Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)

by Andrea Randall

  Taking a deep breath, I quickly scan over the last couple of months in my mind. Not just socially, but academically as well. I need to speak the language. “I think, truly, that Joy fell at some point into the land of the Pharisees.”

  Their brief silence as they seem to consider my words, allows me to comb over the stories I’ve heard referenced in sermons and Bible study so far. I’m not in a New Testament class, yet, but being a Christian for my entire life has given me a few lessons on that portion of the Bible. Jesus often called out the Pharisees on their ability to recite the law and look like shiny believers but they were, in fact, frauds.

  “Whitewashed tombs, right?” I recite aloud. “Didn’t Jesus literally say that they don’t practice what they preach?”

  Eden nods. “In Matthew 23.”

  Naturally.

  Bridgette sniffs and straightens her shoulders and Eden seems to take this as a sign to drop her hand. She does, and retreats to her bed and her food. I pick up the chicken and broccoli, waiting for Bridgette to speak.

  She takes a bite of an egg roll, then looks at both of us. “Don’t you think it’s a bit harsh to call someone a Pharisee, though? I mean, those guys in the Bible were like that to their core. They didn’t become that way, they just were.”

  “So what do you think happened with Joy, then?” I ask

  Bridgette shakes her head slowly. “She fell somewhere along the way and no one was around to pick her up, I think.”

  “Doesn’t she have friends?” Eden asks.

  My head shoots up. “You guys aren’t friends with her?”

  While I’d never seen them hanging out with Joy apart from group mealtimes when we all sit together, I’d assumed my roommates would be friends with her.

  “No,” Eden replies. “I mean, we include her, and stuff, but she never really talked to us. Her roommate said Joy was always in their room studying, or at the library.”

  “Talked?” I question. “Past tense?”

  “She’s not here,” Bridgette cuts in.

  “You said you didn’t know what happened to her,” I challenge.

  She huffs. “We don’t. She hasn’t talked to any of us since before everything happened, but Maggie said she’d be staying somewhere else for a while, until everything gets sorted out.”

  Grace.

  I think about the word that swirled through every fiber of my being when I pleaded to Maggie to not get Joy expelled. The word that is the most powerful word anyone on this campus has, whether they recognize it, or not. Again, I’m left wondering where Jesus was. Where was Joy’s Jesus when her heart began to darken into the blackness reflected in her eyes? Where was her lasso as she sank into the depths of spite and hatred? Because that’s what I firmly believe was behind her accusations toward Roland and me. Hatred. At one or both of us.

  Before I can form a response, there’s a knock at our door.

  “Hey ladies, it’s Maggie, can I come in?”

  Grace.

  I leap to my feet, a couple of sauce-covered broccoli trees tumbling onto my bed as I sloppily set my container down. Opening the door, I find the sweet smile and bright eyes of one of the few people I trust at Carter University—my RA, Maggie. Without much thought, I step forward and wrap her in a tight hug, exhaling at the sight for sore eyes.

  She squeezes back with comforting firmness before asking, “Everything okay?”

  “Where’s Joy?” I question, stepping back and fetching a tissue from my desk to clean up the spilled broccoli.

  “That’s what I wanted to come talk to you about. Ladies,” she eyes Eden and Bridgette, “could you give us—”

  “If it’s okay with you,” I cut in. “I’d like them to stay. I’m not much for secrets these days.”

  Maggie gives a slight nod, closing the door behind her.

  “Well, there’s no real way to dance around this. Joy’s parents have removed her from school.”

  “What?” My roommates and I snap at the same time.

  “I don’t get it. I thought she wasn’t going to get in trouble.” My heart is racing as I stand again, to pace the two-square-feet of available space in my cramped dorm room.

  “Kennedy,” Maggie cuts in gently. “There’s been no official disciplinary action taken by the school as of yet. The Dean of Students still needs to speak with you regarding the issue, as well as other people who were around that day, and anyone who may have known about her plan ahead of time.”

