by Max Lucado
“Not a bad answer, huh?” Chelsea said.
“Not bad,” Tony said.
Chelsea left Tony to himself while she deep-cleaned the curved glass of her pastry display case. After more than an hour of reading from the blog, Chelsea noticed Tony wiping his teary eyes on the sleeve of his already damp sweatshirt. She brought a few napkins to the table.
“So you still think I’m writing these pat answers?” Chelsea asked.
“No, of course not. I guess it could be God. Or maybe it isn’t.” Tony closed his laptop. He looked up at Chelsea, his eyes red and puffy. “What gets me the most is the questions—all the hopes, fears, and doubts. The needs! From people right here in my own backyard. And I’ve been raising money for new carpeting.” He stopped to dry his eyes once more. “Something tells me Desiree Johnson paid very little mind to paint colors and multimedia youth rooms.”
“She passed away before I could post her question to the God Blog.”
“ ‘Who will take care of Marcus when I’m gone?’ ” Tony recalled. “I’m glad you didn’t ask.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I hope to be the answer.”
Chapter 43
Dennis said he spoke to you.”
“Um . . . yes.” Chelsea had planned to deposit Deb’s latte on the table, exchange niceties, and dash. But it was clear Deb had come to talk, so Chelsea took a seat across from her old friend, proceeding gingerly. “So you guys are still—”
“No. I ended it,” Deb said. “He still calls and leaves me messages. I used to listen to them, but I promised my husband I wouldn’t do that anymore. I actually have a new number now. I’ll give it to you. I hope this doesn’t make you uncomfortable,” she added matter-of-factly. “It’s just that after months of sneaking around, honesty is cathartic.”
Chelsea nodded. “And your husband . . . How are you guys handling everything?”
“I knew I married a good man. I didn’t realize how good.” Deb reached for the napkin beneath her mug of coffee and dabbed her eyes. “Of course, it hasn’t been easy on him. He’s heartbroken. It’s a process, a painful one. But sometimes I think he’s more forgiving of me than I am of myself.”
Chelsea moved to the seat next to Deb, placing her arm around her old friend.
“Sorry.” Deb tried to collect herself. “It’s hard because I know I don’t deserve it. But the way he’s loved me through this. It makes me love him even more.”
Deb’s eyes drifted toward the window, and the two women sat in silence.
Chelsea felt for Deb. She really did. But in the back of her mind, she had to acknowledge that her friend was the Sawyer of her situation. What made Deb’s deed forgivable? How did her husband manage to move past the past? Chelsea began to wonder if there was something wrong with her. She knew she had a tendency to hold grudges, but maybe there was something more. Maybe she had a genetic predisposition for holding grudges. With her family history it made sense. Broken and battered branches ran down her father’s side of the family tree. It was simply in her nature. Chelsea was missing the forgiveness gene.
“Chelsea?” Deb said after some time had passed. “Isn’t that your dad?”
Chelsea stood to her feet, pressing her nose against the front window like a little girl. Sure enough, her father was shuffling toward the café, wearing tweed pants, a blue oxford, and navy blue slippers. The closer he got, the more out of sorts he appeared, his voice carrying down the street.
“Virginia!” he shouted. “Virginia!” He bellowed for his late ex-wife as he made his way onto the lawn.
Chelsea knocked on the window instinctively, hoping this would make him stop, but it only seemed to amplify his efforts. She stepped outside to prevent the scene from escalating. It worked, but not in the way she anticipated.
“Virginia,” he whispered with relief. He grasped onto the rail of the porch, his shoulders hunched, chest heaving. “Where are the girls? I came home and they were gone. The car’s missing too.”
Chelsea stared at her father. He was lost. No, more than lost. He was trapped. Trapped in time.
“Answer me, Virginia! Are the girls all right?”
“Mommy?” Emily had arrived home from school. Hancock trailed her by a couple yards.
“Chelsea!” the old man exclaimed. “I’m so sorry, Chelsea. I never should have left you like that. Daddy loves you. You know that, right? I’ll always love you.” He knelt down in front of Emily, kissing her forehead. His affection for the child, though misled, was undeniable. Even to Chelsea.
