“Yeah—slow, though,” Julia said. “I’m off in five, but can I just go now? I need to get gas before I leave for class or I’ll never make it.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
Julia pushed off the counter and said good-bye to Ben before disappearing into the back. Rachel followed her, saying a quick prayer in her mind, and catching her just before she left. “Hey, Julia—did you give any more thought to that study I told you about?” Rachel just knew if she could get Julia to the young-adult Bible study at church, she’d be hooked.
Julia bit her lip and gave Rachel a sheepish look. “Yeah … thanks again for inviting me, but I don’t really think it’s my thing, you know? I’m not really into all … that.”
Rachel smiled despite her disappointment. “I understand. But the invitation is always open, just so you know.” Not that she was going to give up that easily. Julia was a sweet girl, and Rachel was worried about the way she’d been describing her weekends lately.
“Thanks. You’re sweet.” Julia gave her a little wave before letting herself out through the back door.
Rachel went back to work, praying alternately for Julia, her mother, and Barbara. After work she stopped at home to change clothes before heading to her mother’s. Trisha was just getting ready to walk out the door when Rachel walked in. “Hi and good-bye,” Rachel said with a grin. “What is it today?”
“Hobby House.”
“Have fun,” Rachel said with a wave as her roommate passed her on the steps that led up to their apartment. Trisha worked three different jobs, all with crazy hours, and given how often she seemed to be running late and dashing out the door, even she couldn’t keep them all straight.
She took an apple into her bedroom and opened her laptop. I really think you want me at this school, God. So I could use a little inspiration here. She waited for the words to come, the one lonely paragraph mocking her. After a while of staring at the screen she finally gave up, put her laptop away, and headed out the door for dinner.
Rachel pulled into her parents’ driveway twenty minutes later, navigating the cracks in the pavement where the tree roots had disrupted the cement before parking behind her mother’s ancient Volvo. Returning to the house where she’d grown up never failed to elicit a childhood memory of one kind or another. Today she caught a glimpse of younger versions of her and Daphne hanging on the tire swing in the backyard under the summer sunshine.
When she got out of the car she took a quick look at the house across the street where Daphne’s parents still lived. The shades were down, as usual, and the grass was long. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen them.
She turned back to her parents’ house and opened the door, stepping into the living room and inhaling to see if she could guess what was cooking. But all she could smell was the familiar scent of the house.
“Mom?”
“Hi Rach. In here.”
Rachel took off her sandals and walked to the kitchen. Her mother, looking haggard, sat at the table where a stack of takeout menus lay in a pile. “Oh, Mom, you poor thing. This must be one rough cold.” She kissed her mother’s cheek and sat down across from her. The woman looked awful. There were bags beneath her eyes, untouched by makeup, her cheeks sunken and pale. She had always looked at least ten years younger than she really was, but today she looked ten years older. Rachel’s heart pounded in her chest. “Mom? You okay?”
Her mother dabbed at her eyes with a crumpled tissue. “I don’t have a cold, Rachel. But there is something I have to tell you.”
No, no, no. I can’t take any more bad news. God, please. Not cancer, God. Not a tumor. Oh please … “What is it, Mom?”
“It’s your father. He … he left.”
Rachel’s heart stopped. “Left? You’re not saying … You don’t mean …”
Her mother took a deep breath and sighed. “We’re separated, Rachel. And we’re getting a divorce.”
Rachel felt sick. She stared open-mouthed at her mother before she finally spoke. “I don’t get it. Did you guys have a fight? Was he cheating on you? Were—Mom, you aren’t having an affair, are you?”
Her mother let out a humorless laugh. “No, Rachel, I am not. And no, we didn’t fight, and no, he wasn’t cheating, either. But there is a reason. I didn’t think you’d ever need to know, but now it looks like you do.” She stood and pulled a glass from the cabinet, then filled it at the sink. “Your father has bipolar disorder. He’s always been fairly good at staying on his medication—by the time you came along we had his dosages pretty well figured out, and when he did get unstable, we were usually able to quickly sort out his levels.”
