Harsh Pink with Bonus Content (26 page)

MELODY CARLSON has written over a hundred books for all age groups, but she particularly enjoys writing for teens. Perhaps this is because her own teen years remain so vivid in her memory. After claiming to be an atheist at the ripe old age of twelve, she later surrendered her heart to Jesus and has been following him ever since. Her hope and prayer for all her readers is that each one would be touched by God in a special way through her stories. For more information, please visit Melody’s website at www.melodycarlson.com.

...[CHAPTER 1].................

T
o be fair, it’s not completely my mom’s fault that I’m moving out today. In some ways it feels like I’ve just outgrown her and it’s time to take a new path. Even so, as I shove my last load into the back of Dad’s SUV, balancing my guitar case on top of a confused heap of all my worldly goods, I feel guilty.

“Ready to go, kiddo?” Dad closes the back door and smiles hopefully.

I know he’s desperate to get out of here. He’s already attempted an exchange of words with my older brother, Sean. As I anticipated, it went badly and I can tell Dad’s eager to put as much distance as possible between himself and this place. It’s the same house he and Mom bought more than twenty years ago, and now he hates it like poison. Divorce is just like that.

“I, uh, I think I should do one last check inside,” I tell him.

He glances at his watch. “Well, make it snappy,
okay?
I have a racquetball game scheduled for tonight, and if we get out of here in the next few minutes, I think I can still make it.”

I nod and hurry back into the house, where my mom is anchored to the same spot on the couch where she’s been sulking all morning. Still wearing her faded pink bathrobe and bed-head hair that’s even more dulled with streaks of gray, she looks like she’s about to cry again. She also looks a lot older than forty-two, not to mention a lot older than my dad. I’m sure she would lay the blame for her premature aging at my feet … or Dad’s.

I desperately want to say something to her, something that will make this all okay. But I don’t have those magic words, so I hurry past the living room, down the hallway, and back to my old bedroom, where I just stand looking around the cleared-out space.

My room, my private getaway for my entire life of sixteen years, has never looked so tidy … or so barren. But despite being stripped down to its scarred-up periwinkle walls, naked mattress, empty closet, and beat-up pine dresser, this space still feels weirdly familiar and strangely comforting. And for a brief moment I wonder if I need to rethink my decision to leave. Is this a mistake?

“Did you forget something, Haley?”

I turn to see my mom’s tired brown eyes peering curiously at me. Again, I wish I could invent the right words to say … something to make our parting less painful. Then Mom holds up my old Bible. At least I assume it’s my Bible. I haven’t seen it for a while.

“Or maybe you
meant
to leave this behind?” She waves the light blue book in my face like she’s turning in state’s evidence.

I won’t admit it, but the truth is I
did
mean to leave my Bible behind. But I just shrug, take the book from her, and tuck it under my arm.

“I found it in the drawer of the
coffee table.”
The way she proclaims this feels like an insinuation, like I purposely hid it there.

“I know this is hard for you, Mom.” My voice is tight. The words are sticking together like a big wad of gum. “I … I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about me, Haley. I’ll be just fine. You’re the one who’s making a very big mistake.” She folds her arms across her front and frowns. She’s scowled so much lately that the expression will probably carve itself permanently into her face. Not that she cares much about her appearance. That’s obvious by the way she dressed to see my dad this morning — not. According to Mom, vanity is the Devil’s device.

“I just can’t do this anymore. It’s too hard.” More than anything, I wish I hadn’t come back into the house, hadn’t tried to patch this up. How many times have I been down this road with her? I should know each step by heart. I do know this: It’s a dead end.

“Then you should run away. Just like your father did. But don’t forget, even if you can run from me, you can’t run from God. He will eventually catch you — what he’ll do with you when he does …” She sighs and actually wrings her hands. “Well, it won’t be my responsibility.”

“I’m sorry this is hurting you,” I quietly tell her. “I hope you know I still love you.”

“I love you too, Haley. But you’re
still
making a big mistake. Your father has turned his back on God. If you go live with him, you’ll do the same.”

“How can you know that?”

“I
know.”
Her voice is getting stronger now, like she’s about to launch into another one of her sermons.

I make a move toward the door but she blocks me.

“Just because you don’t like my rules doesn’t mean they weren’t in your best interests. ‘A fool despises discipline, but a wise man welcomes a rebuke.’”

“I know, I know.” I hold up my hands. “I’ve heard all this before, Mom.”

“You might hear with your ears, but your heart has gone deaf.”

Okay, I realize my mistake. It’s useless trying to reason with a crazy woman. It’s like she thinks she’s God’s ordained prophetess, spewing her warnings and condemnations to anyone stupid enough to cross her path or listen. I am so tired of it. In fact, I have decided if that’s what God is really like — cold and judgmental and mean — then I guess Mom is right. I probably will turn my back on him.

“I have to go,” I say in a controlled tone. “Dad is waiting.”

“Oh yes, don’t keep the lying betrayer waiting. We wouldn’t want to inconvenience that loathsome sinner, now would we?”

