Kent throws me a look that says he knows what she’s up to. Mark’s smirk tells me he’s onto her too. But it isn’t us she needs to convince. It’s Simpson, whose downturned mouth and stiff posture tell me he’s already made up his mind, and it isn’t in my favor.
“Appreciate the two of you meeting with us,” I say, waiting for them to be seated before I resume my own position across from them. Mark sits at my right, Kent at the head of the table.
Simpson nods once—a silent acknowledgment.
Kent clears his throat. “We have a situation here—”
“Why’s he here?” Alexis flicks a finger in Kent’s direction, eyes on me.
“We thought it best to have an impartial participant.”
Her eyes widen. “Impartial to who?”
“He has no stake in this,” Mark says. “Everyone else in the room does.”
“Let me understand,” Simpson says, eyes drilling me. “The point to this meeting is you want to defend yourself against the allegations Alexis has made regarding inappropriate behavior.”
I nod. “That’s right. She’s made accusations that are flat out untrue.”
“So, what it comes down to is your word against hers.”
“Yes.”
“You have no proof that what you’re saying is true and what she’s saying isn’t.”
Kent rests his elbows on the table and leans forward. “His reputation is proof. There’s nothing in Pastor Shaffer’s history that makes these accusations suspect.”
“The same can’t be said for Ms. Andrews,” Mark adds.
I grip his forearm and shake my head. No point in dredging up hearsay.
Alexis throws up a hand. “My past? You want to start flinging accusations, why don’t we start with the pastor’s wife?”
Heat flames my face. “You leave Corey out of this. Nothing we’re discussing here has anything to do with her.”
She jabs a finger toward me. “He made inappropriate advances toward me, and when I turned him down, he kicked me out of his precious church. You want to believe he’s some sort of saint? There’s a mess brewing in his household. Where do you think it all stems from?”
The silence that follows is heavy with tension.
“Unbelievable.” It’s the only coherent word I can find. My mind is exploding with a tirade of thoughts too scrambled to verbalize. Is this woman a raving paranoid schizophrenic? What possible reason can she have for targeting me?
Kent is the voice of reason. “Let’s stick to the facts. Throwing around gossip and innuendo only muddles the truth.” He looks at Alexis. “You claim Pastor Shaffer made advances toward you.”
“Yes.”
“When was this?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Sometime last year.”
Rubbing my forehead with shaky fingers, I flip through the notes I’ve made. “We had an appointment for marital counseling on May twenty-first of last year. That was the only time I ever met with her alone.”
“Would you agree with that statement?” Kent asks Alexis.
“I guess.”
“Good,” Kent says. “Go ahead, Paul, and repeat for Ms. Andrews and Mr. Simpson what you’ve already told me about that meeting.”
I make eye contact with both Alexis and Simpson and recount the events in question. Although Alexis interrupts with snorts and eye rolls, Simpson’s focus remains on me. Does he hear the truth in my words? Or is he still taken in by Alexis’s lies?
“I want to conclude with this,” I say to Simpson at the end. “You’re causing quite a stir in my church over what you perceive as questionable behavior. I can defend every one of those allegations and am willing to do so from the pulpit, if need be. I have never made inappropriate advances toward Alexis or any other woman.”
Simpson squirms in his seat, eyes not meeting mine. What is it they say about a jury unwilling to meet the defendant's gaze? A guilty or not guilty verdict? Guess I'm about to find out.
* * *
Corey
It’s too cold to work outside, so I set up the dining room table with reading material, an algebra textbook, and an eighth-grade science book. Taylor’s impromptu classroom.
“What’s this?” She holds up the copy of My Brother Sam is Dead and wrinkles her nose. “I read this a long time ago.”
I don’t dare tell her that the eighth-grade reading book may be beyond her comprehension. “We’re going to start slow and work our way up.”
Flipping through the book, she plops into a chair. “This is a cinch.”
Oh, I hope so. “Good. Then why don’t you start from the beginning?”
Her eyes track the words, lips moving.
“Aloud, Tay. I need you to read to me.”
Big sigh. “Fine.” With the book flat on the table, she uses her index finger to track her progress, hair dangling over the words. “It was April, and…out…outside in the dark the rain whi…whip…ped aga…against the windows of our…tav…tavern.”
She continues to struggle through the first page, and I hang on each word, laboring along with her. If she stumbles over the simple text of this eighth-grade-level historical fiction, how will she master pre-calc and physiology?
Then again, how many weeks has it been since she started talking? Six? Seven? And she’s come so far.
“This is stupid.” She flings the book aside, face red, tears swimming in her eyes. “I’m never going to grad…graduate.”
Kneeling down next to her chair, I take her hands in mine. “I know it’s hard, Tay. But think about how far you’ve come since the accident.”
“I don’t remember.”
Tugging at her hands, I draw her eyes to mine. “No, but I do. I was just thinking about it. Six weeks ago, you couldn’t read a word. Veronica would show you pictures of everyday things, and you couldn’t even identify them. And now, you’re reading.”
