Also by Brandilyn Collins
Eyes of Elisha
ZONDERVAN
color the sidewalk for me
Copyright © 2002 by Brandilyn Collins
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.
ePub Edition July 2009 ISBN: 978-0-310-85826-3
Requests for information should be addressed to:
Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Collins, Brandilyn.
Color the sidewalk for me / Brandilyn Collins.
p. cm. — (Bradleyville series)
ISBN 0-310-24242-8
1. Parent and adult child—Fiction. 2. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 3. Kentucky—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3553.O4747815 C65 2001
813’.6—dc21
2001006356
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All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible: New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
The New King James Version (NKJV) is copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
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02 03 04 05 06 07 08 / DC/ 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Contents
cover page
title page
copyright
acknowledgments
~ 1997 ~
chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
~ 1968 ~
chapter 4
~ 1997 ~
chapter 5
chapter 6
~ 1977 ~
chapter 7
chapter 8
chapter 9
chapter 10
chapter 11
chapter 12
chapter 13
chapter 14
~ 1997 ~
chapter 15
chapter 16
chapter 17
chapter 18
chapter 19
chapter 20
~ 1977 ~
chapter 21
chapter 22
chapter 23
chapter 24
chapter 25
chapter 26
chapter 27
chapter 28
~ 1997 ~
chapter 29
chapter 30
chapter 31
chapter 32
chapter 33
chapter 34
~ 1978 ~
chapter 35
chapter 36
chapter 37
chapter 38
chapter 39
chapter 40
chapter 41
~ 1997 ~
chapter 42
chapter 43
~ 1979 ~
chapter 44
chapter 45
chapter 46
chapter 47
chapter 48
chapter 49
chapter 50
~ 1997 ~
chapter 51
chapter 52
chapter 53
chapter 54
chapter 55
chapter 56
chapter 57
chapter 58
chapter 59
chapter 60
chapter 61
chapter 62
chapter 63
chapter 64
author’s note
about the publisher
share your thoughts
For my mother and father,
Ruth and J. T. Seamands,
who have colored the sidewalk for me
since the day of my birth.
Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy
laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon
you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in
heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.
—Matthew 11:28–29 KJV
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Niwana Briggs for her insightful editorial comments as this story progressed.
Many To my agent, Jane Jordan Browne, who surely never sleeps, I send my utmost gratitude. We did it!
To my editor, Dave Lambert, and copy editor, Robin Schmitt, and to Sue Brower and Sherry Guzy and all the other terrific marketing and publicity folks at Zondervan—my deepest appreciation. Ron Huizenga, you’re batting a thousand. Can’t wait to see what you all have in store for me next.
~ 1997 ~
chapter 1
The boxes are heavy, their rough rope handles cutting into my palms. A frayed purse weights my weary shoulder. Heat shimmers from the fuel-spotted asphalt, stifling humidity wrapping greedy fingers around my throat. The squat, gray building seems so far away, and my legs are wobbling. Others move ahead of me as we file from the bus into the station. I breathe deeply, lungs filling with roiling air. My head feels light. Detaching itself from my body, it begins to float. Somewhere below are my arms, the boxes, my stumbling feet.
“Ye shall find rest unto your souls,” Imumble, half dazed. “Ye shall find rest ...”
And then the building looms before me. The door opens. My head drifts over the threshold. Distantly I survey the interior. Three people are in line to buy bus tickets; others dot plastic orange chairs as they wait. Two children are squabbling at a vending machine. I try to remember what I am looking for.
The door closes behind me. Air-conditioning slaps my cheeks. I shiver. Numbness chews away my feet, my legs. Vaguely I feel my fingers loosen, the boxes fall away. They hit the dusty tile floor with a clunk. Two women are watching me. I see the questions on their faces, feel their stares.
The world dims. My knees fold. For a time there is only blackness ...
Muffled voices above me. Faces out of focus.
“Poor child, she’s exhausted from the heat.”
“And probably hasn’t eaten.”
“Go get her ac andy bar.”
Footsteps hurrying away.
The scene undulates, reshaping itself. I am in a cab, then a hotel room. So sterile, heartless. The bed beckons me. I stagger to it and collapse.
The walls close in. I suck air and my throat rattles. “Danny,” I whisper. #8220;Kevy.”
After all the miles and all the running, the tears finally flow.
“Oh, Danny ...Danny ...Kevy ...”
Agurgle in my throat yanked me to the present. My eyes blinked open. Morning sun sifted through my white lace curtains, dusting the bedcovers with flecks of gold. One of my cats stretched beside me, surveying me with lazy indifference.
Ye shall find rest unto your souls. God’s promise to Granddad that he tried to pass on to me.
