Embrace Me

by Lisa Samson

That evening, we hiked up to the top of Natural Bridge, which was, true to Hermy’s word, like looking out over the whole world.

  The sun slid in low, red, and sorry to leave the day behind it, clinging with tenacity to the horizon just for my mother and me, it seemed. I thought of Joshua fighting beneath a paralyzed sun.

  “Did you ever feel desolate?” I asked her there on the top of the world.

  “I had a rough couple of years when I first settled here. It’s lonely. The wind wails at times, the rain pelts the roof, and I’ve felt as if I was the only soul for miles.”

  “Did you ever want to kill yourself?”

  She shook her head. “Not as long as I knew you were alive. Some things you just live for. Your children are one of them. You’ve wanted to, though, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. A little. Never really seriously.”

  We remained there on the middle of the bridge until the sun set completely and the moon shone, close enough to the edge to rest our ankles and free our feet in the wind, our flip-flops beside us. I put my arm around her and she rested her head on my shoulder. I didn’t think about how beautiful she looked sitting there; instead I thought she had the most beautiful heart I’d ever known. I told her I loved her and she said she knew that; she said it was never in doubt. She said she loved me too.

  Hermy stayed with us for a month or two, wooed the long-legged librarian, and they married. They have two kids now, aged two and four. He works in the library too. Some of God’s plans seem small. But none are ever insignificant.

  I haven’t burned myself since that first day in Kentucky. I’ve wanted to at times. When the yearning gets strong, I’d like to say I pray, but more than likely I head out on my Harley, ride around Lake Coventry, and on out into the country. I’ve befriended Mildred LaRue, who gave me those ruinous compliments years ago. She always has good food in the cupboard and we watch old movies together.

  I became Augustine on August 26, 2003. My mother’s pastor rebaptized me, because this time the old man the Apostle Paul wrote about was dying for real. The tears of my repentance mingled with the waters of the Red River. Finally, in the words of Father Brian, my personal Pentecost had ascended.

  Was I “saved” before that? I honestly don’t know. I don’t think it matters. I like to think of myself in the manner the Scriptures say, as one of “those who were being saved.” It causes me to remember I serve a Holy God.

  I suppose it’s easy to figure out what happened when I heard Valentine sing. She was gracious for leaving as easily as she did, not asking too many questions.

  I went back to my room, lit a candle to cut the gloom, and listened to Justin snore on his cot. I’d made a life here at Shalom. Putting away those things that were behind me, I pressed toward the mark of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. I relate to Paul, serving in singleness of heart, and I am no longer ashamed of that. I’m just trying to serve God now, not myself.

  And now as I lay here in the darkness, the candle having sputtered out a few minutes ago—it was just one of Rachel’s tea candles anyway—I realize that God doesn’t forget a thing. Redemption can be full if we’ve a heart to let it be. And so I pray for the heart to see this through.

  It would be tempting to run away again. Back to Monica.

  But I’m committed to this place, these people. And I must wage the final battle to banish Drew Parrish completely.

  I don’t pray that Valentine will not find me out. I pray that she will. And that somehow, God will be kind to us both. Is that selfish to ask for the Lord’s kindness for me as well? I’m not sure. Nevertheless, I pray it, resting in the promise that His mercies are new every morning. And tomorrow morning is coming quickly. I can only pray it takes care of itself.

  Her stories of how she got her scars are obviously false. What happened to her?

  I awaken later than usual, not surprisingly. Jessica and Rachel have left for their jobs at the refugee ministry. Justin fixes bikes at the local bike shop. Praying Matins, a heaviness descends on me as I remember Daisy once more. It’s been several years since I’ve obsessed about her.

  Maybe this deserves a call to Father Brian. He loved the whole name-changing business. Said I should just go all the way and get confirmed in the Catholic church, come back to St. Mary’s, and do some good works down in Ocean City. “We’ve got our share of the poor,” he said. But I couldn’t have become a priest in the Catholic Church. Too much possible position to rise to. Bishop, then Cardinal, then … oh yes, the Pope himself. No, I didn’t need that kind of opportunity.

