Lost and Found

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  The parallel to my life isn't lost on me.

  I chose my words to Andee with care. To say there'd been a death in the family might tip her off. A personal crisis was true, and yet . . .

  Again, I consider Andee's e-mail. Drawing her in by asking questions was foolish. Yet, having spent some time with her now, I long to engage her on another level. To break through that self-protective barrier that's so evident. There is a vulnerable, and I'd guess, wounded soul, beneath the polished exterior.

  I understand now why Jason is drawn to her, though I am concerned for him—for his heart.

  But as far as the blog, I can't reveal my identity. If Brigitte were to discover . . . Well, it just isn't an option. I press send and my e-mail to Andee is off to her. Then I reach for the lid of my laptop to close it. As I do, the light from the fixture above catches the diamonds in the band on my left hand and sends small dots of light dancing across the wall. I reach for the ring and twist it around my finger, finding comfort in its meaning.

  You are my Husband. I will have no other god before you.

  I get up from the desk and wander to the kitchen, but a niggling sense of unrest follows me. I ignore it and place a mug under the spigot of the coffeemaker. I add a little cream and stir the coffee as I consider Andee's advice: Look at your circumstances and determine what about your situation you want to keep, and what you'd like to change.

  Oh, if you only knew. How many times in the last eleven years have I wished to change my circumstances? Too many to count. And now? If I could change anything, I'd bring Gerard back.

  Or . . . would I?

  The thought has nagged me since reading Andee's e-mail for the first time this morning. It has nagged every time I've read it since. If I had the power to change anything, would I wish Gerard back to life? The answer, I'm ashamed to admit, is no. Though I grieve him and know I will miss him, there is a new freedom with his death.

  I feel the scarlet of shame creeping up my neck and face.

  "Oh, Lord, forgive me. I'm so sorry." I cover my face and wait for the tears to come, but they don't. I take my hands away from my face and take a deep breath.

  There was a hopelessness to Gerard's existence. Not because he was without eternal hope—he believed—but because he didn't live out of that hope while he was alive. Instead, without meaning to, he placed his hope in his mother. His hope, his loyalty, his very life. His death ends the pain of watching him, day-by-day, slip further away into the comfort of detachment or the seeming solace of alcohol.

  Now he is at peace. Finally.

  But it isn't just that.

  There's Brigitte, of course. And with Gerard's death comes the hope of escaping her clutches.

  When I married Gerard, he lived with Brigitte and it was understood that, as a couple, we, too, would live with her. Gerard explained that, since his father's death, it had been his role to care for his mother. Although she never allowed him to care for her. She took care of everything, including herself. I didn't question the decision. At twenty-one, I was enamored with Brigitte, the home in the city, and the life I'd idealized.

  Reality proved a poor substitute for what I'd imagined and when, a few years after our marriage, I spoke with Gerard about buying our own home, his unwillingness, or perhaps his inability to "leave and cleave" became evident. I recalled my father's warning, but by then it was too late.

  Back to Andee's question: What would I change? What wouldn't I change? But foremost, I'd walk away from Brigitte. I dream of it. I fantasize about it. When Gerard died, I began to hope. But I'm still bound to her. I must honor Gerard's request that I care for her. I must love her, as God calls me to love everyone, even my enemies.

  I sigh.

  Brigitte is my cross to bear. I've understood this for many years.

  Understood . . . Matthew's words come back to me—King Solomon's words from Proverbs: Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. For the first time, I wonder if I've misunderstood Jesus' decree that anyone who does not take up their cross and follow me is not worthy of me? But what else could it mean? I'm to bear my circumstances, but in doing so I share in the sufferings of Christ, right?

  Stand back, Jenna.

  The words breeze through my mind and soul. And again, for what seems like the hundredth time, I ask, "Stand back from what?" Agitation marks my question. "Stand back from my own understanding?" The words are out of my mouth before I've even thought them. Where did they come from?

