‘Til he appeared and the soul felt its worth.
Her parents didn’t say goodbye. They left their “problem” and went back home. Her parents were dual pastors. It would never do for the congregation to find out that their daughter was such a sinner.
Eventually, Sydney would learn that Laurie had recanted the kiss. That she had claimed that Sydney had forced her. Sydney wished that she’d never found out. But she knew, and that was now part of her memory.
That night, Sydney stared up at the man on the porch, and she felt fear—genuine fear—move through her.
She knew that she would burn forever for what she’d done.
But she didn’t know how much suffering could happen in this life, too.
She’d soon find out.
A thrill of hope…
In the beginning, Sydney thought that it might not be so bad. Her parents had simply taken her to a sort of Christian camp. She’d heard about these places online. Christian kids were gathered together, were taught Bible verses and real-world applications of Jesus’ teachings.
But this place was different.
Sydney slept on a cot in the kitchen. She shivered under the thin blanket the man who’d introduced himself as Raymond had given her. They kept the thermostat in the fifties at night; it wouldn’t be the last time she shook herself to sleep.
But, that night, she had an almost feverish hope. A thrill that raced through her. Maybe her parents were going to come back that weekend. Maybe they’d taken her here for no other reason than that they wanted her to talk to other kids like her. Maybe they really were accepting her.
Sydney’s boundless optimism hadn’t been broken yet.
But it would be.
…the weary world rejoices…
The next morning, she met the rest of the kids in the house. Kids with eyes sunken into their faces, with big circles beneath them. Kids who were too skinny. Kids who flinched at loud sounds. Raymond led them all in prayer around the breakfast table, and as he bowed his head, the kids looked furtively at Sydney.
The guy across the table mouthed words at her: You’re fucked.
For yonder breaks…
That boy was Samuel.
It was because he committed suicide a year later that Sydney was able to escape from Redeemer House.
Sydney placed the 911 call. Samuel had become her best friend during the year of hell.
No.
That year was worse than hell.
Sydney had grown up with the Bible as her most-read book. She knew every story, and she knew most of the verses. She understood the concept of hell. She knew how horrible her eternal life would be.
And she still believed that the year in the Redeemer House was worse.
When the police came, when they took the kids out, some kids were picked up by their parents and taken to different conversion places. Because that was exactly what the Redeemer House was, Sydney came to find out.
The police asked her what had been done to her. Sydney would always remember the policewoman's expression of dismay, of pure compassion, as Sydney told her.
Sydney told her everything.
…a new and glorious morn…
Samuel killed himself because every night Raymond beat him to within an inch of his life. To beat the gay away, Raymond said. Because if you spared the rod, you spoiled the child.
Food was only given out occasionally. Most of the time, they fasted for their sins.
Raymond wasn’t the only adult in the house. There were many women who came and volunteered their time. Who spoke to the kids. Who performed the aversion therapy. Though that’s not what they called it in the house. They called it “learning the Right Way.”
Sydney told the police officer about being dunked in cold water. About almost drowning.
Sydney told the police officer many other things. She would always remember how the police officer had looked so tenderly at the scars on Sydney’s back from the beatings. Would always remember how the police officer had told her that Raymond was in custody. That he, and everyone else involved in the Redeemer House, would have charges pressed against them to the fullest extent of the law.
But Sydney found out, a year after she’d left the Redeemer House, that Raymond had opened a new conversion therapy establishment. This one was called “Christ the Savior Camp.” Their website claimed that they helped kids “realize the truth inside of themselves.”
Sydney remembered the police officer offering her a blanket. She remembered how she flinched away from the police officer’s hand.
Sydney remembered everything.
Fall on your knees.
Chapter 7
The therapist who spoke to Sydney after the police took her out of the Redeemer House told her that panic attacks were common for people with PTSD. He told her that they were nothing to be ashamed about. He told her that, if she could, when she felt a panic attack coming on, she should try to focus on all of her senses. Try to find something solid for her senses to experience.
She tried that now.
She was lying on Caroline’s bathroom floor. It was a solid gray tile. It was cold to the touch, the cold seeping through her jeans. She was only dressed in her jeans and sneakers and her thin white t-shirt, so the cold was something real, something immediate. It smelled like lavender in here. There was an air freshener plugged into one of the outlets. It glowed purple. Her mouth tasted like the coffee Caroline had offered her. She could hear Caroline warming up on the piano out in the living room, the sound of the notes reaching her through the shut and locked bathroom door.
Sydney pressed her palms to the floor, felt the cold of it invading her skin. She hadn’t thought to bring her purse with her when she returned Caroline’s belt, and her medication was in her purse. She wouldn’t be able to use medication for this panic attack.
So Sydney tried the best she could. And when she finally rose to her knees, wobbling just a little, her breathing had returned to normal. Sort of. Her breaths were shaky, but at least she could breathe again.
She could breathe again.
She stood, gripping the sink with her fingers, staring at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were wide, her cheeks too pale. She turned on the cold water and splashed it onto her face, and then she dried it carefully on the fluffy pink hand towel on the side of the sink.
