To Infinity and Beyond

Dear gracious and compassionate One, He who is close to the brokenhearted, You seem to be calling her home. If so, I pray that instead of sorrow, she would know only anticipation. Of the ever after, infinity, glory. A dry place. No tears.

            I hope You stand between her and her earthly love, one great and gentle arm across her shoulder, another around his, drawing them to Yourself. I ask that the air they breathe be You (That near. Be that near to them, please.). Exhale a soft breath, a halo both warm and cool, above their heads. 

            And maybe if you would, give her, perhaps even him, when their faces are side by side, ears to hear the things on high, the sounds only immortals are privvy to: living waterfalls, choirs of millions, wingbeats of seraphim. “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was, and is, and is to come.”

            In addition, would you also please prepare a spacious place for her at your feet, in your throne room where I imagine (desire, really) your floorcovering is by morning a sunrise and by evening a sunset? Some day, and it may be years from now, (and if it is, we will praise Your name even as we laugh and call her Hezekiah), she’ll wind one ethereal arm around the essence of You on her left, then lay one elegant hand on one of your Son’s piercings on her right. A moment later, out of habit, her slender fingers will relocate to the space in front of her ribs. Glide and tap, together and apart, and though there is no keyboard, there will be a song, a gorgeous melody.

(She doesn’t know me but this is my prayer for her.)

Out of the Box

I lay in bed that night with Mac’s gun box heavy on my chest, the frayed strips of old percale sheets still intact, a cloth cross over my heart. I picked a spot on the ceiling and addressed it.
            “Help. Please.”

            Remarkably, I got a few hours sleep. The green numbers on my clock radio glowed 2:36 when I heard a door open slowly, carefully, somewhere in the house. Inside me, my heart bulged, made my skin feel tight. My eyes stung. Dang it! I need more time! 

            I heaved myself up, the gun case solid against me. I peeked out the window beside my bed. My eyes bridged the seven feet between my house and the Macs.’ I squinted at their Venetian blinds. They formed a solid white wall. I whimpered.

            Nothing stirred outside except the rain that was starting to fall. It had been so long since we’d had rain. A stair creaked and I clenched every part of me. I let go of the box and winced as it thudded against my thighs. I picked it up and shook it close to my ear. Felt and heard the weapon’s weight slide left, then right, inside the box. 
            In the moonlight I focused on the cloth bow and whispered. 
            “Maybe just seeing the gun’ll make him stop. I mean really, I don’t have to kill him. I can just point it at him. Shoot him in the leg if I have to.” The thought of his maroon blood creeping across my beloved pink and green tulip-basket quilt, staining it forever, gave me pause. “Or, I can do what I always do. Roll on my side. Squeeze my eyes shut. Pretend to sleep.”

            I gulped nothing and rapid-blinked tears. Wished tonight was tomorrow. Then it occurred to me: if I don’t stop it this time, the bad thing’ll go on forever and I—

            I gritted my teeth. Balanced the box on my knees, pinched the end of one of the strips. Waited. I focused on my doorknob. The shine of the moon was so bright, surely I’d be able to see the knob twist. Then I'd yank the cloth strip. Flip the latch, fling the box open. Ready, aim—

            I held my hand in front of my face. Even in the half light, I could see my fingers were a blur. Oh, no! What if my gun hand shakes so bad I miss his leg and kill him? Think! What else? What else can I do? I tore at my thumb nail with my teeth. Then I knew. 

          I shoved the gun box off my lap. Tossed back the covers and tiptoe-ran the eight or nine feet to my parents’ bedroom. I barreled through the door and bent over their bed. Pounded the mattress between them.

            “Wake up! Make him stop! Now!”

