by B. D. Riehl
“There really isn’t much to tell,” she shrugged. “The principal called me in and told me I’m failing a few classes and that I need to come up with a solution by tomorrow, or I might get kicked out.”
“She said that?” Zanna tried to blow her smoke away from Lydia, but it still snaked into her hair, giving her a headache.
“No, but she didn’t have to. It’s in the rulebook. You can’t fall below a C, let alone fail. It’s not good for the school’s reputation. You have to at least show creative effort or have a good excuse, like you were up too many nights praying or something.”
Zanna laughed at that and took another drag. She was trying to quit and ground out the butt, saving the rest of the cigarette for later. She leaned back in her chair, arms on the rests and squinted at Lydia. “It’s barely October, how can they say you’re failing already?”
Lydia’s mouth twitched slightly, “Well, when I’ve skipped most of my afternoon classes for the past month and refuse to have any part of the Bible class, I’d say it makes sense.”
Zanna laughed. She ran her fingers through her hair, pulling the ends to emphasize the spikiness.
“Well, you know, I hate that school of yours, but I can’t tell you what to do. I will say, rules or no rules, I’m sure they can’t kick you out.”
Lydia shrugged again. “I wouldn’t care, but I’m so close to graduation—to freedom. Seems crazy to spend my whole life in school just to drop out now.” Inwardly, she cringed. Zanna had dropped out as a senior in high school, and she had made a way.
As if she read her thoughts, Zanna said, “You know, I turned out okay, but it took a lot more work than if I would have just finished school.”
The two talked a bit more, Lydia admiring Zanna’s stories of adventure and survival. Zanna had been kicked out of the house when her parents found out she’d been pregnant and had an abortion. She spent years traveling and had wild stories to tell.
“There were times I didn’t know where I was, I was so high. Then I would wake up with someone I didn’t know.” Zanna leaned forward with a grin, “Let me tell ya, it’s bad enough to not know where you are or who you’re with, but put them together, man that’s trippy!”
Lydia laughed, imagining it.
The two went back to work, Lydia working contentedly arranging displays, helping customers find their style. She had an eye for fashion, even in this out-of-the-box shop. No one here knew of the rumors surrounding her at school. No one cared if she was “saved” or not. No one cared what she did or did not do. She stood behind the register folding discarded clothes from the dressing room when Ethan strode through the door, his face dark.
“I figured this is where you would hide out,” Ethan commented.
“I wanted the extra hours,” Lydia lied, shaking out a top that read, “Lettuce Turnip da Beet.” The two stood in silence, him stony and affronted, her busily folding so that he would not see the shaking of her hands.
Zanna appeared from the back and greeted Ethan with a boisterous “Hey!”
Once, Lydia had tried to talk to Zanna about Ethan’s possessiveness. Before she could say much, Zanna had purred in her throat about how good-looking Lydia’s boyfriend was.
“You know, Lydia, a little sting to a man isn’t a terrible thing. There’s a reason that the book series, The Violently Naughty One, is selling so well.” She wiggled her eyebrows up and down. “I can’t get enough of a rough guy.”
Lydia had been surprised by the way her boss responded. She’d thought the feminist in Zanna would be indignant at Ethan’s treatment of her. Instead, Zanna made it clear that she would take a crack at Ethan if she ever had a chance, which aroused Lydia’s jealousy—and her insecurity.
Before Ethan, no one at the small school had talked to her, unless it was condescendingly, or with pity—or to hit on her. Either she was a project or a woman to throw a proposition at. Secretly, of course, out of earshot of the squeaky clean Jesus lovers.
When Ethan strode in, leading their football team into victory after victory and took his claim on her, the other students became somewhat cordial, even if it was stiff and forced. How could she survive the rest of the school year without him?
“Hey, beautiful,” he called back to Zanna with a wink in her direction, easily shifting his angry stance to boyish charm. “How about you let your employee here have the rest of the day off?”