  Were they from God?

  Lord, have I misunderstood? With my prayer comes a hope that brings me to tears. And with the hope a sense of relief so intense that it points to the depth of my emotional fatigue with Brigitte.

  But how can I care for Brigitte, love her as God calls me to love her, and walk away? It doesn't make sense. I reach for my calendar and on the small square where I've noted my next appointment with Matthew, I write the initial B. Maybe this will be the topic of my next session.

  In the meantime, I will enjoy my moments of freedom, here, now, while I'm away. Just as Gerard and I used to do. Tomorrow, I will return to Pacific Heights, and to Brigitte.

  I dump my now-cold coffee in the sink and determine to think about something else.

  I head back to the den and my computer. I sit at the desk again and open the laptop and return to Andee's note and her question for me: Why are you so passionate about religion? I am still for several moments before I lift my fingers to the keys. In those moments, I pray. Lord, give me Your words for Andee. May she sense Your love and grace.

  Dear Andee,

  I'm not passionate about religion. I'm passionate about a relationship—my relationship with Jesus.

  I stop typing and consider what I know about Andee—or at least what I think I've observed. She's self-sufficient, controlled, and intelligent. She makes choices based on logic, or thoughts, rather than feelings. And she's . . . I close my eyes and wait. I sense the Spirit leading my thoughts. She's . . . afraid.

  Ah. Perhaps the wounding I sensed in her has something to do with her fear.

  I return to the e-mail and feel my passion stirring. It's when I'm engaged in an exchange with a reader that I feel most alive. These are the times when I sense the Spirit's presence in me, through me, around me. I catch my breath and whisper, "Thank You," and then continue my note to Andee.

  Religion is about rules and rituals and expectations. Religion comes with judgment. Jesus is about total acceptance and unconditional love. One of my favorite verses says that in Jesus there is no condemnation.

  If you read my blog, then you know I'm imperfect, struggling to find my way, and often afraid. Yet, Jesus loves me.

  Oh, I could go on and on, but this feels like enough. My instinct with Andee tells me to keep things short and to the point. I leave the e-mail unsigned as usual and press send. I let the condemning thought about my anonymity go.

  "Father, lead me . . ."

  I trust, or try to trust, that He will show me the time and the way in which to reveal myself. If that is His desire for me.

  The only perfect fellowship is the union of spirits in God. This union not only exists in heaven, but also on earth as the resurrecting power of life begins to transform the believer.

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Matthew

  ON SATURDAY MORNING, I roll over in bed, look through the crack between the blind and our window, and see that the sun is shining. Looks like an awesome fall day. I glance at Tess. "Breakfast?" She knows what I mean.

  "Mmm . . . absolutely." She throws the covers back and leaps out of bed. "I get the bathroom!" Then she lunges toward our one small bathroom.

  But my legs are longer than hers. I jump up, follow her, and then wrestle her for position in the hallway. "Oh, no you don't!" I beat her to t
he bathroom, open the door, and then I surprise her by bowing, and making a sweeping gesture. "It's all yours, m'lady. But hurry, I'm hungry."

  She laughs. "Just give me time to wash my face and brush my teeth."

  While she does that, I go to our closet, reach for sweats, a T-shirt, and my favorite flannel shirt. I step into tennis shoes, bend to tie them, and then take my turn in the bathroom. Within twenty minutes we're on the street and heading for our favorite neighborhood cafe where the grub is good and the coffee cups bottomless.

  We walk and talk, ribbing each other along the way.

  "You know, I only let you wear that outfit because we never see anyone we know at this place."

  I eye her flawless designer—though purchased at a discount—olive-colored yoga pants and matching jacket. "And I only let you wear that outfit because I'm above what other people think."

  She swats at me and laughs. "Yeah, right."

  We cover the three blocks to the cafe in record time and claim our favorite table by the window. Before our napkins are even on our laps our coffee cups are full. Cool. I reach for the half and half and the sugar.

