Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2) (26 page)

Villa Hills
.

Crossing over the town line, my eyes drift to Kennedy, who’s had her head agains
t
the window, sleeping for the last two hours. We weren’t up too late last night, but I suspect that finals being over, as well as the emotions surrounding this visit have caught up with her.

“Hey,” I whisper, tapping her lightly on the shoulder.

She startles easily, something she warned me about last night. She told me to be loud coming up the stairs if I needed her for something, because she hates being caught off guard.

I can appreciate that.

“What?” She sits up, rubbing her eyes, then looking at her hands before flipping down the visor to look at herself in the mirror. “Phew,” she says like she’s talking to no one in particular. “I thought I had mascara on.”

I chuckle, appreciating the few unguarded seconds I have with her before she’s fully awake. “We’re going to be there in ten minutes. I wanted you to have some time …” I trail off, not knowing how to finish that sentence, but knowing she wouldn’t want to wake up in the driveway of a house she’s never been to, and likely thought she’d never visit.

She leans over, pulling a small, zippered bag from her backpack. My focus is on the road, slowly navigating the streets of my parents’ town, but from the corner of my eye I can see she’s putting on makeup. I don’t officially know what that
means
, but I take it at as a good sign that she seems to care about her appearance.

After a few minutes, Kennedy shoves the small bag back into her backpack and runs her hands through her hair a few times before flipping the visor back up and settling back into her seat.

“Nora and Tim, right?” she asks, her eyes forward.

I nod. She’s asked me their names a few times throughout the semester. Taking a deep breath, I think back to my conversations with my parents over the last couple of weeks. They’ve held onto cautious optimism,
hoping
something wouldn’t
come up to prevent meeting Kennedy.

They didn’t know she existed while growing inside her mothe
r
.
They didn
’
t know about her until sometime during her second year of life when I was on another bender.
I wasn’t sure of Kennedy’s birthday at the time, but I was smart enough to do the math.

Of course they were heartbroken to learn of a child they’d never get to know. For a while they tried to get me to go to court to have my parental rights reinstated, but the longer I stayed married to the bottle, the more they left it alone. The more they let Kennedy slip from their hopes and recognize that Wendy and her family were the only choice to raise her. They didn’t try to get involved with her when they saw how much
help
I needed
to manage my own life
. They took care of me, and let God take care of the rest.

It took me ten years to show them the picture that was mailed to me from Kennedy’s fifth birthday. It was what had turned me around, after all, but back then I hadn’t wanted them to know that. I didn’t need them to keep bringing her up if and when I screwed up. Kennedy’s smile and blissful ignorance of her piss-eyed father slithering through the streets of Northern Kentucky was the only motivation I needed. Not the most gorgeous or polite imagery, I realize.

But the truth rarely is.

“Here we are,” I say with a deep breath, turning into the short driveway of my parents’ modest home.

“It’s pretty,” Kennedy half-whispers, assessing the wide front lawn and tidy shrubbery around the front stairs.

The two-story four-bedroom structure is plenty more than two aging people in need of various body-part replacements need, but
its
almost cramped around the holidays when their three children and six grandchildren come visit. Seven, now. My mother wouldn’t have it any other way.

She’s really coming, right? She’s in the car with you
?

That text rolled in around noon today, shortly after Kennedy and I stopped for lunch. I can’t help but feel this cautionary excitement has less to do with Kennedy and more to do with their perception of my ability to develop a relationship with the daughter I abandoned.

You didn’t abandon her
;
you gave her a life by walking away. You know that.

“You good?”

Kennedy’s words bring me back, and I realize we’ve been idling in the driveway for roughly a minute. With a confident nod, I kill the engine and retrieve our bags from the trunk, though Kennedy insists on carrying hers.

“It’s just a bag. I can manage.” Her dry sarcasm has a hint of hesitation around me.

I’ve heard her in action a time or two with her friends before she knew I was standing nearby. She’s a natural around people, captivating them with each word she speaks. It’s not just the CU set, either—I saw it when she was in high school, too.

Well, she’s got your charisma.

Wendy admitted that in a defeatist tone shortly before Kennedy’s high school graduation. She’s always viewed her interpretation of my charisma as a defect
,
while I’ve spent the better part of a decade trying to turn it into a strength. I don’t know if there will ever be a final verdict from where I stand, but given the proper grooming, I’m sure Kennedy can make fine use of it.