  Maybe I should just get out the old notebook.

  Uh, no. I’ll call.

  “Don’t tell me you’re dragging up Daisy again!” he says. “I thought we worked through that.”

  “This is different, Brian.”

  “I’m a little skeptical.”

  “Just give me a chance.” I pour myself a cup of coffee.

  “How’s Shalom doing?”

  “There are a whopping four of us in our fellowship. Nothing like the old days, huh?”

  “Your old church seems to be doing fine without you. I was on their Web site.”

  “They brought in quite a guy from New York. Ex-drug lord, gang warrior type of fellow. Quite a testimony. Keeps them entertained.”

  “Now, Gus.”

  “No, I mean it about the pastor. Quite a guy. Have you ever heard of him?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “He comes to Shalom every so often to just sit and pray. That’s a good thing.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “He’s just trying to figure it all out like the rest of us.”

  “Most likely. NASCAR’s about to start.”

  I tell him about Valentine.

  “That’s bordering on crazy.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “No wonder you were drawn back to Mount Oak.”

  “If I’d known I probably would have picked somewhere else.”

  “I don’t think so, Drew. You’ve wanted this deep down for a long time. But it seems to me I’m not the person to be talking to about this.”

  “Should I tell her who I am?”

  “You have to. She’s your sister in Christ. You’ve got to go to her for forgiveness.”

  “She hates Drew Parrish. I’ve heard her talk about him.”

  “Can you blame her?”

  “No. But I’m not Drew anymore.”

  “Maybe not. But you sure are carrying around the weight of his past, the people he sinned against, aren’t you? Anything else would be plain old-fashioned denial. Go on and say what you have to say.”

  “She’s a sideshow attraction now, Brian. Did you know that before Daisy’s final surgery we were looked at by a talent scout from one of the networks? I met him in my office and he talked about a morning show, like Regis and whoever he was with at the time. Can’t remember if it was Kathie Lee or that bubbly girl.

  “He said he liked the chemistry between us. And with a live audience it would be dynamite.”

  “He actually said ‘dynamite’?”

  “Yes. I thought then, What, is there some kind of script going on with you people?

  “The final round of surgery was already scheduled, and you know what happened after that. It was a disaster. After that first post-surgery show aired, the scout called me back and asked me who put the freak on that girl?

  “I told him just a little nip and tuck and he said, ‘The deal’s off. She looks like a freak.’”

  “Did Daisy know about the scout?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you tell her about his callback?”

  “No. She’d disappeared by then.”

  “Well, at least there was that.”

  “Big deal.”

  “That’s the truth. But it seems to me the Holy Spirit’s got some work for you to do.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Gus, it’s never too late for redemption. The scars never run too deep, so deep th
at God is not there.”

  “I should know this. I minister to scarred people everyday. It just feels impossible when the scars are your own, or are those of the person you wronged so fully.”

  “It feels different when it’s you.”

  “Why is it the good you do seems like a drop in the bucket but the evil spreads for miles and miles?”

  “You’re a new man, Gus.”

  “I hope so. But Daisy’s in a freak show because of me. It doesn’t matter how she was burned. She ran away from me and Trician. And as bad as Trician was, it was my greed and lust for fame and approval that propelled everything.”

  “And you’re sorry.”

  “Not to mention I was her pastor. She trusted me.”

  “You’ve got to tell her the truth.”

  “Can’t I just do penance?”

  “I think that will just painfully delay the inevitable. And I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but you’re not Catholic.”

  A long time ago monks used to wear hair shirts or nails in their shoes to subject the flesh that caused them to transgress, as well as to do penance for their sins. If we did that at Shalom, I’d need glass socks, fiberglass underwear, and a barbed-wire jacket to even begin to pay. My tattoos cover me up, the old me, remind me everyday I’m only a breath away from slipping back.

  “Go to your NASCAR.”

