Perfectly Imperfect

by Kara Leigh Miller

  Beside me, Isabelle groans. I slice a look at her—her jaw is clenched, and her cheeks are red. I blink, realization slowly clicking into place in my head. Is Pastor Jeff seriously using Cam and Isabelle’s break-up as a sermon illustration? I shift uncomfortably, worried what kind of emotional toll this is having on Isabelle.

  She sits unusually still. I reach over and take her hand, but she doesn’t so much as glance at me. I’m guessing, based on her reaction, that she, too, knows Pastor Jeff is talking about Cam’s decision to break up with her.

  “Seeing him struggle with making this decision,” he continues, “got me thinking about all the difficult decisions I’ve had to make in my lifetime.” Pastor Jeff spends the next thirty minutes sharing personal stories of tough decisions he’s faced. His honesty is refreshing.

  Halfway through his sermon, Isabelle relaxes and gives my hand a small squeeze. I smile, and she returns the gesture. I settle into the pew and listen to Pastor Jeff. I’m not sure what I expected, but I’m impressed with how well-spoken and charismatic he is. He’s funny, too, which makes the sermon pass quickly.

  “And so, I’m always led right back to Proverbs 3:5. ‘Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.’ When faced with your own difficult choices, lean on God to help you make the right decisions, for He will guide you.”

  The choir sings again, and when service ends, Isabelle stands and smooths her hands down her dress. “So, what did you think?”

  “It was nice,” I say. And it was—I really did enjoy the sermon. Under different circumstances, I could see myself coming here regularly.

  “Isabelle.” Hannah waves and walks over to us.

  Curious eyes watch us. Conversation around us almost stops or people move away, but their gazes linger. This is exactly what people did at my last church—they’d smile to my face, but then they’d stare and whisper. I momentarily close my eyes, fighting back the bad memories. But it’s too late. My chest constricts, making it nearly impossible to draw in a breath. My vision blurs, and sweat drips down my back.

  He beats her, you know? That’s why she was with the pastor. He was helping her escape.

  Well, I heard he was caught with some foreigner when he was deployed.

  Such a shame. That poor boy has to grow up without his mother.

  The whispered accusations from my previous church whip violently through my mind. I can’t breathe. I need to get out of here.

  Hannah takes hold of Isabelle’s arm and lowers her voice. “You two need to leave.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Cam is not happy, and I just heard him say something to Andrea about you bringing in the trash.” Hannah smiles apologetically at me. “Sorry.”

  I hold up my hands, which are clammy and shaking. “Don’t worry about it. I know when I’m not welcome.” I dig my keys from my pocket. “Thanks for inviting me, Belle, but I’m going to go.”

  She reaches for my hand. “Please don’t go. You’re just as welcome here as anyone else.” The pleading in her eyes makes me hesitate.

  But then I motion toward the front of the church where Cam and a group of people keep glancing in my direction. “Yeah, I doubt that. I’ll see you in school tomorrow.” I turn and walk out of the church without bothering to look back. Each step is harder than the last. I’m walking away from Isabelle when she needs me most. Isn’t that another thing they accused my dad of doing to my mom? I want to run back to her, but I can’t bear the whispers, the dirty glances, the ignorant judgement of people who claim to love God but can’t love a broken person right in front of them. There’s a verse about that, too. God, how am I supposed to find my way back to You if I don’t even have the strength to stay with Isabelle when she begged me to stay? I’m a jerk.

  Safely in the truck, I rest my head on the steering wheel. Well, that went exactly as I expected it would. I only wish Isabelle didn’t have to witness it all. I’m sure she wants to believe her church isn’t full of judgmental, superior people pretending to be Christians. But I know better. That behavior in there is very un-Christian.

  I start the engine and hook my seatbelt. Dad’s right—organized religion is a joke. At least he won’t have to worry about me coming back here. I hope Isabelle understands, but if she doesn’t… I don’t want to think about what that could mean for us.

