Take Flight

by T. E. Price

  Tossing aside my phone on the crumpled comforter, the lie I told Jim moments earlier appears to be inching toward truth as I try to massage away the massive headache building behind my eyes. I sink under my warm comforter. This is what I need. I can just sleep my Monday blues away. But my phone rings. Is it Jim calling me back? Did he change his mind? I grab for my phone. Hmmm. Unknown number.

  “Hello?” I question, my voice still a little groggy.

  “Hi Hallie, it’s Noah Herald here.” I spring to an upright position, grabbing at the sheets. That’s stupid. It’s not like he can see all this skin exposed from my scanty pajama top.

  “Hi Pastor Noah,” I greet, my pitch rising immediately. “How are you?”

  Pastor Noah clears his throat, “Well, I’m actually calling because I’m a little concerned.” In the pause that follows, a lump forms in my throat. What now? I wait for him to divulge details. I didn’t tell anyone what had happened with Becca yesterday at church, not even Ainsley. I took the rest of the day to process it and found that I still couldn’t come up with an immediate solution to smooth things over with Becca, so I decided to sleep on it. “I received a phone call this morning from a disgruntled church member,” Pastor Noah continues. “This particular individual didn’t feel like they could attend our church anymore because they didn’t think it was right for you to serve on the worship team when you’re having an affair.”

  My body goes completely still. What’s this about? I stumble over my words. “An affair?” I squeak, “But I’m not having an affair. I … I don’t understand.”

  “Listen, it’s not my place to meddle in people’s lives like this,” he starts. “And you should know that I’m not calling to kick you off the worship team, but I am concerned about the claims that this church member has made. This person has a son who is easily influenced—their words, not mine—and they say that your presence on stage is sending a message to the congregation that we don’t practice what we preach at Connect Church.”

  Rita. He doesn’t have to say anything more. She made the call. Maybe Andrew is dropping her in hopes of pursuing something with me, even if I never texted him back. Is this her way of retaliating? “It’s not true, Pastor Noah,” I begin, “I don’t know what was said, but I can tell you that I’m not having an affair.” The lump in my throat makes it difficult to speak. Can he connect the dots by himself? No. I have to tell him about my pending divorce. “I, um—” I swallow against what feels like a bowling ball, but I continue, “I should probably come to the church and talk to you in person about what’s been going on these past few months.”

  “Okay, that’s fine,” he replies. “Will today work?”

  “Yes.” A groan almost escapes. I run my tongue across my lips. Do I tell him about what happened between Chip and Becca too? Chip will be at the church when we meet. “Oh—ah … Pastor Noah,” I clear my throat. “Can we meet while no one else is at the church?”

  Pastor Noah hesitates, then says, “Well, I always ask my wife to stay in the building while I’m meeting with a woman. She’ll work in the main office while we talk.”

  “That’s not a problem.”

  “Why don’t you come in at six?” he suggests. “Office hours end at five today, so that should give you plenty of time for the building to empty before we meet.”

  We agree, and I offer an awkward good-bye. Well, that’s just great. Rita’s talking again, and now it’s forcing me to share all the prickly details of my messed-up life. I lay my phone beside me and look up at the ceiling. Hmmm. Perhaps this isn’t the worst thing that could happen. I will plead my case against the ugly rumors, share the pressure I’ve been getting from Chip and how that could affect relationships on the worship team, and hopefully get some help with Jonathan’s presence at church. Although there’s a dark cloud hanging over me, maybe I can view this meeting as the silver lining. But for now, I need to take something for my slamming headache.

  * * *

  As I pull up to the church building, I begin to pulse with tremors. I have spent the entire day rehearsing what I should tell Pastor Noah. It won’t take much to explain away the whole Andrew thing. But as the pastor of my church, he needs to know about Chip’s request and how that has placed a wedge between me and his wife. And then there’s the whole Jonathan thing. I should tell him what happened in our marriage. That’s what it will take to understand why I’ve left that monster … and why I never want to see him again, especially not at my church. Can I handle all of this? My hands shake. What about that night? Should I tell Pastor Noah about that? My face starts to tingle. I shake my head, over and over, my breath hitching in my chest. I was barely able to share what happened with my brother and Ainsley, and they are the two closest friends I have in the whole world. How do I tell it now … to my pastor?

