Graham didn’t say anything, just reached for my hand and intertwined our fingers.
I surprised myself by resting my head against his shoulder, just for a moment, right there in the middle of the carnival, among carnies and screaming children and awkward teenagers. Among families that looked as though they never had any problems.
“Try to forgive him, Cecily,” Graham said. “You’ll feel better.”
“Brett doesn’t deserve forgiveness.”
“Maybe not, but you deserve to stop letting your bitterness suffocate you.”
“I’ve been trying to forgive him for years.”
The line moved forward as people got off the ride, one car at a time, and I felt Graham’s fingertips run up my arm. “I’m glad you stopped covering up your tattoo,” he said lightly. “That’s a sign that you’re healing, don’t you think?”
He didn’t say he liked it. “Yeah, it was time to stop hiding. This is me, and I might as well accept it.”
He moved to stand in front of me so he could look me in the eye. “The tattoo was Brett’s idea?”
“One of many.”
“But . . . he didn’t like it?”
I shrugged. “Not really.”
“How does that make you feel?”
Clearly he had slipped back into his role as Dr. Harper. “I felt marred. And ugly. And eventually . . . unwanted.”
“And how do you feel now?”
“Now?” My gaze swept upward, and I was surprised to see a clear sky full of stars. “Now I tend to feel the same things, but I’m convincing myself it’s not true.” I shook my head. “And there’s this persistent voice inside my head that reminds me of the things Brett said.”
“But Brett was lying.” Graham’s voice was so soft I could barely hear him over the sounds of the carnival.
“Everyone’s lying.”
“But you don’t have to believe the lies.”
“Don’t I?” My words popped like a coiled whip, but then I regretted my tone. “Okay, no. You’re right. I don’t have to believe them.”
“And . . . there’s no time like the present to confront the past.”
I laughed. “Did you read that on a greeting card?”
“A Facebook meme.”
“What’s it got to do with me?”
He took a deep breath. “Brett is coming back to Canyon for our high school reunion.”
I squinted. “I bet Mirinda told you that. She knew you would tell me.”
“Well . . . yes.”
Graham and I settled into our seats on the Ferris wheel, and he slipped his arm around me. His nearness should have been a comfort, but as we began to rise into the air, I couldn’t feel the warm glow of security he usually gave me. Or maybe it was still there, but it wasn’t strong enough to melt the iciness that always crept into my veins whenever I thought about Brett. I would see my ex-husband at the reunion, and I knew he would act like nothing happened, and I would have to go along with it. Again. I’d keep forgiving him every time I remembered the pain. Not because I wanted to, but because that was the right thing to do. My in-patient counselor had said so. Graham said so. Even Shanty and Nina had told me so.
And now Graham said I needed to stop believing the lies Brett had told me.
But none of them knew how convincing the lies were.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
THE MEN OF THE CONGREGATION ARE INVITED TO ATTEND A SATURDAY SEMINAR DISCUSSING THE BOOK
EVERY MAN’S BATTLE: WINNING THE WAR ON SEXUAL TEMPTATION ONE VICTORY AT A TIME
BY STEPHEN ARTERBURN AND FRED STOEKER.
10:00 AM IN THE FELLOWSHIP HALL. BARBECUE LUNCH TO FOLLOW.
The man was a liar. He knew it, and he was lying to the one person who meant more to him than anyone else. Not blatantly telling her things that weren’t true, but lying by omission. Not telling her everything.
He cursed himself.
The first time had been an accident, and he recalled that the second time had been surprisingly easy, but the next hundred times weren’t by choice. They were by compulsion, something he couldn’t control and didn’t want, and he hated—despised—being out of control.
And he despised himself.
He sat on the cushioned pew, near the back, trying to remember how to pray. His parents had taken him to church a few times when he was a kid, maybe more than a few, because he remembered the feeling of it. And the good people. He glanced around him at husbands and wives and children, teenagers and old people. Did any of them have problems? They didn’t seem to.
He stared at his hands, which were clenched tightly in his lap, then rubbed his thumb across his knuckles. The voices in his head seemed louder than the microphone at the front of the chapel. They seemed louder than just about everything. Even now, he had the urge to pull out his phone and look at a few pictures, maybe a video, but that was heinous. In a church of all places.
His eyes squinted closed. Hello, God?
A child behind him whined loudly, something about his apple juice.
God? I’m in over my head, and I don’t know what to do. If she ever finds out, it will kill her.
A tap on his shoulder caused him to open his eyes, and he worried that someone had thought he was sleeping.
“Could you hand it to me?” A woman behind him, the child’s mother, pointed to the sippy cup that had rolled down the sloped floor and now rested against the edge of the carpet near his foot.
He reached down and grasped the sticky plastic, handing it back. He looked over his shoulder and nodded at the woman, and as he did so he caught a glimpse of her bare leg. A lot of leg. All the way up to her thigh. He turned back around, rigidly staring at the back of the bald head in front of him, but still seeing that young mother’s curves. Her legs had been crossed at the knees, and she was tanned. The kind of tan that, for whatever reason, reminded him of toasted almonds. He had seen that skin color on a girl in a picture recently, only she had on fewer clothes. He remembered it clearly.
