Sins of the Mother

by Victoria Christopher Murray

  He nodded, agreeing. “You’re right—there is no earthly reason for this to happen.”

  “Damn straight. And that’s why I’m going to keep fighting for my daughter. Because I love her! And the truth—I’m not going to depend on anyone . . . not you, and if God isn’t going to answer my prayers, then I don’t need Him either.”

  He flinched, and a new sorrow glazed his eyes. For an instant, Jasmine was sorry that her words had hurt him so much. But she couldn’t help how she felt; she just had to speak the truth.

  After a moment, “No matter what you think,” Hosea began so softly, she had to lean to hear him, “I love Jacqueline with a love that began before she was born. With a love”—he stopped, as if the thought of what he was about to say choked him—“with a love . . . as if she was mine. To me, she is. To me, she came from me.” He looked right into her eyes. “So don’t you dare question my love for Jacquie. I’m going to keep fighting until she comes home. No matter what you think, no matter what you say.”

  Jasmine blinked back tears.

  Then Hosea added, “But no matter how long we look for Jacquie, we can’t forget that we have a son, and we have a life with our church and our family and friends. Even as we look for Jacquie, we have to keep living.”

  Jasmine had softened, but now she was right back to being angry. “And how am I supposed to keep living when I can hardly breathe?” she wailed. “I’m not like you; I can’t be sad for two days and then—poof !—my sadness is gone. I can’t just move on.”

  “But we can’t stop the rest of our lives either. We have to live beyond our grief.”

  “So you want me to stop grieving?” she asked incredulously.

  “I didn’t say that—”

  She talked over him, “Because I didn’t know there was an expiration date on grief. It’s still right here,” she said, banging her fist against her chest. “Missing Jacquie, being scared for her, has settled right in the middle of me.”

  He held out his hand to her; she cringed at first, not wanting any part of his touch. But then she let him take her hand and pull her down next to him.

  He said, “I’m not saying not to grieve. I would never do that; everyone has to grieve in their own way, in their own time. But what I am saying is, let the grief fuel you. Let it move you to do everything to find Jacquie, but let it also move you to love your family more. Let it move you to love life more. Let it bring you up, not tear you down.”

  His words and his tone were soothing, and she looked down to where he held her hand. She watched his long fingers caress her skin, and she yearned for more. It felt as if years had passed since he’d held her like this, and all she wanted now was for him to lean back and hold her for hours.

  And right when she thought that’s what he wanted, too, he kissed her forehead. “We don’t have to stay for both services if you don’t want to.”

  It was a reflex, the way her hand jerked away from his. “I told you, I’m not going.”

  Behind his eyes, she could see his battle, but he’d stopped this fight. He rose and, with heavy steps, moved away from her. Right before he stepped into the bathroom, he said, “I’m sure Mrs. Sloss has already bathed him, but do you want to dress Zaya, or should I ask her to do it?”

  She glared at him. “I told you I’m not going to church.”

  “I’m not talking about you. I’m talking about Zaya.”

  Her eyes widened; she couldn’t believe his audacity. “My son is not going anywhere.”

  He almost moonwalked as he backtracked to her. “Our son is going to church.”

  “No.” She shook her head before she tucked the pillow underneath her head and turned away from him. “He’s not leaving. Not without me.”

  “Then you need to get up.” He grabbed his bathrobe and stomped from the bedroom.

  Jasmine jumped from the bed, snatched her own robe, and paced the width of the room. There was no way she was going to let Zaya leave this house.

  Not even a minute later, Hosea was talking before he even reentered the bedroom. With his hands raised, he said, “I’m not having this argument with you.” His tone told her that he was weary, but he looked straight into her face. “He’s going to church; he needs to get out of this apartment. You have him on lockdown like he’s done something wrong.” It must have been the steam seeping from her that made Hosea soften. “Look, he’ll be safe. I’ll make sure of it.”

  “So you’re going to take my son out of this apartment without my permission?”

  After a long stare, he said, “I don’t need your permission, boo,” before he went into the bathroom and closed the door.

