by Nicole Deese
“You wished what?” she asked.
“That I could fix it. My hair. My quirky personality. My stupid mouth and all the awful things that had spewed from it. Because the truth was I didn’t want to be different from you. I wanted to be just like you. Beautiful and happy. Someone who could believe in lists and prayers.” Someone who could be trusted with love.
Maybe it was the full moon or the vulnerability of the hour that had caused the words to rush from their hiding spot, but there was no mistaking they were mine. Because even now, even after a decade of doing my own thing and living my own way, I still looked at my sister’s life as if it were cast in an idyllic light.
“Oh, Callie . . .”
I struggled to hold eye contact and instead dropped my gaze to the top of the exile pile where Leo Quinn propped his little Fire Dancer high on his shoulders. How could I fault the man who first believed in my artistic gifting? Who showed me how to tap into the creative world with nothing more than a paintbrush?
While I studied his picture, Clem studied me.
I waited for her to swoop in with her sisterly advice or start cleaning up the photo mess I’d made on her porch. But she did neither.
Finally, she rested her chin on her knee and turned her face to mine. “I never dealt with Leo leaving us the way he did. I didn’t think I needed to. I thought if I got married and had a family of my own that he couldn’t hurt me anymore. That the pain would go away. But that was a lie I’ve only just begun to face, seventeen years later. His abandonment did affect me. And because of that, it’s affected every person I love. For me, it was easier to pin my unhappiness on my marriage, to heap my disappointments and stress and anxiety onto Chris, rather than look in the mirror and deal with all the hurt I’d been hiding for decades.”
I rotated on the bench to look at my sister, the swing knocking side to side. “I had no idea you even thought about him.”
“I do,” she admitted. “More so lately, since Chris and I started counseling.”
“Counseling?”
“Yeah, our pastor recommended someone. We’ll go weekly for a while. Had our second appointment today, actually.” She placed her hand on mine. “I know you’d like to believe I have everything together all the time, but I really don’t. I’m far from a perfect wife or mother or sister. And I wish now, more than ever, that instead of spouting off some silly list at you that night, I would have come into your room and asked about the real reason behind cutting off all your hair. I should have tried to understand what was going on inside your head instead of hoping that you’d forget about our father.”
I stared at the streetlight. “I never forgot.”
“I know you didn’t.” She gave my hand a squeeze and didn’t let go. “But dealing with this box of old pictures is only the beginning. The real work—the harder work—happens in here.” She tapped her temple. “Sorting the truth from the lies.”
I remained quiet for a moment, content to feel the comfort of my sister’s touch. How long had it been since we’d held hands like this, since we’d truly connected? Long enough to make my chest constrict.
“I’m not sure how to do that,” I admitted.
“Our counselor says it begins by accessing our beliefs. About ourselves. About others. About God.” She leveled me with a look I’d seen a million times. A look that suggested she knew me better than I knew myself. “If our decisions are based on false beliefs, then we’ll never experience the life we’re meant to live—the life God has in store for us.”
Clem and I hadn’t seen eye to eye on issues of faith and God for quite some time. After our father left, she’d clung to the lessons we’d been taught in Sunday school and church camps, content to embrace the concept of an Absolute Being, while I’d been content to explore.
The idea that one God could meet all our needs? Hear all our prayers? Restore all our hurts? It felt too far-fetched, even for a dreamer like me. He certainly hadn’t been there when I’d needed him most.
But then I remembered Davis’s words on our walk to his house, about the current of grief. Had I been content to wade with these memories in stagnant water? Never moving forward? Would I ever be brave enough to confront God the way he had?
“Callie . . .” There was an unmistakable plea in my sister’s voice for me to understand, to believe the way I did before I’d begged my father not to go. “When was the last time you did anything without having an exit strategy in place?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. A vise grip of indecision squeezed at my heart as a picture of Davis and Brandon surfaced in my mind. I broke our handhold to knead my thumbs into my temples. “I think I preferred Life Coach Clem to Annoying Big Sister Clem. Can you go back to her, please?”
“No can do.” She bumped my shoulder.
“If this is where you warn me not to—what did you call it, again?—use my Callie-charm on Davis, then—”
“Oh, you’re both way past that stage.” The twinkle in her eye made my stomach drop three floors. “I may have been caught up in my own family drama recently, but I’m not blind to what’s been happening between you two. You have a look about you—you know. Every time you come home from a date with him, your entire countenance glows. Chris and I both see it.”
“Pretty sure that’s your own wishful thinking you’re seeing.” But even as I said it, heat rose up my neck.
Avoiding her gaze, I gathered the two stacks of approved-for-the-album pictures, ready to store them away from the tainted photographs piled on top of the box lid. Clem shifted in her seat and reached for a photo wedged between the weathered floorboards. She sighed sweetly before handing it to me.
Thankfully, my father was nowhere to be found in this memory. This was a picture of me and a much younger Collin. His squirmy body was nestled into my side, his mouth a sticky pink mess from his waiting room sucker as he peered over my lap to see his new baby sister.
