30 Nights with God

by Deborah C. Cruce

  Laughter greeted me as I entered the meeting room, and I looked for the source. A young woman, sitting next to Doc, in my chair no less, was laughing. No one else was laughing and I perceived an uncomfortable tension because of it.

  “Savannah, I must ask you to refrain from that kind of humor. We are not here to tease or criticize or put down one another. We are here to listen, empathize, and help each other.”

  The new girl watched me take the seat across from them and next to Stephen, who appeared to be the brunt of her humor.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just trying to break the ice.”

  “Let me handle that, okay?” Aimee said. She opened her notebook and wrote something across the top. “Starting with Annie, why don’t we all introduce ourselves to Savannah?”

  “I won’t be here that long. Daddy will have me out of here by lunch. No offense, but I don’t belong here. I’m sure it’s a great program, but it’s not for me.”

  Savannah was a spoiled rich child. What had brought her to Safe Haven?

  “Just in case Daddy lets you stay a couple days, I think we will continue with the introductions.”

  “Whatever.”

  Savannah studied her French manicure and her diamond watch with a bored air about her as the rest of us told her our names. I complied because I certainly could see that Aimee had her hands full with this one.

  Aimee started talking but Missy Girl couldn’t stop fidgeting with her watch, then her sandals, then her fingernails, until finally I got up and went across to stand in front of her.

  “Elizabeth?” Aimee questioned me.

  “Ignoring her isn’t working for me.” And before either could act, I grabbed her arm and pushed her sleeve up, revealing the needle marks. “Lie to us, lie to Aimee, and lie to your daddy, but stop lying to yourself. You are an addict. You have a problem. And you’ll be dead soon if you don’t get help.”

  “Who do you think—”

  “Doesn’t matter. You need to choose. Live or die. We’ve seen both in this class. One chose to die and we buried her last week. One chose to live and he went home on Friday. You need to choose.” Then I walked back to my seat and sat down.

  Aimee remained silent. Savannah remained silent as she slid the sleeve of her shirt down. Then Annie cleared her throat and all our gazes turned to her.

  “She’s right. You have to choose. Live or die. Doc will help you live, but you have to choose.”

  “Yes,” Stephen added, “Elizabeth and Annie are right. Only you can make that choice. No one can make it for you. Live or die. And if you will let us, we can help.”

  Savannah dropped her gaze to the floor, letting her long blonde hair fall forward to cover her face. Of course I hadn’t expected a hug or a miraculous change of heart. It was enough that she had listened.

  Aimee resumed the session and talked about the signs of addiction and a few immediate changes to help get healing started. Of course we had heard this before, but a refresher was never a bad thing. Especially since I had had an emotional relapse.

  “I think we will end a little early today. See everyone in a couple days. Don’t forget I am off tomorrow.”

  We all rose to leave, but Aimee called me back.

  “Elizabeth, can you stay a moment?”

  I waited by the door, not sorry and not belligerent. I followed her down the hall to her office without protest. She closed the door behind me and settled down on the couch. “How are you today?”

  “Okay.”

  “Your comments to Savannah strike me as pretty interesting.”

  “You mean since you just told me yesterday that I had to quit lying to myself about the cause of the accident?”

  “Elizabeth.”

  “I’m angry.”

  “Yes.”

  “At Sean.”

  “And what are you going to do about it?”

  I shrugged, but looked her in the eye. “Break plates. Hit baseballs. Go for a walk. Write him a letter.”

  “And John Buchanan?”

  I held her gaze a moment longer and then let it fall to the carpet between us. I sighed deeply, then met her gaze once more. “I’m getting there.”

  Dream 20

  Twenty days in Safe Haven. Each night spent dreaming about God in His Triune self. I’d been talking with Him, eating with Him, biking with Him, sharing with Him, and learning from Him. I believed the Holy Spirit—that I was supposed to love God and love people as best I could each day. I knew I needed to work through my anger at Sean and let John Buchannan off the hook for something he had been unable to prevent. I knew I needed to continue with the meds, the group therapy and individual counseling.

  For depression. For grief. For dealing with the tragedy of losing my husband and child. I needed a new normal, isn’t that what Dear Teacher had said?

  So what would tonight bring? I was walking through a pasture behind an old farm house. Spring possibly. Several cows raised their brown and white heads to peer at me with large brown eyes. The goats scattered as a group, and a lone peacock flew over the fence away from me. The sky was a light blue with a few wispy clouds here and there. The breeze carried the scent of fresh mown grass.

  I followed the sound of an electric saw and the ringing of a hammer around the side of an outlying building that was grey, weathered but still solid, with windows and a covered porch area. The smell of sawdust greeted me. Under the porch stood a man wearing worn blue jeans, a denim shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and goggles that hid most of his face from me. He was cutting a two by four in half.

  Finishing the board, he cut the power and placed the saw carefully on the sawhorse. He pulled the leather gloves from his hands and took off the goggles.

  I froze. Was I going or staying?

  I remembered his face from the first night on the beach. I remembered his scarred hands. I remembered I had run instead of facing him, my shame and fallen-ness a stronghold in my psyche that I couldn’t get past. Bill Pullman was back. Jesus.

