Taylor presses on as if the tension level didn’t just double. “I also have a prom meeting after school.”
“You’re on the prom board?” Paul’s tone is Papa-proud.
“Me and Genice, Wyatt and Jason.” She hops up and pushes her chair in. “Hey, Mom. Can we go prom dress shopping this weekend?”
“Where are you going?” I look at the eggs and back at her. “I thought you wanted eggs.”
“No time. Sorry.”
Paul rises. “We’ll need to discuss this prom dress business.” He gives Taylor a mock-stern look. “Maybe we can find something from the Elizabethan period.”
“Ha, ha.” Taylor throws him a smile. “Don’t worry, Mom’ll make sure I’m not showing off too much skin.” She turns to me. “Won’t you, Mom?”
I focus on Michael, hunched over his plate, watching the interaction between Paul and Taylor through shaggy bangs.
Paul hitches his chin at Taylor. “I’ll drop you off at school.” He filches a piece of bacon. “You want a ride, Michael?”
“Gotta change first. I’ll ride my bike.”
Taylor snatches up her backpack sitting against the wall. “We can wait a few.”
“No thanks.”
“I’ll call you later.” Paul kisses my cheek and hooks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Do you have that women’s ministry meeting this afternoon?”
I nod. “And you think a board meeting is tough.”
Then he and Taylor are gone.
“I gotta get going.” Michael stands.
“Listen, sweetheart.” I stop him with a hand on his arm. “I know your dad’s a little hard on you—”
“He’s being a jerk.” He steps away from me.
Well, that’s a little harsh. “It may seem that way, but you don’t help the situation—”
“It is that way.” He jams his hands into his front pockets. “It doesn’t matter how I dress, he’ll find something else to pick on me about. Like my grades. Doesn’t he even listen to his own sermons on forgiveness?”
“He has forgiven you. He’s just worried you’ll get into trouble again, so he tightens the leash a little.”
“Bet he wishes I could be as perfect as Taylor. Must think he passed that goodie-goodie gene only to her.”
“Give it a little more time. He’s going through a difficult transition at work right now.”
“Whatever.” He storms out of the kitchen.
I blow out a breath and push the pan of eggs off the burner. “Well, Rambo. Looks like you hit the jackpot today.”
Chapter 3
Corey
Easing the kitchen door closed, I step across the tile floor and flip on the coffee maker. The muffled voices of the women’s ministry group, coming from the living room, are punctuated here and there with a laugh—okay, a cackle. Deborah Matson. Why is it her raucous humor hits a nerve today? My pastor-wife patience is a tad stretched.
My cell rings, and I snatch it up, tucking it between my chin and shoulder while whirling around to survey the platter of cookies I’d arranged earlier. “Hello?” The cinnamon-scented candle I lit an hour ago notwithstanding, everyone’s sure to know I didn’t actually bake them myself. They’re too perfect for one thing. For another—
“Corey?”
I nip a chocolate chip crumb and slip it into my mouth. “Speaking.” Salesperson? Needy congregant? That’s just what I need—one more thing to add to my calendar.
“It’s Tess Holland.”
The tension in my shoulders eases, and I infuse a smile into my voice. “Hey, Tess. Is the substitute hotline out of whack or what?”
“I prefer the personal touch. Besides, prepping for my students is so much easier if I know you’ll be covering for me.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow? I know it’s last minute, but—”
“Not a problem. It’s been a couple weeks, and I need to keep my teacher reflexes intact.” A day with students is a vacation compared to ministry duties.
“Your skills are wasted subbing, you know. Although, I’d be lost without you.”
Warmth spreads through me, as if I’d just been given a pat on the head from God Himself. “It’s all I can manage for now.” The lie slips easily from my lips. Too easily. As if the mantra’s become my reality. But until Paul sees the value of me working full-time, subbing’s going to have to do.
“Well, I appreciate you. And so do my students.”
Michael pokes his head through the door and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “What’s with the hen party?” Like father, like son. Since when did he adopt Paul’s vocabulary?
