Please let her answer. Dear Father, please let her answer.
“Hello?”
“You’re there?” I said in surprise.
“Happy turkey day to you, too.”
“How are you?”
“I was just about to leave. Are you at your parents’ house?”
“Yeah.”
“Is Erik still with you?”
“Yeah. We were watching some movies downstairs.”
“I should be there if you’re watching movies.”
“You could have come,” I told her.
I had not asked her about spending Thanksgiving with me since she had already made plans with a friend and her friend’s family. Plus, asking her over for Thanksgiving would have been pushing the “serious” button.
“How was the meal?” Gen asked me.
“Delicious. Great.”
“I’m starving. I can’t wait to have my dinner tonight.”
We talked for a few minutes about Thanksgiving and food and what we liked and didn’t like. It was small talk, but it was the kind of small talk I needed. It was nice that someone cared enough to ask what sort of things I liked and didn’t like for a Thanksgiving meal.
Before I got off the phone with Gen, I told her something that had been on my mind for a while. “You remember the other night on our date—”
“The Barney date?”
“Yeah.”
“How could I forget that night?” Genevie softly replied. “I still have that wonderful little tin.”
“Well, it’s Thanksgiving, and all I’ve been thinking is how blessed I was that I sat behind you one night at the movies.”
She gave a small laugh. “And how I annoyed you?”
“You never annoyed me.”
“Well, I could say the same thing.”
“Gen, I’m serious. I—maybe it’s easier for me to tell you this over the phone. I don’t know. But the last few years, well, I haven’t been a very thankful person. I know we should give thanks to God for everything. But I haven’t wanted to and haven’t been able to. Anyway, I just want you to know how thankful I am that you came into my life.”
The line was silent for a few seconds before her soft reply, “I’m glad I did too.”
I could picture her slight smile, her velvet brown eyes, her frank but gentle gaze. All I needed to do was close my eyes and see them. “I don’t want to freak you out by saying any of this,” I said.
“You aren’t. Don’t worry.”
We exchanged a few more conversational pleasantries before I worked up the nerve to say what I wanted to say next. “Uh… remember when you asked me why I quit school?”
“Sure.”
“Well, something really bad happened that summer. There was an accident.”
“What kind of accident?”
“An… uh… auto accident.” Even I could tell how lame that sounded, but I didn’t know what else to say.
“Was anyone hurt?” Genevie asked me.
“Yes.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. I mean, yes, at some point, but not now. Not over the phone.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t know how to talk about it.”
“You can tell me anything, Sheridan. I mean that.”
“I just—I was a different person years ago. In a lot of different ways.”
“So you’ve changed.”
“But that’s the thing. I have so much further to go.”
“We all do, Sheridan.”
I wanted to say more, but I held back. “I’m sorry for putting all this on you now. Can I see you this weekend?”
“Of course,” she replied.
“Thanks for being there for me,” I told her.
“I’m glad I was.”
Thanks for being there. Period.
I told Genevie good-bye and sat in my room for a few more minutes.
Was it true that I could tell her anything? What would she do once she knew the truth?
Trust her.
My hands shook. How could I tell her? And when should I?
She deserves to know.
I looked at one of the framed photos on my dresser and saw a guy I didn’t recognize. He was upbeat and glad to be away from two parents who didn’t support and believe in his dreams. He stood with his arm around his girlfriend of three years, the same girlfriend he had followed to college and planned to marry one day.
That guy was forever gone. That couple, that boy, those moments, and those smiles.
I clasped my hands together.
“Dear Father, how long do I have to remember this? Can I ever forget, ever put it behind me? Will I be able to forget all the ways I hurt so many people, including you?”
The photos haunted me.
“Do you hear me, Lord? Can you search my motives and my heart? What do you see, Lord?”
The memories still burned inside of me.
“Lord, can I ever ask your forgiveness? Will I ever be able to accept it?”
part two: an uncertain present
December 2
Dear Amy,
As Christmas approaches, I can’t help but think this might be one of the best Christmastimes ever. My friendship with Genevie has deepened. I believe she really cares for me. Someone has finally come along and pointed the way toward hope and happiness.
But this brings up a bit of a problem. You see, I think I need to tell Genevie about everything. I feel maybe it will work out if I don’t hide things. At least, if I don’t hide things about you.
The question, of course, is how—how do I even begin to tell Genevie about you?
I pray I can find the right words to say.
Sheridan
nine
“Okay. Open them.”
Genevie’s eyes flew open and instantly spotted the open cardboard box in the middle of my apartment living room. From out of the blanket wiggled a tiny sheltie I had just brought home.
“You didn’t!” Genevie hugged me and then knelt down to examine the lively puppy.
“He was one of the last ones left,” I told her.
“But, what about—I told you about the school’s policy—”
“It’s okay. We’ll keep him here for now.”
