Illusions

by Jennifer Sienes

  Beautiful, sweet Trish. How did I not see that she’s every bit as lost as I? “We’re still pretty young, you know.”

  She smiles before turning back to the rack. “In our prime.”

  “Not even middle age by today’s standards.”

  “These are perfect.” She waggles a pair of faded, skinny jeans.

  “For who?”

  “You, silly.”

  I snort. “Yeah, if I was Pastor’s Wife Barbie. Even if I could fit into those—”

  “Bet you can.”

  “—and be able to breathe, they’re not appropriate.”

  “Trust me, okay. I only carry appropriate clothing.”

  “So, back to the point I was trying to make.”

  She walks past me and hangs the jeans with the silk top. “Ah, yes. We’re not even middle aged.”

  “You should have more than me and my family, Trish. You could get mar—”

  The bell over the door tinkles, announcing three female customers.

  “Good afternoon, ladies. How are you today?”

  “Good,” the chorus replies.

  “Let me get Jasmine to assist you.” She turns to me. “Be right back.”

  I swipe at my hair and throw a smile at the ladies, who are oohing and aahing over Tricia’s inventory.

  Jasmine emerges from the back, followed by Trish. “Good afternoon, ladies. May I help you find something?”

  “One more thing.” Trish grabs my arm and pulls me to a sales rack. “I had this great sweater—where is it?” Talking to herself, she riffles through the clothes.

  “As I was saying…” Tricia’s got the attention span of a two-year-old when it suits her. “You should think about remarrying.”

  “Ta da,” she sings, holding up a cream-color sweater wrap. “Here it is.”

  “Are you listening to me?”

  “This’ll look great with those jeans. A pair of low-cut boots and we’re good to go.”

  “Tricia!”

  Wrapping an arm around my shoulder, she walks me to the dressing room. “I hear you, Cor. But really, who am I going to marry? Maybe if Jonas had a son, otherwise,” she shrugs, “the pickin’s are slim.”

  * * *

  Paul

  I pull into Craig’s Pit ’n’ Stop and tuck the bag of burgers and fries behind the passenger seat. Two chocolate shakes sit in the cup holders. Two minutes to five. Any later, I might have missed Michael. I’m perusing directions on the map app on my phone when he lumbers out of the garage. I’m close enough to catch the scowl.

  He looks around, like he’s scoping out an escape route, before heading to the car. Poking his head through the open passenger-side window he scowls again. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I thought we’d go for a ride.”

  “I’m going to the movies with Dan.”

  Hate to use the parent-card… Who am I kidding? I use it all the time. “It’s not a request, son.”

  “Man,” he moans, yanking the door open and plopping onto the seat. “Whatever happened to your rule about sticking to commitments?”

  I offer my cell phone. “Do you need to call him?”

  “No.” He buckles up and slinks low in the seat. It’s doubtful the belt will be much protection.

  “You didn’t have plans to go to the movies, did you?”

  “What difference does it make? You’re gonna make me go with you anyway.”

  “True.” I reach behind his seat and snag the sack. “You hungry?”

  He shrugs, but he doesn’t turn down the meal.

  I head toward Highway 49 as he distributes dinner. A burger for him, a burger for me, both orders of fries into the now-empty sack. He tears open two packets of salt, dumps them over the fries, closes the bag and shakes. He places the open bag on the middle console where we can both reach it. Like old times. How long’s it been since we’ve done this? A year or more’d be my guess. Not since the school incident. Or more accurately, not since the Alexis incident.

  “Where’re we going?” he mumbles over a mouthful of fries.

  “Georgetown.” Keeping my eyes on the road, I try to maneuver the wrapper off my burger in my lap.

  Michael sighs, snatches up my burger, pulls the wrapper down and hands it back to me.

  “Thanks.”

  “Just trying to keep you from killing us.”

