Fifteen minutes later, with half of Evelyn’s Espresso full and nobody new coming through the doors, the fashionista approaches Amy’s table.
“How was the brownie?”
“Best brownie I’ve had all year,” Amy says. “Maybe a top ten in my life.”
“Wow. Well, I know they’re homemade. The manager’s wife makes them all from scratch every day.”
“Tell her they’re amazing.”
“Well, I think you’ve earned it,” the girl says. “Chemo is horrible, from what I hear.”
“It was.”
“Can I ask—?”
“Triple negative invasive ductal carcinoma,” Amy answers without needing to hear the full question. “Breast cancer.”
“Sorry.”
The girl sits down in the chair across from her, so Amy shares a little of her story. She’s careful not to complain. She’s fortunate and grateful and always needs to be mindful of that. Plus, the last thing Amy wants to do is scare her with any horror stories.
The longer she talks, the more comfortable she feels around the girl. She would guess she’s probably in college, maybe not even twenty-one yet. Their conversation goes to a natural place—losing your hair after starting chemo.
“Here’s a nice shot of me without any,” Amy says, showing off one of the photos taken at the hospital.
“You’re beautiful,” the girl says.
“Do they pay you for compliments?”
“No, I’m serious. Some people do not look good with bald heads. Sometimes you see an actress get her head shaved and it just looks wrong, you know? But it works for you.”
“I have a very round head,” Amy admits, scrolling through her phone.
She sees a picture of herself with Dr. Stevens. He looks like he always did, carrying a carefree smile around with him. He was the one who initially diagnosed her.
One of the few who were there with me at the very beginning and stuck with me.
Of course, that was his job, but it doesn’t matter to Amy. He was there—that was the important thing.
“This is my doctor.” Amy shows the girl. “Dr. Stevens. The ironic thing about this whole experience is that the man who diagnosed me, cared for me, and believed with his whole heart that I would be cured . . . he died of ALS the week after I went into remission.”
“Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry. What a terrible loss.”
“He was an amazing man,” Amy says.
“Well, he helped get you into remission. And remission is a beautiful word. It means you can start thinking of yourself as a survivor.”
Comforting words from a stranger she just met. More than she ever received from Marc, a man she spent six months with, someone she gave herself to, body and soul.
Someone who had absolutely nothing to give back when the reality of life suddenly popped up.
“I agree. By the way, I’m Amy. What’s your name?”
“Chelsea.”
“I know you have to work, Chelsea. But thank you.”
“Sure,” the girl says with a look that tells her she’s not sure what she’s being thanked for.
I hope you stay this positive.
“Tell your mother about our conversation,” Amy says. “I hope it’ll be encouraging.”
Chelsea bounces back to her station behind the register, and all at once Amy has a familiar feeling, like pressure building inside her that has to be let out. She knows she’s going to write. She has to write.
It takes three minutes to get the page set up and enter the title. Now it’s time to begin another journey that doesn’t consist of miles but words.
Waiting for Godot
A Blog by Amy Ryan
It amazes me how we as human beings think. I’m fascinated by this mysterious thing called faith.
If you’ve been reading my blogs for a while, you’ve seen the sea change that’s happened inside of me. For a while I spent all my time writing and mocking humans and their faith. I’d identify popular targets and then make it a point to find their weaknesses. It was easy making fun of Christian stuff. The hypocrites, the moneymakers, the celebrities. But then—well, you know.
Then I found myself battling for my life. My perspective changed. My new blog suddenly became about that journey. During those moments, I felt like I was willing to hold on to anything, including God. Even though I didn’t really believe in him until that moment, I became convinced that I had felt him my whole life.
But now that the battle is won, now that I’m officially in REMISSION, I suddenly find myself questioning everything. Including his existence. And then I wonder—if God is truly there, then how does he feel about my doubt and questioning?
I remember in college during an English course studying Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot. It was a play where a couple of people are waiting for this person called Godot (pronounced “Gah-doh”). And that’s it in a nutshell. Anybody could embrace and interpret the play for themselves—everyone from Marxists to Christians. Once it started being performed, Beckett became famous. He eventually said this about the story:
“The great success of Waiting for Godot had arisen from a misunderstanding: critic and public alike were busy interpreting in allegorical or symbolic terms a play which strove at all costs to avoid definition.”
We live in a world full of definitions, don’t we? It starts with our name and the family we are a part of. Then it builds from there. Where we live. What we do in life. Who we’re friends with. How we spend our time. What we believe in.
Belief.
It’s strange to find myself in a coffee shop, not quite sure how to define my life and my faith. So, effective immediately, my writing will be posted to this new blog, using Beckett’s play as inspiration. I’ll be sharing my personal investigation into the existence of God. This is my story in search of truth.
I have no idea how this will all turn out. I just hope that I discover something.
Or maybe something will discover me.
10
“SO YOU REALLY WANT to take a case like that?”