“Are you sure? You already have Barney.”
I looked at Barney, who lay stretched out underneath the dining table. “Actually, it was Erik I had to persuade. I told him I’d do all the training and such—and the whole thing would be temporary until you finished school and bought that big mansion of yours.”
Genevie picked up the light brown, squirming sheltie and kissed its head. “It’s a boy?”
“Yep. You have to name him.”
“Hey there, little guy. Aren’t you just adorable? Yeah.” Gen continued to speak as she thought of a name for the puppy. “How ‘bout Ralph?” she finally said.
“Ralph?” I asked. “Well, sure. It’s a—name.”
“After all,” she went on slyly, “that’s what I’ll always think about when I remember our first date.”
I thought of Barney throwing up in Genevie’s lap and laughed. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”
“Nah.”
“That’s the main thing you remember about that date?” I asked her with a smile.
“Let me think.” She looked at the puppy, the little guy named Ralph, and talked to him. “Was there anything else about that night that stands out? Hmm…”
“Maybe I’ll just take back little Ralphie.”
“Wait, hold on. Come to think of it, there was that wonderful boat ride. Oh, wait—that had to be cancelled.”
I chuckled. “You’re ruthless.”
She gave me a seductive grin she probably knew I couldn’t resist and then kissed me gently on the cheek. “And you’re a sweetheart. Thank you. Are you positive it’s okay?”
“Positive. The only stipulation is that you have to come by more often to see him. And you have to
help me train him, so he’ll know to respond to you.”
She looked at the puppy and then back at me. The enthusiasm in Genevie’s face made all the work of getting Ralphie worth it.
A few days after surprising Genevie with the puppy, I surprised myself by accompanying her to church. Sitting in the pew, I took note of the beautiful weather on that Sunday. It was an exceptionally bright December morning, and the sun filtered into the sanctuary through the side windows and the skylights that opened up the ceiling above the pulpit.
I sat next to Genevie, and I listened to her pastor preach about God’s grace. This was the first time I had been in a church in years. After everything that happened, I had felt I couldn’t enter without getting struck by lightning. Not that I believed this would literally happen, but I felt that it would happen in my heart—that something would break and never be healed. That my guilt would be too overwhelming.
But Genevie had gotten me into the church just by asking. She hadn’t asked me why I hadn’t gone in a while, but had simply invited me to join her that morning. So I had.
Now I sat holding hands with her in the pew. Having her by my side helped. It had really been a long time.
I can’t remember much of what the pastor said, and there wasn’t any sort of altar call that would have made my inward change visible to the rest of the church. I doubt I would have gone down for an altar call anyway. But something happened to me during that service. The Scripture readings spoke to me. And I realized that they weren’t harsh or mean or biting—they were healing.
Healing.
The songs—familiar hymns and familiar prayers—didn’t seem redundant or foolish but felt somehow comforting. The sermon, like aloe lotion on a sunburn, felt soothing and cooling. But, of course, the burn was still there.
At the end of the service, I prayed a simple and silent prayer. Lord, thank you for not giving up on me. Help me not to give up on you.
And the service was done.
Afterwards, Genevie and I went out to a local family restaurant that served breakfast and lunch. Though it was lunchtime, we both ordered breakfast plates and coffee.
“So,” she said, “what’d you think?”
I smiled at Genevie. “Actually, I sort of enjoyed it.”
“Not that bad, huh? They have a really great Christmas Eve service if you want to go to it.”
“I guess I wouldn’t mind going again. Next Sunday even.”
“Okay,” she said, a bit surprised. “You could try out my small group, too.”
“Isn’t that all women?”
Genevie flashed me a grin that made me know she was kidding. “My point exactly. You’d be very popular.”
“I’ll stick to Sunday mornings for now. So, speaking of Christmas, you haven’t told me what you are doing.”
“Who says I’m doing anything?”
“It’s Christmas,” I replied. “You have to be doing something.”
“Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t?”
“Are you serious?”
“Actually, yes, I am.”
“What—you’re going to be alone on Christmas?”
She nodded and sipped her coffee. I had struck a chord with her, perhaps a dissonant one.
“Now wait a minute,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Well—we haven’t exactly made plans yet.”
“I just assumed you were going back home to California.”
“I told my parents I wasn’t.”
I stared at Genevie and waited for more, but she just let that statement hang. This came as a surprise. She had always been so open, I was surprised to see her holding back. “Can I ask why you aren’t going home?”
She replied as if she had read my thoughts. “You know how you said that there were things that you wanted to tell me but couldn’t just yet?”
I nodded as she continued.
“I think everyone has stuff like that. You know how I told you about how surprised I was at being in Chicago for so long? Well, it’s been my own doing. I don’t exactly love going home.”
“Why not?”
