But he did not threaten to call in the pastor; he didn’t even continue the conversation. Instead, without a word, Shaun walked past her and into his office, then shut the door.
She sank back onto the couch and held her head in her hands. She was glad he hadn’t kept on her about her night out, but she was also worried about why he hadn’t. Did their marriage not matter to him anymore? Did he not care that they were floating further and further apart, that they barely spoke anymore, that the air was thick with tension when they were alone together? The last time they’d struggled, back when A&A was first starting, he’d practically dragged Pastor John to their house after the service one Sunday, he was so desperate to start counseling and get things back on the right track. His ambivalence this time was disturbing.
She finished her piece of pie, then a third and fourth slice, ignoring the nausea in her stomach and going straight to bed when she was done. Wired from all the sugar, but physically exhausted from a day spent working so hard on the book, she lay unmoving in the bed and let her thoughts run wild. It took two hours for her to fall asleep. She never heard Shaun leave his office. She drifted into dreams making a checklist of ways she’d rebuild her life after he left her, because she was sure that was what he was going to do.
CHAPTER 9
THE REST OF OCTOBER PASSED MUCH LIKE SEPTEMBER HAD: awkwardly. Shaun spent as much time away from home as he could, and Savannah spent as much time away from A&A as she could without it looking as though she was avoiding the place. Operation Old Savannah lasted a couple weeks, but by the end of the month she was exhausted from all the acting. And I didn’t even get an Oscar nomination.
She had successfully transitioned into a full-time loner. Marisa and Shaun were the only two people she spoke with anymore, and she avoided even that interaction as much as possible. Colleen, Andi, Mary, and Bethany had doggedly pursued her, and she had rebuffed them with equal perseverance. Doctor appointments, both real and fabricated, imaginary illnesses or threats of illnesses she’d “heard are going around,” and convenient bouts of depression or insomnia that required long stretches of daytime sleeping had given her plenty of excuses to throw at them when they wanted to get together. They’d even tried showing up on her doorstep uninvited. She didn’t answer the door. She’d banked on Shaun’s recent reticence to socialize to keep their husbands at bay as well, and he had unwittingly come through. Eventually, to her immense relief, they’d finally gotten the hint.
She spent the bulk of her days on her laptop, reading the transplant forum. Or she’d lose herself in novels to escape her new reality. She chose books at the library based on their thickness, and finished even the 800 page tomes in a matter of days. She avoided anything that might make her think about the impending book tour, though the increased severity of her sour stomach — which stole her appetite and the desire to cook—told her that her subconscious was dwelling on it night and day. When the beginning of the tour was finally upon her, she was almost relieved — the sooner she started it the sooner it would end.
The night before the first gig in Colorado Springs, she slept less than three hours and spent most of her awake time dry heaving in the bathroom. She assured Shaun that it was just nerves, and though she was telling the truth, she still felt deceptive. When she awoke in the morning, feeling like death and almost wishing for it, she couldn’t eat breakfast and worked herself into a panic — dropping her notes and scattering the unnumbered pages.
“Savannah, just breathe,” Shaun said, holding her hands in his. They had hardly touched in weeks; the intimacy of the gesture made her feel even worse. “I’ve never seen you such a wreck. Why are you so nervous?”
“I … I don’t know, Shaun. I don’t know. I just am.”
He nodded as though this made sense, then made her sit down while he reassembled her talk. “Here,” he said after setting down the stack of papers. He reached out for her hands again. “Let me pray for you.”
“Please don’t.” The words were out before she could stop them. He looked at her, confused. “I just … I’m afraid it will make me emotional. Even more emotional, that is. I don’t want to start crying and mess up my makeup.”
“Oh. Okay.”
A knock on the door announced Marisa had arrived to pick up Savannah. “Break a leg,” he said to her, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “I’m sure it’ll all come back to you. You’re a natural.”
She gave him a look that said, “What’s natural anymore?” His seemed to sadly agree.