  That there were co-conspirators, even just guilty by association, hadn’t occurred to me. I’ve been operating under the assumption that she’d acted alone. Especially given she doesn’t seem to have any real friends on campus.

  “When did she leave?” Eden asks quietly.

  “Her parents picked her up last night.” Maggie sits in a free desk chair and crosses her legs.

  “Why’d they take her out? Where they afraid of repercussions by students?” Bridgette voices something I hadn’t even considered. I knew people found her actions distasteful, but repercussions?

  Maggie nods. “That was part of it, though the university assured them that they would take all precautions necessary to avoid that. Their main concern, naturally, is the state of Joy’s spirit and mind. The Martinezes are in shock, and want to help Joy as best they can, so she can hopefully return to CU after winter break.”

  “Well, when can I get a chance to talk to her? Shouldn’t I be able to talk with her at some point before she returns—if she returns?” I lean against Eden’s bed and cross my arms in front of me.

  “Of course,” Maggie assures. “The university will remain in contact with the Martinez family to receive updates on Joy’s treatment, and then we can schedule a time for peer counseling for the two of you—”

  “Treatment?” Bridgette butts in. She never butts into anything, but this whole situation clearly has her on edge.

  “She will be receiving counseling from her home pastor, but that’s all I know.” The way her eyes fall to the floor tells me that’s not all Maggie knows about Joy’s exit-plan from CU.

  I move back to my bed and vow to finish my dinner before I stand again. It’s getting cold, and the last thing I need is mediocre comfort food. “When do I have to talk with the Dean of Students? Who is the Dean?”

  “Hershel Baker is his name, and he said he’ll meet with you on Friday morning. I suggested to him that with the interview you’ve got tomorrow, along with settling back into classes this week, it might be wise to wait a few days.”

  “Thank you.” My eyes meet Maggie’s and I find a motherly love staring back at me. She truly cares for her floor charges, and sometimes I feel like she works overtime to make me feel welcome.

  She smiles, rising to her feet and moving to the door. “You’re welcome. Don’t forget to bring your food trash to the large bins at the end of the hall so your room doesn’t smell like a dumpster.” Instantly slipping back into practical RA-mode, Maggie offers one more smile before closing the door behind her.

  “Bridgette,” I blurt out, watching her staring into space while Eden goes back to her dinner. “You know that this isn’t anyone’s fault, right?”

  Shaking her head, she nearly whispers, “I know better.”

  “About what?”

  Her eyes flash to mine. “Being a good Christian friend. Supporting people. Had I taken a few minutes a day to connect with her—”

  “No way, Bridge,” Eden cuts in. “There’s nothing we could have done. She comes—came—to Bible study with us, remember? And we always ask her to sit with us or go get coffee, or whatever.”

  Bridgette maintains her soft denial-laden head shake while she puts on her coat. “No, it’s not whatever. There’s more we—I—could have done. There’s always more that can be done to save people from that kind of behavior.”

  “I thought—” I start, but Bridgette raises her hand, cutting me off. With a smile, though.

  “Ladies, please. I need to take a walk and think about all of this.”<
br />
  “You’ve got half an hour before you’ve got to be back,” Eden offers plainly.

  Bridgette nods, opening the door. “I know. Thank you.”

  Once the door closes, I wait a few seconds before speaking again, trying to organize my thoughts.

  “Eden?”

  She chews some awful-smelling pork dish. “Yeah?”

  “I thought. I thought, like, Jesus was the only one who can save people. Eternally and from … stuff.” I know, logically, that those who believe in Jesus are called to be his hands and feet, and while I’m still trying to organize the implications of that, I get the basic meaning.

  Eden grins. “Yeah, basically. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Bridgette so far this semester, it’s that girl has one massive savior complex.”

  It’s the closest thing to gossip I’ve heard from my beauty-queen roommate. “Is that a … bad thing? I mean, aren’t we all supposed to be like Jesus?”

  Eden stuffs her empty containers into the take-out plastic bag, and walks to me, holding it open so I can toss mine in. “Like Jesus,” she seems to repeat.