She sighed. “There’re a lot of memories back home. You know that both my parents are unbelievers. They’re actually very strong anti-Christians. They were raised as Buddhists and didn’t accept my conversion. I don’t know if they ever will. My Christmas would be a lot better away from all of that.”
“I’m sorry to bring it up.”
“No, don’t be sorry. It’s okay. It’s just—I love Christmas. It’s such a wonderful time, celebrating the birth of Jesus and all. When I was growing up, we usually traveled on Christmas and treated it like it was any other normal day. That’s why I avoid going home. It’s kind of a lonely way to celebrate.”
“Look, I thought you were probably going back home, but since you aren’t—well, do you want to come to my parents’ for Christmas?”
She looked at me with uncertainty.
“No pressure or anything,” I continued. “I mean, I know meeting someone’s parents is a big deal, especially at Christmas, and I don’t want you to feel like—”
“I’d love to, Sheridan.”
“Great,” I said, a bit nervous about what she would think of my family. “And I’d love to go to that Christmas thing the church has.”
“It’s a Christmas Eve concert with choirs and an orchestra.”
“Sure, whatever.”
We both laughed and talked about Christmas and gifts and various things in the present. I actually liked the fact that there were places Genevie didn’t want to go regarding her past; it made me feel a little better about my own secrets. I didn’t press her. I knew that she would tell me eventually when the time was right.
I hoped I would feel confident enough to do the same.
December 9
Dear Amy,
Over the past few weeks, I have found myself thinking about the future. That’s a change. For so long I have tried not to think about the days ahead, just to live my life. But recently I’ve been realizing that the last seven years haven’t been much of a life. I’ve been stuck, unable to move away from the past.
Could it be that now I’m finally moving on?
Sheridan
ten
My routine after my two late Wednesday afternoon lessons in the suburbs was either to swing by my parents’ house and grab a bite to eat or to do the drive-through at a burger joint before heading back into the city on the expressway during the tail end of rush hour. There’s nothing like trying to eat a cheeseburger and fries during stop-and-go traffic on the Eisenhower.
This particular evening, though, I decided to hurry back to my apartment in hopes of finding a halfway decent parking space on the surrounding side streets. Then, instead of heading to my apartment, I wandered down a couple of blocks to the nearby Wendy’s.
Maybe I was avoiding Erik. In fact, I knew I was a little hesitant to see him. I no longer knew what to say to him or how to act around him. His life was becoming more and more out of control, and all I was doing was standing by and watching it. He was going down the same dangerous path I had once gone down, but I didn’t have a clear-cut solution to give to him. I could tell him some basic stuff he already knew—how all that drinking wasn’t good for him, how it could lead to all sorts of trouble, and on and on. But how could I tell him it was wrong to get drunk all the time? He would ask me if I ever had, and then I’d have to tell him. I’d have to tell him everything.
Then, of course, how in the world could he take me seriously after all that?
The restaurant was crowded and noisy, but I ignored the bustle as I sat there with my spicy chicken sandwich, fries, and milk shake. I barely noticed the balding, stocky man in faded jeans and a big sloppy sweatshirt who approached me.
“Blake?” the man demanded, startling me.
I looked at him, my body half in shock from having my name shouted in a crowded restaurant, and said nothing. Even though the man appeared to be in his late fortie
s or early fifties, he had a boyish face, the sort that can never fully grow a beard. His eyes looked tired as they scanned my features, seeming to recognize me.
“You ever answer your phone messages?”
The voice registered, and instantly I knew I was facing Mike Larsen for the first time in my life. He was shorter than me, perhaps five-eight or five-ten, but stout, with a stomach that looked like it could comfortably hold several mugs’ worth of heavy ale. His sparse brown hair seemed to be sticking out on one side of his head, just above his right ear, like he had slept on it. I wondered if he was drunk.
“You are Sheridan Blake, right?”
I froze, unsure what to say. Instead of saying anything, I looked down at my half-eaten fries and the large vanilla shake that had been the highlight of my meal so far.
“I’m Mike. Mike Larsen. I found your apartment. For someone who doesn’t want to be bothered, you’re pretty easy to locate.”
His voice sounded burdened and anxious, although surprisingly not as irate as I had imagined it could have been. Maybe he was one of those soft-spoken types who let their fists express their anger. I looked at him again, still silent. I wasn’t sure whether I was safe sitting in the corner of the restaurant.
“The Internet,” he went on. “The address was easy to find.”
Was he threatening me?
“I’ve seen you at the college, too. What made you come back?”
What business was it of his?
“For God’s sake, would you say something?” His volume increased as the frustration filled his face.
“What do you want me to say, Mr. Larsen?”
He spit out an amazed chuckle and squinted his eyes in disbelief. “I just want to talk to you. There are things you need to know.”
“Look, Mr. Larsen, I’m sorry for everything that happened. But I can’t do anything to change the past.”
“Yeah. Well, answering a simple phone call would be something.”
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