Healing Waters (20 page)

We got a flash of an overwrought-looking Egan Ladd before we were reeled back to her.

“—we are still looking into the identity of a man taken in for questioning.”

The camera gave us a full view of Agent Deidre Schmacker and another guy escorting Sonia's driver-gardener to a car and tucking him in. The screen split, showing the anchor people in the newsroom. They could have been Egan and Roxanne—before they were stricken with what they'd just seen.

“One has to wonder how all of this will affect Sonia Cabot in the long run,” said the woman on the set.

“I talked with her personally, Susan,” Reporter Girl said, “and while she shows remarkable strength right now, I think you're right. This is bound to take its toll.”

We got no glimpse of Sonia in her living room, holding her press conference.

“Who was the child on the porch?” Anchor Woman said.

“That would be her six-year-old daughter, I believe, Susan.”

Susan shook her head with practiced sympathy.

“Thank you, Nicki.” Anchor Man turned to his colleague. “It's a shame. Sonia Cabot has been a valuable member of the Nashville community.”

“Yes, she has, and—”

“She's not dead!” Georgia waved her arm at the TV. “Could that have been any more biased?”

“What do you expect?” Roxanne said. “They aren't believers.”

“Do you want to watch what they did on the other channels?” Marnie said to Sonia.

“I think we've seen enough.” Egan turned off the television and tossed the remote onto a nearby chair. “Sonia, I need to talk to you. Alone.”

“Whatever you have to say to me you can say in front of these people. We're all in this together.”

Sonia had to look around the room before heads nodded, some of them less eagerly than others.

Sullivan Crisp folded his arms and pressed further into the wall. He couldn't hope to push as hard as I did.
Please, God, let me
disappear. I so don't want to hear this.

Egan spaded his hands into his pockets. “I don't know what this whole day has said to you, Sonia, but to me it couldn't be clearer.” He looked at the women crowded behind Sonia, and then, oddly, at Sullivan Crisp before he turned back to Sonia. “Are you sure you want me to go on—here?”

“Say whatever you have to say, Egan.” Sonia shook away the hand Marnie put on her arm.

Egan nodded at the plasma screen. “This isn't God at work. This to me is evidence that you can't represent Abundant Living right now.”

I jerked my head toward Sonia. I had no idea how my sister would react to rejection. To my knowledge, she'd never had to.

She twisted the smile at him. “Because some poor sad child attacked me verbally?” she said. “Or because the news media blew everything out of proportion? Egan, we have dealt with that before.”

“No, Sonia.” Egan shoved his already-rolled sleeves farther up his arms. “ALM is about being healed in the faith. You can't represent healing until you're healed yourself.”

“In your opinion,” Sonia said. Her creamy voice chilled.

“In the board's opinion. We had a conference call this afternoon, and we've agreed to ask you to step down—just until you can be an example of the kind of healing we stand for.”

“You can't
fire
me. Abundant Living is my creation.”

Egan tilted his head at her. “You always said it was God's creation, Sonia. And let me remind you that when ALM became a not-for-profit organization, you turned your power over to the board, which—”

“All right, all right.” Sonia put up both hands. “I will concede that the public is not ready to see me. So I will confine myself to answering mail and promoting the books and DVDs through the Web site.”

But Egan Ladd shook his head. “You need to be out of it completely, Sonia. This isn't just about what the public can handle. This is about faith.”

“You mean
my
faith. You're saying if it were strong enough, I would be further along in my healing.”

“I'm saying we can't plunge the people who embrace the abundant living of Christ into doubting it because you have been attacked and mutilated and—”

“Hey, Egan—man, you want to lighten up a little?”

I stared up at Sullivan Crisp, who peeled himself from the wall to face Egan.

“It's all right, Sully,” Sonia said. “I'm hearing what I've been suspecting I'd hear since the day Egan saw me in ICU.” She turned to Egan. “This isn't about my faith, Egan; it's about your revulsion.”

