by Beth K. Vogt
“Competitors one month, teammates the next.”
“Yep. Strange, right?” She leaned against the island. “The crazy world of volleyball. Another tradition I liked was the end-of-the-season parties. Sydney always took a moment to encourage each girl individually—saying how we contributed to the team. It was so important to me—and to Pepper, too. Sydney always saw us as individuals. Never once mixed us up.”
“That’s impressive. I remember how you hated it when teachers thought you were Pepper.”
“Or when they thought Pepper was me. We dealt with that all through our school years. Sure, we were identical twins, but we weren’t the same people. Of course, there were times we did trade places as a joke. . . .”
This conversation with Payton was some sort of optical illusion. I was talking to my sister but seeing a side of her I’d never glimpsed before—relaxed, casual, smiling . . . reminiscing about Pepper. No hesitation. No hiding. No secret marring the past, present, or future.
“Do you want coffee or anything?”
“That’d be nice. If I have some now, I won’t need to drive through and get any on the way home.” Payton glanced around. “Where’s Geoff?”
“At work.”
“I guess I shouldn’t have asked. . . .”
“He’s trying to wrap up a couple of projects so he can take time off between Christmas and New Year’s.”
“Nice.”
“Well, his boss encouraged it because he has so much unused vacation time.” I handed Winston to her. “Why don’t you take Winnie and go sit in the living room while I fix our coffees.”
“Sounds good.”
By the time I carried in two mugs of coffee—Payton’s sweetened with the right number of sugars, mine simpler with a single sugar and a splash of cream—she was on the couch, feet tucked up underneath her and Winston snoozing in her lap.
“That is a happy puppy.”
“We’re both happy.” She inhaled the aroma of coffee and grinned. “This is perfect.”
“It’s not French press.”
“I’m not Johanna.”
“Point taken.” I raised my mug in a salute. “So how are you?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk about.”
Oh.
Payton sipped her coffee, staring into the mug as if she were reading something—a script, maybe?—before saying anything. “So, the last time we talked, you were having a hard time. . . .”
“Wait . . . I thought we were talking about you.”
“We were. We are. I promise this will all make sense. Okay?” Payton waited for me to nod before continuing. “And you said Zach suggested you talk to me.”
I nodded again.
“I wasn’t a whole lot of help to you—”
“That’s why you stopped by? To offer some kind of belated apology because you couldn’t help me deal with my problems while you’re still dealing with your own?”
“Well, yes and no.”
I set my untasted coffee aside. “I’m still confused.”
“I’m sorry—for confusing you now and for not helping you back in November when you were having such a hard time.”
“It’s okay, Payton. You aren’t required to be some sort of answer lady for me.” I shrugged. “You have your own things going on in your life.”
“That was the problem—I was so worried about all the right answers back then. About getting everything perfect with God. That’s what I wanted to say I was sorry about. I should have just listened to you. Listened to your story. What you were thinking about. Struggling with. Maybe told you my story, if you wanted to hear it.”
Payton was trying to restart a conversation that I’d walked away from weeks ago. It was like coming back to a fire that had been doused and stirring the ashes—but no spark remained. I didn’t want to have this conversation, didn’t want to revisit this missed opportunity.
“My story’s not that important.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because it’s the truth. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since I was diagnosed with cancer—no, even before that—it’s that my story . . . me . . . I’m not important.”
“Jill! Who told you that?”
“Everybody. Everything. I’m stuck in the middle of all that’s perfect—and reminded again and again that I’m not.”
Payton’s eyes widened. “That’s not true!”
“You’ve never fought to be seen when you’re surrounded by the professional perfection of Johanna and the athletic success of not one but two younger sisters. You’ve never had the tag of ‘just’ stuck on you. It’s just Jillian. Such a small word, but it points out all I’m lacking every time it echoes in my head.”
“Who said that?”
“Pops did, for one. But he got it right. Jillian Thatcher Hennessey—it’s just me. Nobody important. If you’re looking for me, you’ll find me stuck in the middle.”
Payton wanted a story? This was mine. Nothing impressive. Nothing anyone would want to read. A throwaway.
The word just scorched my throat even as it branded my heart.
“Jillian, that is not the truth!”
“It’s the truth I’ve lived with all my life.”
“That is going to stop today.”
My weak laugh didn’t even begin to push away Payton’s words—to hide the fact that I’d ever wished I were more than just me.
“There were a lot of good things about our family. Football Sundays. Cookouts. We knew Mom and Dad loved us.” Payton stared down at her coffee again. Shook her head. Continued. “But we didn’t grow up knowing about God. That He’s real. That He loves us. That having a relationship with Him changes everything we believe about ourselves . . .”
“We weren’t a churchgoing family. Although I guess that changed for Pepper . . .”
“And I wouldn’t listen to her. I couldn’t handle how it changed her. It scared me—but not anymore.”
“I know you believe in God—”
“It’s more than that. I was all confused, thinking I had to believe in God for Pepper. For Zach. I realize now my relationship with God is mine—not because I have to make anyone else happy.”
