He reached the top, panting, hands on his knees. Then he straightened and, digging his fingernails into his raw palms, bellowed until he emptied his lungs of air. The sun, a compact red disc teetering on the horizon, quivered with his cry. The clouds rippled gray and pink and silver above him, choppy like the sea in Boston Harbor on that windswept day, when his parents took him to see the USS Constitution and made him walk the Freedom Trail in the rain. Too much sky. Enough to drown in.
He sat and waited in the gloaming, still able to see the skeletons of the buttes in the distance, confessing the glory of creation. He bit the side of his tongue to keep from shouting his confession.
He hated God.
This was beyond a dark night of the soul, beyond doubt and feeling disconnected. How did I get here?
After Stephen died, Ben had woken up in Germany, and then the U.S. government shipped him back to the good ol’ States, where he spent two months rehabilitating at Walter Reed, learning how to walk without toes. He kept his Bible in the drawer beside his bed, but didn’t open it. Couldn’t. He didn’t want to read the promises, refused to feel Christ’s love for him. He was mad at God, and himself— for forsaking Stephen. “Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.”
Yeah, right. He had cowered behind the Humvee and thought only of his own skin. He owed God more than that. So he pushed Him away, pushed and pushed until it was no wonder he couldn’t find his way back to Him.
Benjamin had heard the stories of the persecuted church, and of ordinary people, how the trials they faced drew them to the Lord. His struggles tore him away, and it was because he’d always had a comfortable, easy journey. Nothing had prepared him for the upheaval that true pain could wreak on the soul. His faith had no calluses.
The moon emerged from the cloud cover, a bright, thin crescent, and behind that the remainder of the moon glowed ashen in the earth’s reflected light. Earthshine. Some people called it the old moon in the new moon’s arms. He saw his own arms, around Silvia.
He woke up, cold under his jacket, stiff in the back seat of the Durango, his good black pants torn at the knee and dusty. Sitting up, he groaned, flipped into the front and started the engine. Cranked on the heat.
He had spent the night in a motel parking lot, could have rented a room but had no desire to be comfortable. The corners of his lips split when he yawned. He wiped them with his thumb, drove to the closest convenience store and bought two coffees. Made it about eight miles outside Temple when he noticed flashing lights in his rearview mirror. He eased onto the shoulder, opened his window. Wesley ambled over to the passenger side, let himself in. “I called the house looking for you.”
“What did Abbi tell you?”
“Nothing. She didn’t answer. Someone else did, told me you weren’t home. What you doing here, Ben?”
“Driving.”
“You should be with your wife.”
Benjamin sipped his coffee, scalding his tongue. He turned the key back toward him so he could put the window up. “I’m heading there.”
“Were you?”
“Yes.”
“Why weren’t you with her when she needed you?”
“She doesn’t need me.”
“She’s hurting as much as you are. Probably more. Her baby gone. Her husband gone, too.”
“Silvia wasn’t her baby,” Benjamin mumbled.
“I’m guessing biology doesn’t matter. Seems you already got that one figured out on your own, though.”
“Get out.”
Wesley nudged the door open, a shrill buzzer echoing in the truck. “Go home to your wife.”
Chapter THIRTY-SIX
After Benjamin left her, just drove away and left her, Abbi leaned against the fat, white molding in the doorway between the living room and kitchen, and slid down the slick wood to the floor. She stayed there, listening. There was nothing to hear.
She’d spent the past four months worrying about Silvia—was she crying, hungry, wet, tired, needing to be cuddled?—having her hanging on her body, on her mind. Abbi felt naked. All this time she’d been hiding behind the baby, too. Such a big responsibility for an itty-bitty babe. How sick is that? Save Benjamin. Save me. No wonder you took her. . . .
