Love and a Little White Lie

by Tammy L. Gray

  “She’s at Serenity Hills now.” I stop myself before mentioning her blindness, unsure if I’m allowed to disclose medical information.

  “Really? Man. That makes me sad.”

  “You can come with if you’d like. We just read a chapter or two in Luke, and then if we have time, a few chapters from one of her novels. I’m sure she’d love more visitors.”

  Darcy shakes her head, and it’s very different from how Dillon does it. Hers feels doused in admiration, while Dillon’s, well, it usually comes with that infuriating chuckle. Then I realize I’m thinking about Dillon and I shake my own head, trying to get the image of his confounded brown eyes to go away.

  “Cam’s right. You really are something special,” she says.

  “I wouldn’t go that far. I’m just trying to find a little purpose in my life after a year of . . .” I trail off because I don’t want to admit to how impulsive and irresponsible I’ve been. That version of me would never have cared about an old lady. Then again, it’s easy to empathize with wounded people once you’ve been one yourself. I slide my purse over my shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I’m so late.”

  “Oh, no problem.” She follows me out the door and shuts it behind us. I don’t think Ralph keeps it locked during the day so I haven’t bothered to, either. Besides, the room is clean enough now that it no longer brings total humiliation when someone dares to open the door.

  We reach the stairs and descend side by side. “If the church funds the rest of your money, when do you think you’ll leave?” I ask.

  “This summer is the plan.”

  “And how long will you stay gone?”

  “A year for sure. Maybe two if all goes well. Of course, right now I have only half of what I need, so it may be just a pipe dream.” She rolls her eyes, but I can see the stress in them. She really does want this. Incredible. I can’t even imagine spending a day in a foreign country all alone, and here Darcy’s willing to do it for a whole year.

  “And you think I’m special? You’re the bravest person I know.”

  That makes her smile. “Thank you. I’ve wanted to do this since I heard a missionary speak at youth camp my freshman year. It’s just hard finding a place as a single woman, and now with all the cuts in overseas support, it’s even worse.”

  For some reason, my mind drifts back to the bleeding man in my kitchen and his admission of having so much money that he doesn’t need to work. “Well, if the church doesn’t come through, you should talk to the Kyles. They seem like the philanthropist type.”

  Darcy’s smile fades away. “No. I’d feel way too weird asking.”

  “But I thought you’ve all known each other forever.”

  She gets to the bottom step before me and waits. “We have, but neither Dillon nor his dad have stepped into church since his mom passed away. Calling them now would feel way too insensitive.” She spots Cameron and starts to head that way, but I can’t think past her revelation.

  “Wait.” I grab her arm before she can go farther. “Dillon’s mom died? When?”

  “Last January. Almost exactly a year ago.”

  And now I have another reason to hate my namesake.

  Cameron’s approach halts our conversation. “Hey, we ready to go?”

  “Jan has another obligation, so it’s just yours truly.” She hits him in the arm like an old buddy, yet he doesn’t react. He’s too focused on me.

  “What obligation?”

  “I read to Mrs. Cox at lunch. And I’m now an hour late so I really have to go,” I say, still totally distracted.

  “Okay. I’ll try not to be too jealous.” Cameron drapes his arm around my shoulder, and unlike every other time before, my body has no reaction whatsoever. All I can think about is Dillon’s comment the first day we met, the one that I’ve resented enough to make me constantly approach him with caution.

  “You seem less broken.”

  He didn’t say it to be cruel or judgmental. He said it because he knew exactly how it felt.

  twenty

  I run up the front steps of Serenity Hills feeling terrible, not just because of my tardiness with Mrs. Cox but also in how I’ve treated Dillon since we first met. Even after Doreen warned me that he was hurting, I’ve never filtered any of my thoughts and words with him.

  Beth, one of the other staff RNs, is talking to an orderly when I pass by the desk heading straight for the green hallway. She’s much stricter about protocol and policies than Victoria is so I wave quickly, not wanting any more delays.

  “Jan, hold on a sec,” she calls, moving around the desk to approach.