She handed her glass to Rachel, who held it without drinking. “But the last few years he’s been fighting the medication, insisting he doesn’t need it, that sort of thing. In March he got more depressed than ever, and I had to check him into the psych ward at Good Shepherd.”
Rachel thought back two months, and remembered going to her parents’ house to take in the mail and water the plants. “So … you didn’t go to Grandma’s? Where did you go when Dad was in the … hospital?”
“I went to Sacramento to see Gayle. She’d been bugging me to visit for ages anyway.” Gayle was her mother’s best friend. Gayle’s daughter Pauline was a year younger than Daphne, and for a number of years Pauline had been Rachel’s other best friend, her Christian best friend, as opposed to Daphne, her best friend whose soul she needed to bring to the Lord.
“Did Gayle know about Dad?”
Her mother nodded.
“Who else knows?”
“Well, your father’s family knows, of course, and my parents, and—”
“Who doesn’t know?”
Her mother sat back down with her own glass of water. “No one at church knows. Most of our casual friends—the neighbors, the men your father golfs with, those kinds of people—they don’t know.”
Rachel shook her head, tears blurring her vision. “How could you not tell me?”
“Mental illness is one of those topics you just don’t talk about, honey. And he was afraid you’d think differently of him, pity him—be scared of him. He was so stable for so long that there never seemed to be a reason why we had to say anything, so we didn’t. And then, when he started to have more trouble, he didn’t want to say anything because he didn’t know how to admit he’d slipped. We always just kept an eye on you, to make sure we caught any signs that you might have it too. But you haven’t shown any, so we don’t think you inherited it.”
Rachel stood. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe any of this. This is nuts.” She ran her fingers through her hair, gathering the shoulder-length locks in a wad at her neck and squeezing them tight, then letting her arms fall limp at her sides. “So, what happened? Why did he leave?”
“He’s off his meds. Went off them almost a week ago. He’s never been manic like this before. He disappeared Saturday night and didn’t come back until Sunday afternoon, and when he did he was talking about taking a road trip, going to … I don’t know, New York or something.” She waved her hand, looking tired of the whole conversation. “He spent all afternoon talking about it, then went out and bought a boatload of food and travel-sized shampoos and toothpastes. Then Monday morning he got up and told me he couldn’t be tied down anymore, and he needed to leave to find himself. So he packed a bag and left.”
Rachel paced the kitchen for a moment, letting her brain process everything she’d just heard. Then she stopped. “Wait—that doesn’t mean he really wants a divorce, right? I mean, he could come back to his senses, realize he was crazy and didn’t mean what he said.”
Her mother shrugged. “I suppose he could. But he’s not the one that wants the divorce. I do.”
“What?”
“I don’t expect you to understand, Rachel.” Her mother raised her chin, resolved.
“How could you?
“You can’t imagine the stress I’ve been under, living with him when he’s like thi
s. And it hasn’t just been the last week, or even the last two months. Over the last five years, things have steadily declined. It’s been a nightmare that just keeps getting worse. When he’s depressed I have to watch him like a hawk and lock away all the knives and pills so he can’t kill himself. I have to come up with one story after another for why he’s not at work, why we’re not at church, why I have to cancel plans with people.” She closed her eyes for a moment. Her lip quivered, but when she spoke again, her voice remained calm. “When he’s manic, I have to chase him around, tracking down receipts from shopping sprees, praying like mad that he won’t crash the car or do something stupid, worrying when he disappears for hours at a time. He’s almost lost his job twice, and I’m pretty sure he won’t have one after this week. Our savings isn’t going to keep us for long, and we’re too young to dip into our retirement without a penalty. If he’d file for disability we’d at least get some assistance, but he won’t do it. He’s too proud, or embarrassed, or both, or neither—I don’t know.” She sniffed and pulled a tissue from the box. “Thank God we own the house and the cars outright. I can find some kind of job to pay the bills, at least. But I can’t do this anymore with him.”
