Illusions

by Jennifer Sienes

  “My dad,” she says. “He thought if we put a sign up in the yard that said ‘Beware of Rambo’ it might make people think we actually have a guard dog.”

  “Clever.”

  “Yeah.” She laughs. “But it didn’t work. Everyone knows Rambo.”

  “You must come from a small town.” He looks at me, eyebrow raised in question.

  “My dad’s a pastor. It’s like everyone watches to see if we’ll mess up. Like my brother last year. He got into trouble, and boy, did everyone know about it.” Her voice rises with excitement.

  Heat steals up my neck, but there’s no denying what Taylor’s saying, even if my first instinct is to do so. Life in a fishbowl. Paul would be horrified to hear Taylor laying our dirty laundry out for a stranger. Part of me struggles with it, but there’s a larger part that finds it refreshing.

  No secrets. No lies.

  “And now, the entire town of Carmel’s privy to it, too,” I say, making light of it.

  Jonas waves a dismissive hand. “How’re you enjoying our little seaside village, Taylor?”

  Taylor turns away, as if searching for Rambo. “I’d like it better if I didn’t have to go to rehab.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to explain that Taylor’s referring to rehab for TBI, not some kind of drug rehab. But why go there? Who cares if Jonas misunderstands the situation? Again, that would be Paul’s concern, but it doesn’t have to be mine.

  “It’s been nice chatting with you, Jonas.” I take Taylor’s elbow. “We’re off for an invigorating walk.”

  “It’s been a pleasure, ladies. I hope to run into you again sometime.” He tips an imaginary hat, his sweet smile giving away nothing of his thoughts.

  * * *

  It’s not lost on me, while coercing Taylor to go to bed, that I’m raising her all over again. Fighting over nap time and nagging her to complete her rehab assignments comes with a sense of déjà vu. We’ve done this before.

  Taylor’s supposed to attempt normal chores, like cooking a meal and doing the laundry. But each task is a battle of wills. To be honest, I don’t really care if she remembers to put the ground beef in the spaghetti sauce, but Tricia deserves at least a decent meal for her generosity. And folding the clothes isn’t all that important, but when I find Taylor’s bra in the kitchen pantry, I have to draw the line.

  Is it any wonder I’m exhausted by the end of the day?

  Tricia trails behind me in the kitchen. “Let me at least help with the dishes. I didn’t invite you here to be slave labor.”

  “Oh, please,” I scoff, squirting liquid soap into a pot. “You’ll be running for the Alka Seltzer anytime now.”

  “Leave these.” Tricia nudges me aside to fill the kettle. “I’ll make us some tea and we can sit out back and star gaze.”

  Ten minutes later, bundled in a throw, I follow Tricia out to the patio, a cup of herbal tea warming my hands. A mocha would be better. I can’t quite remember the last time I indulged in one.

  “Isn’t this nice?” Tricia sets her mug on a teak side table and settles among the cushions of a wicker chair.

  Joining her, I take a tentative sip of the hot tea. Yep, a mocha would be much better.

  “So,” she says. “What’s bothering you?”

  What is she, a mind reader? Taylor’s questions this morning have been marching around inside my head like a band at half-time. “What makes you think anything’s bothering me?”

  “We’ve been friends since what? Sixth grade?”

  “Fifth.”

  She nods. “That’s right. Fifth.” She blows on the tea, lowers her voice. “I bet I know you better than you know yourself.”

  She’d win that bet, too. “Taylor asked me this morning if she was angry with me the day of the accident.”

  “Oh?”

  “What could I say?”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told her to give it a little more time and I’d answer her questions. She’s not ready for the answers yet.”

  “Are you?”

  I shake my head with a sigh. “I wish…”

  “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,” she mutters.

  “What?”

  She smiles. “Something my mother would say whenever I said, ‘I wish.’ It used to really bug me, until I understood her point.”

  “Which was?”