  We drive in silence, focused on our fast-food meal. Every now and then we reach for fries at the same time and our hands bump. It’s not an unpleasant situation. At least we’re not screaming at each other. Progress, right?

  Ten minutes into our drive, Michael asks, “What’s in Georgetown?”

  “Possibilities.”

  “Cryptic.”

  “Cryptic?” I check to make sure it’s my son in the seat.

  “Vocab word. So, you don’t want to tell me?”

  “Nothing to tell. Yet. When I know, you’ll know.”

  “And they say teenagers suck at communication.”

  “How’s the job going?”

  “It’s going.”

  For the briefest moment, life’s good. At least the hope of good. Dare I tread on that? “Look, Michael. I want to talk to you about what you saw with Ms. Andrews.”

  He wads the burger wrapper. “I knew it. You afraid I’ll tell Mom?”

  “No.”

  “So, did you tell her?”

  He’s got me there. “It’s bigger than you realize.”

  “So, you didn’t tell her.”

  “What you saw—it caught me by surprise. Had you stayed even one second more, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.” I glance at him. “You wouldn’t have gotten into trouble.”

  He plucks his shake from the holder and focuses out his window. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me I was the reason you trashed the school?”

  “Said I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Is it because you were trying to protect your mom?”

  “Dad!” He turns to me. “Why can’t we just drop it?”

  “Because ignoring it won’t make it go away.”

  No response.

  “Do you believe me? About Ms. Andrews?”

  He’s silent for so long, I’m surprised when he finally answers. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you want to believe me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well then, that’s a start.”

  We turn onto Highway 193 West, and he pulls his phone from his shirt pocket, plugs in ear buds, and tunes me out.

  Fifteen minutes later, we pull into Georgetown and Michael sits up, like it’s just getting interesting. I park the car in front of Community Church, and he yanks the wires to his earbuds.

  “You’re really not gonna tell me why we’re here?”

  The church is small, but looks historical—late 1800s maybe? There won’t be a stage for worship or much space for Sunday school. Where do they hold church functions? A basement?

  “Dad?”

  “Hmmm?” I glance at Michael.

  “I only have a couple more weeks of school.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I go to Mom’s?”

  Mom’s? Sounds so separate. “She might be home by then.” God willing.

  “I mean if she’s not.”

  “You going to quit your job?” More to the point, are you leaving me, too?

  “I can get a few days off.”

  A few days. That, I can handle. “I don’t see why not. What d’you think of this church?”

  He peers out his window. “It looks old.”

  Classic, is what I’m thinking. Couldn’t seat more than a few hundred, tops. No possibility for much growth. But that might not be a bad thing.

  Focus on what’s in front of me, for a change.

  Chapter 34

  Corey

  For the third day in a row, Taylor refuses to join me for our morning walk. The amount of time she’s not talking to me is in direct corre
lation with how much she is talking to Paul. Their once-a-day phone calls have multiplied two or three times. She’s using him as a weapon—not that it bothers me. Much. At least their relationship isn’t suffering in the aftermath.

  Tricia sends me off with a promise to get Taylor up and dressed in time for her rehab appointment.

  “I guess it’s just the two of us, Rambo.” Clipping his leash, we make the five-minute walk to the beach. I use the silence to pray. At least God’s not argumentative—not to my face, anyway. I’m sure He’ll have some points to make when the time’s right. For now, it’s enough that we’re talking again. Or I am.

  When we reach the beach, I breathe in the briny, moist scent—will I ever tire of it? —and let Rambo loose. His short legs struggle with the sand until he hits the wet stuff. Such energy and enthusiasm. If only I could bottle it.

  A golden retriever bounds toward Rambo. Lexie? I scan the beach in search of Jonas. I haven’t seen him since I picked Taylor up from his church. Concern for him and his wife, Beth, has wriggled its way into my heart. Once I spot him, I’ll know everything’s fine. But then a middle-aged man whistles for the dog. He’s too far from me to get a good look, but his hair is brown, instead of Jonas’s shock of white. Maybe I’ll stop by the church.

