by Kate Davis
Time to change the topic.
“Oh, this and that.” I smile. My mind is already working on overtime to find something else to talk about. The only way to distract their attention from me is to get them to talk about themselves. “So, Mom, Dad, what brings you here? Anything church-related?”
“Funny that you should mention church. Obviously, work is important but how is your spiritual health?” Mom asks.
Goodness, is that a trick question?
“Fine,” I offer tentatively.
“Are you sure? Because Pastor Rick mentioned that he was in the area and tried to meet up with you. He left a message for you but you never called back.”
I definitely remember listening to the message. I think I even made a mental note to call back…some time in the future. Obviously, I didn’t think he’d rat me out to my parents.
I put on an expression of deep thought as though I’m thinking really hard about this. “No, doesn’t ring a bell. Maybe he dialed the wrong number?” I suggest.
“No.” Mom shakes her head. “I don’t think so. He double-checked with me that he had the right number.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely sure.”
“Pastor Rick would never lie,” Dad says.
Of course he wouldn’t. He’s a pastor, for crying out loud, and lying is a sin. Everyone knows that. Apparently, my parents are slowly reaching the same conclusion.
“Samantha?” Dad says slowly.
“Yes?”
“Anything you’d like to tell us?”
This is the time to come clean about a million things, like that I’m twenty-three with a useless degree that can’t get me a job, my writing’s not going anywhere, my love life isn’t going anywhere, either. And don’t get me started on the fact that I’m so broke, I soon won’t even be able to pay for this crappy apartment.
The status of my soul is actually the least of my problems.
“Anything you’re facing you only need to take it up to the Lord, and He will take care of it,” Mom says.
I nod before she goes on to retell the story about the sparrows.
“Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And yet the Lord takes care of them. Are you not worth more than two sparrows?”
Oh, here we go!
Basically, if you need a job, you don’t go to the employment center. You pray about it and then you sit back and watch television while your dream job manifests itself. The same thing applies to your dream guy, and the book you’re supposed to write.
According to Mom, it’s pretty simple. Why didn’t I think of that?
“Thanks, guys,” I say dryly.
“Whatever you’re going through,” she throws a disparaging look around her, “just don’t turn from our Savior. He will show you a way because you’re loved.”
I can’t do this any longer. I need to take them out, preferably where there are other people and they’ll keep their preaching to a minimum.
Dad leans in to me, whispering, “We’re worried about you living all alone here. Make your mom happy and call Pastor Rick, Sam.”
“Sure,” I say chirpily. “As soon as I find the time.” Which will be…probably never. I point at Sammy who’s sleeping belly-up at my dad’s feet. She’s sleeping so soundly I hate having to wake her but whenever my parents are around the usual rules don’t apply. “I need to take her out. Want to join me? I could show you the neighborhood.”
I don’t wait for their response. I jump up from the sofa and pull my reluctant dog to her feet as I yell, “Starbucks.”
The magic word.
Sammy jumps up, eyes wide open with excitement, tongue hanging out.
I love that about her.
Why can’t our existence be as simple as a dog’s life? Eating, sleeping, relaxing, playing. Being cuddled and pampered while having no cares in the world.
Chapter Seven
A few hours later, the parents are finally gone and I breathe out a sigh of relief. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get rid of them until I agreed to pop over for the weekend. Unfortunately, writer’s block has also reared its ugly head and I feel more depressed than ever so I decide to binge watch television.
It’s evening, and several TV shows later, when the bell rings. Sammy starts her barking tirade. I put down the half empty jar of peanut butter I’ve been clutching for the last hour and kill the volume on the TV, then look through the peephole, almost expecting to see Shane or my parents.
It’s a man in his fifties, the collar around his neck gleaming white in stark contrast to the black of his pants and shirt.
Pastor Rick.
I sigh and press my back against the door, unsure what to do. This is probably all the mistakes I made in the past few months coming back to bite me, think avoiding his calls, not going to church.
Pastor Rick is almost like a relative to my parents. I should have known that he’d track me down.
“Samantha,” he calls out while knocking a few times. “I know you’re in there.”
Sammy starts to bark in response, not helping.
“Fine,” I mumble.
It was unavoidable.
I press my dog to my chest to keep her from running out, and open the door.
“Can I come in?” Pastor Rick’s concerned gaze meets mine. “I’ll keep it short.”
“You promise?” I mumble so low I doubt he heard me. “Sure,” I say louder, taking in his salt and pepper hair which is glistening with moisture. There’s an umbrella tucked under his arm and a folder in his hand.
“Thank you.”
I open the door wide enough for him to step in and close it as soon as he’s inside. “You didn’t have to come all this way. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I wanted to see you. As your pastor, it’s my duty,” he says.
Of course.
