An Extra Mile

by Sharon Garlough Brown

  Mara

  “A whole day of keeping quiet,” Mara said to Kevin as she stirred a pot of spaghetti on the stove. “Can you believe your mother managed to do that?”

  From his barstool at the kitchen counter, Kevin smiled slightly but did not reply.

  “Well, I didn’t think I could do it, either. Gotta say, it was pretty weird sitting with a whole bunch of people at lunch and not saying anything to each other. Not sure I would do it again, but it was a good experience for a day.” She emptied a can of tomato sauce into a pan and set the burner to medium heat. “Hear anything from your dad today?”

  “Nope.” Kevin did not seem upset about this. But it was odd that Tom never even bothered to text him to see if he was feeling better. Maybe Tom knew he had been faking it. Maybe Tom knew and didn’t care.

  Mara decided to pry. What did she have to lose? “You wanna talk about the real reasons why you didn’t want to spend the weekend with him?”

  He shrugged.

  “If something happened, maybe there’s something I can do to help.” Or maybe there was something her attorney could do to help.

  “I just didn’t feel like hanging out with him, that’s all.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  She’d try one last time and then leave it alone. “When you got back two weeks ago, you seemed upset. That’s why I asked.”

  He looked down at his phone and typed something. “He was being a jerk.”

  “To you?”

  “Just a jerk.”

  “Did he say or do something to hurt you?” If he had, she would take care of it. Immediately.

  “Nah . . . nothing like that.”

  “Like what, then?” She gave the spaghetti another stir and then set down the spoon to give him her full attention. When he did not reply, she said, “You can trust me, okay? I’ve gotta know the truth about what’s going on so I can help you.”

  He scratched at a pimple on his chin. “He promised to take Brian and me to Hawaii this summer. That’s why he bought me the surfboard at Christmas.” Mara had already suspected that. She figured Tom had planned some expensive holiday for the boys, a way of continuing to win their affection. “But now he’s taking Tiffany, and he said we couldn’t go.”

  “Tiffany and her kids?”

  “Nope, not the kids. Just him and Tiffany.”

  How romantic.

  “They’re getting married there.”

  Of course they were. Tom had done plenty of other things that had taken her by surprise. This was not one of them. “When?”

  “Sometime in July.”

  Uh-huh. He was giving the divorce what? A few weeks to be final? “When’s her baby due, do you know?”

  He shook his head. “But she’s like, huge.”

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Has your dad said whether”—Go for broke, she told herself—“whether he’s the father or . . .”

  “Tiffany says he is, so yeah. I guess.”

  Uh-huh. She ought to be furious that Kevin knew that detail. Paternity test “gotcha” moments from Jerry Springer episodes came to mind. Given her own past with Tom, Mara knew she wasn’t someone who could throw stones; Kevin had been her “gotcha” pregnancy. But at least Tom was the only one who could have been his father.

  “I’m sorry, Kev.” No wonder he hadn’t wanted to spend the weekend with his dad. He’d been betrayed. Replaced. “Wish I could do something to make it up to you.”

  He didn’t answer, but he also didn’t vacate the barstool. When the tomato sauce began to spit in the pan, she turned down the heat and stirred. “What about Brian? What does he think of all this?”

  “He doesn’t care. Dad says he’s taking all of us to Disney World instead. That’s all Brian cares about.”

  Brian wanted to go to Disney World? That was surprising. “Your dad’s taking all of you? As in all Tiffany’s kids too?”

  “Yeah. And I told him I don’t want to go.”

  “What’d he say to that?”

  “He got mad, said I have to, that it’s part of the rules or whatever.”

  Mara wasn’t sure about that. “I’ll check, okay? I don’t know if he can make you or not. But, Kevin?” He looked up at her. “I’ll be your advocate, all right? If there’s anything I can do, I’ll do it. I promise. And I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

  She thought she heard him mumble, “Thanks.”