  I call Rambo and we continue our hour-long walk down the beach and back. When I get to Tricia’s, Taylor is dressed and waiting, as promised.

  “You ready for rehab?” I pass her sitting on the couch and head for the kitchen. A piece of toast and a banana and I’ll be ready to go.

  She follows, arms crossed, and leans against the entrance. “I don’t need you there.”

  Retrieving the whole wheat bread from the freezer, I glance at her. “Are you going to walk?”

  “No. I mean I don’t need you to come in with me.”

  “Sorry, kiddo, but you don’t have a choice. I can’t help with the assignments if I don’t sit in on the instructions.”

  “They’re stupid.” Nostrils flared, eyebrows lowered, she glares at me. “I don’t need to do rehab. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  Trish steps in through the French doors leading to the back patio. “What’s going on?”

  “Taylor doesn’t seem to think she needs rehab. There’s nothing wrong with her.” I drop the bread into the toaster.

  “Then what’s this?” Trish holds up a toothbrush. “I found it in Rambo’s water dish.”

  “I—” Taylor’s face reddens. “I was brushing my teeth when I went out to feed Rambo. It’s no big deal.”

  I pick through the bananas. “Weren’t you looking for it last night?”

  “She was,” Trish says. “I had to give her a spare.”

  “Like you guys never make mistakes.” She snatches the toothbrush from Tricia and stomps out with all the maturity of a two-year-old.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  Trish shrugs. “Tantrum or not, just having you guys here makes my life much more interesting.”

  “Is she that forgetful at your shop?”

  “Like I said, life’s more interesting.”

  Twenty minutes later, the silent treatment continues as I park the car at the rehab center. “Do you have your day planner?”

  Taylor holds up the leather-bound book, a bribe to get her excited about keeping copious notes on everything. Her definition of copious and mine differ by a mile.

  “Let’s go then.”

  “I don’t want you in there.”

  “Like I said before, you don’t have a choice.” I drop the keys into my purse and open the door. “You want to be angry with me? Fine. But the longer you act like a spoiled three-year-old, the longer your recovery. No recovery, no high school graduation. And until you graduate, you’re stuck with me.”

  She looks at me like I slapped her. “Dad said I can go home whenever I want.”

  Is Paul undermining me now? “So now he’s Dad again?”

  “Whatever,” she mutters, pushing her door open.

  She’s too old for a swat on the butt, but I’m sorely tempted.

  As we cross the parking lot, I follow a few paces behind, far enough to give her some semblance of independence, but close enough to step in if she walks in front of a car. We get to the elevator, and I step into the corner, hands behind my back.

  “Well?” Raising her eyebrows, she gives a little head shake. A non-verbal “duh.”

  “You don’t need me, remember?” I’ve stooped to her level. I’m not proud of it, but it feels good. There’s a sense of release in not caring. I’ve made it too easy on her—which is why she doesn’t think she needs me. Every time confusion shadows her face, I jump in and take over. No more.

  Her finger hovers over the buttons.

  An older couple step in, eyeing first Taylor, then me. The gentleman reaches past Taylor and hits 3. “What floor do you need, young lady?” He asks Taylor.

  She throws panicked eyes in my direction.

  He turns to me. “Ma’am?”

  “We’ll go to three too.”

  Silence descends as the elevator lurches its way up to the third floor. The doors open, and the couple steps out. Taylor follows. “This isn’t the right floor.”

  “No.” I wait for her to return.

  “What floor?”

  I shrug. “You don’t need me, remember?”

  “Really, Mom?”

  I check my watch. We should be signing in by now. “You might want to check your day planner.”

  She folds her arms, the planner tucked against her chest. “I didn’t put it in my planner.”

  “Didn’t Dottie tell you to?”

  “Can you just tell me what floor?” She makes eye contact for the first time in days. “Please?”

