by Nancy Moser
In fact, within three hours of the procedure, Merry’s mom suggested they order takeout. They’d actually stayed up until eleven watching an old Jimmy Stewart movie.
Not that she begrudged her mother some attention, but the timing was awful. Leaving Sim just after Claire left her? And leaving her in Bailey’s charge? What had she been thinking?
She tested the speed limit.
Sim tore the paper cup into pieces. She stared at the floor of the hospital waiting room. They’d been doing tests on Bailey all day. They were shooting dye into the arteries to see where the blockage was. After the test they’d know what to do next. Balloon-something-or-other, or even bypass surgery. Procedures that meant nothing before now took on vivid meaning with huge consequences.
I hate hospitals. Bailey could die. Wasn’t that what happened in hospitals?
“You’re making quite a mess.”
Merry stood in the doorway of the waiting room. Sim jumped up and gratefully accepted a hug. “When did you get back?”
“Just now.”
“How’s your mom?”
“She’s fine. But Bailey…?”
“How did you find out?”
“I stopped at the library. Blanche said you’ve been here since early morning?”
Sim sank into a chair and resumed her shredding. “Bailey’s having tests right now.”
“It’s good you were staying with him.”
But I ran away.
Merry looked around the waiting room and shivered.
“What’s wrong?”
She took a deep breath. “I hate hospitals, and two hospitals in two days is testing my tolerance.”
Sim nodded. “People die in hospitals.”
Merry lifted the girl’s chin. “But not today, Sim. Not today.” She took another look around the waiting room. “Where’s Jered?”
“I don’t think he even knows what happened.”
“That kid. We need to find—”
The doctor came in. He winked at Sim but went to Merry. “Merry. Glad you’re here to help our heroine out.”
She turned to Sim. “Heroine?”
Sim shook her head. She didn’t want this kind of attention.
“Bailey needs an angioplasty—a balloon to open up the blocked artery.”
“But he’s so young.”
The doctor shrugged. “It happens. Rich foods, little exercise, stress.”
Sim sank into a chair. It’s all my fault.
“When is he scheduled?”
“As soon as possible.”
“What are the risks?”
“Angioplasty is routine. Although there is always risk, with the proper diet, exercise, and treatment, he should be fine.” The doctor squeezed Merry’s hand and put his other hand on Sim’s shoulder. “We’ll let you know when it’s scheduled. Sim, if you’d like to go see him now, you can. He asked for you.”
“Can I go too?”
The doctor nodded at Merry. “If you keep it short.”
Jered stood across the street from the hospital. He’d tried to go closer a dozen times, only to retreat to this spot.
STAY AWAY! THEY DON’T WANT YOU THERE.
But he’s my dad!
HE’S REJECTED YOU AND FOUND ANOTHER.
But he needs me!
HE NEEDS THE ONE WHO SAVED HIM, NOT THE ONE WHO HURT HIM.
Jered ran out of arguments.
Merry stuck her head in the door to Bailey’s room. “Up to a couple of visitors, Bailey?”
There was a smile in his weak voice. “Merry, you’re back.”
“Just in time, I see. Slacking off again.”
Sim followed her in. She wasn’t sure what reception she’d get. Would Bailey still be mad about Sanchez and her running away, or would he remember that she’d helped him?
Merry came to his bedside, but Sim stayed near the door. Bailey swallowed with difficulty and Merry handed him a glass of water.
“Where’s Jered?”
“We haven’t seen him, but as soon as we do…” With her next breath, she changed the subject. “You scared about the surgery?”
“More scared not to have it.”
There was a moment of awkward silence. Merry squeezed his hand. “We’d better let you rest. Take care and—”
He raised a hand in Sim’s direction. “Sim.”
She took a step closer, expecting a full frontal assault.
“I’m sorry, Sim. About being mad.”
Merry looked puzzled, but Sim nodded. “It’s okay.”
“Are you okay?”