Rachel was stunned. “What about ‘in sickness and in health’?”
“It would be a different story if he wanted to get better, sweetheart. But the last few years make it clear he doesn’t. And I didn’t sign on to be a babysitter.” She sat back, shoulders slouched, face lined with fatigue. “If he wants to be on his own, then fine. It’s just as well, because I’m done.”
Chapter 3
Rachel only stayed long enough to try to convince her mother to change her mind. But when it was clear she was resigned to—even pleased with—her choice, Rachel left.
She drove aimlessly for half an hour, eventually reaching a park where a handful of children were playing as a few adults looked on. She parked and leaned forward, her forehead resting against the steering wheel. Her mind was spinning. She couldn’t follow a single thought to completion. Driving had given her a focus, but now that she was parked, her emotions got the best of her, and tears began to stream down her cheeks.
She was dumbfounded. It seemed her whole identity was invalidated. Her family, her history—had all of it been a lie? She began to conjure scenes from her childhood, examining them for clues to her father’s condition. Dad’s last-minute business trip to Washington—a front for one of the spells? The Christmas when I got twenty presents—the result of a manic-driven shopping spree? What if his enthusiasm for my accomplishments was just the mania? What if he wasn’t as crazy about me as I always thought he was?
She felt as though she’d been punched in the gut. He hadn’t even called her to say good-bye.
Her shoulders shook with sobs she couldn’t voice. She felt lost, unmoored. Her scattered thoughts finally coalesced into a pointless prayer.
God, how could you let this happen?
When she pulled herself together, Rachel drove to Patrick’s house to await his return from the softball game. She needed to see him, to be comforted by him.
She pulled into a visitor space and was grateful to see his car already in its numbered spot. He must have just gotten home, she thought. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself and ascended the stairs to his apartment. She knocked, then sank onto one of the two lawn chairs that he kept by the door. The darkening sky with its smattering of pinprick stars was soothing.
The door opened after a minute. “Rachel? What are you doing here? You all right?” He stepped out, closing the door behind him, and sat in the other chair beside her. “You’ve been crying.”
She nodded as tears threatened to come again. “My mom is divorcing my dad.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You’re kidding.”
“Hard to believe, huh?”
“Very.”
“There’s more.”
He sighed. “Oh man. What else?”
Rachel stared at her hands, which were pleating the end of her shirt. “The reason my mom is divorcing my dad is because my dad has bipolar disorder.” She hoped he wouldn’t jump to any conclusions and worry that she was a carrier. Him worrying about her possibly passing the disorder along to their future children was the last thing she needed.
He frowned. “Like, manic depression?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
She told herself not to read into the subtle shift in his body that created another inch of space between them. “When did that happen?”
“Before I was even born, apparently. Everyone knew in my family but me. Can you believe that? How do you not tell your daughter something like that? That’s like not telling her that you have diabetes or something. Never mind that she might have it too, or that she could maybe have helped you all these years.” Tears began to sting her eyes again. “I’m so angry at them. And hurt. He’s off his medication, apparently, and he just left. Told her he needed to go find himself. What kind of crud is that?” She fought to keep her voice from quavering into incomprehensibility. “And how could he just leave without even saying good-bye?”
Patrick squeezed her shoulder. “Sometimes people make mistakes, Rach. We’re all broken, you know? We’re all fallen. It sounds like something has a hold on him that he can’t control. I’m sure he misses you. And of course he loves you. This is all separate from you, though, you know? Don’t take it personally.”
She sniffed and smudged the tears beneath her eyes. “No offense, sweetheart, but that wasn’t helpful.”
He shrugged. “I’m not good at this kind of thing—you know that.”
Rachel shimmied closer to him and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Eloping has never been that appealing, but I sure wish we could just get hitched right now so I could stay here with you all night.”
Patrick laughed.