  With my hand paused on the car door handle, I scan the parking lot one last time, checking for any vehicles other than Pastor Noah’s. The coast is clear, it’s just me and the Heralds. I want to run and hide. Now would be the time. But I will my legs to carry me inside the building. This is what I have to do … the new Hallie is a fighter.

  I walk past the main office. Mrs. Herald is working away, her back to the door, so I don’t bother with a greeting. I cross the hall and approach Pastor Noah’s office. Well, here goes nothing. “Hey—come on in, Hallie.” I smile through gritted teeth and walk through the door as Pastor Noah jumps from his office chair and rushes over to shake my hand. “Thanks for meeting with me,” Pastor Noah says as he partially closes the door, all the while motioning with an open hand for me to sit in the black leather chair. He moves to the other side of the coffee table and settles in the matching loveseat positioned across from me in his spacious office lined with books. This nicely decorated office, spotted with pictures of the Herald family, is not a familiar space. I take a steadying breath. The confines of these four walls are incredibly daunting.

  “Yeah, and thank you for agreeing to this meeting,” I reply, my voice jagged.

  “I need to start this meeting by reiterating that I am not here to penalize you, kick you off the worship team, or dig deep into your personal affairs.” He shifts uncomfortably. Did he have to use that kind of language? His ears turn pink. “What I mean is, I want to offer pastoral guidance with whatever you’re going through, but I’m not one to believe everything that’s brought to my attention, and I’m not going to entertain the gossip that gets passed along to me, which is why I went directly to you after receiving that phone call this morning.” I blink several times. Are we going to get right into it? “You suggested there are some things I should know, and I’m here to help you through whatever it is you’re facing.”

  My pulse skyrockets as I prepare to share my rehearsed response. It’s been a long time coming, but it’s time to reveal my secrets. “I’ve left my husband,” all I can manage is one short, quivering breath. “I guess I should start from the beginning, that way it will all make sense to you.” He nods, his brow pulling tight, like a thread drawing his wrinkles together. It’s all or nothing. “Ainsley introduced me to Jonathan shortly after we graduated from community college. She was my best friend and she had just begun her relationship with Will. Maybe she felt guilty over all the time she was spending with Will instead of me, I don’t know, but she pursued a couple of Will’s connections in order to set me up on a double date with Jonathan. The date went well, and it led to further dates. Before I knew it, I was in a relationship with a man who was older than me, treated me well, and had a great reputation in his community. He’d been attending his family’s church, but since Ainsley, Will, and I were attending this church, he decided to go here with us instead. As you know, he began serving on the worship team. He’s a talented bass player, and I really do think he appreciated this church back then.”

  I sigh, then whisper, “It was the only happy time in our whole relationship.” Shaking my head, I re-cross my legs and lift my chest. “He proposed, I accepted, and we started planning our w
edding. He didn’t want to waste time, and Ainsley had just gotten married to Will, so I was okay with how fast things were moving, even if I was pretty young. But—” my mouth hangs open for a second. “The closer we got to the wedding, the angrier he became with some of the wedding details I was piecing together. I thought it was just the stress of planning a wedding in a short period of time. We were married within the year, and it didn’t take me long to realize the mistake I had made. Once we were married, I discovered his anger was the truest part of his nature.”

  Pastor Noah’s attentive gaze and respectful nod encourages me to continue. “We were on our honeymoon, and the wedding stress was behind us, so I figured his pre-wedding anger was behind us, too. But he became reactive to things that never bothered him while we were dating. Midway through our honeymoon, he became irrationally moody and explosive over things like my clothes, or my shyness … even the fact that I didn’t have a drink with him at dinner. He knew all of that about me before we were married, but when I tried to find an answer to his irrational behavior, he would verbally lash out.”

