I shift in my chair. “I don’t think it’s charm you’re using, but whatever it is, keep up the good work.”
“I hear Taylor’s going to be here tomorrow.”
“That’s right.”
“I really could have used her expertise with this,” Becky says with a sad smile. “She always gets the kids to perform better. Not sure how, but she does.” She finishes the update, then excuses herself.
Mark and I go over the next month’s schedule: spring break activities for the youth, signups for the summer camp-out, Vacation Bible School schedule.
“Anything else?” I shuffle through my notes.
“There is one thing."
His tone has my adrenaline kicking into gear. Gun shy, I guess. “What’s that?”
“I wish you’d had me sit in on your meeting with Simpson.”
“We’ve had this discussion. He didn’t give me a chance—”
“There’s talk, Paul.”
I scowl. “There’s always talk. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I want to have your back, but—”
“Then do.” My tone is abrupt, impatient. I hope it communicates I’m sick to death of the whole sordid business. “This thing with Alexis Andrews is a serious fabrication in her evil little mind.”
“Alexis?” He shakes his head. “What’s this about Alexis?”
A lead ball drops in my gut. If it’s not about Alexis… Gossip travels faster than a runaway train—and is just as deadly.
“Paul?” Dorothy knocks on the door while opening it. “Kent Richardson is here to see you.”
Mark gathers up his stuff and stands. “We need to talk.”
“Agreed.” I check my watch. “But I’ve got to head down to Roseville after I meet with Kent. Can it wait until Monday?”
“Monday it is. See you in the a.m.” He and Kent greet each other as they pass.
“Long time no see.” I nod at Kent.
He shuts the door. Is it my imagination or is the click of the latch ominous? Pulling a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, he tosses it on my desk.
Dare I open it? Every move is now shrouded in a dark covering. Veiled messages. Double meanings. False motives. Better to have a heads-up first. Rather than pick it up, I point to it. “What’s this?”
“An opportunity.”
“Great. We’re talking in riddles now?”
“Look at it.” He takes the chair Mark vacated seconds before.
Snatching up the paper, I unfold it. On it, a picture of a small church—some would say quaint—with statistics. “I don’t get it.”
“A friend of mine sent that to me. Their pastor took a position down in the Bay Area, and they’re looking for someone to come in and do some reconstruction. Bring it back to its former glory.”
I peruse the numbers. “I’m not a contractor.”
“We’re talking reconstruction of the human variety. The building’s in sound condition.”
It looks like something out of Little House on the Prairie. Instead, it’s a mere thirty minutes away. “Georgetown?”
“Yep.”
I hand the paper to him. “I still don’t get it.”
“A chance to start fresh. Leave all this backbiting and innuendo.”
“Afraid the gossip travels with you.”
Kent, eyes on the paper, says, “It doesn’t have to be that way.”
“I’m not turning tail and running. Not when I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“So, you’d rather wait around here while they crucify your reputation?”
With a sigh, I drop in the chair. “How many members?”
“Does it matter?”
More than I’d like to admit. “I’ve worked hard at building this church up over the last ten years.”
“And there are people out there who’ll do everything in their power to take that from you. Is that what you want?”
“The lies they’re telling about me—”
“It’s not just you anymore.”
First Mark, now Kent. “Corey’s past…mistakes are none of their business.”
“They don’t see it that way. And even if they did, it’s not going to stop them if they can use it to get what they want.”
I rub my face and blow out a sigh. “Why’s this happening?”
“That’s between you and the Big Guy.” Kent points to the ceiling. “I’m sure He’s got something to say about it all.”
“Maybe. But He’s not talking lately.”
Kent pushes up from the chair. “Might be you’re not listening.”
* * *
Corey
Taylor’s found her voice and there’s no stopping her. Her chatter fills the silence and tension between Paul and me as we pull into the driveway with a checklist of instructions. Keep television and music down to a minimum. 24-hour supervision. Not too much stimulation. Church is fine, but if she seems to get agitated, escort her to a quiet area to recoup. Be prepared for her to speak whatever comes to mind—no filter system.
It’s either inspiration for a sitcom or setup for colossal failure.
“We live here?” Taylor holds her injured bear tight against her chest. “I don’t remember this house.”
Unbuckling my seat belt, I turn to look at her. “We’ve lived here for eight years.”
“Oh, yeah.” She stares out the window at the yard. “I kinda remember that.” She points.
“What?” Paul ducks his head to look out my window.
“That…flower. No. What is that?”
I follow the line of her finger. “The oak tree?”
“Yeah. The oak tree.”
We were told to expect this, but still…it’s disconcerting to realize how much Taylor’s lost.
I open her door and help her out while Paul collects her bag from the back.
Every experience is new and daunting. Rambo jumps up on her when she walks through the front door, and she steps back with a squeal.
“That’s Rambo,” Paul says. “Do you remember him?”
“I brought him to see you a few weeks ago, remember?”
She ignores the dog and wanders into the house, as if searching for something. Or someone. “Where’s Michael?”
At least she hasn’t forgotten her brother. “He’s at work, but he’ll be home for dinner. Let’s get your stuff unpacked.” What will she think of the new colors in her bedroom? I spent three late nights painting the former pink walls lavender and mint. But will she remember?