I know her words are the result of a lot of pain, and part of me wants to hug her one last time, but she looks so angry, as if she’s wrapped in a barbed-wire fence with a big Keep Out sign. “I love you, Mom, but I gotta go.”

She steps aside but her expression is even frostier. “Just because the judge let you decide where to live doesn’t mean it’s the right decision, Haley. Man’s laws and God’s laws are not equal. Someday you will understand what a mistake you’ve made. But remember this — do not expect me to come rescue you when you fall flat on your face.”

“I won’t.” I push past her, holding my tongue and knowing that nothing I can say will make any difference. Sometimes I truly think my mom is losing her sanity. To me the saying of “being so heavenly minded you’re no earthly good” is an understatement when it comes to my mom. I even said this to her once, but she simply launched into a sermon about how this earth was going to burn since it was all evil anyway. Whatever.

I’m almost out the door when Sean stops me. “Take care, sis,” he mumbles, giving me a squeeze on the shoulder. For him, that’s quite demonstrative.

“You take care too.” I give him another hug, but just like with the last one, when I said good-bye earlier, Sean doesn’t respond. He just stands there hard and cold, like a big boulder or a marble statue of my brother. I can almost imagine he’s still in his army uniform, except that back then, back before he left for the Middle East, his smile was genuine and his hug was like a big friendly teddy bear. He didn’t get injured in Iraq, not so you can see, but he is like the walking wounded now. He’s definitely not the same Sean McLean who marched off to war, and I don’t know if my other brother will ever come home. I look into his sad blue eyes. “If Mom gets to you,” I whisper, “you could always come out and live with Dad and me in California.”

He just shakes his head. “Mom needs me.”

“Yes.” I pat him on the back. “Maybe you can help her.” I tell him good-bye for the second time, then, blinking back tears, I jog out to the SUV, slide into the passenger seat, and let out a huge sigh.

“Find what you were looking for?” Dad’s already starting the engine.

I toss my well-worn Bible into the backseat and shrug, trying not to give in to crying like a baby. The whole point of doing this is to show Dad and the rest of the world that I am mature, nearly grown up. It won’t look good to break down and cry.

“They’re going to be okay, Haley.”

I turn and stare at him. “What makes you so sure?”

“Oh, you know what they say, baby doll. Time heals all wounds.” He grins. “Or wounds all heels.”

“Mostly … I worry about Sean.”

He nods. “So do I.”

“Mom’s always telling him to just pray his way through everything.”

Dad shakes his head, but I can see his jaw tightening.

“I think Sean might be able to get some help,” I go on. “I mean at the VA hospital. I read online that they’re doing some counseling and psychological evaluations and stuff. But when I told him about it, he said he didn’t need any help.”

“Maybe he’s not ready.”

“But he’s so miserable, Dad.”

“I know. But sometimes people have to hit rock bottom before they look up and reach for help.”

“Has that ever happened to you? I mean
rock bottom.
”

Dad drums his fingers on the steering wheel with a thoughtful expression as he waits for the light to change. “I’m not really sure. I mean, I felt pretty low when I left your mom — that was rough and it might’ve been my rock bottom — but then I kind of bounced back too. But you know me, Haley, the perennial optimist.” He grins again, and I’m suddenly reminded of better times and how when my dad smiled it always seemed like the sun came out.

“I think some optimism might be nice for a change.” I return his smile and start to relax inside.

“So, how about some music? We’ve got a long drive ahead, and I’m going to need something to keep me awake after getting up at two in the morning to come pick you up.”

“Music is good.”

So Dad turns on his stereo, and while he rocks out to some old fogy tunes, I ponder over what I’m getting myself into. I’ve only been to my dad’s place twice. Once for Christmas and once for a couple of weeks the summer before last. But back then I never imagined that life with Mom would get so bad I’d actually choose my dad over her. I find it hard to believe that only three years ago, I was solidly on Mom’s side. So much so that it was difficult to visit my dad — since he was the traitor who’d run out on us.

My parents split up shortly after my mom began going to a different church. I realize now that their marriage had already been in trouble, and she was looking for some answers. At first I thought this new church was just what she needed. Especially after the divorce. Her ladies’ Bible study group became her safety net. It even seemed to shake her out of her funk and bring her to life. And at first I didn’t mind going to church with her. It was definitely different from what I’d been used to, but I figured if it helped Mom, why not?

But after a year of this new church, Mom started going off the deep end. It was about this same time that I started to question things, and as a result Mom and I started to argue. It didn’t help matters when I quit going to church with her. But what was I supposed to do, check my brain at the door? The pastor acted like everyone should just believe everything he said — like he was God’s gift to these poor lost sheep. And I have to say that a lot of the stuff he said was pretty weird.

It didn’t take long until Mom started to sound just like the pastor. She was talking differently, thinking differently, acting differently. Almost like she’d been brainwashed. Anyway, I got the distinct impression I was losing her.