Emily looked to her mom, her eyes full of questions and a hint of fear. No wonder Chelsea’s father had mistaken the little girl for his own daughter.
“Come, Charlie,” Chelsea said, helping her father to his feet.
“Mom, is that your dad?” Hancock asked.
Chelsea nodded. Hancock knew very little about his grandfather, but he knew it was no accident they had not yet met him. “Let’s go inside,” he whispered, leading Emily by the hand.
“And Sara? She’s okay?” Charlie asked.
“She’s just fine.”
“I’m so sorry, Virginia. I hope you can forgive me,” he said, closing the gap between them. Chelsea’s first instinct was to step back. To go inside and shut out the man who had slammed the door on her so many years ago. But something stopped her. Pity.
A strong wind blew through the trees, tinkling through the wind chimes Katrina had added to her front porch. She and her father both looked up, watching the branches bend and sway in the steely sky.
She looked back at the shivering old man, exposed to the crowd of onlookers who had been disturbed by his confused ranting.
“Come on, Charlie,” Chelsea said, placing an arm on her father’s shoulder. “Let’s get you inside.”
Chapter 44
Look at my girls! So beautiful.” Charlie beamed at a photo of Chelsea and Sara dressed in frilly pastels. “That was Easter Sunday, three years ago.”
Chelsea and her father sat on the sofa in the sunroom, an open photo album between them. Chelsea looked at the photo with amazement. Her father’s memory was sharp as ever. Only it seemed to have stopped at 1980.
“That was a great day. One of our best,” Charlie said, soaking in the memory.
Chelsea’s attempt to bring clarity to her father only seemed to muddy the waters, so she resolved to make the past the present until Sara arrived. Her mother’s old room was like a time capsule, filled with memories that seemed to calm her father’s confused mind.
Charles reached across the sofa and took Chelsea’s hand, still confusing her for his late wife. “You remember, don’t you, Virginia?”
Of course she did. Chelsea remembered everything. The moment she found her mother doubled over in the kitchen weeping, stinging from the discovery of Charlie’s infidelity. The neglect of her father, which led to a nearly fatal car wreck, scarring her and her sister in different ways. The years of silence broken by an invitation to a shotgun wedding. The rage that followed. The shame she felt, walking down the aisle alone. And then there was the man at the end of the aisle. Sawyer Chambers, his own failings, so reminiscent of her father’s.
No wonder Chelsea’s memory had become her greatest weapon, a sword she wielded, wounding others to protect herself. For decades she had waged this war, but at what cost? Now she stood alone on the battlefield, bleeding and bruised. There were no victors in this war, and Chelsea counted herself among the casualties.
Was it time to lay down the sword?
“Yes, Charles. I remember,” Chelsea said, playing the role of her mother. “You bought Chelsea an Easy-Bake Oven that afternoon,” she said, pointing out a photo of herself running a makeshift kitchen at the ripe old age of eight.
Charlie’s grin stretched a mile wide. “Does she still play with that? ’Cause she loved that thing. And you know what? She made some delicious stuff. Like gourmet kind of stuff!”
Now it was Chelsea’s turn to smile. Her chocolate mi
ni cakes were anything but gourmet, but her father’s commentary made the memory sweeter.
It was a strange phenomenon, watching the past bring healing instead of hurt. Through page after page of her mother’s photo albums, Chelsea narrated a rosy picture of Christmases past, birthdays, first days of school. For once she wielded her memory not to wound, but to heal. They traveled through time, until landing on a timeless bridal portrait: Chelsea, wearing her mother’s antique wedding dress. She fell silent, uncertain of what to say.
“You were the most beautiful bride,” Charlie said, giving Chelsea’s hand a squeeze. She returned the squeeze, then freed her hand to wipe the tears forming in her eyes.
“Thank you,” she said. “That means a lot. More than you know.”