Abbi crawled from the floor to the couch, her head pushed up against one arm, her toes skimming the other. The drawstring at her waist felt suddenly tight. She shifted, but it still cut into her skin. The knot opened as she pulled one side of the ribbon, and she stretched the skirt as wide as possible, looking down at her stomach. She knew each roll and lump on her body, and even though Benjamin refused to keep a scale in the house, she could tell the difference between 150 pounds and 170. She was at the high end now. Not enough exercise, not enough laxatives. Too much attention to Silvia and not enough to herself.
“You dumb, fat slob.”
She went to the kitchen and downed two bowls of granola and soy milk, then the crumbs at the bottom of the box. She couldn’t handle open boxes, nearly empty containers. They pestered her, and she was unable to get them out of her mind, there, in the cupboards or freezer, waiting for her to finish them. Then she ate a bag of flax chips, four slices of toast with coconut oil and sea salt, the remainder of the baby carrots, and an avocado. In the bathroom she pulled her skirt low on the hips, hauled up her shirt and twisted it into her bra, her stomach hard with food. She stood sideways in front of the mirror and hated herself, the bulge in her middle. Her jeans, she needed to try them on. She wriggled into the size tens; they wouldn’t zip. She peeled them off, kicked them off her foot and onto the bed, and tried on the twelves. They were tight, too tight. When did she try them on last? She couldn’t remember. A month. More than that. A few weeks after Silvia showed up.
She searched all her hiding places—her winter boots, the underside of the nightstand drawer, the hidden pocket of her rarely used camping backpack. There were no pills in the house. She grabbed her car keys and drove to the Food Mart, ignored the Hellos and the Are you doing okay?s and headed to the pharmacy aisle. She knew where they were—first the pain relievers, then the cold remedies, then the antacids and laxatives. She picked up a bottle of natural senna, squeezed it in her hand; it fit there, round and smooth and cool. But she tucked it back in line. Needing more than that today, she plucked a box of Fleet off the shelf. One hundred tablets. She read the ingredients. Bisacodyl 5 mg. Some horrid, gut-burning chemical. She paid for them and ripped them open before she was out of the store, tossing the empty box in the garbage can outside.
In her car, she pushed the tiny orange dots through the foil backing, one after another until she’d emptied one plastic square. She sucked all twenty-five pills from the palm of her hand; they stuck to her tongue, sweet, like candy. She poked out another twenty-five and swallowed those, too. Then she drove home, dropped the empty laxative packaging out the window, stuck the full ones in the elastic of her waistband. She felt the little bumps against her skin. They calmed her. She knew she could eat another fifty pills’ worth of food before having to go back to the store. How much was that? In college, before she met Benjamin, she had taken eight senna tablets a day, whether she needed them or not. If she ran out, she could think of nothing but getting to the pharmacy and buying more, the empty bottle haunting her, each forkful of food an adversary she could feel adhering to her fat cells.
Abbi drove past the red car on the shoulder in front of her house as she pulled into the driveway, the sporty kind, low to the ground and feisty. A reporter, she thought. But, no. Lauren appeared.
“Hi,” she said, not moving toward her.
“Nice car.”
“I borrowed it. Mine’s in the shop.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I heard. On the news.”
“You came for me?”
“Yeah.”
They made their way to the kitchen. Lauren filled the teakettle with water and cranked the burner to high. “Where’s Ben?” she asked.
&n
bsp; “He ran away. Like always.”
The kettle’s wet bottom sizzled as the stove heated, and Abbi reached atop the refrigerator for a box of tea, standing on tiptoe. Her skirt shifted and the Fleet packages rattled down her leg. Lauren picked them up, fanned them in her fingers like a couple of aces.
“I couldn’t help it,” Abbi said.
“Com’ere,” Lauren said, pulling her close. Abbi started to cry, trembling a little, sniffling.
The kettle screeched, and Abbi moved out of Lauren’s embrace to move it off the burner. She took out her stoneware teapot, the one she’d made—the one Benjamin, soon after returning from Afghanistan, dropped and broke the spout off and then tried to glue back on without her knowing. She knew, but never said anything. He had held his breath each time she used it, always offering to wash it for her so she wouldn’t find the crack in the glaze, until finally she decided not to take it out unless he wasn’t home.