I lay very still, allowing my mind to adjust, as I always did after the dream. I forced myself to breath deeply until my tingling nerves settled.
Staring at the ceiling, I reflected that I’d not had the dream in a long time. Perhaps a year. Not that it mattered. Out of th
e many images from the past that capriciously filled my head at any given moment, this one was the least to bear.
I swallowed, passed a hand over my eyes. Glanced at the clock. Six-thirty. My alarm would go off any minute. I reached out to turn it off.
Not until I’d pulled myself from bed did I remember what day it was. Friday. My thirty-fifth birthday and my employment anniversary. Exactly ten years ago I had joined the creative team of Sammons Advertising Agency.
Ten years.
I stepped into the shower and stood under hot water, letting it wash away the residue of my dream as the scent of lavender soap flowed around me. If only it could wash away the stain on my soul as well. Fifteen minutes later I was dressing, still pushing away the memories, as I’d done countless times in the past seventeen years. It was a well-honed defense, this distancing from myself. On automatic, I donned a cornflower blue business suit that matched my eyes, brushing my shoulder-length blond hair. With smooth skin and a natural blush to my cheeks, I needed little makeup. I knew people thought me beautiful. Not that it mattered.
By the time I was ready, my thoughts were in place, wrenched from the tragic past and firmly wedged into the present. Mentally I went over my schedule for the day. As typical, it was overloaded with clients to please and coworkers to supervise. But the day did promise a new event, something I knew I’d never forget. My “surprise” party.
A few days before, I’d been walking down the hall toward the lobby when I overheard Monica, our young receptionist, scheming with our business manager about “how to keep Celia away from the conference room while it’s being set up.” I almost rounded the corner and asked, “Set up for what?” when I heard further discussion about a cake and whether it should have thirty-five candles for my age or ten for my years with the firm. I’d stopped in my tracks, scarcely believing it. They were planning a surprise birthday-anniversary party—for me. I’d never imagined anyone doing such a gracious thing. For a moment I’d just stood there as the realization sank in. Then I quickly faded back down the hall the way I’d come. Not for the world would I let them know that I’d overheard. Only later when I was again at my desk did I further realize whose idea the party must have been. Neither Monica nor our office manager had been around long enough to know when I started working with the firm. Only Quentin Sammons, owner of the agency, would have reason to remember that date. The thought that Quentin, busy as he was, would take time to honor me left me feeling all the more humbled. He was truly as much a friend as he was my boss, and our admiration for each other was mutual.
Quentin Sammons’ agency was in its twenty-seventh year and was one of the most prestigious advertising firms in Little Rock. I had joined the firm as the lowliest of employees and had risen to an account executive. Not only was I more than capable at coming up with ideas and creating visuals; I also had a “way with words,” as Quentin put it—a knack for painting a picture verbally. How ironic that the same glib tongue that had earned Mama’s wrath so often when I was young would help earn my living now.
Mama.
Another thought to push away. I still had to eat breakfast, feed the cats, water a few plants before I left for work.
“Mamie! Daisy!” I called, opening a can of fishy-smelling cat food. They appeared from opposite directions, padding expectantly into the kitchen with tails raised high. I petted them both, then left them to their meals.
During the twenty-minute drive downtown, as hard as I tried to focus, scenes from my dream kept crowding into my head. Sighing, I stopped at the final red light before pulling into the parking lot of the Conart Building, the imposing six-story black glass structure that housed the exquisitely decorated offices of the agency. Forcefully then I shoved my haunting past aside. I would not think of it. This wasn’t the time to deal with it anyway. It was never the time. I had too much work to do.
And a party to attend.
chapter 2
Surprise!”
I froze in the doorway, mouth dropping open, eyes widening. Even though I’d known, I was still overwhelmed at the sight. Every Sammons employee was crowded into our conference room, grinning.
“Oh, you all,” I breathed when I could find my voice. “This is incredible.”
“Well, come on in,” Quentin cried. “Join the party!”
Chattering, the crew pushed me toward the long, polished cherry-wood table spread with presents and a multiflowered cake. Chairs had been pulled back to line the wall, some of them sporting sassily bright helium balloons. Streamers hung from the ceiling. Quentin shushed the small crowd and made a glowing speech about my importance to the firm, complete with humorous quips. Everyone laughed and applauded. When he was done, I tried to express my gratitude, but no words could have sufficed. Fortunately Quentin rescued me.
“You’d better start opening all these presents,” he prodded.
A rare anticipation surged within me. “Oh well, if I must.” With growing gusto I tackled the first one. “Look at this!” I cried, holding up a T-shirt that read When in doubt—go for it. “Thank you, Jack.” I hugged my colleague. He pecked me fondly on the cheek.
