neither backed down. So that’s why you’re here.”
“And as always, Len, I’m grateful to be here.”
He laughs. “Yeah. I know you just love slumming it out with big cases like this.”
“No. My partner is the one I’m slumming with.” I’m only half joking.
Len just nods. He’s met the other half of my firm. “So how is Roger doing?”
“He’s the same old Roger.”
“And that’s why I always come back to the same old Tom with cases like this.”
“The teacher has to approve of me representing her,” I remind him.
He scratches the back of his head, endangering what little hair he has left. “Yeah. But come on. Who would say no to Thomas Endler, attorney-at-law?”
“You’re starting to sound like my father.”
“Oh, come on. Listen—so when can we schedule a time for you to meet with Ms. Wesley?”
“Well, I can’t meet tonight for dinner,” I tell him.
“Big date?”
I look at him and let out a sigh. “Actually, yes, though I’m not sure if I’d call it ‘big.’”
“Do you want to send me a report after the fact?” he says with another laugh
.
“Yes. You will be the first one I think of when the date is over.”
“I’ll find some times she’s available. Here’s the thing, though, Tom. This might make some news. Do you mind being in the center of a potential media circus?” His expression has changed into the serious kind.
I give him a casual, it’s-all-good shrug. “I’m good at giving colorful sound bites that sound intelligent but don’t really mean anything when you analyze them.”
He lets out another laugh. I think Len likes me because I’m always good for a few chuckles.
“Do you do that with me?” he asks.
“With you? Come on. When someone sets the standard as high as you do, there’s no justifiable rationale in attempting to even try anymore.”
It takes him a moment to think about this nice piece of nonsense; then he shakes his head. “You gonna use that material on your date tonight?”
“Hopefully I won’t have to.”
5
$28,439.32
Amy looks at the medical statement she just opened and feels a bit numb. This is the total after receiving the financial aid she requested.
I wonder where the thirty-two cents comes from.
She slips the statement into a stack of bills that she keeps in a red folder marked Medical. Amy wonders if maybe she should have chosen another color. Sky blue, perhaps. Or pink. Something a little more peaceful and hopeful. Not bloodred.
Amy doesn’t have the time or the energy to sort through this bundle of statements and invoices and records. She knew from the beginning that insurance would only cover some of the costs, including just a portion of those ridiculous charges for the chemo. She was the one to give them the okay to pursue a more aggressive treatment. This, of course, had also meant more expensive.
That was back when she assumed Marc would come back around and be there. When she assumed life would keep giving her things on silver platters as it always had. She didn’t know her luck would finally run out.
But I’m still alive, right?
Maybe she’s fortunate, or maybe she’s simply lucky. Amy isn’t sure. She just knows about all the prayers she offered to God while battling triple negative invasive ductal carcinoma. This is what she always told people she had since the two-worded “breast cancer” seemed to be so commonplace that it had lost its meaning. God might have saved her life, but there had still been so many decisions she carried around with her. Like deciding to get a lumpectomy rather than a mastectomy.
What did God think about that?
Amy knows what a majority of the general public thinks. Most of the commenters on her blog told her it was the wrong decision, some citing medical percentages as a rationale while others became downright hateful about it, saying it was simply a vanity thing. She knows dealing with the trolls out there is part of the price she has to pay for having a popular blog, but some of those comments still completely floor her.
As she opens the fridge to see what she can find for dinner, Amy decides she has more of a desire to write than to eat. Her first blog was called The New Left, and it exploded in popularity after her series of posts lambasting the Robertson family of Duck Dynasty fame. The Phil Robertson interview in GQ that made national headlines a couple of years ago was all too easy to go off on. Amy and The New Left suddenly became a hot blog that people were sharing and talking about and even quoting.
The lid of the microwavable dish is hard to open. When she finally succeeds, Amy wishes it had remained closed. A nice lump of mold covers the spaghetti sauce. She empties it into the sink and turns on the disposal. The rumble reminds her of what she did to her old blog and all the posts on it.
They’re gone. All of them. She didn’t archive them or anything. Maybe she could find someone who could retrieve them somehow, but Amy knows she never will. Despite some really great writing, the articles all shared one glaring problem: they were mean. Some were downright vicious. Like one of the first posts about Willie and Korie Robertson, the husband-and-wife team who were and still are among the most popular people on the show.
“The Idiot and His Trophy.”
Thinking about that title and the words that followed it still makes Amy cringe. It was too easy—lazy, in fact—to think of Willie as some dumb redneck with a big beard and a small brain. Or to think of his beautiful wife as nothing more than arm candy who never thought or acted for herself. After interviewing them as they entered church, it took her hardly any effort at all to write a thousand hateful words about them.
