by Dawn Mattox
Ma’am? No one had ever called me “ma’am” before. I was barely seventeen. I smiled and yet, with that single word, knew I had found safe passage home.
Tim rode a Harley—what else? Sixteen hundred miles we traveled together, and it was plain that Tim was not in a hurry. In fact, I am pretty sure that Tim saw our ride as a mission trip. We started late and stopped early. In between, he asked me at every break if I was okay and if I needed to rest. Many times we would stop for the day, just to take in the wonders of God’s creation.
I slept in his tent, and he slept in a sleeping bag next to his bike. We had long evenings together that changed my life forever. No alcohol, no drugs, and he didn’t try to “do” me. When I woke up screaming, reliving the violent rape, sweating in horror, his soft voice would always comfort me, reassuring me that I was safe. Then we would sit by the campfire and talk about God until the sun came up.
Tim said that God loved me and had a plan for my life. “You'll find your way when you find your purpose,” he said. “And until you do, make peace with your journey.”
“Tim,” I asked, “why would the God of the universe care about a beaten, raped, worthless thing like me? I am the daughter of a whore and an outlaw. Is God punishing me?”
“Sunny.” Kindness danced in his eyes. “God loves you, child. He is far more interested in where you are going than where you have been. And,” he added, “try not to judge yourself or your parents too hard. I'm sure they did the best they could with what they knew. No matter what you’ve done, God loves you, and God loves them too. It’s not who you are, it’s who he is.”
Some nights I could hear Tim singing softly under the stars. I had never heard praise and worship songs before. Some of them made me cry.
We traveled south to Denver, and the fresh green fragrance of the Rocky Mountains reminded me of home. Then we headed back north and west, making southern detours to cross through the magnificent natural monuments of Bryce and Arches, carved out of the flaming red Utah desert.
I could have gone on forever feeling safe and genuinely loved as a sister by this kind man. Maybe I was affected by Tim’s songs. Maybe I got a new perspective of God’s Country. Maybe it was the days I rode behind Tim looking at the CMA patch with the praying hands and Bible that touched my heart. I'm not sure. But somewhere along the way, I found the Lord and asked Him into my heart. From that moment on, I never felt afraid. Until we crossed the California state line.
I was new in the faith, and some things—like Logan—still seemed bigger than God.
It was almost 2:00 p.m. and I was chewing a fingernail, struggling to keep my personal life from intruding on my work when Travis came through my door carrying a white paper bag from the Subway shop.
“Hey, Sunshine, you eating fingernails for lunch, or are you doing the Annie-worship thing?”
A lot of teenage girls are proclaimed followers of Annie, the goddess of Anorexia, and Mia, the goddess of Bulimia.
“Not today,” I said, shoving my work aside. “I follow Fatso,” the goddess of fast food.”
I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I sank my teeth into a meatball and mozzarella sub. Travis laughed and was wiping marinara sauce from my face when Paige walked in.
She was wearing a short purple spandex skirt—spandex being all the rage—that left the guys praying she’d need something from a bottom file cabinet, strappy white three-inch heels, a white tank top, purple nails and a matching purple thingy in her hair. She zeroed in on Travis, who sat there and patiently answered Paige’s endless questions about everything and nothing.
It was nearing 2:30, time to make my move. I excused myself and slipped away and headed for Gold Country Casino on the far side of Oroville. Parked with a clear view of the front door, I sat waiting and watching. Security drove past me twice and I knew they would stop to ask questions on the next lap. What was I supposed to say? “I’m looking for a mystery woman who is having an affair with my husband?” The little security golf cart headed my way with a driver who looked like a bouncer.
The Native-American security guard called out from his cart, “Excuse me, Ma’am. Can I help you?”
There was that “ma’am” thing again. I wondered what the official dividing line is between ma’am and miss. It was a bad day and a wrong time to suggest I was an old-lady.
“Do I look like a ma’am? Do I look like your mother?” I snapped.
I hoped not because this guy was only about fifteen years older than me.