Ascending the steps ahead of Kennedy, I place my hand on the doorknob and cast a soft glance her way. “I know it seemed like you didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter, but I’m really happy you’re here right now.”

She nods, a tight smile appearing on her lips while her eyes widen. She’s nervous to meet this branch of her family she’s never known. Meanwhile, I’ve been trying to back my way out of having her spend so much time around people who know every ugly detail about me.

Here goes nothing.

“Mom? Dad?” Roland calls, opening the door slowly, as if to give one of us more time before it all becomes real.

I slept for most of the ride down here, then pretended to sleep for another half hour. I was thinking, and I didn’t want him watching me think. The last few text message exchanges with my mother left me grateful to be here, in Villa—freaking—Hills, Kentucky, more than a thousand miles away from her.

You can think better than that on your feet, Kennedy, why say you were going to Roland’s? Didn’t you think they’d eat that right up? Why you’re doing this, for the life of me, I don’t know. Maybe you really wanted to go there after all, so you created this situation to serve your interests.

Perhaps.

Of course, her final text reassured me she loved me, and didn’t really think any of those things she said. I told her it was all fine, and not to worry. We both lied, but history promises we’ll both be long over it before our tempers cross paths again. That’s the thing about quick
-
tempered people—they typically don’t hold a grudge. Can’t, rather, or they’d run out of allies quickly.

My throat runs dry listening to the footsteps approaching us. Maybe we should have Face
T
imed before this so it wouldn’t feel so blind date-like.

“Roland?” Nora, I assume, calls. Her voice moving closer. There are heavier, slower steps behind her. A silent Tim.

In a few short seconds, a long, lean-ish woman stands in front of me. Eyes identical to Roland’s—and mine, with sandy hair giving way to frosty white. I’ve seen her picture plenty of times at Roland’s place, but in the flesh her presence is even bigger than I imagined. If charisma is genetic, he got his from her.

After she hugs Roland, she steps aside
and lets
Tim in for a manly handshake-hug combo that always cracks me up among men. He’s shorter than Roland and, unless Nora is wearing heels, he’s about an inch shorter than she is.

Yep, he’s shorter. She’s wearing adorable suede moccasins that look incredibly comfortable.

And, here’s the awkward silence. Fidgeting, seemingly unable to decide where to put their hands, or their eyes, Tim and Nora look at Roland, then over to me. Nora’s eyes settle into mine and make a home there, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m going to fight, flee, or stay.

I’m wondering the same thing.

Looking at her, I see the woman who raised the now-amazing man next to me. The woman who took him back into her home despite his transgressions against nearly everyone he came in contact with for the better part of a decade. I see love as I stare into Nora Abbot’s eyes. A mother’s love. I recognize her, somehow. In the eyes, for sure, but there’s more. Something so much more there that
it
startles me for a moment while I decide what to do with it.

Being the eighteen-year-old I am, I wave first.

“Hi,” I whisper, then clear my throat to avoid sounding like a shy toddler. “I’m Kennedy.” Stating the obvious somehow makes me feel better. Or, the exercise of stating my name serves to remind me that I’m really standing here and haven’t yet gone insane.

“I’m Nora.” Her shaky voice gives way to her glistening grey eyes. “It’s
so
nice to meet you, Kennedy.”

Her emphasis chokes me up, causing me to drop my bag and take the three steps toward her that now seem like too much distance, and wrap my arms around her. I’m hugging this non-stranger. She doesn’t feel foreign to me. Even as her arms freeze before she settles into the hug, it all feels right, and I’m wishing I met Nora Abbot a long time ago. Inexplicably, I feel like I already have.

“It’s nice to meet you, too.” Stepping back, I offer Tim a hug as well. He’s much more rigid in this interaction than his wife, but hugs me just the same.

“Oh look at us,” Nora says, wiping tears from her cheeks. “Standing around here like a couple of weeping willows. Let’s get you settled into your rooms, huh?”

I follow Nora up the stairs since she’s already carrying my bag. Looking back over my shoulder, I see Roland wipe the back of his hand over his eyes before following his dad into the kitchen, his arm wrapped around his shorter father.

I feel at home here in this house I’ve never been to, in a state I never thought I’d travel to. It’s Nora. I know it is. I feel the same pull toward her that I felt toward my RA, Maggie, when we first met.

Keep your eyes and ears open around this one. And your heart, while you’re at it.

