Two Steps Forward

by Sharon Garlough Brown

  Sunday, December 7

  4:20 p.m.

  I was going to head back to Nancy’s cottage tonight, but I’ve decided to stay at Meg’s at least through tomorrow. Nancy called a little while ago, just to see how everything is going. I think she was worried that I’m alone and isolated. I told her I’ve connected with some new relationships and that I’m really enjoying my time away. I didn’t mention Nate. I don’t want stories circulating in Chicago about Pastor Hannah and her boyfriend. But I did tell her I signed up for a trip to the Holy Land next May, and she was really excited. She said I sounded more at peace, like the sabbatical was beginning to do what they’d hoped. Gift.

  She gave some casual updates about the congregation, and I realized how disconnected I feel from my life there. Not in a bad kind of way—just that I guess I’ve really settled in to life here. I never would have thought it possible a couple of months ago. I know Nate’s a huge part of my feeling at home here. Sometimes I become consumed with wondering what will happen next June when my sabbatical is over, and I have to remind myself that we can only take this one step at a time. But Mara’s comment about Nate, Jake, and me already being like a little family hit me hard last night. Maybe because I had just been praying through my grief about not being able to have children. I certainly can’t jump to any conclusions about our future. Way too premature.

  I had thought about talking to Nate after lunch today about my hysterectomy and the layers of grief that came to light this week. Then I changed my mind. What am I supposed to say? “I want you to know that being with you is stirring all kinds of longings in me for a family, and I know we haven’t talked about any of that and that it’s way too early, but I think I should tell you that I can’t have kids.” I can’t go there with him. Not time yet.

  But the more I’m with him, the more my heart opens to him. He is determined to teach me how to play and celebrate. And I’m grateful for that. He’s so good for me. I’ve been sitting here staring at my pinwheel flower while I write. The image is so appropriate for me. There’s nothing useful and productive about pinwheels. They serve no practical purpose. They just wait for the wind without striving. An image of receptivity. And fun. Whimsical delight and wasting time. What a growing edge for me! And to have the pinwheel combined with the image of a flower is perfect. Thank you, Lord. The flowers are for me. The Lover’s gift to the beloved.

  I really enjoyed worshiping with Nate and Jake this morning. Nate’s pastor preached a really good sermon on Romans 5:1-5.

  “Therefore, since we are justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have obtained access to this grace in which we stand; and we boast in our hope of sharing the glory of God. And not only that, but we also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us.”

  “Hope does not disappoint us, because. . . .” That’s what came to life for me. I’ve spent years bracing myself against disappointment, refusing to hope because I’ve been afraid of being let down. By others and by God. I haven’t wanted to “get my hopes up” because I’ve been afraid of being disappointed. If you set your hopes low, you can be pleasantly surprised if anything good happens. I guess it’s a way of hardening your heart. A way of resisting the love of God that has been generously poured out through the Holy Spirit. Poured out. Not measured out by teaspoons. Poured. An image of abundance.

  I sat there in worship and thought about what suffering has produced in my life. It hasn’t produced endurance and character and hope in me. Instead, suffering—my own and the suffering of others—produced resignation, which steadily and stealthily eroded my hope. It was an important word for me to hear, especially as I sense that God wants to heal some more things in me. Help me anchor my hope in you, Lord. Not in any particular outcome, but in you. In your love.

  I’ve been thinking a lot about Charissa and John today and how hard it must be for them to wait. I sent her an email to say I was praying for her. Mara called her and offered again to go over to pray, but she said she wasn’t up to it. I don’t know what else we can do. Wait with them, I guess. And keep praying.

  I’ll sit with my pinwheel and Nate’s hymnal tonight, pondering the ways God has poured out his love. Thank you, Lord. Please fill all of us with hope while we wait for you.

  Meg

  The robed choristers’ treble voices soared into the majestic dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral. How could little boys—some of whom looked no older than seven or eight—sing with such mesmerizing precision? Listening to their anthems, Meg had no difficulty imagining the angels singing their glorias to the shepherds. Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will to men.