  “Yeah …” I prompt.

  Eden puts her hand on the door, the trash from our less-than-comforting food in her hands. “We’re supposed to try to be like Jesus. Not be Jesus. The position’s been filled. It’s a fine line to walk, and some of us have …” she trails off, taking a deep breath.

  “Have what.”

  “Some of us have an easier time separating the two. Bridgette and Silas, though? Sometimes I think their sheltered upbringing has left them unprepared in some ways. I know Bridgette is quieter than Silas, but she’s just as fervent. Thinking about those who are unsaved keeps her up at night sometimes, Kennedy.”

  I huff through my nose, but suddenly it dawns on me like a black sun. “Do you think it was the same way with Joy?”

  Eden tilts her head to the side, knowingly. “Yes.”

  “And that’s why Bridgette is so inside-out about all of it? She somehow looked up to Joy’s intensity and sees where it can lead?”

  Eden shrugs, opening the door. “I think we need to spend a lot of time praying for Bridgette. And with her. She’s scared, Kennedy. That I do know.”

  In the span of a couple of seconds, I’m alone in my room for the first time since I left it Friday morning. When everything was still relatively normal. Now I’m officially Roland’s kid, Joy has gone MIA, and my Jesus-loving, sweet-as-pie roommate is falling apart on the inside.

  And tomorrow morning I’ll be on live national television.

  Without brushing my teeth or washing my face, I crawl into bed and send a lame text to Maggie, begging to be let out of the nightly prayer meeting since I have to be up so early in the morning. She chimes back, granting my wish but insists this is the last time.

  Before fully submerging myself under the covers, I roll out of bed and sink to my knees.

  “Okay,” I start in a whisper. Hearing myself pray out loud is still weird for me. “I just … I don’t know what you’re doing here, but I need you to keep doing it and keep keeping me safe. Please. I’m filled with so much fear, God. I’m sure that’s not what you want from me, so I need you to take it away however you can. Please help Bridgette, too.”

  I don’t hear Eden come back into the room, but suddenly she’s kneeling next to me. Offering her own prayers into the mix.

  “Lord Jesus,” she begins. “Thank you for leading Kennedy this far. Calm her heart as you bring her through the rest of this leg of her journey, and keep her eyes focused on you, Lord.”

  Wordlessly I reach over and grab onto her hand, holding onto it for dear life.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Never Say Never

  Roland.

  “Lift your chin,” a make up artist named Gwen instructs. Doing so, I cast a sideways glance at Kennedy.

  The crew holds up a few different lip colors, ranging from light pink to concerning red. I watch her eyes roam over the options, pausing at the darkest shade, seeming to try it on in her mind. With a heavy sigh, she points to the lightest one.

  “Nice choice,” I comment.

  “It’s not really a choice,” she shoots back. “I’m still a CU student, and need to follow the rules, right?”

  “Right,” I offer without much emotion.

  I don’t know enough about Kennedy to know which color she might choose if not under the umbrella of the guidelines, and that’s a thought that spears my chest. We’ll get there, I’m sure, but I’ve got to keep it together. The perfect push-pull balance of dealing with someone who you made sure—quite legally—was going to have no bearing on your life. Only, from the very second I walked away she was there in the full weight of the shame and regret I felt as my life spiraled downward almost infinitely.

  In the corner of the kitchen, Jahara is speaking with Wendy and someone who appears to be a production assistant. The interviewer, a man probably a little older than I with salt-and-pepper hair, sits in his chosen chair in the living room. Waiting. A hungry look in his eyes and a disarming smile on his face, I force myself to swallow and get my game face on. I have nothing to hide. Not anymore.

  You take care of her out there. If they start chewing her up, I want you to sacrifice yourself. In any way you have to. Do you hear me?

  Sitting straight while the production crew twitters around my living room, I reflect on the words Wendy whispered to me upon entering my house this morning. She was in rare form, strung out on too little sleep and too much caffeine. She picked up Kennedy from the dorms and they arrived at my house at precisely six-o’clock to begin preparing for our live segment.