            As I watched my parents climb out of their separate slumbers, somewhere in the house I heard a door shut slowly, carefully.

~~~

Gracie's eyes never left my face as I told my story. Tears leapt from her chin to her lap where her hands worried a hankie.

            “You did wonderfully, Pet," she said when I finished. She gathered me into her arms and spoke against my shoulder. "I’m so proud of you, so glad for you.”

            I melted against her and wept for what seemed like forever. All the while, she poked through my hair with her age-dry fingers, releasing every tangle.

            “Go home and fetch the box,” she said finally. “We’ll have pie when you get back.”

            After we ate, licked our plates, and put our dishes in the sink, Gracie led the way to the living room. She patted the spot beside her on the sofa.

            “Have a seat,” she said. “Bring the box.”

            After I settled beside her she told me to open it. I tugged at the rag ribbon and drew it away. Undid the little brass latch. When I lifted the lid, I gasped. There was no gun. Instead, there was a glass pie plate and an index card that turned out to be Gracie’s secret recipe for strawberry rhubarb pie. Underneath that was my dresser cloth, the one she said I’d need some day.

            I shut my mouth and faced Gracie, eyes wide. “It’s not a . . . ”

            Gracie nodded, smiled slightly. “I know. Mac came up with the plan. I hoped it might work, prayed it would. Oh, how I prayed. Thank God it did.”

            I held my ribs tight and grinned. “Mac saved me,” I said. “I thought it would be you, but him saving me from beyond the grave? That’s really cool, don’t you think?”   

Peace Sign

I remember the day but not the year (Was it ninety-five maybe?) when my husband brought home a newspaper article for me to read, an interview with a pedophile.

            “I drove through neighborhoods in search of Little Tikes cars, bicycles with training wheels, tiny swimsuits hung on porch railings to dry.”

            I was pretty sure he was trying to help but instead his words gorged the panic monster that lived close to me, maybe even inside me, back then. Always it gnawed at my hamstrings, held one or both my Achilles’ tendons in a pincer grip.

            A month or two after, I heard our daughter’s footsteps at the bottom of the stairs. I glanced at the glow-in-the-dark clock dial—one forty three. Moments later I felt her tentative hand on the quilt beside my shoulder. Her quick, moist breaths warmed my cheek.

            “Mommy? A man was in my room just now, next to my bed, and he knew my name.”

            As one my husband and I shot up. I headed for the steps, he for the Louisville Slugger he kept in the closet.

            We found no one, no open window. Still, her dream nourished the beast inside me, made my eyes perpetually round, my ears constantly alert. It fostered in me a fatigue that never seemed to abate.

            I recall thinking, as I tucked her back into her Lion King toddler bed that night, that's  the worst kind of bad guy, the one who knows your name.

+++++++

It was a late August morning in 1997 when we watched our eldest child climb onto the school bus that would take her over the hill to kindergarten. I juggled waving, nose dabbing, and picture-taking. My husband blew kisses at her grin pressed against the fogged window. Our two-year-old daughter clutched her Tickle Me Elmo and wept.

            “Our life will never be the same,” I said as we watched the bus disappear around the bend.

            My husband nodded as he u-turned the stroller and started back toward the house. 
            “You said that both times we drove to the hospital with you in labor. Remember?”

            I stopped there on the street, revelation in my open mouth. “They’re going to leave some day. Forever, well, for months at a time.”

            My husband smiled. “I know. That’s how it works.”

            I bunched my t-shirt in front of my throat divot and gulped. “I’m not gonna like it. I’m telling you right now.”

            He sighed. “Me either, but it’ll mean we did our job right.”

+++++++

Our 2010 vacation was quite possibly our best ever—Colorado in early summer. A horseback ride through the Rockies, a white water rafting trip, daily visits to the prairie dog colony near our condo.

            In the airports coming and going, my husband made our eldest do everything.

            “Where’s the check-in desk? Which train will take us to our terminal? Find our baggage claim.”

            She protested, but he was right. In two months she’d need to know these things because she’d fly alone for the first time ever, not just across country, but to the Southern Hemisphere.

            The dreaded (by me) day finally arrived. After she disappeared from our sight in the Pittsburgh airport, I felt as if someone had tunneled me through. Surely a tractor trailer could fit inside the hole in my gut.

