Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK

by Betsy St. Amant

  Her words slid like a balm over my worries, smoothing the bristles that had sprung to life the moment my dad announced their engagement. Feeling generous, I squeezed her hand. “We’ll make sure you find your own place here.”

  She smiled, her eyes softening. “I’d like that.”

  Silence stretched between us, filling with a different, yet slightly more comfortable level of awkwardness. I tugged my hand free and gestured to our surroundings. “I know you said you won’t take over, but feel free to redecorate at will. This place could use it.”

  Ms. Hawthorne laughed, a soft, cheery sound that warmed me inside and made me think of vanilla candles and lavender laundry detergent and four-course Thanksgiving dinners—all the good parts of having a new mom figure around. Maybe this could work.

  Marta returned then with the fondant, and Dad joined us a few moments later from his office. For the next hour, we all decorated turkeys and had an icing war like we were little kids. Dad’s usual stress over working from home evaporated every time he grinned at Ms. Hawthorne. While I had to admit I still possessed a tiny spark of jealousy over their closeness and my lack thereof with him, I couldn’t help but be glad Dad was finally happy—finally himself. If my actions lately had brought him embarrassment and grief, then at least Ms. Hawthorne was around to bring his smile back.

  I tilted my head to one side, studying the blue icing on her nose and the feather Dad had stuck on her cheek that she still hadn’t noticed, and something small shifted inside me.

  Kathy it was.

  A few hours later, Marta and I managed to escape the turkey palooza and left to grab coffee and window-shop. The few bucks I had in my pocket were mocha designated, but Marta was hoping to snag a few items of clothing that her host mom hadn’t picked out for her.

  “I want to try that on.” Marta pointed to a fitted cargo-style jacket in the window of Gigi’s, a boutique a block down from Got Beans. “Oh! And those jeans, too. Come on.” She dragged me inside, and I stood by her closed dressing-room door drinking my coffee as she changed.

  “Ms. Hawthorne is really nice.” Marta’s muffled voice sounded over the partition. “Are you feeling better about the engagement?”

  I shrugged before remembering Marta couldn’t see me. “Alittle. I want my dad to be happy.” I ran my fingers down the plaid scarf hanging on a nearby mannequin. “Just kinda stinks that I make him worse.”

  Marta cracked her door open and frowned at me. “Are you still worried about that lady at your church? I told you to ignore her. That was just rude.” She shut the door with a pointed click.

  “Rude, yes. But what if she’s right?” I let go of the scarf and took a sip of mocha, unable to get Mrs. Vanderford’s condescending tone out of my head. I’d even avoided church Sunday night because of her, not able to deal with any more comments with my emotional armor still so severely dented. “What if Dad is embarrassed? What if this new faith stuff is just making everything worse?”

  “That is ridiculous.” Marta swung her door wide and struck a pose. “What do you think?”

  The cargo jacket in army green fit perfectly around her narrow torso and came nearly to the pocket of the designer jeans. “Cute. But no rhinestones?”

  She stuck her tongue out at me. “I’m getting both.” She shut the door again. “Listen, Addison.” The jacket flopped over the top of the door, and I set my coffee on the ground before taking it and the hanger she passed me. “You’ve been in church long enough to know commitments are never easy. You already figured that out concerning Wes. Don’t give up now. Just talk to your dad.”

  Wes. Just hearing his name felt like a sucker punch to my stomach. I slid the jacket onto the hanger, my hands shaking. “I’m not giving up. This is the right choice for me.” I hung the jacket on the hook outside the dressing-room door. “I just hate this feeling.” Uncertainty. Confusion. Overall blah. It’s not like I expected sunshine and roses after nailing down my faith, but I had to admit, I didn’t expect this many problems so soon.

  “Then I repeat.” Marta stepped outside wearing her own clothes, her purse slung over her shoulder. “Talk to him. I bet this is just in your head—and Mrs. Vanderford’s.”

  “I’m surprised there’s room for anything in her head under all that hair.”

  “Addison.” Marta snorted back a laugh and tried to give me a disapproving look as I grabbed my coffee and we headed to the counter to pay.