“Glad my misery is entertaining for you,” she said with a quivering lip.
“Oh, Rachel, I didn’t mean anything by it.” He smoothed her hair and platonically patted her back—not the kind of touch she’d been hoping for. She squirmed beneath his hand and sat up with a sigh, which he echoed as he ran his hand through his hair. “Look, Rachel, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do to help you.”
“I know, I know—I don’t know what you can do, either. I’m sorry too. I’m just … I don’t know. I’m just angry, and sad, and … I just don’t understand how God could see all this happening and not step in to fix it. Barb, my dad, my parents’ marriage …” She shook her head and shrugged, unable to find the right words.
“C’mon, Rachel—it’s not like this is the end of the world. There are other people who have it a lot worse.”
“So since other people have it worse than I do, I shouldn’t be upset?”
“That’s not what I mean. You’re just taking it awfully hard, given that, in the grand scheme of things, it’s not like these are earth-shattering events. God’s not stepping in for actual earth-shattering events … so why would he step in for this?”
Rachel stared at him, mouth gaping. “So God doesn’t care what we go through, is that what you’re saying? Jesus seemed to say a lot differently in the Sermon on the Mount.”
“No, I’m not saying that. I just—” He shook his head. “Look, never mind. Forget I said anything.”
They sat in silence, stewing and mulling. Rachel stared at the darkened sky, eyes pulled to the blinking lights of an airplane far in the distance. The sight triggered the conversation she’d had with Daphne. Escaping for a weekend looked a lot better than it had at lunch.
“I’m going to go home.” She stood and folded her arms across her chest against the cool breeze that began to blow. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Patrick reached out and caught her elbow. “Hey. I’m really sorry, Rachel. I want to help make you feel better—just tell me what I can do.”
She shrugged. “I guess there isn’t really anything. I’m sorry if I made you feel b
ad for not knowing what to do, when even I don’t know what I need. This is new territory for me. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.”
Patrick pulled her into a hug, his chin resting on the crown of her head. She sank into him. “You still are blessed, Rach. I guess that’s what I was trying, poorly, to say earlier. God still has His hand on your life.”
“Yeah—I guess.” She had offered similar consolations to others over the years, but she had never needed them for herself. She winced at how hollow the words felt.
She drove home with the radio off. The silence gave her space to think, though her mind was stuck on one word: Why? Patrick was right, of course—everyone was flawed. No one’s life was perfect or free from pain. But when you’ve lived twenty-six years tragedy-free, you can’t help but start to think maybe you’ve done something right, and that God’s smile shines a little brighter when he looks at you.
So what had she done to make him frown?
Chapter 4
Rachel awoke Wednesday morning tangled in a stifling quilt of exhaustion and sorrow. Sleep had eluded her for most of the night, though by God’s grace she was closing the café instead of opening it, so she was able to hide beneath the sheets for a while.
But soon enough she needed coffee. So when she finally dragged herself from bed, she headed for the kitchen and opened the pantry door. After a short deliberation she pulled the canister of Guatemalan Santiago Atitlan, her go-to for emergencies, from the back of the top shelf and dumped two tablespoons of the grounds into her French press. In the state she was in, she needed something with some hefty body and snap to get her in shape for work.
She took a deep breath, inhaling the rich aroma. With the scent clearing her head as it filled the small galley kitchen, she returned the canister to the pantry and added the boiling water to the press pot. Then she carried a bowl of cereal to the table to wait for the grounds to steep.
Her thoughts swirled like steam as she munched her Special K. She knew she should be praying, but for the first time in her life, she didn’t really want to talk to God. Of the three people she typically went to in a crisis, two of them were the crisis, and the other had proven himself less than competent at helping her cope. She couldn’t really blame him, she realized—he’d had no practice at comforting her since they’d been together because nothing this bad ever happened in her life. Certainly he’d get better with it over time—not that she hoped he’d have more opportunities to work on his skills.
Reinventing Rachel Page 3