by C. B. Stagg
What accomplishments are you most proud of?
I’ve been sober for almost six years.
What course are you hoping to follow? Where do you want to head?
Forward. Always forward. If I can wake up and make one less mistake than the day before, I consider myself a success.
Do you believe in love at first sight?
Yes. My parents are proof. I am a product of love at first sight.
What do you want to be when you grow up?
Enough. I want to be enough.
Do you believe in ghosts?
Yes. (currently being haunted)
What felt like hours later, my tired fingers hung over the ENTER button, struggling with the commitment I was seconds away from making. What will it hurt? I allowed my finger to move closer, barely skimming the edge of the key, but I pulled back like I’d touched a hot iron. Closing my eyes, I shook my head, hit the button, and slammed my laptop closed. Propelled by my feet, I sent myself rolling backward in my office chair, hoping to put as much distance between me and my sure to be bad decision as possible.
But it was done.
The trigger was pulled.
“Now we wait.” My words echoed through the room, like an omen.
I didn’t have to wait long. Within five minutes, I heard a ding.
BlindDate.org Interactive Message
TO: MemberID 041586CC
FROM: Member ID 011983G
InTheClouds86,
I saw on your profile that you’re a preacher and I had to reach out. I hate to be the one to break it to you, but God isn’t real. It’s been scientifically proven. I’d love to discuss this further, so let me know when you’d like to meet. I’m always free on Sundays.
Lone_Universe2000
Chapter 8
Kaitlin
January 2012
“WRITING ISN’T JUST SOMETHING I can teach you. Sure, I can teach you the technical side, but the content of your writing comes from a place only accessible to you. Writing can cleanse the soul. It can clear the mind and mend the heart. And it can save you hundreds in therapy bills. Writing is the perfect outlet for pain, disappointment, sorrow. The more you feel in here,” Professor Lucas—a tiny, ancient, wrinkled raisin of a man—pounded his chest with fervor, “the more your reader will feel.”
The man came across as a few eggs short of a dozen, but I agreed with him about the therapy part. Writing was a powerful outlet.
In the beginning, right after Waverly was born, I would often journal in the form of letters to her father. I never intended to send the letters anywhere, of course. But the process of writing them—of telling him how she was or what she said—was a balm for my broken heart. That lasted about a year, but once the pain had lessened, I continued my writing… more for myself. It was through these journals I discovered more about who I was as a person and who I wanted to become. For my daughter.
“Today’s class was an introduction of sorts, to go over the syllabus and answer any questions. When we meet next week, I want you to bring something you’ve written. It can be anything: a poem, a journal entry, short story, letter to the editor, or a page from your diary. Anything short of a grocery list. This will be your first grade. Laptops are optional, and not necessary… but bring paper and a few sharpened pencils. Always come to this class prepared to write.”
A grade?
Next week?
Something we’d already written?
My mind launched a flurry of ideas. I thought back on all the words filling up those spirals in my living area, but I kept circling back to one thing. At the top of my closet in the trailer sat a white photo box. It’s where I kept special things… like the little pink and white card that was attached to Waverly’s bassinet in the NICU, and her tiny hospital bracelets. It was also where I stored the notebook of letters—the ones from her first year of life—as well as the ones I wrote to her father on loose paper each year on her birthday.
“This semester, in addition to the smaller, shorter biweekly assignments outlined in your syllabus, you’ll have one ongoing project worth fifty percent of your grade.” Gasps could be heard, one probably coming from my lips.
“You’re to write a memoir of sorts. A well-lived life is full of trials and tribulations. I think we can all agree none of us has traveled a perfectly paved road, am I right?” The class nodded, and murmurs broke out. Lord knew mine had potholes and speed bumps galore.
“Good, good, I’m glad we’re all living flawed lives.” I chuckled along with my classmates. “Now, a well-written story includes both happiness and sadness, but a great one has profound love, tragic loss, or even better: both. Which tale will yours tell?”
I listened with rapt attention, hanging on his every word. He was a travel journalist, who also wrote fantasy fiction. The man was a modern-day Jules Verne and a walking thesaurus. He’d used no less than ten words I planned to look up when I had some free time. I made a list. With a wave of his hand, we were dismissed.
“So, which will it be?” I was bent over to slide my spiral back into my bag when the male voice made me jump.
“I’m sorry, what?” In the diner, in my own element, I was completely at home… but out in real life, among my peers, peopling was a struggle. I couldn’t relate, couldn’t connect. Introvert was my middle name.
“I was asking which tale your memoir would tell. Will it be profound love or tragic loss?” He stuck out his hand. “Hi, I’m Jonah.”
I stood and took his hand. “I’m Katy.” Shaking his hand was nothing like shaking Christian’s. Jonah’s was a plain old handshake. Christian’s had been an event.
“So, you wanna go grab coffee?” His eyebrows were raised in hopeful expectancy as he rocked back on his heels.
Well, here it was. The moment I’d been waiting for. Let’s see how he does. “Well, my daughter’s waiting on me, so… ”
Three-
Two-
One-
“Well, how about next week? Do you think you could arrange for her to be looked after a little longer? I’d love to sit and chat for a bit.”
