The front door slammed. Tabbi jumped but didn’t move away from me. She stayed silent for several minutes. Her little-girl sup-supping—so like Bailey’s— was the only sound other than the ever-present clock.
As I breathed in deeply, I became aware of the “bar smell” Bubba had described earlier. Tabbi had always been fastidious about her appearance, but cigarette smoke was insidious.
Finally, she sat up. She applied several tissues to her nose and face. She looked at me.
I looked right back. The dawn of a desperate truth rose in those chocolate eyes.
I stood, returned to my chair, and waited.
“I tried to tell you Bo wouldn’t let me tell him,” she said. “I won’t go against him.”
I wouldn’t look away, but I had nothing to say.
“Please say something.” She held out both hands with her palms turned upward, pleading.
“If I had any additional words of wisdom, I would share them.”
“You can’t understand, can you?”
“No.” I’m not a priest; I cannot grant absolution.
“Will you try?” Her voice raised into a soft whine.
“No.”
She searched my face … my eyes. “Are you angry?”
“No.”
She stood. “I have to go. Bo’s waiting for me.”
“I know.”
“Please take care of Bubba,” she begged. “He’ll be back tomorrow. You have to help him.” She walked from the room then out of the building.
As I locked up behind them, I noticed Bo behind the wheel. As I turned the deadbolt, I watched him take out three of my newly-blooming Mexican Heather with his tires as he turned his wheel too wide.
July browned grass and plants all over Port Arthur. The last leggy Petunias had been pulled from the pots on the back deck at home. Bailey and I contented ourselves with lantana, bougainvillea, and periwinkle spilling from the larger planters. She ran barefoot across the deck, delighted about being my planting helper, though we did more watering than planting since there was nothing left to plant in July in Texas. But she loved the bright yellow lantana spilling over the planters and down toward the deck.
Bubba—wearing a baseball cap of one ilk or another—braved the heat, coming every afternoon for the specified twenty-one days the hospital physician had ordered. He seemed aware the following day after his parents’ session that they came here, and that Bo demonstrated anger toward me about something. He made a cursory inquiry about it, but when I remained non-committal, he let it drop. Bubba was insistent about nothing except his “infested blood” and his grandpa’s “begets.”
Some days I held more optimism about him than others. Still, he proved to be a great kid. We talked some about Bo, and Bubba appeared grateful for his stepfather’s presence in their lives. He described his mom as more stable after she married him.
“Bo doesn’t talk much until he has several stiff ones,” Bubba told me, “then he says stupid crap.” He grinned. “But I like him.”
I smiled. A lift now sounded in Bubba’s expressions that I attributed to the antidepressant. He also laughed some. And he’d started to trust me.
My heart swelled with hope.
He shared some fears and a couple of simple dreams. He talked a lot about Corey and some about Rachel. He talked too much about Grandpa and very little about Grandma. I asked him about his upcoming senior year, but his academic attitude remained passive. His grades were not a priority, and his marks reflected it. He had no special girlfriend and wasn’t looking. We talked about the Bible when he brought it up, and I gave him a new copy, one with some New Testament passages meticulously highlighted. After the first week, he seemed glad to see me each day. I think he felt relieved to have a place to talk where someone seemed interested but not judgmental, caring but respectful. Someone who would talk and listen.
But he didn’t reschedule when his twenty-one sessions were over.
And he didn’t get his prescription refilled.
Then, two weeks later, Bubba drove into Robert Grey’s front yard with a note laying next to him on the bench seat.
To my father, Robert Grey. Leaving my body outside your door is my attempt to thank you for all you’ve done for me. May you burn in an eternal hell.
To anyone who loved me, especially Corey, I am sorry. Mom, please try to understand. God, please let me into heaven. You surely will take some responsibility for this. You could’ve put me in a different tribe. Miss Katie, one of the places you showed me in the Bible says God has mercy.
I reckon I’ll soon know.
Then he shoved his hunting rifle into his mouth and blew his head off.