“As you can see, I’m still living and breathing. I’m doing great. You shouldn’t believe everything my parents tell you. They tend to worry when they shouldn’t.” I avert my eyes to escape his prodding gaze and head into the small kitchen, calling over my shoulder, “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
I busy myself with the coffeemaker. For a couple of minutes, silence ensues, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. The thing about Pastor Rick is that he’s incredibly patient. He also has this gift for making you feel at ease around him.
The bad thing about him is that he never lets you change the topic. I often tried in the past, but he always saw right through me. And so, today, I don’t bother to try. I just roll with it.
After what feels like an eternity, I pour us two cups of coffee, scatter some store-bought cookies on a plate and carry everything into the dining slash living room where I put everything on the coffee table.
I switch off the television and catch Pastor Rick glancing at my still unpacked boxes. “I’m sorry the apartment’s a mess. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
“No need to apologize, Samantha. It’s not like I’m here to buy it.” He smiles and leans back on the couch, folding his hands in his lap. “I’m here for you.”
“The lost sheep,” I joke, even though I know that’s exactly why he’s here. The good pastor has always been a keen believer in saving souls.
“Samantha…” his tone carries a certain sadness, hopelessness, “…you know I don’t like it when you say that about yourself.”
I shrug. “But it’s true. You know it, and I know it.”
Pastor Rick has always been in my life. According to Mom, he was there when I took my first step. He was there when I got back from my first day at school. He even attended my college graduation ceremony. I would go as far as to say we’re almost as close as I am with Mom and Dad. He’s like a second dad to me, and not just because he’s a great pastor who takes care of his small community.
I grew up telling him almost everything, up until I moved out and signed a deal with a publishing house. When the pressure I couldn’t deal with made me feel like a failure, I be
gan to withdraw from everyone, including the few people who had always been there for me.
“Your mother told me you’ve been struggling recently,” Pastor Rick says. His tone is understanding, welcoming me to open up to him. While I know he doesn’t approve of certain things, I also know he doesn’t judge me. He always sees the good in everyone, past mistakes, fears, hopes, and all the emotional baggage that comes with being a grown-up. He also never gives up on anyone, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, except that it’s happening to me, and I’d rather he gave up on me just as I’ve given up on myself.
“I know you’re struggling with your faith. I know you’re afraid, and that’s okay,” he continues, “as long as you know that there’s always a place for you to come back.”
I suck in a deep breath and let it out slowly. His words hit something, a chord that doesn’t quite resonate right. In spite of his support, I feel guilty, which is probably the reason why I’ve been avoiding him. He’s such a good person that I can’t help but feel like I’m a bad person in comparison.
I cast my glance down as I begin to recall all the things I’ve been doing wrong lately. I should have prayed more. Attend church. Invest more of my time in my bible instead of hiding from it.
“Look, I appreciate you coming and—” I break off, hesitating, unsure how to tell him that I don’t know what’s going on in my life. That I have no answers for him, just as I have no answers for myself.
“Just because you’re struggling with your faith, and going through many changes, doesn’t mean you are lost. With our God, there is no variation of turning. He’s faithful whether we believe or believe not. Faithful in keeping his promises to those who believe and faithful in his warnings to those who don’t believe. He is a merciful father, the God of all grace. He rejoices when his lost sheep return.”
I laugh, but the sound seems forced, without true joy in it. “I guess I am the lost sheep.”
He looks at me for a long moment. “Do you know what the shepherd does when he loses a sheep?”
“He goes in search for it?” I suggest, knowing the story well.
“That’s right. He seeks it. In fact, he leaves the others to search for the lost one, because away from him, it is in grave danger. A shepherd walks for miles without rest, and when he finds it, he rejoices so much that he invites all his friends to rejoice with him. He does it because he loves all his sheep and they’re precious in his eyes. That’s why, no matter what you’re going through, you can trust he will be there for you. Whatever you’re struggling with, it will pass.”
I swallow the sudden lump in my throat. I know he’s right, I just don’t think I’m ready to acknowledge it. “Did my parents ask you to come?” I ask, eager to steer the conversation away from me.
“No, I wanted to see you.”
There’s more silence during which I avoid his gaze. I know he wants to know about my life and frustrations in the big city, but he won’t prod. He’ll take a more tactful approach.
“You’ve probably made many new friends,” he says.
“I have a deadline and am not really in the mood to socialize. I can’t let myself get distracted right now.” I close my eyes for a moment as the usual pressure begins to choke me. “My editor’s expecting a book I find difficult to write.”
“When was the last time you prayed?”
I shrug. The question was bound to come eventually. “To be honest, I don’t remember.”
“You should try it.”
I expected that answer too. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”
Pastor Rick smiles gently. “Maybe it’s not so much about what you say but about what God has to say to you. Sometimes, He just wants you to listen. Prayer doesn’t always have to be in words. The Spirit makes intercessions for us. When you don’t know what to say just turn your heart to Him because he looks into the heart. Nothing is ever hidden from him, neither your fears nor your problems. When you put everything in God’s hands, he will put His peace in your heart. Give your cares to Him and you’ll see He’ll lighten your burden.” He looks at his watch. “I have a few minutes left. Shall we pray together?”
