by Amy Matayo
“Look all you want. You probably never get to see anything but old ladies and nuns in that church of yours. I feel sorry for you. Even Adam got to see a naked woman once in a while.”
I smile at the logic, but can’t resist pointing out the obvious. “I’m not Catholic. We don’t have nuns at my church.”
“A pity,” Lucy shrugs and turns toward her bedroom. “Some might say there’s nothing sexier than a lady wearing a long black robe.”
“Personally, I prefer pink.”
I want to kill myself when the words come out. Kate’s eyes go wide, but I try to brush it off and instead watch Lucy leave, knowing that little exchange was verging on sacrilegious and definitely took a dip into crassness. Still, I have to admit that it’s nice when people talk to me like a real person with real issues and not always like a spiritual leader. It hits me then that that’s what I liked about Kate in the first place. She yelled at me. Told me to get out of her apartment. Looked me in the eye and lied to my face without blinking once. Right or wrong, that kind of honesty has appeal.
Everything would be near perfect if only she shared my faith.
But she doesn’t, which is what snaps me back into a sobering reality. My faith is my life. There might be things I miss about the old me, but I wouldn’t trade a minute to go back. Not when God has given me everything. And when you come from nothing, you know everything when you see it and dive in for all its worth. I shove a hand in my pocket and look at Kate.
“About that foster kid comment…that was a rude thing to say. I’m sorry.”
She crosses her arms. “It was rude, and you should be.” She doesn’t meet my eyes for a long moment, which makes me think she’s looking for a way out of this awkward situation. I almost wish she would find one and spare us both. But then she surprises me by walking over to her record collection, snatching up a forty-five, and handing it to me. Our fingers touch for the briefest moment, and heat rushes up my hand. From the way she looks at me before glancing quickly away, I can tell she felt it, too.
“Here, put this on. You can listen to it while I shower and change.” She swallows. “But break it, and I’ll kill you. It’s one of my favorites.” I think I see her smile, but then it’s gone and it’s easy to convince myself I imagined it. She moves past me and retreats into her room, leaving me in the living room alone again.
I flip the single over and take in the classic James Taylor title. A few seconds later, the scratchy strains of “You’ve Got a Friend” fills the apartment, and after a few moments, I realize something. Kate didn’t just give me a song to play. In a roundabout way, she gave me an apology.
For now, it’s enough.
*
“You know, no one would have blamed you if you hadn’t come today,” Kate says. “I certainly wouldn’t have. It’s isn’t like you owe me anything.”
I took the long way to the shelter, so we’ve been driving a while. It’s the first time either of us has spoken.
“I gave you my word, and I intend to keep it. So in a sense, I owe you that much.”
She seems to think on that for a while, growing so quiet that I start to wonder if she’s fallen asleep. But then she turns her head to look at me, and I feel the words coming even before she says them.
“No one would blame you if you decided to back out now. Least of all, me.”
I shrug. “Well, since my shoes are size eleven hiking boots with more scratches than a cat could have given them, I guess I don’t have to worry about it.”
A ghost of a smile crosses her lips, and I look away. That smile is one of the things I like about her the most, the thing that might make me toss aside everything I believe in just to see it every day. Thankfully, we pull in to the shelter parking lot and I don’t have to consider the idea further. Ben’s face presses against the door waiting for us. A basketball rests between his stomach and the glass and his nose is pressed flat, making him look smaller than his eleven-year-old self. A sense of pride fills me when I look at him, which is weird because I’m not his father or brother or anyone who has a claim to him, but this kid has changed over the last year, all of it for the better. A selfish part of me likes to think I had something to do with it.
I can’t help but wonder how I might have turned out if I’d had someone to hang out with when I was his age. Someone to play basketball with and eat with and—as Kate will find out in a few short minutes whether she wants to or not—pray with. Sometimes even the smallest prayers make a difference, especially when it keeps the belief alive that someone actually cares.
And belief, I’ve discovered, is a precious commodity. One easier to obtain at a younger age, rather than a later one. Although later is better than never, as I can attest to.
If only Kate would discover it…
I stop that train of thought before it can fully play out. Because Kate isn’t an unbeliever. No, Kate has beliefs…firm, rock-solid ones. She believes that everything I believe in is wrong.
It’s a tough thing to keep in mind when I’m sitting so close to her, but I do it anyway. The reminders are necessary if we’re going to spend any time together, and since me and my stupid mouth both have the IQ of a slow-learning four-year-old, it looks like we’ll be hanging out every Monday for the next three months.
I open the door and step out of my truck. Kate doesn’t move as I walk around to open her door. She’s learned. In just three short days of getting to know me, at least she finally learned.
I don’t allow myself to smile, even though I kind of want to.
18
Kate
“Stuck in the Moment”
—Justin Bieber
This was a bad idea. A really bad idea. We’ve been here an hour, and though I appreciate Caleb’s willingness to keep his word and see me through this project, right now I wish he would just brand himself a liar and be done with it. Put us both out of our misery.
Everything about this trip is different than last time.