  I swallow my annoyance and meet her halfway. The nursing home has a pretty firm schedule for the residents, and based on the heavy concentration on her face, I have a bad feeling I’m about to get the boot. “I know I’m super late, but I’d still like to at least visit with her a little while.”

  “Mrs. Cox isn’t here.” She lays a hand on my arm, and her normally harsh voice turns soft enough to bring an anxious shiver. “She had another episode this morning and was transferred to Methodist Hospital. I don’t know when she’ll be back.”

  My mind races. Her daughter hadn’t mentioned any other medical conditions in her prayer request. “Episode? What do you mean?”

  “Sandra’s had a heart condition for many years now.”

  I swallow back the tears that have been fighting to come since learning about Dillon’s mom. “Can I go see her?”

  “Of course. Let me get you her room information.” Beth pats my arm and it brings some measure of comfort, though not much. Too many questions swirl in my head. Did her daughter know? Would she get there in time to make things right with her mom?

  I grab the scribbled paper Beth hands me and race to my car. Methodist is close, so it only takes seven minutes to get there. Mrs. Cox is on the second floor, down a long hallway that echoes as I walk. I don’t think, just move as if it were my own mom in that room and I’m desperate to get to her.

  Irritation revs up my adrenaline. This is how the church survives. They suck you in, make you care about people who aren’t even related to you, like Dillon and his dad, Ralph and Victoria, and now Mrs. Cox and her daughter. I’m supposed to be working on my own life right now, not worrying about Dillon’s grief or crying over an old lady.

  But the tears only come harder when I step past her open door. Heart monitor wires stick out of her hospital gown while an IV flows into her bruised hand. She’s asleep or unconscious, I’m not sure which.

  I sit in the chair near her bed and listen to the beeping of her heart monitor. It’s the kind of rhythm that will hypnotize if you listen long enough. I fold my hands in my lap, feeling a restlessness I can’t describe. It’s in my lungs, my arms, my bouncing leg. I bite my lip, fighting what I feel pressured to do.

  “Prayer is a power source,” Doreen said.

  But I don’t believe in it, or in God, or in any supernatural thing that suddenly fixes all problems. I believe in medicine and doctors and science. Mrs. Cox already has all those things.

  I stand and pace the room. It doesn’t help. In fact, it makes the pressure heavier, my mind filling with the words from our latest chapter in Luke. It flows as if I were reading it now, each verse imprinted, the story flashing like it wants me to respond. The centurion wasn’t a Jew, yet he asked Jesus to heal his servant, and Jesus did.

  My fingers lace around the back of my head and I sit down. Do the prayers of someone like me even get heard? If Doreen’s God does exist, would He bother to listen?

  The quiet rising and lowering of Sandra’s chest takes the decision out of my hands. I’ll do it. I’ll pray for her and for her daughter, wherever she is.

  I close my eyes and bow my head the way I’ve seen Doreen do it at the dinner table. The plea flows through my mind. For Mrs. Cox to wake up, for her daughter to be here when she does. I think of Dillon’s mom and feel an even greater urgency.

  “Please,” I whisper. “Don’t let her die before they
can reconcile.”

  When I’m finished, I feel completely depleted, as if the prayer took every ounce of my energy. Power source? Yeah, right. More like a battery drain.

  I stand, knowing there’s nothing else I can do, and touch Mrs. Cox’s fragile arm, the one place that has no tubing. “We need to finish our story, so I expect you to be awake when I come back.”

  A steady beep is all I get in response. At least that’s something. Proof that life still exists.

  I leave her bed and am halfway to the elevators when a woman rushes past, hair poking out from her bun, mascara smeared under her eyes. She stops and talks to the nurses, her voice frantic. I know immediately she’s Sandra’s daughter. I’d know even if they didn’t look alike, which they do. Her daughter has the same pink oval birthmark on her neck, though it’s not wrinkled like her mother’s.

