Heart of the Country (13 page)

31

“W
HAT’S YOUR NAME?”
I whispered. But before he could answer, the pain crashed over me again and I screamed.
God, the anguish. Must You torture me? Must it be this way?

I felt him wipe a tear. When I opened my eyes, tears were running down his own face. I wanted to wipe them. But I couldn’t move. My eyes drifted to his arms. Muscles bulged from beneath his short-sleeved shirt. Blue veins protruded from his temple. His neck. But the panic that had seized his expression for the last however many minutes wasn’t there. That kind of frightened me. It was the one thing I could count on every time I opened my eyes. Where did it go? What did it mean that it wasn’t there?

I couldn’t get out what I wanted to ask and wondered why my body wasn’t letting me stay unconscious. Why I wasn’t going into shock. And then I realized the pain had vanished again.

I was alone with my thoughts, dizzy with panic and regret and hope and despair. It just seemed that I wasn’t going to pull out of this, no matter how much I willed it or wanted it.

And now I wasn’t sure I did. I loved my girls so much. I loved Cal more than life itself. But it was time I faced my God.

I saw myself crumpled in a ball at His feet, ashamed that I couldn’t look at Him. I’d made mistakes in my life. Plenty of them. Spread out over a lifetime, maybe they didn’t add up to much, but brought before my eyes, they caused me to hide my face. I couldn’t bear to look at them.

I felt filthy. Naked. Raw. My mistakes heaped in front of me as evidence, too much to lift or move. There was a stench to them, like rotten garbage.

I wanted to vomit. I wanted to run. But as quickly as the terror had cloaked me, more images of my life breezed into the darkness. I lifted my chin as they lit up the darkness like fireworks. And in all the sweetness that floated above me, I saw a hand. I couldn’t see it with my eyes, but I could with my heart. I saw Him through it all, like a transparent light glowing behind a thin fabric. He was quiet but not timid. Kind but fierce. His goodness hovered over my entire life, and I did not see a moment when He was not there.

Even the times when I thought I was totally alone.

I saw the day I decided to give up my dream of singing. I sat on a golden hill, the grass dead from a long winter. My knees were pulled to my chest and my arms wrapped around them. The sky looked like a torch, with the sun’s dying light glowing from behind a storm cloud. Distantly, I heard the thunder. I remember listening for God’s voice.

The flashes of lightning, hollow and ghostly inside the clouds, brought me my answer.

I had an entire community urging me to go, to pursue my dream, to put Columbus County on the map. I had people coming to tell me about all the times that one of my songs changed their lives, in one way or another. I even had a music manager from Nashville tell me he’d sign me as soon as I made it out that way.

All the voices. All the promises. All the opportunity.

And then there was my heart.

32

C
HURCH HAD BEEN A CONSTANT
since I was a kid, and there was hardly ever an excuse that got us out of it. Not even the stomach flu, if you hadn’t thrown up in the last six hours. As much as we hated it sometimes, I grew to appreciate it more when I became a teenager. I understood the richness of tradition and how it bonded our family together.

But if I was honest, I never thought much beyond the Sunday dinner prayers or the candlelit singing of “Silent Night.” I didn’t seem to have the faith that my parents had or for which I was named. Maybe I felt I was in it by proxy.

When I met Luke, we talked about how we were raised. Both Christian, and that was a relief. But it was never a part
of our daily lives. We even eloped, and that was the part I regretted most
 
—that it was more legal and less spiritual.

It wasn’t that I dismissed God. I said my prayers, but not often and not consistently and most certainly with less enthusiasm than I gave to most everything else I did in my life.

Not until I was driving to North Carolina, in the quietness of the car, did my soul do more than just glance upward. It stared, hard, into the still, silent vastness where we all hope God dwells.

When I was little, I asked my dad why God didn’t speak to me. He asked me how I knew whether or not He was speaking. I told him that I couldn’t hear Him. Dad smiled and said that was because I was listening with my ears. Then he put his hand over my heart and said that I had to listen in there.

“Why? That seems awfully hard to hear inside your own body,” I said.

He replied, “Just the opposite. It’s quiet in there, so He can speak and be heard. Outside, there’s a bunch of noise.” I remember thinking how smart that was of God, except what I didn’t realize was how much I wanted to listen to all that noise.

I looked at Dad as we drove to church together now, in his truck. His temples were so gray. Creases sliced into the sides of his face. He was whistling a hymn, but I didn’t recognize which one. He looked happy. But after Mom died, I’d known that Dad was struggling, and I had noticed that I
hadn’t seen him pray at all. I asked him why, if he was mad at God.

It was a bold question because Daddy had always been a private man, and he didn’t speak much about things that concerned the heart. But I remember him looking at me with eyes that had squinted against a thousand suns and saying, “Sometimes there are no words to pray, but that doesn’t mean that God doesn’t know what you’re saying.”

Driving back from New York, God and I had an entire conversation and I never spoke a word. But more was said and heard in that car ride than maybe in my whole life.