He shifted in the pew as he imagined the woman behind him in fewer clothes. Would she look as good as the toasted almond picture? Was she tanned all over? He ran both hands through his hair, then gripped the back of his neck. One minute he was trying to pray for help, the next minute he was lusting after someone’s mother.
He returned his gaze to his fists.
He had thought church would be different. That he would somehow be protected from himself and his thoughts and the pictures in his mind, but it was no different here. He was no different. He was still out of control, spiraling downward into a pit that he couldn’t climb out of. He was still disgusted with himself.
And still lying.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sunday afternoon, I sat on the counter in the garage, watching Dad work under the hood of the Jeep and getting more and more impatient with him. “How do you even know Michael Divins? Everybody acts like the two of you are such good friends.”
He paused in his work but didn’t raise his head. “We’re in a group together.”
“What kind of group?”
“Just a group, Cess.”
“Like Texas Hold’em?”
He straightened then, but kept his back to me. “Naw, like Shanty’s, only different.”
His words didn’t make sense. Not that men weren’t in support groups, but still . . . my dad? “For low self-esteem?” I asked.
“Nothing like that. We’re just under a lot of stress.” He leaned over the engine again.
I was getting fed up with secrecy. “How many men are in it? I mean . . . they are men, right? Or are there stressed women in it too?”
“Just men. Usually three or four.”
He didn’t offer any other information, and I huffed and crossed my arms, knowing I was pouting—but I didn’t care.
“It’s just a group for guys in recovery, Cess. For some of them it’s recovery from an addiction, or depression, or grief. They’re just trying to get control of their lives.”
He continued to fiddle with the engine. “Why are you asking about my friendship with Michael anyway?”
“Why do you think? You’re about to sell my home out from under me.”
“Your home?”
The question sliced like a blade. “Is this not my home?”
Daddy leaned heavily against the Jeep. “I mean, sure, it’s your home . . . now . . . but even a year ago, you didn’t want much to do with the place.”
“That’s not true. Just because Brett and I didn’t visit often doesn’t mean I wasn’t interested in our home.” Or you. “The thought of losing it makes me feel lost.”
“I know what you mean.” He stepped to the counter, selected a few tools, and walked lazily back to the car. He hesitated with his palms on the frame, but then reached for a ratchet.
I watched him for a while. He was wearing a solid white T-shirt—what I called an old man’s undershirt, probably because my old man wore them under his uniforms. I smiled. Dad was just so . . . Dad. Out here in the shed, with his workshop and garage, he was like a wild animal in his natural habitat, working, fiddling, repairing. He was a doer, and he had always had a lot of doing that needed to be done on our property. I couldn’t picture him anywhere else. Would he get a house in town? With a little yard and a cement driveway? Would he get an apartment? I shuddered.
“I can’t picture Mirinda in our cabin,” I said, forcing my mind in that direction because the thought of Mirinda living in our home was less painful than the thought of my dad living anywhere else. “She doesn’t belong here. I know you’re going to say you’re selling it to Michael, not Mirinda, but they’ll probably get married.” I picked at a hangnail on my thumb.
Daddy didn’t respond. He continued working, but perhaps he was working a little more aggressively. No, not aggressively . . . absentmindedly.
I crossed my legs beneath me, feeling relieved—even cleansed—by the statement I had made, as though verbalizing my frustrations had released them from my thoughts and had lessened my bitterness. I hated to admit it, but with the medical bills, I supposed he had no other choice. I studied him, bent over the hood, and thought about what I’d just said to him. Mirinda doesn’t belong here.
My head sunk between my shoulders. Of course Mirinda didn’t belong in our cabin. Only my mother belonged there. Would I ever stop thinking of myself? “Oh, Daddy. I’m sorry.”
He leaned with his palms on the frame and winked at me. “Nothing I haven’t already told myself.”
“I miss her too,” I said. “Sometimes I wish I could talk to her. She had a way of making me feel better about myself.”
He didn’t answer, didn’t nod his head, didn’t move.
“She always told me how pretty I was, you know?
Dad rubbed his wrist with the opposite thumb. “Your mom and I disagreed on some things . . . when it came to you.”
“Like what?”
“Like telling you all the time how beautiful you are.”
“I’m not following. You didn’t want her to tell me I was pretty?”
“I didn’t want her to put so much emphasis on it.” He sounded a little angry, and a wave of defensiveness swelled inside me.
“She didn’t put emphasis on it.”
“Yes, she did.” He straightened and walked two paces away, stopping with his back to me. “Ever since you were tiny. She dressed you up in lace and bows, teaching you that you needed all that in order to make something of yourself, but she could never see the damage she was doing. She just—”
“That’s ridiculous.” I slid from the counter. “Mom loved me.”
“Of course she loved you.” His voice was low. “She loved you more than anything in the world.” His gaze drifted away from me. “Sometimes I think she loved you more than was good for her.”
What was he saying? I planted myself in front of him so he couldn’t look away. “What does that mean?”