“Junior high stuff.” She swipes at the tears. “I want to go to college, Mom.” Her voice cracks.
“Oh, sweetheart, you will. Your brain is working hard to reconnect.”
She pins pained eyes on mine. “Why is God doing this to me?”
How do I answer? Telling her He’s not isn’t working. The question continues to plague her—and me. Why is God doing this to us? As I open my mouth to speak, uncertain what I’ll say, the Lord puts on my heart my favorite verses from Proverbs. “‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and he will make straight your paths.’”
Taylor sniffs and looks at me, eyebrows drawn together. “I don’t get it.”
“It’s from Proverbs. Do you remember who wrote Proverbs?”
She shrugs. “Solomon?”
I nod.
“So?”
Standing, I lean my rear end on the table, facing her. “So, he was a very wise man. In fact, God gave him the gift of wisdom because it’s what he asked for. He knew that in everything, God had a plan for his life. Sometimes, we don’t know why things happen, but God does. We need to trust Him.”
“Do you?”
From the mouths of babes. If God could speak through a donkey, it’s no stretch to imagine Him speaking through Taylor. “Not like I should. Like you, I sometimes get caught up in the whys. Instead, I should be asking what? What is it He’s trying to show me?”
“You think God’s trying to show me something?”
“Oh, darling, I think he’s trying to show us both something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.” Standing straight, I clap my hands together. “How about we move on to page two?”
With a big sigh, she retrieves the book just as my phone rings.
Checking the caller I.D., I hold it up. “It’s Josh. You want to talk to him?”
Biting her lip, she reaches for it with shy smile.
“Only a few minutes. We have to get back to work.”
Making myself scarce, I slip into the kitchen to put together a sna
ck for Taylor. Her voice floats in as she regales Josh with our walks to the beach and her therapy sessions. She chatters non-stop, her voice on a steady rise, stuck on unimportant details.
What must Josh be thinking?
A few days before her accident, she and Josh were working on an English project—a reader’s theater script. Taylor was running circles around him.
“No,” she’d said, cutting him off. “You have to remember that you only have dialogue and inflection to communicate emotions. That line has to be stronger.”
“So, what do you suggest?”
“Hey, this is your project, I’m just coaching.”
“Then it’s fine the way it is.”
“Seriously?”
I heard the drop of a pencil on the table and could imagine the eye roll she gave him. Peeling potatoes at the sink, I stifled a grin. So much like her father.
“Geez, Taylor. Why do you have to turn every assignment into a Pulitzer Prize winner. It’s just a stupid English assignment.”
“Don’t you care what the other kids are going to think? You have to perform this, you know.”
“Do you really think anyone in my class is going to give a rip about this? I’m probably the only one turning it in.”
“Do you believe this, Mom?” She tossed the question at me.
“It is his assignment.”
“And you call yourself a teacher.”
I wished.
Now I listen as she jumps from one topic to the next—no rhyme or reason. It’s too painful to watch. “Hey, Tay? Let’s get back to work, okay?”
“Gotta go, Josh. I’ll call you tomorrow, ʼkay?” Smiling, she hits the end button.
College isn’t looking too promising.
* * *
Paul
I walk into an empty house. Not that long ago, I thought it’d be good to come home to blessed silence. And yet, now that I have it… I collect the mail, then sit at the dining room table. My office is too confining, only pointing out the isolation and quiet.
Ten minutes later, I have an excuse to call Corey. She answers on the third ring, her voice breathless.
“Paul?”
Her voice doesn’t relieve the ache of loneliness, it only emphasizes it. “Hey, Corey. How’s Taylor doing?”
“Oh, good I suppose.”
“You don’t sound so sure.”
“Well…she’s becoming aware of her limitations, and it’s hard. The upside of it is that I see more and more of her old self peeking through.”
“Giving you a hard time, is she?”
Corey laughs. “I should have brought my old copy of Dobson’s book, The Strong Willed Child so I could bone up.”
Come home, I want to tell her.
“But her speech therapist is wonderful, and I think she’ll make better progress here without the distractions. How’s Michael?”
Funny neither of us ask about each other but focus on the kids instead. “I’m guessing that strong-willed personality comes from your gene pool, not mine.” The joke seems to fall flat when she doesn’t respond. “Kidding, Cor.”
“No, I know.” But she doesn’t sound it. Does she think I’m rubbing in her past?
I scramble to get levity back into our conversation. “I hold all the power, though. If he wants to eat, he has to talk to me.”
“Spring break’s next week,” she says, as if just remembering.
“Something important about spring break?”
“N…no. Nothing.”
Why don’t I believe her? “Okay…” I draw the word out, give her a chance to explain. Silence. “I got a reminder from your dentist in the mail. You have an appointment next week.”
“I’ll reschedule.”
Has our marriage come down to this then? I want to tell her about the meeting with Simpson and Alexis, but how can I after months of keeping the whole mess to myself?
“So…” She sighs. “How’s Michael doing. Aside from attitude?”