“Are you lost?” he shouted over his engine.
The mental light bulb came on. Oh, my gosh! That's it... I’m lost!
What was I thinking?
The annoying casino commercial that airs every morning on the local news jangled in my head, but not for this casino. I was about fifteen minutes away from Feather Falls Casino, which is not located in Feather Falls but on the other side of Oroville, some forty-five minutes away from its namesake.
Angry with myself, I turned the key and gas’d the car, nearly running over the man and his cart as I peeled out of the lot and raced across town. Sometimes I feel like the Queen of Stupid.
Feather Falls Casino always reminds me of a big, fat, XXX plus-size gaudy hooker. And so she is. Voluptuous and seductive, the building towers above everything else the city has to offer. She is designed to lure you in, give you a quickie thrill, take your money, and turn you out—just another John. All anyone has to do is look at the multi-million dollar get-up to figure out where the money comes from to pay for it. Casinos aren’t all that appealing to me.
I pulled into the lower lot next to the casino-owned bowling alley and parked off-center, but still in sight of the main entrance to the casino.
Maybe I was too late. Maybe she had left when Chance didn’t show. Maybe Chance had called her last night from Mark’s phone. Maybe... no way!
I didn’t want to believe it, but there she was, pacing back and forth glancing impatiently at her watch.
Lord! Why me?
CHAPTER 9
Paige tossed her hair and heaved a big sigh, glanced at her watch with visible irritation. The scowling drama queen could not conceive that anyone would be late to meet her. After all, solitary men were openly checking her out as they entered the casino, and men with female companions were sneaking peeks from behind their sunglasses. Like bees drawn to honey, like the tide rising to meet the moon, or in Biblical terms, dogs returning to their vomit, men just couldn't resist.
Chance has a similar effect on women. He is a man’s man and women just can’t help but stare at his masculine physique and virile good looks. It is something I have learned to live with, possibly something I have taken for granted, and now find painfully undeniable. Dwelling on the male-female physical attraction brought all of my insecurities surging to the surface.
I sat in the car like a chicken on a rotisserie doing a slow roast, fully absorbed in watching Paige rummage through her Gucci handbag, pull out a phone and punch in numbers with hard little jabs.
Good thing she didn’t look my way—she would have seen me bolt upright as Chance's phone, now fully charged, belted out Whitney Houston's sad song. I searched through his phone's message menu thinking how I had romanticized The Bodyguard as being a song about two ill-fated lovers. I sat corrected as I realized it is really about two people who love their careers more than they love each other. If Chance’s betrayal had been a shot in the heart, I now rifled through his messages looking for Page’s bullet to my head. A sudden rap on the car window and I jumped, tossing the phone in the air and banging my head on the visor. Travis's goofy smile peered through the passenger window.
I stared. Shocked. What the hell?
Travis pointed at the lock and I hit the release switch. Climbing in, he closed the door and turned to me with one brow raised, turning his face into a question mark.
“What do you think she’s doing here?” Travis whispered in a conspiratorial voice, pointing in Paige’s direction.
�
��What...? What are you doing here?” I stammered in confusion, barely aware that he had placed his hand on my arm.
“That was my next question.” Travis’s eyes darkened as they locked onto mine. “One minute I’m talking to Paige, and the next minute she looks at her watch and goes tearing out of the building like it’s quitting time saying she had to find you. So”—he smiled—“I followed her. The million dollar question is, what are you doing here and why is she looking for you at a casino?”
“I don’t know.” Long pause. I am a lousy liar, always pausing to consider plausibility. My father used to tell me that my eyes always gave me away; something about them rolling around. “I don’t know why I’m here.”
It wasn’t a complete fib. All I knew was I felt like a gunshot victim—and I pulled away from Travis to keep from bleeding all over him.
“No, you don’t. Not happening.” Travis had no intention of letting go. “Talk to me Sunny. What’s going on?”
The force of his voice, the depth of his concern, and the touch of his hand held me fast.
“I don’t know what’s going on. I only know that I'm going home! Sign me out when you get back. Okay? Travis... please,” I pleaded.
