by Lynn Bulock
Listening to the stories of pain and hardship this group shared with one another always humbled him. One man walked the daily tightrope of bipolar disorder, always trying to balance the cyclone of rising and falling moods while attempting to live a normal life. Another had an adult son who was a paranoid schizophrenic. “He’s stopped taking his medication again, which means that he’s likely to lose his job and his apartment and be back on the street in Portland.” Greg’s heart ached for this father and he told him so. Others offered the constructive ideas they had, but the group as a whole agreed that without court action there was little Bob could do about his son other than pray for him and visit when he could.
When Miranda spoke, her eyes full with unshed tears, Greg found himself holding his breath while he listened. “Bob, your son doesn’t know how lucky he is to have a father who cares so much about him. I can’t tell you how much I’d give to have my father care about my problems instead of telling me that I should just ‘straighten up’ and get control of myself.”
“Are you still having the panic attacks?” the woman next to her asked softly, laying a hand on her arm in concern.
Miranda nodded, looking at a spot on the floor a few feet in front of her chair. Greg felt a pang of guilt, sure somehow that his presence here kept her from saying more.
“They’re getting worse,” she admitted. “Things have been so unsettled and my father snarls at everybody when he’s home. There’s only been one day in the past two weeks that I didn’t have any problems at all.”
“What did you do that day?” one of the others asked. “Maybe we can figure out what was different and help you do more of whatever it was that helped.”
Miranda gave a weak smile. “I went with my aunt to a wedding here at church. Somehow I can’t see myself looking for weddings to go to on a regular basis just to distract myself from my problems. Although with four of my sisters talking about getting married some time in the next year or two, and the other one a newlywed, maybe you’ve got a point.” There was gentle laughter and the discussion moved on. Half an hour later, when the group said a closing prayer and broke up, Greg found himself listening to Miranda and the woman next to her.
“I’ve got my husband’s truck tonight and it’s full of his work supplies,” the other woman said. “If I could jam another person in I’d offer you a ride home, but…”
“That’s all right. I’ll just call my aunt,” Miranda said.
Almost without thinking, Greg stepped up next to the two women. “I couldn’t help overhearing you, Miss Blanchard. It would be no problem for me to give you a ride home. Besides, it will give me an excuse to get out of the building quickly. That would make Janice, my secretary, happy because she says I spend too much time here.”
“I’d have to agree with her, Pastor Greg,” Miranda’s companion said. “I’ll get Bob to help me clean up here, because I know he has a key to lock up the building. Why don’t you take Miranda home and go get some rest yourself.”
Greg looked back at Miranda and shrugged. “Looks like they’ve thought of everything. Is this arrangement all right with you?”
She still had that deer-in-the-headlights look, and for a moment Greg thought he was going to lose his opportunity to be with her. But then something in her eyes changed and she smiled briefly. “That will be fine. I’m ready to go if you are.”
With no excuse to stay, Greg found himself heading to the parking lot with Miranda walking next to him. Not the way he’d expected to end the evening, but that was okay too. When he found himself asking if she’d like to stop off at the Beanery for a little something Greg wasn’t sure where the question had come from. He only knew that her agreement to that as well left him feeling lighter than he had since…since they’d said goodbye at the wedding. He pondered that the whole four blocks to the coffee shop, wondering what to say once he got there.
SIX
Miranda looked around the Beaumont Beanery wondering why on earth she’d agreed to stop here. When she saw that Greg Brown was moderating the support group her first reaction was to bolt. But his welcoming look had stilled her panic and she had forced herself to stay to try and find the peace she needed so badly. Now she felt much calmer and she knew she wasn’t ready for the evening to end yet.
“I don’t normally come here,” she told Greg. “Do you?”
“At least two or three times a week,” he admitted with a sheepish grin that endeared him to her. If this was his most serious vice, Miranda could warm up to him. She definitely envied him a life where showing up at the Beaumont Beanery a few times a week was probably the worst thing he did in the course of seven days.
“So if you come here often, what would you recommend?”
Greg looked up at the menu. “It depends on whether or not you like coffee, and how you feel about chocolate and perhaps whipped cream.”
“Coffee is all right, chocolate is even better, and whipped cream is an occasional treat,” she said.
He leaned his chin in his hand, still studying the menu written on the chalkboard above the area where a couple of teenagers stood ready to work two large, hissing espresso machines. “Then how about a mocha freeze, decaf this time of night, of course? With a little whipped cream. Do you want anything to eat with it?”
Miranda shook her head. “That sounds like dessert all by itself, thanks. And if you order, how about letting me buy?”
He raised a hand in protest. “Oh, no. I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy. I wouldn’t dream of letting a lady buy my coffee when I asked her out.”
Asked her out? Miranda wondered how he meant that, but she didn’t want to ask how he meant that. He had asked her if she wanted to go for coffee. But then perhaps he took a lot of people that he counseled from the church here. It was a public place without being too public; perfect for maintaining distance and still quiet at the same time. She looked at the recessed booth over in the corner. “Well, then, if you won’t let me pay shall I find us a place to sit?”
