She stripped out of her sweaty running clothes and debated taking a quick shower, just to rinse the grit and sweat from her body. Instead she took the lazy way out and pulled on the first bathing suit her hand fell on—one that Anna hated.
“Mo-om,” she said the last time she wore it to their community pool back home. “You have got to get some swimsuits that were made in, like, this decade.”
“I like it,” Lindsey retorted, defensive. “It hides everything in just the right way.”
Anna looked down at the ground, shaking her head in utter despair. Her mother would never be the cool mom she hoped for. As a teen, Lindsey wore bathing suits that showed too much skin. Now she admired bathing suits that covered up as much as possible without looking terribly matronly. She checked herself out in the mirror. She didn’t have the body of a teenager, but she hadn’t exactly let herself go, either. As she studied herself, she realized that the older she got, the more she liked herself. Sure she would never get rid of the stomach she gained from having kids. And her breasts didn’t stand at attention like they once did. But she wasn’t fifteen anymore, either. And frankly, from where she stood looking back over the years, she wouldn’t want to be.
As she gathered up her sunscreen and headed to the kitchen to pack lunch, she noticed a devotional book she had been going through and tossed it into her bag to take to the beach, along with her journal and a pen. She wanted to do some journaling while the kids played. The image of sitting on the beach with a pen in her hand, alternating between staring at the waves and scribbling her thoughts contentedly, brought a smile to her face. She passed Anna in the hall, dressed in a bathing suit Lindsey bought her at the mall, a splurge to get her excited about the trip to Sunset without her dad.
She looked at Lindsey, noticing the wide grin on her face. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
Lindsey didn’t answer the question, but replied with, “That suit sure looks cute on you!” and kept on smiling as she made her way down the hall.
Lindsey ignored her daughter’s reply: “Wish I could say the same for yours!”
w
About ten minutes after they got down to the beach Anna and Jake began to complain of hunger. Though Lindsey tried to stave them off for a bit, eventually she gave in and handed out sandwiches, chips, and Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls, a beach tradition from her childhood she attempted to pass along to her kids, even if Anna held up the treat and announced, “Mom, do you know how much trans fat is in one of these? Are you trying to kill us?”
Lindsey looked heavenward and told Anna she didn’t have to eat it.
“Then can I have Anna’s?” Jake asked hopefully.
They all ate their lunch in quiet happiness, accepting the sandy grit that inevitably worked its way into the sandwiches as part of the experience. After they ate, the children ran to investigate a tide pool that some other children had clustered beside. Apparently they had forgotten their earlier complaints about the beach being “boring.”
With the kids preoccupied, she pulled out her journal. She opened to a fresh page and, though she had to fight with the wind a bit, she began to write about her jog and interaction with Minerva. She wrote about their conversation and how Minerva had seemed anxious for her and Campbell to see each other. Something about her brief encounter with the elderly yet enthusiastic woman made her feel like they would be friends if they could spend time together. She knew it was terribly psychological, but she did find herself gravitating to mother figures.
She then grabbed the devotional book and flipped to that day’s date. She wished she had her Bible with her but feared what could happen to it out on the beach. A gift from Holly when they graduated from high school, her Bible had become one of her most precious possessions. She would have to go back later and read the verses that were printed in the book.
The book was given to her by a woman at her church back home who had become a mother figure for Lindsey—she was an older woman who actually reminded Lindsey a lot of Minerva, now that she thought of it. After learning that Grant had left, the woman had given Lindsey the book one Sunday morning when they passed in the church lobby. Lindsey remembered the woman wore a little corsage on her flowered dress. She imagined the woman’s arthritic, age-spotted hands maneuvering the pin into the fabric as she stood in front of her mirror. Something about that effort filled Lindsey with equal parts of hope and heartbreak.
Lindsey knew that years ago the woman’s husband had walked out on her for a younger woman, breaking her heart. Yet she seemed joyous. She hoped that the peace the older woman had could be discovered in the pages of the book she gave Lindsey. She had been scouring the pages looking for it ever since. So far, she had found no easy answers, no three-step plans to getting on with her life. Most of what she learned was about trusting God and being open to His next step for her. Instead she found herself sliding back into “If You love me why are You letting this happen to me?” conversations with God.
That day’s reading talked about claiming a life verse and how the author had claimed several different life verses through the years, claiming different promises for different seasons in her life. As Lindsey read the words, she decided she should claim a verse for that season in her life. She thought about how Holly had challenged her to make this trip the best ever, to discover that she was worth loving. Perhaps she could find a verse that reflected her thoughts.
As she anticipated combing through the Bible to find a verse, she felt excited. After a bit of a spiritual dry spell, it felt like she had started to come upon an oasis. When Grant left, even reading the Bible was a mental effort she wasn’t capable of. Instead of rising joyfully to have a quiet time before the rest of the house woke up as she once did, very often she slept until one of the kids tugged on her arm, pulling her from the deep blackness of sleep to stumble to the car and drive them to school.
