Once Was Lost Page 2

  “Didn’t you get my messages?” she asks.

  “I—” Whatever I say won’t be true. How do you admit to avoiding your best friend?

  Mrs. Hathaway, still grasping her corner of the dog food bag, saves me. “We wanted to invite you over for dinner sometime this week, if that would be okay with your dad.”

  She knows about my mom being gone, that’s obvious, because normally she would have said, if that would be okay with your mom. Which makes me wonder how many other people from church know and when Dad is going to officially announce it so that I can stop playing the “I don’t know if you know” game every time I run into church people, which is pretty much every time I leave the house.

  “Yeah,” Vanessa says, bouncing a little bit on the balls of her feet, “you can spend the night.”

  “I’ll make your favorite Chinese chicken salad,” Mrs. Hathaway coaxes. She always makes me feel like one of the family, as if she and my mom are still best friends and we all practically live at each other’s houses, even though that hasn’t been true for years.

  “Come on, Sam.” Vanessa is practically begging. I could make both my dad and Vanessa happy by simply letting the word yes come out of my mouth.

  But I don’t want to.

  I don’t want to be with people. I don’t want to talk to people. I don’t want to answer questions or pretend to be interested in conversations or activities.

  “I’m really tired,” I say. Which is true.

  Vanessa’s shoulders slump. “So?”

  “Maybe. I’ll call you.” It’s the best I can do. “I have to go find my dad.” I pile a dozen cans of cat food into my arms.

  “Okay, sweetie,” Mrs. Hathaway says. “You let us know. Or just show up. You know our home is your home.”

  The way she says that, so sincere and warm and nurturing, makes me start to tear up unexpectedly, and I turn as I say, “Thanks,” before she can hug me and make it worse.

  “Call me, Sam,” Vanessa says. “I miss you!”

  “Me, too,” I say automatically.

  I find Dad in the produce section, loading the cart with vegetables. “There you are,” he says. “Grab anything else you need and then we have to scoot. I haven’t even started prepping tomorrow’s sermon.”

  “Dad,” I say, staring into the cart.

  “What now?”

  “It’s all… ingredients.”

  He stops in the middle of filling up a plastic bag with broccoli and gives me a questioning look.

  “Who’s going to cook this stuff?” I ask.

  “I thought…” Now he stares into the cart.

  “It’s not like I know what to do with it. She never let me in the kitchen when she cooked,” I say. Cooking was the one thing she and I didn’t do together. Everything else—shopping, cleaning, watching TV or movies, looking at magazines, gardening, polishing our toenails, doing our hair, trying on clothes, going for walks or runs—was the two of us. But when she was in the kitchen, even I was banished. It was the one place in her life where she was totally in charge.

  “Haven’t you noticed,” I continue, “that your meals have come out of a can or the microwave since, like, Christmas?”

  I take the bunch of broccoli out of his hand and put it back, along with the mushrooms, the little red potatoes, the baby squash. I keep the bagged salad and apples. Then I wheel the cart to the meat case and put back the package of ground beef and the whole chicken in favor of some pre-seasoned, pre-cooked chicken breasts.

  “I could cook,” Dad says weakly, but he knows I’m right. We’re not the kind of family anymore that sits around the table to a balanced and nutritious meal to talk about our days. We’re the kind that lives on stuff only requiring a person to work the microwave or add boiling water.

  After filling our cart with stuff that meets these criteria, I pull Dad along to the checkout line. He’s still in a daze, like he’s only just now living in reality. I think of a line he uses in sermons sometimes: “Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt.” Funny how talking about things safely from behind a podium in church is different from really getting them in real life.

  The cashier, a squat fifty-something woman who’s worked here as long as I can remember, smiles big at us. Well, at Dad. “Hey, Pastor Charlie. Haven’t seen you here in ages!”

  And instantly he turns on his Pastor Charlie charm, going from sad and dazed to warm and present, like our grocery cart tragedy never happened. “Come to church and you can see me every week,” he says with a grin. “You haven’t been since your niece’s baptism, am I right?”