“Mine and everybody else's.”

More than one person gasped.

Egan was white-faced, but he went on. “You have always said— and I believe it—that a person's life will be abundantly blessed if her faith is strong enough. ‘If you keep the commands of the Lord your God and walk in His ways . . . the Lord will grant you abundant prosperity.' We give all the credit to God for that, and the abundance flows. ‘You will always be at the top, never at the bottom.'”

“You're preaching to the choir,” Sonia said.

“Am I? I learned from
you
that when misfortune comes our way, it is either God getting ready to show His glory—or it's a sign of a deep lack of faith that has to be dealt with.” He craned his neck toward her, tendons straining. “I don't think we have any choice but to pull you back and wait to see which it is—not let it play out in front of the thousands of people whose belief is still fragile, whose whole walk is still tentative.”

Sonia poked her gaze at him through the holes in her mask. “You're wrong, Egan. We're on the verge of a miracle of global proportions.”

Egan pulled his shoulders up to his ears and folded his arms across his chest. “I hope it is, Sonia. I pray that it is. If so, we'll share it with the world.”

“No.” Sonia stood up and pushed away the hands that reached out to steady her. “No,
I
will share it with the world. On my own.”

“Then I'll be praying for you.” He unfolded his arms and looked around the room, which held its collective breath. “If you'll excuse me, ladies,” he said.

When he was gone, hands went to mouths. Eyes sought out each other.

“What just happened?” Marnie said, but Sonia waved her off.

“Girl, I am so sorry,” Georgia said.

Sonia shook her head. “For what? This just means the burden now falls completely on us—and we have some work to do to educate people in faith.”

“Starting tomorrow.” Roxanne stood up, arm flashing a diamond tennis bracelet. “Ya'll watch my show in the morning. We'll take care of this.”

Right. But who would take care of Sonia? The squaring of the queenly shoulders and the resolution in those unblinking eyes might be convincing them, but I knew my sister's voice. It had risen from its creamy depths and was headed for a thready pitch I'd only heard once before: the day she called to tell me her husband was in a coma. Pre-salvation. Pre-Abundant Living Ministries. Pre-Sonia Who Can Handle Anything and Who Can Tell You How to Handle It Too.

“Let's get her out of here,” someone said close to my ear.

I nodded at Sullivan Crisp without looking at him.

“Sonia,” I said, “it's time for you to get some rest.”

“I wouldn't argue with the Boss Lady,” Sullivan said.

He scooped Sonia into his arms for the second time that day, and I followed him gratefully through the door. Behind us, silence fell.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T
he guesthouse was larger than any
main
house Sully had ever lived in, including Porphyria's lodge, though thankfully it wasn't furnished with the same kind of grandeur as Sonia's own living quarters. Brocade made him itch, and gold tassels on drapes brought out his Alabama-country-boy urge to use them for fishing lures. Even that elaborate cross hanging over her bed made him think of a sword about to fall.

He was grateful for the leather couches and the enormous made-for-a-man chair, which he sank into. He peeled off each shoe with the other foot before he turned on his cell phone.

Porphyria answered on the second ring and listened with her usual intensity while he filled her in.

“Where do you think she's headed?” she said when he'd finished.

“If she doesn't start facing what's happened to her instead of burying her head in work nobody wants her to do, I'd say she's headed for trouble.”

“Mm-mm-mm.”

“I know what you're thinking,” Sully said.

“Do you, now?”

“She's doing exactly what I did. Only she's getting there a lot faster. I can't counsel her, obviously, but I am going to talk to her sister about a therapist tomorrow, if you don't need the car back sooner.”

“She's the nurse you mentioned.”

“Sonia listens to her more than she does anyone else, although Lucia doesn't have the confidence to push her, as far as I can tell. Too bad, too, because she's got a lot going for her.”

“Such as?”

“Beautiful face—something out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting. Bright. Sensible.” Sully grunted. “Hasn't bought into the toxic aspects of Sonia's belief system.”