Chapter 19
I took Tabbi’s call at 3:00 the next morning. When she told me between screams and sobs, I gasped into the phone in an attempt to absorb the news. After hanging up, I ran down the hall to hug Bailey. Thankfully, I found her sleeping. I stood over her bed, soaking in every inch of her. I leaned over, snuggled the covers, breathed in the faint scent of her little girl shampoo, and assured myself she was okay.
I called Jordan.
He came over.
Tears racked my body until I couldn’t stand without his assistance. “All things work for good to those who love the Lord and are called for His purpose,” he whispered. Then he added, “It’ll be all right, Katie Girl. Somehow it’ll be all right.”
Later that morning, I phoned Bella. I needed her to care for Bailey—this time at her house. I didn’t know for how long; I only knew that I needed her out of harm’s way. It would be longer than Bailey had ever stayed with Bella or away from me. Jordan and I packed her suitcase before we awakened her. She resisted going at first. Bailey loved Bella but could tell something wasn’t quite right with me.
We sat at the table where I pushed food around on my plate.
“Are you sick?” she asked, looking at me.
With considerable effort, I sat upright in the chair and smiled at her. “No, sweetheart, I’m not sick.” Bailey reached over and squeezed my hand. “Well, you don’t look so good, ya know.” She looked at Jordan. “I want to stay here. I think she’s not okay.” Her lip trembled as she turned her eyes on me again.
Consoling words that came so easily for others, scattered like a flock of frightened birds when I faced her. “I love you,” was all that came.
Jordan pushed back his chair, walked around the table, pulled Bailey from her chair and into his arms, then spoke soft words to her. “Miss Katie’s sad. Something bad happened to a young man she’s been counseling, and we have to see what we can do to help.”
She laid her head on his shoulder. “To help the boy?” she asked.
My eyes locked with Jordan’s.
He whispered to her. “No, sweetheart, his family.”
Confusion colored her face. She looked up at Jordan. “Is Billy okay?”
“Billy is fine.” He kissed the end of her nose.
The doorbell rang. Bella had arrived. Jordan walked to the door, still holding her.
I didn’t trust my legs, so I remained at the table where a conversation flurried around me. Bailey’s bag had already been placed in the foyer, and Bella had been apprised of the situation. Bailey slid from Jordan’s arms but then tugged at him until he leaned in so she could whisper in his ear.
Bella, in a more festive mood than I could muster, laughed easily and appeared to lift Bailey’s spirits. Before she left, she ran back to the table and squeezed me hard.
I hugged her back.
She gave me one last look and noticed the tears I’d been unable to prevent from sliding down my face.
She stared for a minute, wiped my tear with her small hand and said, “I don’t know what alls wrong, but Mr. Jordan promised me you’re not gonna die.” She peered into my eyes and waited.
“I’m not going to die.”
“I’ll go with Bella then,” she said.
Tabbi pulled me aside at Bubba’s service to babble something about Matth
ew Gladstone. I loved her and surely grieved for her, but I didn’t have the stomach to discuss what might have been. I’d gotten down on my knees and pleaded with her while Bubba lived. But on the day of his funeral, I could only stare at her. My heart broke, but no words came in offering.
When we saw Bo, Jordan guided me in the opposite direction.
That evening at home found me inconsolable. Jordan stayed and cooked simple, nutritious food, but most of it wasted. Then he held me until time came for me to fall into bed.
When I’d met Jordan, I’d stopped feeling alone, but that night, loneliness crouched in every corner of my thinking, wrapping strangling tentacles around my soul. I pulled inside myself to a place where no one could reach me. I appreciated his presence—however temporary—but the greatest help I found, I found on my knees. “Jesus, you said, ‘Suffer the children, and forbid them not, to come unto me, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.’ Bubba suffered. Lord, be merciful.”