  If only the seat beside her wasn’t empty.

  She had hoped that Becca would join her for worship Sunday morning, but Becca had made it clear she wasn’t interested. “I was planning to sleep in. But you should go and enjoy it.”

  “How about lunch, then? We could meet near the cathedral, maybe go for a walk or to a museum or something.”

  But Becca had scheduled another marathon study session. “How about dinner?” Becca suggested. “I could come to the hotel after we finish.”

  Okay, dinner.

  Meg supposed she should be grateful for any morsel of time while Becca was preparing for exams. Besides. The term would be over in a few days, and then they would have unhurried time to explore London’s treasures. They would have unhurried time for deep and meaningful conversations. And Meg would have unhurried time to share memories of Jim and to talk with Becca about some of the things she had been learning about herself.

  While the little boys sang a prayer, Meg’s thoughts drifted to one particular occasion, vividly and indelibly imprinted by sorrow and regret, when Becca had tried to glean details about her father. She could see six-year-old Becca sitting at the table in the formal dining room where Mother always insisted they eat, her curly brown hair in a bob cut, her legs too short to touch the floor. Meg could hear her treble voice as if she’d only just spoken the words.

  “Did my daddy have a mustache?” Becca asked, out of the blue.

  Mother did not look up from her baked potato. Meg kept cutting her slice of ham.

  “I said, did my daddy have a mustache?”

  “A mustache?” Meg repeated.

  “Yeah, you know, a mustache.” Becca rubbed her index finger under her nose, as if Meg didn’t know what she meant by the word.

  “No . . . he didn’t have a mustache.”

  “Can I see a picture?”

  “Rebecca,” Mother interrupted, “eat your dinner.”

  “May I pleeease see a picture?”

  “Sometime,” Meg answered quietly.

  “When?”

  “Not now.” Meg’s lip was beginning to quiver. She set down her knife and fork.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I say so,” Mother replied, “and what I say in this house, goes.”

  “But I just want to see him!”

  “Enough, Becca,” Meg said. “That’s enough.”

  “Lauren’s daddy has a mustache. Lauren says he’ll take me to the Daddy-daughter dance at school.” Meg buried her face in her napkin and excused herself from the table.

  “Now look what you’ve done!” Mother scolded as Meg exited the room.

  Becca didn’t ask to see pictures again, and Meg didn’t offer to show her. What a coward she had been.

  Lord, help.

  All week she had carried Jim’s card in her purse, waiting for the opportune moment to show it to Becca and tell her she was sorry for not speaking freely about him over the years. Maybe she would have the chance at dinner. She hoped so.

  At six o’clock her cell phone rang. “Hey, Mom . . . ummm . . . Pippa’s kinda freaking out about our exams this week, and I told he
r I’d stay longer to help. I don’t think I’m gonna be able to meet you tonight. Can we take a rain check?”

  No, Meg replied, but not out loud. No. No rain check.

  “Mom?”

  “Becca, I . . .” She was going to be brave. She was going to name her disappointment. “Becca, I was really counting on being with you tonight.”

  “I know, but—”

  “I know you have lots of things going on right now with exams and papers and your friends. I knew you’d be busy when I booked this trip, but—”

  “Don’t guilt me into coming to see you, okay? I don’t need you making me feel guilty.”

  “I’m not trying to—”

  “No, you are. I can’t do this right now.” Her voice was becoming higher pitched, more shrill.

  “Becca—”

  “I’ve gotta go.”

  “Becca?” But she had already hung up.

  So much for being brave and trying to assert herself.

  She shouldn’t have pushed, not when Becca was still under so much stress with school. It was selfish of her, selfish to demand Becca’s time and attention right now. I’m sorry, Lord. I messed up. She dialed Becca’s number to apologize, but Becca did not answer.