  I turn away, look at the candy shelf, and add some four-for-a-dollar chocolate bars to the conveyer belt. Meanwhile, the cashier and my dad are laughing it up. “Maybe I was hiding in the balcony.”

  “And maybe you weren’t.”

  She loves it. Because all women love my dad. He’s handsome enough even with the little soda-belly he’s grown in the last couple of years, has all his hair, is youngish, charming, kind, a good listener, reliable, attentive, there when you need him. Those last four only apply if you aren’t in his immediate family. Most of all he’s the kind of man who would never cheat, and—as my mom pointed out to me once after a few drinks—that’s exactly the kind of man women want to cheat with. “Ironic, isn’t it?” my mom said, kind of laughing and kind of not. And I wanted to tell her how that isn’t the sort of thing I want to know about or think about my own father, and please could we change the subject, but I don’t think she really realized it was me sitting there with her. I mean she knew it was me, but when she’s drinking she kind of forgets I’m her daughter and she’s my mom. So the definition of appropriate topics of conversation tends to… expand.

  Dad pays for the groceries with a check, which will float a couple of days while he figures out how to get money into our account.

  Back in the car, he’s still in his confident pastoral mode. “I’m sorry,” he says, buckling his seat belt. “The food thing—”

  “It’s okay,” I say, cutting him off. I turn up the air-conditioning full blast and lift myself off the seat a little to keep from burning my thighs on the vinyl.

  “We’ll sit down and talk about this. We’ll make a plan for how to make sure we’re taking care of ourselves and each other while Mom’s away.”

  He’s been saying this for two weeks now, been referring to this mythical conversation we’re allegedly going to have, in which everything will be ironed out and processed and prayed over and resolved, and yet we somehow never actually have it.

  We pull out of the lot. The air blowing into the car finally begins to cool. “I just have to get through church tomorrow,” he says, “then on Monday we’ll figure it all out.” He glances at me. “Okay?”

  The only response I can give is “Okay.” I know that church comes first, and I didn’t expect us to actually get five minutes to talk, and I guess I should be grateful we got groceries and went to the hardware store.

  When we’re almost home, I say, “I ran into Vanessa in the store. I think I’m going to spend the night over there.” Because suddenly the prospect of conversation with other people doesn’t seem as hard as going into that house, our house, staying there with no AC while Dad holes up in his office getting ready for tomorrow.

  He gives my knee a light and happy smack. “Good, Sam. Good. I’m glad. You need to have some fun.”

  At Vanessa’s house, the air-conditioning works and the mail isn’t piled up and we sit around the table, all of us together, looking out onto a backyard where everything is under control.

  “After dinner, you two can go out and pick some tomatoes,” Mrs. Hathaway says as we all pass her our shallow bowls, which she fills with mounds of Chinese chicken salad. “Sam, you can take some home. We’ve got a bumper crop out there.”

  “Does this have onions?” Robby, Vanessa’s seven-year-old brother, scrutinizes his dish. He always inspects his food with a funny kind of thoroughness—C.S.I. Dinner Plate.

  �
�No, honey,” his mom says. “Just scallions.”

  “I love scallions,” I say, trying to help, making my eyes big and excited. “They’re my favorite. Plus they make you super strong.”

  He’s skeptical. “What are scallions?”

  “Green onions,” Vanessa says. Mrs. Hathaway gives her a look.

  After we’re all served, Mr. Hathaway extends his hands—one to Robby, on his left, and one to me, on his right. I take it, and Vanessa takes mine, and Mrs. Hathaway takes hers, and then completes the circle by holding Robby’s. The prayer over the food is on the long side, as Mr. Hathaway covers not only the food but also each one of us as well as world events. His hand is rougher and bigger than my dad’s, calloused from playing the guitar, which he does almost every Sunday.

  “Amen,” he finally says, giving my hand a squeeze.

  This is what a family is supposed to feel like.

  “How’s your mother doing?” Mrs. Hathaway asks, as if it isn’t the hardest question in the world to ask and answer.

