Drummer Boy (9 page)

 

 

 

 

12

 

Tim tapped softly, happy to play slow songs, to not have to exert much energy because, for once, he didn't have a lot of it. He didn't understand what had happened. OK, that was a lie. He understood exactly what had happened.

Jane was dating another guy. Or maybe more than one other guy.

But why? Yeah, they weren't a couple of any kind, but it hadn't occurred to him to even look at another female in months. Why would he? He had Jane.

That's what was so stupid. He didn't have Jane. They'd flirted, and he'd asked her to consider dating, but she'd shot him down. He wanted to write it off as nerves, but he should've taken the big, fat hint.

Her line about not wanting to see anyone was an attempt to be kind. She meant he gave God everything. He had nothing for anyone else. No woman wants to be second string.

Tim rebuked that line of thinking, knowing where it came from, but his heart didn't get any lighter.

In front of him, the worship team stopped singing, started praying. He bowed his head, too.

After a few minutes, Conrad, the senior pastor, said, “I know it's been a tough week for some of you. You're facing big questions, some hard times, but I want to remind you of God's promise to Jeremiah, ancient encouragement that is meant for all God's people, past and present: ‘For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.'”

Is that true, Lord?
Tim asked in his head, but he knew it was.
I'm sorry for doubting, and I'm sorry that sometimes I get caught up in what I want, forget to pray that Your will be done, not mine. If I'm not meant to be with Jane, help me to be OK with that—and help me to be the friend she needs, without any selfish, romantic agenda.

Tim waited for a feeling of release, some sort of confirmation that he would be OK without her, that it wasn't meant to be, but his mind was filled with her smile, and he couldn't hear what Conrad went onto say because Jane's laughter bounced through his memory.

She really seemed happy when she was with him. And she appeared to love the work they did together just as much as he did.

Was he imagining all that just because he wanted it to be true? Even on the best days with Natalie, Tim had never experienced the feeling he had when he was with Jane: like all was right in the world, like
he
was all right—that things were as they should be.

Wait.

The word almost seemed audible, but as Tim opened his eyes, he was sure it had only been spoken in his head.

“OK,” he whispered, but inside he couldn't help but ask, “Wait for what?”

 

 

 

 

13

 

Jane opened the window over the kitchen sink, and a light breeze danced into the room, sweet and fresh, with an edge of crispness hinting that autumn was coming. As she washed the few pots that wouldn't fit into the dishwasher, she looked out into the yard. The big maple's leaves were starting to blush, and she smiled.

Fall was Tim's favorite season because it “harkened changes.” Who said things like “harkened” anymore? The more she spent time with him, the more she wanted to spend time with him. She'd never been around someone who didn't bore her eventually. She loved that he was always doing something, planning something. She loved that he always looked at her as if she were the only person in the room when she talked. And he was so cute it made her crazy with want to touch him.

Things had changed since her stupid date with Edward though. If anything, her feelings for Tim had clarified, but now he tried to have someone else with them at all times, avoiding one-on-one time, and he worked the words “my friend Jane” into too many conversations…

She gave the stove a final vicious swipe and threw the dishrag at the sink.

Candy, just entering the room, fished the cloth out of the sink, rinsed it, and then hung it over the faucet to dry. “What's eating you?” she asked.

Jane shot her a look and then refocused on the cutlery drawer she'd banged open. She finally understood one of Candy's ongoing laments. It
was
ridiculous how garbage accumulated unless you kept on top of it. “This is not a junk drawer,” she said, removing a couple of loose elastics, a wad of expired coupons, and, of all things, a bike lock and a broken fortune cookie, still in its cellophane.

“You're preaching to the choir, sister,” Candy said, but her grin quickly faded. “Seriously, Jane. Dinner was amazing, the kitchen is sparkling, the drawer is fine—what's wrong?”

“I cooked and cleaned, so there must be something wrong, right? Because under normal circumstances I'd never tidy or help out, right?”

Candy had been about to grab a cookie, but she dropped her hand away from the big glass jar and gawked. “That's not what I was saying, or what I meant, at all.”

Jane plunked into a chair, propped her elbows on the table, and rested her chin on her clenched fists. “I know it's not. I know.”

Candy took a chair across from her. “I'm starting to get really worried. I'm used to being the morose, moody one. You're the life of the party, can't-nothing-get-me-down one—”

“That's just it. I am down. And I don't seem to be able to get myself up again.”

“It totally makes sense if you're a bit down. You'll feel better when things are back to normal—”

“And what if ‘things' are never back to normal? What if
I'm
never normal again?” Jane jumped to her feet, began to pace.

“You will be.”

“You don't know that. And I'm sick of waiting. I want to drive again. I want to work. I hate sitting around being useless. I'm not you. I'm not good at this whole domestic thing. I don't want to hang all my hopes on some guy, have kids, and keep house and—”

“Whoa,” Candy said, “Whoa. Where is this all coming from?”

Jane shrugged, her mouth tight with anger.

“Well, for one, little sister.
Ouch
. I don't consider what I do useless—and for two,
bull
.”

Jane raised her eyebrows. “
Bull
?”

Candy's eyes narrowed. “Strong language for strongly trying situations—and strongly trying siblings.”

Jane snorted.

Candy grinned before she continued. “You do so want to marry
one
guy and have kids—or you used to always say you did anyway, so I suspect that hasn't changed. And you enjoy puttering as much as I do. It's why, when we don't want to kill each other, we've always made pretty decent roommates. What's really going on?”

“I don't know.”

“You do so.”

Jane fiddled with the zipper on her hoodie—a hoodie with a sleeve that was forever demolished because they'd cut it to be able to fit her arm when it was still caged. “You're good at talking and helping people that way. I
do
things. I may not know how to help you figure out what to do next, but I'll wash your floors, clean up your mess, take out the garbage—”

Candy's shoulders drooped and she wrapped her arms around herself. “I understand what you're saying.”