Wait, what? Not scared off by the mom factor? I took a step back, looking over the man-child standing in front of me. He couldn’t be more than nineteen. He was tall, but not too tall. And stocky, but not too stocky. His skin was tan, his hair was dark, and his eyes were the color of my morning coffee after I’d doctored it with cream and sugar. All in all, not too bad.
“Yes, Jonah.” I nodded, standing and securing my bag over my shoulder. “Coffee sounds great.”
He beamed. “All right, it’s a date. I’ll see you next week.”
He lost me at the word date, and panic crept in as I started formulating a way out. Where was Cara Jo when I needed her? I wasn’t ready for this. Not with Jonah, not with anyone.
But what about Christian?
Talking to Christian was easy, like visiting with an old friend. And the way he looked at me had an almost visceral effect on my body: my mouth went dry, my legs turned to jelly, and my heart threatened to pound right out of my chest. In my two-minute interaction with Jonah, the only feeling I had was a lingering sore butt from sitting for a ninety-minute lecture in a hard, wooden seat. And I didn’t care enough to see if there was the possibility of more. I didn’t have time for this nonsense anyway. It was almost time for the early bird rush.
I needed to get to work.
“I think I’m getting the hang of this whole computer thing. And good news—the Wi-Fi from the diner reaches my house!” I’d been a kid in a candy store, learning all the cool things I could do with a laptop of my own. “Did you know Apple makes apps for the computer just like they do for the iPhone?”
Claire was amused by my naivety. “I’m glad. I know it’s making your writing easier.”
I slumped in the booth, glad to be off my feet, and ready to tell her my big news. Claire usually came at the end of the lunch rush and, once they were all gone, we had at least an hour before the o
lder folks started to trickle in for the early bird special. I’d just cleared my last table, and I was beat.
“It’s made a world of difference in more ways than one. I’ve officially enrolled in the freshman creative writing class at the community college. I started a few weeks ago.”
Claire jumped from her seat, leaning over to envelop me in a hug. “I couldn’t be more proud of you if you were my own child.” The words were simple and few—what Claire said to me that day—but they meant more to me than she would ever know.
Wiping my tears, I thrust my writing folder toward her, which was filled with neatly typed ideas, outlines, short stories, and poems. All were items I’d either written for my class assignments or planned to write.
I sat, watching Claire’s eyes as she scanned the pages I’d marked for her. It was everything new that I’d written since the last time she’d been in the diner. When she closed the folder, running her hand over its cover, she met my eyes with a sad smile.
“It’s good stuff, girl.” She smiled and pushed the collection of papers toward me. “Tell me about the letter. The one you addressed to ‘You.’”
“What about it?” Was that one in there? I’d tried to remove anything too personal or revealing.
“Can you tell me about it?”
“I wrote that letter about my kids. It was intended for their father.” Claire’s big blue eyes, so much like her son’s, grew even wider. That wasn’t what she was expecting to hear.
“Your kids?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I had a son, too… Waverly’s twin. He died a few minutes after he was born from the same disease Waverly has.”
“It’s a beautiful letter. Did you send it?”
I shook my head and stood, moving out of the booth to wipe the tables I’d neglected when I decided to sit with Claire instead. Looking around for Waverly, I could barely detect her raspy little voice coming from the back office. Cara Jo was teaching her to count coins.
“Their father died. He… ” I’d made it a rule not to talk about him. It hurt. “I lost him in a fire before they were born. He didn’t even know about them yet.” I choked on a sob, but swallowed it down.
Over the years, I’d become an expert at avoiding all talk of him, knowing his ghost could reappear at any moment. But something about Claire weakened my defenses. I moved on to the next table, willing the tears to stay put, but jumped when Claire appeared beside me. She took the dirty rag and spray bottle from my hands and pulled me into a hug; one of those tight, full body embraces, the kind only a parent truly knows how to give. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I shouldn’t have poked my nose into your business. It was personal.”
I nodded in her arms, letting her hold me as I cried. For the first time in a long while, I cried for the one who got away, the little boy he never knew, and the daughter who needed a daddy more than ever.
Chapter 9
Christian
February 2012
BlindDate.org Interactive Message
TO: MemberID 041586CC
FROM: Member ID 022988LY
Hello-
I find it fascinating our paths have crossed in such a manner. I fancy myself somewhat of a philosopher, often pondering the meaning of life and such. Things like, why isn’t there a ‘d’ in refrigerator or what’s up with the extra ‘r’ in February? And don’t even get me started on the whole Lincoln, Kennedy assassination links. If you’re interested in uncovering more about this crazy world in which we live, message me and we can soak little leaves in hot water, then drink it (that means we can have tea).
QuestioningLife101
I STARED AT THE SCREEN as if it were venomous, before a chuckle rumbled out from deep in my gut. What did I expect? The perfect woman immediately? I exited the dating site screen and, with a push, sent myself sailing halfway across my office in my rolling chair, once again running from my absurd reality.