I stared, unblinking, at the precious image in my hand. The memory of that day, so close to the surface of my heart, unfolded anew. Filled with nostalgia and a yearning I didn’t dare name, I could still feel the tiny form of my swaddled niece in my arms and see the pearly sheen of her skin and her rose-petal pout. I could still smell the lemon-scented disinfectant heavy in the hospital air and hear the squeak of the rocker with every soft push against the checkered linoleum floor. Cradled against me that day was love in its truest, most vulnerable form.
Clem touched the crown of my head and stroked my hair tenderly. “What if it’s more than wishful thinking, Callie? What if it’s the beginning of an answered prayer, one I’ve prayed no less than a thousand times for you in the last ten years? That you would believe in home again. In truth. In love.” She pressed her hand to my back. “If Davis Carter is the man God uses to show you the way again, then I hope, for your sake, that you’ll let him.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
DAVIS
The night before had been as long as it had been trying, but at least we’d reached some semblance of an agreement. Bottom line: the Lockwoods were staying for a week. They planned to sleep in their five-star motor home and spend as much time as possible with Brandon, which explained why they were both in my home. On a Saturday morning. At a quarter past nine.
It hadn’t been easy to temper my reservations about their unplanned visit, or push away my suspicion of a secondary agenda. But even more suspicious than their abrupt road trip to Oregon was Brandon’s chipper mood. He woke up ready to fill the black hole of awkwardness with an idea for a day trip to Blackrock Lake.
His favorite place on earth. And mine, too.
He buttered his toaster waffles as Vivian, sitting across from him, stirred her coffee.
“Can we invite Callie? She’s never been kayaking before.”
“How do you know that?” I propped my back against the granite and sipped my second cup of coffee, my mind referencing her late-night text once again. Just in case you’re wondering, I think you’re pretty incredible.
> “Because she told me,” Brandon said. “Last week. At the mural.” He gulped down his milk and returned his glass to the table with a hard clink. “Hey, maybe I should invite Collin and Corrie, too?” He took a large bite, his fork dripping with excess syrup. “You have enough seats in the motor home, right, Oma?”
Vivian glanced up from her toast, her lips parting as if to respond, when Charles answered from the recliner.
He lowered his copy of Fortune magazine. “Go ahead and ask them all, Brandon. The more the merrier as far as we’re concerned. Right, buttercup?”
Her gaze slanted to the recliner. “Certainly.”
“And Kosher? What about him?” Apparently, Brandon was in the mood for testing the limits of grace this morning.
I rinsed my mug under the faucet and set it in the basin. “I can take him along with me in the Jeep.”
Viv’s teacup stilled near her mouth. “You won’t be riding with us?”
“I’ll be bringing the kayaks.” And with any luck, an adventurous artist, too.
“So you will be bringing your friend, then?”
I turned back to the dining room table. “Is that okay with you?” I’d asked the question in earnest. Inviting Callie along without Vivian’s full consent would be a miserable undertaking for everyone involved.
She set her teacup on the saucer. “Of course, Davis. I’m looking forward to getting to know her better.”
“It’s a Christmas miracle in July,” I said when Callie answered her phone on the third ring.
“Crazy, I know, but I actually plugged my phone in last night. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen my battery fully charged.”
I laughed. “You must have been waiting for me to call and invite you to go kayaking today.”
“Kayaking? Really? I just told Brandon last week that I’ve always wanted to go.”
“Well, he wanted to make sure we invited you to go with us. He just asked Corrie and Collin to come along, too.”
Her response held a beat of hesitation. “Would us include the Lockwoods as well?”
“It would.”
“And that’s okay with them—I mean, that I’ll be there? With you?”
“Absolutely. They should be there in about five minutes to pick up the kids. I’m following behind in the Jeep.”
“Five min—Davis! I’m still in my pj’s! I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet!”
“If your pj’s are those cute unicorn pants, then by all means wear those.”
“Oh my—I’m hanging up now.”
“Callie.”
“What?”
“Relax. You don’t have to prove anything to them. Just be yourself.”
“Hanging. Up.”
“Callie?”
“What, Davis?”
“Thank you for your text last night.”
And then I hung up.
Less than five minutes later, I pulled into the Taylors’ driveway and parked to the side of the Lockwoods’ mansion on wheels.
As I stepped out of my Jeep, I greeted Chris and Clementine, noticing their linked hands immediately. After a quick glance around the property, Clementine assured me her sister would be out in just a minute.
“Oh, my gosh, Mom!” Corrianna peeked her head out the doorway of the motor home. “You won’t believe how nice this kitchen is in here! It’s way fancier than ours.”
Clementine slapped a hand to her face as Chris wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “I’m sure it is, sweetheart. Just remember what we talked about, okay? On the drive over, you need to listen to Mr. and Mrs. Lockwood, and once you’re at the lake, stay close to Aunt Callie. Deal?”
“I know, Dad.”
“And, Collin, make sure you keep an eye on your sister,” Chris added before shooting me a look that said, Kids. “Thanks for inviting them to tag along with you today.”
“Of course, we’re happy to take them,” I said.