  "You're going to get fat, babe."

  She, of course, drinks hers black.

  "Yeah, but I'm not a real man like you. I can't take it black."

  She leans across the table and takes my face in her hands and gives me a lingering kiss. "You're man enough for me."

  "Well, that's a relief." I smile and then pick up the menu. I try something different each time we come.

  "So, what'll it be this time?" Our waitress, coffeepot in one hand and an empty plate in the other, swings by our table and waits while I decide.

  "How about the San Fran Scramble, with grilled potatoes, and OJ."

  "Good choice. And the usual for you?"

  Tess nods.

  The usual is one poached egg and a piece of dry wheat toast. Why bother?

  Our coffee time, while we wait for our food, is our catch-up time. We cover the week's happenings and make small talk. If we need to go deeper, we do that over breakfast. If not, we share the Chronicle, passing sections across the table to one another.

  Tess sets her coffee cup down, pulls her long auburn hair into a ponytail, and takes a thing out of her pocket and secures it around her hair. She always seems to have one of those ponytail things with her.

  "What happened to Lightseeker's blog this week?" She picks her coffee cup back up and takes a sip.

  I set my cup down and . . . fumble. "Uh . . . what do you mean?"

  She eyes me. "What do you mean, what do I mean? You read her blog every single time she posts. You're telling me you didn't miss it this week?"

  "Oh, that. Yeah . . . uh . . . I don't know. Makes you wonder, huh?"

  "I hope she's okay."

  I nod. "Yeah, me too." I pick up my coffee and take another sip. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

  She nods.

  "Why are you reading that thing? I mean, I know why I read it, but I'm just wondering what you're drawn to." I expect her to be defensive.

  Instead, she smiles. "This is kind of deep for coffee talk."

  "Need some protein to fortify you first?"

  "No, I think I can handle it."

  She looks at the table for a minute and then looks back to me.

  "I think it's her honesty. She doesn't have it all together—doesn't have all the answers, you know? She's searching. Looking for illumination. It's like she's on a journey and she's letting the rest of us come along."

  "So, how does that differ from when I try to talk to you about faith? I mean"—I lift my eyebrows and smile—"except for the obvious. I do have all the answers."

  She wads up her napkin and throws it at me.

  "Hey!" I catch it and pretend to take aim at her and she ducks. "Ha! Gotcha."

  She laughs. "Actually, that is sort of the reason. I feel like you do have all the answers or, no offense, at least you think you do."

  "Ouch, really?"

  "Really."

  I give this some thought and then concede. "Yeah, I can see that. Sorry." I've thought if I could reason with Tess, answer all her questions, appeal to that logical side of her, then maybe . . .

  "That's okay. I know you're passionate." She laughs. "To say the least. And, I wasn't ready to hear it. I'm still not sure I'm ready. Somehow, I feel pressured when it comes from you."

  I nod. And for once, I keep my mouth shut.

  But dude, inside I'm hurting. For Tess. For myself. I want her to know His love. I want to share the things of God—the depth of His love—with her. I want that fellowship together.

  We're quiet until our orders arrive a couple of minutes later.

  "What do you have going on over there?" Tess looks at my plate.

  "This, my dear, is the San Fran Scramble. Three eggs, Jack cheese, spinach, onions, and the kicker—hunks of grilled authentic San Francisco sourdough bread. Want a bite?" I stack my fork with a bite, but she shakes her head and holds up her hand. "What? You're missing out."

  "Yeah, on about a thousand calories."

  "It'll put a little meat on your bones."

  "Great, just what I need."

  She takes a bite of her dry toast and reaches for the Chronicle. "Want a section?"

  "Nah, not yet. I'm going to focus on my calorie intake."

  "Enjoy." She lifts the paper and is hidden behind it. Then she puts it back down. "Oh, I meant to tell you something."

  "What . . ." I stop. Major fumble—talking with my mouth full.