  “Wishing isn’t going to make it so.”

  “Well, that’s helpful.”

  “Sorry. I’m doing more than my fair share of wishing these days.” She sets her mug down. “What do you wish?”

  “I wish Paul and I were handling this together. Better yet, I wish I’d never gone to that stupid party eighteen years ago.”

  “Then you wouldn’t have Taylor.”

  “Once she learns the truth, I may not have her anyway.” But a collage of past Taylor-starring scenarios flit through my head. There isn’t one I’d want erased.

  “Have you thought about talking to her therapist? Maybe she can help break it to Taylor.”

  I snort. “I can’t bring myself to tell Taylor. How am I supposed to tell a complete stranger?”

  “Sometimes I think it’s easier to be open with a stranger.”

  “I suppose.”

  “You’ll figure it out. How’d her rehab go today?”

  “Well, let’s see. She argued with Dottie over the necessity to write everything down, and she accused us of treating her like a baby. Then as we were leaving, Dottie informed me that Taylor would need to find some kind of volunteer position to help her re-enter normal life.”

  “Oh, that shouldn’t be a problem. There are animal shelters, libraries, hospitals.”

  “All of which require finger printing, a background check, and a promise of at least a minimum three-month commitment.”

  “For the animal shelter?” She sounds as appalled as I felt when informed of this.

  “Yep.”

  “Well, a three-month commitment isn’t all that much, is it?”

  “I can’t stay here three months. And that’s after the background check and fingerprinting come back.”

  “Hey,” she says, sitting up. “I have the perfect solution. Taylor can work in my shop.”

  “Oh, Trish, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Did I tell you where I found Taylor’s bra today?”

  “It doesn’t matter. She’s my goddaughter, after all. I love her like my own.” She rattles off one idea after another, and as her excitement grows, so does mine.

  When she winds down, we sit in silence for a moment. “How did you manage to be so strong?”

  “What?” Her laugh is whisper soft.

  “No, I’m serious. If Paul died, like Steven—I mean look at you. A walking advertisement for the single, successful woman.”

  “I suppose that depends on how you define success.” Her voice has a melancholy tone to it. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Corey. You never have.”

  “Credit for what?” I shake my head. “I’m standing on the brink of disaster, and I want to run in the worst way.”

  “But you won’t. You’ve managed to raise two beautiful children while maintaining the kind of quiet peace I’d love to have.”

  Tears burn my eyes and nose. She doesn’t know me after all. “It’s not peace you see when you look at me. It’s, I don’t know, weakness.”

  A gasp floats out of the dark. “How can you say that?”

  “It’s true, Trish. It’s much easier for me to ignore a problem than to face it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “All of this.” I wave my hand in the air. “Had I told Paul the truth all those years ago… before that night. My fear that he was like my father, how important teaching was to me. All those things that might have set us both on a different path. But at least it would have been an honest path.”

  “So you start from here.”

  “And expect Paul to accept this new reality after eighteen years? I might blame hi
m for taking me for granted, but the truth is, I put myself in this position.”

  Chapter 29

  Paul

  Half a block from the house, I hear it—heavy metal garbage polluting the air. Is it…? Yes, it’s blasting from the open windows of my house. I screech to a halt in the driveway and tangle with my seatbelt. With each boom, boom, boom of the bass, my temper rises until I’m slamming through the front door.

  “Michael!” The television’s on some music video channel. Black-clad, guitar-toting gyrators fill the flat screen, their so-called art pouring through the surround-sound speakers.

  Michael comes out of the kitchen, a half-eaten sandwich in one hand, soda can in the other. “Hey.” He bites into his snack.

  I point a shaking finger at the television. “Turn off that garbage!”

  Scowl in place, he sets the can on the coffee table and takes his sweet time with the remote, finishing off the sandwich and swallowing.

  Blessed silence.