That wasn’t an interview; it was an ambush.
Willie’s last words that day were “You’re welcome to join us.”
Amy smiled and nodded and told them she was good. She believed it too. But she didn’t know how not-so-good she really was. Eventually, many months later, she ended up communicating with the Robertsons through Twitter. And she finally did take Willie up on his offer.
She didn’t just join them at some church they were visiting and speaking at. She went down to West Monroe and attended their church. It was there that Amy met the whole Robertson clan, including Phil Robertson himself. She didn’t know if the family members all knew who she was. A part of her went down to Louisiana wondering if some publicist had sent all of them an e-mail saying, This is the blogger who ripped your family to shreds and especially mocked Phil, so be careful around her. But any thoughts of this evaporated a few moments after she was picked up at the airport by Korie. It turned out the Robertsons were real folks who just happened to be put in the spotlight with a fun-loving television show. They were also incredible businessmen and businesswomen.
Amy left West Monroe not just wearing a Duck Commander T-shirt with pride, but also a complete and bona fide fangirl. Korie Robertson was and still is her new hero. The woman’s combination of business sense and class—paired with her faith and her responsibilities as a wife and mother—are nothing short of remarkable.
If I could be half of who Korie is, I’d be pretty awesome.
The trip to West Monroe cemented the journey she was already on, starting with confronting cancer and losing Marc and then finding Jesus at a Newsboys concert. When she got back to Hope Springs, Amy deleted her blog and all its contents. The last link to that cynical soul she used to be was gone.
The New Left no longer exists. In its place, Amy founded Press Pink, a site dedicated to her battle with breast cancer. It started out strong, but she hasn’t posted anything for a couple of weeks. And now she feels something growing inside of her, something unsettling that resembles what she found in the microwave dish.
Start a new one.
It would only take about five minutes to set up a new blog. Get a WordPress theme and get the hosting all in place and start writing.
Amy has no desire to gain new followers or increase web traffic. She just wants to try to figure out these feelings inside of her. The restless waves of doubt that keep nagging at her soul.
There’s one thing she’s always done when the emotions of her everyday start to interfere with her tomorrows.
Write.
The anger and condescension at the hypocrisy of Christians and their faith prompted The New Left. The fear—and discovery of hope—while journeying through triple negative invasive ductal carcinoma gave birth to Press Pink.
And now?
Amy grabs a can of Pringles chips and heads back to her family room, toward the couch and the stack of five books on the table next to it. She wonders if anyone has ever created a blog titled with only a big, fat question mark. The ? Blog. With a post a day about every question that never gets answered.
It can start with wondering why I’m still here alone after all this time.
She turns on the TV. The words of others will have to fill the silence. But Amy knows they won’t fill that void inside her.
Maybe some people are simply meant to carry empty pockets around with them. Always hoping to fill them but eventually realizing they’re ripped and can’t keep anything inside.
> 6
THE CONFIDENT BRUNETTE walking through the door looks at me, then looks away and scans the entrance to the restaurant. Her blue shirtdress is cinched around a tiny waist with a belt that matches black heels with straps around her ankles. I try not to gawk but realize she’s even more attractive than the photo my buddy texted me. Quite tall, too, with long legs I admire for one abrupt second.
She’s probably looking for something to admire on you.
There’s nobody else waiting around here, so she heads toward me with a friendly grin. “You must be Tom.”
I think of half a dozen self-deprecating comments but have to hold all of them back. “Yes. Megan. Right?”
I’ve suddenly resorted to caveman conversation with one-word sentences. It doesn’t stop her from shaking my hand in a strangely formal sort of way.
“I just received a text from Shawn telling me to be nice,” Megan tells me.
Shawn is her cousin, a longtime friend of mine. It was his idea to set us up since both of us are single and “would make a perfect match.”
“That’s funny. He just texted me, saying, ‘I hope Megan is nice to you.’”
Her initial expression shows me that she believes my joke, so I grin and shake my head. I’m about to say something else, but the hostess, who looks about sixteen years old, asks us if we’re ready to be seated.
I’ve been on quite a few first dates before, and I’ve even been set up on a few of them, so this isn’t out of the ordinary. A few minutes after sitting down at a small table near the back of the restaurant and ordering our drinks, I am completely at ease with Megan. There’s nothing awkward or forced about this woman. I know she’s five years younger than I am and that her big three-oh is approaching. This was one of the reasons Shawn decided to fix us up.
“She broke up with a guy she thought she was going to marry,” Shawn told me a week ago.
“So I’m going to be the rebound date?”
“No, she already got that one out of the way,” he said. “Now she’s ready for Mr. Right.”
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