Picking at the crack in her fingertip, Kasia watched Grace bite down on her yellow highlighter, keep the lid in her mouth as she underlined something important. With practiced precision, she stabbed the point back into the lid and went on reading. If her facial expressions were any indication, it was intriguing.
Her eyes flicked up to meet Kasia’s. Kasia felt her cheeks flush pink, but she offered a half-smile to Grace. “Thanks. You know, for staying.”
Grace nodded and returned to her reading. “A night away is always a welcomed change of pace.”
Inspiration struck, but Kasia had no idea how Grace would react. “I, um, could use somebody to shake me awake before I scream the entire neighborhood out of their beds. So, if you want…”
Grace cocked her head. “You don’t know me at all—you don’t want to take a few days to think about it?”
“Nope.” One thing Kasia knew. She didn’t want to be alone at night.
Grace met her eyes, intent. “I won’t be in your way. I sort of keep to myself.” Her eyes fell again as she muttered, “I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
Kasia shrugged and smiled. “A roommate would be nice. Will your parents share you?”
Grace didn’t answer, but her mouth turned down.
“How old are you?” Kasia asked. “If you don’t mind saying.”
Grace smirked. “I’m twenty-five.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. I guess my parents assume since I want to be a part of their ministry team—and because they’re family—I want to stay there forever. I’ve mentioned before that I wouldn’t mind having my own place, but it’s not practical, I guess. Still, I could do my work from almost any city.” She pulled her highlighter out again and marked a passage, effectively ending the conversation.
Family dynamics were always complicated.
Kasia decided to write her parents a letter. She wouldn’t mention the horrific dream, but there were plenty of other stories to tell.
19
The night smelled like fresh-cut grass, and the temperature was perfect for an evening run. “All right, man,” Zan said to Caleb, “it’s bugged me for weeks. You’re a Bible-thumper, but you can’t stand religion. It doesn’t add up.”
Caleb laughed. “I’m gonna go ahead and take that as a compliment. True Christianity has nothing to do with religion.”
“Huh?” Zan checked his watch.
“Let’s jog a minute. I don’t want to get winded while I’m tellin’ you this.”
Like that would happen. Caleb’s stamina blew Zan’s out of the water.
Caleb set the pace.
“There’s a million different versions of religion”—Caleb’s voice was country twang and solid resolve—“all based on whether or not we’re good enough. Christianity is for the man who can admit he’s hopeless.”
Zan quirked an eyebrow but said nothing.
Caleb looked like he was weighing his options for a second. Then he smiled. “Whatcha think about the Bible?”
“Not into it. Could’ve been messed with—changed by the people who want you to believe it.”
“Have you read it?”
“No. Probably won’t.”
“All right, well…how ’bout historians. You believe them?”
Zan dipped his head, worked to keep his pace steady as they headed toward the park. “Everybody still brings their own bias to the table, but I’m more comfortable with that.”
“True enough. Lots of famous and well-respected historians wrote about Jesus. They agree on three things. One, Jesus Christ was a radical. He turned the world upside down, doin’ what everybody least expected.
“Two. He made enemies because of His message.”
This was “jogging”? A dog-walker waved at them. Zan nodded back at her.
Caleb said, “Hey, how are ya?” and swung his head back in Zan’s direction. “The authorities—Jewish, Roman, all of them—killed Him because He claimed to be God. And His followers swore He came back to life. Now, where—of all places—would it be hardest for those guys to sell their story? That Jesus was alive?”
“Where people saw Him die, I guess. ’Cause everybody would know it had to be a hoax.”
Caleb squinted and grinned. “Yep, but that’s right where His disciples preached it. In Jerusalem. Mocked by loads of people who thought they were insane for keepin’ it up—even threatened by the authorities. But thousands became followers anyway. Crazy, right? Thousands who knew about the crucifixion, heard the rumors of the resurrection and His appearances to crowds, the whole thing.”
Zan lifted his shirt and wiped his forehead.
“And three. When the disciples split up to take this message to the world, every one of them was either imprisoned or tortured for it. Actually, all but John were killed—and in sick, nasty ways. Now, my question is this. If it had all been faked—at some point—wouldn’t one of His boys have cracked? Given up the others to save himself?”
“You’d think,” Zan said. He stopped for a second, rested his hands on his knees.
“You good, man?”
“Cramp.” He reached up and stretched. After a minute, he gave Caleb a nod, and they took off at an easy jog.
“Usually, hoaxes fizzle out after a while. But Christians are still willing to die for their faith.”
“I’ve met a lot of Christians who wouldn’t die for it,” Zan said.
“All right, true. True. A lot of ‘Christians,’” Caleb said with air quotes, “in America, especially, don’t really get what following Christ is about. They’ve never had to figure out if He’s worth dying for.”
Zan wasn’t ready to die for anything but Bailey. “I can’t go there yet, you know?” He started again.
“Ask me if you come up with a question, though, all right?”
“Yeah.”
They turned back toward the house in silence. Zan’s head was too full to speak.