  Jasmine sat on the edge of the bed and trembled. What was she going to do? She couldn’t let Zaya go; her plan was never to let him out of her sight whenever he was beyond the front door.

  But she wasn’t going back to that church . . . ever.

  She dashed into her closet. It wasn’t a full-fledged plan yet, but she and Zaya would be gone before Hosea even came out of the bathroom. After jumping into her jeans and a T-shirt, she rushed out and right into Hosea.

  His eyes wandered over her jeans. Still, he said, “Looks like you changed your mind,” with sarcasm all in his tone and his eyes.

  The jig was up; she knew that. Now Hosea would watch every move she made. She’d never get Zaya safely away.

  “Please, don’t take him from me,” she pleaded, since begging was all she had left.

  “That’s not what I’m doing.” Without looking back, he moved into his closet, dismissing her and the conversation.

  In the minutes that it took him to get dressed, Jasmine couldn’t come up with another plan. By the time Hosea came out of his closet, Zaya, dressed in a navy suit that matched the one his father wore, toddled into their bedroom with Mrs. Sloss behind him.

  “Miss Jasmine, you’re not ready?” Mrs. Sloss asked.

  She shook her head, knowing if she said a word, she’d burst into tears.

  “Kiss Mama bye-bye,” Hosea said as he lifted Zaya.

  Her son reached for her. “Bye-bye, Mama,” he squealed.

  A single sob escaped through her lips. “I love you, baby.” She hugged and kissed him until Hosea gently pulled him from her arms.

  He paused, giving her a last chance, but when she didn’t move, he did, and Jasmine watched her husband take her son away. The front door had barely closed before her knees buckled, dropping her to the bed.

  How could he have done this to her? Didn’t he understand? No! Couldn’t he tell what she’d been going through? No! And how could he? Why would he? He could never love her children the way she did.

  The way Brian did.

  Brian.

  She crawled up the bed and grabbed the phone. Brian would understand. Brian would help her make this right.

  Forty-two

  THE TIPS OF HIS FINGERS formed a steeple as Hosea sat behind his desk, his chin resting on his hands, his eyes closed.

  “Son.”

  It was so soft, it couldn’t even count as a whisper. But Hosea opened his eyes.

  Standing at the door, his father said, “Are you sure you want to preach today? You know, you don’t have to.”

  Hosea nodded. “I’ve got to stand up there today, Pops, and talk about this. I’ve got to say out loud everything that I’m thinking. It’ll help me . . .”

  Reverend Bush nodded. He didn’t need to hear any more. He understood exactly what his son was saying; he’d used the pulpit many times to work his way through challenges, too. “I’m proud of you.”

  For the first time in a long time, Hosea’s lips spread into a grin. “This, I know.”

  His words surprised his father, and Reverend Bush chuckled. Playfully, he punched his son’s arm. “Well, even though you know this, I can still say it, Hawke!”

  Hosea’s eyebrows rose with surprise. It had been a long time since his father had called him that. Actually, Hawke was short for the nickname—Hawkeye—that his mother had given him whe
n he’d graduated from high school, barely seventeen, and signed up for the Marines. Not that Hosea had any real desire to serve his country in that way. It was just the only way he knew to get out of following in his father’s holy footsteps. He’d been a preacher’s kid and had no intentions of becoming a preacher. So he’d enlisted, ignoring his mother’s cries and his father’s chagrin. But four years later, both of his parents had been proud when he was discharged honorably, an expert marksman, with enough money to pay half his tuition at NYU. He’d still tried to stay far away from the ministry, but the calling on his life eventually became too strong.

  “You haven’t called me Hawke in years, Pops.” He laughed, then stopped suddenly. Even though they were alone, his eyes darted around the room to make sure that no one saw them.

  With a frown, Reverend Bush watched his son for a moment. “It’s okay to laugh.” He paused. “You know that, right?”

  Hosea’s nod was slight, without conviction.

  His father continued, “Laughing, having this moment, has nothing to do with Jacquie.”