“He misses you.” So do I. “He brought home another A in math.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Look, Corey—”
“I have to go. Taylor’s waiting for me to help her with a focus exercise her therapist assigned.”
She can’t get off the phone fast enough and…was she crying? Couldn’t have been. It was her choice to leave.
I should have told her about the mess of dissension that’s overtaken the church the last several months. Why have I waited so long? Truth is, I expected she’d bring it up herself.
To explain it all now on the phone with a wall between us—impossible. Maybe face to face…but we’re not.
And what’s settled? I figured it’d be a simple matter of the truth. The fact is, Alexis wasn’t much interested in the truth. Suppose it puts her in a bad light, as it should. But I did detect a softening in Simpson’s demeanor as he left, even if he said nothing. Is it enough? Only time will tell.
Chapter 28
Corey
The morning is bathed in a misty veil of fog when Taylor, Rambo, and I step outside for our walk to the beach. It’s become routine. I’m good with routine. It keeps me from thinking too much. About things like how much I miss Paul or the distance that’s grown between us. I somehow thought…well, I’m not sure what I thought. That he’d miss me so much when I left that our problems would seem trivial?
But we’re strangers. And there’s a part of me that fears it will never be any different.
I can’t even pray with expectation, because I don’t believe.
It’s what motivated me to call Mr. Hamilton yesterday to accept the teaching position for next year. I promised an answer by spring break. That starts today.
I hug my hooded sweatshirt tight against my body and follow Taylor and Rambo down Tricia’s bricked pathway. Will I ever get tired of the smell of the ocean?
Taylor stops at the end of the path and turns to me. “Which way?”
“Same as yesterday. Do you remember?”
She shrugs and gives an indistinguishable grunt.
“Think about it, Tay.”
Rambo tugs at the end of the leash. He knows the way.
Without answering, Taylor heads south. It could be a lucky guess or proof her memory’s getting better. I vote for the latter.
“What happened when I was in the accident?”
My step falters. “What do you mean?”
“Like did someone run into me? Or—” She shrugs. “Did you already tell me?”
This is the first she’s mentioned it. “What do you remember?”
“Nothing, really. Just…was I mad at you?”
My heart pounds and my legs turn to concrete blocks that I have to drag down the root-exposed sidewalk. I’m not ready for this, God. Rather than look at her, I stall for time, untangling Rambo’s leash from around his front leg.
“Are you okay, Mom?”
“I’m…” Drawing in a deep breath, I face her. To add another lie would only make it worse later. But to tell her the truth? It’s not the time. For either of us. “We had an argument that afternoon. You were angry with me.”
“I was angry with Mr. Johnson, too.” She tugs on Rambo’s leash and starts walking again. “Do you know why?”
“You have a lot of questions, Tay, but it might be better if we wait until your memory is a little clearer. I think at this point, it’ll only be more confusing than helpful for me to fill in the blanks.”
She stops and glares at me. “You do know why.”
“I promise you, when the time is right, I’ll tell you everything.” And in that moment, I know it’s true. I can’t avoid it forever. I won’t avoid it forever. But now’s not the time.
“Fine.” She steps over an exposed root and starts walking again. “But at least tell me if the accident was my fault.”
“According to witnesses, you ran a stop sign.”
She wrinkles up her nose. “I did?”
“Afraid so.”
Eyes
widening, she says, “Did someone get hurt? Oh, Mom.” Tears well.
“No.” I wrap an arm around her shoulder and hug her close. “You ran into a truck, but the man driving was fine. A few bruises, but otherwise—”
“You’re telling the truth?”
“Honest, Tay. Dad’s been to see him, and he’s fine. He’s even called a couple times to check on you.”
The tension eases from her shoulders, and she raises a shaky hand to wipe her eyes. “Can I write him a letter? Do you think Dad would send it to him?”
“That’s a great idea. Then you can let him know you’re okay too.”
We continue our walk in silence, me lost in my thoughts and, I imagine, Taylor lost in her own.
When we reach the beach, Taylor bends down to unleash an excited Rambo, laughing at his antics to gain his freedom. “What a dork,” she says.
A golden retriever joins Rambo, and they race across the ice plant and down the dunes to the wet sand, Rambo having to work twice as hard with his shorter legs. Is that Jonas’s—
“Seems Lexie’s found herself a friend,” a voice calls from behind us.
Taylor and I turn to find Jonas approaching, leash in hand.
Taylor points down the beach. “Is that your dog?”
He nods once, coming closer. “She is. Good morning, Corey.”
“Morning.”
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” His eyes crinkle when he smiles—a contagious smile.
“How do you know my mom?” Taylor looks from me to Jonas.
“You must be Taylor.” He extends a hand to Taylor as he steps closer. “I’m Jonas. Your mother and I met last week.”
Taylor shakes his hand. “Your dog is beautiful. How old is she?”
“Let’s see now.” He stares off for a moment, as if thinking. “Must be going on eleven this summer.”
“Rambo’s only five.”
“Rambo, huh?” he says with a chuckle. “Someone has a sense of humor.”
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