There had been times she had screamed at him for chipping other bowls and cups and platters she’d made, literally gone into rages about him not caring about things that were pieces of her. But that was before he’d left for Afghanistan, when pottery seemed important. How could he know she didn’t give a flying flip about some cooked clay with a bit of paint spattered over it now? She wanted him whole.
She wanted him home.
She steeped some lime-ginger rooibos in the pot and poured a cup for Lauren, one for herself. They sat, first at the table, then in the living room when the chairs grew hard and the tea cold. And when Abbi stretched out on the couch, Lauren cleaned the kitchen and left her be. She loved that about Lauren. She didn’t force things; she wasn’t afraid of the silences.
The cramps woke her. Subtle at first, slithery through her intestines, with a sort of gassy nausea in her middle. She wormed upright, pulled her knees into her chest and burped out some air. Groaned softly.
“How many?” Lauren asked. She was watching a movie on her notebook computer.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Can I do anything?”
Abbi shook her head, groaned again, in disgust this time. “I’m so stupid.”
And then the cramps came hard and fast, a jackhammer, and her whole body tensed in the wave of pain. She held her breath, squeezing the edge of the couch cushion with one hand. She tried to get to the bathroom before the cramping came again, but she was too slow; she squatted in the hallway, panting as the pain subsided, and crawled to the toilet.
The diarrhea poured out of her, like water. She wet a washcloth and cleaned herself, but feeling the familiar spasms in her gut, sat back down on the toilet.
She stayed in the bathroom, sitting on the floor between bouts, wedged in the corner where the wall and tub met. Lauren gave her a pillow, a blanket; she waited outside the door, reading to her— Psalms and Lamentations—washed the soiled towels and brought her clean ones. Finally, when the pangs produced only dry pressure, she stumbled across the hall to bed, changed her clothes. “Don’t leave,” she said.
“I won’t. Just let me call my parents and let them know.” She did, and then flopped on her back on Abbi’s side of the bed. Abbi balled up on Benjamin’s side, near the empty bassinet, in his smell, sporty and sour and thick. Her shirt rose, exposing a half-moon of flesh above the elastic waistband of her flannel pants, and she shivered from the air and pills.
She woke to the smell of meat. The bed was empty beside her, but she heard whistling from the kitchen, the beep beep beep of the microwave. She wound the extra blanket around her from ribs to ankles and followed the flesh-filled smoke down the hall.
“Carnivore,” she said.
“I’m surprised you keep bacon in the house,” Lauren said. “All those poor little piggies.”
“Ben buys it.”
“Want something else? I’m cooking.”
“I can’t. It will go right through me.” And she tugged the belt loop of Lauren’s jeans. “Thank you. For staying.”
“Abbi, this is the church. We’re called to bear each other’s burdens. Where else would I be but here?” Lauren flipped the bacon. “Mom’s dropping off the kids here. She has an appointment, and I didn’t want to leave you. I wasn’t sure how long you’d sleep.”
“You don’t have to stay now. I’m okay.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m going in the shower. I probably stink.” Abbi hiked the blanket a bit higher. “Lauren, how did you get over being angry with God?”
Her friend plunged her hands into her pockets, leaned back against the counter and sighed. “God. He did it. Not me. I probably could have stayed ticked off forever. But He didn’t leave me there. If you step out and trust Him, He’ll do the same. He’ll show you that you don’t need anything else but Him.”
“I do trust Him.”
“This coming from the woman who eats Ex-Lax like candy.”
Lauren’s words devoured her, forcing her faith down the throat, through the stomach and intestines, coating it with half-digested excuses and gooey truth. She couldn’t remember a time when she’d gone to God first. It was always the refrigerator, the laxatives, the road.
And then, after she had purged and exercised herself dry, she went to Him, insides empty, head clear, dust and sweat washed away.