  After dinner Mara pored over her temporary custodial order documents. There was no way to know for sure until she spoke with her attorney, but it looked like they could appeal with a judge if they needed to. If Kevin felt that strongly about not going out of state with a new stepmother and her kids, then maybe a judge would grant his request. Tom was entitled to his vacation time, that much she understood, but he also was required to give her written notice when he intended to take the boys out of state. She would remind him of this by email so she had it for the record.

  “What does it say?” Kevin asked when he entered a few minutes later with Bailey trotting beside him. He hung up the leash on the hook and gave the dog a treat from the jar on the counter.

  “I’ll call my lawyer on Monday to double-check.” She wasn’t going to get his hopes up about a judge listening to him. She might be reading it wrong. “But maybe the first thing for me to do is tell your dad you don’t want to go. Are you okay with me doing that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If I do that, he’ll know you talked with me about it. You’re okay with that?”

  “Yep.”

  She wouldn’t have the conversation with Tom face to face—that didn’t feel safe—but she would email him after he dropped Brian off tomorrow night. That way she would have a record of his response if she ever needed it. And if he said no way, then she could let him know she was pursuing it with her attorney.

  Kevin sat down on the edge of a chair, still wearing his coat. “You’re okay with it?”

  “With what? Emailing your dad?”

  He nodded.

  “Yep,” she said. “I’m okay with that.”

  “He’ll get mad.”

  Mara patted his hand. “It’s all right. We’ve got to work these things out.” She would ask some friends to pray. Maybe that would be her excuse for calling Charissa. On second thought, asking for prayer might stir up Charissa’s resentment about the prayer chains.

  “Can you drive me over to Michael’s house?” Kevin asked. “He’s invited a bunch of us over for laser tag.”

  “Sure.” She had one more question to ask, a question that had been swirling around in her mind all day. “Say . . . Abby’s getting baptized at church tomorrow, and since you’re home this weekend, I wondered if you’d like to go. For Easter. And then we’re all going out for brunch afterward.”

  He leaned over to rub Bailey’s back. “Yeah. Okay.”

  Really? She did not voice her astonishment or squeal her delight. She simply said, “Okay, cool,” and tried to remain so.

  Becca

  What was meant to be a short walk to catch her breath and collect herself after confronting Simon and Pippa ended up stretching into hours. Mile after mile Becca walked. She walked across bridges and along the river and through parks and down medieval alleyways. She walked past museums and churches and government buildings and squares filled with monuments. And then, since she felt desperate for some kind of link to her mother, she walked to the hotel near Russell Square.

  No one was standing at the welcome desk, and the dining room was dark. Becca hesitated at the threshold, staring at the table where the two of them had shared pots of tea, the table where she’d first seen the ultrasound picture and her father’s card, the table where she had announced she wanted to spend her twenty-first birthday not with her mother but with Simon in Paris. Not knowing what else to do, she sat down and tried to imagine her mother sitting with her, comforting her. Because one thing her mother had never said—one thing her mother would never say—was, “I told you so.�
��

  “Hello? Someone there?” The overhead lights switched on, and Becca squinted, the glare harsh after an hour spent in the dark. “Oh, hey,” Claire said, her expression softening in recognition. “I was just getting ready to lock up and thought I heard something.”

  Becca wiped her eyes. She hadn’t expected to see her again, and now Claire might assume she had come to the hotel specifically to track her down. “I’m sorry,” Becca said, “I was out for a walk and got tired.” She picked up her wad of tissues.

  Claire sat down across from her, her coat draped over her arm. “I could ask if you’re okay, but I can tell you’re not. Is there something I can do to help?” When Becca did not reply, Claire said, “How about if I fix us both a cup of tea?”

  They sat together in front of the unlit fireplace with their mugs, Claire listening and Becca speaking far more than she had intended. The compassion of a slight acquaintance in the wake of the betrayal by both a lover and a friend was a gift Becca hadn’t known she needed when she entered the hotel lobby. “My mom knew Simon was no good, and she tried to make me see it, but I wouldn’t. I didn’t. I defended him. I defended us, said he was the best thing that had ever happened to me and that I wasn’t giving him up just because she didn’t approve.”