  “Sorry.” Insulting church members probably wasn’t what a new-old Christian should do. But I couldn’t just drop the negativity she’d shot my way. It embedded in my skin, filling my heart and my mind with its poison. Marta was right. I had to talk to my dad to be free of it.

  But what if he agreed with the old bag—I mean, Mrs. Vanderford? Sorry, Lord. I’m trying. I promise.

  “I’ll talk to him after Thanksgiving.” I picked up the quarter Marta dropped from her coin purse and handed it to the clerk behind the counter.

  “That’s three days away.” Marta shot me a look as she slipped her receipt into her bag. “Try again.”

  “Fine. Wednesday.”

  She shook her head. “Today.”

  “He’s all moony over Ms. Hawthorne today.” I sighed as Marta thanked the cashier and we headed outside. “I don’t want to ruin their Thanksgiving fun.”

  Marta clucked. “Rooster.”

  “I think you mean chicken. And that’s not going to work.” We stepped outside, and the brisk wind cooled the frustration heating my cheeks. “Okay, tomorrow. I promise.”

  Marta opened her mouth, probably to argue, but before she could get a word out, we rounded the corner, and I bumped into someone, nearly dropping my half-empty mocha.

  “Claire!” I steadied my cup then braced myself for the lecture on watching where I was going—or worse yet, a reminder of the tray incident in the cafeteria last month.

  “Sorry.” Claire tucked the purse that had fallen off her arm back onto her shoulder and offered me a tentative smile. “I was heading to Gigi’s. Heard they have a sale going on.”

  “We just came from there.” Marta held up her bag, as if her statement needed proof.

  Claire nodded; then we all looked at each other for a long, awkward moment.

  “Well, have fun.” I started to edge around my ex–best friend. Short and sweet would be best before Claire’s unexpected Dr. Nice morphed into Ms. Snotty.

  “Wait. I’m glad I ran into you.” Claire hesitated then laughed. “Though I have to admit, I didn’t plan on literally.”

  I offered a quick pity-chuckle, hoping her moment of niceness wasn’t about to dissipate in the cold afternoon air.

  Claire’s smile sobered. “I wanted to say thank you for helping me during the talent show. And for being there even though I was awful to you—about Ms. Hawthorne and everything.” She coughed, almost as if she wanted to say more but couldn’t make herself. I could understand. Truly shocking she squeezed that much out.

  “No problem.” I wanted to say that was what friends were for, but since we weren’t exactly BFFs anymore, it seemed like a lie. So I didn’t.

  “I wanted you to know I’m getting help. My mom is shipping me off to a rehab for bulimics.” Claire twirled a portion of her hair around her finger, and for the first time I realized how ashy her complexion seemed compared to her usual healthy tan. Dark circles lined her eyes, unmasked even under the layer of makeup she’d caked on. “After I nearly fainted that night before the performance, I realized my—uh, health issue—was worse than I thought. I thought I could stop before it got serious.” Regret filled her eyes, and my heart twisted in sympathy. Friends or not, she had a problem. I couldn’t help but feel compassion.

  “It’s mostly thanks to you. If you hadn’t caught me all those times …” Claire’s voice trailed off, and she straightened her shoulders. “Anyway, Mom agrees with the whole rehab thing, of course. She was crying and grounding me all at the same time when I finally confessed.”

  “That’s really
good, Claire. I mean, not the grounding part, but you know.” My words sounded so trite, but I didn’t know what else to say. Told you so? You’re stupid for wanting to hurt yourself to impress a boy or wear a smaller size? That wouldn’t be helpful. At least she had realized the truth now. “I hope the rehab helps.”

  “Me, too.” Claire crossed her arms over her baggy shirt and looked away before finally meeting my eyes again. “I won’t be at school next semester. I’m going away after the holidays and hopefully will be back for the summer. Maybe sooner.”