  “But maybe that’s the point, maybe that’s what’s wrong with me. Maybe every moment needs to be about Jacquie.”

  “Son, you don’t have to prove to anyone how much you love your daughter. You have to keep on living, even as we keep on searching.”

  The words were so similar to the ones he’d said to Jasmine.

  Reverend Bush pressed as if he knew his son needed to hear more. “I cannot imagine a more devastating tragedy than what’s happened to you and Jasmine, to all of us. But you’re walking through this with your heart on God and your head held high. You can’t do any better than that.”

  Hosea was thoughtful for a moment. “I can’t? I mean, maybe I can do better by not being here. Maybe I’m supposed to be home with Jasmine—waiting to hear, focused just on our daughter. Maybe being out, going on like life is normal—maybe that takes away from Jacquie.”

  His father nodded and contemplated his son’s words. “So you think settling behind closed doors, staying away from those who love you, leaving the work of finding Jacquie to others is the way to . . .” He stopped, waiting for Hosea to finish the thought.

  Hosea sighed. It sounded ridiculous when his father summed it up that way. “I don’t know, Pops. I just think about Jasmine . . . My wife is grieving, and her pain is so palpable—you can see it, feel it, touch it, taste it. She can’t do anything except think about Jacquie. But me . . . I’m just . . . going on. I go to work, I go to church, I live.”

  “So living means you don’t care?”

  “It may seem that way to other people.”

  “And how does it seem to you?”

  Hosea shook his head. “Pops, I can’t tell you. I tried to tell you the other day, but . . .” Slowly, his fingers curled. “Each minute that passes . . . every hour that my little girl’s out there.” Now his fingers were fists. “She depended on me to take care of her, protect her. And I didn’t.” His breathing was rapid now. “I don’t know who has her or where she is”—he inhaled and tried to keep the image of the man away—“and there’s not a thing I can do to help her! But if I ever got the chance . . .” He banged his fist against the desk so hard it startled his father. “I keep moving, I keep working because if I stop . . .”

  Reverend Bush let many silent seconds pass. “Then there’s no way anyone can say that you don’t care.” His words were soft. “Son, I told you before not to judge Jasmine and her grief. Maybe I should have reminded you not to judge yours either. You’re more action oriented—you take charge and do something. Jasmine is more introspective. She’s probably trying to figure out what’s happening to Jacquie every moment of every day. Neither of you is wrong; neither of you is right. Both of you are human. And in terrible pain.”

  After he exhaled, Hosea said, “So, it’s okay—my being here, bringing Zaya to church, going to work and doing everything else; it’s okay.” It was a statement; it was a question. Words that his father didn’t even have to respond to.

  All Reverend Bush did was point to his watch.

  Hosea braced his hands on the desk and pushed himself up. He followed behind his father, but after two steps he turned around.

  “Son?” Reverend Bush said, a question in his eyes.

  Without a word, Hosea moved back to the closet and slipped the long, flowing burgundy robe that belonged to his father off its hanger. Reverend Bush wore the robe only on special occasions—like weddings and funerals. But Hosea had found his own use for the religious garb—he wore the robe when he felt he needed to have a special word with God, as if going before the Lord wearing this made God sit up and take notice.

  Not that Hosea really believed that—or maybe he did.

  He slid his arms through the billowed sleeves, clasped the thirty-two gold buttons that adorned the front, then faced his father. Reverend Bush nodded his approval, and then the two men walked shoulder to shoulder into the sanctuary.

  City of Lights at Riverside Church had been one of the premier churches in the city for years, and there hadn’t been a Sunday—even after Reverend Bush had been shot and Hosea had taken his father’s place—when the sanctuary hadn’t been filled.

  But today, not only was every seat taken, the perimeter was lined with standing worshippers. Hosea wondered what was the draw—had they come to hear the Word, or were they just curious? Were the people here to pray with him, or was one among them the kidnapper?

  He shook that thought away as he approached the pulpit.