  “Fine.” I eat a bite of salad. It’s good. Mrs. Hathaway got this recipe from my mom.

  “I know it’s hard right now, but it’s good that she’s getting help.”

  “Mom…,” Vanessa says, and glances at me apologetically.

  Robby asks, “Why does Sam’s mom need help?”

  I start to say that she had a little run-in with a fence post, which is true, but Mrs. Hathaway answers first: “She’s sick, Robby. It’s a disease. It’s—”

  “Like cancer?”

  “Well, not quite.” She looks thoughtful. This is a Teachable Moment. “But you could say—”

  “We don’t really need to go into this right now, do we, Nance?” Mr. Hathaway looks at Robby. “Sam’s mom doesn’t have cancer, bud. She’s going to be fine.”

  “Yeah,” I say to Robby, who’s staring at me with eyes that are the same blue as Vanessa’s. “She’s going to be fine.”

  Out in the yard the ripe tomatoes are almost jumping into our hands. It’s dusk, and the hummingbird moths hover and swoop around the lavender bushes while Daisy, Vanessa’s golden retriever, walks the perimeter of the yard over and over. The Hathaways’ yard is smaller than ours—they live a little closer to the main part of town where the houses are packed in a little more tightly. But it’s definitely a better yard. They have a drip irrigation system, with a trickle of water constantly seeping out, just under the soil, and neat rows of summer produce. I wonder if I could do that without any help.

  “My mom is so dumb sometimes,” Vanessa says, straightening up among the tomato plants.

  “It’s okay. It’s just… I didn’t know she knew. And that you know.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I move to another plant, but most of the tomatoes on this one are still a little green. “I was going to. You haven’t been back that long.”

  Vanessa, along with almost the entire youth group except for me, went on a mission trip to Mexico. A lot of kids had to raise the money, but Mom didn’t want me to because of how my dad’s job already involves asking for money. When you stand there every week and pray before the offering plate is passed, people get funny about it.

  I change the subject. “I love your haircut. It makes you look older.”

  She reaches a hand to her neck. “Really? It feels so short. This one old lady in Mexico thought I was a boy. Ugh.”

  “No, it’s cute. And with the highlights cut off it looks more cocoa-y.” I find a dark red tomato and pluck it from the vine. “Maybe I should chop my hair off, too.” Even though I’ve always had long hair, the same ashy blond as my mom’s, maybe short hair like Vanessa’s could help me feel less weighed down by… everything.

  “I like your hair the way it is.”

  We pick for a while, just listening to the crickets, before she says, “I wish you could have been there, in Mexico. It wasn’t the same without you.”

  “Thanks. I wish, too.”

  “Sam? Is your mom really going to be okay?”

  I blink several times and bend low, pretending to be interested in the plants. “Yeah. It takes time.” That’s what they said in the family orientation. It takes time, and patience, and perseverance.

  “Are you okay?”

  She wants me to talk, as in really talk, about my feelings. And I know she’ll try again when we’re in our sleeping bags tonight, and in the morning when we’re getting ready for church. And every time, I know I won’t be able to.

  “Mm-hmm.” I hold up my bowl of tomatoes. “Do you think this is enough?”

  The outline of her head in the dimming yard nods.

  Day 2

  Sunday

  There’s a poster in the youth group room that probably came from some youth group–supplies warehouse in Texas or Colorado that I imagine is filled with T-shirts and coffee cups and rubber bracelets with what are supposed to be inspiring messages for The Youth, as everyone who is not The Youth calls us at our church.

  The poster—now kind of curling and dusty—shows a bunch of multicultural-looking teens in fashions from five years go, falling all over each other on comfy couches, big smiles on their fresh faces, surrounded by pillows. One of them holds a Bible and a notebook in his lap. On the bottom of the poster are big yellow capital letters:

  COMMUNITY HAPPENS!

  Don’t forget the exclamation point. Everything for The Youth has exclamation points.