I’ve already gone through the list of questions I quickly prepared in my head on the drive here—twice—and I’m out of things to talk about. Ben looks bored with me. Caleb looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here. And once I’m done talking, the silence in the room is deafening. I close my notebook and shove it inside my bag, taking in inordinate amount of time arranging it next to the novel I’ve been reading, making sure that both spines are pointed down, that the corners line up, that both sides are perpendicular to the pens that also need to be organized—
I sigh. Lucy is right, I am OCD in the worst possible way.
Dreading the next five minutes or however long Caleb decides we need to stick around, I sit up and try to appear calm. It isn’t easy, especially because I somehow feel like we’re in the awkward, post-break-up stage, and we were never even in a relationship. I hate this whole situation, and I’m angry at all of it because I see no way out. The only thing I know for sure is that I was happier than I’d ever been during the last week with Caleb; now all hope of repeating those moments is gone. Considering our differences, I doubt we can even be friends anymore, and the loss feels so palpable it hurts.
“What’s wrong with you guys?” Ben says, looking between the two of us. He might be eleven, but he’s observant.
I open my mouth to say something even though I have no idea what, but Caleb rescues the situation.
“There’s nothing wrong. We’re both just tired, I think.”
“Did you have a fight?” Ben asks. “Because you both look mad, especially you.” He nods in Caleb’s direction. “She keeps asking me the same questions over and over, and you haven’t even offered to play basketball once, and we always play basketball, even that one time when you had the flu.” He sets the basketball on his lap and rests his arm on top, looking up at Caleb with chocolate eyes. “You mad at her questions? Because they weren’t that bad, even if they were a little dumb. Maybe next time she could ask me something different, something better, and then we could play ball. You want to
play ball today, Caleb?”
Ben’s little speech has given me whiplash because it covered so many topics. But the theme was the same in all of it: He gets one day a week one-on-one with Caleb, and I’ve just ruined it for him.
“We’re not fighting.” Caleb’s words are so forceful, even I almost believe them. “Something just came up that we can’t seem to agree on, so we’re both in kind of a bad mood right now.”
Ben’s eyes light up. “Oh, well then just do what they tell us to do at school.” He bounces in his seat a couple times and smiles, convinced he has the perfect answer. I would smile at him myself if I could only remember how.
Caleb glances at me. I look back at him and for a minute we just hold there, neither one of us able to look away.
Without taking his eyes off me, Caleb asks the question. “What’s that, buddy? What do they tell you to do at school?”
I break eye contact first and connect with Ben’s wide smile. He’s sure this will work. I’m sure it won’t.
“The teacher tells us to talk about it for a few minutes, and if we still can’t agree, we have to hug each other anyway and learn to get along.” He looks between us both, expectation and hope making his thoughts transparent. We need to talk. We need to hug. Like a strip of gauze secured across an ugly scrape, it’s just what we need to make it all better. After all, his teacher said so, and teachers have all the answers.
Ben pushes on Caleb’s arm. “Well, if you’re not gonna say anything, at least hug her, man.”
I look at Caleb and Caleb looks at me and we both take a tentative step forward. The minute his arms go around me, everything fades away except the scent of his cologne and the feel of his back muscles and the sound of his labored breaths that seem to stumble one over the other. But when I feel his lips brush my neck and hold there for the briefest second…that’s when I melt. Turn into a puddle of want and longing and bittersweet sorrow right there in the middle of the gym floor. I’m not sure I’ll be able to pull myself together.
But the second he lets go and only halfway looks at me, I do. Somehow, someway I’m pieced back together in two breaths. A few extra parts are broken that weren’t before, but I’m together all the same.
The hug didn’t make things better. The kiss only made things more difficult.
When I try to smile over at Ben, the hope on his face fades.
He knows his idea didn’t work.
*
After Caleb drops me off, I forgo the apartment and head for my car instead. I can’t face Lucy’s questions right now, nor can I listen to any shallow talk of Caleb and his hotness. I know the guy is hot. The guy is practically perfect, and not only in the looks department. But my heart is two minutes away from breaking in half, and all my life, there’s been only one person who knows, without fail, every good and perfect way to piece it back together. I pull into my parent’s driveway. Right now, I want my mom.
My mother’s car sits in the driveway next to mine. My father’s Volvo is parked in the garage. Only then do I remember that today is Monday. My parent’s day off, the day they spend resting and relaxing and rejuvenating for the busy week ahead. That day might be Sunday for most American families, but we’re not like most people. For obvious reasons, Sunday is one of our busiest days of the week.
But I don’t want to think about that now.
I walk through the front door and toss my purse on the bottom step of the iron staircase. An Oklahoma City Thunder game plays on the big-screen television, and my father sits on the corner of the sectional leather sofa with his feet propped up on the table in front of him and his hands behind his head. I feel a small amount of comfort from the familiar sight and take a minute to revel in the normalcy of the picture my childhood home makes. But then my father shoots forward and shouts at the television, effectively turning the nice moment into something that makes me cringe. Boys and their sports. No matter the age, they’re all the same.