  “Go to Daisy.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  He hangs up, promising to visit Mount Oak on his next break.

  I head on over to Blaze’s.

  Rick answers the door. “Hey, Gus. Come on in. Val and I are just starting up a game of Trivial Pursuit. Wanna join in?”

  “Sure.”

  I follow him up the steps.

  “We’re holed up in Val’s room with the secret space heater. I can’t remember a colder February.”

  “It’s been pretty chilly.”

  You always have to talk about the weather first with Rick. Rick’s a simple person. Loves to go walking, fish at the lake, play games, tie himself into a knot. I envy him.

  We start up the second flight. “Hey, Rick, you all sang great at the Love Feast. I’m sorry it wasn’t better attended.”

  “Val wasn’t.”

  He opens the door to her bedroom.

  “Hi, Augustine,” Val says, pulling her scarf up over her nose.

  And I hear the voice. It’s Daisy’s tone all right. How could I have not realized it? The face is so different, and she’s so hard now. Not as painfully thin, either. Thin, yes, but healthier looking. Nothing else is the same. Her hair is dark now, presumably she covers her blonde, or the blonde wasn’t real in the first place. Even her eyes are hazel.

  “Mind if I sit in?”

  “Nope. Pull up a chair.” Okay, her diction is different because of her damaged lips. Maybe that explains it.

  She sits at the head of her bed, Rick at the foot; I pull the desk chair up to the side.

  “I’m pink, Rick’s green.”

  “Orange, then.”

  Rick picks the orange wagon wheel out of the box. “Good choice. Good choice.”

  I set my wheel on the board. “I’m thinking of getting colored contacts. Any of you ever have them?”

  “Yep. Blue. Can’t stand that now.” Val opens up one of the clue boxes, setting the bottom inside the lid.

  Such a simple action. How did she survive it all to get to the point of board games?

  “So I’m figuring you didn’t come over to play board games.” She reaches to a bowl next to her and throws me a Tootsie Roll.

  I catch it and unwrap it. “No, just coming by to see how the good folk of Roland’s Wayfaring Marvels are doing.”

  Val rolls the dice. “Six.” She hands it to Rick.

  He rolls. “Four.”

  I roll. “One. Val goes first.” I pop the candy in my mouth. I don’t really like Tootsie Rolls, but I can’t refuse this small gift from her.

  She rolls again. “Okay. So why did you really come by?” Moves her wagon wheel five spaces.

  Rick pulls out a question card. “Who was the first person to play Superman on the silver screen?”

  “Kirk Alyn.”

  “That is completely unfair. Valentine getting a comic book question,” I say.

  She snaps up her head. “What do you know about that? Have you ever seen my comic books? How did you know?”

  “Oh … I don’t know. Maybe Lella mentioned it or something.”

  “Probably. When you spirited her off on New Year’s Eve, perhaps? And that was pretty slimy.”

  “I really thought you’d follow.”

  “Well, you don’t know me well, do you?”

  That was the problem. I never did know Daisy well. I thought I did. I was such a know-it-all.

  Rick rolls. Four again. “Man, I wish I had a dollar for every four I get. I always seem to roll fours.”

  “He does.” Val reaches for a card.

  Yellow. As Val reads the clue I zone. Why did I come over? I needed to see her. Be with her knowing she’s Daisy. But she’s so Val.

  “Fidel Castro.” Rick.

  “No. Che Guevara. Your roll, Augustine.”

  I throw the dice onto the board. Three. Green. “Okay, let me have it.” How can I get to know her again? She must know Augustine better before she recognizes Drew.

  I’m still a selfish pig. I’m still making it all about me.

  “What year did the Berlin Wall fall?”

  “1989.” How can I serve you, Valentine? God, help me. Have mercy on us both. Even on me though I don’t deserve a drop of it.

  “Whoa, big Reagan fan were you?” Rick says.

  “Not really. I left politics to the grownups.”

  “Yeah, me too.” Val.