            Back home, for nearly 24 hours I endured torment—shortness of breath, a galloping heart, visions from the “Taken” trailer, a film I’d refused to see.

            Near the end of our first day without her, I managed to drive to the grocery store despite my blurred vision. As I parked, the KLOVE deejay asked listeners for prayer requests. I whispered mine as I unbuckled my seat belt, gathered my list and coupons.

            “Please let her be safe, not kidnapped or heaving up a food-poisoned box lunch on the eight hour bus drive from Lima to the mountain school.”

            “How He loves us. Oh, how He loves us . . .” I whimpered as I reached for the volume nob on the radio, twisted it until my eardrums throbbed. It was a sign, surely it was, the playing of one of my favorite songs ever. I searched the sky through the windshield, blew a kiss—a sign language thank you—toward heaven. I placed my hand over my heart and noticed how its jittery rhythm evened out.
             After shopping, I arranged the grocery bags in the backseat then checked my phone. There it was, a text from my husband. "She made it, safe and sound." Behind the steering wheel, I crumpled. Relieved. Thankful.

+++++++

Two years later, it’s almost no big deal. Her flying here, her travelling there, to this country or that. I am amazed that the impossible has become doable, the unknown bearable. The what ifs are quieter now, paler.

            Why, this summer I didn’t even weep when she took her little sister to her home-away- from-home—the mountain school in Peru.

            In the airport, my brunette middle child vibrated beside me with excitement and fear.  
            “You’re in good hands,” I told her, “hers and God’s. You’re gonna be fine.”

            I gathered the girls close and said a prayer. Then I kissed their cheeks, turned, and walked away without a shadow of a limp or stagger. As I crossed the threshold of the automatic doors, I marveled at my dryness. No moisture coursing from my eyes or nose? No dampness (or panic beast) whatsoever in the basement of me? Surely this is the peace which surpasses all understanding.

*Fast Dogs* Part II

My son was a mucous mess when he crawled upstairs to inform me the long-legged, beagle-howling, slut puppy sister hounds had run away. Again. I drew him onto my lap and used my shirt sleeve to dab at the snot beneath his nose.
            "They'll come back, honey," I said into his damp curls. "They always do."
            "I hope so, Mommy. 'Cause I don't want 'em to get smooshed by a car and have to be scraped off the street with a splatula."
            I cupped his chin and rotated his face. "What in the world are you talking about?"         

            "That's what Daddy said would happen someday."
            "Did he really? Well, why don't you pray right now the dogs will come home by supper?"
            My little guy bowed his head and clenched his hands together.

            "Dear God," he said.
            I peeked through my lashes. His eyes were squinched shut and his little boy forehead was lined with effort. I felt like a bike tire pump was attached to my heart, swelling it with little gusts of honeysuckle-scented air.
            "Please bring Daisy and Little Paint home sooner than now. And please don't let them get squished by a car. I think if I had to look at their blood and guts on the road where they got killed, it'd make me barf every time until the rain washed it away."
            I bit my lip.
            "We love them so much, God. They're so soft and nice. They let me lay on them like a couch. Please bring 'em home soon. Please? Thank you. Hey-men."

            "That was quite a prayer, sweetie," I said. "I bet the dogs are on their way home right now. Let's go down and see."
             In the foyer we opened the front door. No dogs. On the back porch we whistled and promised treats. Nothing.
            That night, I peeked out at the porches one more time before I went to bed. Nada. They weren't there in the morning either.

At lunch I spoke into my yogurt cup. “They’ve never been gone longer than a few hours. Maybe they’re not coming back this time.”

            I glanced up at the ceiling. And waited. To see if my heart would feel happy or sad.

            When our middle child came home from school that afternoon, she flung her jean jacket to one side of the foyer and her backpack to the other.

            "Are the dogs back? Did anyone call?”
            As I bent to pick up her scatterings, I told her no and no. She phoned the animal shelter and asked if they'd found a tan, Beagle-looking, long-legged girl dog and a white and tan, Beagle-looking, long-legged girl dog. Tears streaked her face as she nestled the phone back in its base.