“Here we are.” Nora opens a door and sets my bag on a bed neatly made with pale yellow sheets and a matching thick comforter folded at the foot of the bed. “Bathroom is at the other end of the hall. You’ll have the room to yourself for the next couple of days, and then once Julia and Geoff get here with their kids, we’ll figure everything out.”

My instinct to panic and/or protest is snuffed out in Nora’s presence. I simply offer a polite smile and tell her I’ll be down to join the rest of them in a moment. I need to call my mom. Her eyes stay on me a moment, as if she’s afraid I’ll disappear into thin air. Soon enough, she reaches forward, gently grabs my hand—giving it a squeeze—and leaves the room. It doesn’t feel like she
leaves completely, though
. Kind of like Roland, I guess, where his presence hangs out long after he’s gone. Matt says the same thing about me sometimes, though I don’t have the energy to dig into all of the comparisons.

Speaking of Matt.

In favor of
not
ruining my current emotional high by calling my mother, who will undoubtedly shi—crap—all over it, even if she doesn’t mean to, I dial Matt’s number.

“Hello?” he says, like he doesn’t have caller ID. I like that.

I plunk down on the bed, kicking off my shoes before stretching out on the comfortable mattress.
“Hey. You home?”

“Yep. You? Oh … wait … sorry.”

I wave my ha
n
d as if he’s there. “Eh, it’s fine. But, yeah, we just got here a few minutes ago.”

“Was it weird?”

You mean like me and you? What with you rejecting me an
d
all?

“Not as weird as this conversation.” I decide to let it all hang out since we have a couple of states between us. I think. I need a map.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, sounding frighteningly un-Matt like. Despite our weirdness as of late.

Pushing aside my feelings of rejection that are sure to linger for the rest of my life, I sigh and sit up, pulling my knees to my chest. “You don’t want to be home, do you?” It’s not technically a question since the answer is so obvious.

He hesitates, taking a deep breath instead of answering.

“It’s okay to tell me, Matt.”

“No.”

“No what? No you won’t tell me, or no you don’t want to be home?”

“I don’t want to be here. At all.” He says it all in one breath, sounding almost like he’s choking back tears.

I sigh, my eyes filling with tears. His pain is palpable, and I doubt there’s anything I could do even if I were there, since he doesn’t tell me anything. “You’ll be fine. Stay out of the house as much as you can maybe?”

“I plan to.” He’s terse, but doesn’t sound convinced it’s the tone he means to use.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I pick up my shoes and carry them down the stairs with me. “Don’t worry about what I asked you. We can forget all about that, okay? I want to be your friend more than anything right now, and that’s what matters, okay? Matt?” I prod during his silence.

“Thank you,” he exhales more than says.

I lower my voice to a whisper when I reach the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll text you, okay? And I guess I’ll see you in, like, two weeks?”

“Thank God for small miracles, huh?” He chuckles, and it sounds genuine enough. “Bye K. Sawyer.”

And all is right with the world.

“Bye, you.”

The kitchen still smells of roasted chicken and red potatoes, but dinner was hours ago. Roland and his father “went into town”—an expression that will likely crack me up until the day I die—to get some groceries needed for breakfast, leaving Nora and I to talk over tea. Even though I’ve only been in this house for a few hours, I can promise you that Nora is the kind of homemaker that would not let breakfast groceries go un-purchased until the night before. I know a set up when I smell it. And, for this one at least, I’m grateful.

Nora slides two freshly baked chocolate chip cookies onto my plate. “I put a drip of almond extract in them. Tell me if they’re awful.”

No eggs, my left foot.

Sinking my teeth into the gooey cookies, my eyes roll back in my head. “Oh my— you
need
to send me back to school with some of these. I don’t care if I have to work overtime to pay for a new, bigger wardrobe.”

She wipes her hands on her
World’s Best Grandma
apron, unties it, and slings it over the back of her chair before sit
t
ing down and tasting one herself. “Not bad,” she says, smiling as she turns the cookie over in her hand, studying it.

“Thank you for having me on such short notice. I don’t know what Roland told you, but I didn’t really think the whole thing through. Normally I think twice
then
open my mouth, but—”

“Dean Baker is an oaf. Too big for his britches if you ask me.” She says it with the confidence of a person who’s heard plenty of stories.

Still, I laugh. “If you’ve ever seen him in person, you’d know just how accurate that pants description is.” I try to stifle the chuckle, but it’s already escaped. “Sorry.”