  "Nice save." She smiles. "Well, at first I wasn't going to say anything because I thought it was just gossip, but then I remembered something."

  Gossip is one of the things Tess dislikes most about her industry. She says the cutthroat backstabbing is ridiculous. So I'm curious about what she's going to tell me.

  "I decided that maybe it would be helpful to you. So, for what it's worth . . ." She folds the paper back up and sets it aside. "Several days after we attended the memorial service for Gerard Bouvier, a gal at work was talking about Gerard's mother, Brigitte Bouvier. The gal, Caroline, you've met her, right?"

  "Caroline, the malnourished blonde?"

  "Matthew . . ."

  "Sorry, yep, I've met her."

  "Anyway, she was a personal shopper for one of our competitors before coming to us and Brigitte Bouvier was one of her customers. Evidently, she placed an order for her and something she'd requested was backordered. It happens sometimes. Anyway, she said the woman was verbally abusive to her on several occasions—blamed her, belittled her—that kind of thing. Then, she finally called Caroline's manager and had her fired. She said she'd take her business elsewhere unless they fired her."

  "Sounds like a major case of entitlement."

  Tess picks up her coffee cup again. "Yeah. In fact, I remember the incident, because when Caroline applied with us, she'd told me the story and I called her former manager to verify it. Her manager told me that was exactly how it happened, and that Caroline was a wonderful employee, but that the customer in question was too well known in the city to ignore, as were her expenditures. I didn't hear the customer's name until last week."

  I give Tess my deer-in-the-headlights stare.

  "I know. You can't talk about it. But . . ." She's thoughtful again. "But Jenna's one of your clients and"—she shrugs—"I don't know, it's weird, but I just felt compelled to tell you."

  I stash Tess's information away for later. "Thanks, babe. I appreciate it."

  She returns to the Chronicle while I consider again the trust it takes between spouses when one of them works in a capacity that requires confidentiality. When I received the invitation to Gerard Bouvier's memorial service, it was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Matthew MacGregor. I called Je
nna and told her that I would come alone if that was more comfortable for her. She insisted that Tess was welcome to attend with me. The lines blur more easily with spiritual direction than they do in counseling. And I was happy to have Tess's company at the service. Besides, I needed her to dress me.

  Tess understands the rules of confidentiality and she respects them.

  And, I remind myself again, she trusts me.

  LATER IN THE DAY, I think through Tess's words about Brigitte Bouvier. Jenna hasn't spoken about her mother-in-law so, given what I know from her, I might not give much thought to the information Tess passed along. But what I know from Lightseeker's posts is something different altogether. She's inferred that she's involved in a relationship with a woman that is, at the least, controlling.

  At the worst, abusive.

  If Lightseeker and Jenna are one in the same, and I'm pretty sure they are, then man, I pray the relationship with her mother-in-law will come up in our conversations. Maybe that's why Tess felt compelled to tell me—maybe the Holy Spirit nudged her, so that I would pray.

  And dude, I will pray.

  God wants to teach you that there is a silence through which He operates.

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Jenna

  WHEN I RETURN to the house in the city, I'm followed by what feels like an oppressive fog. The thought of life with Brigitte weighs on me like an anvil—crushing my spirit. I slip into the house from the garage and make it all the way to the stairs before I'm noticed.

  Hannah comes around the corner. "You're back."

  "Yes."

  "I'll notify Madame."

  "That won't be necessary, Hannah." I head up the stairs assuming she'll notify Brigitte anyway. I enter our suite, my suite, and cross the room. I stop at the vanity, too tired to take another step. I sit on the stool in front of the vanity and rest my forehead on my crossed arms.

  I felt fine in the valley. Well even. The antibiotic pump was removed the day before Gerard died. Time, I realize, will now be marked by his death. And though the emotional trauma of his death drained me, I knew my body had responded to the antibiotics. The low-grade fever subsided and the nausea and lethargy were gone.