“No. I mean, yeah, sure, I’ll sign you out. But I’m not letting you drive away like this. Come on. Let’s talk to Paige and find out what’s going on.”
Sickened by the very idea, I froze. No one must know about Paige and Chance. I would die of shame—again. It felt like a rerun of my life’s story—faithless men and faithless women. I silently swore to God I would never trust anyone again.
“No Travis. Don’t! Promise me, whatever else you do, you won’t tell Paige I was here.”
“Don't have to. She's leaving,” Travis observed as Paige stalked to her car looking like a cat that just had a bath.
Panic gripped my insides tighter than Travis's grip on my arm. Stomach acid torched the back of my throat as Paige cut through the lot walking behind us, got in her car, and drove away.
“Sunny.” The voice grew distant as I disassociated from the situation. Travis got out and walked around, opened the car door and pulled me out. He drew me gently toward the stream of people dropping off their kids at Tyme to Bowl before they slipped away to gamble. “Sunny, come on. Let’s go where we can talk,” Travis said as he guided me indoors through an air-conditioned blast of coolness and through the darkness of the bowling alley.
The thunk of the bowling balls rhythmically hit the hardwood floors and rumbled down the lanes sending pins exploding in every direction, followed by subsequent “oohs” and “yeahs!” that followed us into the coffee shop. I was burnt, Travis was warm, and the cokes were chilled. “It’s complicated,” I said at last, “but it’s not about work.”
“Really? Then what is it about?” Travis leaned into me, inviting me to open up.
“I’m not sure yet, but Paige can’t know I was here,” I said, looking into Travis’s hunter green eyes.
“Okay. No problem. I’m here for you, Sunny. You know that, right?” Travis reached over the table and covered my hands with his, fingers sliding between mine like a lover’s hand-hug.
“If you need to talk, I’m a pretty good listener.”
No doubt. Travis had felt like an old friend from the moment we met. He not only listened to what I said but had a knack for hearing what I didn’t say too, frequently discerning my thoughts before I could put them into words. And who else would make sure I ate a healthy lunch? I was attracted to Travis—but not like that, I hastened to assure myself. I couldn’t allow myself to think of him like that. I was a happily married woman. Or I used to be. We sat quietly amidst the noise as Travis gazed into my soul.
“I hate casinos,” I said, looking around with distaste.
“So... why are you here?” He looked perplexed.
“Travis.” Silence filled the noisy space between us. I took a deep breath. “Two days ago, everything was good. Today my world is falling apart. I can’t talk about it right now. I have to think about it first, and I am having a hard time sorting it out. I just need some time.”
“I've got time. All the time you need. I want you to know that it’s okay to call me at home. Whenever, wherever. I care about you,” he said. His eyes had kindled and face tensed, but his voice warmed and drizzled butter and honey.
Uh-oh. Better go. Rising too fast, I found myself dizzily clinging to Travis who rose with me. He was a life raft about to be severed from Titanic, only I wasn’t ready to jump ship. I allowed myself to be comforted for a moment, then pulled away and headed out. Glancing up at the giant digital billboard that overshadowed my car, I felt an unexpected stab of vindictive satisfaction. It looked like ‘allaboutme’ had been a loser in today’s High-Stakes Gambling Tournament.
Too depressed to eat, I settled for a glass of wine out on the deck as I watched the sun deepen from gold to orange, then purple to black. The first stars came out to bless and dress the night sky. The second glass of wine seemed like a good idea. Followed by another. And another.
So, Paige really was the other woman. Just my luck. How long has Chance been seeing her? I wondered. In taking Paige, he had betrayed both me and his good friend Mark. How rotten is that? How stupid am I?
I mulled these questions and more as I resigned myself to loser status.
“Words have power.” Pastor Mac frequently reminded us that God spoke the world into creation and holds us accountable for our words. Mac cautioned us never to speak sickness or defeat into our lives.
