by Amy Matayo
I’ve barely made it to the bottom of the page when someone knocks on my door. I’m in my old bedroom in the house I grew up in, sitting on the pink-flowered comforter bought new in the eighth grade. My apartment is only a mile away, and we don’t celebrate this holiday, but I’ve always come home for Christmas, and always at my mother’s request. This year is no different.
And that’s when a strange thought begins to gnaw at me.
This year is no different.
By the time the door opens, I remember the tears my mother shed in the kitchen just a few days ago, and my heart is beating out an odd little rhythm that I can’t quite decipher. When my mother comes in, I stop trying.
“What are you doing in here?” Wiping her hands on a dish towel, she walks over to sit. Angling her head lower, she takes in the book’s title. “Flowers in the Attic. An…interesting book,” she says.
“It’s weird,” I say, “but it passes the time.” She looks at me then, but it’s different, reserved. Almost…worried. She looks over her shoulder as if waiting for someone to jump out of a corner. I know she’s checking to see if my father is around, but he isn’t. For now, we’re the only two at home.
“Are you going to stay in your room all night? Your father should be home any minute, and dinner is almost ready.”
I sigh and drag the book off my lap and onto the bed. “I’m really not hungry. I think I’ll skip dinner tonight, if that’s okay. I’m not sure my stomach can handle it.”
A flash of alarm. It’s there, and then it’s gone, replaced with her customary composure. “Kate, please don’t skip. I made lasagna for you. Can’t you at least sit with us? It isn’t often that we get to eat dinner as a family anymore.”
Of course she plays the guilt card. Isn’t it what mother’s do best? But my enthusiasm level is at an all-time low, and I can’t muster up anything fake. Still, I don’t want to hurt her feelings, because she’s right. They’re busy and I’m busy, and in recent years, family time has become all but extinct. I sigh and try to make peace.
“Maybe I could eat some leftovers later while we watch a movie?”
“But Kate, it’s Chris—”
She looks away, and everything in the room goes still. The air. Our bodies. Even the clock on my bedside table that has spent the last seven years ticking off seconds. Nothing is as it was.
And then all at once, everything is.
Her silence when I told her about Caleb. Her tears and departure from the room instead of the stern lecture I’d been expecting. The fact that she rarely…almost never…makes a speech.
It only takes a moment for me to figure it out, for everything to fall into place and shine a spotlight on both of us. On my father too, even though he isn’t home. It’s as if duct tape has suddenly been ripped off my eyes and I see it. Really see it. I stare at my mother’s shirt and it all makes sense. I’ve seen it for years. I’ve worn it as a child playing dress-up. I know it like the back of my hand, but this time I really see it.
My mother tries to cover it up with a hand to her neck.
“Mom, what is that?” I reach for the old brooch pinned underneath her collar and finger the edges, sharp and crooked, but smooth as butter. Made of eighteen karat gold and at least half-a-century old, it sparkles more today than it did when I was younger. “You wear it every year, but you’ve never told me what it is. What is it?”
I know what it is, but I want to hear her say it.
Her hand hides the entire brooch. “It’s just an old brooch of my grandmothers. I like to wear it to remember her.” She stands and walks toward the window to peer out. I suspect it’s only to keep busy, because she fixes her eyes on one spot and doesn’t move.
“Mom, what’s that thing on your shirt?” I’m not asking. I’m trying not to explode.
She doesn’t turn around.
“Kate, it isn’t what you think. I just—”
“I think it’s a manger? Am I right?” All these years, I’ve seen a gold pile of matchsticks on my mother’s shirt—matchsticks and straw arranged in a formation of tiny x’s just above her heart, but now I see it. When I narrow my eyes slightly, I can even make out the outline of a baby’s face. A baby’s face that, until now, looked like nothing more than a tiny orb set inside the sticks. Like an egg in a nest—only it’s not.
“Kate, just let me—”
“Say it. After all these years and everything I’ve done for you and dad, you owe me that much.”
My mother has aged twenty years in as many minutes. With resignation on her face, she slowly lowers herself to the bed, her eyes guarded. It takes only a moment for them to become red-rimmed and watery as well.
“I met your father in my church youth group my senior year of high school. My father was the pastor.”
My blood chills; a shiver runs up my arm. “That isn’t what you told me—”
But she’s lost inside her memories and keeps going. “Your dad was a very charismatic boy, and by the time I figured out he wasn’t there to learn about God—that he was there to learn the ins and outs of how a church works—I was too in love to care.”
From there and almost in a trance-like state, my mother spins a tale of a teenage girl in over her head, of her parent’s—my grandparents—heartbroken and pleading for their daughter to leave him. Of a girl on the verge of doing that very thing, until she discovered she was pregnant. Of a wedding…of silence and broken ties with everyone who loved her. Of a baby and a home and woman determined to make the best life for her and her child. Of a desire to keep the peace and strengthen her marriage—in with both feet despite monstrous misgivings.
All of it is news to me. All of it.
Minutes, hours, days go by before my mother stops talking. When she looks at me, I see fear behind her eyes. She hadn’t meant to tell the story. Like unloading a flood of repressed memories on a therapist’s sofa, she probably wasn’t aware until it was over.