I missed Luke. So much. I missed the phone calls during the day. The little silly presents he’d bring sometimes when he worked late. I missed the way he always looked like I took his breath away when I wanted to show him a new blouse or dress. I didn’t want to miss him, but I did, so I let that stay in my heart where God could find it, safe and sound.

“Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Can I ask you something? Personal?”

Dad’s eye twitched, but that was nothing new. If you weren’t talking about NASCAR, football, hunting, or the almanac, it usually made him uncomfortable. “Sure.”

“Did you ever forgive Mom? For dying?”

Dad’s eyes cut sideways. “What kind of question is that?”

“Because I don’t know if I ever did.”

“It wasn’t your mother’s fault.”

“I know. But I was still mad at her.”

Dad’s shoulders slumped a bit and he softened. “I know what you mean.” His fingers tapped against the steering wheel and we didn’t say much more, except to comment on the nice weather and the farmer selling pumpkins from the back of his truck.

Dad parked the truck and we got out. Eddie and Sherry Beltram waved at Dad, and I sat for a moment and watched him converse with his two good friends. There was a genuine warmth there. Good-hearted laughing. I wondered if I had that at all in New York. Did I have one true friend there?

Maria? She liked me, I knew. But I wondered: if I declared I’d never go to a party again, would she give me the time of day?

I shut the door of the truck and glanced to the far corner of the parking lot, where I saw Lee sitting in his truck, slamming back a cup of coffee. I glanced at Dad, who was still with the Beltrams, so I decided to go catch up with Lee. He was getting out, balancing a Bible and the coffee while tying his necktie.

I laughed as I watched. “You’re in a hurry to get to church,” I said as I approached. I took his coffee to help him out. “Must’ve been quite a night. Hope you remember her name.”

The remark seemed to take him by surprise, and instantly I realized that while that joke might’ve flown with any number of people in my circle of friends, it probably wasn’t appropriate here in a church parking lot in Columbus County. With a guy who once had a fiancée. Ugh.

I was about to apologize when Lee said, “Actually I remember both their names.”

My eyebrows rose. Maybe I was wrong. “No kidding.”

“First was Agnes. Eighty-nine. Heart attack.”

I bit my fingernail. Yeah . . . I was definitely wrong. “Oh, um, sorry.”

“Next was Bella. Six. Car wreck.” I immediately noticed his bloodshot eyes, punctuated with dark circles. “Didn’t make it.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Walk with me?” For all the times he’d been courteous to me, he now seemed withdrawn.

“Sure.”

We walked across the parking lot together, our conversation empty of all the chatter we’d become accustomed to. Instead, he told me about the family that survived: a brother who was eleven and both parents. I could hardly hold back tears as we entered the sanctuary.

“I best let you get to your post,” he said without a smile.

“Sure. Thanks. Very sorry for your night.”

“It happens. It’s what I do.”

I took a deep breath and hurried to get my robe on in the choir room, then joined the rest of them in the vestibule.

“Cutting it kind of close, aren’t you?” Olivia asked.

I adjusted the collar. “Dad drives like time doesn’t exist.”

“True enough.”

I watched Lee, hunched over in the pew, his hands against
his forehead, praying, I knew, for that family. I felt sick to my stomach.

“Heard it was a family next county over,” Olivia said.

I hadn’t realized she was watching me. “A six-year-old girl died.”

Olivia nodded. And then the organ started and we sang the opening hymn, “How Great Thou Art.” I could hear Daddy and Olivia, and it was weird, but there was something to our voices being one. A chord of three. A cord of three. I looked at Hardy, who sang with spirited gusto. And the little ones, Victoria and Nell, standing there singing with no hymnbook. They knew it by heart.

Soon we were dismissed to our seats. Daddy and I sat on the end, Olivia and the girls in the middle with Hardy. We were all sitting together and it felt good. I knew Lee was behind me. I wanted to turn and check on him, see if he was all right, but instead I stayed quiet and listened to the pastor, who was already well into his sermon by the time I really tuned in.

“. . . The point of the prodigal was not that he had run away. The truth is, we all run at one point or another.”

I felt my cheeks flush. Was Pastor Jim looking straight at me when he said that?

“In fact, the prodigal story isn’t about the prodigal at all, but about our Father, waiting with His arms open wide, with the past forgotten.”

I couldn’t help but look at Daddy. That’s exactly what he did for me, whether he knew it or not. If I had to imagine it,
Dad probably felt like a failure. His grief had been so deep and dark after Momma died that there was no room in him to help us through ours. But what I realized as I listened to Pastor Jim was that all along, there had been a hand there, on my shoulder. On his too. On all of ours. It was the hand that Momma talked about when I was very young. She said that God would hold my hand when I felt lonely. Or afraid. Or confused. But she reminded me that His hand would be there in the good times too. She said that it was how she knew she was supposed to stay in Columbus County and how she knew she was supposed to marry Daddy and make her home here.

“Someday,” she said, “you will hear your heart and listen and follow your dream. You will need His hand to help you.”

“Where was your dream?” I asked her.

“My dream happened to be right here at home.”

I tuned back in to Pastor Jim. Boy, was my mind wandering these days. I was going to have to work harder at listening to more than 30 percent of the sermon.

