My Hope Next Door

by Tammy L. Gray

  She placed a hand on his forearm. “Come to church with me this Sunday.”

  His fork froze midbite. At least she’d let him get through half the meal before souring his stomach. He closed his eyes and set the utensil down slowly.

  “Asher, please. I’m asking for one Sunday.” She said it like it was no big deal. Like he hadn’t been absent from church for almost a year. “Susan and Tom are in town, and I don’t want to explain all the drama that happened last summer.”

  “Drama isn’t the right word.” His voice was sharper than he intended. “More like judgment, legalism, and hypocrisy. Bob Murray should be kicked out of the church, not hold the position of elder.”

  “He was protecting his daughter.”

  The muscles in his neck tightened. “She was twenty-four, not fourteen.”

  Asher had given his life to that church. Half the people in it had known him since he was a baby. Yet one lapse in judgment, and they crucified him. Demanded he step down as media director and made his father’s life miserable until Asher finally resigned.

  His mom rubbed her hands up and down her arms. She hated this conversation as much as he did.

  The house suddenly felt too small and too hot. He pushed aside his half-eaten dinner and left her sitting in the kitchen.

  “Asher.” Her call was lost in the slam of the screen door. He closed his eyes and sucked in the humid air to keep his stomach from trying to jump into his throat. This degree of bitterness was new to him, and for the millionth time he prayed for it to go away.

  The hissing of springs said his mom had followed him. He didn’t turn. “You have no idea how sick I am of hearing those words.”

  “I know. And they’re not an excuse. Just an explanation. He’s apologized to your dad several times. Bob knows he acted unjustly.”

  Asher let out a grunt. Unjust? More like irrational and cruel. The man’s daughter had gone to him crying, spewing lies about her and Asher’s relationship, and his first response was to stage a political coup in the church. Asher wasn’t even a staff member. Just a volunteer who’d devoted late nights and early mornings to making sure the church had an online presence. His thanks? A swift kick out the door.

  His mom touched the sleeve of his shirt, sending a bolt of regret through him. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. It wasn’t her fault. None of this was her doing. “I’m sorry, but I’m still angry.”

  “I know. And I understood that you needed a break from the church, but it’s been months. When do you plan to come back?”

  Never. “When they stop attending.”

  “You know that’s not going to happen. Bob’s granddaddy donated the land the sanctuary is built on.” She paused, her sigh as heavy as the wet air. “When you told your dad and me that you needed time away, we didn’t like it, but we trusted you would know when your heart was ready to return. But I’m starting to worry you may never see beyond the hurt.”

  “It’s not hurt that’s keeping me away.”

  “Then help me understand. Jillian’s dating again, and Alice swears her daughter wants to put all this ugliness behind her. They feel terrible about what happened.”

  “Not terrible enough to apologize to me. They dragged my name through the mud, insulted my integrity, all because a pastor’s kid isn’t allowed to be human.” He wondered when it would ever stop, the town constantly watching and waiting for him to mess up. The sad thing was, he really had tried to be perfect. At least that was over. He was done with all the pretense.

  “I’m sure they’re too embarrassed to say anything to you,” she said.

  “They should be. She lied to them.”

  “They know that.”

  He peeked at her from his peripheral vision. “They do?”

  “Well, they haven’t said so outright, but I got the sense that Jillian had come clean to Alice. The woman’s been bringing me baked goods every week for two months.” Her smile lasted long enough to chase away the tension in his shoulders. He wasn’t at a place where he could joke about Jillian or her parents, but maybe he could honor his mom and attend one Sunday.

  “Can I think about it?”

  His mom practically leapt with joy and hugged him. She knew him well enough to know that his “thinking about it” was the same as saying yes. “Thank you, sweetheart. This means so much to me.”

  He knew it did. Nothing about Sundays had been the same since Bob’s vendetta started, and his mom wasn’t the only one who missed the way things used to be.

  “Well, I’d better go. Your daddy wanted me to watch some documentary with him when I got back.”