            When she phoned the shelter the next day, the guy at the pound said, "Look, miss. Don't call us anymore. We'll call you. If we find them."
            Middle Child sprang up from the settee, her pointer finger in the air.

            “The mailman,” she said as she darted out the front door.

            Not a bad thought. Our mail carrier loved the dogs. Brought them Milk Bones every day. Called Daisy and Little Paint his girlfriends.

            “He promised he'd keep an eye out for them,” Middle Child said when she returned.
            At supper, the kids prayed for the dogs to come home. At bedtime, they beseeched God yet again.

The next day, the kids created fliers and posted them on every telephone pole within a mile of our house. They organized a search party with neighborhood kids.
            "I'll give whoever finds them, two dollars," Middle Child said. "One for each dog."

On the fifth day, all three kids cornered me. "Do something, Mommy!”
            "Like what?"
            They crowded into my personal space bubble, eyes huge and shiny, hands flailing.     

            "Like . . . something!"
            I phoned the newspaper and placed a missing dogs ad in the Saturday and Sunday papers.

            “No charge,” the lady said. “And don't worry. This’ll work. I got my cat back the day I ran an ad.”
            She was wrong. No one called. Days number six and seven came and went.
            "Do you think they'll ever come back?" I asked my husband as I pasted my toothbrush that night.
            He shrugged. "I seriously doubt it. They've never been gone this long," he said. "As fast as they run, they're probably in another state by now.  And if that's the case, I don't know if they can find their way back."
            I sipped water and swished and spat. Then sighed. "You're probably right. No one's called from the paper. I bet they lost their collars. Or their i.d. tags fell off."

The next day I phoned the vet and cancelled the dogs' upcoming check-up. When the gal asked why, I confessed the dogs had skipped town.
            "Daisy and Little Paint? No way!" the clinic receptionist said. "Bring us a flier and we'll hang it up on our bulletin board. We’ll get your doggy daughters back."
            My husband grumbled when I handed him a sign to deliver to the vet's office.

            "You know I don't want them back, don't you?”

            I nodded. I knew.

In the Beginning . . . Again

I couldn’t sleep. For the voices in my head. One voice really. One voice plus two words equal insomnia.

            “Start over.”

            I clenched my teeth. “No.”

            “Start over.”

            I set my face like flint. “I won’t do it.”

            “Start—“

            I made a head sandwich with two pillows. Silence. At last. I removed the top one.

            “Start—“
            I whimpered. “Are you kidding me? You seriously want me to flush 92,000 plus words? I’d rather—“

            “You’d rather what? Write less than your best? “

            I applied the pillow to my face again. Huffed. It’s right. He is. The voice. I’d heard it before. More than once. Several times actually. For what, one year? Maybe two? Always stuck my pointer fingers in my ears. Na-na-na-nah. Unstopped them. Is it gone yet?  Good.

            I lifted the pillow a half inch. To breathe. But I love the part where . . . And how I wrote that one scene . . .

            The voice found me. Inside my down-alternative hiding place.

            “You’re better now. Different. I’m doing a new thing. Trust me.”

            I slipped my hand under the top pillow. Wiped my nose with my wrist. Mouthed one word--how?

            “What did you tell that young man last week? The missionary?”

            I scrolled through memories. Found that one. Spoke inside my mind. How is a faithless question.

            “What are you afraid of, really?”

            I tossed the pillow to the floor. Rolled onto my side.

            “I’m scared it’ll take years. That I’ll be old before it’s finished.”

            “So?”

            I pictured Sarah, Abraham’s wife. Her papery, age-spotted arms cradled a chubby-faced baby boy. She’s too old to—

            “Let me ask you this. Would you rather your hands be empty? Do you want a babe that ceases to breathe in its second month?”

            I shook my head. Pressed my knuckles into my eyes to stop the burn.

            “No, sir. It’s just . . . It’s so big. Huge really. I’m—“

            “My grace is . . .” The voice paused.

            I opened my eyes. Waited for him to finish.  Oh, he wants me to say the rest.

            I listened to my quivery exhale. Tried to find something to focus on in the darkness.

            “Sufficient. Your grace is sufficient. ‘Cause your power’s made perfect . . . in weakness.”

            A breeze blew across the bed. Even though no window was open.

            “Get some rest, beloved. Tomorrow’s a big day. The day you’ll—“