  When I was in sixth grade, I’d come to the church on Saturdays to help my dad get ready for the next day’s services. I’d collect all the pencils from where they were holstered in the pew racks, sharpen them, and put them back. I’d restock the offering envelopes and make sure every pew had the right number of Bibles and hymnals. One time, my dad sent me down to the youth room to look for a missing communion tray and I stared at that poster and pictured myself in it, smiling, knee-to-knee with the other youth group kids, who would be my best friends. My community. It would be like having a whole bunch of brothers and sisters, and we’d know everything about each other. Because, as we’re reminded all the time at church, community happens through sharing. “Getting real.” With God. And with each other. Telling each other about the not-so-pleasant things that may or may not be happening in our lives. In theory, community ensues.

  I believed in the theory, and expected that once I hit high school my life would be filled with all this understanding and friendship and spiritual bonding, and my faith would come alive, just like the poster promised. It hasn’t really happened that way.

  Now I look around at our monocultural faces, which are sort of smiling, but not nearly as happily as the poster faces. Mine least of all. It’s not that I wouldn’t like to share. It’s not like I want to feel like this, live forever in this mood of resistance and suspicion and doubt. But I’ve been feeling this way too long to remember how not to. How would they react if I really did share, the way we’re supposed to, and said: My mom is in court-“suggested” rehab and my dad has no clue how to deal with it or even talk about it, and I think I might be depressed? What if I said that?

  Maybe this morning my dad will finally say something, officially, to the congregation about Mom, and then everyone will know and I can exhale. Then tomorrow, he and I will sit down and have that talk he promised about how things are going to be, how we’re going to deal with it. And next Sunday, I can share, and finally make them all understand what I’ve been going through, alone, all this time.

  For now, I sit with my lips pressed together while Vanessa, still touching the back of her neck every ten seconds like she’s looking for the hair that used to be there, shares. She shares about how on the Mexico mission trip she realized how lucky we all are to have indoor bathrooms and clean drinking water. And Nick Shaw shares his excitement about moving into the dorms in a couple of weeks and also his anxiety because he doesn’t know if he’ll like his roommate and also he’ll miss Dorrie. That’s Dorrie Clark, who lives up in Dillon’s Bluff and goes to a different high
school but has been Nick’s girlfriend for ten months. Their success as a couple is a disappointment to nearly every girl who’s ever met Nick, me included. Not that I know him that well or sit around daydreaming about him. It’s just that Nick is the kind of guy every girl wishes would choose her. He’s a rare combination of tall and athletic and cute, and also sincere. He asked me to dance at a wedding once, and I just thought that was really nice, like he’d seen me sitting there looking bored and danced with me out of the kindness of his heart. I don’t know any other high school boys who would do that.

  Then Allie shares that while in Mexico, she woke up early one morning and something told her to go outside, and she did, and saw the sunrise and even though all of the poverty and despair had her wondering if God really pays attention, the beauty of the red and purple sky seemed to tell her yes, God is there, and knows what he’s doing. “I really felt it.” Her pale eyes are damp. “It was like a personal message but at the same time something everyone in the world could see. At least, everyone in that village, on that morning. It was… I don’t know. Hope.”

  I glance at Daniel to check his reaction. He and Vanessa are the only ones who really know me, and at least understand my family a little bit. Even they can’t totally get it, though, because no one can know what it feels like to be the pastor’s kid unless they are one. Daniel, who normally would roll his eyes at Allie’s personal messages from God, is staring at her, really listening, and nodding a little bit. He almost looks like he wants to say something, then notices my glance and doesn’t. Instead, he scoots lower into his chair and scratches at his round face.

  Allie talks some more and I start to envy her Mexico experience. Right now I would love to have a personal message from God. I want to believe the way I used to, when my dad or mom or sometimes both of them would pray with me at night and I would picture God listening, kind-eyed and bearded. He was real to me, as real as my own parents. I don’t know when God stopped being someone I saw as my true friend, and turned into something I’m mostly confused about. But if I can believe that Allie believes, maybe that would feel close enough. Like if I can latch on to some third- or fourth-hand experience of real faith it will almost be enough to make up for what I’ve lost.