Home Another Way (34 page)
I’d considered leaving Jonah without saying good-bye to Jack, but I was never good at ending things quietly. Some part of me enjoyed a messy scene, an insult-hurling argument that made walking away so much easier. Even though I doubted I’d get that closure with Jack, I still found myself in front of the Grange hall, wondering what I would say to him.
He opened the door wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt, no socks. I hadn’t seen his bare feet before. They were nice, narrow, without that patch of hair most men have on their bony midfoot. And his second toe wasn’t longer than his first. A pet peeve of mine, long second toes. I dated a guy once whose second toe was the length of his index finger. He’d enjoyed showing people, tugging off his socks at parties when the action lulled, wiggling it and picking up pens and cigarettes and pretzels.
I didn’t sit. Neither did Jack. He leaned against the corner of his desk, arms crossed over his chest, shielding himself from me, I thought. So I backed into the wall, head banging into a framed Norman Rockwell calendar cover.
I wanted to apologize for that afternoon after the memorial service, for the kissing and the telling. I wanted to confess my feelings to him, to hear myself say them aloud, and beg him to be the man I’d been waiting for—the one who’d stay no matter how many dishes I hurled at his head, no matter how many stupid mistakes I made while I bumbled and spun like a pebble in the ocean, slowly, painstakingly being smoothed by the mighty waves.
Instead, I told him, “I have your sweatpants in the truck. The ones I borrowed way back in January.”
He bit his lip, blew a quick puff of air through his nostrils. “I’d forgotten about those.”
“Well, they’re in the truck,” I said again. “I’ll get them, bring them in to you.”
“No, I’ll walk you out. But first, here,” he said, giving me a yellow Post-it Note with the name of a church on it, and a man’s name and phone number. “I know him from seminary. He’s expecting you.”
I folded the paper and crammed it into my back pocket. “And if I don’t show up?”
“He’ll tell me. And then I’ll have to send out the troops to find you.”
I turned my head away from him. He didn’t say he’d come rescue me himself.
He followed me to the truck, opened the door for me, slammed it after I settled into the driver’s seat. I rolled down the window and passed his pants through, then stared ahead to the empty road, pressed down on the brake, and slid the key into the ignition. The big, dramatic, silent good-bye. I’d show him I didn’t need anything from him. But he touched my arm.
“Listen,” he said. “If you ever want to call me sometime, just to talk, I wouldn’t mind. That is, of course, if your new place has a phone.”
“If my new place has a phone,” I said, “I would like that.”
A sober breeze swept over the two of us, wafting my hair across my face. I shook my head, but my hair clung to my skin. Jack reached into the cab and nudged the obstinate strands behind my ear. His hand, warm, gracious, lingered on my cheek. I shut my eyes and pressed into it, my fingers encircling his wrist, squeezing until I felt his pulse against my palm. We listened to the wind wailing through the evergreen needles, a banshee coming to take Jack from me. I shivered; it still felt like winter.
Finally, he turned away, slapped the top of the truck a couple times, and walked back to the Grange hall. I pulled down the visor and watched him, mud sucking at his boots, shoulders rounded and hands jammed into his pockets.
Beth had told me to pray, to pray about anything, everything. So I begged God to make Jack want me, to force him to turn around and run to the truck, rip open the door and kiss me like he did the afternoon of Memory’s service. But he went inside without looking back. My throat knotted, and tears dripped warm over my mouth. I swiped them with my tongue. The taste of loss, returning like a stray dog fed too many times.
“Fine, then. Go,” I mumbled, changing my prayer, demanding God remove all my feelings for Jack, to toss them into a pit as deep as His love was wide. I’d go into the city, find a nice guy at my new church, some ordinary computer programmer or bank teller maybe, and forget all about Jack Watson.
I buckled my seat belt with a determined snap. Hesitated. Something tugged me from within, and I felt as if a moth were hovering close to my ear, wings tickling my jawbone, my neck. Without thinking, my hands folded into my lap and my eyes closed.
“God,” I said, “I guess I should be praying for your will to be done. I don’t know if I really mean it. But I want to.”
The heaviness in my chest didn’t completely disappear, but it was blanketed by another sensation—something warm and shimmering, and whispery, and still. I sat in silence for a moment, and then turned the key. The truck rumbled to life.
I glanced into the mirror once more, but instead of Jack’s door, I saw my own damp eyes, my red nose. But I was smiling. I shifted the truck into Drive, pushed up the visor so I wouldn’t be staring at myself grinning like a fool for the entire trip, and started back down the mountain.
I’ve found the number of people I need—or want—to thank increasing with each turn in the journey.
To Carol Johnson and David Horton at Bethany House for taking a chance on an unknown. The Lord has used you to bless my life in previously unimaginable ways. And to my editor, Karen Schurrer—thank you for making
Home Another
Way
more than it was before.
To my wonderful agent, Bill Jensen—with a “sen” not “son”—who tells me to e-mail him anytime, handles all the phone stuff I hate to do, and plays a mean game of Scrabble. I can’t thank you enough for your part on my road to becoming a
really real
novelist.
To my parents, who have supported me, in my best and darkest times.
To Claudia Bell, Melissa Beilstein, Krista Clements, and Sharon Dykshoorn, for your patience with Jacob’s extended play dates—you have blessed me more than you can know. To Jo Burl, for your sage advice, and Marilyn Merry, just for being you. To my awesome Web designer, Rebecca Diamond—you rock! To everyone at Redeemer church, I could not have finished this book without your prayers, and I covet them. Keep them coming. To Angela Hunt and Nancy Rue, for your encouragement—you both had the words I needed that weekend in Philly. And to my online writing buds, Melanie Rigney, Michele Huey, and Virelle Kidder (especially Virelle, who loved me and took me beneath her wing the moment she met me)—your words of wisdom and advice have been invaluable.
And finally, to Jacob, my hugga bugga boy. I love you more than mint chocolate chip ice cream in waffle cones, the New York Yankees, books, and football combined. And that, as you know, is a lot.