  15

  ISABELLE

  “WHY DID YOU SAY THAT to him?” I jerk my arm away from Hannah. “What’s wrong with you?” Even though my best friend is standing in front of me, all I can see is the tormented look on Grayson’s face right before he left.

  “What’s wrong with me?” Hannah points at herself. “What’s wrong with you?” She glances around like she’s trying to make sure no one is listening. “What were you thinking bringing him here? You know this is Cam’s church, and you know he doesn’t like Grayson.”

  I tilt my head, studying her. “Last I knew, this was my church, too. And since when does Cam get to decide who can and can’t worship here?”

  She crosses her arms and shakes her head. “Look, you know I think you and Cam breaking up is a good thing, but you know how he is.”

  Yeah, he’s a spoiled rotten kid hiding behind a “good Christian boy” façade. But I don’t say that. I take a deep breath. “I know how he is, but he can’t stop people from coming here.”

  “I agree, but you had to know bringing Grayson was going to cause trouble.”

  Honestly, I never once thought it would cause trouble. Yes, I know Cam doesn’t like Grayson, but there have been other people who’ve come here that Cam hasn’t liked, and he’s never thrown a fit like he did today.

  “Isabelle, dear.” Ms. Rhoades weaves through the lingering groups of people until she’s standing beside me. “Who was that handsome young man you were sitting with today?”

  “Grayson Alexander. He’s new in town.”

  “Oh, how nice.” She fidgets with her necklace. “I wish I’d gotten the chance to say hello.”

  I’m glad she didn’t get the chance. I mean, she’s nice and all, but she’s nosey, and I can’t imagine the types of questions she’d ask him.

  “How’s your mother feeling?” she asks.

  “Oh, um, she’s recovering, but she’s still not back to normal.”

  Hannah eyes me suspiciously, but I ignore her. Not even she knows my mother is an alcoholic, but she is one of the few people who can tell when I’m lying.

  “The poor dear.” Ms. Rhoades frowns and shakes her head. “I’ll say an extra prayer for her tonight.”

  “Thanks.” I glance toward the pulpit. Pastor Jeff is still there, surrounded by parishioners vying for his attention. I want to talk to him, too—privately—but with the crowd he’s in the middle of, I have a feeling I won’t get the chance today.

  “I’ll stop by later with a casserole,” Ms. Rhoades says.

  Panic clutches at my chest. “That’s really not necessary, Ms. Rhoades. I don’t mind cooking and taking care of her while she’s sick.” I force a smile.

  “You’re such a good child.” She pats my cheek in what I assume is supposed to be a kind, grandmotherly gesture, but her touch is a little harsher than necessary, and my cheek stings. “But it’s really no trouble at all.”

  I have a feeling no matter what I say, she’s not going to give up. I sigh. “Thanks.”

  “See you later.” She waves and walks away.

  Hannah tilts her head. “Everything okay?”

  “Yup.” I nod. “Well, I better get home.”

  “Hey, wait.” Hannah grabs my hand. “I’m sorry if I was rude to Grayson, but maybe you should talk to Cam and try to smooth things over.”

  I stare at her a moment. If she thinks I’m going to ask for Cam’s permission to bring Grayson to church, she’s got another thing coming. Not that Grayson will ever come back here—not after the way he was treated. I pull away from her hold. “I’ll see you in school tomorrow,”

  I drive home faster t
han I probably should, but my nerves are frayed. What if Ms. Rhoades shows up at my house before I get there? I can’t risk her finding out the truth. I step on the gas a little harder and arrive home in record time. When I pull into the driveway, thick smoke billows from the back of the house.

  My heart beats frantically. No. Please, God, don’t let my house be on fire. I slam the car into park and jump out, not bothering to shut it off or close the door. I race inside.

  “Mom!” I scream.

  The interior of the house is free from smoke, and none of the fire alarms are going off.

  “Mom!” I send up a small prayer that she’s okay. “Mom!”

  “What?” she snaps as she steps through the sliding glass doorway that leads to the backyard.

  “What’s going on? I saw smoke. Are you okay?” My mind races with worst case scenarios. “Is the house on fire?”