            I shivered. Pulled the covers under my chin.

            “I know. The day I’ll start over.”

Crushed--Part VI

The dream was so real. We were in a forest. Actually, it felt like the ribcage of a forest. I felt its respiration—in, out. Or rather, expand, deflate. It was damp there. Inside the woody bubble. Smelled like the ocean. Or clean sweat. Was that the air or him?

            He, Jake, was around me. Behind me. I sat in the circle of him. Felt his breath stir my hair. He kissed the indentation at the base of my neck.  Right there. I put my fingers up to touch the spot and he kissed them too. There was pressure and softness, all at the same time.

            Wake up. I remember hearing the silent command. Inside my head. My eyes opened. Focused. I was alone. My heartrate slowed. Eventually.

           

I’ve got this. There’s a sentence I know. All I have to do is chant it. Over and over. Better yet, I’ll write it on my hand. Both of them if necessary. With a Sharpie marker. Look at it on the hour.  And then some.

            “But when you are tempted, He will provide a way out so you can stand up under it.”

            Promise me, God, that I’ll see the way out. When it comes.  

Millie and I waited for Silas on the front porch.  While he ran back in for her joint supplement.  

            “Can’t forget that,” Silas said.

            “You’re such a good doggy daddy,” I told him.

            He pulled the front door shut.  I stretched to hand him the house key.  He paused inside the screen door. 

            “What?” I said.

            “The phone’s ringing.  Should I get it?”

            “Look at the caller i.d..” Is this the way out, Lord? Right now? 

            “It’s Grandma,” he said from the foyer.

            “Don’t answer it.  I’ll call her when we get back.”

            We headed down the steps.  I surveyed the flowers by the curb. Orange daylillies waned. Black-eyed Susans were coming on.  You all are gorgeous. Keep up the good work. Millie did her business.  A block down. Right beside Mrs. Hinkle's recycling bin.

            I looked up from scooping. “Daddy forgot to put recycling out.  Should we . . ." 'Cause God could use trash. As a way out.

            Silas shook his head.  “Not now. He’s waiting.”

            Millie led the way.  She sniffed. Peed.  Munched strands of grass. Whenever she spied a cat or rabbit, she’d freeze. Crouch slightly. Her eyes would narrow.  I considered letting the leash fall.  To see if she’d give chase. But what if—What if she ran so hard, so fast, something broke, like it did with— I wrapped the leash around my wrist.

            “Come on, girl. Not today.”  Not ever.

            Silas bumped me with his shoulder. On purpose.

            “Yes?”

            “Did you remember your notebook? With your stories?”

            I nodded.  Patted the tote bag at my side. 

            “Cool,” he said. “And if he asks about why he's blind, what're you gonna say?”

             “I think I’ll just tell him my theory.”

            Silas's eyes crinkled. “What theory?”

            “That when faced with a crisis or tragedy, I haven’t decided which word to use there, people either turn to God or away. And then I'll expound upon that.”

            Silas's face went funny.

            I stuck my bottom lip out.  “No good?” I tugged the lead. “Millie.  Come on.  We’re not going that way. Or Job.  I could go with Job.  Remember how God didn’t do all that sucky stuff to Job? He just allowed the devil to?”

            “But then maybe Jake’d be mad at God for allowing him to go blind.”

            I puffed at my bangs.  “Guess I’ll have to use my go-to prayer.”

            “What’s that?”

            I put my palms together and looked at the sky. “God, do something. Please.”

            “Or you could just tell him ‘God works all things for the good of those who love him.’”

            My mouth dropped open. “Wow! How did I get such a smart son?” I handed him the leash. “Your turn.”

            We walked another block or so.  Silas broke into a trot. Glanced back to see if Millie’d do the same. She didn’t. He slowed.

            “Hey, look,” I said. I pointed up the street. “There’s Miss Wise. Out in her yard. We used to go to church with her. Back when you were a baby.”

            A thin woman with a blue-grey bob took tiny steps toward the sidewalk. Once there, she awaited our approach. Her hands made a shelf over her brow, shaded her eyes. 
           “Why, is that who I think it is?” she said.

            I smiled. “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Dana and Silas Martinelli. And our dog, Millie.”

            She reached out to Silas. Her hand trembled. A lot.

“This young man was swaddled last time I saw him,” she said. “Pastor Agnew sprinkled that little round head with baptismal water. But it was bald back then. Just look at it now.”