“The official tour has been completed, and all seat belts are intact,” Charles announced as all three kids waved behind a narrow tinted window. “We’ll be staying off the main highway, Davis, taking the scenic route. Plus, Viv will want to stop at the store to let the kids pick out food for the picnic.”
“Sounds good. We’ll be on our way in just a moment.” I glanced at the front door again. What was Callie doing in there?
“Last time I checked, Callie was upstairs in our bathroom, searching for a beach towel,” Clem said. “Feel free to go on in. Chris and I are headed into town for a late breakfast.” She patted Chris’s chest and then seemed to remember something. “Oh—and please ignore the giant mess on the front porch. Callie and I are in the middle of a . . . project.”
After the motor home glided through the neighborhood with the deftness of a cruise ship, I strode down the path, waving a casual goodbye to Callie’s sister and brother-in-law, and then took the porch steps two at a time.
“Callie?” I called through the screen on the front door. “Everything okay in there?”
“Yes, sorry! I’ll be right out! Promise!”
Her panicked enthusiasm made me chuckle. “Take whatever time you need. We’re not in any rush. Just don’t blame me if Kosher drinks your iced coffee.”
I made my way to the wooden porch swing—a perfect place to wait on a woman if ever there was one. But I stopped midstep when I saw Clementine and Callie’s project: three large mounds of glossy photographs.
I picked up a few from the center stack and flipped through them, pausing on one. The sweet, toddler-size version of Callie that stared back at me caused something in the center of my chest to shift. Her hair was chin length, the freckles dotting her cheeks and nose more noticeable, but her eyes and smile held the same sparky charisma as they did now. I’d know her face anywhere.
I studied the photogenic man holding her on his shoulders, his hands wrapped around her ankles, eyes locked on the camera ahead. He bore too much familial resemblance to be anyone other than her father.
I shuffled through the next couple of pictures, and then reached for a few more, noting the most obvious common denominator: her father was in every single one.
Rubbing my chin, I tried to recall what, if anything, she’d told me about him. We’d talked at length about her mother’s remarriage to the pilot in Canada three summers ago, and she’d mentioned her parents’ divorce once or twice, but I couldn’t remember a single instance when she’d spoken about her dad.
The screen door burst open behind me, and Callie strode onto the porch in cutoff shorts and a light-colored tank top. “Sorry, first I couldn’t find a beach towel, and then I couldn’t find a bag large enough to fit the beach towel inside of and—”
The excitement in her expression drained away, changing into something else. Not grief exactly, but something equally as jarring. I flipped the first picture around and held it up for her to see. “Your father?”
Her posture stilled as the oversized striped duffel continued to swing from her arm. “Yes, that’s him. Leo Quinn, my father.” Something mechanical and distant had replaced her usual animated way of speaking. It was such an alarming contrast to how she spoke about her other family members that I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her.
Gently, I returned the pictures to their appropriate stack. “I can’t remember you mentioning him.”
“There’s not much to mention. He’s not a part of my life anymore.” Words that failed to sound nearly as flippant and inconsequential as she likely intended them to.
Her father may not be involved in her life now, but he was certainly still a part of it. That much was obvious.
She stepped toward the stairs, ready to dart. But her reluctance to share only increased my need to learn. To understand where this piece fit into the puzzle of the woman I’d come to care so much for.
“Where is he now?”
“I have no idea.”
Those four words could have been a complete story if anybody else were telling it. But this was Callie. And she was anythin
g but brief.
I eyed the slew of pictures again. “Will you tell me what happened with him?”
“He asked my mom for a divorce a few days after my twelfth birthday. And within forty-eight hours his trunk was packed, and he was driving away from our family home.” She recited the facts as if reading from a textbook.
“And he never came back?”
“Nope. I gave up hope for that after the first three years. It’s been seventeen now.”
Righteous anger flared under my skin. How could any father walk away from his children so willingly? Losing my dad had been almost as painful as losing my wife, but I had over twenty-six years of memories with him.
“I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you and your sister,” I said. “Your mother.”
“We all handled it in different ways, but each of us figured out how to survive, how to go on,” she said with a slight lift to her chin. “That’s all we can ever do after hard things happen—learn from them. You know that better than most.” She ticked her head toward the Jeep and held out her hand to me. “You ready to get on the road? I could really use a caffeine boost this morning.”
I took hold of her extended hand but made no move to leave the porch. Not yet. Whatever had transpired between her and her father seventeen years ago, and whatever lesson she’d claimed to learn from it, the event wasn’t nearly as insignificant as she wanted me to believe. Abandonment wasn’t a simple hurt. And nothing about Callie’s demeanor convinced me that she’d dealt with the baggage her father had left behind that day. I stood firm as she tugged my hand with extra conviction. “Come on,” she said, adding a half-hearted smile. “We’re wasting good kayaking daylight.”
“Callie.”
“Really, Davis, you don’t need to look at me like I’m a wounded little bird.” Her eyes tinged with annoyance. “A lot of marriages end in divorce. My story is a typical one, cliché even. And though it’s not something I’d wish on anybody—especially a child—he chose to follow his dream, and I can’t exactly fault him for that.”
