Illusions

by Jennifer Sienes

  This time, Alexis Andrews is by Paul’s side. Smug smile in place.

  An insistent trilling drills into my head, a dull pounding behind my left ear, pulling me from the nightmare. Awareness of my surroundings makes a slow appearance. It’s my cell phone. And I’m not in my bed. Tricia’s. I’m at Tricia’s. Thank You God. It was just a dream.

  Reaching for my cell on the nightstand, my heart picks up. Please, be Paul. I squint at the caller I.D., my eyes not yet focused. But it’s not Paul. Richard Carroll. My thumb hesitates over the ‘ignore’ button. How long can I put him off? At least long enough for a caffeine fix.

  Pushing the covers aside, I shiver in the early morning cold and shuffle up to the window, then peek between the wooden slats into Tricia’s backyard. The sun’s not yet up, but the sky is a predawn gray—no fog. A perfect morning for a walk.

  Now if I can just convince Taylor.

  Yesterday we made a token visit to the beach after church with Tricia. Just enough to whet my appetite. Today will be busy—Taylor’s first outpatient rehab appointment, unpacking to finish, and a little wallowing in my self-inflicted pit of doom. Paul didn’t call yesterday. I was so sure he would, but why should I expect he would? I left him.

  And he didn’t fight me.

  Snatching up my robe from the end of the queen bed, I don it as I leave the room. The tantalizing scent of coffee lures me to the empty kitchen. Just a note from Trish to greet me—Gone in early to the shop. Stop by for lunch. But bless her, she made coffee. Being alone works for me. I’m not quite ready for conversation anyway.

  I rummage through the fridge but find nothing more interesting than low-fat milk to doctor the strong brew. It’s better than nothing. Searching through cabinets, I come across a box of individual packets of raw sugar. It’s not chocolate, but Tricia hasn’t stayed in such amazing shape by indulging. I can’t say the same for myself.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m ready to hit the beach. Dressed in baggy sweats, I converge on Taylor and Rambo, both sleeping the morning away.

  “Hey, kiddo.” I sweep Taylor’s hair away from her eyes as Rambo maneuvers behind her to give her ear a sniff. “Let’s go to the beach.”

  “Hmmm.” Taylor’s eyebrows rise, but her lids seem to be glued shut. She mumbles something incoherent.

  It takes ten minutes to get her up. Another ten to talk her into a walk.

  “I’m tired,” she groans.

  Rambo spins in circles in front of her, as if he knows where we’re going.

  “It’s good for the neurons.”

  “What?” Her nose crinkles.

  “Veronica said you need to get some exercise every day. It’ll help the neurons in your brain reconnect.”

  She scowls.

  “Oh, come on, Tay. You love the beach.”

  “It’s too early, Mom.”

  “We need to go now if we want to get it in before rehab.”

  Once outside, the tang of the sea tickles my senses. A briny, salty scent not altogether unpleasant. The air is moist and cool, a slight breeze raising a chill beneath the light sweatshirt I’m wearing.

  “It’s cold.” Taylor folds her arms tight across her chest.

  “You’ll be fine once we get moving.” I tug on Rambo’s leash. “Let’s go.”

  We walk the half mile down 8th Avenue, passing multimillion-dollar homes no larger than cottages. Cobblestone driveways, copper-roofed eaves, custom gates and garage doors. Each one its own little wonderland. The residents must have high-powered jobs—no pastors among them—or have had their homes passed down, generation after generation. Like Tricia’s late husband. Still, it’d take a fortune just to pay the property taxes.

  Taylor’s not quite awake, so there’s no point in engaging her in conversation. I’ll have to tell her about my past—the past that was a roundabout cause of her car accident—but that won’t be the worst of it. How will she react when I tell her Paul’s not her biological father? She’ll want to know who is, won’t she? The fact that I can’t produce him—not even a name—sickens me with shame. If I can’t bear to look at myself in the mirror, how can I expect her to forgive me? Or Paul, for that matter? And then there’s Michael.

  A deserted ice floe sounds pretty good right now.