After Bubba’s suicide, I stared face-to-face into gut-wrenching grief that tiptoed over me layer upon layer. I questioned myself, my career, and my ability to affect change in anyone. I turned over and examined every word I’d spoken to him, torturing myself. I wept bitterly, asking God to help me, wondering if He had really called me to this profession. Not one time had I doubted that calling until Tabbi phoned to tell me about Bubba’s death. Until she’d read me the suicide note.
I had told Bubba that God was merciful.
But I lost sight of whether I was called to this mission field of children. I wanted to help mend broken children—not bury them. How could this brilliant young man with so much life-potential have died on my watch? God had put him into my path to help save him from his pain and now … now he was gone.
Scenes from the treatment room haunted me. His small frame. His dark eyes. His latte-colored facial hair. His always-present ball caps. I knew he’d come to me miserably unhappy, but he’d learned to smile, to laugh softly before he stopped coming … forever. My stomach nor my nervous system could find relief over the way his grandpa had tortured him with verses of Scripture.
Could the truth about his father have saved him? Could it have set him free?
We would never know.
Thoughts of Bo also tormented me. Ain’t nobody gonna tell Bubba his mama is a whore. What a joke. She’d been a child who’d made a desperate decision about her pregnancy. Who would hold any decision against a despondent child running from an abusive man? She couldn’t know she was running into the arms of an equally abusive husband.
And at only thirteen tender years of age.
For nights, Jordan and I stayed on the sofa. He kept his arms around me through the long miserable hours when neither of us slept. Around daylight, he’d led me to our bed and tucked me in as though I were a child, then tiptoed back to the sofa. As I drifted toward troubled sleep, Bubba’s words taunted me. Well, good morning, Mrs. Landers. I did my homework, honest I did. But the dog ate it, honest he did.
I awakened, rolled over, and wept into my pillow.
I talked to Bailey every day while she stayed with Bella. She missed me terribly, she said. She felt comfortable there, she told me, but she was homesick. Jordan dropped by Bella’s several times to check on my girl and assure her she’d be home with me again soon. Bella used the unexpected additional time with Bailey to ready her for second grade.
And all the while I wondered. Maybe, I thought, I should take more time off. Or maybe I should take down my shingle. Close the clinic. Take up gardening.
I wasn’t sure. Couldn’t be, not in my state. The only thing I knew for certain was that I wanted my little girl.
Alicia called to check on me, but I didn’t want to talk. She didn’t know when I’d be returning, she informed Jordan, leaving her unsure about what to say to clients who called for appointments. Jordan told her not to expect me at work for the next few days and asked her to notify people I’d been scheduled to see.
Life settled hard in my lap and, no matter how many days came and went, it wouldn’t get up. Shadows of weakness and sickness fell over me. I couldn’t pinpoint one place in my body that didn’t hurt. Desperate, I fell to my knees and camped out. I cried out to God. Not short snippets, asking for help, but agonizing with Him to give me comfort or to release me from my calling.
Then finally, I signaled to Satan that his attack on me was no longer going to be tolerated.
I remembered who I was in Christ … that God was my Father, and He loved me and had called me for His purpose. His call had been for me to counsel. He hadn’t changed His mind. I felt His Spirit rise within me. I was pushed up by His Spirit. With my feet flat on the floor, I stood with a promise. My heart repeated a paraphrased version of Isaiah 26:3: I will keep in perfect peace all who trust in me.
On Sunday morning, I walked with my head up to the kitchen. Jordan had prepared a meal of bread, cheese, and fruit. I ate. After my shower, I called Alicia to tell her I would return Monday after next. I needed another week to regain physical strength and time to assure myself that I could return with professional confidence. But more than that, I needed to bring Bailey home and spend time with her.
Even so, before I could settle back in with my child, there were things I had to settle in my heart about Tabbi’s child … about Bubba. He loved God and the Bible. He’d been a broken, confused kid. And I had loved him.
But where was Bubba now?