~*~
Several weeks later, Zan walked toward their house in the early quiet and saw lights on in a few of the rooms. So Caleb and Chen were up. He sneaked out for a pre-sunrise jog on his own this time because he wanted time to think, wanted to avoid pounding the streets with Caleb. Zan didn’t need heavy conversation today.
As he opened the back door, the difference between the outside air and the warmth of the kitchen surprised him. He pulled off his hoodie and tossed it over into the community laundry pile. It was his turn to handle the laundromat run.
Caleb’s tablet sat on the kitchen table next to a box of cereal and the jug of milk. Zan grabbed a bowl and decided to check up on Kasia. Li’l Mama’s biscuits, eggs, and sausage gravy sounded like heaven to him too, but that wasn’t a possibility for another month.
Kasia continually blew him away. He hadn’t assumed she was merely a beautiful face, but he certainly hadn’t expected to follow her adventures all summer as she taught English somewhere in the mountains of South America. She never answered him when he asked where she was, so he hadn’t pushed. Bailey was careful about guarding her location online too.
This morning, Kasia posted a new photo album, packed with the bright colors of fresh fruits, spices, and small poncho-wearing kids. The animated expressions she captured! A million times just clicking through the pics, he wished he were there with her, wandering through this market. She made him want to pull out his sketchpad.
And grab a cup of seriously strong java from the little outdoor café beside the church with her. What took Kasia down there? Some humanitarian-aid project? An exchange program? To spend her whole summer in the Andes—she was a very different caliber of girl than he’d ever pursued.
It only made him want to know her more.
Kyle Compton commented under a photo. Don’t they have any normal-colored yarn?
What a jackleg. Zan typed below it.
Awesome. Bring something cool back for me.
She wouldn’t, of course, but he wrote it to annoy Kyle as much as anything.
~*~
So much is going on, and I wish I could sit with you up on our rock and chat. A new guy came to church the last two weeks. His family just moved into town. His name’s Bryce, and he is SOOO adorable. I sneaked a pic on Sunday so you can see him. We’re going to see a movie Friday night.
What was it she’d read that morning? In Psalm 69. “Let not those who hope in You be put to shame through me.” She hadn’t been a good example for Lenka at all in the dating department. But maybe Lenka would be smarter. Hopefully.
Kyle hasn’t missed a Sunday evening service since you left. He’s even come up a few times to hang out for the day. Samson’s not 100% sold, but he’ll come around. Kyle’s fun. I guess he’s still writing you, yeah?
Those photos you posted are beautiful. You don’t even seem amateur. ;) Wish I were there to people-watch with you. Miss you like mad. ~Lenka
She knew Lenka would understand the pictures. She’d gotten several great snapshots at the open-air market. Vendors with steaming grilled meat on skewers, a weathered musician with his pan flute on the street corner, girls piling star fruit and fresh mangoes into back slings for their customers. She’d even taken one picture of a table full of sandals made from old tires. Every scene told a story.
She wondered what Lenka’s photo of Bryce said about him and clicked it open. Cute. Just keep her eyes open, please. Don’t let her get attached if he’s not as good as he seems.
Another one from Kyle:
Hey, girl. Bible study was great this week. We’ve been looking at 2 Peter and how we need to be intentional about “cultivating” our faith. What have you been reading?
BTW, I love hanging out with your family. They make me feel so welcome. (And I’ll check out that Bryce kid for you. Make sure he’s worth Lena’s time.) Take care. Look forward to hearing from you.
Ergh. She’d wanted things to get back to normal at home. But Kyle was seeing “normal” without her.
Which meant he’d notice if conversations turned stilted and awkward when she returned.
No, she had to believe things would be better. Still, Kyle would have a whole summer of experiences with her sister—with Mama and Tatuś—that she’d missed.
She needed to mute the negative and be thankful he kept an eye out for Lenka.
And from Zan:
So, I’m serious, Auburn. You’re a natural with the photos. I’ve tried sketching a few. Maybe I’ll frame one for you. We can meet up, have that sweet tea you owe me, and then you can tell me some of your stories.
Kasia knew it, as certain as sunrise in the morning, if that boy asked her for a drink again—and if he tossed her that dimpled grin—there was no way she could say no.
Besides, she wanted to see his drawings.
~*~
“Where did you put the list of ingredients?” Kasia asked Grace, who sat at the cluttered table amid the piles of books, papers, and photographs. They’d been roommates for a month now and had decided to make a 365-day photo prayer guide. Kyle would probably think the bright Latin-American color schemes were hilarious.
“It’s next to your keys. I’ll have October done by the time you get back.”
“Done done?” Kasia asked.
“Apart from the final touches, but I want you to look over it tomorrow. You’re good with words.”
Kasia smiled. “I’d be glad to.”
“Rosamaria and Lupé are meeting you at the market?” Grace asked.
“Yep, but they said I have to shop on my own. They’ll only help in an emergency. You think I’m allowed to use charades?”
Grace appeared entertained at the thought. “Whatever it takes. Survival Abroad 101.”
“I’m on it.” Kasia waved and left. Tonight two of her English students were giving Teacher the language lesson and then helping her cook ají de gallina. So far, every dish that boasted the spicy ají amarillo delighted her taste buds. This one was supposed to use the hot pepper in a chicken sauce over rice and potatoes.