  The thunder of the ocean reaches our ears before it does our eyes as we cross San Antonio Avenue, then a patch of weedy grass, and finally step onto Scenic Drive. Frothy, white waves slow-roll, crashing in a tumble of power before skittering across the sandy beach below, dotted with pieces of driftwood and seaweed. Dogs run free, followed at a leisurely pace by their owners. Rambo tugs at his leash with a yip, and I bend down to release him.

  Taylor whips her head around. “What if one of the other dogs attacks him?”

  “I think they’re pretty seasoned.”

  “But Rambo’s not.” She tromps through the ice plant and slides down the sand dune in his wake.

  I follow, my eyes tracking back and forth between Taylor and Rambo, who’s stopped to greet a sleek golden retriever. The wind tugs at my ponytailed mop of hair. I zip up my sweatshirt and pull the hood over my head as I maneuver the shifting sand.

  “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

  I turn to reply and am taken aback by the vibrant blue eyes that greet me. They belong to an elderly man—silver hair, weathered skin, and the kindest face I’ve ever seen. “Yes. A beautiful morning.”

  “I’ve never seen you here before. Tourist?”

  “No. Not exactly. I’m staying with a friend.”

  He nods toward Taylor. “Your daughter?”

  I look at Taylor, who’s now on her knees in the wet sand, face-to-face with the retriever, Rambo sniffing its other end. So much for worrying about Rambo being attacked. “Yes.”

  “Well.” He starts to say something more, then stops. “I hope to see you again…?” It takes me a moment to catch the question in his tone.

  “Corey.” I offer my hand. “And you are…?”

  “Jonas.” He clasps my hand in both of his. “A pleasure, Corey.” As he turns to leave, he whistles once—a quick, piercing call—and the retriever Taylor and Rambo befriended sprints up from the beach to follow.

  A brief encounter with a stranger. Nothing out of the ordinary, yet—I glance back, but he’s gone.

  Curious.

  * * *

  Dottie Newman greets Taylor and me with a broad smile and firm handshake before leading us to her office. After working with Veronica for weeks, I half expected Dottie would be a clone of the younger woman. But Dottie’s older than me by a good ten years, her short, dark hair streaked with gray. She’s confident, but friendly.

  “First thing we’ll do is assess the severity of Taylor’s injury.” She rounds her desk in the cramped office and waves a hand at the two chairs facing it. “Have a seat. The hospital faxed a copy of her chart, so I have a place to start. But before I do, any questions?”

  Only a million. But I look at Taylor. This is her gig. “Well, Tay. Any questions?”

  “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

  “I explained about speech therapy,” I say. “Remember? We talked about it the other day?”

  Taylor shrugs.

  Dottie folds her hands on the desk and waits for Taylor to make eye contact. “The term ‘speech therapy’ is a little confusing in your case. My job, along with an occupational therapist, is to help you with focus and memory issues.”

  “I don’t have any.”

  Dottie makes eye contact with me and I nod.

  “Well,” she says with a smile. “If your mom talked to you the other day about why you were coming here, and you don’t remember—”

  “She forgets stuff, too.” Taylor’s tone is defensive—not unlike the Taylor of before. Strong willed.

  Dottie laughs. “Good thing she’s here then. She can learn a thing or two that’ll help her, too. But let’s focus first on you. What year were you born?”

  “Umm.” Taylor looks at me, eyebr
ows raised, like she wants me to give her the answers.

  “You’re on your own, kiddo.”

  “I think 1952.”

  “Wow.” Dottie laughs. “You’re older than I am.”

  “Okay,” Taylor says with a sigh. “Maybe I forget some things.”

  “Perfectly normal under the circumstances. I’ll be working with Heidi, the occupational therapist. It doesn’t look like physical therapy will be an issue, but we should let Jacob run an assessment before making that decision.”

  I clear my throat. “A couple questions, if I may?”

  “Of course.”

  “What is the expected outcome of therapy? I mean, Taylor was supposed to graduate in June.”

  Dottie shakes her head. “Unless you’ve made some special arrangements with her school.”

