“You could,” I concede. “But, what matters most is we’re here now. At this point.”
Greg Mauer’s smile grows broader and he leans forward. This can’t be good.
“Once you found Jesus, Roland, why didn’t your life-changing transformation include fighting to get your daughter back in your life? Especially once you became a pastor—literally working for God.”
Running my tongue over my teeth, I carefully consider my response. “There would be nothing Godly about ripping a girl out of her safe, loving home to come live with a stranger, Mr. Mauer.”
He’s fishing. Fishing for one of us to falter. To offer some sort of “gotchya” moment to somehow wave in front of the nation as an example of “Christians Gone Wrong.” Why we can’t just have a simple interview and be done with it is beyond me.
“Kennedy,” he changes direction, “what were your thoughts when you learned that your birth father was the Roland Abbot?”
She clears her throat and uncrosses her legs, settling for re-crossing them at her ankles. “When I first met him he wasn’t the Roland Abbot,” she chides. “He was just my birth father who happened to be a pastor.”
“Was that strange for you?”
I have to admit, I’m listening closely to her responses. To questions I’ve always had, but lacked the opportunity to ask without seeming probing. I’ll leave the probing up to the Today Show.
Kennedy shrugs. “Not any more so than any other job he could have had, I guess. It just kind of came with the package.”
“Now, your stepfather adopted you after he and your mother got married. You have his last name.” Greg tilts his head to the side, as if considering his prey before sinking his teeth in.
Kennedy simply nods.
“How does he feel about everything that’s gone on for the last couple of days? Including you identifying yourself as Roland’s daughter, despite bearing the last name of another man?”
My cheeks burn all the way to my ears as a surge of protectiveness extends from me to Kennedy. She’s being challenged on choices she had little-to-no say in. Being born to a single mother, adopted by another man, and not raised as my daughter. All plot points in a story she’s been forced to live out, but given no pen with which to alter the arc.
Until now.
“Dan has been amazingly supportive. I think …” Kennedy pauses, causing me to look over at her. Her eyes fall for a moment, eyebrows scrunching in as if working out a problem for the first time. Finally, she looks up and continues. “I think that he has more in common with Roland than me or my mother do. He’s a father, and I think he understands something about what Roland might be feeling, or has felt over the past eighteen years. It’s given him a perspective of heart that none of the rest of us can have.”
A lump forms in my throat. I’ve only met Dan Sawyer once in person, and only just learned that he was the author of the letter that set the stage for changing my life, but Kennedy is spot on. In the wisdom that’s far beyond her years, I sense deep in my own heart that as a father, Dan was able to reach out to me in a way no one else would have been able to.
Greg smiles warmly, a smile that finally reaches his eyes as he stares at my daughter in slight wonder. “You’re an incredible young woman, Ms. Sawyer. A lot of people in your position might run and hide or use their new found fame to promote an agenda, but that doesn’t seem to be your goal.”
“No,” she answers calmly. “ It’s not. My goal is to learn where I came from and decide where I want to go. Running won’t fix that.”
My eyes volley back and forth, following their conversation. Repressing the urge to dash in and save her, I sit back. Kennedy doesn’t seem to need saving in this moment.
“Your father and this school—Carter University—they’re quite different from the Episcopalian churches you’ve attended in your life. In form and function.”
“They are.”
“What do you think about all of it?”
Kennedy huffs a slight chuckle out of her nose and grins. “There’s a lot to think about. And, for now, that’s all I’m doing. Taking it all in.”
“No doubt you have friends and roommates who have far more conservative opinions than you do.”
She shrugs. “Sure. The same can be said for any of my friends.”
Greg’s eyes move wildly across Kennedy’s face, as if growing frustrated that he can’t make her say the wrong thing. Whatever he perceives to be the wrong thing.
“So,” he presses, “what becomes of your friendships when you’re seated across the political aisles from them? I see you’ve got some pretty impressive activist work under your belt for such a young person. Marriage rights rallies, reproductive rights marches … your mother is just as well known in these progressive circles as Roland is in the evangelical community.”
“I suppose so.” She takes a deep breath. “As to what happens to the friendships? If they’re based in love, Mr. Mauer, we’ll be able to learn something from each other, I’d hope, and policy will unify us rather than destroy us. Isn’t that what Jesus preached the most about? Love?”
Check mate.
Greg shifts his gaze to mine and adjusts his position. “Let’s switch gears here for a moment.”
Because you’re not getting the sensational story you’d hoped for?
“Roland. You live and breathe a biblical, fundamental way of life. Your daughter was raised in one of the most liberal political hotspots in the United States. What influence do you hope to have on her life?”
Though she’s in another room, I swear I can hear Wendy’s teeth grind together. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Kennedy close her eyes for a moment, as if she’s saying a quick prayer. I don’t have enough time to decipher what she might be praying about. Though, an educated guess would lead me to believe she just doesn’t want me to embarrass her. She is still a teenager, after all.
Still, I’m on television, and I’m an honest man. I have to give an honest answer.
“To tell you the truth, Greg, I want to have as little influence on her as possible. I want God to be the ultimate influencer in her life, and if she needs me to guide her along the way, I’ll be happy to do that.”