Nora sighs, seemingly in relief, then laughs herself. “He does look a bit like those toys you can knock over and they pop back up, doesn’t he? What are those called?”

“Weebles? Right?”

She slaps the edge of the table, clutching her barely-soft stomach. “Yes! Weebles! Tristan used to play with those.”

“Tristan,” I say slowly, trying to piece the family tree together in my head.
“
That’s Julia’s oldest son, right?”

Nora offers a sweet, wistful smile. “Yes. Julia is three years younger than Roland. She’s married to Carl, and they have Tristan, who is ten, Olivia—Livy—who is six, and Braden is three.”

I point to the fridge where a picture displays a toothy, blond family huddling around a beach sunset. “That’s them, right?”

Without looking, Nora nods. “They went to Hawaii last year.”

“Geoff is the other brother,” I prompt, needing more of a refresher there.

“Geoff is the baby.” Nora laughs quietly. “He’s thirty-two. His wife, Lindsay, is lovely.”

I want to ask why there was no mention of Carl’s redeeming qualities as a child-in-law, but sit on that one.

“Their children,” she continues, “are Marley—a girl who’s five—and one-year-old twins. Eloise and Jacob.”

“Wait.” I hold up my hand, and Nora bites her lip as if she anticipates what I’m about to say. “They have a child named Jacob
and
one named Marley? How will they ever survive a Christmas season when they get older?” For some reason, I know I can let my hair down around Nora, so I skip social restraint in favor of asking how she feels about grandchildren seemingly named after
A Christmas Carol
characters.

She clears her throat, making a show of trying to maintain composure. With a chuckle, she sighs. “We don’t talk about
the names
.
What
is it?
” Nora tilts her head to the side. She caught me staring into space.

“I knew Roland was—wait, is it weird for you that I call him Roland?”

“Honey, as far as Roland is concerned, I gave up qualifying
weird
long ago. I’m so grateful to meet you
;
I don’t care if you call him
that guy.
Well, maybe not
that …
” She trails off into nervous laughter, so I wave it off and continue.

“Anyway, I knew he was the oldest, but I didn’t really think about how weird that must have been when he dropped out of college and came back here …
y
ou had high school students still. And he was all—”

“Belligerent.”

My eyes shoot to Nora, who doesn’t look an ounce hurt by my questioning.

She shrugs, and continues. “It was what it was. We gave him tough love, soft love, kicked him out, brought him back … all of it.”

“Why?” I ask. “Why keep bringing him back?”

She eyes me as if
this
is the weirdest thing she’s been through in a while. “He’s my son, Kennedy. Letting him go was just as loving as bringing him back as far as the times were concerned. Tim and I did what we felt was best in each circumstance. I think the bringing him back was harder, but that was more for us than him. We had to practice forgiveness and healing … I’m rambling,” she announces. “What I mean to say is, it was a period of learning and growth for the whole family that I wouldn’t change for anything.”

“How so?” I peel the staple out of the paper teabag, letting the leaves fall in a clump into the empty cup.

“We all had a lot to learn about God, and I guess that was the only way he felt he could get our attention.”

While Tim offered a pleasant, standard rendition of
grace
before dinner, I haven’t picked up an evangelical scent since I walked in the door. Roland did tell me his parents practiced
like him
, but it hasn’t felt weird in here. Of course, I take that to show the new normal that’s sunk into my brain since attending CU.

“Were you, like, church-y before all of this?”

Nora nods, slowly. “Sure. Christmas, Easter, and grace every single night. We’d say nightly prayers but I don’t think any of it sunk in. We were talking the talk, but only walking every few steps, or so. God called us to the carpet when he delivered a slumped over drunk of a son on our doorstep.”

Hearing her frank description of Roland is all at once hard to hear and a relief. It comforts me that she operates in reality and isn’t going to gloss over the story, even while she’s on her way to revealing God’s plan for her in all of it.

“Sorry,” she says as if she’s heard my thoughts. “I don’t know how much you—”

I hold up my hands. “Trust me, I know a lot. Maybe not everything, but I have listened to his sermons for a few years.”

“And your mother?”

I know what she means. “She never said anything bad about him unless I pushed. And, even then, it was more her hurt, I guess. She was always careful, though.”