She left the bathroom, leaving the door ajar, and walked slowly down the hallway into the living room.
Caroline turned and glanced at her from her seat on the piano bench. “Are you all right, dear?” she asked, her voice soft. “You looked so ill.”
“Just my stomach being silly,” said Sydney, and she gave Caroline a weak smile. “I’m so sorry to do this, but I’m not really feeling well. Is it all right if we cut the lesson short?” It killed her to say those words, but she needed to take her pill. She needed to lie down. She needed to focus on something beside the memories that threatened to drag her into the cesspool of her past with horrific, nightmare hands.
Caroline stood, nodding, smoothing out her skirt. “Thank you so much for returning my belt,” said the woman warmly. “It was lovely to see you again, Sydney.”
After, Sydney would wonder about those words, but in the moment, all she could do was nod and return the smile. She took the jean jacket that she’d tossed on the back of the couch. “Thank you,” she said, and then she saw herself through the door and walked down the hallway and the many, many stairs.
Max was at the door, instantly sniffing her all over, demanding to know why she’d pet another animal and had been so unfaithful to him. This was something that Sydney could focus on, so she kneeled down and wrapped her arms around Max’s neck, eliciting a squeak from him.
Then she locked her front door. And she roamed her apartment. She looked everywhere: she looked in her cupboards; she even looked in the oven. But she didn’t sit down on the couch until she’d checked the cupboard beneath the bathroom sink, too.
She was alone.
She
was safe.
She was alone.
She was safe.
If she repeated the phrases to herself enough times, maybe, eventually, she’d believe them.
But as she took her pill, as she dragged Max onto her lap, as she felt the weight of him pressing down upon her, calming her, she closed her eyes, burying her nose in his fur.
She was alone.
She was safe.
But she didn’t feel safe.
And she didn’t want to be alone.
Well, not exactly.
There was no person in the world that Sydney wanted to be near at that moment…except Caroline.
Sydney buried her nose deeper into Max’s fur. If she wanted to be around Caroline, why had she fled her apartment as fast as she could?
Sydney knew the answer to that question, though. In her apartment, she felt somewhat safe. It wasn’t the person; it was the place.
Sydney closed her eyes and thought—not on the past this time but on a different present.
The daydream started out innocently enough. She wondered what Caroline might be up to right now. She worried over the fact that she’d left the lesson abruptly. It had been so kind of Caroline to offer it to her, and Sydney had literally fled her apartment. She wished she hadn’t. She wished that the panic attack hadn't consumed her, wished that she’d been able to stay for the whole thing. Wished that she was able to think about…that song…without the panic, wished she was able to sing that song again. She hated that song now, and she always would. But she wished she’d been able to sing it for Caroline.
She thought about Caroline in that pretty black dress, thought about Caroline alone in her apartment. Wondered if Caroline was petting her black cat now, or if she was in the kitchen pouring herself another cup of coffee. What would it be like to be standing behind her, to see her head bent to the task? What would it be like to press her mouth to the bare skin of Caroline’s neck, to see her turn a little, her smile deepening to one of indulgence?
“I’ve got to get ready,” she would say. “I’m going out to hang more flyers for the voice lessons…”
And Sydney would say, “Stay in. I’ll help you do it tomorrow. Stay in. Just for this afternoon, for tonight. Stay with me.”
And Caroline would turn around and put her arms about Sydney’s neck, and Sydney would wrap her arms about Caroline’s waist. What would that feel like? She looked so different from Laurie. Laurie had been a slip of a girl, so thin and wiry, but soft to the touch.
No, Caroline would feel different… Caroline was beautifully curvy. Her dress would be soft under Sydney’s hands, and beneath the dress, the warmth of Caroline would emanate through the fabric, into Sydney’s palms. Sydney would slide her hands down to cup Caroline’s ass, and Caroline would smile against Sydney, the indulgent smile deepening.
“I have to go,” she’d whisper again, but it wouldn't sound so convincing anymore. She would melt against Sydney in all of the right places, her softness against Sydney’s body making Sydney’s heart beat faster and faster until she could no longer take it. Sydney would put her mouth to Caroline’s neck, would make a pattern of kisses, would breathe in the sweet scent of Caroline’s skin, would hold the woman to her with a tenderness and passion that would flow through her body like blood.
Sydney would show Caroline, in those moments, what the woman meant to her. She would show her, and it would be an honor to worship her, to taste and touch and love every inch of her.
Sydney would love Caroline. And Caroline would love her.
And that was the fantasy, wasn’t it? Sydney opened her eyes, stared around at her relatively bare apartment. That was the fantasy. It wasn’t the reality. The reality was that Sydney lived in a small apartment with her dog. Alone. And Caroline lived in an apartment, also alone. And their paths couldn’t intersect, couldn’t merge like the pretty, pastel fantasy in her head. It had been so bright and airy... But life couldn’t really be like that. Because Sydney couldn’t pursue Caroline. Did Caroline like women? Did it matter? Sydney knew that she couldn’t be this, couldn’t do this, and even if she could…would Caroline want her?