  “It’s not garbage. Just ʼcause you don’t get it—”

  “The whole neighborhood just got it. What’s the matter with you?” Even as the words spew from my mouth, I know better. Corey’d say I’m the adult here and I should act like it. “I heard it blaring from down the street.”

  “It’s off now. No big deal.” He snatches up the soda can and steps past me. The stale scent of cigarette smoke follows.

  “Are you smoking?”

  He turns back with a scowl. “What? No.”

  “I want the truth. You reek of it.”

  He turns away again. “What difference does it make? You won’t believe me anyway.”

  “Don’t walk away when I’m talking to you.”

  Facing me, he says, “I wish Mom was here.”

  You and me both. “Why? You think she’d be okay with the loud music and smoking?”

  “I’m not smoking. I hung out with someone who does.”

  I’m not sure I believe him, but I take another tact. “You ever hear of guilt by association?”

  He slurps at the soda.

  “People see you hanging out with a smoker, they think you’re smoking.”

  “So?”

  “So, you already have one strike against you. You may not care what people think of you, but I do.” Could I sound any more pompous?

  “Who cares what people think? Just ʼcause they believe something, doesn’t make it true.”

  He’s right about that. “Look, Michael. I know it’s unfair, but people in this town are going to judge me by how you behave. They expect a pastor’s family to be above reproach.”

  “I gotta behave, but you can do whatever you want.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He shakes his head. “Forget it.”

  “No, I won’t forget it. If you have something to say, say it.”

  His jaw works for a moment, like he’s fighting the words. “All you care about is what people think. What about the truth? Isn’t that more important?”

  “Of course it is. But there are plenty of people out there who’ll make up their own truth. We don’t need to give them extra ammunition.”

  He mutters something I don’t catch. “What’d you say?”

  “I said you’re a hypocrite. You’re preaching one thing and doing another.”

  “Whatever you’ve heard—”

  “I didn’t have to hear it, I saw it for myself.”

  His accusation and anger are like a punch in the gut. “You better be darned sure of what you’re saying, son.”

  “There you go again.” He throws up a hand. “You say one thing but do another. It’s okay for you to accuse me of doing something, like smoking. You want the truth, but then you do something worse than smoking and I’m supposed to be quiet.”

  “What do you—?” Alexis. He’s heard her lies. “Are you referring to Ms. Andrews?”

  He just glares.

  “It’s just vicious gossip, Michael. It’s not true.”

  Shaking his head, he says, “Yeah, it is. I saw you with her.”

  That day in my office with Alexis, was that Michael I heard? What did he see? Whatever it was, he misconstrued it.

  “I know how it looked, but if you’d stayed—”

  “It made me sick. You with Josh’s mom.”

  Shaking my head, I say, “You got it all wrong. It’s not what it looked like.”

  His face contorts, eyes filling. “You were all over each other. How could you do that to Mom? You’re supposed to be different.”

  “Why won’t you believe me? Had you stayed even a few seconds more—”

  “Why should I believe you?” he shouts. “You never believe me. You think I’m lyin’ all the time.”

  “Are we back to the vandalism?”

  He doesn’t answer, just glares at me through watery eyes.

  “You were caught red-handed.”

  “So were you.”

  “I swear to God, Michael, I—”

  “Don’t bother. I don’t believe in God.” He storms out of the room while my mouth works like a drowning fish.

  * * *

  I can’t bring myself to go after Michael. I can’t face the disgust in his eyes, even if it’s misplaced. Instead, I slink into my office and hide away like a thief until I hear him leave for work. Did he mean it about not believing in God, or was that just a well-aimed slam? I have to head back to the church in an hour, make an appearance at a leadership meeting. It’s the last thing I want to do.

  First things first. Something to eat and a change of clothes.

  The fridge holds a half gallon of expired milk, a wedge of moldy cheese, and a couple containers of Greek yogurt. I don’t dare look in the crisper. No telling what’s growing in there. Slamming the door, I turn to scowl at the dirty dishes in the sink and littering the countertop. Did I expect Michael to pick up the slack in Corey’s absence? If so, I’m a fool.