  There had to be some way to reach her. It was an old rule of theirs, something they had practiced together ever since Becca was a little girl, and Meg wasn’t about to break it: never go to bed angry. She and Jim had been committed to the same rule, hard as it was.

  If she knew where Becca was studying, she would head straight over to work things out. But she didn’t know where the group was, and she didn’t know how to reach any of them.

  Think.

  Think.

  No. Wait.

  She did know how to reach one of them! She rummaged through her purse, found the slip of paper where she’d scrawled Pippa’s phone number on Friday night, and dialed it.

  “Hello?” the voice said.

  “Pippa?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Mrs. Crane. Becca’s mom.”

  “Oh, hiya!” She didn’t sound very stressed.

  “Could I talk with Becca a minute? We got disconnected.”

  “Ummmm . . . Becca’s not here.”

  “Oh. I thought you were having a study session together.”

  “Not today! We’re meeting again on Tuesday.”

  Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. “Oh, I must have misunderstood. Do you have any idea where she is?”

  Pippa sounded casual when she answered. “I saw her with Simon this morning. I think they were going to hang out at his flat today.”

  Simon? Who in the world was Simon?

  Meg dug her fingernails so hard into her left palm that little crescent moon shapes remained even after she stretched out her fingers again. Had she met Simon at the ice rink? She remembered an Avery. A Duncan.

  Think.

  Think.

  “Don’t tell me Becks still hasn’t introduced you!”

  “I . . . Well, she’s been so busy with everything, we haven’t had much chance to—”

  Pippa laughed. “Yeah, she’s pretty obsessed with him. No wonder you haven’t seen her!”

  Meg rubbed her forehead. “I’m afraid I’ve been pretty jet-lagged all week. Maybe I met him at the skating rink?”

  “Simon? No! Wait—you still don’t know about Simon? Cor! Becks is gonna kill me.”

  Meg’s stomach churned. “Oh, no, it’s okay. Everything’s good. If you see her . . . ummm . . . could you just ask her to call me?”

  “You want me to text her?”

  “No, no. That’s okay. Just if you see her . . .”

  Told you so, Rachel’s voice sneered in Meg’s head when she hung up the phone. You’re so ridiculously naïve.

  But why would Becca conceal a relationship? Becca had never concealed a relationship. Ever. Had she? Why now?

  Who was Simon?

  If only Becca had said, “Mom, I’ve got a new boyfriend, and I really want to spend some time with him,” Meg would have understood, right? She would have been disappointed, sure. But she would have understood the excitement of a new relationship.

  How do you know it’s a new relationship? Rachel’s voice asked. Maybe she’s been concealing this from you all along.

  Then why would she have invited me to come and be with her? Meg countered.

  You’re the one who invited yourself. You’re the one who insisted on coming over here to talk about her father. Pretty self-centered, if you ask me. Serves you right.

  It wasn’t self-centered! Concealing Jim from her all these years—that’s what was self-centered. Coming here was all about love. Perfect love casting out fear. Asking for forgiveness. Deepening their relationship. Telling the truth. That’s what this trip was all about.

  Well, look where all that hope got you. You’re a fool, Megs. A real fool. Put all the pieces together and see the whole picture for what it is.

  She already had. Meg had tried to convince herself it was her overactive imagination, but maybe it had been her motherly intuition after all, sounding the alarm.

  Inhale: Oh, God.

  Exhale: Help.

  Becca’s phone beeped with a text, and she reached for it on Simon’s nightstand. “Leave it,” Simon murmured. “It’s likely your mum pestering again.”

  “My mum doesn’t know how to text.” She read the glowing words on the screen and felt the color drain from her face: Your mum knows about Simon. Sorry! Call me!

  Simon gently pried the phone out of her hand, set it down on his side of the bed, and began kissing her neck again. How in the world had her mother found out about Simon? “I’ve got to call Pippa.”

  “Pippa can wait.”

  She reluctantly pulled herself out of his embrace and sat up on the edge of the bed. “It’ll just take a sec.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said before disappearing to the bathroom.