  “You’re just afraid I’ll change my mind if you stay.”

  Her eyes crinkled with her smile. “Well, that too. I’ll see you Sunday.” She leaned up and kissed his cheek. Within minutes, she was pulling away from his house, leaving him to come to terms with what he’d just agreed to do.

  A strip of orange cut the sky, making it just bright enough to see his mom turn off his street and onto the highway. This was his favorite time of day. It was no longer a million degrees outside, and the breeze shifted from the south to the north, lifting the hair off his forehead. The chirping of cicadas echoed through the air as calm rolled through his body.

  His mom was right: ten months should be enough time for him to heal and to forgive. So why did it feel like his stomach lining was getting scraped out every time Sunday showed up on the calendar? He wasn’t in love with Jillian anymore. Hadn’t been since even before the explosive breakup. But seeing Christians behave like bullies had shaken his faith in the church, and he didn’t know how to get it back.

  The crunch of gravel drew his attention back to the road and to the battered car pulling up to the house next door.

  He should go inside. His neighbors had made it more than clear they didn’t want to be friendly, and Dr. Mills had labeled them “the heathens who can’t seem to cut their grass but once a year.” Asher had thought he was exaggerating, but when Asher rolled his own mower over to their neglected plot of land, Mr. Stone told him he didn’t want any handouts, especially from the preacher’s kid.

  A girl with straight shoulder-length hair emerged from the car as the trunk popped open. She walked around to the back, reached down, and tugged at something, but managed only to lose her footing.

  Asher hesitated, but when the girl stumbled for a second time, he jogged across the yard.

  “Hey, let me help you with that,” he called when he was close enough for her to hear him.

  The girl looked up, half startled and very familiar. Asher wondered how rude it’d be to turn around and jog right back home. Katie Stone. He’d recognize her anywhere. She was the only person he’d ever met with eyes so pale blue they looked like crushed silver.

  Forcing himself to do the right thing despite their history, Asher freed the bag from her strained grip. It was one of those massive green duffels with “U.S. Army” stamped on the side, and it was packed so full even the zipper looked ready to burst.

  “Thank you,” she said in a tone that surprised him. It was soft and gentle, lacking the crass attitude he remembered from high school. “I was beginning to think I’d have to roll it inside.”

  “Well, that’s what neighbors are here for. Rescuing damsels from overstuffed luggage.” Asher had to work to keep his voice steady. He could tell she didn’t recognize him, and he preferred to keep it that way. Their interactions in high school had been less than friendly.

  “Oh? You’re our neighbor?” She pulled a second, smaller bag from the trunk before shutting it. “Are you staying with Dr. Mills?”

  “Nope. I bought the place from him two years ago.”

  Her mouth dropped open as he set the bag down. Despite the forty pounds of muscle he’d packed on since high school, he questioned the wisdom of throwing out his shoulder for a girl who used to call him Holy String Bean.

  “Dr. Mills sold the place?” She stared at his house as if she were seeing it for the first time. “Wow
. I truly thought he’d die right there, scowling at us from his front porch.”

  Asher sucked in a laugh until he realized he’d been doing the same thing not five minutes earlier. Great. He’d officially turned into a crotchety old man.

  Katie’s face fell when he didn’t respond. “I’m sorry. That was terribly rude. I really didn’t mean it how it sounded. I just sometimes let words fly out of my mouth before I consider the impact. It’s something I’ve really been working on. Honest.”

  Now it was Asher’s turn to be surprised. Katie Stone had just apologized. Not only that, but she’d strung two sentences together that didn’t have a cuss word in either one. “It’s fine. You’re actually not too far off base with the scowl thing.”

  Their eyes met for a moment, and heat crawled along his neck. The years had been good to her. No, they’d worshiped her. The girlish chubbiness in her face had thinned, leaving cheekbones and a jawline so prominent an artist would get on his knees just for a chance to paint her.