  “My dad almost worshipped him.” Rick hands Val the dice. “I’m surprised we didn’t pray to him. We prayed a lot at my house. It was a good home.”

  “Family that prays together stays together?” Val.

  “I dunno, Val. Just sayin’.”

  We sure didn’t pray together. But maybe it’s a thought. I just jump in without thinking, because as the Lord knows, when I start overthinking something I find myself in a whole lot of trouble. “So Val, you came in during Vigils the other night?”

  “Yeah. They were just finishing up.”

  “I was wondering if you’d like to come to Shalom and pray with us regularly. Lent is starting next week and we like to keep all the prayer times consistently.” How lame. God, was this what You had in mind?

  “Sign me up,” Rick says, like I figured he would. Good man.

  Val picks up the dice. “How many times a day you all pray over there?”

  “Nine, during lent. The traditional amount.”

  “You got a middle-of-the-night time?”

  “Vigils, like you came in on the other night.”

  “What am I supposed to pray?”

  “It’s all written out. Scriptures. Responses and all. You don’t even have to voice it out loud, Val, unless you want to. Some people chant them.”

  She barks out a laugh.

  Rick snaps his head up. “What?! Val, you sing better than anybody I’ve ever heard.”

  “Yes. She’s amazing.” You’re amazing, Daisy. All on your own.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll do it. But I’m not promising I’ll sing. What time do I need to get there?”

  “Just sometime in the middle of the night. After one a.m. would be fine.”

  Lord, I hope she sings those prayers.

  We’ve tried to pare down to the bare necessities at Shalom. Justin would like to be a Luddite, but there’s no way I’m taking cold showers and we’ve got to cook our food somehow. I told him, “Justin, come on, brother. We’ll be spending so much time worrying about how little we’re taking for ourselves, we’ll have nothing left over for the people we’re here to serve.”

  In this place it’s a balance. Because once your eyes are opened to justice and mercy, you
can’t go back. You can’t ever look at a pair of sneakers the same way because you know tiny fingers might have stitched them together that should have been playing cat’s cradle or catch. You can’t eat an apple without thinking about migrant workers and illegal aliens and knowing how much Jesus loves them. And phrases like, “Well at least they have jobs” no longer are an option, because you’ve met these “lucky” working people and they are enslaved. It wears on the gray matter at times, let me tell you.

  We’ve got to survive and keep our minds free enough to do God’s work without walking over the poor to do it. So we grow a lot of our food in a garden in the back and try to buy from the farmers outside of town. There’re some great families out that way and sometimes they give us extra to pass out to the neighborhood.

  But we’re no strangers to the IGA. First time I walked in there looking like this, Crystal, the manager, looked ready to throw me out. Crystal’s got the biggest smile now, though. And she’ll say, “Now I’m an old Southern Baptist, Gus, but you all got my vote with what you’re doing down there.” This year we’re having an Easter feast for the folks on the street, and Crystal and her husband are providing the hams. Mildred’s making up pans of mac ’n cheese and peach cobbler. Val’s making broccoli casserole and corn bread—she just doesn’t know it yet. She’s great at institutional cooking, and why that is, I have no idea. But like anybody serving the poor, we’re always ready to take advantage of whatever talents people have to offer. Choosy we are not.

  I think that’s when trouble starts, when people get picky about other folks’ offerings to the Lord. I know that firsthand. I try my best to steer clear of that sort of attitude these days.

  Justin meets me in the kitchen the next morning after Matins, bike helmet under his arm. “Gus, you’ll never guess what I heard about. About a mile past Mildred LaRue’s place on Route 91 there’s a, well, almost a Hooverville back down off of Jonathan’s Creek.”

  “In this cold?”

  He nods. “I don’t know much about it, or even who these people are, but I was thinking of heading over this afternoon. Want to come?”

  “Sure thing.”

  The phone rings. We have no cell phones, just this old black clunker phone we bought at the Salvation Army. The mouthpiece stinks no matter how much we scrub it. I pick it up. “Shalom House.”