She strolled to the bus stop, thought of Mama’s last question when they’d chatted. She’d wanted to know if sleep came any better in Peru than at home. Kasia admitted she never felt quite rested, but she’d held back about the nightmares.
Kasia was convinced she needed to cling to God this time.
No one else.
Busia’s plan had worked. Kasia threw herself mind and body into whatever she saw God doing around her. As long as she could avoid downtime, she felt good. Classes in the mornings; after lunch, she methodically walked the streets of the village, prayed for the people she encountered; every afternoon, she crashed during siesta, played the guitar in the quiet.
Busy mind, outward focus. That was the theme.
“Meh!” A man’s voice shouted behind her.
Kasia jumped, startled by the rich baritone. When she turned, her favorite little girls stood there, faces filled with amusement. A sizeable sheep parked beside them, munching on alfalfa straight from the chocolate-eyed toddler’s tiny hand. One of the girls pointed at the sheep. As if on command, he swallowed and bleated again. “Meh!”
Kasia chuckled at herself. She’d expected him to baa, like he would in a Mother Goose nursery rhyme, not sound like an eighteen-year-old guy. She pulled out her camera, asked if they’d let her take a picture. After a moment of discussion, the tallest nodded. They stood stone-still, faces uncertain.
Kasia knelt in front of them, scooted forward.
The little boy’s hand shot out to stroke her hair.
“Tomás!” his big sister cried.
He pulled his hand back. Kasia reached for it, and his chubby fingers gripped hers tightly. She tickled them with a red curl, and he giggled. Lifting her camera with the other hand, Kasia gestured to Tomás. The smiling sister approved. One, two quick snaps, and she’d captured both the grinning doll and the curious girls.
“Gracias.” Kasia waved goodbye to the kids and backed away.
She leaned against a thick tree to watch a game of street ball until the kombi arrived. The kids played with a passion and skill that surpassed their youth. Did they each dream of growing into professional athletes, hope it could provide their ticket out?
The ancient van lurched to a stop in front of her, and she squeezed in. Escape must be a universal desire.
20
Lowcountry air—especially out by Daniel Island—always smelled sweet. Like pine straw and magnolias.
Zan turned at the light and slowed, enjoying the pattern of dappled sunlight on the road at the entrance to his neighborhood. He pressed the button and waited for the iron gates to swing inward. As he wound lazily past the mailboxes and the dock, a jogger waved at him. Zan was eager to hit the trails himself.
He hopped down onto his driveway in front of their sprawling stucco villa. Man, he’d missed the Spanish moss, the sticky humidity, the tranquility of the slow-moving brackish water behind their house. Summer in New York had been necessary—good even—but here it was the second week of August. He wanted to get a little time on the water before heading back to the mountains of the Upstate.
Kasia’s recent posts had sounded like her activities were wrapping up too. He tried not to think too much about seeing her again. Failed constantly.
At least that brand of failure kept him smiling.
He stepped inside and kicked off his shoes, enjoyed the cool terra-cotta tiles under his feet.
“Anybody home?” The echo of his voice was the only answer.
He walked through the foyer and into the great room. The sun’s rays slanted through the skylight. As he set his keys in the bowl on the large mosaic table, a Bible surprised him. Whose was that? He scanned the room again, looked for signs of company.
He jogged back down the front steps to grab his belongings and high-stepped on the heated asphalt. Before he went back inside, Zan jogged over to their three-car garage and peered into the tinted gl
ass. Bailey’s white coupe. Oh! Cool. She must be visiting.
Li’l Mama’s ice-cold sweet tea on his mind, he tossed his duffel into his bedroom. In the kitchen, he pulled down a glass and spied a pair of petite, tan legs stretched out on one of the back-porch chaise lounges. He slid the door open and stuck his head out. “Bay?”
“Hey, Zan!” she said, a genuine smile in her voice. “How fast were you driving?” She jumped up and hugged him tightly.
“Fast enough. I didn’t want to miss the water all summer. I was just going to fix some tea. You want some?”
“Yeah, I’ll come in with you.” She stepped in and set her sunglasses on the table. Half her face was purple and yellow.
“What the—”
“It’s all right.” She rested a hand on his arm.
As if that would erase it.
“It’s over now, but that’s why I’m here. I was doing fine with the Beistlines. Then I joined a support group for battered wives at church.” She shrugged.
With every word she spoke, Zan’s short fingernails bit deeper into his palms. He could kill that loser for hurting his sister.
“The counseling has really been beneficial, but um…Mike didn’t approve of my support group—wasn’t a fan of being labeled abusive.”
Zan pounded the counter, and she jumped.
“I’m sorry, Bay. I just—you don’t deserve that.” He pressed his hands flat against the cool marble. The last thing she needed was somebody else losing it. He reached a hand up, gingerly traced the evidence of his brother-in-law’s rage on her face.
“I know.” She offered a meek smile. “But it’ll make the divorce proceedings easier on me. No one will make me stay with him now. Besides, if I can forgive him and walk away, then I want you to be able to let go of it too. I know it’ll be hard, but—for me. Let’s put it all behind us.”
Strains of Silence Page 15