            I leaned against the telephone pole beside me. Felt a sudden and tender warmth for this woman I hadn’t seen in almost twelve years. 
           She gripped Silas’s hand and looked him in the eye. “I just made cookies. Do you like peanut butter cookies, Silas?" she said. She let go of him so she could talk with her hands. "The ones with the crisscross fork marks? Fresh from the oven? If you pick one up, it’ll probably fold or break in half.  They’re that warm.”

Silas looked over his shoulder at me. His teeth were clenched. His eyes wide. He’s embarrassed. ‘Cause she’s making a fuss over him. My mama’s heart knew.  I nodded. It’s okay.

He faced her again. “That’s warm, all right.”

“And ice cold milk,” she said. “I shake the carton real good so it gets froth on top when you pour it.”

"Yum."

Miss Wise moved her right hand to his forearm. Gripped it. When she headed for the house, he carefully matched his steps with hers. I closed my eyes. Felt a sting of tears.  My boy’s a good boy. I made him that way. Joel and I did.

Miss Wise glanced back. “I have coffee too, Dana. Folgers, not Starbucks, but I make it good and strong.”

I caught up with them. Took Millie’s leash from Si. “All the same to me,” I said. I looked up. Pinched the thumb and pointer finger of my left hand together. Sorry, Lord. It was just a little lie.

A half hour later, Silas and I inched toward her front door.

            "Oh, don't go," Miss Wise said. "You just got  here. Sit a spell."

            "We'll come back," I said. "We promise. Right, Silas?" Or, are we supposed to stay here with her all day? Is this the way out, Lord?              
            "Yeah," he said. "It's just, we have some place to be right now."

            I gave her a hug. "Take care, Miss Wise." I said. "We'll try to stop by next week."

             “You called her Miss Wise. Was she ever married?” Silas said when we got to the street.

            “Nope.”

            His brow furrowed. “Wonder why? She’s so nice.”

            “You sure you don’t want to take some cookies with you?” she called from her porch.

            Silas turned. Shook his head and patted his tummy. 
           “No, thanks," he yelled. "I’m stuffed. But thanks."

            “I have no idea,” I said.  “I think she’s beautiful.”

            Once we turned the corner, we couldn’t see her wave anymore. Silas picked up the pace.

            “I hope Jake’s not freaking out.”

            I took bigger strides to keep up. Squinted up the hill at Jake’s yard. He wasn’t out. There were no camp chairs either.

            Silas stopped. Faced me. “Do you think he forgot?”

            I shrugged. “Not sure,” I said. Or did something happen at the doctor? I felt my heart skip over the place where it usually beat. We stepped up on the curb and into the yard. The high grass tickled my ankles.
            Silas cupped his hands around his mouth. “Jake!”

            I pushed his hands down. Held his wrists. “He might be resting,” I said.

            Silas pulled loose. Handed me Millie’s leash.

“Hold her,” he said. “Something’s on the door.” He ran to see. That’s when I knew. This, that thing on the door, whatever it is, is the way out.

            I watched Silas cross the yard. Go up the steps. Stand in front of the door. Blood pulsed in my ears--ba-bum, ba-bum.  What is it? A note? A sign? What does it say? He yanked the paper off the door and ran back. Handed it to me.

            “What’s wrong?” I said as I took it. To make you look like that?

            “Read it.” 

            I smoothed the crumples on my thigh. Held it at arm's length. Waited for my eyes to focus.

            Dear Intruders:

            My dad doesn’t need your company or your sympathy. He has me!

            And we do just fine without you! Lady, I can see the way you look

            at him, but you’re not my mom. You never will be!! So both of you

            just stay away from him!

            Don’t come back,

            His real son

            I gulped. Noticed the instant slickness of my palms. And my underarms. I folded the paper in half. Did it again. And once more. Used my fingers to sharpen the creases. Tucked the note in the knee pocket of my cargo capris. Millie tugged toward the house. Whined.

            “Sorry, girl,” I said. “Not today." Not ever again.

            Silas didn’t move.  He kept looking back at the house.

            “Come one, Si. Let’s go.”

            He huffed. “But why? We don’t even know who wrote it.”

            “Oh, Silas,” I said. “Kevin did. Obviously he doesn’t want us here.”

            “But he’s at soccer.”

            I reached for his elbow. “No, he’s not, hon. I’m guessing he didn’t make the team.”
            I made sure not to look at the house. At the windows. I knew he was in there. Probably watching us. Maybe holding up his middle finger. I felt his anger throb. And burn. It was like a lighthouse beam. Come closer and you’re in big trouble, people.