  Was I going or staying?

  He pushed back the long bangs that had fallen across his face without the goggles there. “Hello, Elizabeth.”

  “Hello.”

  “Which of these boards do you like?” He pointed to two stacks of wood leaning against the wall.

  I looked at the lumber and then at his face, then back to the wood. Without knowing why, I walked over and ran my hand across the planks. One was a pale almost white distressed color. It reminded me of birch, cool and strong like winter in Colorado. The other was a deeper, richer brown with gold pulled through like highlights in a woman’s hair. It seemed almost warm to the touch.

  “Both are nice. I like this one better though.” I tapped the brown one.

  “Could you hand me that board then?”

  By the time I turned back around he was gloved and goggled again. It was easier being around him with his scarred hands covered and his all-seeing eyes shaded. He accepted the board and laid it crossways on the sawhorses. Lining up the plank with some invisible mark, he began to cut.

  I watched, fascinated by the sound, the smell, the movement of the blade, and his hands so sure. When he finished he handed me the two pieces.

  “Can you stack these over by that chair and get me another board?”

  “Sure.” I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t leave either. I did take and release a lot of deep breaths though, feeling the tension in my shoulders grow and then release. For the next hour or so, we worked this way, me handing him boards, him cutting, and me stacking.

  I tried to see if there were a pattern or standard, but each cut board seemed slightly different. When I handed him the last one, I sat down in the chair beside the stacks of various pieces of wood. They gleamed in the sunshine and I picked up the closest piece and traced the rings and swirls that ran through the wood givi
ng it depth and beauty.

  He sat down in a chair facing me. No goggles covered his eyes and no gloves covered his scarred wrists and hands. “What do you think?”

  “It’s lovely. What are you building?”

  “That depends on you.”

  “Me?” I tilted my head and considered his answer. “I’m not a carpenter or handy-man. Sean would only let me hold the ladder. I can’t build anything.”

  “I just need you to follow my directions. Can you do that?”

  I hesitated, biting my lip. Dropping my gaze to the piece of wood I cradled between my knees, I admired it again. It really was beautiful. Surely it couldn’t hurt to just hang out a bit longer and help Jesus. I was pretty good at following directions. My gaze dropped to his hands resting casually on his knees. How could I stay when I knew all he had done for me? And how badly I had let him down?

  “I can help, if you let me,” he said. His gaze met mine and I read only love there.

  “I’m willing to try.”

  He gave a slight nod and a smile curved his lips. “That’s the first step. Let’s get started then. Let me have that piece you have and find its mate.”

  How I knew what he meant, I’m not sure, but I found another board similar to the one I had and handed him both. “What next?”

  “I need a connecting piece now. Sturdy. Longer, but not too long. We’re building the foundation.”

  I sifted through the wood on either side of my chair, finally kneeling on the ground and pushing boards aside until I found one I had seen earlier. It was longer than the other two and twice as wide too. “Is this too big?”

  He took it and lay it spanning the distance between the other two boards. The two similar ones were standing on their sides, with the bigger piece connecting them like a short bench or table. “Perfect.”

  So Jesus and I nailed these three boards together and they stood up on their own. We both smiled. “What is it?” I asked.

  “A beginning,” he said, laying his hand over mine. “A beginning.”

  Day Twenty-One

  November 26

  What were Jesus and I building? I gazed out my window thinking about last night. I had no idea, but I was interested enough to look forward to tonight’s dream. I drew in my journal, or actually tried to draw a picture of where we had been and what we were constructing. The wood had been beautiful, even without varnish or stain. The stacks of wood really looked chaotic to me. Still Jesus had been pretty comfortable with our start. He was the carpenter, not I.

  Aimee was off today, so no group therapy. That was odd, but it was the holidays. Maybe she was Christmas shopping. And Mabel had given me a note from Aimee saying I had approvals for the use of a computer in the library and supervised exercise.

  The exercise sounded good, so I dressed and requested time on the treadmill. Cindy-Lou gave me a smile and was sweet. No hint of what happened last time I exercised in her manner or attitude. Maybe I had judged her too harshly. I thanked her honestly for the bottle of water and the towel.

  There were others in the gym this morning. I noted the new girl—Savannah—was on the rowing machine. Her tank top was a bit damp and her speed was pretty consistent. I saw Cindy-Lou go speak to her, and she nodded in response. I steered clear of her and got on the treadmill, setting it for a leisurely start up. My muscles protested. I had worked them pretty hard Saturday—just three days ago. Now I had to pay for my stupidity.

  I thought back and wondered if I would see Isabeau again. God had used her to get me to face my anger at John Buchanan and then had logically moved me from John to Sean. Now I was processing my anger at Sean for not being careful, for costing me my husband and child. Was our building project a way to grieve, a way to process my anger in a healthy fashion?

  Shrugging, I increased my speed and tried to focus on the TV show that was playing. I needed a break from therapy, from my heavy thoughts, from the emotions that swirled in my gut. It was then that I noticed Savannah fiddling with the outside door. It opened to the back of the facility where on good weather days we were allowed to walk or eat at the outside tables. Today was not a good weather day and no one was outside.