“Girl, I love this,” Monica declared as she ogled the shirt. She put it down abruptly. “Here, do mine next.”
Coming from Monica, it would have to be over the top. It was—a heart-bedecked coffee mug large enough to swim in.
“I’m not sure this thing will fit on my desk,” I chuckled.
Before long I had an impressive pile of gifts and still had a few to open. A picture frame, two novels, a pen, a couple of CDs, and other thoughtful presents littered the table. I’d cut into the cake, and Marilyn and Wendy, two new graphic designers under my supervision, were passing out pieces. Monica was running in and out to answer the phone, indignant at each interruption. “I’m just taking messages,” she announced as she returned after the third call. “After all, we’ll probably have to wait ten years till we get another party.”
But after she disappeared the fourth time, she stuck her head back in the conference room to look at me with trepidation. “I think you’d better take it,” she said carefully. “It’s your mother.”
My coworkers were well aware of my business skills but knew little about my personal life. I never spoke about my childhood tragedies—the losses, the funeral attended. All my colleagues knew was that I was estranged from my family and spent holidays volunteering at Hillsdale Nursing Home. Undoubtedly they had speculated among themselves about the details.
At Monica’s disquieting announcement, heads turned, curious. Discussions melted. Within seconds the ballooned and streamered room had fallen silent. A tingle shot through my chest as I clutched a present, my animation peeling away to lie, like the torn wrapping paper and ribbon, in tatters at my feet.
“She probably just wants to wish you a happy birthday.” Monica forced a smile, her face raw with the awareness that she had brought the party to an abrupt halt.
Of their own accord my hands reached to drop my present on the conference table. “Of course.” I glanced around the room. “Excuse me; I’ll take it in my office.”
As I exited, I heard the chitchat resume.
Behind my closed door I steeled myself to pick up the phone. Mama did not call often and never did she call at work. I spoke to my father more frequently, but even those conversations were stilted and shallow. There was far too much pain underneath the surface—pain that I had caused. I didn’t know how to begin to address all the issues surrounding it and so had never tried.
Slowly now I lifted the receiver. “Mama?”
“Celia.” Her voice sounded old. “It’s your father.”
Dread hit me in the pit of my stomach. I collapsed into my black leather swivel chair. “What happened?”
“He’s had a stroke. Last week. I’ve been meanin’ to call you, but I wanted to wait until I knew more. The doctors think he’ll improve but it’ll take a lot of work. They’re sendin’ him home and I’ll be takin’ care of him. Right now he can
barely talk or use his left side.”
A rush of air escaped my lips. I pictured my father—a Christian man, gentle, quiet. As meek under Mama’s control as I had been contentious. And so loving to me, even after everything I had done. No one deserved this less than he. Tears bit my eyes.
“He needs you, Celia. He’s been callin’ your name over and over as best he can.” Her voice hardened. “’Course, I told him you won’t come; you’re not done runnin’ yet, and maybe you never will be.”
The words slapped me in the face. They were so like Mama, accusing and cold.
“But he won’t let up,” she continued. “Celia, you need to come home.”
Home?
It was too much to take in at once. A deep pain over the image of my father pitifully calling for me clashed with the dread of facing him and, far worse, facing my mother. I took a long breath, and in that instant the strangest succession of thoughts bombarded me. My eyes flitted waywardly over my desk, and I was struck by its sparseness. Most of my colleagues’ desks were littered with pictures of children and spouses and siblings. Not so with mine. Between a basketed plant on either side was a meager grouping of three gold-framed photos. The first was of my cats cozily stretched across quilted pillow shams on my bed; the second, of me and a gap-toothed, brilliantly smiling old man at the nursing home; and the third, also of me, standing proudly in front of my little white house with its grass-lined sidewalk and muted blue shutters the day escrow closed five years ago. Gazing at that picture, I thought of how my Toyota just fit in the compact detached garage and how pretty the white wicker furniture looked on my back patio. I thought of the small second bedroom transformed into an office that conveniently beckoned with busyness when the ancient memories threatened. Raising my eyes to the off-white walls of Sammons, I focused on framed art from ad campaigns I had helped launch. Each one was a testament to the productive adult I had become.
You need to come home.
The words wrenched my thoughts from Little Rock to tiny Bradleyville, flung against the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains in eastern Kentucky. Bradleyville was a highly conservative town, founded by my great-grandfather upon Christian principles that I’d once held dear. I had fled Bradleyville at age eighteen, shedding not only my Kentucky accent but also my family, my friends, and ultimately God himself. Now I couldn’t imagine finding a welcome among any of them.
Color the Sidewalk for Me Page 1