“Hold on a sec, Tess.” Muting the phone, I glare at him. “What are you, four? Can’t you see I’m on the phone?”
His eyebrows disappear beneath his hair. “Coming home to a roomful of women can do serious damage to a young man’s psyche, Ma.”
A giggle works its way up my throat, and I tamp it down. He’s getting much too good at manipulating me. “Make yourself useful and take the cookies in, okay? Tell them I’m coming with the coffee in just a minute.”
Eyes wide, his mouth drops open. “Are you kidding me? I barely survived my first pass-through.”
“It’ll hone your man-skills. Besides, they don’t bite. Much.” I turn my back on him to hide the grin as he takes the platter of cookies and mumbles something about C.P.S.
“Okay, Tess. I’m back. Sorry about that. Michael just got home, and I’ve got a group of women waiting for me in the living room.”
“No worries. I don’t want to keep you. The lesson plans will be on my desk, and I’ll let the office know you’re covering for me. I have a doctor’s appointment midday but call if you need anything.”
“Nothing’s wrong, is it?”
“No, no. Just a check-up. Thanks a ton, Corey.”
I thumb the END button and lay the phone on the counter. Humming a nondescript tune, I pour the coffee into an insulated carafe and place it on a tray along with five cups, a small pitcher of milk and a bowl of sugar. With an exaggerated grunt, I lift the now-heavy tray and back myself through the swinging door. Even with the load in hand, my steps are lighter. Suddenly, Deborah’s cackle isn’t quite so grating.
“Sorry for the delay, ladies. The coffee wasn’t quite ready.”
Linda slides the plate of cookies to the edge of the coffee table to make room for the tray.
Deborah nabs the carafe before the tray hits the table. “What do you think about an Easter pageant?” Starring her little Meghan, no doubt.
I catch a glib response on my tongue and swallow it down. God certainly has a sense of humor if women’s ministry is His plan for my life. I’d rather eat glass. “I think that’s a discussion for another time. Preferably when Kelley can join us.”
“But Easter’s only two months away.” Deborah shakes her head and fingers a couple cookies before landing on one. “If Kelley wanted a say, she should’ve been here.”
Sylvie clucks her tongue. “She’s got two sick kids at home, Deb. Cut her some slack.”
Deborah’s mouth takes on a lemon-sucking twist and her brows arch. “There’s trouble in paradise, all right, but it has nothing to do with sick kids.”
I stare Deborah down until she’s got the sense to lower her eyes. “Let’s stick to the agenda, ladies, if you don’t mind.” Why does every group have a resident gossip?
Carolyn shifts to the edge of the couch. “What needs to be done for the blood drive?” Bless her heart, she’s always quick to defuse the tension. “I’m happy to make some calls and see if we can get some home-baked cookies. It’s always nice to offer that instead of store-bought.” Her smile falters as if she realizes she’s just committed a faux pas. “Not that there’s anything wrong with store bought, Corey. I mean—”
“It’s okay.” I laugh and filch a chocolate chip cookie off the tray. “I’m not offended. Baking isn’t my forte. However, I’m a whiz at ordering them up at Sweetie Pies.”
Sylvie ch
uckles. “We all have our gifts.”
The front door slams, jolting my already-frayed fuse. Now, what’s Michael—
“Mom!” But the screech is all Taylor. Why is she home so early?
“In here, Tay.” I swipe an apologetic smile around the room. So much for my sweet, charming daughter.
Taylor storms into the room, cheeks red, hair loose, and comes to a stop so fast, she nearly loses her footing. “I—” Her face turns a deeper shade of red. “I thought you were alone.”
“Can it wait? I’m in the middle of a—”
“No.” She shakes her head, eyes welling.
Tendrils of fear let loose in my gut. This isn’t an ordinary school-girl tantrum.
“You know, I was thinking—” Carolyn jumps up and waves her hands at the other ladies to follow, “—we really should wait until Kelley can join us. After all, the Easter pageant is probably the most important item on our agenda anyway.”
“She’s right.” Linda collects her purse and gives Deborah a push toward the door. “We’ll just table this until next week.”