“That would be great. I’ll order and come join you.” Greg headed to the counter and Miranda slid into the bench on one side of the booth. Looking at her watch, she realized it was probably time to call Winnie.
Her aunt answered on the second ring. “Are you all right, Miranda? Do you need a ride home?”
“I’m…fine,” she told Winnie, aware that she really did feel fine right now. Being with her friends from the support group had helped and being with Greg seemed to be helping even more with her earlier panic. “And Pastor Greg will give me a ride home when we’re done having coffee.”
There was a short silence on Winnie’s end of the phone. “You’re having coffee with the pastor? How lovely. I hope you have a good time.”
“We will,” Miranda said, watching Greg make his way across the room. “If it gets too late I’ll call you so you don’t worry.”
“I won’t worry as long as you’re with him, Miranda. We can talk in the morning.” Winnie said goodbye, leaving Miranda looking at her phone.
“What’s up?” Greg slipped into the other side of the booth with a questioning look.
“I think Winnie just hung up on me. I called to tell her I didn’t need a ride home. She must trust you a lot because she’s not waiting up for me.”
“Wow. I hope I fulfill that trust. That’s a tall order. I can’t think of many people I hold in higher regard than your aunt. She’s definitely a special person.”
“We think so. She basically raised my sisters and me. Once we moved back to Grandfather’s house and my father went back to work at the family business, he didn’t seem to have much time for us.”
Greg’s forehead furrowed. “He had a lot on his mind, I’m sure.”
“Right, like faking my mother’s death!” Miranda looked down at the table. “I’m sorry. You don’t need to hear all of this. It’s still hard for me to deal with what we’ve learned in the last few months. It’s difficult to feel anything but anger toward my father.”
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��And I suppose I shouldn’t make excuses for him. I just can’t imagine a father feeling anything but love for his children. I always felt such love from both of my parents, and even more deeply the love that God has for all of us as the best of parents.”
Miranda tried to still her emotions and not say anything awful. She got an extra few moments to calm down when the teenage girl who had made their drinks brought them over to the table. Once she moved away from the table, Miranda felt able to speak again. “You’re lucky, then. I can’t imagine growing up with two loving parents. What was it like?”
Greg’s smile was one-sided and didn’t reach his eyes. “I can’t tell you much. My parents died in an accident before I turned sixteen. My aunt and uncle finished raising me after that. They did their best, and it was always obvious that they loved me. But they weren’t my parents. So I guess we have a few things in common after all.”
Miranda felt a pang of guilt. “I’m sorry. I spoke too soon. I can’t just assume that everybody has had a better life than I have.” She toyed with the straw in her frozen coffee, not ready to drink it yet.
“No, perhaps I did in many ways. My aunt and uncle loved me and I’ve had a very fulfilling life since then. I can’t imagine what the struggles your family has been through lately must be like.”
His kind brown eyes radiated such honesty and concern Miranda wanted to tell him everything. Instead she took a long pull on the straw in her frozen coffee and drew back afterward. “Ouch. Now I’ve got a headache right between the eyes.”
“The hazards of frozen coffee.” Greg took a sip of his. “You have to go slowly with it, like so many other things in life.”
“Well said. It’s not as profound as Shakespeare, but it’s a good philosophy.” She rubbed the offending spot on her forehead until it felt better, then sipped at her coffee as Greg suggested.
He shrugged. “I’m afraid I know a lot more Scripture than I do Shakespeare. Literature was never my strongest subject at school. My favorite reading material has always been nonfiction. I know a lot more about Maslow’s hierarchy of needs than I do The Merchant of Venice.”
“At least you could name one of Shakespeare’s plays. You’d be surprised how many people can’t.” Miranda covered her face with her hands. “That sounds so terribly snobbish.”
“Not at all. I’d expect things like that to be important to someone who writes poetry for a living.”
“Not for a living,” she corrected him. “I’d make a pretty poor living out of what I have published, or even my secondary business of handcrafted books. It definitely wouldn’t fund the kind of life I’ve become accustomed to in my grandfather’s house. In that respect I’m very lucky that my family is wealthy and doesn’t mind supporting me.”
Greg set down his coffee again. “I think with what you do for them, it’s got to be at least an even trade. You and your aunt seem to keep the household running smoothly and you’re there for your sisters whenever they need you.”
Miranda couldn’t help giving him a smile that probably looked pretty cynical. “I’m there all the time because I can barely make it outside the house, Greg. Surely you heard me admit that tonight.” She felt better for saying it. Her admission was likely to quash any faint hope she might have for this one outing to turn into something like a date, but this man already meant too much to her to keep things from him.
What happened next totally surprised her. Instead of reacting as she expected, Gregory reached across the table and took both of her hands in his. “Miranda, I heard every word of what you had to say. In fact, it was a strain to pay attention to anyone else tonight.” His hands were incredibly warm, making Miranda want to draw back because she knew hers were cold after having them around the glass that held her iced coffee. But she couldn’t pull away. All she wanted to do was look into Greg’s eyes and see the concern there. It felt so wonderful to have someone look back at her with genuine, positive emotion.