He sits forward. “But you admit you want to influence that God takes center stage in her life?”
With a calm smile, I instinctively reach out and take Kennedy’s hand. She tenses at first but relaxes, gripping my hand back. Eyeing her as I answer the interviewer, I give her hand a tight squeeze. “Yes. I absolutely want God to be the center of her life. Before her mom, her friends, or me. I want God to be number one. At all times.”
Kennedy’s eyes widen, and before I know it, her hand slips out of mine and joins the other one on her lap.
While the cameras are still rolling.
CHAPTER TEN
Heavy in Your Arms
Kennedy.
All I want to do is get the hell out of here and go to class.
That’s it. That’s all I want to do.
Instead I’m kicking myself for letting go of Roland’s hand before the interview was over. What I wanted to do was shake away from it. Brush it off like it was the lava it felt like. I tried to slyly slip out of the most physical contact Roland and I have ever had. But, instead I did it in front of the nation and right after Roland suggested God should take top billing in my life.
It may have been better if I brought a picture of Trent and I making out on the hammock behind his house—taken by Mollie—rather than suggest through my body language that I do not, in fact, want God in the center of my life.
I don’t even know how I feel there, but now the nation—including most of CU, from talk around campus—will think they know how I feel.
Sigh.
Once the cameras stop rolling, Greg Mauer—who is far less attractive in person and smells like the cologne my grandfather wears—turns to me and extends a hand.
“You’re a very brave girl, Kennedy. Thank you for the interview. We’ll be in
touch about an in-depth piece when you’re home for Thanksgiving or Christmas break.”
I’m overjoyed …
“Thank you,” I flash a forced smile. “I look forward to hearing from you.”
About as much as I look forward to my period.
All in all, the interview went better than I expected. Easy questions, easy answers. Greg Mauer promised viewers, however, that they would get to go “in depth” with Roland and me in the coming weeks. No doubt that will cause viewers to get all hot under the collar with speculation of how our father/daughter relationship is developing, or how my beliefs are or are not changing.
Roland finishes his goodbyes and thank-yous to the crew while I duck into the bathroom and scrub off the six tons of TV make-up that’s weighing down my face. Before facing Mom and Roland, I reach for my phone to find out what all the vibrating was about during the interview.
Mollie.
All the tension in my chest releases as I chuckle through her play-by-play texts.
Good hair day. Praise the Lord. That’s what we’re supposed to say, right?
Nice lips.
You think Greg Mauer’s an ass, don’t you? That eyebrow arch says it all.
Oh, we’re holding hands now?
But, the coup de grâce—her final text—confirms my fears.
Oh … no … apparently we’re NOT holding hands. Call me.
Taking a few more minutes to myself in the confines of the bathroom, I do just that.
“Hey superstar!” she answers after the first ring.
“Did my hand-holding faux pas look like I was dissing Roland or God?” I ask breathlessly.
“Oh …” she responds, sounding startled. “I hadn’t even thought of the God thing …”
“But now that I mention it?”
Mollie clicks her tongue. “I don’t know. I’m not them. I’m not you. Are you over-thinking this? It legitimately didn’t occur to me that it would be the God thing. Which would be worse for you?”
I pause for a moment. “I don’t even know.”
“Well,” she sighs animatedly, “one way or another you’re screwed with someone, huh?”
A laugh bursts from deep in my belly and I place my hand on the back of my neck, assessing myself in the mirror. “Most definitely.”
“Any word from Dan?”
“No,” I huff, opening the bathroom door and working my way to the kitchen. The kitchen has food. And coffee. Both are required if I’m to show up to class in twenty minutes.
She sighs again. “Keep me posted there, okay?”
“Will do.” Mom spots me and points to the coffee maker. I nod. “I’ll call you later.”
“Text me during class,” Mollie challenges. “I want to know what your post-interview life is like.”
I chuckle. “You’re mental, you know that?”
“I do. Oh! Before you go, consider spending a week with me at Yale.”
“How—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“Your winter break is a week longer than mine. You can come hang out with me for a while before heading back into Caanan.”
My mouth drops at Mollie’s Old Testament reference. The land promised to Abraham and his children by God. I just got that question right on a quiz. I think, honestly, it was put there for me. Beginner Bible stuff.
“I’ll think about it. I want to,” I’m quick to add, “but I need to check the rules. I’ve just gotta be super careful right now.” Suddenly, I’m missing Matt, and our private talks.
Back to the sort-of real world now, lady.
“We’ll think of something,” Mollie promises before hanging up.
“Who was that?” Mom asks, handing me a steaming cup of pumpkin coffee.
“Mollie.”
She exhales for a few seconds. “Oh.”
“No word yet from Dan?”
Her eyes widen. “Oh, well, yes, he did call me just before you went on the air. Promised we’d have a long talk as soon as he gets home at the end of the week.” Her cynicism is thick, but I don’t have the time or desire to probe. It’s their marriage.
“What’s your plan now?” I ask, leaning against the island. “I mean, I’ve got to get back to class and work and … life.”