  I nodded, my tongue feeling suddenly useless in my mouth. Did she expect us to say we’d miss her? I did miss the old Claire. The one I grew up with that used to share popcorn and secrets with me while watching Saved by the Bell reruns on Saturday mornings. Maybe rehab would bring back a hint of the old Claire. It seemed too much to hope for, but stranger things had happened.

  “We wish you the best.” Marta finally spoke up, breaking the silence filling the street corner between us. “And we’ll pray for you.” She nudged my arm, and I nodded.

  “Definitely.” I meant it—especially now that I believed my prayers actually penetrated my bedroom ceiling.

  “Thanks. I just don’t know if God would help someone who did something so stupid to themselves.” She rolled in her bottom lip. “The sad part is, I still think I’d do it again.”

  “He’ll help you if you truly want to be helped. Trust me, I know.” I offered Claire a small smile. “But let rehab hash the rest out with you. You just focus on getting well, okay?” Despite the weird factor, I leaned over and gave Claire a hug, for old time’s sake. She hugged me back, and I couldn’t help but notice how bony her shoulder blades were beneath her shirt. “E-mail or text me updates, if they let you.”

  “Thanks, Addison. And thanks to you, too.” Claire nodded at Marta then offered a wobbly smile. “I’ll see you guys.”

  I waited until she was out of earshot inside Gigi’s before I spoke. “That was sort of like a miracle.”

  “God still does those, you know.” Marta elbowed me, her shopping bag bouncing off my hip. “And He can do another for you and your dad.”

  “That’s probably what it will have to come to.” We looked both ways before crossing the street to the next block. As we headed toward the next store, I looked back toward Gigi’s. I really hoped Claire would get better. Even if we were never friends again, I wanted her to be okay.

  And even if my dad wished he had a stronger Christian for a daughter, I wanted us to be okay, too.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Dad’s office door had never looked so big—or so brown.

  I studied the nameplate on the door that read PASTOR’S OFFICE in chipped gold letters and wondered why the church had never sprung for engraving his actual name. Did they not expect him to stay as long as he had? Sometimes I wondered why he did, especially with people like Mrs. Vanderford lurking about with their peppermints and harsh words. But that was Dad—generous to a fault. He truly believed praying for people like that made them better, or at least made him stronger.

  I had to admit, I had a long way to go before reaching that level of compassion.

  Taking a deep breath, I reached for the doorknob then slowly lowered my hand as voices sounded through the door. One of them wasn’t my father’s.

  I stepped back, knowing better than to eavesdrop, and waited while leaning against the wall. I hadn’t told Dad I was coming, and since his secretary was off this week, he had no way of knowing I was in the foyer. I contemplated just going home and waiting to talk to Dad when he came home for dinner later. Or even waiting until after dinner. Or maybe right before bedtime.

  Technically, I had until 12:01 a.m. before I broke my promise to Marta, and with nerves clenching my stomach and Mrs. Vanderford’s voice bruising my mind, waiting sounded better and better.

  I made it exactly four steps outside the carpeted foyer when Dad’s door swung open and the source of voice #2 emerged.

  Mr. Keegan.

  Oh man. What if he thought I’d been listening in? As he exited, letting the door shut behind him, he kept his eyes trained on the ground. I had about four seconds before he saw me. I looked around. Maybe I could hide. Three. Umbrella stand or coatrack? Two. My heart stammered.

  One.

  Mr. Keegan looked up, catching my gaze. “Addison.” He didn’t sound very surprised to see me, just tired—and stressed. Wrinkles lined his eyebrows, and I swear his hair seemed grayer than it had in weeks past.

  I offered a shaky smile. “Hi. I was just, you know—coming to see my dad.”

  He nodded, making no move to walk past me. Just stood, arms limp, shoulders low. He held a legal pad under one arm, like he’d been taking notes.

  I have no clue why I felt the urge to keep talking. “Not for counseling or anything, you know. Just regular church business. I mean, not church, but personal. Like, father-daughter stuff.” I snapped my mouth shut, wishing I could dive inside the umbrella stand after all.