  I gulp. I had cried myself to sleep that night. We only made it halfway through our honeymoon before I shed tears. It was the first of many tear-filled nights to come. “He told me I was boring. He yelled at me for a while, then got even more angry that I didn’t yell back. The next day, he told me that marrying me was the worst decision he had ever made.” Heat climbs up my neck as I add, “He looked at me as if he couldn’t bear how revolting I was, and then he didn’t speak to me the rest of the night.”

  My pastor’s knowing nod and sad eyes testify to the bitter reality that he has heard stories like this before. “I guess the game was over, he got the girl, and he was stuck with me.” My knuckles go white as I clasp my hands together. “Yelling became a way of life after that. It was like I couldn’t do anything right. When I bought the groceries, it was the wrong brand, or I forgot something. When I made his food, it was never good enough. When I cleaned the house, it wasn’t to his satisfaction. And when he tore me down, he would become furious that I didn’t defend myself. But I didn’t see the point—he’d made up his mind about me, and I wasn’t going to change it.”

  My breath quickens, my mind teetering on the brink of a breakdown. Is this enough information for Pastor Noah to know why I left him? It can’t be … not when there’s so much more. “About a year into the marriage, I felt like I needed to get away. Ainsley and I had been going on brief, weekend getaways, here and there. Not too far, but far enough to feel like I could breathe a little. Miles was just old enough to be left behind, so we decided to fly to Key West for a week.” I grimace. “Jonathan seemed like he was fine with the idea of the trip, but when I returned, his anger had reached a new level. That was the first time he hit me.” The flash igniting Pastor Noah’s eyes sends me backtracking, “He didn’t hit me that often, and usually not hard enough to leave a mark. It wasn’t that bad.” I clench my teeth. I’ve done it again. Why do I do that, why do I still feel like I need to defend him? I’m a fighter. I don’t have to defend him. He was wrong for what he did. Enough is enough, Pastor Noah has to know how evil Jonathan really is. I push forward. The fear that became my constant companion confirmed the mark he had left on my heart that night—the same fear that’s causing the core of my whole being to shudder right now. “I, uh … I couldn’t completely blame him because, not too long after, I realized he had been using some serious drugs. He became irrational. He started selling drugs at work, and with his position in the company, I knew he wasn’t going to get fired. He’d been grandfathered in, and he was protected by his family’s reputation. I asked him to stop, but he didn’t respect me. He didn’t even really love me. He made some promises, but it became clear that those promises were made because he wanted me to start having children.” I lower my head. “By then, I knew I couldn’t have children with that man. I couldn’t bring children into that house.”

  I chew on my bottom lip. Pastor Noah doesn’t need to know about the live feeds he was watching—how he enjoyed watching children being abused. He only wanted children so that he could establish more control— to appear to be that perfect family in the community. He wanted kids just to feed his power-hungry ego. I lift my head as my internal shaking takes control of my hands, “Eventually, I decided to take secretive precautions to make sure I wouldn’t get pregnant. And Jonathan found the bill from the doctor.” I squeeze my eyes shut, bile creeping into my throat. “He was smoking his favorite cigar,” I shudder. “I noticed a paper in his hand, and when I approached him to see what he was holding, he yanked up my shirt and singed a ring onto my stomach, all the while yelling that if I didn’t want to have kids with him, he would make sure I could never have kids.” Pastor Noah’s shoulders fall, but I don’t give him the chance to respond as I continue, “You see, he would always rant that it was time I became a stay-at-home mom. I told him that I liked working. He would object, he wanted me at home—cooking, cleaning, and bearing his children. What women were meant to do. He told me we would keep having children until we had a boy to carry on the family name. After that night when he burned me, he never brought up kids again. But it’s not like I was off the hook. He still made sure I was doing the all the chores…and to his standards too, like a good woman should.”