Oh, she prayed while she ran, but she wasn’t running to pray. She ran to fit into her size tens; the prayer was incidental, something to boost her spiritual ego. Yes, I prayed today for an hour. And I read my Bible, fasted on Sunday, and didn’t kill a single animal, contribute to global warming, or support a Chinese sweatshop this week. Go me.
She locked the door and twisted on the water, unwrapped herself. Then she kneeled on the blanket and, forehead against the floor, begged forgiveness, laying her idols before the Lord. She thought of the men who prophesied in Jesus’ name, who healed the sick and cast out demons, the ones He told to depart from Him.
“Oh, please, please. Don’t say you never knew me.”
The shower ran cold by the time she stepped in. She washed gently, raw from the night before, and dried off, wrapping the blanket back around her to go into the bedroom and dress. A knock at the door. She peeked out the crack, and Lauren said, “There’s a woman here to see you. She said she’s your neighbor and she has pie.”
Janet. “Don’t let her in.”
“I already did.”
“Fine, okay. Just tell her . . . I’ll be there in a minute.”
When she returned to the kitchen, Lauren and Janet each sat with an untouched piece of pie in front of them.
“I don’t know if you’d feel like eating or not, but when I don’t know what else to do, cook, remember? Want some?”
“Ah, not really. Not right now.”
“No eggs. No butter, no milk. Nothing you don’t eat.”
“I appreciate it, but my stomach isn’t up for it.”
Another knock on the door. Lauren jumped up, banging her thigh on the table, tripping over the chair leg. Katie dashed in and wrapped her arms around Abbi’s pelvis, her head ramming her sensitive stomach. “Oh, pie. Can I have some?”
“Abbi?” Lauren held Stevie, who grabbed for the table lamp, and cried when his mother moved out of reach.
“Go. Go. The kids don’t need to be cooped up here.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, it’s fine.”
“Okay, then. You call if you need anything. I mean it.”
“I will,” Abbi said, bumping her cheek against Lauren’s, her lips smacking at the air.
She wiped the crumbs from the table to keep her hands busy; then she took the broom from the pantry and swept them into a pile. The cat sniffed at the mound, walked through it, tracking dust and crust morsels back across the floor. Abbi didn’t bother sweeping again. She leaned the broom handle against the counter, and as soon as she stepped away, it slid and bounced off the stainless steel trash-can lid, echoing like a drum. She jerked at the sound even though she’d watched the broom fall. “I’
m sorry. I’m really not up for company today.”
“This is the day you need it most,” Janet said, sliding a tract across the table to her, dark blue with a lighter blue tear in the center, and white script asking, Why Did This Happen to Me? “Jesus sees. Turn to Him.”
“Janet, don’t do this now.”
“I know it hurts. I know you don’t understand the big picture. But He does. And even in this time of hurt He deserves to be praised. ‘The Lord gave, the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.’ That’s what His holy Word says.”
“Does it now?” Abbi snatched the dishrag from the sink and squeezed. “I must have missed that part, given that I’m only one of those ‘God is love’ people. But that’s okay. That’s fine. You’re here to help me see the error of my ways. And while you’re at it, why don’t you tell me how you felt when your child was ripped from your arms. Oh, that’s right. You don’t have any kids. You praise God for that lately?”
Good one, Abbi. Thirty minutes ago you were prostrate before the Lord, begging forgiveness. Now look at you. Yeah, you meant what you said.
Janet stood, slowly, a stunned flatness glazing her eyes. “I . . . I’m just going to go. You can return the pie pan wh-when you’re finished with it.”
She went, and Abbi took the pan and a fork, stomped down on the waste can’s foot pedal, and scraped every last bit of pie into the trash.
Chapter THIRTY-SEVEN
Breakfast tasted better when he didn’t have to make it, Matthew decided, the fat, soggy waffles drowned in syrup and margarine on his plate. He cut them on the grid lines, dividing each one into nine even squares. Mrs. Larsen added batter to her cast-iron waffle maker, dropped the lid, and put it on the burner. “There’s more coming,” she said.
Watch Over Me Page 25