I look at Jack Fields and know it’s a legitimate question. I’ve known the guy since our high school days. I’ve seen him become a cop, and he’s seen me become a lawyer. Ever since I came back to Hope Springs, Jack and I have managed to hang out like this every few weeks. He works mostly nights, with long stretches on duty and then a pair of days off at a time. Right now it’s almost eleven at night and there’s quite a big crowd at Sweeney’s Grill.
“It’s not exactly like I can say no,” I tell him. “To the union or to being paid.”
“Don’t they pay you whether you take a case or not?” Jack asks.
“Yes. Technically. I can choose my cases.”
“Plus you said this woman has a choice too, right?”
“Technically, yes, but going with someone else means she’ll have to pay for things out of her own pocket.”
“So you can’t get out of it then?”
I look over at him while he finishes the late dinner he ordered. I’m tired and I’m wondering about the case and I’m curious why my buddy doesn’t want me to take it. “I know it’s not the next O. J. Simpson trial, but it’s still different than the typical stuff I’ve been working on. It’s an actual trial.”
Jack is staring up at the muted television with ESPN showing. “Yeah, I know. But.”
“But what?”
He shrugs. “Just seems so—I don’t know—beneath you.”
I stare at him for a moment, thinking about his comment. His buzz cut looks extra buzzed in the orange glow of the restaurant.
“I’m living in my mom’s house that’s hovering near foreclosure. My grandmother doesn’t know who I even am. My dad still manages to make me feel fifteen again whenever we talk, which is hardly ever. I spend a lot of time handling teacher-union issues. Helping to sort them out before they go to trial. So what kind of criteria are you using for ‘beneath me’?”
“I’m just talking about the su
bject matter. Doesn’t sound like you.”
The whole religious thing. Got it.
I wonder if Jack and I have talked about faith and God even once since we’ve been friends. I don’t think we have. I know where he stands. His rough upbringing that led him to become a cop also led him to dismiss anything to do with faith. It’s clear from the stories he’s shared and the color commentary he’s added when sharing them.
“I think I can help this woman out,” I say.
“Sounds like she needs to maybe quit teaching and start working in a church.”
“Yeah, well.” I pause and think about Grace and our conversation. I also picture myself a few years ago. “It definitely fits this current chapter of my life.”
Jack shifts in his booth and gives me an incredulous glance. “‘Current chapter’? So you saying there’s a book about you? Gotta be pretty short.”
I roll my eyes. We show our love through mockery. “I’m not saying the chapters are all that great, but this still fits,” I say. “It reminds me of my wake-up call.”
“Your what?”
Since I’m already in the oversharing mood, I decide to tell him the story.
“You ever seen the movie The Verdict?” I ask him.
He just shakes his head. “I’m not a big movie guy. Unless it’s blood and guts.”
“It’s an old movie, like early eighties or so. Starring Paul Newman. They told me it was a classic lawyer movie but I never saw it until after the whole mess with the judge.”
“Oh yeah? So, good flick?”
I nod. “Yeah, you can say that. You ever see a movie that sorta wakes you up? To life? That makes you suddenly snort the smelling salts?”
“Yeah. Scarface.”
His lack of seriousness isn’t stopping me from continuing. “I remember watching The Verdict and thinking . . . yeah. There’s a moment when—well, this lawyer, he’s this total mess—and the first time I saw it, I was him. Younger and way different, but still—just this whole mess. He says at one point something profound. Suddenly he’s found himself.”
Jack looks at me. “What’d he say?”
“He says, ‘Maybe I can do something right.’ And the thing is, he does. It’s brilliant. It’s amazing.”
“So you’re defending God, then,” he says as he sips his drink. “Is this you doing something right?”
I shake my head and roll my eyes. “Way to pop a kid’s balloon there.”
“I’m just being honest.”
“Yeah, and I am too. I never said I’m defending God. I never told her that either. You think I’m taking this case for that?”
“I don’t know why you’re taking this case.”
“Do you know how much insanity—how much utter garbage—is happening in our world these days?”
It’s a grenade of a question I’ve just tossed over in his lap. He looks at me with complete disbelief that I even asked that. “I think I see it pretty much on a daily basis. A little more than people like you.”
There’s nothing more irritating to Jack than questioning the ability or the role of a police officer. I respect that. I also know how to get his attention.
“Exactly. Listen—I get it. I know you see that stuff every day. And here’s the thing. Here’s a teacher who is talking about Jesus. And—oh no—she quotes a Bible verse. Horror of horrors. The world is breaking and torched and completely messed up, but God forbid some teacher mentions Jesus.”
“It’s a little more than that.”
“Is it?” I say. “I’m not defending her beliefs. But seriously. Shouldn’t we spend more time on the pedophiles and the terrorists and the people who are doing things we know are wrong?”
“So you’re saying you agree with her?”
“I’m saying that you wouldn’t haul her away for what she did. Right?”
He shrugs. “I have more important things to do.”
“And that’s my point. I mean—come on. You know? Students enter classrooms with guns. So why put a teacher on trial for trying to do her best with those students?”