  Claire handed her another tissue.

  “And now what do I do? I can’t go back to my flat—not with Pippa there on the same floor. And how am I going to finish the semester?” In the course of just a few weeks her entire world had imploded. She had lost everything. And there was no restoring any of it. She wished she could just go to sleep and not wake up. Or wake up and realize it had all been a bad dream. There was nothing left. She was completely alone in the world.

  “How about this?” Claire said. “How about if tonight you come stay at my flat? It’s not much, but I’ve got a sofa you can sleep on.”

  It was a kind, generous offer, and Becca couldn’t think of any better options. “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose.”

  “No worries at all. C’mon.” Claire put on her coat. “It’s just a short walk from here.”

  ten

  Hannah

  Early on Easter morning, while it was still dark, Hannah drove to the cemetery with two bouquets of daffodils. When she arrived, the gates were open and dawn was breaking on the horizon, the purpling sky a painted canvas for intricate silhouettes of awakening trees. Meg’s marker was easy to spot on the greening hillside, her tombstone not yet weathered and softened by time, her epitaph chiseled with definitive strokes: Beloved. That’s the one word Meg had requested, along with part of a single verse, from Luke 24:5. “Why do you look for the living among the dead?”

  A reminder, Meg had said to Hannah after she submitted her memorial service notes to her pastor. A reminder for anyone who might come to visit. Like a daughter, Hannah thought as she laid one bouquet on Meg’s grave and the other on Jim’s. Or a grieving friend.

  A reminder.

  While mourning doves cooed to one another in the trees, Hannah rested her hand on the cold granite and whispered her prayer.

  Becca

  She couldn’t avoid the inevitable forever. While Claire got dressed for church on Sunday morning, Becca formulated her strategy. She would confront Pippa first and then compare her story to any rubbish Simon might attempt to feed her when she confronted him. Unless, of course, the two of them had already conspired to make their stories match. Maybe there would be no discovering the truth.

  “I’ll be praying for you,” Claire said when she hugged her goodbye on the sidewalk half an hour later. Becca thanked her, not for the prayers but for the place to stay. She hadn’t slept well, but at least she had slept some.

  As she walked past the British Museum, she texted Pippa: We need to talk.

  To Becca’s surprise, Pippa replied: Okay.

  Just after eleven the two of them met at the garden café at Russell Square, Pippa avoiding eye contact by staring into her coffee mug while Becca interrogated her. As the photos indicated, their liaison had begun after Simon returned from Chicago. They had run into each other one night at the Cat and Mouse Pub. He was lonely, Pippa said, and he didn’t know how to handle everything. When Becca asked what “everything” meant, Pippa said, “You know, you freaking out over your mum dying and everything.”

  If they had been alone in a room, Becca might have shrieked her astonishment and anger. But surrounded by other patrons, she commanded herself to keep it together. “Whose idea was it?”

  Pippa did not reply.

  “Whose idea?” she demanded, her voice becoming more shrill.

  “His.” It was only going to be a one-off deal, Pippa insisted. She had only planned to offer him a bit of comfort, a bit of fun to take his mind off of everything. But then . . .

  Becca waited while Pippa stirred her coffee with a spoon. “I know about Paris.” Pippa’s head shot up, her expression horror-struck. “Whose idea was it, yours or Simon’s?” Pippa looked like she was trying to determine the safest answer to give. Becca snatched the spoon from her hand. “I said, whose idea?”

  “His. It was his. He said he needed to do some research for his novel, and he didn’t want to be there alone, so . . .”

  “So he asked you to go with him?”

  “Ummm . . . I can’t remember if he asked directly or if it was just implied, but I said yes. I mean, it was Paris, right? And you were still in the States.”

  “For my mother’s funeral, Pippa! For my mother’s funeral! And for her best friend’s wedding.” Becca flung Pippa’s spoon down on the table and grabbed her purse from the floor.

  “Becca, wait! Stop! It wasn’t serious at all.”

  And that was supposed to make things better? Easier? “That’s your excuse? That’s your apology?”