“You ready?” Marisa asked when Savannah opened the door. Her face fell when Savannah’s expression registered. “Oh dear. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine.” She shut the door behind her, the folder of notes clutched tight in her hand. “Just nervous about getting back on the horse.”
“Okay.” Marisa sounded unconvinced. Savannah begged her telepathically not to comment further. She wasn’t sure how long she’d be able to keep things together.
They didn’t speak as they drove. When they arrived at the church that was hosting the event Savannah’s hands began to shake. She held them tightly in her lap. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. Make a crack about being out of practice. They’ll all understand. Just read the talk, get it over with, and you can go home.
And do it nine more times.
Marisa gave her a sharp look when she groaned. “Savannah?”
“I’m alright, really.”
They entered through the back door. She could hear her church’s worship band warming up on the stage when they entered the green room. Marisa opened a water bottle and passed it to Savannah, eyeing her closely but saying nothing. Savannah sat down and took a long drink, keeping up the chant in her head. She had no choice; she had to make this work.
The band stopped playing and came down into the green room. It was the first time any of them had seen Savannah since before her illness; they crowded her with hugs and congratulations, and the smile she forced made her cheeks ache. Marisa rescued her with a call to the stage for sound check. She followed Marisa up to the podium, where the sound tech threaded the wireless lav through her blouse and clipped the mic to the lapel. She tried to settle her nerves with the familiarity of the routine, and began pacing the stage as she spoke, getting a feel for its size as the tech fiddled with the levels from the booth. The familiar motions were comforting. If this was all she had to do, she’d be fine. If only she could encapsulate this feeling and pop it in pill form before coming up to speak.
Sound check ended and she switched off the battery pack for her mic and went back to the green room. Some of the band tried to engage her in conversation, but she extricated herself as quickly as she could and escaped to the women’s bathroom. The window there conjured movie scenes of people crawling out to freedom. She wondered briefly how far she’d get before Marisa came in to check on her.
She sat on a small stool with her back to the mirrors, not wanting to look at her own stricken face. Marisa, bless her, left her alone, and while she waited for her call she stared at a blank wall, trying to gather that blankness and superimpose it over the panic she was feeling. If she could just remove the emotion, the fear, she might get through this.
The sound of the band playing told her the event had begun. She had fifteen minutes left before her time came to speak. You can do this. You can do this.
“Five minutes!”
Marisa’s call through the door broke the spell of her meditation. She took a deep breath and gave up trying to still her shaking hands. Back in the green room, Marisa gave her a bright smile. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” Her voice sounded strange to her ears — strained, quavery. She took another sip of water and squeezed the file in her hand. You can do this.
The band finished their set. The audience applauded. Marisa switched on the mic and held open the door for Savannah, and she ascended the stairs to the stage.
The applause erupted again as she walked across the stage to
the podium on legs that felt like they might give out any second. Tears sprang to her eyes when the crowd stood, their applause still filling the room. How could she not want to face these fans that cared so much for her and her family and ministry? She had received literally hundreds of cards in the weeks following her transplant. She needed to do this for them, so they would continue to support A&A. She didn’t care about her own role anymore. She just didn’t want to let anyone down.
She set the file on the podium and opened it as the applause died down and people took their seats. She took a deep breath and found her mind completely blank. She stared at her notes, unwilling to face the crowd. Say something! “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome!” called out a couple voices, and the light laughter that followed from the audience gave her a moment to focus on her notes. Make the crack about being rusty. Then just read the notes. You can do this.
“You have excuse to — I mean, you have to excuse me,” she began. Cleared her throat. “I’m a little russy — rusty.” Why wouldn’t her mouth work right?
Read the words, read the words. They swam before her and she froze. She couldn’t do it.
Her heart was pounding. She put a hand to her chest, pursing her lips tight. She heard the intake of hundreds of concerned breaths, and released her own in a shaky sigh.