  I don’t linger, not wanting to explain who I am and why I’m here. It would probably only add to her daughter’s guilt. The elevator doors open and close, but the sweat on my neck only doubles. All I can picture is Aunt Doreen tapping a foot, wearing a smug smile while she chants, I told you so.

  Coincidence. It has to be. Because if it isn’t, then I just witnessed a legit answer to prayer. The very first prayer I’ve ever spoken, which makes the situation even more jarring.

  I suck in gulps of air when I hit the parking lot. My head feels funny, and I have this sense that something is chasing me but I don’t know what. As soon as I reach my car, I lean against the door and close my eyes, trying to rein in the panic. I know what’s driving it—guilt. For being here, for praying, for going two months without speaking to my mom. She didn’t raise me this way, to be driven by compassion and emotion.

  My heart is at odds with itself. Who I was and who I’m becoming are in too great a conflict to do anything but destroy each other. I reach in my purse, grab my phone before doubt makes me change my mind.

  She answers on the first ring, and the tears come again. “Hi, Mom,” I say with a choked whisper.

  “January,” she sighs into the phone. “It’s about time.”

  Talking with my mom always seems to ground me, even if we did spend thirty minutes out of the fifty-minute conversation talking about my stepdad and his vices. Trust me, there are some things a girl just does not need to know about her mother’s husband.

  Unfortunately, my mom has no need for such discretion. Nor does she have any girlfriends besides me. She blames her beauty, saying most can’t handle being the frumpy best friend. I blame the fact that Mom tends to flirt with any male who breathes, even the married ones.

  Still, the phone call accomplished what I needed it to. I feel tons better, and Mom and I are speaking. Even if Doreen and anything related to my living here isn’t among the things we’re speaking about, at least we’ve established communication again.

  I unfold from my Prius and stretch, my muscles tight from sitting during our entire phone call. There was no way I was walking into the church with my mom on the phone. I turn to shut the door and spot Cameron giving Darcy a hug. They’re standing by what I assume is her truck, and she wipes under her eyes after they release each other.

  That little green villain curls inside me even with her assurance they’re only friends. Knowing my luck, his interest in me has made her realize the error of her ways, and lunch was just a chance to get her hooks back into him.

  He backs away from her truck but watches it leave the parking lot. That’s a sign, isn’t it? A man turning to get one last look, or watching the empty road after the car disappears. It takes another thirty seconds for him to notice me, and when he does, I’m not so sure I want him to. Today’s been far too much of a roller coaster of emotions to deal with this right now.

  “Hey, you just get back?” His face lights with a smile, and my irritation fades. How does he do that to me every time? It’s like I have no capacity to be sad or mad or anything but stupidly giddy when he comes around.

  “Yeah. How was lunch?”

  “Not nearly as fun without you.” He lifts a small to-go box. “But I brought you back something.”

  “Really?” And now I’m blushing. Good grief. I open the styrofoam lid and see a blue-and-pink swirled dessert.

  “It’s cotton-candy cheesecake.” He shrugs when I look up at him, so incredibly touched I nearly start with the tears again. “To tide you over until I can get you out to a Rangers game.”

  I close the lid and hug the little box to my heart. “Thank you. I don’t even know what to say.”

  “You don’t need to say anything.” He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear and all my insecurity fades. “Just promise me we’re still on for tomorrow night.”

  “Absolutely.”

  He slides his arm around my shoulder, a favorite position for him I’m learning. Maybe it’s because our bodies are such a great fit. He’s tall enough to tuck me against his chest without having to stretch at all. “How was Mrs. Cox?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” No way am I diving into that story. I’m still totally freaked out by the whole thing.

  “Okaaay . . .” He draws out the word like he’s waiting for me to change my mind. I won’t. “Let’s talk about tomorrow, then. I was thinking a movie, some gourmet pasta, and my famous brownies.”

  “You cook?”

  “I cut open bags and follow directions.”

  He’s so cute, I nearly lean up and kiss him, then remember we haven’t crossed that line yet. “Works for me.”

  His arm falls away when we reach the entrance of the administration building, but only so he can open the door.