“Sure. Just get better.”
“I want to thank you. Thank you for saving me.” Sim nodded, then hurried away. How come some compliments were as hard to take as complaints?
In the hallway, Merry pulled Sim aside. “What was Bailey mad about?”
Sim punched the button for the elevator. “Nothing.”
“It didn’t sound like nothing.”
She punched it again. “It is.”
Merry looked to the numbers lit above the door. “Have you heard from Claire?” Sim shook her head. Merry didn’t know what to say. “Want to come to work?”
“Sure.”
Merry was underwhelmed by her enthusiasm.
Claire swept Harold’s porch. The yard was looking good. She’d gotten it cleaned up and had even repaired a sagging shutter. It was a good way to spend an afternoon. They’d had some hamburgers and a half hour ago she’d sent Harold to the hardware store to buy some wire mesh so she could fix his screen door.
In spite of being out of the loop, in spite of being away from Sim, she marveled in the simple high of her domestic achievements. Yet her motives were twofold. She was helping Harold to repay him for his hospitality, but it was also to prevent herself from going bonkers while waiting to hear news about Sim and from having to make a decision about taking the mosaic commission.
The other perk about doing manual labor was that it gave her a chance to pray. The pull of her muscles fueled the pull of her mind as she searched for direction from the Lord. Since being Sim-less, she had gone through the entire gamut of techniques to hear God’s promptings. She’d prayed harder, faster, longer; she’d tried to empty her mind of all thought, hoping God would fill it with inspiration; and she’d taken short naps, praying that divine dreams would show her the way.
But all she’d gotten was silence. A peaceful silence, as if the silence itself was God’s answer. A heavenly “not yet.”
She finished the sweeping and paused to look at her handiwork.
“You’re spoiling me.” Harold came up the walk, carrying a roll of wire mesh.
Claire set aside the broom. “What’s the newest news of Steadfast? Is there a search party combing the streets for the crazy lady from the attic who gave away her fortune to rake leaves and live undercover? Should I be wearing a full disguise when I work on your yard? Your neighbor looked at me funny.”
“There is news.”
When he didn’t smile, her heart skipped. “Is Sim all right?”
“Sim’s a heroine. She found Bailey collapsed from a heart attack.”
“Is he okay?”
Harold shrugged. “He’s having angioplasty surgery tomorrow morning.”
A question surfaced. Claire hated that her mind had so quickly set aside Bailey’s pain for her own, but she voiced her thought. “Where is Sim staying?”
Harold took a breath, as if bracing himself. “Merry is back.”
Claire’s hope deflated. “Oh.” She took a breath that started at her toes, but the fresh air did not make the ache go away. And she wanted it away. Desperately. More than anything she wanted to feel normal again. She made a decision and headed for the garage. “I’m going home.”
“Home?”
She stopped and faced him. “Back to Kansas City. Nothing’s working out the way I planned.”
“The way you planned?”
All she could do was stare at him.
Harold swallowed. �
��He who learns the most has faced struggles.”
She wiped a hand across her forehead. “Shakespeare?”
“Harold Shinness.” He carried the wire mesh to the porch, set it by the door, sat on the top step, and waited for her to join him.
She resisted. She didn’t want to be talked out of it. “I’m not doing anybody any good here, Harold.”
“You’re doing me good.”
“Sure. The yard work. But—”
“I know yard work isn’t a big thing. It’s not fulfilling some lofty purpose.”
She let a breath in, then out. “I gave up everything.”
“And helping me with chores isn’t proper compensation.”
A fire sparked. Her arms flailed. “Hey, I’m helping you without any compensation. I was trying to take care of Sim without a single moment of encouragement. I’m doing all of this out of the goodness of my—” His look stopped her final word.
“It doesn’t have to be big, Claire.”
“What doesn’t have to—?”
“Your purpose.” He squirmed on the porch, getting comfortable. “People are always looking for the big thing, the big sacrifice with the big reward. They want something showy, something worthy of their trouble.”