  “Addison, I owe you an apology.” Mr. Keegan ignored my waterfall of words and gestured to the two armchairs in front of the secretary’s vacant desk. He sat down heavily, as if the world weighted upon his shoulders. “Do you mind?”

  I perched on the edge of the farthest chair, my mouth dry.

  Suddenly I wished I’d heeded my instincts to go home. What in the world did Mr. Keegan have to say to me? And what in the world would I say back? His life was none of my business, especially now that Wes and I were over before we’d even truly begun.

  Still, the haunted look in his eyes reminded me of the one in Wes’s, and my anxiety lessened. I took a deep breath. “What’s up?”

  “Wes told me you overheard us that day in the hardware store.” Mr. Keegan placed his notepad in his lap, and I glimpsed several Bible verse references scrawled across the pages. “I’ve lived a lie for so long, being one person inside the church and another at home. One parent inside the church, and another at home.” He shook his head. “I can’t keep it up any longer.”

  I shifted in my chair, unsure what to say. The heater clicked on, and a rush of air warmed the room, filling the uncomfortable quiet.

  “I have a drinking problem. Wes knows that, and I’ve denied it. But it’s true.” Mr. Keegan looked at his lap then at me. “It started when his mother left, at first just a way to ease the pain of the divorce. But then I ran out of excuses and kept drinking anyway.”

  Whoa, awkward. I straightened in my chair. “Mr. Keegan, you really don’t have to—”

  He held up both hands. “What I’m trying to say, Addison, is that I’ve always admired you—the way you carry yourself and represent your father and this church.” Mr. Keegan shrugged. “When you made the announcement you did last Sunday about your faith, something clicked. I knew I couldn’t keep this up. If you could make such a difficult choice to go down front and announce a change in your life, why couldn’t I do the same? So I’m getting help.” He pointed to Dad’s shut door behind us. “I’m not ready for an official program yet, but I thought counseling could be a first step toward that step, if that makes sense.”

  I nodded, though I wasn’t sure. “That’s good.” Man, I sucked at this empathy thing. I hadn’t done a better job with Claire, though that conversation had to be ten times less weird than this one. I’d never had a grown man confess his multiple failures to me before.

  “When I asked you to make friends with my son, it was because I knew you could be a good influence on him, maybe urge him toward a path I knew I couldn’t.” Mr. Keegan rubbed one hand over his jaw, looking so much like Wes in that moment my heart hurt. “That boy deserves better than what I can give him. Unfortunately, his mom isn’t doing him any favors, either. I thought when he came to live with me things would be different this time. But they’re not.”

  Anger began a slow build in my chest then, at the selfishness of these two people. Grief over a divorce or not, how could two parents turn their back on their hurting son?
Sure, Wes was responsible for his own actions and choices, but without a stable home, without a safety net or firm foundation, how did he stand a chance?

  I leaned forward, my former nerves gone. “It’s not too late, you know.” I wanted to point out that if things weren’t different this time around, it was because Mr. Keegan wasn’t any different. But I bit my lip to keep the words inside. “You can make things right with Wes now.”

  Mr. Keegan shook his head. “Even if that were true, he wouldn’t go for it. He’s done with me.” He stared at a spot over my shoulder, his eyes glazing over with regret. “He said so the other night.”

  I swallowed, wishing I had the right words, feeling like I finally had a chance to do something good for Wes, and it was slipping right through my fingers. My fists clenched in an effort to catch the opportunity. “Mr. Keegan, with all due respect, Wes doesn’t know what he wants.”

  The words sounded too familiar on my lips as Wes’s husky voice rang in my ears. “This is what I am. This is what you get, if you still want it.” I’d turned him down.

  Just like his parents.

  “I know what I want for him.” Mr. Keegan’s voice jerked me back from the memory and the accompanied knife in my gut. He traced a pattern in the carpet with the toe of his loafer. “I want him to be successful. To be happy. To do something productive with his gift for music.” He laughed, the sound hollow and lonely. “I was pretty shocked to hear he played at the school talent show the other night. That was the first time he played in public since his mom left. Wished I’d been there to hear him.”

  “What?” My head snapped up, senses on full alert.