He nodded, glancing at the bay window behind him, where the sun had begun to set. “Well, I better go now,” he said, standing to his feet. “Deadlines and all.” He felt in his pockets. “Have you seen my keys?”
“Dad?” Sara stood in the doorway, her face somewhere between surprise and concern.
Charlie looked from Sara to Chelsea. “Do you know her?”
Chelsea offered Sara a bewildered shrug.
“Where are my keys?” Charlie said, his temper flaring. “I lost my keys!”
“We’ll find them,” Chelsea said, patting down the sofa until she felt a cool metal edge. She pulled the keys from their hiding place. “See? They’re not lost.”
As Chelsea extended the key ring to her father, her eyes landed on a relic dangling amongst the keys. Two bottle caps painted red and blue. Glued inside the ridged edges of each cap was a photo, one of Sara and one of Chelsea. She had made the key chain for Father’s Day when she was seven.
“Thank you,” Charlie said, clutching the bottle caps in his wrinkly palm. The familiar rhythmic jingling returned as he placed the keys in his pocket. He eased onto the couch. His face relaxed.
“Is he like this most of the time?” Chelsea asked, taking in her father’s distant stare.
“You never know these days.”
Chelsea had entered a door into the past, albeit an alternate past, unlocked by a man no longer imprisoned by bitter memories. For years she had felt like the forgotten daughter. Unwanted. Unloved. And yet there was her father, holding her in the palm of his hand. Still, it was bittersweet. Charles Hancock no longer possessed the key to conscious reconciliation. That door was sealed.
“There are still some ways to connect,” Sara said, always looking for the bright side. “Photos are good. And he likes music.”
Chelsea looked over at the phonograph in the corner. Her father had taught her to two-step while listening to a Sinatra album. Maybe this time she could teach him?
Sawyer’s black Escalade rolled to a halt in front of the Higher Grounds Café. His game plan was simple: drop off the signed divorce papers and leave. No hello, no visit with the kids, no arguing about the past. There’d be plenty of time for that in the future.
“Leavin’ already?”
Sawyer turned to see Chelsea’s neighbor. “Hey there.”
“It’s Bo,” the old man said, stepping into the light of the streetlamp. “We fixed the broken window together.”
“Of course, Bo. Good to see you,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. Sawyer’s eyes darted to and fro. He was hoping to deliver the papers unnoticed.
“How’s the job search? Any good leads?”
“Challenging. I had an interview for a coaching position at the community college today, so we’ll see. I’m headed back to Austin now. I just had to drop something off.”
“You got a special family in there.” Bo gestured toward the café. “You do know that, right?”
Sawyer braved a look at the house above the café. Through the window of Hancock and Emily’s bedroom he could see a constellation of stars, projected from the night-light he had given them. “I do know that. Didn’t always, but I do now.”
“Well, you have a safe trip back to Austin,” Bo said as he turned to leave. “Hope to see you soon.”
Sawyer lingered for just a moment more, hoping to catch a glimpse of his children. But it was late, and Hancock and Emily would most likely be dreaming. As Sawyer rounded the corner of his SUV, a curious flash of light caught his eye. He glanced over his shoulder toward the newly remodeled sunroom. In his thirteen years of marriage to Chelsea, Sawyer had never witnessed a scene such as this. Chelsea was dancing. But with whom, he could not tell. Sawyer crept forward for a better look, sticking close to the shadows of a nearby tree.
The realization hit him like a quarterback sack, hard and unexpected. Chelsea was dancing with her father, the man she had sworn she’d never forgive.
Chapter 45
From her mother’s rocker, Chelsea watched the brewing storm. After a whirlwind week, she was grateful for a quiet afternoon in her café.
“Hey, boss.” Manny trudged into the sunroom, holding a bouquet of pure white flowers.
“What are these for?” Chelsea asked.
“It’s Resurrection weekend. Good Friday, actually. I thought you could use something cheery in here.”
“They’re lovely.”
“Easter lilies. From my sisters’ garden.”
“Tell your sisters thank you. You should bring them by the café sometime.”