It’s like I’m hearing it for the first time as I’m saying it. I had friends whose parents went through nasty divorces and there was so mu
ch
mud slung, even the neighbors were in the splash zone. That was never the case with my mom and Roland. She loved me enough to keep the worst at bay unless she had no choice. But, it seems as though my
stepdad
’
s
words are coming back to me … she must have loved
Roland
enough to protect the truth about him she knew was in his heart somewhere.

“This has been too much,” Nora interrupts my thoughts again, seeming to sense I’ve slipped away. “Let’s have more cookies.”

“With any luck,” I reply, accepting another pair of delicious cookies, “I’ve inherited your slender genes.”

She laughs, and we toast our cookies mid-air before consuming them. We sit in cookie-filled silence for another half hour before Tim and Roland return, a bag of unnecessary groceries in Roland’s arms. Within another half hour, Tim and Nora turn in for the evening, and I’m washing the dishes I insisted Nora let me handle, since she spent all day keeping me well fed.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Roland pretending to read the paper. I like that this family has just enough WASP in it to make me feel at home. Conversation starters between us are still awkward, but here in Nora’s home, I feel a surge of calm confidence. I slide a plate with the last three cookies on them in front of Roland,
and then
return to the sink to dry the last few dishes.

“There’s almond extract in them. Nora wants to know if they’re awful.” I slide the damp dishtowel through a drawer handle and sit across from Roland. He pushes the paper aside.

With half a mouthful, he gives his verdict. “Taste amazing to me.”

I nod, my eyes wide. “Right? That’s what I told her.”

“What’d you two talk about while I was gone?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I tease.

He grins. “Sorry for leaving you two alone.”

“No you’re not. But, it’s okay. I really like her, Roland. She’s just …”

“A lot like you,” he blurts out, then looks down as if he wishes he hadn’t said it.

Sitting back, I take a moment to consider his words. “I guess you’re right. She’s a bit gentler though, huh?”

“That’s a recent development thanks to so many grandchildren.” He polishes off the third cookie and leans back in his chair, running a hand over his stomach.

“She must have gotten along well with
M
om. Wait, they met, right? I know you met my other grandparents …”

Roland nods, sitting forward again and folding his arms across the table. “A few times. And, yeah, they got along famously.”

“Did your mom ever try to, like, call her when you two broke up?”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t tell them for several months. And, even though they liked her, I think once they saw the condition I was in they just let it go.”

“To focus on you.”

He nods.

“She loves you a lot.” My voice doesn’t usually sound this young. It’s startling.

He nods again. “I know. I love her a lot, too. I could have had different parents and it might not have worked out quite this way. They gave me a place …” he trails off, eyeing me concernedly.

I’ve started tearing up. The thought of different parents hasn’t filled my thoughts so much as it has since walking in this house. I could have been a part of this family, maybe. But, reality pushes those thoughts aside. I wouldn’t have had
this
family. I would have been plunked in the middle of a couple of high schoolers who were watching their older, anti-hero brother detox from his latest bender while his lovely parents vacillated between doting and tough love.

No thanks.

I fake a yawn and stand. “I’m going to get to bed. Night.”

“Night,” Roland calls after me after I’ve already left the kitchen.

I know he wants more from me. And I want more from him. What I don’t want, though, is more shit from my mother about what more I want from Roland. I wish Roland and I could develop our relationship in a vacuum
,
free from lookers on. Free from pressure and expectations.

Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, I turn back for the kitchen. Roland is heading toward me, rubbing his tired eyes.

“Forget something?” he asks, yawning and stretching his arms overhead.

There’s no pressure. Just you and him, Kennedy. What do you want?

I shake my head, my eyes moving to his face, trying to read it. But, as always, it’s friendly, warm. Nothing evil. Nothing double-minded. No alternate agenda. Just Roland. My birth father.

“Just,” I start with a whisper, “I …”

Roland’s forehead scrunches. “Kennedy?”

My two-thousand pound arms lurch forward from my torso and wrap uneasily around Roland. A second later I fully commit and step into the hug.

He’s safe, Kennedy. It’s okay.

“I …” Roland starts to say something, but settles for a long exhale, squeezing my body into his.

“Goodnight,” I repeat into the worn print of his UCONN t-shirt before climbing the stairs. My arms still heavy, but my heart somehow lighter.

“Night,” he whispers.

I don’t hear his feet on the stairs until long after I’ve tucked myself into bed. I don’t wonder what he was doing all of those minutes at the bottom of the stairs, because somehow I know it’s the same thing I’ve been doing laying in my bed.

Processing what the hell just happened.