Zanna sauntered over, leaned flirtatiously on the counter.
Is she really that easygoing and carefree, Lydia thought. Or is she purposefully putting on a cutesy act for Ethan? Lydia wished she could be so light.
“Well, I might be talked into it. First, I need you to check something out for me in back,” she said to Ethan.
“Like what?” Lydia wanted to know.
“Oh, just those new shirts,” Zanna replied, tugging on Ethan’s thick arm. “I want a guy’s perspective. Why don’t you count out your till?”
Lydia couldn’t concentrate as she sorted out the bills and change. She had to count three times before she stopped and leaned her hands on the counter, taking deep breaths like they taught in the yoga classes upstairs. She didn’t want to be alone with Ethan.
No. She was afraid to be alone with Ethan. The realization struck her with resolve.
How had it come to this? No way was a forced acceptance at Central Valley worth being with a guy she was afraid of, who wouldn’t let her talk to anyone else anyway. He had been annoyed with her often, even angry before, but today she sensed a darkness to his brooding that filled her with anxiety.
She took another deep breath and focused her attention on balancing the till. She struggled to balance her nerves. When Zanna and Ethan emerged from the back room, she straightened her shoulders and snapped the register shut. Ethan held Lydia’s things in one hand; Zanna hung on his other arm.
They smelled like they’d been doused in a sour-sweet bath of rotten eggs, or pot smoke. Lydia’s lips curled as she rolled her eyes at them. She had to end it. She couldn’t live this way.
***
An hour later, Ethan was driving his truck down a country road, fast and furious. “Are you kidding me?” he spat, careening the truck around a sharp corner.
Lydia closed her eyes, heart pounding in fear; although from his tone or the crunch as the tires struggled to cling to the asphalt, she wasn’t sure. He’d wanted to take her Jeep; now she was grateful she’d refused. It surely would have flipped on that corner. The truck rocked as he straightened the wheel and sped on. When she asked where he was going, he ignored her.
“You? Break up with me?” he sneered. “Right. Fine. You can try to get away, Lydia, but I’ll tell you something…” He reached over to grip her knee. “I’m not giving you up without a fight.” He squeezed her knee harder, his fingers digging in behind her kneecap, as she cried out in pain and struggled to push him off. Her manicured nails scratched at him.
Cursing, he glanced out the windshield and with one hand, guided the truck to the side of the road. Dust and gravel shot up around them as it skidded to a stop. His hand still on her knee, breathing hard, he reached his left hand across to grip her behind the neck, his fingers digging painfully into her long blond curls.
He pressed his face hard into hers, and she realized he was crying. “You can’t. Why do you make me angry? Why do you say things like this to piss me off and hurt me?” His nostrils flared and he squeezed her neck harder. “No. Not until I see what all that fuss was about first.”
Her lips trembled beneath his as he crushed her mouth with his. She hurt everywhere he touched, digging in, taking possession. How had she gotten herself in this situation? They were so far out of the city; no one would hear her if she tried to scream. His fingers fumbled at her waist, trying to find the button on her jeans.
Without thought or reason, out of desperation, she cried in her heart…Jesus help—
The staccato whoop-whoop of a siren behind them jolted them both. Ethan let go as if she were on fire.
Lydia sagged back in her seat.
Chapter Two
The house was still. Charlotte crept past her oldest daughters’ room, dodging by memory the toys scattered through the hall. She paused outside of the baby’s room and listened for a moment. The nine-month-old’s soft snores told of a sound asleep babe.
Charlotte smiled triumphantly. Hurrah! Coffee in peace.
She prepared the coffee, made with cheap store-brand granules. No problem. The fancy creamer in the fridge would make up for that.
“Come on, girl, work your magic.” Charlotte turned the knob to the brew position. While the coffee perked, she shuffled into the quiet living room and paused thoughtfully. Bible or computer?