            Silas’s eyes shone. Almost spilled over. “I don’t get it. Why doesn’t he want us to hang out with Jake? It’s not like he does. And what did he mean about the way you--”

           I rested my palm in the small of his back. Steered him and Millie toward home.

“I’m not sure.” I winced. Peeked up at the clouds. Another one. Not so little. Sorry.

Halfway home I put Millie's lead in my right hand and opened my left. Saw my sentence smeared. Maybe I should get a tatoo. Just in case.

Crushed--Part V

Prayer helps.  More than once I’ve said, “Lord, please do something.  To make me not like _____ (insert man’s name).”  Bad breath.  That’s a good one.  Sloth. That worked once.  With the cute guy I served with at church years ago.  He had longish black hair going gray and an awesome radio voice.  I think that might’ve been the first time I ever said, “Lord, do something.” 

            We both showed up for a work day at church.  Him with his family.  Me and mine.  I overheard him talking to the pastor out in the parking lot.

“I don’t want to break a sweat.  Know what I mean?  Why don’t you buy and I’ll fly?  To Lowe’s.” 

Voila!  Spell broken.  Sloth makes my top lip twitch.  Thanks, God.

Jake straightened and dusted the Millie hairs off his hands. Searched for and found his coffee.  He stayed there, with his elbows on his thighs, sipping from time to time. I clanked my cup in its saucer.  In case he wasn’t a hundred per cent sure where I was.

He turned his shoulders a bit. “I know what I want you to read today,” he said.

            I pressed my palm to my forehead.  “Dang it!  I forgot my notebook.”

            Silas came back out.  Tapped Jake’s arm with a balled up, grey t-shirt. 

            “Here.”

            “Thanks,” Jake said.  He pulled it on. Much better.

            “You really forgot your notebook?” Silas said.  “Bummer.  Hey, wait a minute. I know what we can do instead.” He turned to Jake. “Do you ever feel people’s faces like the blind people do on t.v. ?”

            Jake’s forehead furrowed. “You know, I’ve never done that, but we can if you want.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and massaged my temples.  This isn’t happening. 

Silas stood and pushed chairs around.  “This’ll be cool.  Okay, so the person who’s getting their face felt sits here.  The other two people sit across from him.  Or her.”

Jake stood. “You guys go first,” he said.  “Where’s my chair?”

Silas positioned him in the solo seat.

“You touch one side of his face. I’ll take the other,” I told Silas.  ‘Cause I’m afraid to do both, all by myself. 

Jake sat up taller.  Pushed his chin out a bit.  “Close your eyes,” he said.  "Pretend you’re blind, like me.”

I cheated.  I didn’t touch Jake.  Didn’t shut my eyes either. Instead, I watched Silas.  He ran his fingernails from Jake’s jaw to just under his eye.  I listened to the dry, papery sound.  Scruffy.

“Did you shave today?” Silas said. “It doesn’t feel like it.” 

“Naw.  I usually let it go until the weekend.  Jenny’s around more then.”

Silas rubbed his pointer finger back and forth under Jake’s nose.  “I can’t wait to have whiskers.  It’s gonna be so cool.”

Jake chuckled. “Don’t say that.  It's a pain in the butt, having to shave every day.”

“I don’t care,” Silas said.  “I want a moustache.”

Jake turned away from Silas.  “What do you think, Dana?” he said.  “About my face? Aren’t you supposed to be touching it too?”

            I swallowed.  Reached out. Cupped his jaw in my palm.  Felt a muscle tense. Held it a second more.  Let go.

            “It’s a nice face, Jake. Your coloring’s great. Very golden.”

            “What about my eyes?” he said. “In high school, I was voted—“

            I smiled.  “Prettiest eyes,” I said.  “I remember you telling me.  What did I get?  Do you remember?”

            He nodded.  “Class clown.”

            I smiled.  “Good memory.”

            Jake rubbed his hands on his shorts. “What about my eyes now?”

            “What do you mean?” But I knew.

            “Do they look like poached egg whites?  I remember the blind people I used to see.  That’s what their eyes seemed like.” He made his eyes big.

            What is that color? What does it remind me of? “Ever been to Asheville?  Or Gatlinburg?”

            He nodded.

            “So you know what the Smoky Mountains look like?”

            He squinted.  Seemed to be remembering.  “Kind of.  Dark blue, with a little green?  Is that what you mean?”

            I focused on his wide open gaze.  “Yeah, like that.  Now picture them in the morning with the mist rising.  Or fog. That’s what they're like—misted mountains.  Not poached eggs.”

            He covered his eyes for a minute then slid his hands down until they met—fingers lined up, palm to palm.  For a minute, he looked like he was praying. 

            “Cool.”