“Kate, you need to understand that I love your father,” she says, her fingers absently caressing the brooch.
“I know you do,” I whisper. “I’ve never doubted that for a minute. I love him too.”
She nods. “He’s a good man. He’s provided a great life for me and for you…” Her voice trails off. I hear the love in her words. I hear the thankfulness.
And also the regret.
The need to reassure her rushes to my mind. “I’ve loved everything about my life,” I say. “Everything…”
Mostly.
I look her in the eye. “But I told you about that man when I was little, Mom. At Target. How he came out of nowhere after I prayed.” I silently challenge her to look away. She shifts uncomfortably. “You told me I was silly and not to speak about it again. So I didn’t.”
My mother blanches in front of me. In all my life, I’ve never seen someone lose color so quickly. “What else was I supposed to say, Kate? I couldn’t have you questioning things, not with your father around. He has such strong beliefs…”
“What about your beliefs, Mom? What about mine?”
Shock passes her face in an instant. My mother glances at the doorway before turning to me again. Her gaze turns serious, imploring. Like she has something to say and only a few minutes to get it out and she wants me to pay attention to every word. So I do, forcing my mind to clear of everything but her, myself, and the expectation between us. Even the hum of the dryer on the other side of the wall goes silent.
“Are you telling me you suddenly believe in God?”
I swallow. Shake my head slowly back and forth. “I don’t know what I believe anymore. I just…I’m not as sure as I used to be that He doesn’t exist.” I look up at her. “What if He does, Mom? What if all this time…” I can’t finish that sentence. What if I’ve been wrong all along? What if we all have?
“Your father would be humiliated.”
“This isn’t about him. This is about me. What am I supposed to do? Forget about the organization and the lawsuit and the media? As my
mother—tell me. What am I supposed to do?”
She picks up my hand and brings it to her lap. For a long moment I can see the struggle, the warring within her to both parent me and be loyal to my father. Finally, her shoulders sag. She looks tired, drawn—obvious by her long sigh.
“I can only tell you this, Kate. I never should have turned my back on my old life. I know that now—I’ve known it most of my adult life. As long as I live, it will be the one thing I’m ashamed of. The biggest mistake I’ve ever made.” She’s kneading my hand like bread dough as moisture gathers in the corners of her eyes. Even though it hurts a little, I let her keep going. She seems to need the distraction.
“Then why did you do it? After all this time, why do you continue to stand onstage with him and say all these things against perfectly good people?” Maybe I shouldn’t be so harsh, but she owes me this. Besides, my hand is really starting to hurt.
“Because your father believes in this cause. And in a way, I guess I do, too. Faith can—and should—stay private. I’ve managed to keep mine that way all these years. And even if I didn’t feel that way, it’s too late to change things now.”
I shake my head. “But Mom, it’s not too late—”
“I’ve made my decision. I won’t walk away from your father. He’s built—we’ve built—too much to give up now.” She tilts her head in thought, focusing on my wall. “In the oddest way, even though I know it’s wrong, I’m still proud of what we’ve accomplished. Proud to know that we’ve made a difference in the way this country practices religion.”
“Even if it means kids get thrown out onto the street?”
“There is always another place for kids to go when a center like this one closes. A Boys and Girls Club. After school programs…”
“Kids can’t spend the night at either of those places.”
“It’s my understanding that not many spend the night at Caleb’s place, either.”
“Not many isn’t the same as zero, Mom.”
She says nothing, because there’s really nothing to say. We blink at each other until one of us makes a move. That person is my mother, but she leads us right back to where we started.
“Kate, I turned my back on the way I was raised a long time ago. I hurt people. Your father hurt people. People who loved us both…some we haven’t seen in over two decades. It’s been exactly eleven years ago today since I’ve seen my own mother. We tried to keep a relationship going for a while, but it just didn’t work. Too many differences.” Again, her expression turns faraway. One tear slips out of her eye and glides down her nose. “She sure thought you were special, though. Do you remember the way she cried the first time she saw you? I think you were three at the time…”
I say nothing, because I don’t remember it. Until now, I never knew we once had a relationship.
“I ran from everyone who loved me, and in turn, they eventually gave up on me.” My mother swipes at her eyes and fixes her gaze on me. “That won’t happen to you,” she says, looking so momentarily resolute that it unnerves me. “If you choose to walk away from the way we’ve raised you, you’ll never lose me. And I can promise you—promise you—that you won’t lose your father, either.”
I don’t move as the implication of her words settles around me. It’s as though she’s known all along, as though her life is being lived out in reverse and she has a chance to redo it through me. She ran away from God to save her relationship.
And she’s telling me to run toward Him to save mine.
Still, I grasp for an anchor. Something I know. Something to save me from that life-changing turnaround I wished for just last night with Caleb. Because up until now, life has been steady, and steady is comforting.
“What about the media? Everyone will talk. You and Dad and everyone in the organization will be ridiculed and—”
She stops me with a hand to my knee.