  He needed a distraction. Now. He lifted the hundred-pound bag and started toward her house. “This doesn’t feel like an overnight stay,” he said, no longer willing to look at her. It was the hair that was confusing him. The caramel color softened her olive skin and made her appear sweet and kind. Neither of which was possible.

  “It’s not. Well, at least I thought I’d be here a while. Not so sure now.”

  He sensed sadness in her tone but kept walking until the bag was firmly planted on the edge of the cracking wood porch outside her front door. “Do you need me to take it inside for you?”

  “No. I’m not really sure what I’ll find in there.” She slowly climbed the three steps up to the sagging entry and stared at the door for so long, the silence turned awkward.

  The shadows on her face pulled at something deep inside and made him almost forget he was talking to the girl who slugged the homecoming queen. “Okay then, I guess I’ll see you around.”

  He made it three paces away from her house before she called after him.

  “Wait. You didn’t tell me your name.”

  He hesitated, but turned around. “Asher. Asher Powell.” And there it was. The reaction that came with the Powell name: wide eyes, hitched breath; the uncomfortable pause while the person hurried to remember if they’d said anything offensive.

  Her cheeks turned pink, and suddenly her shoes became her singular focus.

  Yep. She remembered him now.

  “Welcome back, Katie.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Katie stood in stunned silence as she watched Asher jog across the field that separated their houses. She’d certainly jumped into the fire drenched in gasoline. Just twenty minutes back in town and her past offenses were already wrapped around her like garland on a Christmas tree.

  She hadn’t seen Asher since graduation, and although the skinny boy with glasses had disappeared, his chivalrous heart obviously had not. In high school she’d found it revolting, his kindness, the way he watched her with eyes that promised understanding. Even when she’d flung stinging commentary his way, that look had never faltered.

  Blood pounded against her temples. Another person she’d wronged. The list was endless.

  Refusing to slide down into a sea of regret, she turned back to her parents’ front door and tried to regain the little bit of bravery she’d lost when Asher told her his name. But the house wasn’t any more welcoming than Cooper’s sneering innuendos. Everything felt off. Decayed somehow. As if time had cruelly attacked her childhood home.

  Paint curled and separated from the door and yellow siding in long, ugly streaks. The porch was barely functional, its rotting wood sagging toward the ground. Had it always been this way, or did her memory recall only what it wanted to?

  The door was unlocked, so Katie let herself in without a knock—and immediately recoiled from the smell. It was the stench of filth: urine, cat litter, old chicken stock, soiled laundry. All magnified by hot, humid air.

  Choking back the urge to gag, she covered her nose and concentrated on breathing through her mouth, only now fully understanding why her father had broken down and made the phone call. He was a proud man, and Katie knew that asking his wayward daughter for help meant he was desperate.

  A floral bedsheet hung in the doorway to her left. Her parents’ old parlor. She tiptoed closer and peeked behind the barrier. The room had been converted to a bedroom, and her mom lay asleep, still fully clothed, on a twin mattress. A wooden cane stood propped against the footboard.

  Katie pressed a hand to her stomach. She’d been in such a hurry to come home, she hadn’t had time to fully process what it meant to do so. She and her mom hadn’t seen each other in four years and had spoken only twice on the phone. Once on Katie’s birthday and once at Christmas. All other communications had been conducted through polite voicemails that kept them both off the hook until the next mandatory call.

  Not wanting to disturb her, Katie pulled the sheet back into place and headed farther down the hallway. The lights were off, but the last bit of setting sun cast a glow through the house that felt both eerie and oppressive. The dining room was stuffed full with its old furniture plus the rejects from the parlor. Boxes were stacked to the ceiling in columns, rendering the space virtually unusable. She shuddered, the smell getting worse as she approached the kitchen.

  This house had never felt especially warm or inviting—that wasn’t the Stone way—but even Katie could see the deterioration went well beyond some ignored maintenance. Something dark and ominous had settled over their lives, and for maybe the first time, Katie knew she would sacrifice whatever she needed to in order to fix it.