“But she doesn't stand up to her sister.”

“There's a lot going on there. She definitely has some issues.”

“Have you already done an assessment session with her, Dr. Crisp?”

Sully heard the smile in her voice.

“I think anybody could pick up on it,” he said. “She's fairly overweight, for one thing. Not obese, but I think she's a closet stress eater. She takes about enough food to feed a flea and then doesn't eat it. The only way she's keeping that much weight on her is to eat in secret, and my guess is that's due to some unresolved stuff of her own.”

“Sexual abuse, you think? That's often the case with weight issues.”

“I don't think so,” Sully said. “If they'd been molested as kids, don't you think Sonia would have told the world by now? No, I think it's something else.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“What ‘mm-hmm'?”

“You might not be able to counsel Sonia Cabot, but you'd sure like to get your therapeutic hands on her sister.”

“She's just interesting.”

“So it would seem.”

Sully scrubbed at his cheek. “I'm not ready, Porphyria. I found that out on the bridge last night.”

“What you found on the bridge is that there's more you need to find out.”

Sully had to grin. “Now there's comfort.”

“Tell me something.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Always.”

Sully scratched at the back of his head with his fingernails. “Okay—what do you want me to tell you?”

“If you
were
going to advise Sonia, what would you say?”

He didn't even have to think about it. He'd been seeing it all day.

“I'd tell her to take Egan Ladd up on his offer to let somebody else handle the big ministering for a while and concentrate on what she needs to do emotionally to deal with what's happened to her. But I'd advise her not to—to use Rusty's psychological term— wallow in it. I'd say she needs something she can do that keeps her in touch with God and her relationships with other people, something that moves her in a healing direction.”

“Excellent advice, Dr. Crisp.”

“Out of your mouth into my ears.”

“And so far you've taken most of it, much to my surprise.”

“I had to hit rock bottom.”

“Sonia hasn't yet?”

“I'd like to see her start healing without having to go that far down.”

“So what would you tell her to do to stay in touch, as you said?”

“I don't know yet. Her daughter might be one avenue, for both their sakes. Sonia's not taking care of her physical needs either— there's probably something there that needs to be happening. She's running everybody around her into the ground. I'm not sure how long sister Lucia is going to last.”

“All good, all good,” Porphyria said. “So isn't that what you're doing right now?”

“Am I?” Sully unfolded himself from the chair and padded barefoot into the adjoining bedroom, where a king-sized bed invited him to flop down. He ignored it and went to the bookcase. He rubbed at the title on a spine.
Delivered from Grief.
One of Sonia's.

“I'm going to have to do the podcasts Rusty wants if I'm going to have any future in this ministry at all.”

“And?”

Sully laughed out loud. “Ticks me off when you pull that therapy stuff on me, Porphyria.”

“Anger is good in therapy,” she said.

He could imagine her eyes closing, her marvelous mouth spreading. Waiting.

“I think I can get Sonia pointed in the right direction,” Sully said. “I'd like to try anyway. As her friend.”

“Good. And her sister?”

Sully put up his hand as if Porphyria were sitting across from him. “I'm not going there.”

“That may not be your destination. But don't be afraid to drive by.”

“Speaking of driving, I need to get your car back to you.”

“I've got my pick-em-up truck,” she said. “You know my hind parts fit better in it than they do in that silly Buick. Just don't be tinkering with the engine.”

He hung up and looked at the laptop he'd set on the desk—solid cherry, if he knew wood at all. He'd already downloaded the software the Healing Choice tech guy had sent him for the podcasts. Audacity, the program was called. How ironic was that?

He did have one thing he wanted to say, which had occurred to him when Egan outlined the credo of Abundant Living. What a prince, that Egan. With friends like that, who needed a personal assassin?

Sully ambled over to the computer, set it up, did a test for mic volume, and dropped into one of the swivel chairs.