  The exercise room had cleared out so that only Savannah and I were there. Could Cindy-Lou see what Savannah was doing? I checked the angles of the cameras and was certain she couldn’t. The cameras were on the machines, so they could check on us.

  “Hey? What are you doing?” I asked.

  She turned and glared. “Mind you own business.”

  The door popped open and she froze.

  “How far do you think you can get?”

  “Far enough. Just keep quiet. Five minutes is all I need.”

  “No way.” I stepped off the moving treads and turned off the machine. “I’m going with you.”

  “You? You’re like a grandma. You can’t keep up with me.”

  I approached her slowly, glancing at the camera casually, slinging the towel around my neck, sipping water out of my bottle. “You’re going after drugs aren’t you?”

  “So what? You can’t stop me. No one can stop me.”

  I heard a cry for help. I heard what she said—the words—but in my head I heard—“no one cares enough to stop me”.

  “I’m still going with you. I need a break and this seems like the only way I’m going to get one. A rum and Coke sounds pretty good.”

  Savannah nodded and checked outside the door. Then before I knew it, we were slipping out the door, walking quickly along the building, around the back, climbing on to the air conditioner unit and boosting ourselves up and over the chain link fence into the parking lot.

  We were free!

  The property was secluded by the trees surrounding it on three sides. The driveway that lead back to the buildings was beautifully landscaped with hedges, flowers, and benches placed here and there. We slipped into the edge of the trees and followed just behind the tree line all the way out to the street.

  It seemed to take forever because we would run a few yards, stop, and listen, look to see if anyone was coming after us from Safe Haven or if anyone was driving into the facility. Then we were at the entrance and the street.

  “Which way?” I asked.

  “I need money first.”

  “How do you plan to get that without identification, or a check card?”

  She rolled her eyes at me. “I don’t need an ID. My fingerprint can get me whatever I need.”

  She was right. Thirty minutes later, having crossed back and forth across several streets, walked down a few blocks, ducked into a bookstore to browse, we entered her bank. Savannah went straight to the customer service side and explained that she had lost her purse, but needed to get some cash. I was amazed. The customer service rep presented the small computer device to Savannah, who pressed her right index finger to the pad and thirty seconds later, she had been identified. A withdrawal slip was given to Savannah to fill out the amount and get a signature.

  The customer service rep went behind the teller line and cashed the withdrawal slip. She brought back five hundred dollars in three crisp one hundred dollar bills and ten twenty dollar bills. Savannah was brisk but polite with everyone, yet I could see her agitation had grown since we had left the bookstore.

  Once we exited the bank, she handed me forty bucks, and stuck the rest of it in her front pocket.

  “What’s this for?” I asked.

  “This is where we part company. Go get your rum.” She turned away to head in the opposite direction.

  I caught hold of her arm and stopped her. It was about ten thirty now on Tuesday morning. There were a few cars on the street and a few people out walking to the various stores in the neighborhood. It wasn’t that busy, yet I could cause a scene and get some attention if I wanted. I saw this knowledge flash through her brain as she shrugged off my hand and let loose with a choice
expletive.

  “Back at you.” I was lost. Out of my element. Hannah had been a good kid and I hadn’t had to deal with drugs, alcohol, sex or even smoking yet with her. Of course, I had tried three of the four since her death. I really did not want an education in drug addiction. I had enough problems. “Let’s just think about this a minute.”

  “Think about what? You wanted out of the crazy bin and now you are out. I wanted out, too, and to feel good again.” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms like she was cold. Which I was also. We weren’t prepared for the weather.

  “We need a plan of action. Where are you going to go after you get your drugs? Are you just going to get high in an alley, get picked up and go right back to the crazy house? Are you going home?”

  “You know I can’t go home. Dad is the one who put me in that place. He just wants me out of the way while he and his girlfriend hook up.”

  “And your mom?”

  Savannah rolled her eyes. “She’s found God or some such nonsense. I can’t go back there.”

  So where was the disconnect I asked myself? A dad who cared enough to put her where she needed help and a mom who liked God didn’t sound so bad to me. But it didn’t sound like they lived together. “Are your parents divorced?”

  “Yeah.” She flopped down on the bench by the City Bus sign. She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them.

  I sat next to her, but not too close. “Sorry to hear that.”

  She shrugged, “No biggie. Everybody’s parents are divorced.”

  “How long?”

  “Four years. I lived the first two with mom, but then she started freaking out on where I was and who I was with. Dad was more relaxed until I graduated, then he started nagging me about college and getting a job and stuff.”

  “Is that when you started using drugs?”

  Savannah put her head on her knees, curled up like a little girl lost. “It was just so much pressure. I just wanted to relax. Everything was locked up in my head, swirling around like a tornado. Apply here, apply there. Financial aid. Grants. Loans. What to major in? Where to live? Get a job. I’ve never had a job. Dad always gave me an allowance and made sure I had money for clothes and stuff, then all of sudden he wants me to pay half. Do you know how much a pair of Coach boots cost? Working at eight dollars an hour will take me forever to get my half.”