I had cut my teeth on the proverbial church pew. I’d sat through a lifetime of sermons that’d condemned suicide victims to hell. I’d lived through another lifetime of sermons proclaiming that God is absolute love. I’d told Bubba that God would not want him taking his own life. Yet he had. And, no, God hadn’t wanted him to. Of that much I was certain. But thinking on all the things God doesn’t want, I couldn’t forget that the list continued past thou shall not kill. Had the “shall nots,” ended there, Bubba could be in a bind. Oh, but they continued.
We’re not to gossip about our neighbors or covet their possessions. We’re not supposed to go to bed mad. We’re not to take a single thing that doesn’t belong to us.
God doesn’t want us to worship anything outside Him, to misuse His name, to commit adultery or even think about it. Yet in John 8:7, when the woman was caught committing adultery, Jesus told the gathered crowd that He didn’t condemn her. If Jesus wouldn’t condemn her, surely—I thought—He wouldn’t condemn a little broken boy.
I’d never met a sinless person and wouldn’t have wanted to. I didn’t know a lot of things, but I knew one. One absolute. If I met someone who wanted to throw stones at the memory of Bubba or the way he died, I would go to my own grave standing firm between him and those stones. Pondering all of these weighty things, I thought about Mary, the mother of Jesus. No wonder she’d so many things to think on, she decided she’d just keep them in her heart. I would do the same … unless someone threw a stone. Even a small one. Even a pebble. I would tell them, “I hope when you die it’s only a millisecond after your last confession and God’s last act of forgiveness toward you.” Because otherwise, we’re all falling short. We’re all missing the mark. Not a single one of us will walk on streets of gold.
So, there.
It was time to bring my child home and go back to work.
Work had always been good for me. Returning proved no exception. Bailey thrilled in coming home. The first couple of nights I found her tiptoeing into my room in the small hours to assure herself that I was all right. Eventually, she just crawled in beside me.
I awakened to find her little hand stirring below my neck.
“What are you doing?” I whispered.
“Checkin’ for your heart sound,” she said.
“Why?”
“I don’t want it to stop.”
“It won’t,” I promised, “not anytime soon.”
We snuggled closer.
Midweek, as we drove into our subdivision after work and turned onto our street, Bailey started squealing. “L
ook, Miss Katie.” She bounced in her seat, straining against the seatbelt. “That’s Mr. Jordan’s white car in the driveway. He’s here.”
Like Bailey, my heart jumped. Seeing his Honda filled me with a joy that came only from being with him.
As we nosed the convertible into the drive beside his car, she unlatched her seatbelt, bounced from the car, walked to the driver’s side, kissed me on the cheek, then sailed into the house.
I walked behind her through the garage and followed my nose to the kitchen and the delicious smell of Jordan’s homemade pizza. I wanted to cry I’d missed him so much. I wanted to cry because I’d failed him.
I just wanted to cry.
He grinned as I walked into the kitchen and found him wearing his favorite denim apron. Flour dusted his cheek, puffed up by a smile. Bailey jumped into his arms, and my heart smiled as easily as it had danced and wanted to cry earlier. They’d built their own relationship. She couldn’t be resisted.
“Can we sing about the elephant?”
“After we eat pizza,” he said. She slid down his side and ran to get his guitar.
Jordan’s green gaze appraised every part of me. Radiant light shone in his lively fun-loving eyes. “Katie Girl,” he said, “we need to talk.”
My heart stopped smiling and fell to my knees. Trembling, I looked at him.
He peeled his eyes from me and glanced at Bailey, who strode back into the kitchen with his guitar. “Put it back, sweetheart, until after dinner.” He grinned. “I’m glad you like to sing, though.”
“I sure do.” But she took the guitar back.
When she left the room, I drank him with my eyes. His screamed that he still loved and wanted me. Whatever he had to say would be all right. “Yes.”
I walked on air to take plates, cups, and forks from the shelves and drawers to place on the island beside the cooling pizza. I stepped behind him and circled his waist with my arms. My breath quickened just touching him.
The Children of Main Street Page 18