I hesitate. How can I say “no” to that?
Half an hour later, Pastor Rick’s gone and my mind seems a little less scattered than before. I even sit down in front of my laptop, eager to put some words to paper.
And then the thumping noise starts again next door.
“For crying out loud.” I close my laptop with more force than the poor thing deserves and grab Sammy to resume watching television.
Chapter Eight
I spend the rest of the week in not so eager anticipation of two whole days with my parents. I try to come up with countless excuses, all lies obviously, but they were all used at some point or another. And so by Friday, I realize there’s no way I’ll get out of this…unless I really manage to catch a bad cold or win first-class plane tickets to watch the premiere of the new Marvels movie in Canada. As I pack an overnight bag, my phone pings.
* * *
Mom: Sweetheart, can you get pregnant before you come over?
* * *
I stare at my mother’s text. She wants me to get pregnant? She can’t be serious. Out of wedlock, as she so lovingly likes to call it? Either an alien has taken hold of my mother’s body, or she hasn’t bothered reading what she’s actually typed up.
* * *
Me: Pregnant? It could be a little short notice trying to find a candidate but I can definitely try, Mom. Let me know for sure.
* * *
Mom: Oh, darn autocorrect. I meant get panties before you come over.
* * *
I sniffle a snort. I’m sure she wants Pringles, given that she always forgets to buy them. But I’ll make sure to purchase a pair of white cotton panties and give her those instead of the snack just to see her mortified face.
* * *
Me: Sure, Mom. Whatever you want.
* * *
I stash my phone in my handbag and grab Sammy’s traveling things. We’ve boarded the elevator when I catch a glimpse of my neighbor leaving his apartment. He locks up and heads our way. My heartbeat speeds up. Apart from the “banging” noises when Pastor Rick visited, Shane’s been rather quiet since the missing dog incident. Not that I’m complaining that all the thumping and other noise has stopped, but I couldn’t help but wonder if he was away, visiting friends, family, a girlfriend maybe?
His eyes meet mine, and his expression changes from miles away to something I can’t pinpoint. For some reason, I press the ground floor button in a frenzy, mentally vying the thing to get moving, and heave a sigh of relief as the doors close right in his face.
It’s not that I’m rude or anything. I just don’t think that we should be stuck together in such a confined space with seconds feeling like an eternity. I can’t risk him leaning over again to pet Sammy and his breath being so close to mine. There’s nothing wrong with his breath, but he has this strange effect on me—I mean the dog, and I don’t think they should be getting too close.
He is British after all and will probably go back to his country, and then what? I can’t risk him breaking Sammy’s little heart. Or mine for that matter, which is a ridiculous thought, and a bit far-fetched. I mean, it’s not like I’m interested in pursuing a relationship with the guy, what with him liking to engage in strange online chats and kidnapping dogs.
I don’t even like him. But it never hurts to be careful.
The elevator doors open. I tighten my grip around Sammy and head out. As I leave the elevator, I spy a cab outside and dash through the reception area.
I cross the tiny space and step out into a surprisingly chilly wind, toward the taxi. The wind whips my hair into my face as my cell phone pings again. At that same instant, the taxi drives off, meaning it wasn’t my ride.
Preparing to wait, I read my mother’s text.
* * *
Mom: Your dad and I are going to the docks now. Do you or Sammy need anything?
* * *
Me: A sailor? You know how I adore uniforms.
* * *
Mom: Very fondue, sweetheart.
* * *
Me: You mean funny, Mom. Unless you’re planning on having cheese with your panties, I mean, Pringles.
* * *
“Why are you smiling?” a male voice asks from behind me.
I freeze on the spot.
Shane’s here. How can he be here unless he flew down the stairs and beat the elevator? He’s basically raced the elevator. Is that even humanly possible outside of an action movie?
I can feel his presence leaning over my shoulder, probably to peer at my cell phone, a moment before his breath hits my cheek.
“None of your business.” I toss my phone into my bag and take a step aside to put some much-needed distance between us. My heart begins to race, and blood shoots up my neck, landing right in my face. Thank goodness it’s already dark because I probably look as red as my mother’s beetroot smoothie which she swears is the recipe to longevity. In fact, beetroot is what my loving parents used to call me whenever I was red in the face.
He lifts up his hands. “I wasn’t prying or anything. I just haven’t heard you laughing before and—” He shrugs. “Never mind.”
“And what?” I ask warily.
My laugh is a little weird, actually. More high pitched than I would like it to be, and quite loud. I’ve been known to annoy people with it.
“It was cute,” Shane says, then looks away.
“Oh.” I stare at him, taken aback.
I can’t believe he said my laugh was cute. No one’s ever said that to me.