“Your mother was insecure about herself. Always had been, and the two of us had to work through a lot of things regarding her self-esteem, but when it came to you, we didn’t see eye to eye. We were both intent on you being strong and confident, but we disagreed on how to get you there. She thought the answer was to praise you and do things to help you feel pretty,” he said, “because those things made her feel more confident.”
“She wasn’t like that.” His description of my mother caused me physical pain. “She wasn’t the type of woman to flaunt herself and wear fancy clothes and jewelry. She was beautiful without all that.”
“Yes.” He took a deep breath. “She was beautiful, inside and out, but she relied on clothes and makeup to boost her self-esteem. She didn’t overdo it, but she couldn’t do without it either. Ever. I wanted to teach you to find value inside yourself for more than just your appearance. I should have made her listen to me.”
I peered at the Jeep, then crossed my arms. My parents were the last ounce of goodness in my crazy world, and in one conversation, Daddy had thrown a bucket of ice water over my memories.
He lifted his hands in the air. “Let’s let this rest for a while. Talk about it later.”
He was right, of course. We were too heated, but who was he kidding? Both of us knew talk about it later was code for let’s never discuss this awkward topic again as long as we live. And that seemed just fine with me.
“Okay,” I said.
When Daddy picked up a wrench and thoughtfully stared at it for a few moments before tightening something under the hood, I wanted to wrap my arms around him and lay my head on his shoulder. I wanted to tell him I was more like Mom than he knew, and I wanted him to remind me—like he had reminded her so many times—that I was beautiful on the inside and out. But, of course . . . that wasn’t our way.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Text from Graham to Cecily: Would love to see you tonight. How about dinner at my place? Maybe a picnic in the backyard.
Cecily (thirty-one minutes later): I’m not quite ready for dinner at your place.
Graham: No worries. The park then?
Cecily (twenty-four minutes later): My house. We can hike down to our family campsite on the floor of the canyon.
Graham: Sounds perfect. If you’ll bring candles and a mirror, I’ll bring everything else.
Cecily: A mirror? What for?
I didn’t know why the thought of a candlelit dinner made me nervous. Maybe because it was Graham. Maybe because candles, in my mind, seemed to take the relationship to the next level. I had felt safe inviting him to my place since Dad would be home, putting a damper on any romance Graham may have been planning, but a quarter of an hour before he was set to arrive, Dad had showered and left the house. Of course.
He claimed he had a meeting, but I figured he was trying to play the matchmaker. I made a mental note to drop a few more subtle hints about Olivia. Maybe even to Olivia. This matchmaker thing could work two ways.
“How far is it to the campsite?” Graham was following me down a steep incline, carrying a picnic bundle in a backpack.
“Less than ten minutes. It’s actually only forty feet from our deck if we could just jump down to it.”
The campsite reminded me of my childhood. A fire pit, a picnic table, and a few cleared areas where we used to set up tents. Not very romantic, but at the moment it seemed just right.
“Do you and your dad camp down here?” Graham said, setting his pack on the table.
I glanced at the overgrown spot where my tent had typically been pitched when I was a little girl. “Not since my mom died, but we used to come down here almost every weekend. We didn’t always camp, but we’d picnic here during the warm months and roast marshmallows during the cold ones.”
After setting my own small bag on the bench, I withdrew two votive candles and a bandanna table cloth, but opted not to remove the handheld mirror I had snatched on the way out of the house.
“What’s for dinner?” I asked as I spread the cloth
over the weathered wood.
“Don’t get your hopes up.” He opened his bag and withdrew a small takeout box of Asian food. “It’s just Soccer Mom’s. I’ve been craving it.”
“Yum. Did you happen to get teriyaki chicken?”
“Score.” He grinned widely. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got a variety. Beef broccoli, sweet-and-sour pork, and teriyaki chicken.” He continued to pull small boxes from his backpack, setting them on the table like a miniature village.
“Suddenly I’m very hungry.”
He set paper napkins and plastic forks next to the village, then opened two canned soft drinks. “Did you bring a lighter for the candles?”
“But it’s barely dark yet.”
“It’s the mood we’re going for.” Graham chuckled as he lit them, setting them among the boxes. Two streetlamps on the village square.
We sat down and passed boxes back and forth as we tried each dish, not caring about germs or etiquette or manners, and as my stomach filled, my nerves relaxed.
“This is my first candlelit dinner,” Graham said. “Not exactly a traditional one, but I like it.”
“This is definitely not my first.” I laughed self-consciously. “But I agree that the venue is better than most.” I almost started jabbering about Brett’s obsession with exquisite candlelit dinners at fine restaurants, but I was determined not to allow his memory to invade this date. The sun had set, and Graham’s face now glowed above the flickering light of the flames. When his eyes met mine, I smiled mischievously. “So if you never had a candlelit dinner, what kind of dates have you been on?”
His mouth fell open in a grin. “Your turn to ask the personal questions, is it?”
“Long overdue, if you ask me.”
“Okay, let’s see. I once took Lindsay Timms to a Trace Adkins concert at the Tri-State Fair.”
Looking Glass Lies Page 14