Now she was finally beginning to emerge from the fog of his leaving, blinking and stumbling her way into the light of day.
w
That evening, as Lindsey and the kids made their way into the beach house, Anna noticed canned pears sitting near the kitchen sink and sniffed dramatically. “What are those?” she asked, pointing at the pears the way Lindsey did when one of the kids left their shoes on the kitchen counter.
“Anna, they’re pears. We’ve had them a million times.”
“But you know I like peaches.” She paused, considering. “Or mandarin oranges. I hate pears! You know that!”
Even as the words came out of her daughter’s mouth, Lindsey could see her just a few months before, fishing pears out of a jar with her fingers, smiling broadly at her when Lindsey caught her and asked her to please use a spoon or at least wash her hands before sticking them into jars other people were eating out of.
“But I love pears, Mom!” she had replied, her new braces glinting in the light and making her look at once youthful and mature. A little girl in a young woman’s body, chocolate milk spilled on the ultracool shirt she had begged for earlier that day at the mall.
Who are you? Lindsey remembered thinking, amused at the sight of her little girl.
Lindsey’s short escape ended. Sighing, she watched her irritated, growing daughter retreat to the back of the beach house, her little brother in tow.
After a quick shower, Lindsey, despite Anna’s complaints, made corn dogs and canned pears for dinner, Jake’s favorite—for now at least.
“Dinner!” she yelled toward the back of the house. She hoped to rush them through dinner so she could put on a movie for them and escape to the quiet of her room with her Bible and journal. She could hardly wait to be alone with God’s Word and hear from Him. She hoped for as few interruptions from the children as possible.
As the kids dragged themselves to the table looking like they had been summoned to the gallows instead of dinner, she bit back her usual com
mentary on how there were many, many children in the world who would love to have hot, delicious food heaped on a plate for them. They knew there were starving children in the world. They knew they were—thankfully—not among those starving children. But they also knew their daddy was gone. And she would give them as much time as they needed to be sad about that without her preaching at them about having a good attitude all the time. She ruffled Jake’s hair and kissed the top of Anna’s head.
“Love you guys,” she said, after she had blessed the corn dogs and canned pears.
“Love you,” they both mumbled back through mouthfuls of corn dogs. The kids started a movie while they ate, and Lindsey made her escape.
She went to her room, shut the door, and settled down on her bed with her Bible opened on her lap. She prayed for the Lord to show her what He would have for her. She opened her eyes and focused on the fading light outside her window, watched the ripples on the water’s surface and tried to clear her mind.
Instantly, a visual popped into her head: She was twelve years old, eating SpaghettiOs that she had heated up for herself in the microwave while her mom clomped around the house in high heels. Her mom smelled like a perfume factory and wore a too-short skirt and bra. Lindsey tried not to look at her mother in her bra, though her mother didn’t seem to care if she did. Lindsey knew she wanted her to think that she looked beautiful and fancy, getting ready for her “hot date” as she called it.
Instead Lindsey thought her mother just looked sad and pathetic. Her “hot date” wasn’t rugged or mysterious or good-looking. They watched Magnum, P.I. together and agreed that he was handsome—so why would she go out with this loser? She kept eating her SpaghettiOs, wishing that her mom weren’t going out, wishing that she would cook a real meal for once. Instead she walked over to where Lindsey sat and bent down to air-kiss her before turning to leave. She had put on her shirt, the buttons straining against her chest like they would pop any moment.
“Don’twaitupdon’tstayuptoolatedon’tanswerthedoorseeyouinthemorning!” she hollered on her way out.
But something made her want to stop her mother for once. “Mom!” Lindsey yelled back, before her mother could vanish in a trail of perfume.
Her mother stopped short, looked back at her with raised eyebrows.
“I-I,” she stammered, looking down at the floor, her courage leaking out the soles of her feet and into the floorboards beneath her.
“What?” her mother asked impatiently. Lindsey was not supposed to interfere with her plans, an unspoken agreement.
“I just wish …” She paused, searching her mother’s face for some glimmer of recognition, some realization of what her daughter needed before she could even utter it, like Lindsey imagined other mothers could do. Finally she blurted out, “I just wish you would stay home and make me dinner and watch TV with me.”
She had never argued with her about going out, never put up a fight. Even when old boyfriends of hers banged on the door while her mother was out, yelling, “I know you’re in there!” Even when she lay awake until the wee hours of the morning, listening for her key in the door just so she knew her mom had made it home okay. Even when she heard her mother entertaining men in the living room, the clink of glasses, their deep voices and her loud, high-pitched laugh. In all of this, she never said a word. But on this one night, she did.
Her mother just shook her head, then turned to leave. “You’ll be fine, Lindsey. You always are. Why don’t you call one of your friends and talk to them?”
“But I don’t want a friend!” she yelled, her mouth running ahead of her. “I want a mother! Why is that so much to ask?”