But positive energy was more energy than I could muster. Tired of the endless scenarios spinning in my head, I reached for the comfort of my faithful Kissme.
Well, okay, she isn’t all that faithful either. She tried to run off with the propane man last time he filled the tank, jumping up and down on his leg trying to get into his truck. That hurt. But she was warm and affectionate tonight, hoping no doubt that I might actually eat dinner at some point and share the leftovers. Sigh. Somehow my relationship with Kissme sounded painfully like my relationship with Chance.
I didn’t know what to pray for and wasn’t sure it would do any good anyhow. The floodgates of doubt were wide open: How could God...? Haven't I been a good Christian? Why would God answer my prayer for a good man and then trash it? God hates me. There is no God.
The brain-train rumbled through my mind only to be startled by the incessant ringing of the phone. Instinct told me it was Chance. I stared at the phone, tired, spent, and possibly drunker than a wine vat. I had nothing left to give, and the room was starting to spin. I lay down on the couch. Okay, I passed out on the couch as Chance redialed, this time on my cell phone. The intrusive 'and I will always love youuu' iTune began, but all my tired brain heard was the disillusioned, fateful lyrics that followed: “... and we both know... you’re not what… I need...”
My head hurt. I cradled it in my arms and stared into the night, my imagination running loops of Chance doing Paige. I wept. Not wanting to sleep in our bed, I opted to stay on the couch. Tossing and turning, I drifted in and out of dreams and memories.
When I was twelve years old, I stepped out the back door down to the steps that led to our Japanese bathhouse. The bathhouse was a small log cabin-style out-building the previous owner had built to honor his wife’s heritage. I froze, my foot poised in the Karate Kid’s crane position just inches above a rattlesnake that stretched across the entire width of the porch. I almost didn’t make it to the toilet in more ways than one. My world stopped in midair; no breathing, no thinking, no heartbeat. Time slipped into slow motion for me, but not for the snake that coiled up in a heartbeat to rattle out its death vibe.
My return from Sturgis felt like a rerun. Climbing off of Tim's motorcycle and stepping onto the walkway that led to the front door, Lefty was standing on the porch, his arms crossed over his chest. He stood there, staring long and hard at the cuts and abrasions that had scabbed over on my cheek. Then he scanned me from head to toe, taking in the fading bile co
lored bruises that still splotched over one eye and trailed down my arms.
Lefty gave off a death rattle in his throat and amazingly, never once asked me what happened, if Tim Heartwood had beaten me, or even if I was okay. He just got on his Harley, hooked a doughnut around Tim and shot up the driveway, leaving us standing in a cloud of dust and probably setting a new land-speed record back to Oakland and Logan. Whatever had happened to his baby girl, he knew that Logan had left me behind in South Dakota and failed to protect me.
I doubt if Lefty had a problem with Logan making the return trip with a new girl on his bike, nor did he care that I had returned home riding behind another man. But ultimately, he held Logan 100% responsible for my safety and well-being.
Six long months had passed before I saw Logan again. I silently hoped he was dead, but my mother's best biker friend, Sheena, hinted something about “reconstruction” and an extended stay in the hospital. Hospital stays are rare for an Angel, who, after being subject to retaliation, is usually dead or under arrest. But no one talked about what Lefty had done to Logan, and I stopped asking.
The next few months were spent with Joyce and Kenny, being loved and ministered to by this amazing couple. Joyce taught me that God was like a potter, and although I felt as though my life had been shattered beyond repair, she said God was more than able to make me whole again, ready to be used for his purposes. While that might be true, I opted out of joining her at mass. I knew I wouldn't fit in. I didn't belong. I didn't know the chants or Bible stories and was pretty sure I'd be a social leper if the parishioners knew the truth about me.
So I worked in the garden that summer and occasionally tried to decipher various passages in the Bible. I liked to sit in the shade with Joyce's Bible on my lap, close my eyes and say, “Okay God, teach me what I need to know.” Then I’d point my finger like a divining rod to my daily dose of insight. All I wanted was answers. The last thing I needed or wanted was another relationship.