  “She’s on independent study. She has enough credits to graduate, but she needs to pass physiology and pre-calculus.”

  Dottie’s eyebrows disappear behind her bangs and we share a look that says it all—there’s no way Taylor’s graduating in June. That’ll go over about as well as my confession that Paul’s not her father. “Let’s take it one day at a time, shall we?”

  Our next session is with muscle-bound Jacob. I’d bet my last meal he’s a surfer. Sun-bleached hair, deep tan, and a loose gait. “Looks like we can forgo physical therapy,” he says, thirty minutes later. “Although, she might have sustained some injury to her shoulder. I’ll put together some exercises she can do at home.”

  We leave with three shoulder exercises, computer-generated homework, and an appointment on the books in three days. Twice a week for who knows how long? It could be months.

  Taylor buckles her seat belt. “I’m not finishing high school, am I?”

  “Of course you will, sweetheart.”

  “In June?”

  It’s so hard to disappoint. “Probably not.”

  “This is stupid! I got good grades in school.”

  I place a gentle hand on her arm, hoping it’ll calm her as it often does Paul. “There’s a lot of memory involved in Pre-calc and physiology. In time—”

  “That’s not fair, Mom. I want to,” she flaps her hand about, “oh, what’s the word?”

  “Graduate?”

  “Graduate with my friends. Not that they care. No one came to see me at the hospital.”

  “You had lots of friends come to see you. Remember all the stuffed animals we showed you?”

  Tears swim in her eyes when she looks at me. “But they didn’t come to the house. Not even Josh.”

  “You weren’t home long enough. That’s my fault. I brought you here—”

  “Why?”

  “What?”

  “Why’d we come here?”

  Now’s not the time for the truth. Not when she’s emotional and tired from therapy. Or am I just making excuses?

  “I thought it would be good for us to get away. You love the ocean.” Lame. “It’ll be easier for us to work on your rehabilitation here. Your dad and Michael…well, they aren’t getting along.” Yeah, blame them.

  “No high school. That means no college.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetie. I know this is hard.”

  “Why’s God punishing me?”

  “God’s not punishing you. You’ve done nothing wrong. And even if you had, that’s not how He works.” But haven’t I believed this more than once since the accident? That I’ve somehow not repented enough, not paid enough for my sins? Why is it I can assure others of God’s grace when I can’t accept it for myself?

  “I’m hungry,” Taylor says.

  “You want to get an ice cream before we go back to Tricia’s?”

  Swiping at the tears, she nods. And just like that, she’s assuaged.

  If only ice cream could fix everything.

  Chapter 27

  Paul

  It’s been two days since Corey left. I should call. I meant to, but the lies and innuendoes hanging over me—over us…of course it’s not all lies. Alexis has just enough truth to change the game.

  I pull into the parking lot at Kent’s church—a safe zone—and head around the back where his office is located. Mark’s beater car sits in the back lot along with others I don’t recognize. We scheduled a strategy meeting first but could be Simpson and Alexis have their own strategic plans. Arrive early, get the upper hand.

  Stepping through the double glass doors, I attempt to tamp down the comparison game, with little luck. The bane of my existence. Nicer digs than mine. Larger church. Larger staff. I’m greeted by Janice McPherson. I know her because she once attended Crossroads. Was it the music or my deliverance of the message that motivated her to leave?

  It’s always something.

  “Janice. So good to see you,” I greet with a forced smile. “How’re Nathan and the kids?”

  “Pastor Paul.” She gives me an awkward smile in return. Situations like this are never free from embarrassment from one party or the other. Or both. “Pastor Kent told me to send you on in.” She points to the door behind her. It’s not until I’m opening it that I realize she never answered my question.

  The room I enter isn’t Kent’s office, as expected, but a small conference room not unlike the one where I hold my board meetings. Kent and Mark sit at a round table with three empty seats.

  I slide the folder I carried in across the table to Kent before sitting. “Appreciate you mediating, Kent.”

  “Glad to do it. Are these the complaints presented at the last board meeting?”

  I nod, then turn to Mark. “You ready for this?”

  “Is anyone ever ready?”