“I can’t do this.” The words slipped out before she could stop them. She clutched at her lapel, muffling the mic, and nearly ran off the stage as the murmuring of the crowd grew louder. Marisa was at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes wide in fear. “What’s wrong? Is it your heart? Sit down, sit down.” She grabbed Savannah’s elbow and ushered her to a couch as she and the lingering band members began to pray aloud.
“Stop, just stop. I’m fine.” Savannah shook off the steadying hands and gasped back a sob. “I just can’t—I can’t do it.”
“It’s okay, Savannah—”
“No, I can’t do this anymore. I don’t believe it, I don’t — any of it. I’m just—” She blinked back tears. The stunned faces of the band and Marisa staring at her were more than she could bear. “It’s over,” she said, then began to weep. “I don’t believe it anymore. I don’t believe in God.”
SAVANNAH WRUNG A TISSUE IN her hands as she listened to Marisa addressing the crowd. “… been through a lot, and is struggling a bit to get back on the horse, you might say. We’re going to take a bit of an intermission, but we’ll start again in about fifteen minutes. Would you join me in lifting Savannah to the Lord in prayer?”
She reached up and snapped off the speaker that projected the audio from the stage into the bathroom. Prayers were the last thing she wanted to hear, especially when they concerned her.
The enormity of what had just happened still hadn’t sunk in. But she knew she wouldn’t be going back up on that stage, no matter what Marisa said. She refused to consider anything beyond the next hour, beyond going home and changing out of the blue pantsuit and back into her flannel pajamas and hiding under the covers of her bed. Possibly forever.
The door behind her creaked as it opened. Marisa appeared, her face a mask Savannah had never seen before. She leaned against the wall, arms folded. Savannah felt like a child waiting for the principal’s judgment to fall.
“We can figure this out, Savannah.”
“There’s nothing to figure out.”
“Didn’t the doctors say that post-op depression—”
“This isn’t depression. It’s … it’s hate, it’s anger, and it’s been with me since I woke up from the surgery. I don’t know where it came from, and I can’t shake it. I’ve tried, believe me.”
Marisa was silent for a moment; Savannah could almost hear the wheels turning as she tried to concoct a way to get her through this. “So what do we do? What can I do to help you go back up there?”
Savannah gaped at her. “Did you not hear me just now? It’s over. I’m not going back up there. I can’t look five hundred women in the face and lie to them.”
“You wouldn’t be lying.”
“I don’t believe in God, Marisa. I don’t believe a single thing I wrote in that book. I don’t believe a single word in that speech. To tell them I did would be lying.”
Marisa spread her hands in exasperation. “Then what am I supposed to tell them?”
“Tell them I’m sick. Tell them I thought I was ready for this, but I wasn’t. Tell them my heart couldn’t handle it.”
“So you want me to lie?”
“Trust me. It’s not a lie.”
THE RIDE HOME WAS AGONY. Marisa’s silence was unreadable, her face blank. Savannah stared out the window, avoiding Marisa as best she could and occasionally swiping a hand at the mascaratinted tears that ran down her cheeks. Marisa had called Shaun before they left, to make sure he would be home when they arrived. Savannah could hear his panic through the cell phone. “Her heart is fine, her health is fine,” Marisa had assured him. “Just … we’ll talk about it when we get there.”
She could see Shaun’s face in the front window when they pulled up. It hit her just how much damage this was going to do. Dread shrouded her soul as they walked up to the door that Shaun opened as they approached.
“What happened?”
“She couldn’t—”
“I can speak for myself,” Savannah snapped. Marisa’s mouth shut tight. Guilt upon guilt piled onto Savannah’s shoulders. “Let’s go sit down.”
She left Marisa and Shaun in the foyer and made her way to the living room, longing for the comfort of the familiar space, the calming view of the trees outside the window. Shaun and Marisa followed her in silence, and once they were all assembled she attempted to explain herself.