  “Darcy looked upset when she left,” I say as I walk through.

  “Yeah, it’s been a tough few months, and the stress of fundraising hasn’t made it any easier.”

  “Boyfriend problems?” Okay, I admit I’m fishing, but come on, anyone who’s ever watched the CW should know that girl best friends are the kiss of death for a relationship.

  “Darcy?” He actually laughs. “No. That girl tosses men aside like stale bread. I’ve told her a million times that she’s far too picky.”

  I can see that. Darcy oozes the kind of self-confidence that would entice anyone. She probably has no idea what jealousy feels like. Not like me, who’s feeling pretty silly right now.

  “Cam, that you?” Nate pokes his head out of the band room. “Oh, hey, Jan.”

  I wave, knowing it’s time to say my goodbyes but not wanting to. The last five minutes are the happiest I’ve been all day, and I don’t want to lose the feeling at all.

  See you tomorrow, Cameron mouths silently while stepping backward.

  My stomach does a jump-spin-kick, and I start my mental countdown once again.

  Twenty-nine-and-a-half hours to go . . .

  twenty-one

  At exactly 7:05, I knock on Cameron’s door and quickly tug my sweater back down. Tonight’s date outfit did not come from a box. It’s one Doreen helped me pick out, along with the leather ankle boots I’m wearing. Camel-colored with just enough heel to make my legs appear long and slender. The ensemble makes me feel like I could conquer the world. The leggings are lined and super comfy, the sweater’s a beautiful cream cashmere that drapes perfectly over my torso, with a multicolored scarf I had to watch YouTube to know how to tie. Basically I’m so fashion-forward I could be a pin on Pinterest.

  The door swings open, and my heart stumbles as I take in Cameron on the other side. He looks exactly like he does every day—simple jeans, a casual button-up shirt with the cuffs rolled back, and those dimples that are the perfect mix of shy and sweet.

  His eyes drink me in the same way mine do him, and a pleasant warmth fills my cheeks. “Come in,” he says, moving to the side.

  I step over the threshold and into his world, one not a whole lot bigger than my cabin. “Three of you live here?”

  He shuts the door behind me. “Yeah. It’s tight, yet somehow we make it work. Bedrooms are the size of a closet, but at least we each
have our own.”

  “You’ve made it look good.” The living room is to my left and is decorated similarly to the praise team room at the church. Band pictures and guitar stands line the walls, except for the one closest to the door. That one has a collage of record covers, probably close to thirty different albums. Some of the bands I recognize—Pink Floyd, Metallica, Journey, U2. “Quite the eclectic grouping here.”

  Cameron joins me. “Yeah, we call it our inspiration wall. Every one of these albums has a song that’s shaped our sound in some way or another.”

  “Which ones did you add?”

  He points to several of them, all artists I’ve never listened to—Creed, Skillet, Ashes Remain. Christian bands, I’m assuming.

  “Darrel’s the metalhead, Brian likes the softer stuff, and I’m a product of a family that didn’t allow us to listen to secular music growing up.” He points to the Metallica cover. “I was seventeen the first time Bryson played me Kirk Hammett’s guitar solo in ‘One,’ and I’ve never looked at music the same since. I couldn’t get the riff out of my head, so I stayed up the entire night listening and practicing until I had it down. Needless to say, my parents were not happy with my iTunes choices after that.”

  I imagine they’d be even less thrilled with the idea of his joining Bryson’s band. There was nothing uplifting about any of the music I heard that night. And from the little Cameron’s shared about his family, I get the impression they’re all very close.

  “You never told me how Bryson took your declining being in the band?”

  Cameron’s smile fades. “Not well, but he never does.”

  “He’s asked you before?”

  “About every six months for the last two years.”

  That makes me scowl and increases my dislike for the guy. Not that it wasn’t high already.

  “I still think you made the right call,” I say, in case he’s having any doubts.

  “Yeah, me too.” He sounds sure, but I wonder, especially when his hands go deep in his pockets and he stares at the ground.