  “No.” She gives me a dirty look. “I built a fire in the backyard.” Her blonde hair is wet and pulled back in a messy ponytail.

  “You built a bonfire?” I ask, completely stupefied.

  “Yup.” She walks past me—actually walks rather than her usual stumble—and straight into Brandon’s room. She reappears a moment later, her arms filled with his belongings: clothes, shoes, books.

  I watch in horror as she marches back out the sliding doors and tosses the items onto the fire. I half sob, half scream.

  “What’re you doing?” I run outside after her. “You’re burning Brandon’s stuff?”

  I can’t believe what I’m seeing, and I will myself to wake up, praying this is just some awful nightmare. But it’s not. The flames spark higher in the air, and what few reminders I have of my brother disappear before my eyes. Tears streak down my cheeks.

  “One of the online grief support groups says the best way to move on is to rid your life of anything that reminds you of your loss.” She turns to head back inside.

  “Mom!” I grab her arm. “Stop. You can’t burn all of Brandon’s stuff.” My voice is strangled by my tears.

  She jerks out of my grasp and nearly loses her balance. I wait for her to topple over, but she doesn’t. Instead, she marches toward the house. Adrenaline spikes in my veins. I have no idea how to stop her. I start to go after her, but then stop and turn back to the fire.

  “Dad,” I mumble. I need to call Dad. But my cell phone is in my car. I can’t let Mom do this. I barge into the house and block the doorway to Brandon’s room. “You’re not burning anything else,” I say as forcefully as I can.

  Her arms are once again full of his stuff, and I stand straighter, pulling my shoulders back so she knows I’m not backing down. Mom narrows her eyes, and we have an uncomfortable, silent stare-off. Finally, she drops her arms, and Brandon’s belongings fall to the floor. In the next moment, she lands on her knees. She buries her face in her hands, and sobs wrack her body.

  My breath catches, and I slowly approach. I kneel beside her and put my trembling arm around her shoulders. She twists and wraps me in a hug.

  “I miss him so much,” she cries.

  “Me too, Mom.”

  I don’t know how long we sit on the floor, hugging and crying, but when Mom finally pulls back, her face is red and splotchy. She wipes her cheeks. “He’s supposed to be here.”

  “I know.” I sniffle. I can’t help but wonder how different things might be if he were still here and I wasn’t. Would Mom be this upset? Would she drown her grief with alcohol? Would Dad be here supporting them rather than hiding behind work? Would Brandon hold them together better than I have?

  “He’s supposed to be here,” she says again, her tone more desperate than before.

  “I know, Mom. But this”—I motion around at his now half-empty room—“this isn’t going to make you feel better.”

  She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “It hurts so much. All the time.”

  “I know,” I whisper. My throat burns with the effort of suppressing a fresh wave of tears.

  She hangs her head and rubs her temples. “My head is killing me.”

  I sit back, giving her some space. “Have you eaten anything today?”

  “No.” She groans. “I’m starving. Is there any food in this house?”

  I take a deep breath and resist the urge to mouth off. Telling her she’s been too drunk to grocery shop won’t bode well for me. “I don’t think Dad’s gone shopping recently, but I’ll see what I can find.” I disappear into the kitchen, heart racing, and scour the cupboards.

  My hands won’t stop shaking, and my knees feel like rubber. From the kitchen window, I can see the fire still blazing. I’m going to have to put that out before one of our neighbors calls the fire department. Did Dad disconnect the garden hose yet? I hope not.

  A moment later, a chair scrapes across the linoleum, making my heart jump in my chest. I turn to see Mom sitting at the table, head in her hands. “I should go shopping.”

  A rock lands in my gut. I can’t remember the last time Mom left the house, but she’s in no condition to drive right now. Or be seen in public.

  “I can go with you, if you want.” Then I can drive.

  “You don’t have to shout.” She gives me a dirty look.

  “I wasn’t shouting,” I say quieter, and now I’m basically whispering. “Or, if you want to give me the money, I can go shopping, and you can lie down.”