“Ever since the surgery — I don’t know why — but God has meant nothing to me. I’ve tried so hard to conjure up those feelings again, that faith—to be who I was before, but nothing has worked. The thought of prayer, of the Bible, of the concept of Christianity itself is just … foolishness to me.”
Shaun’s eyes were hard. “Be careful, Savannah. Don’t blaspheme the Holy Spirit.”
She met his stare with her own. “If there is a God, I’m guessing he’ll appreciate my honesty.”
“Do you have any idea what you’re saying, Savannah? Do you—”
“Of course I do! And I’ll thank you for not treating me like some petulant teen who’s all reaction and no thinking. I’m not doing this for the drama, believe me.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“Because I can’t pretend anymore! You have no idea what the last two months have been like, trying to find myself again and failing. You know — I know you do — that I’m not the same as I was. I can’t do anything about all these little changes — or this one huge change.”
“Have you prayed about it?” This from Marisa, who sat on the edge of the couch, her brow furrowed as though puzzling out algebra, as though enough thinking would bring out the answer.
“Of course not. Why would I? There’s no one to pray to.”
“But you know that’s not true.”
“No, I don’t. In my heart I know God is gone.”
“But you believed in him before.”
“And maybe before I was wrong. Maybe this is the truth, and my life before was misguided.”
“So we’re all wrong?” Shaun’s eyes flashed, she could feel his frustration. “Everything we’ve done at A&A for the last ten years was just chasing after a fairytale? The lives we’ve seen changed, the miracles we’ve witnessed—it’s all just a joke?”
She spread her hands in surrender. “I don’t know what to tell you. I just explained how I feel. I’m sorry I can’t just snap my fingers and say what you want me to say and believe it. I just can’t.”
He slumped back in his seat, ran his hands through his hair. “So what do we do about the tour?”
“We’ll just have to cancel it.”
He went white. “The whole thing? Do you have any idea how much money we’ll lose?”
“Classy, Shaun. So glad you’re concerned about me.”
“I am concerned about you. I’m concerned about how this will make you look to the almost 20,000 people who’ve bought this book. I’m concerned about the thousands of people who have already purchased their tickets, and what they’re going to think of you when you tell them you think they’re all a bunch of pitiful ignorants for believing in God.”
“I never said I think that!”
“You might as well have.”
Marisa waved her hands. “Stop, you two. This isn’t getting us anywhere.”
But Savannah wasn’t stopping until everything was out that she’d been bottling up. “What would you have me do, Shaun? Get up there and lie to them about what I believe? Don’t you think that’s going to make everything worse when I quit the ministry?”
Shaun’s jaw hung slack. “Wh-what? Quit?”
She held up her hands. “I don’t know yet. I’m just speculating. I can’t make any decisions right now. I’m a total wreck, emotionally, and I need to get all this stress out of my body before I explode.”
“Oh, yes, by all means, go run yourself a nice bath while I try to figure out how I’m going to fix your mess.”
She swore at him, saying words she’d never uttered in her life. Marisa and Shaun’s shocked faces didn’t make her feel any better. She left for her office, slamming the door behind her, and sank into her chair and cried.
SHAUN SHOOK HIMSELF AWAKE AND shifted in his desk chair. He knew he should get home soon, before he was unsafe to drive from exhaustion, but home was the last place he wanted to be. Maybe it was time to bring one of their old sleeping bags in, stash it under his desk. He’d rather sleep on the hard floor of his office than next to the stranger in his bed.
It had been five days since Savannah had come unglued. They had spoken less than three times since, both of them choosing to avoid each other as much as possible. He and Marisa had agreed not to tell A&A’s staff the real reason why the tour had been canceled, which meant even more lying since everyone kept wanting to know how she was doing, if she was feeling better, if they were going to reschedule the tour. He thought maybe he’d try his hand at writing fiction when A&A crashed and burned; he’d gotten very good at making stuff up.
The Heart of Memory Page 16