“That’s great.”
“And now I’m going to tell you what Pepper told me when I was sixteen. God is real. He loves you—like crazy, crazy loves you.” Payton’s laugh was strong. Vibrant. “That’s what she used to say.”
“Sounds like Pepper.”
“Believing in God didn’t change her personality, that’s for sure.”
I caught a glimpse of Pepper’s irrepressible joy in Payton’s smile. My sister looked different. Younger. Like the Payton she was before Pepper died.
Miraculous. Could believing in God do something like that for me, too?
“If I believe that—that God loves me—then what?”
“Then your story changes.”
“What do you mean?”
“God started our stories the day we were born—we just never knew that growing up. The minute we realize that, things change. Our thinking changes because we’re more aware of the Author of our story.”
“That’s an interesting way to put it.”
“There’s a verse—Zach would know where it is in the Bible—that says God started something good in us and He will finish it.”
I shook my head. “I’m not sure I believe that.”
“It’s the truth.” Payton leaned toward me. “That’s one of the ways your story is going to change.”
“When?”
“When . . . what?”
“When does it change?”
“Now. Right now.”
“How?”
“Um . . . if Zach were here, he’d pray.”
“Will you pray with me?”
Payton hesitated, her blue eyes wide. “I—I’ve never prayed with anyone except Zach—and he always prayed. I listened. I’m still new at this.”
“Does being new at this mean you can’t pray wit
h me?”
“No-o.”
“Okay . . .” I hesitated—but was it because Payton was nervous or because I was? “Then will you?”
Payton was quiet for so long, I almost expected her to say no. Her yes escaped on a long exhale. She stood, coming to kneel beside my chair, and held my hands. Her whispered words shook, causing me to lean in.
“God, I’m still getting used to talking to You . . . but now I’m talking to You for my sister Jillian. You’re the Author of her story. I know You say that in the Bible somewhere. And I know You love Jillian just like You love me and like You love Pepper . . . and Johanna, too, but I don’t think she’s ready to hear that yet.” Payton cleared her throat. “Anyway, I know You have lots of good things for Jill . . . and that You think she’s beautiful . . . and You want to have a relationship with her so she knows You and talks to You and finds peace and hope and everything she needs right now.”
As Payton prayed, I relaxed into her words . . . words that replaced the brand on my life with a blessing. It was as if someone was turning the pages in my story to a new chapter . . . something so unexpected, woven through with hope.
There was no going to sleep once Payton left. I wanted to stay awake, to hold on to the sense of newness wrapped around me. The belief that there was more to my life than I’d ever imagined . . . and I had to tell someone.
So I’d hugged my sister good-bye, gathered Winston in my arms, and waited. An hour or so later, Geoff’s car pulled into the driveway, the headlights sweeping across the house. Winston went on alert, but I shushed him back asleep.
Geoff stopped just inside the front door. “I wasn’t expecting you to still be up.”
“It’s only ten thirty. How are the roads?”
“Not bad. The snow’s sticking some, but the plows are out already on the main roads and the highway. We could get a few inches.”
“Payton should be fine, then.”
“Payton?”
“She stopped by after a volleyball thing. Left about an hour ago. I was worried about her driving to Denver, but she said she’d be fine.”
“Monument Hill might have been icy.” Geoff came and sat beside me on the couch, resting his arm across my shoulders. “What are you doing?”
“I was thinking we needed to put something else on the mantel.”
“On the mantel? You mean for Christmas? There’s not much room.”
“But something . . .”
“We’ve already got the candles there. And Christmas is less than a week away.”
“True.” I paused. “What would you think if I found a little Nativity scene?”
“Like a manger scene?” Geoff tilted his head as if trying to imagine what I was talking about. “Shepherds and wise men and stuff?”
“Yes. One of those would be nice, don’t you think?”
“I guess. If you like that kind of thing.”
Maybe I should have suggested we put up a gaudy light show in our front yard, with a gigantic blinking-nose Rudolph beside a waving Frosty the Snowman and thousands of multicolored lights orchestrated to Christmas music—then at least I would have gotten some sort of reaction out of Geoff.
A subtle segue into what I wanted to talk about wasn’t working. “God is a part of Christmas, right?”
“God.”
“Yes. God. Payton talked with me about what she believes, about how she’s not questioning her faith anymore. What she said made a lot of sense. In the end, she prayed for me. . . .” I wanted to beg Geoff to understand, to not pull away from me. “And I’m going to do things differently now.”
“What does that mean exactly, besides wanting to put a Nativity up on our mantel?”
Geoff’s question was a fair one—one that I’d been asking myself since Payton left. “I’m not sure. Except that I have more hope than I’ve had for a long time. And I want to try and find out more about God. Who He is and how He can help me live with the reality of what my life is like.”
“What your life is like . . . because you’re so unhappy with things?”
“No . . . Geoff, I love you, but like you said, you can’t make me happy. You can’t fix all the things I’m dealing with.”
“So you’re religious now?”