If it weren’t for the vacant look in Taylor’s eyes, I’d protest. With a claw working its way up my throat, I walk the ladies to the door, my heart beating triple time. Whatever could Taylor be thinking?
I close the door, lean my backside against it, and glare at her as she digs through her backpack. “You’ve managed to chase the ladies away. I certainly hope—”
“Look at this.” She tosses the backpack aside and thrusts a single sheet of paper at me.
“What is it?” I reach out for the paper trembling in her hand like a leaf fighting a stiff breeze.
She snatches her hand back as soon as I have hold of it, as if she can’t abide my touch. “It’s the results of my blood typing.” She turns cold, tear-filled eyes on me. “How could you?”
How could I? How could I what? Why is it every time the kids have a meltdown, I’m somehow responsible?
I scan the worksheet, but it makes no sense. Boxes, combinations of letters, along with plus and minus signs. Science does not, nor will it ever make sense to me. There’s no grade at the top, so it can’t be that. “What am I looking at here?”
Taylor machine-gun-taps a shaky finger onto the sheet and stares at me like I’m an imbecile. “I’m O.”
Uh, so?
“You’re O.”
“Okay.” I draw the word out as if Taylor’s five and I need to head off a tantrum. “I’m still not with you.”
“Blood type!” The screech, accompanied by the rush of color in her cheeks, has me questioning her sanity. “I can’t be O.”
There ought to be specialized training for parents of teenagers—strategic maneuvers or something. Was I this emotional at seventeen? “Let’s sit down, Tay.” I try and take her arm, but she snaps it out of reach.
“How can you be so dense, Mom?” Her voice breaks, and tears spill over. “Me and Dad do the blood drive, remember? Every year.” She slaps at the tears with one hand and yanks the worksheet from me with the other. “He’s AB. You’re O.”
A kernel of memory, buried so far in my past it’s become non-existent, begins to grow. It can’t be. This lab experiment is faulty. Isn’t it? Breathing is impossible and a hum fills my ears.
“Am I adopted?” Is that hope in her voice? A logical explanation for this ridiculous experiment.
I latch onto a thought like a drowning victim latches onto a minute piece of driftwood. “It has to be wrong.” I force my eyes to meet hers and wave at the damning evidence in her grasp. “There’s been an error.”
She shakes her head, face mottled, mouth set in a rigid line. “No error. We did it three times, and it came back the same.” She drops her gaze to the crumpled worksheet. “I’m not adopted, am I?”
I rub my temple where a dull drumbeat’s begun and scramble for an explanation—anything but what I fear is the truth. But there’s…nothing.
“Does Dad know?”
A hand squeezes my chest—the hand of God? —reminding me of my sin. If I couldn’t confess it to Him, how could I possibly confess it to Taylor? And Paul?
“You cheated on him.” Disgust twists her features, fists her hands, before she turns away and snatches up her backpack.
“Where are you going?” The question works its way past my constricted throat.
“What do you think?” She spins to pin glacier eyes on me as she reaches the front door. “To tell Dad.” Her voice cracks.
Go after her. Stop her. But my legs have no substance, no strength.
No fight.
The door slams and a sob escapes. I clap a hand over my mouth to hold in a scream and shuffle into the living room. Why, God, after all these years?
But He’s silent. Letting me stew in my sordid circumstances.
Do I call Paul? And tell him…what?
The front door slams, and a surge of something—hope, reprieve—shoots through me. She’s changed her mind. We can work through this somehow. I rush to meet her, but it’s not her.
Michael throws his hands in the air. “What’s Taylor’s problem anyway?”
I shake my head and turn away. “What did she say?” As if it matters. Everyone will have a front-row seat to my shame. To the death of my relationship with my children. The death of my marriage.
“Who knows what she was ranting about? All I know is she was ticked and going to see Dad.”
* * *
As long as I can muddle through mundane tasks, the world hasn’t yet ended. I load the tray that sits on the coffee table—cups, saucers, cookies—as Michael fills the void with a monologue. Aside from an occasional grunt, no response from me is necessary.
