Embrace Me

by Lisa Samson

  “Oh, Valentine! You don’t have to go on.”

  “And then, the burn began as the acids in the drain cleaner met living tissue. My breath caught, I reached for another towel, but the world spun and spurted with reds and oranges. I fell. They told me I hit my head against the toilet rim, still open from the maintenance man.

  “I woke up in a hospital to the pitying gaze of a young nurse. I didn’t remember anything at first. She told me about my injuries.

  “Tears soaked into my bandages. The last tears I ever cried. I promised myself that as I picked at my blanket, fiddling with a thread. A white blanket. Loose weave. You know the type?”

  She nods. “How did you get to the hospital?”

  “I found out later the maintenance man found me when he came back to check on the toilet, to see if the Drano did its job. On the whole, I’d say yes … yes, it did.”

  Charmaine puts her arms around me. Just like I figured she would. “And so you disappeared.”

  “Yes. The hospital called my father the next day and he came right over. I couldn’t talk at that point. So I wrote, ‘Tell him not to tell my mother. He must come alone.’ All caps, tons of exclamation points after each word. Along with his phone number.

  “The pretty nurse nodded. Three hours later my father came into my room. The doctor had informed him of my injuries. He cried, apologizing, telling me he shouldn’t have let Trician do this to me. That he tried to step in, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  “I should have tried harder, too, Valentine.”

  “No. None of this was your fault. Anyway, I forgave him. He was weak. And so was I. We all were. Somehow he realized I’d done this to myself. Nobody broke into my room and slathered Drano on my face. I mean you hear about Drano bandits all the time, right?”

  Charmaine smiles.

  “I choose to believe he knew because he was my father and I was his child.”

  Charmaine squeezes my hand. “Oh, he knew all right, honey. I’d bet good money on that.”

  “Why do you think he never really stepped in until that day, Charmaine?”

  “Why we do the things we do is a very complicated matter when you come right down to it. Behind most of our inaction we truly believe it can always get worse. And truthfully, maybe we’re just a little lazy. Or scared. Add to that the fact you were an adult … I don’t know, Valentine. You’ll have to ask your father to know for sure. I never knew my father so maybe this isn’t a question I can really answer.”

  “But he showed up at the hospital. And he kept my mother away from me from then on out.”

  “What happened to your mother?”

  “The world she’d created came crumbling down. In a letter I forced her to admit that if the truth of my burning came out, the church and everybody who knew her would secretly blame her. She was the mother after all. She should have known better.”

  “That’s true enough.”

  “What I do know is that she never really loved me, Charmaine.”

  “It’s the hard truth of the world that some mothers simply don’t love their children. I know how that feels, Valentine. Thank goodness she didn’t have more than one, just like my mama.”

  “She packed up her things and drove to New York City, getting together with an old boyfriend who’d kept in touch and often told her if things ever went sour with my dad, he’d be there. And Lionel lived up to his word. They shacked up but she kicked him out once she was on her feet. She’d started a 900 number: Talk to Your Mom. She and her employees said all the right things mothers should say to people whose mothers, I guess, never said it to them.”

  “That feels wrong.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t phone sex, but it felt creepy all the same, kinda like men that pretend to be babies for kicks. I’m sure those types of guys made up 90 percent of their clientele. Believe me, the irony wasn’t lost on my dad and me.”

  “People sure are strange.”

  “Truer words were never spoken.”

  “I’m sorry, Valentine.”

  “Well, it is what it is now, right?”

  “You don’t have to be Lizard Woman. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Who would I be? I’m not rich. I’ve got to make a living. How else am I going to make a living?”

  “Making a living and living are two very different things, honey. And don’t I know it.”

  Coming from anybody else, that would make me angry. Charmaine had all her troubles heaped upon her through no fault of her own. She may still be cute, but inside she’s as scarred and ragged as my face.

  “I guess I’ll take that chocolate now.”

  She reaches into her pocket and pulls one out, the kind with the sayings written inside the foil. “Now, if you took all the advice written on these things, your life would be one big old mess. Harlan and I always laugh at these things.”

  Mine says, “Do whatever makes you feel good.”

  Gee, candy people, where have you been up until now? That sage advice is sure to make everything all better.

  As I lift Lella from the car, I have to admit that Dahlia’s better for Lella than I am. She chatters on in her delightful prattle about all she saw and did, the world big and new and opening up like a pearl-filled oyster. Dahlia backs out of the driveway, headed for the IGA with big plans for chips, dips, and movies later on.

  “That’s great, Lell,” I say, over and over again.

  “I kept thinking about you, Valentine, and I said to Aunt Dahlia several times what a shame it is you weren’t with us.”

  “Sorry, Lell. You know it’s impossible.” I settle her on the bed and gently lift the sweater over her head.

  “I know, I know. But it would have been an even lovelier time with you there.”

  I unstrap the prosthetic arms and lay them aside. “You must need to use the bathroom.”

  “No. I didn’t drink anything at the movie. I’m all set. I truly am.”

  “Then, there you go.”