  Becca dialed the number, aware of the dread knotting in her stomach. “Pip?”

  “Becks! I’m so sorry! I completely screwed up. I didn’t know you still hadn’t told your mum about Simon!”

  “But how . . . ?”

  The story tumbled out, how her mother had called Pippa when she couldn’t reach Becca on her phone, how she’d thought they were in a study session, and how Pippa had innocently said that they hadn’t had a study session that day. “And I told her you were probably at Simon’s flat.”

  Becca swore under her breath.

  “I’m so sorry!” Pippa said. “I know you told me not to say anything about him at the restaurant. But I just figured—you know—by now you would have told her. I didn’t know you were keeping the whole thing a secret. If I’d known that, I would have helped.”

  “I know. I should have been more clear. It’s not your fault.”

  “Want me to call her back and tell her I talked with you and that I was all confused and forgot you’re in a study session with somebody else?”

  Though tempting, it wouldn’t work. She had specifically told her mother that she was helping Pippa tonight. Great. Now what?

  “No, don’t worry,” Becca said. “I’ll take care of it. Thanks for letting me know.”

  She hung up the phone and reached for her tights, which were strewn on the floor, then pulled on her mini-skirt.

  “Are you leaving?” Simon emerged from the bathroom, his salt-and-pepper hair still rumpled by Becca’s fingers.

  “I’ll be back. I’ve just got to take care of something.” Much as she hated to leave, she needed to fix this with her mother. Now.

  As she rode the Tube from Notting Hill to Russell Square, she crafted her crisis containment strategy.

  First, suggest they go out for coffee in order to avoid the quiet, intimate space of a hotel room. Her mother wouldn’t be as likely to disintegrate into an emotional puddle if they were in a public place humming with the noise of strangers.

  Second, once secured in a public space, acknowledge that yes,
she was seeing someone, and yes, she had kept it a secret because she didn’t want her mother to worry. Pitch it as a compassionate decision.

  Third, apologize for lying about Pippa and the study group and minimize the damage by claiming it was just today that she used it as an excuse. Say that she lied because she hadn’t had a chance to see Simon all week, because she’d been so busy with exam preparation and trying to entertain her mother.

  And fourth, hope that her mother’s predisposition toward trust would keep her from seeing right through her.

  Meg peered through the peephole into the hotel hallway, then unlocked the door. “Can I come in?” Becca asked.

  Meg stepped aside. Becca entered. Meg closed the door. Becca sat down on the edge of the bed. Meg sat down in the chair by the window. Becca stared at the floor. Meg did not speak. Becca did not take off her leather jacket.

  “Listen, Mom, I’m sorry about what happened earlier, about Pippa and everything.”

  Meg could not speak.

  “I shouldn’t have lied to you about why I couldn’t come over tonight. I’m sorry.”

  Meg still could not speak.

  “Do you . . . ummm . . . want to go get coffee or something?”

  “I don’t feel up to going out.” Was that her voice? Meg wasn’t sure.

  Becca cleared her throat. “Okay . . . so . . .”

  Meg’s neck was hot. She placed her hand on her neck. Her hand was cold.

  “Mom . . . I . . .”

  Meg spoke. “Please tell me why you thought you needed to lie to me about a boyfriend.” Her voice did not sound angry. Her voice did not sound frantic. Her voice sounded firm. Was that her voice?

  “I—”

  Becca looked like the little girl who had just been caught lying about where she and Lauren had gone after school. She was supposed to come home straight after school. She wasn’t supposed to walk to the mall with her friend. It wasn’t safe for third-grade girls to walk to the mall by themselves.

  Becca had a nose ring. She smelled like smoke.

  “Okay, fine. I should have just told you.” Becca tugged at her jacket sleeves. She crossed her arms against her chest. Becca looked like Rachel. “I met someone three weeks ago, his name is Simon, and I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you wouldn’t approve, okay?”