            No one said anything for a bit.  Silas pecked me on the leg.  Mouthed now-what?  I pointed to Jake’s head.  To the silver-gold stubble.  Silas rubbed it with his hand—back, forth, back.

            “You’ve got great hair, Jake,” he said. “Like a recruiter for the military.” He made his voice deep. “‘The few. The proud. The Marines.’”

            Jake and I laughed.  “Good one, Si,” I said.

            “Is my mouth still pretty?” Jake said.  “Jenny used to say it was her favorite part of me.”  Did she?

            I traced it with my purple-black pinky nail.  “She’s right, Jake.  You could totally model Chapstick.”

            I glanced down at his arm. Noticed the rash of goosebumps.  My chair made a squawnky noise as I scooted back

“All done.”

            I watched a shadow of disappointment flit across his face.  You don’t remember how to mask your emotions, do you?

            “Feel Silas’s face,” I said, injecting brightness into my tone. “Tell him how handsome he is.”

            Jake swept his hand from side to side, searching. His wrist caught Silas’s ear.  He floated his hand higher.  Found the top of Silas’s head.  Patted.

            “Man, Silas.  That’s a ton of hair. You should give me some.”

            Looks like dandelion fluff, but curly.

            Silas shook his head.  “No way.  Yours is better.”

            “Aren’t his cheeks soft?” I said.

            “And he wants whiskers,” Jake said.  “Don’t be in a hurry to grow up, Silas.  Don’t ever do that.”

            Jake ran a finger down Silas’s nose.

            “He’s got my nose and Joel’s mouth,” I said.  “All three of you could be Chapstick models.”

            Silas fidgeted.  “Your turn, Mom.  Trade me seats.”

            Oh, no.  I wondered if they noticed my sharp intake of breath.  Silas stood.  Then me.  I lowered onto the chair.  I felt Jake's hand above my head somewhere.  When it dropped,  my hairclip bit into my scalp.

            “What’s that?” he said.

            “My hair’s up.”

            Jake’s nose wrinkled.  “You have long hair now? But it was always short.”

            “I know,” I said. “A few years back Joel told me, ‘You’ve had every short hair style there is.  Why don’t you grow it long?’ So I did.”

            “How long is it now?” Jake said.  “Let it down.”

            You’ve got to be kidding.  I pinched the clip and my hair tumbled free.

            “It’s halfway down her back,” Silas said.  “And it’s the color of coffee.”

            I chuckled.  “Nice description, Si.”

            Jake’s hand came at me.  My lungs felt empty but I didn’t do anything about it.  He found a hank of hair and followed it until his wrist collided with my shoulder.

            “Wow,” he said softly. “That is long.”

            I almost ducked when both his hands approached, on either side of my face.  I locked eyes with Silas.  Did you feel that?  The air just thickened.  Jake’s fingers combed through my hair.  Went out the back.

            “Nice,” he said.  My cheeks felt suddenly sunburned.

            “Face time,” Silas said. I glared at him. 

            What will my face feel like? I tried to remember what I looked like that morning.  No little red bumps today.  Good.  And crow’s feet? I don’t think you can feel those.

            Jake ran his fingers from my forehead to my chin.  Kept going.  Under my jaw. Stopped at my necklace.

            “What’s this?” he said, rolling the chain back and forth.

            “My cross necklace.”

            “There’s other stuff on there too,” Silas said.

            Jake’s finger explored each item.

            “There’s a rock that says ‘faith,’” I said. “And a cross, of course. That’s a little pearl, like in the pearl of great price parable, if you know it.  And the silver rectangle says, ‘GRACE.’”

            Jake dropped his hands to the sides of his chair. Sat back.  “So you believe?”

            I saw Silas’s head tilt, but I knew what Jake was asking.

            “Yes,” I said. 

            Jake scratched his arm a couple times before he spoke. 

“And you think your God’s a good god?”

“Uh huh.”  I know what you’re going to say, but please don’t.

“So exactly how do you explain what happened to me?”

I winced and put up my pointer finger. “Can you give me some time, Jake?” I said. “To gather my thoughts on that?"

Jake shifted. “I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow.  Then my mom’s coming for a few days.  How ‘bout Friday?”

I counted on my fingers.  One, two, three, four days. Whoo!

 “Friday’s good,” I said.

I stood.  Took Silas’s hand.  Pulled him to standing.  Scooped up Millie’s leash. Tugged. Gives me plenty of time to ponder the mysteries of pain and suffering and all that.

“And don’t forget your notebook,” Jake said. “'Cause I know what I want to hear next.”

His tone made me turn. “And what would that be?”

“Love stories.  You do have love stories, don’t you?