“We’re all prodigals,” Pastor Jim was saying, making a large gesture out toward the congregation.

But then my mind slipped back to the past, and I thought about Luke. It struck me that maybe that was all we had in common anymore . . . that we were both prodigals. Should I have run? Should I have given him a second chance? I’d barely let him try to explain before I took off. But what was there to explain? What else was there to say? He’d lied to me and possibly committed a crime.

Time had again passed. I missed some witty story or joke from Pastor Jim. The roar of laughter snapped me back to attention.

“So . . . how do we treat the prodigals who return to us?”

I gulped, maybe audibly, and fought the urge to look at Olivia. But at the same time, I had to ask the question, what would I do if Luke tried to return to me?

Before I knew it, time had flown once again and I was following Dad out of the church and down the steps. A hand touched my arm.

“Faith,” Pastor Jim said, “thank you so much for singing in the choir. You have the voice of an angel.”

“And you apparently have the voice of a prophet,” I said with a gentle smile.

He laughed. “It’s easier to be a prophet in a small town.”

“I guess so. Well, I enjoyed the sermon.” I was pretty sure I heard most of what God intended.

“Thanks. And welcome home.”

I sensed Pastor Jim was about to remark further, but Dad must have too, because out of nowhere his arm wrapped around my shoulder and his hand shot out toward the pastor. He pumped the handshake like Jim was a water well. “Thanks, Pastor. Always enjoy your sermons.”

As we walked to the truck, I saw Lee. He was headed toward his truck. Usually he did quite a bit of mingling.

“Dad, give me a minute, will you?” I hurried to catch up with him. “Lee, wait.”

He turned, surprised. “Sorry, I didn’t see you. I’m in my own little world.”

“Look, I feel . . . stupid. I am so sorry about this morning. Stupid joke.”

“No worries. Just a bad day. It happens.”

“Anyway, you’re welcome to join us for Sunday dinner if you’d like.”

“Oh, um, thanks, but
 
—”

“I’m sure you’re going home. Getting some sleep.”

“Next shift starts in . . . oh, great, two hours.” He reached for his door handle.

I touched his arm. “Lee, who do you talk with about this stuff?”

“Other than God?”

“Um, yeah.”

Lee shrugged. “I don’t.”

“Try me. Sometime. If you’d like.” Even as I said it, I knew I shouldn’t have. But the air was filled with the tingle of dancing in the gray areas of life.

“Faith, sweetie, loadin’ up over here.” Dad. Bringing me back to reality.

Lee stared at me, and we had a moment. Just a glance. But we seemed to understand each other.

“It’s going to be okay. You know that, right?”

“If you do.” He smiled, gave a quick, distant wave to Dad, then got in his truck.

Back by Dad’s side, I was greeted by my nieces.

“If heaven had music,” Nell said, “I think it would sound like your voice.”

“Aww, sweetie, that is so kind. Thank you.” I bent down to give her a hug.

Victoria tugged on my shirt. “You wanna wrestle later?”

I laughed as I knelt down further. “I’m not sure my muscles are strong enough for you.”

“She is pretty weak,” Olivia chimed in with a smile that did nothing to cover up the insult.

I ignored her. “Vic, maybe you could show me some of your moves later.”

She followed a high five with a knuckle bump and then a ruffle to my hair. “Awesome.”

“All right, let’s get back to the house,” Dad said.

“Calvin, you wanna pull a couple of trout from the river after dinner?”

“Not today, Hardy. Feeling a nap coming on.”

“Since when does my daddy pass up fishing?” Olivia asked, sliding her arm around his waist. “Still coming for dinner, though, right?”

“It’s Sunday, isn’t it, darlin’?”

“Can I bring something?” I offered though immediately regretted my intrusion into their moment. Olivia took everything wrong, so I figured she’d take that wrong too. She hesitated, looked at Dad.

Then, “Okay. That’d be nice. Why don’t you bring dessert?”

“Okay.”

“Something easy, you know. Don’t go to any trouble.”

“It won’t be as fancy as what you make.” I grinned. “We might all have to settle for Rice Krispies treats.”

Hardy said, “I love Rice Krispies
 
—” Olivia’s expression cut him straight off. “As a cereal. A little milk. How they crackle and all that. Too bad they don’t, um, crackle when they’re in, uh, treat form.”

Man, Olivia had a knack for causing people to turn instantly awkward. Situations too. Pretty much anything.

“Okay then,” Dad said, genuinely confused by Hardy and the Rice Krispies conversation. “We’ll see you later.”

I climbed into the truck with Dad and he gave me one of those looks that any girl knows, if she knows her father at all.

I felt like I was eight as I asked, “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on. What is it?”

“You’re making dessert. I didn’t even know you could cook.”

I laughed and laid my head against the window, gazing at the interminable sea of corn that lined the sliver of black tar road leading us home. “I want to do it for her.”

“Who?”

“Olivia.”

“You have nothing to prove here.”

“I know. I do. I promise I know that now,” I said, almost convinced of it myself. “But for Olivia, that’s what you do. That’s home. And family. And love. It’s all wrapped up in cake.”