Perfectly Imperfect

by Kara Leigh Miller

  She laughs bitterly. “Why not? I’m alone all the time. Why should now be any different?”

  “What?” I tilt my head.

  “My dad’s not coming.”

  My heart sinks. She really is alone.

  “He’s in Philly for work and can’t get a flight home until tomorrow.” Her bottom lip trembles. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. He’s never home anymore.” She covers her face with her hands and cries.

  Without hesitation, I pull her into my arms. There’s obviously so much going on that I don’t know about. I want to ask, but now’s not the time. She needs a friend. I contemplate calling Hannah, but selfishly, I want to be the one to comfort her.

  “That night at Parker’s…” She doesn’t pull out of my embrace, and her words are muffled. “He told me he’s going to divorce Mom if she doesn’t get help.”

  I rest my cheek on the top of her head, close my eyes, and hold her a little tighter.

  “She’s an alcoholic. Has been since Brandon died.”

  “I’m so sorry, Belle.” Not the most helpful thing to say, but I’m at a loss for words.

  “I come home every day, and she’s passed out in a different room. One day I came home and found her burning all of Brandon’s stuff. Today, she was face down in her own vomit.” She finally pulls away, and her face is ghost white. “I thought she was dead.”

  Everything suddenly makes sense—her refusal to invite me to her house and introduce me to her parents, her reluctance to even talk about her family.

  “And for a moment, I wanted her to be dead.” She chokes out a sob. “I thought, if she’s gone, Dad will come home, and I won’t have to lie to everyone anymore. I won’t have to cook and clean and pretend everything’s perfect when it’s not. What kind of person am I?”

  “Don’t.” I have to blink back the threat of tears before I can continue to talk. “You’ve been dealing with so much. It’s normal to wonder ‘what if’ and hope that things will change for the better.”

  “I wished my mother was dead.” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, her eyes go wide, and she slaps her hand over her mouth. “Oh, God. Grayson. I’m so sorry. I didn’t…” She shakes her head frantically.

  “It’s okay,” I say.

  Before she can say anything else, the nurse reappears. “Mrs. Carson is in recovery. She’s awake but groggy. Would you like to see her?”

  I can see the relief settle over Belle. She nods. “Yes, please.”

  “Come with me,” the nurse says.

  Belle walks out of the room without another glance in my direction. I slump into the closest chair and blow out a heavy breath. I don’t even consider calling my dad. I’m not leaving here until I see Belle again and know she’s really okay. Not to mention, I have no idea if she has a ride home. I stay put in the waiting room and lower my head in prayer.

  God, please watch over Belle and her family. Help them heal and find peace. And please, help me find forgiveness and understanding.

  29

  ISABELLE

  I FOLLOW THE NURSE DOWN a long hallway, my heart in my throat. All the worst-case-scenario images race through my mind. What will she look like? Is she hooked up to a bunch of machines? Will she even recognize me? Is she still drunk? My thoughts run on a continuous loop, and I can’t focus. It doesn’t help that I’m so completely rattled by seeing Grayson. I should be happy he finally spoke to me, but I’m not. Our conversation hasn’t solved anything, and I’m more hurt than ever.

  The nurse stops outside a closed door. “Like I mentioned, she’s groggy, so don’t be surprised if she doesn’t make any sense when you talk to her.”

  I nod.

  “Visiting hours are almost over, so please don’t stay too long.”

  “Okay.”

  With a tight smile, she opens the door. I step inside and cautiously look around. My mother occupies the only bed. The rhythmic beep of a heart monitor is the only sound, and it’s eerie. An IV drips a clear liquid into my mother’s veins. She looks peaceful. Eyes closed, her entire complexion is pale, and the way her hair’s matted to her head, I’m guessing she’s feverish.

  “Mom?” I say quietly.

  Her eyes flutter open, and she lets out a low groan. “Isabelle?”

  “Yeah.” I pull up a chair and sit next to her bed. “How are you?”

  “Tired. Sore. My nose and throat are on fire.”