“Well, it at least keeps bums like you employed,” Jack says with a grin.
“You’d be the worst counselor in the world,” I tell him.
“Not true. I give great counsel. Especially with some of the idiots I lock up.”
“You have such compassion.”
“This is like that stuff that happened at Hadleigh University last year. The student in class refusing to say there’s no God and everybody up in arms about it.”
I vaguely remember that. “That the professor who died?”
“Yeah. The guy finally believes and then he’s struck dead. You think God caused that?”
“This isn’t a debate about God. It’s just a legal issue.” And I’ll keep it at that.
“Oh, just a legal issue, huh? So this is some kind of To Kill a Mockingbird thing with you?” Jack asked.
I’m surprised he even knows about that book and film. “You are so living up to the stereotype of the dumb, meathead cop.”
“No, I’m not.”
“A teacher talked about Jesus. The school didn’t like it and she lost her job. There are rights at stake here. That’s what this is about.”
“So are you gonna become some big Jesus follower now?”
“No,” I say. “But I believe she has the right to talk about him.”
“Rights are blurry these days,” the cop says. “Like a lot of things.”
“That’s why you have people like me. To help find clarity.”
“Yeah, and to overcharge to do it.”
I laugh and acknowledge his point. “In my former life, I certainly did exactly that. But it’s a new day, my friend.”
Jack nods and gives me that amused look that I know is going to be followed by another jab. “Just don’t invite me to Vacation Bible School when you convert.”
With friends like these . . . “Don’t worry.”
The late-night walk home brings companions alongside me. They’re the kind you just can’t ever seem to get rid of. These demons of doubt.
I can’t help wondering if the neediness I feel in these hollow steps creates a desire for something else. Does loneliness reveal a true need for someone to come and fill those hollow places?
I realize I’ve walked down this sidewalk too many times.
I’ve seen these trees hovering over me like judging fingers.
I’ve passed through these intersections as often as I’ve overlooked the crosses on the churches I ignore.
But now it feels like this is a place on a map I didn’t draw. I’m near some kind of destination I didn’t plan to get to. There’s a gathering I didn’t ever think I’d be a part of.
Yet I still go forward.
Grace deserves better.
An objection of the subconscious. How very meta–John Grisham.
She deserves more, just like they all did.
Then I hear the voices that seem not to sound like me at all. They’re in my mind, but they’re not my heart and soul. They’re his.
This figure. This dark noose stuck around my neck and tightening. A judge and jury and executioner distancing himself with holy decrees.
Amazing the amount of angst a father can create within you, isn’t it? I know this. I’m cognizant of this. It’s not like I don’t realize the dysfunction and the absolute decay of any kind of normal parental relationship. But still . . . sometimes the night would look a lot better without these blocks of darkness standing in the way.
Then again, maybe it’s just the reality that I’ve had a little too much and the too-much brings out the too-little stuck inside of him.
I feel restless, like something else needs to happen. Like I can still change or do something—anything.
What would you do, Tom? Tell me. What would you do to get to the absolute truth?
I stand on the curb, hovering just over the road, next to the red signal telling me to stand still, just below the carved-out lantern shed
ding some light over here. I wonder and then I suddenly know.
I know what I would do.
This makes me think of Grace. She seems to fit her name. She seems to be a nice contrast to the things I hide deep inside.
I know what I need to do.
I breathe in and scan around the block and then look up at the night sky I can just see between the trees.
There’s a chance to get past this season. There’s a chance to wait and see some rays of light shining through.
Maybe this case—maybe Grace—can be it.
11
IT TAKES AMY about five minutes to feel the weight of the world pulling on Brooke Thawley. Something tells her that it’s not simply the situation at school that Brooke’s a part of. There has to be more to the story.
“So you’re a junior, right?”
The girl nods as she works on a fry. They’re sitting in McDonald’s with the meals Amy bought in front of them, but neither of them seems particularly hungry.
“Do you enjoy school?”
“Not these days,” Brooke says.
“You’re on the cheerleading team with Marlene, right?”
Another nod. “Yep. And captain of the debate team. And honor student. And homecoming queen.”
She lists these like items on a felony rap sheet.
“Busy girl,” Amy says.
“Yep. That’s me.”
This is the sort of girl Amy used to secretly hate in high school. A girl who seems to have it all. The long, dark hair and the pretty smile and the flawless skin and the smarts and a little bit of just about everything.
Looks are always deceiving.
It’s nice for Brooke not to be wearing any kind of persona in front of her.
“Did you like Ms. Wesley before all this?”
“Yeah,” Brooke says. “Everybody loves her. She actually knows how to make her classes fun. And she was helping me through some issues.”
Amy waits to say anything. Brooke eventually continues.
“My older brother just passed away a couple of months ago. He was—Carter was at college and got into a horrible accident while driving. It was—devastating, to put it mildly. My parents—well, it just seems like Ms. Wesley has more compassion toward me than others.”
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