“Do you? I feel useless, Candy. Worse than useless. And ugly. I'm ugly—and it shouldn't matter. I have so much to be thankful for. Before all this, I would've said it didn't matter. Your looks shouldn't define you. What you
do
isn't you, but I can't help it. It's disgusting. I'm disgusting.” Jane bowed her head and rubbed her temple with her good hand.

“You are the furthest thing from ugly. The furthest thing—and that would be true even if you were covered with boils and warts.”

Jane snorted, but the corners of her lips turned up. “What am I? Eight? I don't think a Kaylie-worthy pep talk is going to help me.”

“
Hello
, I'm
ten
,” Kaylie piped up from the living room.

Candy rolled her eyes, and Jane had to chuckle.

“Stop eavesdropping and go tidy the rec room like I asked you to do hours ago,” Candy commanded.

An exaggerated sigh bellowed forth from the living room, but the couch creaked and a few seconds later the sound of light footsteps jogged down to the basement.

“Where was I?” Candy asked. “Oh, yeah, your warts.”

“Come on.”

“I'm not joking. What's ugly is how you're feeling—not you at all. Have you prayed about this?”

“Yes, I've prayed—pray—about it. So much that God's probably ready to cut me loose any second.”

Candy frowned. “That's not how He is. His love for you is eternal. Everlasting. Unchanging.”

“I know, I know.”

“Do you?”

They were quiet for a few minutes.

Jane grabbed a couple of oatmeal cookies, handing one to Candy. “And then there's stupid Tim.”

“Stupid Tim?”

“Yeah. I think he really likes me.”

“Oh, how awful of him.”

“You don't get it.”

“So you keep telling me.”

Jane waved her cookie at Candy in a mock-menacing gesture, but all humor dissipated. “What if I'm like Mom?”

Candy inhaled sharply, as if stabbed with sudden pain. Then she nodded like she finally understood something that had long puzzled her. She studied Jane. “You are like Mom, more than me, I think. You have her love for fun and her gift for letting go and being able to quickly move on from disappointment, to keep seeing people's potential for good and the hope of exciting good things to come, despite past bad experiences.”

Jane glowered. “You know what I mean.”

“Ah, so now you're saying I do understand something?” Candy finished her last bite of cookie and brushed her hands on the thighs of her jeans. Her expression sobered. “I see all of Mom's good qualities in you without any of the bad.”

“Do you mean it?”

“Jane. Look at how loyal you are and have always been. Not many people would choose to stay at home to help their older, arguably overbearing and bossy, sister raise their younger siblings.”

Jane shrugged.

“And look at you at work. You say you wish you could talk like me, but you clean people's bedsores, wipe their bums, ease their pain, hold their hands. And don't run away when they're dying.”

“It's my job. I'm paid to do that.”

“You're not paid to care—and to try to bring a little joy and levity into people's most trying circumstances, but you do it anyway.”

Jane shrugged off those compliments, too. “You know how many boyfriends I've had. Don't even pretend it hasn't bugged you or worried you.”

Candy stood. “Yes, I've worried, but not for the reasons you think. Not because I think you're incapable of loving someone and staying with them. Just the opposite. I kept wondering if you'd ever let yourself have the chance. Don't get mad at me for saying this…”

Jane shook her head. “I won't.”

“You seem to gravitate to guys who don't suit you. Then you end every relationship before it gets serious. I've worried that our childhood taught you that people can't stay together, that men always leave, so it's better to leave them first.”

“You see that in your work all the time. We both do. And not just men doing the leaving.”

Candy nodded. “Yeah, maybe, but I also see God's grace and love in a lot of marriages. Fear doesn't mean you should call the whole thing off.”

“There's nothing to call off. We're not dating. We haven't even held hands.”

“Yet you're agonizing about whether you could or should ever marry?”

“Hypothetically.”

“Well, good grief, I shouldn't have to be the one to tell you this, but holding hands has nothing to do with what's happening inside your heart.”

“Oh,” Jane groaned, “‘Inside your heart'—so corny. What's happening to me?”

Candy arched her eyebrows and said with exaggerated primness, “Well, I'm sure I have no idea altogether and don't understand at all.”

Jane threw her crumpled napkin at her.

 

 

 

 

14

 

Jane smoothed her finger along the puckered scar that ran from the inside of her wrist up to her inner elbow. The scar was an angry, cream soda red, almost surreal against the puffy, wattle-like skin on the rest of her wasted forearm, and there were a multitude of tiny red hole shaped scars—that might fade over time—from the staples they'd used to hold the skin together. The whole mess itched incessantly and she wanted to scratch at it constantly, though it made her family cringe whenever she did.

“It's probably good for it, increases circulation.” She'd tried to defend herself.

“It's disgusting,” Kaylie said, prompting Jane to stick out her tongue.

“I know it's agony,” sympathized Candy, “but can't you take care of it in the bathroom? It is pretty gross.”

“
You're
pretty gross,” Jane quipped.

Kaylie giggled.

Candy smacked her lightly, teasing back, and then glanced at the clock. “Shoot,” she exclaimed. “Kaylie, we've got to move. Your poinsettia shift starts in fifteen minutes.”

“Isn't it a bit early for poinsettias? It's October.”

“Lots of people want them for the first of December and we have to place our order the Friday before the twentieth of November. That only gives us six weekends to sell them,” Kaylie said.

“What's the money going for this time?”

“Gym equipment.”

“Cool. Well, good luck. Sell a lot.”

Candy was almost at the door to the mudroom, jacket and purse in hand, when she turned back.

“Dean and I are going out for dinner tonight. Can you organize something for the kids?”