Not wanting to dwell on something that couldn’t be undone, I grabbed a stack of books I’d been meaning to take home, and headed out the door, calling it a day. “Bye, Betty. Have a great weekend, and I’ll see you Sunday morning.”
“No, thank you,” she squeaked, as the door closed behind me. Great. She wasn’t only old, but she was half deaf too. Maybe I should ask if she has a single great-granddaughter she can introduce me to.
The parsonage was no more than a stone’s throw from the back of the church, making it a pleasant walk in the February sunshine.
“Good afternoon.” I waved to Janice, carrying groceries in from her car. “Let me give you a hand.” I put the books on the steps leading up to my cottage and hurried over to grab the remaining bags from her trunk.
“Thank you, Pastor Clark, that’s kind of you.”
Setting the bags on her kitchen counter, I watched the woman, who was watching me. This may have been the first time I’d been able to look into her eyes. “Anytime you need anything at all, you know where to find me. And you can call me Christian.”
“All right, Christian. Would you join me for tea?” I wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but it was time I got better acquainted with my new, albeit temporary, neighbors. So I agreed.
We fell into small talk easily, chatting about the weather, the congregation, and last Sunday’s sermon. Then, she started inquiring about my family.
“Well, I have an older brother, Casey. He and his wife, Vaughn, are the ones who got married a few months ago and are in the process of adopting two little boys, Julian and Taj.”
“Why did they choose adoption?”
It was a simple question, born from curiosity, not judgment. Janice was a kind woman, well-liked among the congregants, and it made me feel good she was taking an interest in my family. Her husband sure hadn’t.
“Well, Vaughn recently won a hard-fought battle with ovarian cancer, and while it appears she’s in the clear, it left her unable to have children. Coincidentally, she and my brother met co-coaching youth soccer… and Julian, who was in foster care at the time, was on their team. Taj is his biological brother.” Janice had been stirring her tea, blowing on it now and then, but she sat still as a post.
“That’s just beautiful. It’s amazing how God works, isn’t it?”
I agreed, wholeheartedly.
“Then I have a younger brother, Curt. He’s in high school and obsessed with sports—basketball and soccer mainly.”
She nodded and smiled, but this time, it didn’t feel genuine. Reaching across the small cafe table in her kitchen, I placed my hands over hers. “Is all of this making you think about your daughter?” She nodded again, letting a tear escape her eye.
Both of our heads popped up at the sound of crunching gravel, signaling Pastor John was home. And like flipping a switch, or changing a TV channel, her tears were swiped away and a mask of a smile covered her face. The vision of the perfect housewife. She whispered, “Please, let’s not discuss my daughter again.”
I nodded and watched as a completely different woman went to the back door to welcome her husband home.
Later that night as I prepared for bed, I prayed with purpose… something I’d gotten out of the habit of doing lately. I prayed for Janice and John. I prayed that they would find peace in life without their beloved daughter, whom they clearly adored and missed terribly. I couldn’t quite identify the emotion I’d seen in her eyes a few hours before, but I knew the woman carried a lot of pain in her heart. If nothing else, she needed a listening ear, maybe even a shoulder to cry on. And I resolved to make the time and be that person for her.
Next, I prayed for Waverly, that she would be cured from illness in whatever way He deemed possible. She was a precious child, full of life and love. The idea that a simple functioning kidney held her in the balance between life and death clawed at my soul. If there was something I could do to help that little girl, I resolved to find it.
And lastly, I prayed for her mother, Katy, whose face had scarcely left my thoughts in the weeks since meeting
her. I prayed the Lord would give her strength to handle the pressure she was under, as well as the good sense to accept my offer of dinner. Because I had plans to head down to the bay soon.
My sights were set on the pretty little brunette waitress who’d infiltrated my mind.
Chapter 10
Kaitlin
March 2012
“CARA JO!” My harsh whisper grabbed her attention. “Code Stork on table three.”
I slipped on my friendly waitress mask and zoomed back out to take my position, balancing one of our biggest trays on my shoulder. “All right, let’s see here. Which one of you had the—”
“Katy!” Cara Jo yelled, taking the tray out of my hands. “You know it’s bad for that baby to be carrying such a heavy load.” Clicking her tongue, she started doling out the food while I looked on with wide, guilty eyes. And as I’d hoped, the guy who was begging to take me out and who wanted to ‘show me a good time’ not five minutes before, was now almost grey in pallor and refusing to meet my eyes.
Having to activate Code Stork was becoming more and more common lately. I hated to be outright deceitful, but when a casual brush-off didn’t put out a guy’s fire, I had to pull out the big guns. And usually, it worked like a charm. Pregnancy was like ice water to the crotch for those types of boys, which was exactly my intention. I was able to finish the rest of my shift in relative peace.
“Hey, girlie, we need to talk.” Cara Jo… my surrogate mother, my boss, my only family. She had her mouth set in a thin line.
“Uh-oh. What did I do now?” I smiled at her, but kept on rolling silverware into napkins for the next day. The lines on her face softened a little as she sat across from me.
“It’s not what you did. It’s what you refuse to do.” That got my attention. “Girl, don’t you think it’s about time you get back on the horse?”