“So, get this.” His arm snakes around me to snatch a cookie from the tray as he shadows me to the kitchen, Rambo dancing at his feet. “Mr. McGinty says we have to use at least six sources to back up our research. You’d think it’s a friggin’ college class.”
A reprimand forms in my head, but my tongue is too thick to communicate it. It’s only a matter of hours before my parental moral compass will cease to carry any weight. What’s an indelicate word compared to the heaviness of my past? Even Michael’s brush with the law last year will seem trivial.
“You okay, Mom?” Michael’s worried blue gaze penetrates the protective fog.
How long have I been standing around like a loon, with the tray nearly dissecting my middle? I ease the knuckle-whitening grip and set it on the counter. “Don’t you have some homework?”
He rolls his eyes. “And you guys say I don’t listen.” He grabs two more cookies and backs out of the kitchen. “Research. Six sources. Mr. McGinty. Any of this sound familiar? Geez.”
Once he’s out of range, I press my hands against my belly, which is performing acrobatics of Cirque du Soleil proportions. A whine draws my attention. Rambo sits at my feet, black eyes accusing me. “I have to call Paul. There’s no way around it.” He cocks his head as if in agreement.
I fumble with the phone. It takes three tries to punch in his cell number. What will I say? I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Hello, sweetheart? Taylor’s on her way, and she has this crazy notion… Except it’s not so crazy. I’m the crazy one.
When his phone goes to voicemail, I hit the END button with enough force to chip my nail. What if he’s talking to Taylor right this moment? I thumb the church office and scrape at a spot on the counter with my now broken nail.
One ring—my heart’s thrumming in my ears. Two rings—I draw in a full breath. Three rings—I let it out with a whoosh.
“Crossroads Community Church, this is Dorothy. How can I help you today?”
“Hi Dorothy.” My voice belts out a wobbly soprano, and I clear my throat. “This is Corey. Is Paul available?”
“Oh, hi, Corey. He left about ten minutes ago.”
“Did he say where to?”
“Not exactly.” She tsks. “I think he’s a little anxious about the board meeting tonight. He said he had to clear his h
ead. You know what that means.”
Yeah, a reprieve. If Paul’s anxious, he’ll run a good five to ten miles. “I’ll leave him a message on his cell, but in case he doesn’t get it—”
“I’ll be sure and have him call.”
I busy myself bagging the cookies and washing the coffee cups and carafe while listening for the sound of a car in the driveway or the slam of the front door. Taylor will have no choice but to come home when she finds Paul isn’t at the church, won’t she? Can I convince her to let me tell him myself? And then what? There’s just no easy way to break something like this.
When the kitchen’s spotless, I snatch up the phone and try Taylor’s cell. It rings four times and goes to voicemail. Why isn’t she home yet?
I fill Rambo’s food bowl and check in with Michael. He’s slumped on the bed, tinny music coming from the buds crammed in his ears. A history book lies unopened at his feet while he’s focused on his cell phone. Unless one of his friends is texting research material, he’s off task.
Waving a hand from the door, I get his attention.
He yanks at the wire coming from his ear and his eyebrows shoot up. “What’s up?”
“I thought you were doing homework.”
“Taking a break.”
“Working at the speed of molasses won’t get much done, son.”
He nods. “Good one, Mom. I got it covered.”
I’ve heard that one before. But compared to what is sure to come, this isn’t a hill worth dying on. Instead, I pace the family room and, every thirty seconds, peer through the front window—which is where I’m standing when the police car pulls up at the curb.
Please don’t come here. But even as I whisper the prayer, the officer looks up at the house, a grim set to his mouth, and heads up our walkway.
Dear God. How is it possible this day could get any worse?
Chapter 4
Corey
After three days at the hospital, the house is a wreck—unopened mail piled on the dining room table, a mountain of laundry in the basement, and the innards of two pillows that fell victim to Rambo’s boredom blanketing the family room. Why did Paul insist on down?
Illusions Page 2