It was a daily question. When the girls woke up early, she justified a little time on the computer first. They watched their cartoons while she checked email, updated her family blog, and just browsed around.
That morning she recognized the rare opportunity to soak in Scripture, uninterrupted. The computer could wait. As the fragrance of brewed coffee permeated the living room, Charlotte shuffled to the oversized chair in the corner and flipped on the lamp next to it. She lifted her worn Bible onto her lap, placed a hand on top, and a prayer on her lips for the Lord to lead her to understand His word. The coffee pot beeped three times, and she set her Bible aside to make her first cup for the day. She selected her favorite mug, an old sturdy brown one she’d inherited from her grandmother, and filled it with coffee, then splashed vanilla creamer on top.
In her chair again, Charlotte closed her eyes, soaked in the steam and willed it to open her fuzzy mind. She blew and took a slow sip, holding the hot coffee in her mouth just a moment before she swallowed; its warmth reaching to her toes. Bliss.
She smiled and took another sip, savoring the bittersweet brew, and pulled her Bible back onto her lap. This is the stuff good mornings are made of, she thought.
***
The rest of Charlotte’s day passed in a typical blur. Too many cups of coffee, heated and reheated in the microwave, too many loads of laundry piled onto her bed. She often teased with her husband how great she was at laundry. When he gave her that cocked eyebrow of his, she would finish the statement with a laugh, “I’m just awful at folding and putting away. Laundry is my mortal enemy.”
When she’d tried to analyze why she hated that particular chore, all she could think of was how repetitive it was. Like a hamster on a wheel, every time she emptied a basket, another filled again. It brought the mundane routine of her life into sharp focus.
Being a wife and mother had been a dream of hers—had always sounded so wonderful. She had known it would not be a glamorous life, but still had imagined sunshine-filled park dates; warm evenings around the kitchen table over soup served in bread bowls; a happy family in a sparkling clean house. Now that she was in the thick of that life, why did the day-to-day feel so empty? The girls were human in their whining and quarreling; the bread bowls would take more time than she had to spend, and what use was it cleaning a house when it would just dirty itself within minutes?
She adored her family, but couldn’t shake the voice whispering that she was just taking up space and air with no real purpose. She used to have such ambition, such dreams. And none of them included laundry.
***
That afternoon, her girls were asleep in the van after a trip to the library. Much like the unexpected chance for quiet time that morning, Charlotte saw a rare opportunity to daydream. For the next hour she drove around and looked at homes for sale.
“Oh, wow,” she muttered as she pulled the van over in front of one that really caught her eye. The two-story house sat on a beautifully landscaped corner lot in her dream neighborhood. She gazed up at the cream siding with green shutters, wide front porch, three-car garage, and felt a familiar ache in her heart.
Charlotte and her husband Sam had bought their home in a tiny community outside of town in the first few months of marriage, seven years before. The Realtor had told them to remember that first homes were just to get home ownership started.
“No one stays in their first home more than three or four years, so don’t be too picky,” the young Realtor had commented as he showed them the small house.
Sam and Charlotte were young, excited about being grown-ups, completely naïve to the Lord’s plans for them. They thought children had been four years out for them; Leah was a big three-years-ahead-of-schedule surprise, followed by Joanna and Joy, also ahead of their timeline. Charlotte had hoped to finish college before she became a mother so that she could work from home or have a worthwhile part-time job when the time came. Now she felt like a big nobody. When they attended dinner parties with other couples, she was usually the only one without a degree or career.
Other women said they had admired her ability to stay home with the kids.
“I could never do that,” one would proclaim with a puff of self-mockery and a knowing wink at another career mom, “my kids would drive me bananas.”
Or, “Well, if I didn’t have a career, I might have been able to do that.” Most everyone knew that Charlotte had been nothing more than a barista at a coffee shop when she found out she was pregnant.