Manny placed them on the center table, then handed Chelsea the day’s mail. Among the colorful coupons and black-and-white bills, there was a familiar-looking manila envelope. “Thanks, Manny.” Chelsea started to open the envelope, but noticed Manny was still standing beside her. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Manny said. His eyes were glistening and sincere. “I just hope I’m doing a good job for you is all.”
“Are you kidding? It’s because of you I feel like I can make it on my own.” But when Manny looked to the floor, Chelsea wondered if she had said the wrong thing. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Chelsea decided to lighten the mood. “I like your T-shirt, Manny,” she added.
“Katrina got it for me. It’s a Star Wars shirt.”
“I see that.”
Manny forced a smile before leaving Chelsea alone with the dreaded manila envelope.
As Chelsea presumed, these were indeed the documents that would end her marriage. It was over. Chelsea was free. Her life was an open road. But if she continued on this path, her only companions would be the bitter memories that would stalk her until she could remember them no more. Her father had blazed this trail.
At eighty years old, he was finally free. But what a dreadful salvation! His freedom came by no conscious choice of his own, but rather by the cruel saviors of Alzheimer’s and dementia.
Chelsea knew it was too late to turn back. She was holding the evidence in her hands. Now she had to learn to walk the lonely road she had paved for herself. But how?
How will I make it on my own?
Chapter 46
Manny sat in an empty movie theater with his eyes glued to the sprawling screen and his hand burrowed in a giant tub of popcorn. He had come to savor this new postwork routine of evening prayer and late-night movies, and he had been looking forward to this special showing of The Empire Strikes Back for weeks. Hancock told him it was the best of all the Star Wars movies. Halfway through the film Manny was still making up his mind. What he knew for sure was that he found a familiar comfort in watching the lives of others unfold before his eyes. It reminded him of home, and he was missing heaven’s big-screen view more than ever.
There was still no word from Gabriel, but Manny had the sinking feeling his mission had ended in defeat. He had seen Chelsea looking over legal documents from Sawyer, and it didn’t take an angel’s view to know what that meant. He had lost. And he wasn’t the only one losing.
With one clean swipe of a light saber, Darth Vader cut off Luke’s hand. Manny shrieked, clutching his wrist, which now seared with pain thanks to a vivid imagination.
Darth Vader’s ominous mechanical
breath always sent a chill down Manny’s spine. “If only you knew the power of the Dark Side . . .” the evil lord growled at Luke Skywalker, his fist clenched as he threatened the vulnerable young Jedi. Then came the kicker. “I am your father.”
“What? Nooooo!” Manny stood on his seat, his fists and popcorn flying. “Noooo!” Manny continued, now shouting in unison with Luke.
When Luke fell down the shaft to certain death, Manny was ready to walk out of the movie. But there was one more plot twist that kept him at his seat.
A flash of light, bigger and brighter than Manny had ever seen with human eyes. Standing before him like a ball of white-hot fire in an almost human form was the Archangel Michael. He was tall, though not as tall as Manny had imagined. They were nearly eye to eye, but then again, Manny was still standing on the seat of his chair. Unsure if he should fall to his knees or stand at attention, Manny froze, hugging his supersize bucket of popcorn.
“Hi Manny,” Michael said.
“You know my name?” Manny extended his popcorn bucket to Michael. If anyone deserved to be treated with the Golden Rule, it was the archangel.
“Of course I know your name,” Michael said, waving off the bucket with a grin. “We’re working on the same mission, remember?”
Manny’s shoulders fell, popcorn spilling at his side. “I haven’t heard from anyone in a while. Did the mission fail?”
“It only fails when we give up,” Michael said. “And heaven never gives up.”
Manny nodded, thankful for the reminder. “So where’s Gabriel?”
“He’s deep in the fight. But he needs your help. We all do.”
“Me?” Manny asked, noting the intensity blazing in Michael’s eyes.
“The forces of darkness are raging tonight, Manny. Get to the café as fast as you can. Chelsea needs you.”
Manny swallowed his nerves (along with a few kernels that had gotten stuck in his teeth). “And when I get there?”