  A low voice hummed from the television in the living room, and Katie followed the sound. She found her father sitting in his recliner, holding the remote in one hand and a can of Miller in the other. A sense of familiarity swept over her and she clung to it, needing something in the house to feel unchanged. For a decade now, her father would come home from work, eat dinner, watch the news, and drink two cans of beer. No more. No less. An hour later, he’d go outside, have a cigarette, and then tell the family good night.

  “Dad?” Katie took another step into the room, keeping her eyes focused on her father and not on the stack of newspapers shoved into the corner.

  The TV went silent. “Katiebug. You’re here.” He lowered his feet until the chair snapped upright, and then he stood.

  She crossed the space between them and fell into his open arms. He smelled like nicotine and welded metal, and she realized how much she’d missed his embrace.

  “I thought you quit smoking,” she teased.

  “I’m working on it. Still.” He’d been working on it for seventeen years now.

  He released her and stepped back, pinching his brows as he took in her new style. “You cut your hair. Changed the color too.”

  Her father was a man of few words and even fewer compliments, so she didn’t have a clue if he hated it or not. “Yeah. It was time for a change. You look the same.”

  He grunted. “I’m fatter and older.” And way more tired, although neither of them said it. Instead they just stood there until the silence became uncomfortable.

  “Your ma went to lay down. This medicine kinda makes her feel like she has the flu. Doc said that should go away in a few weeks.” He settled back in his chair and kicked up his feet.

  “Should I let her know I’m here?”

  “Nah. I’ll help her get showered and changed later. She’ll want to see you in the morning when she’s fresher. You know your ma.”

  That she did, and fresher meant fully engaged with a semiautomatic of disappointment, judgment, and guilt.

  Suddenly Katie was glad she’d have another twelve hours to prepare for their reunion.

  Her father pointed to a couch covered in unfolded laundry. “Well, sit down. Unless you plan on leaving again already.”

  Katie pushed aside the pile of clothes and jumped a foot when the mound trembled and hissed. S
he placed a hand over her beating heart and tried not to imagine the type of vermin their house was likely to attract in this condition.

  To her relief, a very fat cat emerged from beneath the linen, walked along the edge of the couch like a gymnast, and jumped off the other side.

  Her father laughed. “Don’t mind Agatha. She’s a snobby one.”

  Katie forced herself to sit, but a part of her expected another animal to pop out. “I didn’t think Mom liked cats.”

  “She doesn’t, but the thing just kept showing up and eventually wormed its way inside.”

  “That’s nice.”

  A blanket of awkwardness fell over them. Katie could tell her dad was itching to turn the sound back on, and she was quickly running out of small talk.

  She cleared her throat. “What are the doctors saying?” Her parents had gotten the diagnosis a month ago, although Katie’s father had informed her only last week. Multiple sclerosis. Reportedly, her mother had been having symptoms for almost a year but finally went to see a neurologist when she suddenly couldn’t stand without falling.

  “Just to wait it out. The medicine has helped. Doc says it can even reverse some of the damage if she takes it long enough.” He rubbed his forehead. “Good thing, too, ’cause that stuff ain’t cheap.”

  Katie’s stomach ached as if she’d been elbowed there. She hadn’t even considered the financial ramifications. Her mom’s condition had forced her to quit her job at the bank, and her dad’s had never paid that well, not even after twenty-three years of employment.

  “Well, I’m going to get unpacked. Should I use my old room?”

  “Yeah.” Her father grabbed at the back of his neck, an old habit he fell into whenever he felt uncomfortable. “But you may have to move some stuff around.” He stood and stretched his back. “Come on, I’ll help. Things have gotten so crowded, I think the only floor space we have left is in the bathroom.”

  Katie and her dad each took an end of her duffel and carried it up the stairs. Her muscles burned with every step. A large painting of a lighthouse hung where her graduation picture used to be, and Katie concentrated on not hitting it with her shoulder.