  I’ll be lucky to find a clean pair of jeans, let alone a shirt to change into. I head to the bedroom a wiser man. But when I yank open the top dresser drawer, I freeze in shocked surprise. What’s this? Clean boxers folded and stacked. I move to the next drawer—t-shirts lined up in somewhat neat rows. Not up to Corey’s standards, but still… Did Michael do this?

  I pick out a shirt, then jeans from the next drawer—also clean, folded and stacked—and change out of my work clothes. Is this Michael’s strategy to change my mind about summer camp? I’m impressed. When did he learn to do laundry?

  Checking my watch, I snatch up the phone receiver and punch in Corey’s cell number. It rings four times, and I prepare a message in my mind for when her voicemail kicks on.

  “Hello? Paul?”

  I stumble over my surprise. “Oh, hey, Corey. I was expecting voicemail.”

  “No, it’s me. Is everything okay?”

  “When did Michael learn to do laundry?” Okay, that sounds accusatory. “I mean, did you teach him?”

  She laughs. “Don’t sound so surprised. It’s not rocket science.”

  The humor in her voice reaches in and grabs my heart. “It was just unexpected. He’s been moping around here since you left, and then to find clean clothes…well, you can imagine.”

  “There’s hope for the kid.”

  “Yes.” I don’t believe in God, he’d said. “How are you and Taylor doing?”

  She hesitates. Did her phone drop the call?

  “Corey?”

  “She…she’s starting to remember.” Her words are whisper-soft, but their impact isn’t lost on me.

  “Everything?”

  “She wanted to know if she was angry with me before the accident.”

  Resentment and empathy battle in my mind. I want to hold her, tell her everything will be okay, but at the same time, she brought this on herself. See to it that no one misses the grace of God and that no bitter root grows up to cause trouble and defile many. How do I get rid of that bitter root?

  Loving acts beget loving feelings. “Wha
t did you tell her?”

  “I didn’t know what to say. She’s not ready.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Or is it you’re not ready?

  “Do you think she is?”

  “Hard for me to say since I’m not around her.”

  A sigh drifts over the line. “So, Michael’s attitude hasn’t softened any?”

  Okay, change of subject. “I came home this afternoon to his music blasting down the block. We kind of got into it.”

  “He’s testing you.”

  “He said he doesn’t believe in God.”

  “He’s testing you.”

  “I don’t know, Corey. He’s so…angry. It’s like he sees me as the enemy.”

  “Don’t make too much of it.”

  Would she say that if she knew everything?

  “Listen, Paul. I don’t want you to take this the wrong way—”

  I hate it when she prefaces something with those words. “What?”

  “Lately, you’ve kind of been acting like his enemy. You two can’t seem to be in the same room without drawing your weapons.”

  “So it’s all my fault?”

  “I’m not saying that. But you’re—”

  “The adult. Yeah, I know. All I ask is that he show some respect.”

  “No, Paul, that’s not all you ask of him. I see him working so hard to get your attention.”

  “Because he wants something.”

  “Yes,” she says. “He wants your love and acceptance.”

  “He wants to go to that summer camp program.”

  Her sigh sounds weary. “You’re becoming a cynic, sweetheart.”

  I prefer realist. But after hanging up the phone, I try her words out for size. He wants your love and acceptance. Wasn’t that what she’d said when Justine came to me all those years ago, pregnant and scared? If I’d I listened to her then, would things have been easier for Justine?

  And had I not been so hard on Justine, would Corey have seen me as more approachable—able to handle her fears about marrying me? I can place the blame on her until I’m blue in the face, but truth is, something had been off and I’d chosen to ignore it.

  Two weeks before the wedding, Corey had a wedding shower in her parents’ backyard. When I showed up that night for our date, she’d seemed edgy, distracted.