  Sacrifice.

  A word both Wendy and I are far too familiar with for wildly different reasons. I forced sacrifice on the young, beautiful college student when I asked her to raise our child without me. And, I unknowingly sacrificed a large chunk of my soul in the process. More recently, both Wendy and I have been sacrificing our comfort levels to guide Kennedy through this whole thing.

  Despite having seen each other a few times over the last five years, it’s always been in a “hello” and “goodbye” context before and after meeting Kennedy for the rare lunches we were granted. To be in near constant contact with each other for the past couple of days has been unsettling for me, but I can’t imagine the feelings that must be bubbling through Wendy’s chest.

  As if she hears my thoughts, Wendy Hamilton looks in my direction.

  Sawyer, Roland. Her last name is Sawyer, now. You know this.

  It really does look like time stopped for her somewhere in our junior year of college. Sure she’s got a little grey in her hair, but she always carried herself with a kind of intensity that would lead you to believe she’d been born with a grey streak. She’s just as beautiful, though. Especially given all I put her through. And am still putting her through. There’s a surprise in her face. One that looks as light as the night I asked her out for our first date, and one that’s as shocked as she sounded when I called her for the first time in eight years. Maybe it’s horror, not shock. Anyway, that was a decade ago, but feels like yesterday as I watch her face pale a little before returning to her conversation.

  “They’re ready for us,” I swear Wendy says, though her back is now to me and the voice is coming from my left. “Roland?”

  It’s only when I hear the voice again that I realize it’s Kennedy, not Wendy.

  “Are you okay?” she asks when I turn to face her. She arches an eyebrow while waiting for my answer.

  I nod, pulling my lips back in a smile so practiced it feels natural. “I’m perfect. Let’s do this, huh?”

  It took me five years of sobriety and three more of intentional practice to pull off the kind of composure Kennedy is demonstrating through this interview. The beginning of which covered a brief, sensational overview of my “rise to fame” as they called it, and the events surrounding Kennedy’s “outing” as my daughter.

  “But you did call Joy Martinez an unsavory
word upon discovering the flyer, didn’t you?” That was one of the award-winning journalist’s first questions of my victim of a daughter in the whole mess.

  “I did,” she replied confidently. “I should have responded differently, but we all make mistakes sometimes.”

  “Couldn’t you say the same for Joy?”

  As if she’d anticipated this retort, Kennedy crossed her legs and smiled sweetly. “I can’t speak for her, but I do believe there is a deep difference between a mistake and a plan. Even the justice system follows that logic.”

  Now, though, the questions are getting deeper, and I’m nervous about how she’ll handle them. I’ve had years of public speaking experience. Given that having a poker face is half the game, though, I’d say she has a fair shot. And I don’t even play poker anymore.

  “So, Pastor Abbot, let me turn to you for a moment,” Greg Mauer says to me in a hopeful tone, as if his questions will be as such.

  I smile. “Please, call me Roland.” Although it’s been a few years, hearing the title in front of my name sometimes takes me by surprise. And I want him, and everyone watching, to know that I really do feel just like “Roland”, and “Pastor” is simply what I’m called to do.

  “First off,” he smiles, and I instantly recognize the facade. He doesn’t have any emotion behind what he’s about to say. I suppose he wouldn’t, because he doesn’t know us as well as his note cards likely tell him he does, “how does it feel to be sitting next to your daughter in public, and to be able to call her your daughter?”

  I take a deep breath, grateful that Wendy is in another room and I can’t see her face through the barrage of questions. “Greg, it’s unlike anything I could have imagined,” I admit, tears stinging my eyes. “But, I do want to clarify that Kennedy did grow up in a loving home with two very loving parents. My absence from her life did not preclude her from that.”

  “Might you say your absence protected her?” he presses. “Given your bout with alcoholism and the years you were unable to keep a steady job?”