Miranda tried to think when she’d last gotten the feeling of love or concern not tinged with pity from anybody but Winnie. With her father she shared anger and aggravation within minutes of talking to him most of the time. Perhaps Grandfather felt nothing but love for her, although his illness and confusion usually drew a veil over his deepest feelings. And while she knew her sisters loved her they often squabbled like…well, sisters.
Now here was Gregory sitting across the table paying attention to no one but her, his hands clasping hers in a way that made warmth radiate through her even more intensely than that headache moments ago. The feelings brought tears to her eyes and for a change she didn’t try to hold them back.
“Oh, now that was the last thing I wanted to happen,” he said, letting go of her left hand and reaching into his pants pocket. He drew out a crisp linen handkerchief and handed it to her. “I seem to have that effect on women.”
Miranda let go of his other hand and took the handkerchief. She almost hated to use it, neatly ironed as it was. When she wiped away the tears with the square of cloth she was aware of the scent of his aftershave, or perhaps it was just the essence of Gregory. There was a light touch of aroma that made her think of pulling clothes off the line outside with her mother when she was little, both of them laughing as the wind wrapped cotton sheets around them. Along with that was the scent of vanilla and a brisk spiciness. She dried her face before she gave in to the urge to bury her nose in the cloth instead.
“Thank you. And please, don’t worry about me. Crying a little is probably the best thing I could do. Winnie says I bottle everything up inside and she’s probably right. I’ve been doing it so long, trying to stay strong because I’m the oldest. Maybe if I hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t have so many of these panic attacks.”
“It might be at least one of the reasons. From what little I know, the worst thing about panic attacks is the constant fear that you’ll have another one.”
Miranda nodded. “You’re right. I’m constantly worried lately that I’ll find myself out in public and be overcome by one.” Just thinking about it made her chest tighten for a moment as she tried to push the feeling away.
“The only other thing I can say about that is I’m sure God wants so much more for you. In Romans, the Bible tells us that God doesn’t give us a spirit of fear. It’s just not what he intends for his children.”
He spoke so earnestly and Miranda wanted so badly to accept what he said. “I guess that’s why I’m not terribly spiritual. It’s so hard for me to take in all the things the Bible says about God as a totally loving, accepting father. It’s just so far from my personal experience.” Her tears welled up again, more in anger and frustration now than anything else, and she wiped the handkerchief across her cheek. “I must look awful,” she said, willing her voice to stop quivering. She laid down Greg’s handkerchief and reached into her purse to pull out her zippered makeup bag. It took a moment to find the small mirror and lip gloss she knew she needed now.
As she got them out she noticed Greg looking at the bag. “There has to be a story to that. It’s not at all the designer leather number I’d expect to find in your purse, Miranda.”
Now she had to fight bursting into tears again, but the pastor looked so genuinely interested in her answer that she had to tell him the whole story. “Winnie made it for me about twenty years ago.”
“It looks like a well-used treasure,” Greg said, endearing himself to her for good. He could have noted instead that the pink corduroy was faded and thin in spots, and worn down past the wale by touching. Instead he’d noticed how cherished it was.
“You’re right. It is the one link I have with my mother that I can carry around every day.” She fingered the cloth lovingly. “When I was ten my mother and father had a terrible fight and she left home. The next morning Father told us that she had been in an accident after she left and had died. Of course we know now that wasn’t true, but for twenty-three years that was the story we all believed. For years I was sure it was all my fault.”
&n
bsp; Greg shook his head slowly. “That had to be painful. What could a ten-year-old have possibly done that caused that belief?”
“The day before she left, Mama and I had quite a disagreement. She had just finished sewing a pink jumper and white blouse for me to wear to school and she wanted me to wear them that morning. I told her they were way too girly and they looked like baby’s clothes and I was never going to wear them to school when all the other girls wore jeans every day.”
She smiled ruefully. “Of course, that wasn’t all quite true. Not all the other girls wore jeans all the time, and I only thought the jumper was babyish because she’d made the same pattern in different colors for Bianca and Delia.”
“But you felt guilty for arguing with her and you remembered that last argument after your father told you she was dead,” Greg said softly.
Something in his voice made Miranda wonder how he knew so exactly the thoughts that had gone through a young girl’s mind.
She nodded, still holding the makeup bag. “Somehow I wanted her to come back so badly that I got it into my head that if I wore that outfit to school maybe she would come back. Part of me understood death in the grown-up way, and yet there was still the little-girl part that wanted wishes to come true.”
Greg took the bag from her, handling it as gently as she would herself. “Your aunt made this out of your jumper, didn’t she?”
“Yes. I wore it every day to school for weeks until the other kids teased me about not having any other clothes. I still wore it at least one or two days a week after that, until I had such a growth spurt that it was too short. After that it became my security blanket and I slept with it under my pillow for a couple of years.
“My father somehow caught wind of that when I was twelve and threatened to burn it. When she saw how panicky his threat made me, Winnie spirited it away and promised me that she’d fix everything. For my thirteenth birthday she gave me this bag, filled with a tiny mirror, clear lip gloss and a few other things she thought a teenager ought to have.”