  “Saints, it’s happened again,” he began. “Another tragedy, where I have been brought straight to my knees.” His voice boomed through the congregation, and he’d expected someone to shout by now. An “Amen” or something. But he’d never heard so many, so quiet.

  “When my mother died,” he continued, “I gave up on God.” Now he heard it—faint murmurs. They were with him. “But He never gave up on me! And from that situation, I learned about the true love of my Lord. So this time, there’s no giving up for me. I don’t give up anymore. All I do is look up.”

  The first “Amen” and “Hallelujah” rang through the sanctuary.

  Hosea’s hand caressed his Bible, as if he drew his strength from it. “You all know my story. You all know what’s happened to my daughter. And I’m sure there are some of you who are wondering if the Bushes are so faithful, if the Bushes have such favor from God, then why would this happen to them?

  “No one would ask that question aloud, at least not to my face . . .” He paused for the uncomfortable chuckles to cease. “But you know you’ve wondered: Are they being punished because of some sin in their lives? Is it because they didn’t please God? Is it because they were never Christians in the first place?”

  The murmurs were back.

  “I know those are the thoughts of many. I know the things that have been said about me and my wife. I even know about the e-mail that’s been circulating throughout City of Lights.”

  Now the murmurs sounded like a hum. He hadn’t planned to go there; the words had just come out. Not that he was sorry. He needed to tell it all today.

  He said, “But those thoughts, those words, don’t matter. This is about me and my God. This is about my relationship with Him.” He pointed toward the heavens.

  “Amen!”

  He said, “Now, there’s not a lot I can tell you about what’s going on, because I just don’t know. But let me tell you what I do know. Our daughter being abducted is not a punishment from God. God didn’t cause this. God didn’t want this. God isn’t about this. God’s not happy with this!”

  He had to stop now . . . because the parishioners were on their feet, waving their handkerchiefs, shouting words of encouragement.

  “You better preach!”

  Hosea waved his own handkerchief, then wiped his brow. He settled down, and the people in the sanctuary did also. He said, “But there is a question that needs to be answered. There is a question that, as a Christian, I must address. An
d that question is this: Why do bad things happen to good people?

  “That’s a question that’s as old as time. A question that many have tried to answer. That’s what the first book of the Bible is about—no, not Genesis. I’m talking about what many believe to have been the first book written . . . the Book of Job.

  “You know that story, but I have to talk about the part where Job lost not just one child, but ten. All gone in an instant. What happened to him didn’t make any sense. Everyone in the land knew how good Job was. Why would God allow Job or even one of his children to suffer that way? And I have to tell you, Saints, I have asked God the same thing about me and my wife. Why did this happen to us?” He pointed his finger at his chest. “But you know what’s inherent in that ‘Why me’ question? What I’m really asking is, Why couldn’t this have happened to someone else? Why couldn’t it have happened to you?” He pointed out into the congregation, then twisted to the left side of the room. “Or you?” He pointed again before he turned. “Or you?”

  The peopled shifted, his words, his actions, disturbing them—exactly the way he’d wanted.

  He continued, “This burden shouldn’t have happened to me; it should be carried by someone else. That’s what I’m really saying when I ask, ‘Why me?’ And that’s what you’re saying when you ask that question.” He paused to let the people twist some more.

  “Here’s the thing, Saints. We live in a fallen world where good and evil people will suffer. That’s a fact, period. It’s something we don’t understand. It doesn’t seem fair. It doesn’t seem right. But what is right is that the good—those who have promised to follow God—have His promises. Oh, yes!”

  He had to stop again because this time the shouts were louder, the stomping made the floor vibrate, the waving sea of white handkerchiefs was blinding.

  When it was quiet enough for most to hear, he continued. “Just because we’re following God doesn’t mean our hardships are going to be eliminated—that’s a lie that comes straight from the devil. Because if he can get you to believe that, he’ll get you to forget about God’s goodness when bad times do come. But let me tell you—I’m not going to let this situation or any circumstance in my life be the measure of God’s goodness! What He’s done for me already is beyond measure.”