  “I need to get out of this house.” She stands and wobbles, then steadies herself with the back of the chair. “I just need to change.”

  I slouch against the counter. The last thing I want to do today is chase my drunk mother around the grocery store, but what other choice do I have? I can’t let her go alone. At least we won’t be home when Ms. Rhoades shows up. I go upstairs and change out of my dress and into jeans and a T-shirt. After putting on socks and sneakers, I go back downstairs.

  Mom is standing near the front door, purse slung over her shoulder. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen her in anything other than sweatpants and ratty T-shirts. But she’s wearing jeans and a deep purple sweater. She almost looks good, like the mother she used to be before Brandon’s death.

  “I need to put the fire out; then we can go.” I don’t give her a chance to respond. I head outside, unravel the garden hose from its stand, turn on the water, and aim it at the fire full force. It doesn’t take long for the flames to die out, and with it, my heart sinks. I have no idea how much Mom burnt or what’s left of Brandon’s, but I’m going to have to go through his room later.

  When the last of the flames flicker out, I drop the hose on the ground and go back inside. “I’ll drive,” I say to Mom, and I don’t give her a chance to argue.

  She follows me out of the house and walks around to the passenger’s side. Then, she bends over and heaves. I close my eyes—I don’t need to see her to know she’s puking all over the driveway. When the heaving and gagging stop, I approach and hesitantly put my hand on her back.

  “C’mon, I’ll help you back inside.”

  “No.” She swats my arm away. “I’m leaving this house today. I don’t care if it kills me.”

  “You’re sick, Mom. You need to rest.” My tone is bordering on frantic, and I glance around. None of our neighbors are outside, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t watching from their windows. I can’t let any of them see what’s going on. “Please? Just lay down for a little while. When you wake up, we can go somewhere. I promise.”

  She straightens and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Then she nods. “Okay.”

  Relief washes over me. I escort her inside and straight to her room. She kicks off her shoes, and they hit the wall with a thud before settling on the floor in a pile. I pull back the covers, and she climbs into bed.

  “Get my purse.” She coughs and then groans.

  I half expect her to throw up all over the floor. When I’m relatively certain she won’t, I get her purse from where she dropped it on the living room floor.

  “Here.” I hold
it out to her.

  She rummages around inside until she finds her wallet. “Use this and go get some food.” She holds out her debit card. “The passcode is eight-four-two-nine.” She recites the number like I don’t already know it by heart. I’ve been using her card for months now, but I’m in no mood to try to explain this to her—again.

  I slide the card into my back pocket. “Is there anything you want?”

  “Chips.”

  “Okay.”

  “Isabelle.” She clutches my hand; hers is hot and clammy. “I’m sorry.” She hiccups. “I haven’t been a very good mom to you. Not since Brandon…” Fat tears slide down her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

  I swallow against the burn in my throat. “It’s okay, Mom.” But it’s a struggle to get this lie past my lips. It’s not okay. I’ve needed her more than ever, and she hasn’t been there for me.

  She yanks the covers over her head and rolls onto her side. And just like that, the glimpse of my old mother is gone, and I’m once again left with the woman who is always too drunk to notice me. I let out a heavy sigh and go back downstairs. On the way, I close Brandon’s bedroom door, not having the emotional strength to look around in there right now.

  The house is still fairly clean, so there’s not much for me to do on that front. But I’m reluctant to leave. If Ms. Rhoades shows up while I’m gone… Sure, Mom isn’t drunk right now, and she can pass as being sick. Still.

  I chew on my bottom lip. Maybe I should hang out here a while and clean a bit more. I look out the front window. Ms. Rhoades’s car isn’t in her driveway. She usually goes to her son’s house for Sunday dinner. I could probably get to the store and back before she shows up. That’s what I’ll do.

  I grab a sheet of printer paper from Dad’s office and write a grocery list. Then I head to the store. The sky darkens as I walk inside, and I hope I can get in and out before it rains. I’m almost finished getting the items on my list when I round the corner toward the checkout lanes and come face to face with Brittany.