  I nod as if I have any idea what she’s feeling. When she was rushed into the ER, the EMTs and doctors were shouting things at each other that I didn’t understand, but I know the gist of what they did—they pumped her stomach. I can’t imagine how painful that must be.

  “Can I get you anything?” I ask.

  She shakes her head and lifts her hand. I take her hand in mine, and she closes her eyes. She’s aged so much over the last few months. How am I only noticing now? Heavy lines and deep wrinkles cover her face, and her skin feels leathery. She’s all bones—a direct result of too much alcohol and not enough food.

  “I’m sorry.” Her voice is hoarse, and the sound makes my throat hurt.

  I gently squeeze her hand. “I was so scared, Mom. I thought you were…”

  “I know.” She turns her face away from me, but it does nothing to hide her tears.

  “I called Dad.”

  She nods but doesn’t speak.

  “He’ll be here as soon as he can get a flight home. Hopefully tomorrow.” I release her hand and wipe my sweaty palm on my jeans.

  Her response is just another nod. We’re silent for several moments. I thank God she’s alive, praising Him for His mercy and for giving her a second chance. But now she needs to take it and do better; she can’t waste this opportunity.

  “You need help,” I whisper. “If you don’t get help, Dad’s going to leave us.”

  “I know,” she says again.

  I sigh with relief. At least she can admit she needs help—that’s more than she’s done in the past. Maybe almost dying has made her realize she really does have a problem. Restlessness buzzes through me. I want to get up and move around, but I don’t want to disrupt the quietness of the room.

  “The hospital has called in a substance abuse counselor,” she says, turning back to look at me. “They’re not going to let me leave until I have a treatment plan in place.”

  Thank you, God. She’s finally going to get help, and I’m finally going to get my family back. Tears pool in my eyes. Despite what a terrible week this has been, this is the silver lining. As my brother would say—Trust God to guide you, and eventually, everything will work out like it’s supposed to. I can’t help but feel like Brandon is up in Heaven, looking down on us right now, smiling that we found our way. Even if it did take way too long. If only he could help me figure out what to do about Grayson.

  “The counselor will be here tomorrow morning.” Mom coughs. Her face twists with discomfort.

  “Want me to get the nurse?” I’m on my feet before she can answer.

  “No.” She rubs her throat. “Can you pour me some water?” She nods at the plastic pitcher I assume is filled with water. I pour her a cup and hand it to her. She sips, and each swallow looks painful. “Thanks.”

  “So, are they going to make you go to rehab or something?” I sit.

  “I don’t know.”

  So many questions cloud my thoughts… Will they send her away to rehab? Where? How long will she be gone? What will happen to me? Will Dad start coming home more? Will I be forced to move?

  The door opens, and the same nurse who escorted me here walks in. “How’re you feeling, Mrs. Carson?”

  “Okay. I’m cold.”

  “I can get you a couple extra blankets.” The nurse moves around the room, checking the machines, jotting notes in Mom’s chart, refilling the pitcher with fresh water. When she’s done, she turns to me. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but visiting hours are over. Do you have someone at home? Somewhere you can go?”

  “Yeah, my dad’s on his way.”
It’s a lie, but I don’t want her trying to call social services or whatever they do with patients’ kids.

  I lean over and give Mom a hug. She tries to hug me back, but her hold is weak, and her arms shake. “I’ll come back tomorrow, okay?”

  “I love you, Isabelle.”

  “Love you, too, Mom.” I leave the room and lean against the wall. My nerves are shot, and my emotions are raw. The thought of going back home, alone, sets off a wave of panic. I’ll have to clean up the mess on the floor. Groaning, I rub my hands over my face, and then I make my way toward the exit. My steps falter, and I pause momentarily. I can call Sandra; I know she’ll help me. That idea gives me the boost I need to keep going.

  When I pass the waiting room, I come to a sudden stop. “Grayson?”

  He looks up and then stands. “Hey. How’s your mom?”