Her mother closed the door with a bang, marched over to where she sat in their tiny kitchen, pointed at the bowl of SpaghettiOs. “Why you ungrateful little— Who do you think paid for this dinner you are eating? For this chair you are sitting in? For this roof over your head?” She gestured wildly around the room, jabbing at ordinary things as proof of her ability to mother.
“I just want a mom who makes me mashed potatoes,” she said, staring into her bowl of SpaghettiOs. She was already sorry she said anything at all. Her mother didn’t get it.
The last time Lindsey was at Holly’s house, her mom made them the most delicious baked chicken and mashed potatoes swimming in butter. Later, her mom popped popcorn and carried it down to where they were watching TV, the white corn spilling over the edges of the giant blue bowl with the word “Popcorn” painted on the side.
Lindsey’s mom marched back over to the door, throwing it open dramatically and turning to look back at her before leaving.
“You are lucky I come back at all,” she said before storming out.
Lindsey sat at the little vinyl-covered kitchen table, staring at her half-eaten bowl of SpaghettiOs before she stood up and tossed them in the sink, leaving the red mess there for her mother to find when she returned. All Lindsey remembered thinking that night after her mom left was: I will be a better mother than you someday. I will cook meals for my children. And I won’t spend all my time chasing after stupid men. Twelve-year-old Lindsey repeated the phrases over and over again, a litany of promises about the life she would lead just as soon as she could. That night she didn’t wait up for her mother like usual.
The memory played in Lindsey’s head like her own personal film clip as she lovingly laid her Bible back down on the nightstand. She looked up at the ceiling, half expecting to see God winking back at her. She heard His voice, gentle as a whisper: “I knew you’d get it.” Tonight wasn’t about locking herself in her room to hear from Him. Tonight was about showing her kids His love.
She rose from her spot on the bed and headed back down the hall toward the den and the noise of the TV, where two little people needed their mother to make them a big bowl of popcorn and ice-cream sundaes. She knew that the verse God had for her would be there later. In the meantime, she felt a sense of urgency to be with her kids—to giggle with them over the silly movie and eat junk food. To be the kind of mom she once promised herself she would be. Did that make her any less holy and committed? As she sat sandwiched between her two children, she couldn’t help feeling like it made her even more so.
w
The next morning, Lindsey rose from her bed in the still-quiet house, pulling her Bible out from where she stowed it on the nightstand the night before. As she flipped it open, a photo fell out. She had tucked it into the pages not long ago when her friend Brenda handed it to her at church one day. In truth, she hadn’t wanted to look at it, didn’t want to remember the happier time when the photo was snapped. In the photo ten-year-old Anna danced with Grant at Brenda’s wedding. In her mind’s eye, Lindsey could remember the scene: Grant lifting Anna up and swinging her around as Lindsey watched from nearby. Perfect timing allowed the wedding photographer to happen by at that precise moment, capturing the happy looks on their faces, her dress whirling out as she looked at her daddy with all the love in the world.
Lindsey remembered how Anna had pronounced happily, “Look, Daddy, I’m a princess!”
Grant had replied, “And whose princess are you?”
She responded confidently, “Your princess, Daddy.”
He had swept her up in his arms, and Lindsey had been so happy she could give her daughter this thing—this father—she never had. Watching the two of them, her eyes had filled with bittersweet tears. Looking back now, Lindsey could see that she always feared Grant would leave her. She just never realized it meant he’d leave Anna too.
At the time Brenda handed the photo to her at church, she was oblivious to the feelings it would stir up later—it was just another reminder of what she had lost. But looking at it that morning, she saw more. She saw joy on her little girl’s face. For the first time since she and Grant split up, she felt her daughter’s loss in a profound way instead of merely focusing on her own. She had made this about h
erself for so long, yet she was not the only one who lost something when Grant left. Her children lost a parent, she lost a spouse, but they all lost a family.
One thing she knew for sure, united in their grief she and the children would move forward together, one tentative step at a time. God had shown her that He still had a few tricks up His sleeve—even if those tricks included a harmless encounter with someone from her past.
She propped the photo on the nightstand as a reminder to herself that this life-change affected more than just her. She went out to join her children, who were fighting over the last doughnut, their voices music to her ears.
Chapter 18
Sunset Beach
Summer 2004
Lindsey sat on the beach with her novel open while her children played, but she was distracted. Once again, she had made no progress in the story. And once again, thoughts of Campbell and Minerva stole her attention. She pondered the challenge Minerva gave her: Just walk down his street one evening. She imagined walking down his street, wearing—what?—her most flattering denim capris and a tank top that actually looked good on her with the weight she had lost since Grant left. Her hair should be in a ponytail so the beach gusts didn’t blow it in her face, causing her to fiddle with it awkwardly as she was apt to do, while she talked to … him. She wondered if he still smelled like she remembered, a combination of salt air, sunscreen, and deeply tanned skin. After that first summer, he let her take a T-shirt of his home so she could inhale his scent buried in its fibers. She wondered whatever happened to that shirt. Her mother probably threw it out as soon as she left for college.
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