“My job is so fulfilling,” a college friend of Sam’s had once said to Charlotte. “It would be cruel to my kids to give it up and just sit at home all day. I would be so miserable without the professional outlet that my kids would suffer.” The woman’s eyes had gone wide when she realized what she said and spoke quickly, a hand to Charlotte’s shoulder, to cover her blunder, “It’s wonderful for you that you didn’t have to make that choice.”
When Charlotte hosted dinners at their starter-turned-affordable-on-one-income home, the women would exclaim, “I love the creative things you’ve done with this space!” Implying, of course, that they were shocked the family of five fit in the small house.
Charlotte often spent days after such gatherings feeling like a leech and asking Sam if he wanted her to find work. He always said no and assured her he loved their life.
Things were tight with five people in the house, but it could be worse, he reminded her. She agreed, although there were times that one bathroom for five people felt like the end of the world.
After dinners at their friends’ larger, double-income homes, she couldn’t help but dream of more.
What did they do with all of that space?
A small sigh in the back seat warned Charlotte that she had just about run out of time. She gazed again at the beautiful home, started the van, and drove the quiet country roads to their place. She needed to get dinner going anyway.
Once home, the girls, tucked in front of Curious George with a snack, baby in the high chair in the kitchen with her, Charlotte did her best not to look with dissatisfaction at her tiny kitchen and worn furniture. It seemed to be more and more difficult lately to be positive about her life. While she adored her family, and loved being home with her girls, there was staleness to her routine that she couldn’t shake. It crept into the corners of her little home, invaded her daily tasks, and ruined precious moments with her little ones.
The subtle comments of their friends planted themselves into the deepest insecurities of her heart. Charlotte knew her feelings were based on selfishness and knew that she needed to fight her way out of the fog. She just wasn’t sure how or where to begin.
She supposed that was why she often dreamt of moving. It seemed to be the most exciting thing that could be done in her life at that time. She’d looked into other things, like going back to school or work. Neither option would allow her to stay home with her children. And as much as she struggled with musty moments, she wanted to stay home with her kids. These moments would pass. They had to.
Joy babbled in her chair, and Charlotte placed a few more Cheerios onto her tray. The baby grinned and kicked her feet in excitement. Charlotte felt the ache of overwhelming love. It was bittersweet, mixed with awful mundane musings. As a believer, shouldn’t she be able to claim
the joy of Christ?
She rubbed a hand over Joy’s hair and tried to absorb her baby bliss. Sam would be home soon, and she didn’t want him to see the sadness in her eyes. He worked so hard for them. The last thing she wanted was for him to feel inadequate because of her.
Charlotte remembered the first time her dad introduced her to Sam. She worked at a coffee shop at the time and had gone in early one Saturday morning to open, as she often did.
“Char, don’t you spend enough time here without coming in at o’dark-thirty on your day off?” her boss Erin called from behind the espresso machine.
“Better check the schedule, Erin. I’m on today.” She hung up her coat and looped her blue apron over her neck. She tied the strings behind her back as Erin gave her an impish grin.
“I’m positive you’re not. I was trying to surprise you with a nice Saturday off so I could ask for your help early on Black Friday,” Erin said, and scooted by Charlotte to the back office.
Erin pulled out the employee binder and flipped to that week’s schedule. She ran her finger over the names scribbled on front. “Yup. See? Brandon is scheduled today.” She clicked her pen, “Now, how do you feel about helping me open the store at 3 a.m. the day after Thanksgiving?”
Hopelessly awake, Charlotte used her discount to buy her dad’s coffee. Her father was a police officer and usually stopped into her shop at the end of his shift. She pulled out her pocket calendar and tried to figure out how she had read her own schedule wrong.
Flipping to that week in the little book, she found the right date. Hmmm, there it is. But now that she looked closer, the handwriting was a little off. It looked like—
Ding-dang-dang.
Charlotte glanced up as her father walked through the door, another officer on his heels. Ignoring the younger man, she waved the calendar in the air.