  “What’re you still doing here?” I don’t mean to sound so ungrateful, but… he waited for me. Why would he do that when earlier he said he didn’t know if he could forgive me?

  “I was worried about you.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks away as if he’s embarrassed.

  My heart melts at his admission, and the floodgates that are my tear ducts burst open. Again.

  “Belle.” He wraps me in his arms, and I cry on his shoulder. He strokes my hair and rubs my back. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  I wish I believed him. But until Mom is clean and sober and Dad comes home and Grayson forgives me, nothing will be okay.

  “Thanks for sticking around,” I say as I reluctantly release him. There’s nothing that feels as safe and perfect as being in Grayson’s arms.

  “How’s your mom?” he repeats.

  “Okay. She’s got a long recovery, but she seems eager to get better.”

  “That’s good.” He smiles, and the gesture makes me miss everything I could have had with him.

  I sigh. “Well, it’s getting late, and I need to get home.” I have vomit to clean up. But I don’t say that.

  “Um, could you maybe give me a ride home? I came with Dad, but he left. I mean, if it’s awkward, I can just call him.” He shifts on his feet. “Never mind. Forget I asked. I’ll just call him.”

  I hesitate. Driving him home means we’ll have more time to talk, but what if, by the time I get him home, he still hasn’t forgiven me? I can’t handle hearing that things are officially over between us, because once he says those words, he steals my hope. And right now, hope is all I have left.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  He nods. “Yeah. It’s fine. Go home and rest.” He already has his phone out of his pocket.

  “Okay. Well, thanks again. I guess I’ll see you in school tomorrow.” With a heavy heart, I turn to leave.

  “Belle, wait!”

  I stop.

  “Where are you parked?”

  “In the lot across the street.”

  “Let me walk you to your car. It’s dark out and…” He shrugs.

  “Yeah, okay.”

  We walk in silence to my car. The temperature has dropped considerably since I arrived, and there’s a biting chill in the air. I shiver, wishing I had my coat. I push the button on my key fob, and the lights on my car flash. There are two beeps letting me know the doors are unlocked.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Belle… I…” He exhales, and his breath comes out in a visible puff.

  “Don’t. Please.” My breath catches. “You already said you don’t know if you can forgive me. Or trust me. And I get it. I do. But I really can’t stand here and listen to you say it again, okay? So, please, just don’t say anything.” I open the driver’s side door.

  “Okay,” he says, nodding. “Drive safe.”

  I get in my car, and when Grayson steps back, I pull out of my parking spot faster than necessary. I speed the entire way home. Not that I really want to rush home to clean, but I don’t have anywhere else to go, and honestly, I want to hide from the world for the rest of the night.

  When I pull into the driveway, all the lights in the house are on, even the porch light. That’s strange—The lights were off when I left. Dad’s car is parked crookedly alongside the porch. He’s home! I race inside. “Dad?”

  “Isabelle?” He appears from the kitchen.

  I throw myself into his arms and hug him tightly.

  “Whoa, easy there, kiddo.” He chuckles and hugs me back.

  I release him. “I thought you weren’t going to make it home until tomorrow.”

  “I managed to find an earlier flight.”

  “Why didn’t you come to the hospital?” Not that I need to ask—I know it’s because he and Mom are on the verge of divorce, and he doesn’t want to see her. Still, I’m his daughter, and I needed him there with me.

  “I just got home ten minutes ago. I called the hospital as soon as I landed.” He loosens his tie. “They told me everything.”

  I nod.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. You never should have been the one to find her like that.” He mutters incoherently under his breath. “How are you?”

  “Tired,” I admit with a sudden yawn.

  “Go to bed. I’ll take care of everything.” He rubs his hand along my upper arm and then pats my shoulder. “Don’t worry about anything, okay?”

  “Thanks, Dad.” I trudge to my room, my body weak with exhaustion. I collapse onto my bed. Something firm pokes my back. I reach behind me and find Brandon’s Bible. Sitting up, I caress the cover. This was his favorite book, and now it’s mine. It’s a miracle I even found it; I thought for sure it was lost forever. It probably would have been if not for Grayson picking it up that day in the hallway.