“Your father is a master at getting people to see things his way. Don’t worry about him. He’ll be upset at first, but he’ll understand. Once I point out the irony of your situation being the exact opposite of ours, he won’t have a choice.”
Still, I’m not certain. “You’re suing him; Caleb. His church. What makes you think he’ll have anything to do with me after that?”
Guilt darts through her eyes. She covers it with a small smile. “He’s known about the lawsuit for weeks. If he hasn’t turned away from you yet, something tells me he never will.”
My eyes burn with unshed tears as I weigh her statement and everything she’s handed me. An out with them. An in with Caleb. The freedom to live my life the way I want to, and the promise that I’ll be loved in spite of it.
It takes only a heartbeat to make my decision, and I’m off the bed, opening my closet and pulling out my coat. The pinkest, puffiest, furriest one I own. Even my mother grimaces through her tears, and she’s the one who gave it to me.
“You’re going to wear that?” She doesn’t ask where I’m going. She already knows.
I grin and kiss her on the cheek. “Trust me. Caleb will like it.”
My father walks in just as I make it to the kitchen. “Dinner smells good.” He looks at me, takes in my attire. “Nice coat. Where is she going?” he asks my mother.
She and I share a look, and in that moment I know something else.
My mother has my back. She’s always had my back, even as I stood on a stage giving speech after speech that I never plan to make again.
I realize something else.
No matter where I go—no matter how things turn out with Caleb—I’ll never stand in front of a crowd again. My photo will never be on another pink flyer. In fact, after tonight, I’m done wearing pink for good.
And it’s at this moment that I feel free. From expectations. From spectacles. From the spotlight. Even from fear.
For the first time in my life, I’m not afraid, and I’m not running anymore.
“She’s going out for a bit,” my mother says to my father, slipping me a quick wink as she snakes her arm around his waist.
I kiss my dad on the cheek. He is a good man. And if I’ve learned one thing lately, it’s that there’s always hope for men like him.
“I’m just going out,” I tell him, repeating my mother. “But I’ll be back. I’ll definitely be back. Save me some lasagna.”
“Don’t count on it,” he says, jabbing a knife into the first corner piece.
I smile and take a moment for this image to sear into my mind. My mom. My dad. My family. For years and years, the three of us against the world. Figuratively, and at times, literally.
For most of my life, I’ve loved it that way.
But now it’s time to grow up and make my own way.
With one last glance behind me, I turn and walk out the door.
31
Caleb
“The Truth”
—Kris Allen
There are four things I’ve learned in twenty-four years of living, three that I hope to pass on to my own son someday.
One: it sucks to be alone. I should know; I’ve been that way for most of my life. When my father left, when my mother died, when I was shuttled from one foster family to another because no one wanted me. When I was in jail—sitting in a dank cell with concrete walls so thick they closed in on my nineteen-year-old brain like a clamp determined to squeeze all thought process and emotion out of me. I’d never felt more abandoned than in that moment. Hope to never be in that place again.
Two: it never hurts to find a good friend.
Even a nerdy, scrawny, quiet one who likes church potlucks and chess and is nothing like you. After all, looks can be deceiving. Sometimes the chess player in the plaid shirt has the guts of a heavyweight and winds up being the person who saves your life. After he rips the heck out of your hand in a cheap move that scars you forever, that is.
Three: sometimes life requires abandonment, loneliness, scars, and a walk through a pit of awfulness to make a person appreciate the sweetness of tr
ue, lasting, unadulterated freedom. And I’ve learned the way to real freedom is to find God. To accept that He has a plan for your life. A strange plan, sometimes—not all of it is pretty, some of it isn’t pleasant, and some of it seems downright weird. But I’ll take His weird over my idea of perfect any day of the week. Because, I, Caleb Stiles, found God. I’m free for the first time in my life.
And four: life’s a heck of a lot better with a hot girl on your arm.
Hey—I said this was for my son. I’d never say something that stupid to a daughter.
I’ve officially turned in my man-card, spit on my masculinity, kicked my ego to the dirt—and that was before I used make-up to cover the top half of my tattoo. Still, in the middle of all this chaos, it’s hard to be embarrassed. Or to care. Because today—I’m Santa Claus.
But that doesn’t mean I won’t break every bone in Scott’s hand if he shares that make-up part with anyone, because I will. I told him as much at least a dozen times earlier tonight as he spread layer after layer of Cover Girl on my chest. It’s bad enough that I’m two hundred pounds underweight and didn’t have time to find appropriate stuffing to fill this suit. Santa cannot show up with an eight-inch strip of black ink all over his chest.
Although, looking at Scott now, I doubt I have anything to worry about. The guy is wearing pointy green shoes with fuzzy red balls at the tips and a matching cone jingle bell hat that keeps flopping in his eye. I doubt even Will Ferrell would be caught dead wearing that get-up.
We both look like morons.
Happy ones, but still.
A person can’t help being happy while surrounded by dozens of excited kids.
“Hold on a minute!” Scott says, giving me a look of pure exhaustion. He isn’t fooling me. I haven’t seen him this excited since last August when What’s-His-Name chess player won the national title after a record-breaking round that exceeded last year’s playoff by a whopping forty-seven minutes.