  The Apostle John is sympathetic as always.

  I have to let her go, don’t I? Dahlia’s going to reissue her invitation. I can’t hold Lella back. Not if I love her like I say I do.

  “How can I let her go, though?” I say out loud.

  If Charmaine and I seemed clandestine when cooking for the Psalters, what I’m doing now must be on the order of the Knights Templar or something. At one a.m. I wind my scarves around my head, shrug into my coat, and lift the hood. Rain or not, I’m going to the Laundromat. I look at the disciples. “Let’s just see if Augustine is as giving and holy as he seems to think. Let’s just see what happens when Lizard Woman turns up in the middle of the night.”

  Peter agrees.

  Bartholemew says, For goodness sake, Valentine. You know right now he’s going to be fine with it. You’re not so tough as you think.

  “John, you need to do something about that guy,” I tell him.

  Lella and Aunt Dahlia asleep in their room, I tiptoe down the hallway, thankful for the rain tapping on the roof.

  I walk the streets under the umbrella I grabbed out of the holder on the way out. It’s a big sunflower. Yeah, that’s inconspicuous. But nobody drives by, nobody walks by, very few lights brighten the night windows, and only a couple of televisions flicker blue behind some front windows. I suppose they can’t sleep either.

  The cold rain of a southern winter eats at your bones from the inside. I pick up my pace, making it to the end of Oakly Road by one fifteen. Oh, good grief. The lights are still on. Do these monks never sleep? I peer in the glass door. Three people sit on the couch. Candles burn. And with their closed eyes and their respectful posture—two of them with Bibles in their laps—it’s easy to see they’re praying.

  Wonderful.

  Well, let’s see what happens when their holiness is interrupted. That beats a sleep test any day of the week! Jessica leans forward and sips a glass of water. I’ve never met the other two: a woman with a dark pixie cut, a man with buzzed blond hair who’s reading fr
om a prayer book. I guess. Or a Bible. They have a lot of those inside the Laundromat.

  I’d planned on lightly tapping on the glass. Instead, my knuckles impact the door in a full-blown knock.

  Three heads turn my way. The man stands to his feet, shoves his hands in his pockets, and approaches the door. He turns the lock and opens it. “Hey. What’s up?”

  “I’m here to see Augustine.”

  He swings the door wide. “Come on in. Want me to take your coat?”

  “Okay.” I unzip my jacket, slink out of the sleeves, and hand it to him. “You’re not surprised by a visit?”

  “Nope. Actually Augustine attracts people at all hours of the night. How about the scarves?”

  “I’ll keep them as is.”

  “No prob.”

  Jessica stands. “Valentine?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “You want a hot drink? You must be freezing.”

  “I bundled up good. But I’d like something to drink all the same. I’m sorry to interrupt.”

  Oh, great. From his spot over the stove, John rebukes my lie. Mr. Holier-Than-Thou. Even if he is.

  “I’m Justin,” the man says and shakes my hand.

  “Good to meet you.”

  “You too.”

  “Okay, guys, I’m headed to bed.” He disappears down the hallway toward the kitchen and the bunkroom.

  Jessica pats the sofa. “Have a seat. We were just praying Vigils and got a little carried away. Our”—she puts quotation marks around her words with her fingers—‘‘‘hearts were strangely warmed within.’”

  “You’re going to have to explain that.”

  “Wesley. John, not Charles.”

  “I didn’t realize there were two.”

  “Let me get you that tea.”

  I sit on the couch. It seems homier in here now that the women have returned from Thailand.

  “I’m Rachel,” the woman across from me says.

  “Valentine.”

  “Of the pink scarf?”

  No. Of the blue scarf. I mean, how many other Valentines are running around Mount Oak? I mind my manners. “Yes. How was Thailand?”

  “Sad and good. Lots of tsunami stuff left to be done even after all this time. It was pretty hard.”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, I hear Gus coming. I’m heading to bed. We’ve got a family of refugees coming into Mount Oak tomorrow for resettlement. They’re from Northern Uganda. I’ve got to get up early to make sure the apartment is ready.”

  “Refugees. Got it. Good night, then. Nice to meet you.”

  “Same to you.”

  Augustine hurries in. “Valentine? What are you doing here?”

  “You want me to open up to you, you got it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because at this time of night I’ve got no place else to go.”

  He smiles. “Well, that’s as good a place as any to be.”

  “I don’t get you.”

  “No, most people don’t.”

  Jessica sets down a cup of tea. “Here you go. I’ll head off to bed. Good night all.”

  “Thanks for praying tonight, Jess. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Maybe that phone call?”

  “Yeah, could be.”

  “What phone call?” I ask.

  He blows a puff of disgust. “My father. Needless to say, we never really got along.”

  “Part of your secret past?”

  “No kidding.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He’s ill. Just thought I should know.”

  I lean forward and pick up the tea. “What are you going to do?”

  “Don’t know. Call my mother, I guess. So what brought you out at one thirty in the morning?”

  “I feel like crying for the first time in years and I don’t know what to do about it.”