  “Eight.”

  “Jeez,” she mutters, punching 8. “Why do you have to make it so hard?”

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet, sweetheart.”

  * * *

  “So, tell me.” Dottie gathers up Taylor’s chart. “How’s the independent study going?”

  “Good,” Taylor says.

  “How’s your reading comprehension?”

  “Really good.”

  Dottie looks at me, and I give her a slight head shake.

  “I don’t see why I can’t graduate with my class.”

  Dottie folds her hands and places her elbows on the desk. “In less than two weeks? I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

  “I was accepted to Sac State for next year.” Taylor whips her head around to look at me. “I can’t go to college if I don’t graduate.”

  “College isn’t going anywhere, sweetie. Let’s just concentrate on one thing at a time.”

  “We’ll talk more about it on Monday,” Dottie says. “Our time’s up for now.”

  When we step into the elevator, Taylor turns to me, eyes welling. “My friends. They already think I’m an idiot. Now they’ll know.”

  “We both know you’re not an idiot.”

  “I used to be smart,” she whispers.

  I put a hand out to pat her arm, but she shrugs me off. She’s more like her dad than she realizes.

  “This is your fault. My accident. If you hadn’t cheated on Dad—”

  “You wouldn’t be here right now.” Enough’s enough.

  “Yeah.” She glares at me as the elevator doors open. “I’d be home, getting ready to graduate.”

  I step out ahead of her. “No, my dear. You wouldn’t have been born.”

  “You wish.” She stomps past me and pushes through the glass doors.

  I pick up the pace. Leaving her to fail on her own is one thing; letting her walk in front of a moving vehicle is another. But we get to the car without incident, if you don’t count childish sneers and glares. Maybe it’s because I’m tired of beating myself up over Taylor’s accident, or maybe Jonas’s words have impacted me more than I realized, but I’m sick to death of the rain of judgment.

  Buckling my seat belt, I turn to
Taylor. “You have every right to be angry with me. I get it. But whatever I did or didn’t do to your dad is between us. You don’t get to throw it in my face again. Are we clear?”

  Nostrils flaring, eyes hooded by drawn eyebrows, she stares through the windshield. “Whatever.”

  Oooh, I’m tempted to slap that snide look right off her face. With a deep breath and a quick prayer for patience, I start the engine. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a detour before going home.”

  “And if I do?”

  “Too bad.”

  Twenty minutes later, I pull the car into the parking lot of Oceanside Presbyterian. Relief eases the tension in my shoulders when I recognize Jonas’s car. I’ve been worried over nothing. He’s probably just been busy.

  “Why are we here?”

  “I want to check on Jonas. He hasn’t been at the beach in the mornings.”

  “I’m not going in. I want to call Dad.”

  I hand her my cell phone. “Stay in the car.”

  The church doors are unlocked, the interior empty. It would be in poor taste to call out, but maybe—

  “May I help you?” Jonas’s voice comes from behind me. He must have been outside.

  But when I turn, a stranger stands in the entrance. “Oh, I was looking for Jonas.”

  The smile he flashes is familiar. “He’s in the basement. We’re trying to de-clutter about twenty year’s-worth of hoarding. Let me get him for you.”

  “And you are?” The question’s out of my mouth before I think better of it. It’s none of my business who he is.

  “Dylan Crosby.” He offers his hand. “Jonas’s son.”

  “Corey Shaffer. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “I know you.” He waggles a finger at me, his smile a replica of Jonas’s. “My dad’s a little smitten with you, Mrs. Shaffer.”

  “Well, the feeling’s mutual. I haven’t seen him down at the beach the last few days. I’ve been a little worried. I know your mother’s not well.” How much do I reveal?

  His smile fades. “No. It’s tough on Dad. Tough on all of us.”

  “Do you live here or just visiting?”

  “It looks like I’ll be living here. I just got board approval to take over my dad’s pastorship.”