“Are you saying God didn’t ask me to give up everything?”
He shrugged. “I’m saying maybe you made it bigger than it needed to be. Maybe all He really wanted from you was a yes. A blanket surrender to go in whatever direction He chose, addressing whatever aspect of your life He wanted to bring to your attention. You took it to mean giving up your possessions, your art, but maybe that wasn’t at the core of His charge.”
“You’re saying I gave up everything for nothing?”
“Not for nothing. And your motives were honorable. You knew your everything involved possessions and position. So you gave them up as a gesture—”
Her laugh was bitter. “Let me tell you, it was more than a gesture.”
“Wrong word. And I know it was hard. It should be hard. And I wouldn’t be so presumptuous as to tell you it was wrong.”
“Isn’t that exactly what you’re doing?”
“No, no.” He ran a hand over his face. “I don’t mean to muddle your mind; I want to clarify it.”
“You’re not doing a very good job.”
He made a tent with his fingers and was quiet a moment. “We have a tendency to complicate things, to make them more involved and intricate than they actually are.”
“If I hadn’t given up everything, I never would have come to Steadfast.”
Harold’s face showed new wrinkles as he tried to find the words. When he did, they came out in a rush. “The big question relates to the main call, the all-encompassing call.”
“What are you talking about?”
His face cleared and he sat up straighter, as if he’d found the right direction of his thoughts. “People are detail oriented. We want direct answers to specific, detailed questions.”
“You bet we do.”
“We want to know the when, what, who, where, why of everything.”
“Absolutely.”
“If I came to you and said, ‘Claire, I want you to say yes to me,’ what would you say?”
“I’d say, ‘That depends. Yes about what?’ “
“Exactly. We treat God the same way. He gets our attention—which is no small feat in itself—and then He says, ‘I want you to say yes to Me.’ At that point we hedge and say—”
The idea fell into its proper slot. ‘“That depends. Yes about what?’”
Harold touched the tip of his nose. “But God doesn’t want a conditional yes. Where’s the faith in that? He wants us to just say yes, without knowing any details, without knowing what aspect of our lives the yes pertains to, without knowing anything.”
“He wants us to say yes blindly?”
Harold popped to his feet. “But we’re not blind. We know who He is. If we didn’t, He wouldn’t be asking. The yes question is not one that’s asked until we’re ready, Claire. We have to know Him, know how He works, know about Jesus, the Holy Spirit, the whole shebang. We’re not blind when He asks the big question. He’s given us the basics, tested us, taught us, carried us along a road that’s been fraught with chuckholes, detours, and accidents. And He’s asked many other yes-or-no questions along the way.”
“Like what?”
He looked at the sky, then counted on his fingers. “‘Do you trust me?’ ‘Do you believe I can do this for you?’ ‘Do you believe I am who I say I am?’ Those kinds of questions.”
Claire’s mind was on fire. “And if we say yes to all those specific questions, then we’re ready for Him to ask the big question?”
Harold came down the steps and put his hands on her shoulders. His eyes locked on to hers. “Yes, Claire. Yes.”
Tears burned. “I want to say yes, Harold. But what’s the big question?
He took hold of her shoulders, led her to the steps, and pushed her to sitting. Then he went in the house. He came back with a Bible and pressed it into her hands. “Isaiah 6:8.”
He went inside.
Claire watched a bird land on a telephone wire. It fluttered its wings and looked down at her. Waiting. She took hold of the cross around her neck.
I want to say yes to the big question, Lord. Help me do it.
She opened the Bible, finding the verse: “Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?’ And I said, ‘Here am I. Send me!’”
Chills rippled up and down her spine. Michelle had quoted this very verse in her parting note. Claire put a hand to her mouth and felt God’s question deep inside, melding her physical, mental, emotional, intellectual, and spiritual beings.
Will you go for me? Whoever, whatever, whenever, wherever, why ever, however?