“I don’t think so.” Was that all I was? It had seemed like more when Payton prayed for me. “I don’t think Payton or Zach is religious. Do you? I mean, both of them believe in God. Love God. And they say their faith helps them. Payton almost radiated peace tonight. She could talk about Pepper without tensing up, without looking so sad. That’s what I want.”
Trying to explain it all to Geoff when I still had unanswered questions and when I faced his doubt, his resistance, was like trying to follow directions on a GPS when it kept recalibrating.
Geoff removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes. Placed his glasses back on. Smiled his familiar smile that so often warmed my heart. But now it looked forced. “If you’re happy, then good. That’s great. I’m okay with all of this.”
There was that word again. Happy.
“I . . . I’m not asking for your approval, Geoff.”
“Then what do you want me to say, Jillian?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to tell you. This is important to me. You’re important to me.” I hesitated for a moment. “I don’t know that this guarantees me instant happiness, but I think it will change me in ways I don’t even know yet.”
Geoff huffed a short laugh. “I have no idea what you’re talking about . . . but again, if it makes you . . . makes things better for you, that’s great.”
I settled back against the couch. “Thank you for that.”
“How does this change us?”
I hadn’t even considered the question. “I just didn’t want you to be surprised if . . . if I decide to go to church. I thought I might try that. You wouldn’t want to go with me, would you?”
“Church? I’ve only gone to church for weddings . . .”
“I know. Me, too.” The words and funerals echoed in my head. “I’m not even sure where I’ll be going. Payton said she’d talk to Zach and let me know about some possibilities in the area.”
“So . . . church.”
“Like I said, I thought I might start there.”
“Fine.” Geoff held up his hand. “I’m not approving . . . just processing.”
“I know. I still am, too.”
“Is it okay with you if we head upstairs? It’s been a long day.”
“Sure.”
“If you want to turn off the tree, I’ll get Winston. Come on, buddy.” He scooped Winston up in his arms, leaving me to follow behind.
I was tempted to remain downstairs, sitting in the festive glow of the Christmas tree. Geoff’s reaction had dulled the warmth that had wrapped around my heart while Payton prayed.
“God, I’m really new at this. I don’t need a Nativity scene . . . but it would be nice if Geoff could understand just a little bit.” I pressed a hand to my heart, where the brand “just Jillian” ached. “I don’t even know if I can talk to You like this. But could You help me find my way to You . . . and help me understand what You say about me?”
TOO BAD SHE DIDN’T have any hobbies.
But Johanna didn’t knit or crochet or craft in any way, which meant there was nothing for her to do at home except be here. Of course, she could read the book club biography . . . but what was the point of being the only Thatcher sister committed enough to do that? Her Christmas gifts for her family were all wrapped and ready to go. Online retailers, with their gift wrapping, were a wonderful way to be efficient.
Johanna curled up in a corner of her couch, wishing for once that she’d purchased a throw of some kind that she could wrap around her body for warmth. For comfort. She could always watch TV—a Christmas movie, maybe?—but couldn’t bring herself to voluntarily participate in merry anything.
If she could, she’d skip Christmas this year. Go all Scrooge on her family and anyone else who came near her—Axton Miller in
cluded—and “Bah, humbug!” her way through to the New Year.
But if she did that, she’d get multiple “What is wrong with you?” phone calls from her mother. From Jillian. Maybe even from Payton.
There was nothing wrong with her—and everything wrong with Beckett Sager. But she would not be discussing him with anyone.
Christmas was the day after tomorrow. It had been over two weeks since she’d found out about Beckett’s “friend” Iris. Since then, she’d ignored all of Beckett’s texts. All of his phone calls. He’d even e-mailed her once, desperate, stupid, unfaithful man that he was, but she’d deleted the message without reading it. It was best that way. There was nothing he could say or do to fix how he’d destroyed their relationship. Their future. Their just-begun-to-be-planned wedding.
To change her mind.
But since he hadn’t tried to contact her today, she could assume Beckett had come to his senses and given up. At last.
She would get over this. Get over being in a long-term, long-distance relationship that ended with infidelity and failure.
“No pressure . . .”
“. . . and plenty of space.”
Their humorous little motto mocked her now. No pressure. Plenty of space.
And no commitment. No trust.
She could be listening to all the sad Christmas songs . . . but she wasn’t that kind of woman. She’d skip it all this season, except the unavoidable, piped-in music at the hospital and in the stores.
Johanna rubbed the palm of her right hand against the back of her left hand. She’d adjust to not wearing her engagement ring, too. The ring was just a thing—a very expensive, beautiful thing that she’d taken off and tossed into the top drawer of her dresser. She’d figure out what to do with it after the holidays.
A metallic rattle of the doorknob followed by a soft click caused Johanna to turn, crouching on her couch. The front door swung open, and Beckett walked in.
Johanna fought to catch a breath. “What are you doing?”
“Key.” He raised his hand, her front door key held between his fingers.
“Give it to me—and leave.”
“I will once we talk.” He pocketed the key in his dark jeans.
She rose from the couch, meeting him before he could advance farther into the room. “There is nothing for us to talk about.”