Mom rounds the island and places her hands on my shoulders. “You did an excellent job, Kennedy.”
Here I thought our emotional circumnavigation would take us clear around the interview.
“Thanks. I mean it.” Setting my mug down, I wrap my arms around her shoulders. “Thank you for dropping everything for me this week.”
“I’d do anything for you,” she whispers, tears clearly cutting off her speech.
“You always do,” I reply, talking about far more than the past several years. “My entire life.”
We breathe deeply at the same time and each take one step back, chuckling at our mirrored movements.
“I need to get home,” she finally says. “But I want to make sure you’re okay.”
I look around. “I am. If I feel like I’m not, I can come here,” I say, gesturing to Roland’s space. “And if that doesn’t work, I promise I’ll come home.”
Her eyes wet again at my words. “Promise?”
“Promise,” I assure.
Roland reappears from the hallway by his study. It’s clear there’s a bathroom down that hall somewhere, given he looks like his normal non-made-up self, but I realize I haven’t had much of a tour of this place beyond the main areas.
“Hey …” I start as awkwardly as I’ve ever started a conversation with him before. “I’ve … gotta get to class.”
He gives that sweet half-smile he’s always given me. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen him give it to anyone else. “Of course. Well done today, Kennedy. He was a little--“
“Rabid?” I comment on the no longer sexy Greg Mauer.
Roland laughs. “A little. It could have been worse.”
“It could have been better,” Mom interjects. “I knew he’d ask a bunch of God questions, but …”
We all fall silent for a moment.
“Okay, well, I gotta go.” I hug Mom once more. “Call me when you get home.”
“Of course I will. Call me anytime. I mean it.” Backing away from our hug, she busies herself with packing away her laptop and clearing up the coffee mugs and assorted breakfast plates.
I still need food, but it looks like that won’t happen until after my first class.
“I’ll walk you out,” Roland says, clearing his throat.
Mom’s back is still turned while she fusses with the dishes, indicating she’s through with her goodbyes. Smiling up at Roland, I offer a tiny shrug and head toward the door.
“Sorry about the hand thing,” I blurt out as he opens the door. “I didn’t mean to—”
Roland’s smile is soft and his eyes scan the distance for a moment before moving back to my face. “It’s okay,” he reassures. “I shouldn’t have—”
“No,” I cut him off. “This one wasn’t you. It was me. Let me own it.”
His shoulders shake as he chuckles. “Fine, just this one. Do you want me to walk you to class?” He nods toward the front lawn. “It’s still kind of busy out there,” he says of the reporters and busybodies.
Craning my neck to see more of the view, my chest tightens at the site just beyond the iron gates. “No,” I smile, “my friends are out there waiting for me.”
Giving Roland one last wave, I confidently descend the stairs. Tuning out the murmurs of the lingering nosy-pants, I focus my sights on them. My friends. Matt, Eden, Jonah, Bridgette, Silas, and Maggie.
“You guys …” I start, my smile widening the closer I get to them.
Eden steps forward and pulls me into a tight vanilla-scented hug. “We love you, Kennedy. You were so brave today,” she says, stepping back. “I can’t believe you went on national TV!”
My cheeks are hot with vulnerability. I knew “everyone” would see the interview, but it’s harder with p
eople I know. “Thanks,” I finally mumble.
“We wanted to show you how much we love and support you, Kennedy.” Bridgette steps forward and gives me a hug of her own. “So, we asked Maggie if she’d walk us off campus.”
Over Maggie’s shoulder, I see the guys—each offering their own brand of smiles. In fact, I think it’s the first time I’ve seen Silas really smile at all.
“You did a really good job,” he says, offering an awkward pat on my shoulder as Bridgette moves aside.
Jonah nods in agreement, sliding his hands into his pockets. “He asked some pretty tough questions.”
Immediately my eyes shoot to Matt, and I recall our conversation from yesterday. About political beliefs and friendships.
“Yeah,” I agree, still eyeing Matt, “but I meant every word I said.”
Just love them all.
Matt maintains eye contact with me as he slides past Jonah and extends his arms, a mischievous grin playing on his lips.
Pulling me into a hug, he whispers in my ear, “You’re amazing, two, three …” He chuckles, stepping back, and I laugh, too.
While it’s not an official CU guideline that members of the opposite sex can’t engage in prolonged hugs, it’s highly encouraged that full-contact hugs last no more than three seconds. I’ve not seen or heard of anyone walking around with a stopwatch enforcing this suggestion, but I guess the goal is to avoid gratuitous physical contact.
We wouldn’t want anyone to get pregnant.
I bite my lip to stop the thought from vocalizing.
“So,” I manage, awkwardly as my friends stand around me, “who’s up for some Old Testament?”
Maggie accompanies us to the edge of campus before she veers off to her own class. It’s then that I realize that while she is supportive of me, she likely joined my friends to Roland’s house to keep up with the chaperone/odd numbers of boys and girls rule. She tells me to come by her room sometime this week to prepare for my meeting with Dean Baker on Friday, and I simply nod. My brain is on overload.
Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2) Page 7