  I falter for a moment. Ohh, those chores. They were always there… waiting for me. My stomach flips. “One night,” I close my dry mouth and try to swallow, “I came in from a late shift. Jonathan was high, and just as I laid down to go to sleep, he told me to fold the laundry in the dryer before it got too wrinkled. I was half asleep when I told him I would do it in the morning. Before I knew it, he had yanked me out of bed and shoved me into the doorframe. He said I would do it when he told me to do it.” My heart twists from the agonizing pain of the memory. “I was tired of him using the drugs as an excuse for his behavior. I kept begging him to get off them, and he kept making empty promises. He told me he had stopped at several points in our marriage, but his unreasonable behavior suggested otherwise. One night, he left his phone on his bedside table while he was taking a shower. It buzzed, so I leaned over and saw a text from his ex-girlfriend on the lock screen. When I asked him about it, he freaked out. He threw me against the wall and told me that I should never snoop around on his phone. I started crying. It didn’t make sense, so I asked if he was having an affair. He said I was ridiculous. His flimsy excuse was that Jessica was only contacting him because he was her dealer. He probably was her dealer, but if it was just that, then why did he freak out? I already knew he was dealing.” I lightly shrug one shoulder and cast my eyes downward. “I didn’t believe him about the affair, but I didn’t have any proof, and I knew I couldn’t push the issue and risk facing his wrath.”

  The pang of pure anguish punishes my insides as the magnitude of what’s approaching hits me square in the chest. The air has left the room—it’s left my lungs. Is this enough for him to understand? Do I need to tell him about that night? The old me is clawing at my resolve—I’ve already told him about Jessica—isn’t that enough? My quivering state from what I know I need to share next charges me so violently that the room begins to spin. And as I ready myself to tell my pastor about the worst night of my life, the night I knew my marriage was over for good, the four walls of this office fade away, and it’s as if I am reliving it all over again.

  The hot air of the late-August evening has me fanning my neck, pulling the covers off. Should I venture downstairs to crank up the air conditioning? But I hear Jonathan ranting in the living room about something that’s upset him on the TV. Better not risk it—I’ll stay in bed, where it’s safe, even if it is stifling hot. A glass shatters. I put my book down. What was that? Has Jonathan broken something? Must have, but was it on purpose? He slurs a slew of cuss words on his way to the refrigerator. My heart falls. He has had more than enough to drink. Ugh—another one of those nights. I sigh heavily. He can get as drunk as he wants, I don’t have it in me to plead with him to
night. Besides, the drugs were the real problem, and it seems like he’s stopped using. Maybe it was my accusations about Jessica from a few months back when he almost got caught that forced him to stop. Yeah—that must be it. But why the heavy drinking? I lean forward in bed, listening fixedly. Silence. Maybe he’ll just pass out on the couch, leaving me alone to read my book until I fall asleep.

  Loud thuds echo up the staircase marking Jonathan’s clamber to the bedroom. Thump. Pause. Thunk-thunk. Pause. He is far more drunk than I guessed. Squeezing my eyes closed, I repress my threatening tears. This is my life now, cowering in bed as my substance-abusing husband finds ways to terrify me. My eyes fly open as Jonathan slumps against the hallway wall, glowering at me through the open doorway with immense hatred radiating from his clouded glare. He heaves. Oh-no! He’s going to be sick. He stumbles toward me, and I jump out of bed to guide him to our bathroom. If I’m going to get a good night’s sleep, I can’t spend the next hour washing vomit out of our sheets.

  “Don’t touch me!” he slurs, shoving me to the side just as he leans over the toilet. My arm aches from the jab, but I wait by the sink in case he needs my help. His large frame straightens when he’s finally done, as if his uneasy stomach has strengthened his willpower. He hates being weak, even if only for a moment. He shoots me a death stare while making his way toward me, and I recoil. The tension in the bathroom thickens. His face darkens…he’s furious with my presence—watching him get sick, observing his momentary malaise. He reaches past me and turns on the faucet. Our eyes meet. The black depths of his pupils pulse. He’s reached a new level tonight. It’s like he’s replaced the contempt he felt from his weakness with rage for mine.