  Augustine sits in silence as I pour out my feelings about Lella. Still, I do not cry—although still, I want to. Finally I am spent. “So what should I do?”

  “What can you do? Lella has to make this decision on her own, Val. You know that.”

  “But where will that leave me?”

  “I guess that’s the bigger question, isn’t it?”

  “Is she better off without me?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t give good advice, do you know that?”

  “Sorry, Val. I’m a loser. I’m better at listening these days. Can I pray with you?”

  “Is that part of your act?”

  “I guess so.” He sighs. “I don’t know. It always seems like a good thing to do.”

  “Go ahead, then, if it makes you feel better.”

  “I didn’t say it made me feel better. Sometimes prayer makes me feel worse.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m talking to God, and I don’t deserve to, probably.”

  “I used to go to church, a long time ago. The preacher there told us to come boldly before the throne and claim the promises of God.”

  “Yeah. I’ve heard that.”

  “Well, is that true or not?”

  “Maybe for some. For me it’s different.”

  “Aren’t those promises real?”

  He runs a hand across his forehead. “Yeah, they are. But these days I prefer resting in them instead of demanding them. I used to be quite demanding.”

  “I can’t imagine it.”

  “Well, then glory be to the Father.”

  “‘And to the Son and to the Holy Ghost,’” I sing, the words forcing themselves out before I can stop them. “Might as well finish it. ‘As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end, Amen. Amen.’” I draw out the last note.

  Augustine slams against the back of the sofa as if pushed. His face pales.

  “Are you all right?” I rush to his side, grab his hand. “What’s the matter? You coming down with something again?”

  He shakes his head as if coming back to life. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “You’d better get back to bed.”

  “Yes, I think I should. Do you want me to walk you home?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “About that prayer?”

  “Skip it. You look like you need it more than I do.”

  PART TWO

  FIFTEEN

  DREW: 2009

  I am Augustine. I suppose you’ve figured that out by now. The estranged father, the tattoos. The bigger secret is that I was once Drew Parrish. But no longer.

  You see, my mother prayed.

  Every morning of my life my mother prayed for me. She continues to do so there on her slice of cliff in Slade, Kentucky, and I visit her when I can, which isn’t as often as I’d like with all the people in the neighborhood who rely on me in one way or another. But our connection runs deep. I truly forgave her. She’s only human. She’s weak. Her weakness just manifested itself differently from mine.

  Many centuries ago there lived another Augustine who eventually became a saint. Saint Augustine lived raucously before he realized, as all of us do or will someday, that Christ loved him. He wanted to spend his life following Him.

  Augustine’s mother was named Monica. She prayed for him too. Her prayers are credited for his conversion.

  What I should change my name to, when I truly decided that this story of God in which we all play one role or another was for real, was a no-brainer. By that time, a year after I’d found my mother, I’d become a regular at the parlor. It was Monica herself who covered my scars with her artwork.

  “I didn’t know you were an artist,” I said that first day in the shop.

  “I didn’t either. I think it was a gift God gave me to keep me sane.”

  “Well, I guess it’s the gift that doesn’t go away. These people will wear your work for the rest of their lives.”

  “But they’ll go down to dust, Drew. We all do. A lot of people come through this shop. I do w
hat I can for them. People with a lot of tattoos, well, it’s about belonging, not the tattoos themselves. They’re only symbols of a deeper need, one we all share.”

  We started with my arms, the flowers, the fish, then my legs which nobody ever sees, because at this time, Monica began to feed me. I became not someone else really, but the person I might have been all along. I returned to something essential by masking the misery of my own mutilation.

  My mother and I would walk for hours in the woods, hike the trails. There’s something about the dome of heaven, congregations of trees, and the singing of the earth and her inhabitants, coupled with love, both Divine and human, that does something to a soul.

  My hair grew longer.

  My waistline grew wider.

  My heart grew stronger.

  I stopped writing. I called Father Brian and asked him if that would be all right if I stopped confessing to him. He said, “Have you other means?”

  “I do.” To Monica.

  “Good.”

  I sent the notebook to Father Brian, still a good friend, who still listens to my sins over the phone when I need him to. I prayed Daisy and I would cross paths someday, but I waited for God to figure out when that would be. If it would be.

  The dorky smile faded and God took away the one thing that enabled me to build that church and the TV show. He took away my voice. Coming home from the tattoo parlor several months after finding my mother, I skidded in a downpour and ran off the road and into a ditch. My airway was blocked, the EMTs did an emergency tracheotomy and damaged my voice box for good. No big sermons anymore. No big plans to announce. Just a guy with a scratchy voice.

  We had no further contact with my father.

  True to form, Charles Parrish popped up on television from time to time … until one day, Monica rose from the couch, opened the screen door, and picked up one end of the TV. “Grab the other side, Drew.”

  I did as told. We lifted the set, carried it onto the deck, and threw it into the gorge. That night we had a steak dinner at the Natural Bridge Lodge. Neither of us owns a television set these five years later.