  I’d like to assure him I am, but the knot in my stomach says different. Nothing more disconcerting than having accusations thrown at you. Is it righteous anger that makes me uneasy, or that there’s enough guilt in the mix?

  Kent looks up from the file as I sit. “So, how much of this is true?”

  “It’s all lies,” Mark says. His defense of me eases my breathing some.

  “That’s not true,” I say. “Yes, Michael vandalized the elementary school last year. Yes, I’m living in a house that, by all appearances, is above my pay. The truth is, I inherited the bulk of it from my father.”

  “So, the real issue is what?”

  I shake my head. “Simpson made some cockamamie claim that I am now, or have been, messing around on the side. No doubt information he gleaned from Alexis.”

  Kent looks me in the eye. “And you’ve already assured me that’s not true.”

  “A woman scorned.” Mark snorts. He never even questioned the truth of it. Will Corey be so loyal to my reputation?

  “So, let’s go over it again,” Kent says. “You can be sure Simpson will.”

  “Okay.” I clear my throat. “Last May, Alexis and her husband, John, separated. I suggested counseling, to see if they couldn’t resolve their issues without a divorce. John refused, but Alexis asked if she could see me.”

  “Alone?”

  “She didn’t say. But I wasn’t going there. I asked Corey to sit in on the sessions.” Kent and I have already gone over this, but Mark wasn’t present. “May 21st, Corey got stuck at school and was unable to be there. By the time she informed me, it was too late to contact Alexis. Dorothy, my secretary, wasn’t present. So, when Alexis showed, I told her we’d have to reschedule. She had other ideas.”

  “You’ll have to be more specific,” Kent says. “If Simpson is unaware that Alexis lied, then you give her a chance to fill in the blanks however she wishes.”

  Heat steals up my neck. Alexis wasn’t the first woman to make a pass. There’s something about the pastoral position that gives some women a thrill. The first time it happened it was like I’d been stripped of what I thought was a protective shield. Some women have no boundaries.

  I reposition my chair. “When she walked into my office, I stepped around my desk to escort her out. Instead of backing up, she moved in, snaked”—the most appropriate word— “her hands ar
ound my neck, and kissed me full on the mouth.”

  “And what did you do?” Kent says.

  “I grabbed her wrists and removed her. Then I told her that she would not only need to find a new counselor, she’d need to find a new church. She was no longer welcome at Crossroads.”

  Mark leans forward, eyes wide. “What’d she do?”

  “She got angry. Nasty is a better word.” Vile woman. “She accused me of giving her signals for weeks, and said she knew I couldn’t possibly be satisfied at home.” I can’t look them in the eye with this one. It’s a betrayal of Corey in some way.

  “Anyone else witness this?” Kent says.

  I shrug. “I thought I heard the outer office door open about the time she made her move, but there was no one there.”

  “Then it’s your word against hers.”

  “I suppose.”

  Mark shakes his head. “A slam dunk.”

  “Why do you say that?” Kent asks.

  “She’s got a reputation.” He points to me. “You’re not the first.”

  “I didn’t think I was.” She was too practiced. Too slick.

  Kent addresses Mark. “We don’t want to turn this into a mudslinging contest, but if you have someone to back you up—”

  “No,” I say. Both Mark and Kent look at me like I’ve lost my mind. “If we do that, we’re putting others in an awkward position. Someone might feel compelled to step in, but at what cost?” I shake my head. I let Corey leave to protect her from this. Why would I make someone else vulnerable to Alexis’s lies?

  A knock on the door draws our attention as Janice opens it. “Mr. Simpson and Ms. Andrews are here.”

  “Show them in,” Kent says. He stands then looks at me. “You ready?”

  “I better be.”

  * * *

  I haven’t had much experience with female manipulation. Not Corey’s style, thank God—a fact I tuck away for later consideration. But when Alexis walks into the conference room, it’s obvious she’s setting the stage from the get-go. Playing a part with the pious church-like dress, hair pulled back, squeaky clean face. I’ve never seen her downplay her looks before, but when it suits her… Does she really think she’s fooling anyone?