  “Becks, I’m sorry.”

  Becca threw up her hand. “Save it. Just save it.”

  Cockamamie. That’s the word her grandmother would have used for Simon’s side of the story. Becca stared out her window blankly, replaying their brief phone conversation. Pippa had flung herself at him, he claimed. She had gotten him drunk and then taken advantage of him.

  “And Paris? Did she get you drunk and shove you onto the Eurostar?”

  He hadn’t replied.

  “My mother knew I was too good for you,” she’d said before hanging up on him. “She was right.”

  Her mother had been right about everything. If only she could tell her that she was sorry. If only she could tell her that she regretted not listening. If only she could hear her mother’s voice say, “I know, honey. I know.” But the only voice Becca heard was her own, chiding her for being such a stupid, gullible girl.

  Mara

  “Christ is risen!” the pastor called from the front of the sanctuary.

  “He is risen indeed!” the congregation responded.

  The pastor stepped toward the baptismal pool. “As the church has done since its earliest days, we celebrate baptism on Resurrection Sunday, rejoicing in God’s promises and the work of the Holy Spirit to draw people to Jesus Christ. Baptism is the sign and seal of God’s promises to his covenant people. By God’s grace, he forgives our sins, adopts us into the body of Christ, renews and cleanses us with his Spirit, and raises us up to eternal life. All of these trustworthy promises are made visible in the water of baptism.”

  He swept his hand through the water and then let it slowly drip from his cupped palm into the pool. “Our Lord Jesus Christ declared, ‘All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.’ We celebrate and give God thanks for these new disciples who today publicly declare their faith in Jesus Christ, even as we remember the waters of our own baptism and give God thanks for the ways he has marked us as his own, by his grace.”

  It
had been years since Mara had taken time to remember the waters of her own baptism, which took place not on an Easter Sunday but on her twenty-fourth birthday. On that day she stood before a congregation with four-year-old Jeremy, who watched wide-eyed with his thumb in his mouth while his mother, robed in white, knelt in a trough as the water was poured out upon her, running down her hair, her face, her shoulders, a steady stream until she was soaked right through. And when the preacher helped her out of the trough, someone handed her a towel and, with a kiss planted on each wet cheek, said, “Welcome to God’s family, Mara.”

  Jeremy probably wouldn’t remember any of that. She hadn’t done a good job remembering herself. Maybe she should buy a pitcher and a bowl as a reminder. She could buy one for Abby too.

  “Beloved of God,” the pastor said, “you stand before us today to receive the sacrament of baptism . . .” Abby, dressed as the others were in white, looked as if she were getting ready to say her wedding vows again. With the same earnestness in her voice as on the day she offered her promises to Jeremy, Abby spoke her yes to Jesus Christ. And when she rose up from the water, spluttering but beaming, her face was shining. It wasn’t just the sanctuary lighting. Abby looked radiant. “She’s beautiful,” Mara whispered to Jeremy, who nodded and repositioned Madeleine on his lap. Mara squeezed her little foot. As Abby dried off with a towel and followed the other newly baptized to change out of their wet clothes, Ellen whispered something to her husband.

  What a special moment for them, to hear their daughter affirm her faith and offer her promise to live for Christ. “And we pray for Jeremy, our son,” Ellen had said when she greeted Mara with a warm embrace outside the sanctuary that morning. Our son. Maybe God would hear their prayers. All of their prayers.

  “Congratulations,” Mara said with a hushed voice when Abby returned to their row during the final song. Abby smiled her thanks and scooped Madeleine into her arms before taking her place between Jeremy and her mother. As Abby laid her wet head against his shoulder, Jeremy draped his arm around her and sang the words on the screen with his baritone voice. Mara was surprised he knew the tune. “Crown Him with many crowns, the Lamb upon His throne. Hark! How the heav’nly anthem drowns all music but its own! Awake, my soul and sing of Him who died for thee, and hail Him as thy matchless King through all eternity.” Oh, for the day when those words were Jeremy’s heartfelt testimony. Please, God. Awaken his soul.