Claire bowed her head in her hands and said the words God had been waiting to hear.
“Yes, Lord. Yes.”
Twenty
But Jonah ran away from the LORD.
JONAH 1:3
JERED SNUCK INTO HIS OWN HOUSE. It was a weird concept, but that was how it felt. He didn’t belong there anymore.
He went into the kitchen and stepped over the Monopoly pieces lying all over the floor. Then suddenly he couldn’t stand the sight of them. They were evidence of his anger and his father’s pain. He picked them up in a rush and stuffed the game onto the highest shelf in the entry closet. There. Nothing happened here. Nothing at all.
But something had happened. Certainly by now his father had told everyone Jered caused his heart attack. It was only a matter of time before someone came to the door and dragged him away to face the consequences of being a terrible son.
Sim saved him.
Sim would live here now. Permanently. Sim was everything Jered was not. He was expendable. She would make the perfect child.
And she might be home soon. Which meant he had to be gone.
Jered ran upstairs and stuffed a backpack with clothes and scraps of paper containing the songs he’d written. Looking around his room, he was surprised at how few things really meant anything to him. He noticed a picture stuck in the edge of the dresser mirror. It was of his dad and him, taken years ago at the opening of Bon Vivant. They were both smiling. Another time. Another world.
He shoved it in the pack.
Jered was headed out of town when he found himself turning down a side street. Only after the turn did he realize his intent.
He parked a few houses away from Merry’s and walked down the sidewalk, hands in his pockets. He started whistling but stopped. He didn’t want to draw attention. Luckily, it was hot and the neighbors were inside.
At Merry’s he bypassed the front door and slid into the fenced yard. He made a beeline for the shed in the back. It looked like any other shed. But Jered knew different. One day when he’d been walking past, he’d seen her slip inside. Nothing odd there. But then she’d closed the door and hadn’t come out. For a long time.<
br />
After dark he’d come back with a flashlight and found her stupid shrine. He felt bad that she lost her family, but didn’t she see how weird it was to keep a shrine like that? Jered didn’t keep a shrine of his mom.
Which had made him realize how little he knew about his mother—the woman who’d left when he was tiny. He didn’t have a picture of her displayed in his room. He barely thought of her. I think of her just as much as she probably thinks of me. Wherever she is…
That’s when he took the picture of Merry and her son. A poor substitute, but better than nothing. There was probably something weird in that, but he didn’t let himself dwell on it.
Jered stood before the shed-shrine. His gut clenched. He hated all it represented. Love, family, longing, loyalty. Where were those things in his life?
He shoved open the door until the sunlight bathed the rug, the photos, the flowers, the crosses. He went inside and nudged the stuffed monkey with his foot.
An idea formed.
Merry left work early, spurred by Blanche and Sim’s assurance that they could handle the library the rest of the day. She was mentally weary, what with her mother’s health, Bailey’s attack, and life in general.
When she pulled into her driveway, she noticed someone moving around her backyard. She turned off the car and ran toward the fence. “Hey! What are you—?”
It was Jered. He froze. He was next to the shed holding a cross made of small branches, one hand on each section. His aborted movement continued its work and the cross tore in two.
She ran toward him, her eyes grabbing onto the desecration: the ripped photos, the shredded rug. “What have you done? Why have you—?
Jered tossed the branches aside. He pointed to the shed. “That’s sick.”
“That’s none of your business!” She spotted Justin’s stuffed monkey sticking out of a mound of impatiens, and she retrieved it. She petted the brown fur, checking for damage, then hugged it to her chest.
Jered headed for the gate.
She ran after him, grabbing his arm. “You stay here and fix this!”
He pulled away from her, his chest heaving. His mouth contorted as if words were wanting out, yet being held prisoner within. There was something wild in his eyes, and Merry felt a tingling of fear. She lowered her voice. “I don’t know why you did this, Jered, but I want you to put it back together.”