“Are we losing again?” I say, coming up behind him to give him a backwards hug. Surprised, he flips around to look over his shoulder at me.
“What are you doing here on a Monday afternoon? Shouldn’t you be at school?”
“I didn’t have a class today.” Technically, it’s true. I didn’t have a class because I didn’t go to one. The semantics of my words aren’t important.
“Well, I’m glad to see you. We never got a chance to talk after that speech last week.” He reaches for the remote and turns the volume down. His look grows concerned. “Was something wrong with you that day? You didn’t seem like yourself.”
For a moment, I pretend to think back on the day as though it’s hard to recall. When an appropriate amount of time has passed, just like Caleb did with Ben earlier, I make something up. Not exactly a lie, just an omission of the full truth.
“I just wasn’t feeling well, I guess. Upset stomach.” I don’t add that it was spurred on by nervousness from my deep infatuation with the pastor of the foster center. Another thing he doesn’t need to know. “Is Mom here?”
On cue, she calls from the kitchen. “Don, is Kate in there with you?” She walks out of the kitchen carrying a red mixing bowl, stirring something with a white plastic spoon, and a smile takes over her face when she sees me. Even at age forty-five my mother is beautiful, and it’s easy to see why my father fell for her all those years ago. Since then, they’ve had the perfect love story—never a separation, rarely a fight, and no obstacles, large or small, to get in their way. Just the sight of the two of them in the room makes me feel a little better.
Most people say I look like my mother. I suppose I agree.
“What are you doing here on a Monday afternoon?” she asks, focusing once again on the bowl. “Don’t you have a class?”
Unable to stomach another lie, not even a half-one, I brush off the question and chew on my thumbnail, forcing my voice to sound upbeat. “What are you making? It smells good.” Despite her fit frame, food is my mother’s passion, and like I hoped, in no time she’s completely forgotten about school and my lack of making it a priority.
“I’m making a lemon cake for no other reason than I want one. And when I’m done, I just might eat the whole thing. Do you want to stay and—”
She stops. Frowns at me. I know that frown; I should have known my mother would see through me. Stupid thumbnail habit. I drop my arm.
Too late. She cocks her head to the side and rakes my face with her eyes, trying in the span of four seconds to locate the source of my damage and scramble for a way to fix me. When she comes up empty, she settles for the old standby. The one I came here hoping to find in the first place.
“Do you want to come in the kitchen and help me ice the cake?”
Ice the cake. It’s our code word for tell me your problems. My mother used that phrase for the first time when Sarah Simmons pulled my dress up in front of my whole first grade class, and all the boys laughed at my Hello Kitty underwear with the tear up one side. I cried for two hours that afternoon, alternately licking mocha icing off an old wooden spoon and dipping it back into the bowl while I poured out my seven-year-old heartbreak. My mother never once scolded me for the saliva-laced frosting I applied all over the triple-layer chocolate cake she made for an upcoming dinner party. I think she knew I couldn’t handle the lecture.
If only I could be that same little girl right now, whose biggest worry was public embarrassment in front of a few laughing friends rather than private heartbreak that could potentially involve the entire country.
If the whole country ever found out. Which it won’t. Because there’s no story to tell except a short one, which is really the most disappointing kind of story, because the words always run out before you can really begin to fall in love with the two main characters. As they say, art has a way of imitating life.
My mother hands me the bowl of lemon buttercream and reaches for a spoon. She waits until I’ve spread frosting on the first layer before she finally brings it up.
“Do you wan
t to talk about what’s bothering you?”
I don’t. But I do it anyway.
“I think I might have a problem.” And in the kitchen I grew up in, with the strains of a losing ballgame and my father’s frustrated voice in the background, I tell her about everything, sparing no detail.
I’m not sure what I expect her to say—maybe delve into a lecture about why being seen with Caleb could effectively end my father’s career and all he’s worked for. Maybe express her disappointment that I would participate in something as controversial as Christmas without consulting with them. Or maybe just give me her signature disappointed look which worked really well when I was a kid and would probably still be effective today.
This is why it shakes me to the core when my mother says nothing and walks out of the room.
With silent tears falling from her eyes.
19
Caleb
“I Had Me a Girl”
—The Civil Wars
Nightmares are to me what sweet dreams are to normal people. A nightly occurrence. Sometimes even—if I’m lucky enough for a nap to claim me—a mid-day one. They’re an unsettling inconvenience that even my faith in God hasn’t taken away, no matter how many times I’ve prayed for it. And they’re always, always the same.
Help me, Caleb. Stay awake, Caleb. When the sound of the one voice you desperately want to hear suddenly whispers in your ear in the middle of the night, the only thing left to feel is turmoil. For that moment in time, faith is nothing but a distant memory.
My mother…the most loving woman in the world.
My mother…the person who sometimes scares me more than anything.
In seventeen years, the nightmares haven’t stopped. They almost did once, but that was before I met Kate. I’ve had them every night since. They show no sign of letting up, which worries me more than anything.