Of course not.
Sydney was nineteen years old. And Caroline… Caroline was older. Sydney was so aware of her age, so aware of the years she’d walked the earth, deeply aware, because age had been so important in freeing herself from her parents’ influence, from the Redeemer House and everything that came after. The police took her out of there, but if they hadn’t, Sydney had had a plan.
Age had been the most important bar to her freedom.
And now age, again, was restricting her.
Sydney was a mess of emotion, of want, of loathing. Max scrambled off of her as she stood, as she made a circle around the old couch she’d garbage-picked a few weeks ago. She made another circle, and another. The medication wasn’t working. Anxiety was curling a fist in the middle of her stomach. She knew she was adding to it, thinking of Caroline. Wondering about Caroline.
Wanting Caroline.
Frustrated, angry, hurting, Sydney crossed the space to the living room window. She’d closed the window tightly to feel safe, but the apartment was sweltering, so she opened it now, and with her finger still on the casement…she stopped.
There was singing.
The angel.
Caroline.
Caroline was singing.
Sydney leaned out of the window as far as she could, and she lifted her face to the sky.
And she listened.
Caroline was singing “Someone to Watch Over Me.”
The woman’s voice was soft and soulful. She was probably just inside her living room, or outside on her balcony. Sydney wasn’t sure, but when she closed her eyes to the beauty of the courtyard so that she could concentrate, instead, on the beauty of Caroline’s voice, she could see Caroline in her mind’s eye. She could see Caroline, still in her black dress, but with her long, blonde hair down now, no longer drawn up. She could see Caroline holding her little cat and singing the song to her. And the mere thought of that image filled Sydney with so much longing that she felt she might be undone by it.
Sydney had never become undone before. Throughout it all, through every hateful, hellish day, where renouncing what she was had been the sole focus, Sydney had not come undone. She’d come close, of course. Like Samuel, she wanted so much to escape everything. But she’d held on because of some deep, feverish hope. That if she could survive this, maybe, perhaps, life could get better.
And it had, for the most part. Life wasn’t perfectly ideal, but she was safe. She was earning a living. And today, for the first time in years, Sydney sang.
But she knew that there was an emptiness inside of her that no amount of accomplishments or money could buy, an emptiness that was scarred and aching still.
An emptiness that she wanted, so desperately, to fill.
But that emptiness would involve trust.
It would involve love.
And Sydney wondered if she’d ever feel either of those things—truly and deeply—ever again.
She loved Max, yes. But he was a dog, and dogs have love in their DNA. That was something completely different. It was easy to love Max because he asked nothing of her. It was easy to love Max, because she knew she could trust him completely. He never looked at her with anything but love, never asked anything of her, never wanted her to be something she was not.
Sydney drew in a deep breath, and she listened to Caroline sing. Every word, every line was breathtaking, poignant. “Someone to Watch Over Me” was a song that Sydney had long known and loved. When she’d taken voice lessons before, one of her voice teachers had been a fan of Gershwin songs, and this one had been a part of her singing rotation.
She sat there, her chin in her hands, half of her body hanging out of the window, and simply listened. She listened to every word as if it was an anchor that could hold her ship safely. She listened as if there was nothing else in the world to hear. And perhaps there wasn’t. F
or as Sydney sat there and focused on Caroline’s distant voice, the tension in her shoulders, in her stomach, in her hands, in every part of her faded away. Calmness stole into her heart and slowly unfurled, and Sydney tilted her faced up, almost as if to the heavens, as she listened to the voice of an angel.
Chapter 8
It had been such a long, hot day. The air conditioning went out at Martin's around ten in the morning, so Sydney had spent most of her shift sweating uncomfortably and trying not to show it. Even Thom’s usually chipper mood was subdued. They stood in the center of an aisle and used sales flyers as makeshift fans, waving them at each other in an effort to avoid melting.
“This is employee cruelty. They should just close the store and let us go home early,” Thom complained—for the fiftieth time that hour. “Have you asked Mr. Raglan if we could go home early?”
Sydney sighed and glanced at her friend with a smile. “Yes. Twice. And he said as long as there were people coming into the store, we have to stay. You know the drill, Thom.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he snorted, then flopped sidelong onto a neatly folded stack of men’s t-shirts. The table beneath the t-shirts groaned in protest but held him up, anyway. “I’m dying,” Thom declared. “I think I’m legitimately dying.”
“Probably not,” said Sydney, and sat cross-legged on the floor beside the table. She waved the flyer at herself. “But it’s too hot to live, I’ll give you that.”
“There’s supposed to be a thunderstorm front moving through here tonight. It’ll cool things down. But we’ll both be dead from heat exhaustion before then, so I don’t think it’s going to do our ghosts much good.” Thom groaned. “Ice cream. Doesn’t ice cream sound like a great idea?”
Sydney closed her eyes and tried to think about ice cream, but every time she closed her eyes, the only image in her mind’s eye was Caroline. Caroline in her pretty black dress, sitting at the piano bench, her long fingers at the keys, coaxing a perfect melody out of the old instrument.
The Longing Page 8