The lack of memory is both a blessing and a concern. When she begins to put the pieces together…I’m not sure how we’ll handle it. Unless Paul moves to my side of the camp, it could be detrimental.
“This…this is my room?” Stepping through the door, she drops the bear on the bed and runs her fingers along the wall. “I…I don’t…wasn’t it a different color?”
That’s a good sign. “I repainted it last week. Do you like it?”
“I…I think so.” Walking the perimeter of the room, her eyes scan the posters on the wall, books in the case. Her eyes are drawn up to the high shelf encompassing two walls—every conceivable space crammed with china dolls she’s received every birthday since the day she was born, thanks to Mom.
She moves on to her desk and picks up the photo that takes center stage—her and Josh mugging for the camera. “Who’s this?”
Paul pokes his head in the door. “I’m ordering a pizza. What do you want on it?”
It took several minutes to navigate her through that decision. We settle on sausage, mushrooms, olives, and artichoke hearts.
“Why don’t you rest until dinner,” I tell her. “I’ll go put a salad together.” Tucking the bear in her arms, I cover her with a light blanket and leave her to nap.
Rambo’s at my feet the minute I start chopping vegetables. I toss him a small piece of broccoli as Paul appears. Every interaction with him is rife with tension. The ability to communicate has become foreign to both of us.
“W
hat do you think?” He snatches up a piece of red pepper and pops it into his mouth. The moment feels almost normal.
“About?”
He jerks a thumb in the direction of Taylor’s room. “It’s going to be a little tougher than I thought.”
“She won’t be able to go back to school this year, will she?”
“I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
“Mrs. Kendall told me homeschooling’s a possibility, but I don’t see how she can pass physiology or calculus.”
“Hey, guys, I’m home,” Michael’s voice reverberates through the house. “Where is everyone?”
“Tone it down, Michael.” Paul’s voice rivals his son’s. “Taylor’s napping until dinner.”
Forty-five minutes later, we sit down to a semi-warm pizza and salad.
“This is your spot, Tay.” Michael pulls out her chair and my jaw drops. Since when did he acquire manners?
Taylor grabs a slice of pizza and takes a bite before we’re settled into our places.
“Hey, Taylor,” I say. “You probably forgot that we give thanks before eating.”
“Thanks?” The word’s mumbled around a full mouth.
Paul, who sits at her right, reaches out and takes her hand, and we all follow suit while she chews, and he gives the blessing. Taylor’s “Amen,” echoes a beat behind the rest.
Michael bypasses the salad and takes two slices of pizza.
I hand the salad bowl to him and ignore the eye roll.
He scoops a minuscule serving onto his plate. “Can I take the leftover pizza for lunch tomorrow?”
“Lunch tomorrow?” Paul says.
“Yeah. I’m working. Hey, Tay.” He turns to his sister. “Did Mom tell you I got a job? Working at the Pit ’n’ Stop.”
Paul serves himself salad. “You can’t work tomorrow.”
Michael’s head whips around. Here we go again. Why is everything between these two a battle? “I gotta work. I promised Craig.”
“Sorry, but it’s not gonna happen. Have you forgotten it’s Easter?”
“So?” Michael scowls.
“So? What d’you mean, so? You’re expected to be there. Regardless, you’re not going to be working on Sundays.”
“You do,” Michael fires back.
Taylor’s eyes widen as she tracks the argument, her own food forgotten.
“Listen, guys.” I place a hand on Paul’s arm.
“I have to work on Sunday, smart guy. That’s my job.”
“And I told Craig I’d work on Sundays, so that’s my job.”
“That’s enough.” I shoot daggers at Paul and Michael, but they’re so embroiled in their battle, they don’t seem to notice my raised voice.
“It’s not the same, Michael.”
“This sucks,” he shouts. “You want me to get a job to pay back that stupid money, but you won’t let me work. So, what am I supposed to do?”
“You can work on Saturdays. Or maybe after school, if you keep your grades up.”
“You guys…” Taylor’s face scrunches up, greasy hands covering her ears. “You’re…noise…stop.”
I rush to her and kneel at the side of her chair, tugging on her hands... “It’s okay. They’re done. Aren’t you?” I glare at Paul as he kneels at her other side.
“No…fight…fighting.” Tears swim in her eyes. “It’s too…boom.”
“Sorry, Tay,” Michael mumbles.
“Your brother and I will finish this discussion after dinner,” Paul says. “In my office.”
Michael scowls. “What’s the point?”
Chapter 21
Paul
Church is packed with visiting families and bi-annual attendees to the Big Two—Christmas and Easter. Tons of kids, since there’s no Sunday school today. Boys with slicked back hair, miniature suits, and ties. Girls in pastel and lace. A banner hangs across the altar—Happy Resurrection Day!
My message has been prepared for a month, but I’m not feeling it. Too many battles in my head and heart. Too many disappointments. After dinner last night, Michael and I took ours to my office. I’m not a hundred percent sure he’ll accompany Corey and Taylor this morning. I left early.