  I flip through the pages, taking comfort from both the words and Brandon’s handwritten notes in the margins. I continue to skim the verses until I notice a sheet of paper folded in half and stuck between the pages. How have I never noticed this before? I take it out and unfold it—it’s Brandon’s messy handwriting.

  God wants us to love our fellow man, but at what cost? If someone is always pushing and teasing and making you feel bad about yourself, your beliefs, do you walk away? Will God understand if you turn your back on someone who doesn’t want to be saved? Or should we try harder with those kinds of people?

  Wow—his words are so deep and powerful. When did he write this? And who is he talking about? I continue to read.

  There’s no easy answer, even after repeated prayers. But I know I can’t keep doing this, not when she always assumes the worst of me yet demands my best. It’s not

  I flip the paper over, but it’s blank. I’ll never know what else he wanted to say, or who “she” is. Could this be about Brittany? Ugh. The thought makes me want to puke. I reread his last sentence, and something inside of me clicks.

  That’s exactly what Grayson is doing—he’s assuming the worst about me. That’s not fair. Isn’t he the one who told me that we’re all perfectly imperfect? That no one, least of all God, expects us to be perfect? Yet, that’s exactly what he’s demanding of me. He refuses to trust me because I failed to prevent something I never saw coming. Who on earth can live up to that standard?

  A weight lifts from my soul, and I suddenly feel better about the situation with Grayson. Sure, I still want to be with him, but I can’t. Not until he realizes he’s expecting too much of me, and that I’ll never live up to his unrealistic expectations of perfection.

  I take a deep breath, and raising my gaze heavenward, I whisper, “Thanks, big brother.”

  30

  GRAYSON

  SOMETIME IN THE MIDDLE OF the night, I have an epiphany. I wake up from a sound sleep as if God Himself has jolted me awake to impart His wisdom. And now everything is perfectly clear. I know what I need to do. And I can’t get to school fast enough today. What might as well be a million years later, I finally step into the building and immediately search out any of Isabelle’s friends.

  “Hey, Vick!” I shout to him, not
caring I get dirty looks from other students. “Have you seen Isabelle?”

  He shakes his head. “Hannah said she’s not here today.”

  My heart sinks. Of course she’s not here. She’s probably at the hospital with her mom. The first bell rings. The nearest exit is down one flight of stairs and past the guidance office. There’s no way I can make it out without getting caught, and if I use a different exit, the hallways will be empty, and the chances of someone seeing me sneaking out are greater. But I can’t stay here today.

  “Thanks,” I say over my shoulder, and I make a mad dash for the stairwell. The final bell rings just as I push open the door. A blast of cool air hits my face, but I’m operating on pure adrenaline, so I barely notice the chill. I make it to my bike and peel out of the parking lot before anyone catches me.

  By the time I make it to the hospital, my heart rate is back to normal, but my nerves are eating me alive. Maybe I should go back to school. It’s probably not a very good idea to barge in on her family like this. But a tiny voice in the back of my mind urges me to keep going.

  “Excuse me. Can you tell me what floor Miranda Carson is on?” I smile at the woman behind the main desk, praying she sees the urgency on my face.

  “And you are?”

  “Her nephew.” I force myself not to cringe at my lie. Forgive me, God.

  “Fourth floor,” she says without looking away from her computer screen.

  “Thank you.” I rush to the elevators, barely making it before the doors slide close. I let out a heavy sigh of relief and lean against the wall. My nerve endings are buzzing with hyper-awareness, and I once again question my decision to come here. She’s dealing with such a hard, personal family issue. The last thing she needs is me interfering.

  I reach for the buttons, intent to push the “1” to take me back to the lobby, but the elevator dings, and the doors open. I step out before I can change my mind again. Now that I’m on the fourth floor, I realize I have no idea what room her mom is in, and I’m not sure my lie will hold up any longer.