Taylor home for the weekend stirs things up. I’m grateful she’s recovering but can’t shake my resentment toward Corey. Just when forgiveness seems possible, my head’s filled with sordid scenes of her and some faceless guy. Visions that turn my stomach and fill me with anger all over again. And yet, I’ve never needed her more.
Where does that leave us?
Warnings from Taylor’s therapists weren’t enough. I wasn’t prepared for the extraordinary work involved for her to hold up her end of a conversation. She chattered all the way home, but more random rambling than actual conversation.
The worship team starts up the opening chords of their second selection, I Will Rise, and I take in the sea of familiar and not so familiar faces. Beverly Pendleton, sans John, with some of their children and grandchildren Drew and Rebecca Simpson, Mark’s parents—third row, center—with his wife and young son. Corey, her arm around Taylor who’s covering her ears again, and, yes, Michael’s with them. Could he appear any more bored?
He had the nerve last night to tell me I’m hung up on what people might think.
“Who cares if I’m in church or not?” he’d said. “If you weren’t the pastor, you wouldn’t care.”
“Not true.” But was it? Was I more concerned about appearances than truth? I hated to admit the first thing that entered my mind was what Drew Simpson and his bullies would make of Michael’s absence.
“So, you’re saying I can’t work on Sundays at all?”
“Give me tomorrow.”
A glare was his only answer.
“Better yet, give your sister tomorrow. It’ll be hard enough for her. She could use your support.”
His features softened. Couldn’t fault his loyalty.
“You can work one Sunday a month.”
“Three.”
“Two.”
“Done.” His smile was triumphant. He’d worked me and I’d played right into his hands.
If we could only hone his manipulative skills for good.
Mark’s nudge brings me back to the here and now. “You about ready?”
I glance behind him where Becky’s got the kids arranged, ready for their performance. “Let’s get this show on the road.” And that’s what it feels like today. A show.
Mark introduces Becky, who marches the children out for their Easter performance. White-gowned bodies in angels’ wings. The cute factor more than makes up for the voices so far off key it makes my fillings ache. From my hidden position, I watch Taylor’s reaction with some trepidation. The noise level’s on par with the argument at the dinner table last night. I can imagine the reaction to her stepping up to halt the performance. But Corey’s got it covered.
Closing my eyes, I search for God’s presence. Are You there, Lord? Can’t do this on my own here. I’ve spent so much time pushing Him away, and now when I need Him…
It’s my turn to step up to the mic, and I find three friendly faces and focus on those for the duration. It wouldn’t do to get hung up on Drew Simpson’s scowl.
“Welcome to all of you in celebration of Resurrection Sunday. Some of you may wonder why I refer to it that way rather than Easter. This day is a celebration of the resurrection of Jesus Christ. Easter, with its European origins in a Pagan goddess, is identified more readily with a bunny and egg hunt. We want our focus to be where it should be—on the person of Jesus Christ.”
As I near the end of my message and the worship team gears up to retake the stage, a shuffling of bodies catches my eye. Corey and Taylor make their way to the aisle. Who is that following them? Alexis? Stumbling over the closing prayer, I plan my exit. I’ve got to get to Corey and Taylor before Alexis can spread more of her poison.
Disconnecting my mic, I step from the podium. The worship team files up, blocking me from stepping down. Nerves zingi
ng up my back, I push through the bodies with as much grace as an elephant on ice skates.
I can’t let Alexis get to my family.
* * *
Corey
I shuffle Taylor out into the sanctuary and shut the doors to muffle the music. Her face is scrunched up, hands pressed tight against her ears.
“You can let go now,” I say. It would be funny if she didn’t look so upset. Two months ago, she complained that the music needed to be louder, more contemporary. I suppose she won’t be making that claim again anytime soon.
Her hands come down in slow-mo, cautious. “It’s too loud. It hurts my head.”
“That’s fine. We can wait out here until the service is over.” Maybe we’d better wait in the car. Her entrance caused quite a stir—like some kind of rock star. To her credit, she’d only shrunk back a little.
I can’t even imagine what’s going through her mind. Getting dressed this morning had been a challenge.
“Can’t I…just…just wear…sweats?” She’d clutched the powder blue cotton set to her chest as if it were a treasured doll.
“Wouldn’t you like to dress up a little? It’s Easter.”
She shrugged. “I don’t have to wear a dress, do I?”
“No.” She’d lost weight in the hospital. A dress would be an easier fit than slacks, but the crease between her brow was reminiscent of her toddler tantrums. Taylor hadn’t had the terrible-twos—nothing halfway for my girl. She’d liked the expanded version that lasted until sometime in the middle of first grade.
We went through at least ten different outfits before finding something acceptable. Gray leggings with layered tunic-length shirt. Loose fit, but not so much they looked like hand-me-downs.
“Now, what about your hair?” We stared in the bathroom mirror together to assess. The silky-soft hair of two months before was dull and course. And that wasn’t the worst of it. What to do with that quarter patch of military-style outgrowth?
“It’s…ugly.” Tears pooled in her eyes and I scrambled for some way to make it better.
“We’ll do a comb over. If old, bald guys can get away with it…”
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