Roadside Assistance (8 page)

“I don’t like putting on a bathing suit in front of strangers,” I said.

“Oh.” He shrugged. “Must be a girl thing. I wouldn’t care who sees me in my swim trunks.”

“You’re a boy and not in high school.”

“I’m sure you look just as good as those other girls.”

Smiling, I mussed his hair. “You’re sweet. I’m actually going to the movies with my friend Chelsea. She’s going to pick me up in a little bit.”

“Oh.” He looked up. “Are you going to church with us tomorrow?”

My hand fluttered to my cross and my mouth dried. Since Mom had died, the thought of stepping into a church made me feel uneasy. “I guess. I haven’t asked my dad about it.”

“You should come. Pastor Keith and Jenna are cool.”

I fingered the cross. “Who’s Jenna?”

“The youth director. She’s really nice.” His eyes moved back to the screen while his fingers moved about the keys.

A
woot!
sounded, and I faced the sliding glass doors just as a male body in black swim trunks ran across the patio, flew through the air, and landed in the pool with a tremendous splash, soaking Whitney and Chad, who were sitting with their feet dangling in the water. Screeches and shouts followed.

Grinning, Logan moved to the door. “Who was that?”

The boy bobbed up in the center of the pool and then pulled himself up onto the patio. He smoothed back his hair and I immediately recognized the culprit.

“Zander!” Logan laughed.

I was drawn to Zander’s wiry and muscular chest and his wide, lopsided grin. My stomach fluttered and my pulse skittered at the sight of him. Why did he always have that effect on me?

Two of the guys moved over to him and pushed him back into the water while the crowd surrounding the pool cheered. Zander bobbed up to the surface of the pool and splashed everyone within the water’s reach.

“He’s so funny,” Logan said, snapping his game shut and placing it on the counter. He laid his hand on the door handle and looked back at me. “I’m going to go say hi to him. You coming?”

“In a minute.” I held up the bottle of water. “I’m going to finish this before Chelsea gets here.”

He rushed out the sliding glass doors, and I stood by them while I drank the water.

Logan approached the crowd, and Zander emerged from the pool, his tan skin sparkling with beads of water. Around his neck, a gold chain glittered in the dim lights surrounding the pool. Whitney grabbed Logan’s arm and Zander took the other one before they dragged him kicking and screaming with delight over to the side of the pool. Zander motioned like he was going to throw Logan in and then let him go. Logan jogged back toward the deck, unscathed and still dry.

The group laughed in response.

A flash of headlights glowed in the driveway, and I tossed the bottle into the recycling bin and then stepped out onto the deck.

“Hey!” Whitney called. “Where are you going?”

“To the movies,” I said, my cheeks heating as the group of kids focused on me.

“Oh,” Whitney said with a smile. “Have fun.”

Zander grinned and nodded at me, and I gave him a weak smile before trotting off to Chelsea’s car, with my face on fire and my stomach in knots.

chapter five

F
or the first time in probably six months, I found myself biting my nails. I didn’t realize I was doing it until the nail tore off between my teeth. Grimacing, I discreetly fished it out of my mouth and dropped it onto the ground while following my dad up the stone steps of Cameronville Community Church. I hadn’t been to a church in eight months.

I jammed my hands in the pockets of my white sweater, which I’d pulled on over a green sundress I’d found stuffed in the back of my closet. Since I rarely bought or wore dresses, I felt gawky and awkward, like a little girl wearing panty hose and heels for the first time. I’d thrown my hair up in a French braid and brushed on a little bit of lip gloss. I’d hoped that my outfit would fend off Darlene’s criticism. Luckily, we were running late, so she barely gave me a once-over before we dashed to Darlene’s SUV and my dad’s Suburban.

In comparison to me, Whitney looked confident and put together, clad in her gray designer skirt and satin camisole top and jacket. It must’ve taken her hours to form the perfect French twist at the back of her head and get her makeup just right. Whitney entered through the doors to the church first, followed by her parents and brother.

My dad hung back and faced me, frowning. “You all right?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, examining the straps on my white sandals.

“I just wanted to be sure.” He looped his arm around my shoulders and steered me up the stairs. “You look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled. Truthfully, I wasn’t even close to all right. Being at a church brought back memories I wasn’t ready to face.

We stepped through the doorway and into a large hallway crowded with families dressed in their Sunday best. A man who I’d guess was in his midthirties wearing a white robe with a colorful stole weaved through the knot of people, shaking hands and sharing pleasantries about the beautiful weather. The pastor approached my aunt, and she gestured toward my dad and me and then waved us over.

“This is my brother, Brad, and my niece, Emily,” she said, with a proud smile.

“Welcome,” the pastor said, shaking my dad’s hand. “I’m Pastor Keith. We’re so glad you’ve joined us today.” He turned to me. “It’s nice to see you, Emily. We have some youth programs you may enjoy. Whitney could tell you about them.”

“Cool,” I said with a nod. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Whitney chatting with a group of high school girls.

The pastor moved to another family, and the crowd in the hallway began to file through the large doors to the sanctuary.

My aunt, uncle, and father followed the line of people, stopping to receive a bulletin from the usher, a friendly looking gentleman in a nice suit.

I moved through the line and took a bulletin. Stepping through the doorway, my knees wobbled. I hung back, trying in vain to stop the images swimming to the surface of my mind.

My eyes moved to the altar and I shuddered at the memory of the casket sitting up front at our church back home. The sanctuary had been packed with the hundreds of people who’d
been touched in some way by my mother. The overwhelming crowd had spilled out into the hallway.

During the service, the sound of sobs and sniffs had echoed in my ears, drowning out the pastor’s description of my mother’s short life. I’d sat numb between my dad and grandma, studying the poinsettias lining the altar behind the Christmas tree dotted in white decorations my mother had called Chrismons. The tree and flowers seemed to mock me with the ultimate irony — Christmas decorations on the altar at my mother’s memorial service.

“Emily?” Logan asked, touching my arm. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” I said with a nod.

Logan pointed toward the middle of the sanctuary. “My parents and your dad are sitting over there.”

I spotted my dad near the end of the pew. “Where’s Whitney?”

He jerked his thumb toward the very back row. “With her friends over there. All of the girls sit together.”

I turned and found her grinning and chatting with four girls.

“Are you going to sit with them?” Logan asked.

“No.” I walked down the aisle and slipped in next to my dad, who glanced up from his bulletin and smiled.

His focus returned to the order of worship, and I studied his warm brown eyes, wondering if being back in a church was as painful for him as it was for me. His expression during my mother’s funeral was burned into my brain — the dark rings under his puffy red eyes, the tears that didn’t stop throughout the service. I was certain he’d wanted to be strong for me. He’d told me that morning that he and I would be an unstoppable force, despite losing Mom. We’d take care of each other, and he promised to be strong for me. Yet I was the one who’d held it together throughout the funeral. I’d grasped his hand and swallowed my tears until I was alone in the privacy of my room with my door locked later that evening after Tyler and Megan had gone home.

I wasn’t disappointed in my dad. I was glad he could express his feelings for my mom, the love of his life, who he’d met and married shortly after they’d graduated from high school. I was simply surprised I’d managed to be so strong for both of us.

Logan sank into the seat next to me and waved to someone across the aisle. “Zander’s here,” he said.

Before I could stop myself, I found Zander sitting directly across from us and next to a well-dressed middle-aged couple who I assumed were his parents. His mother was dressed in a deep navy, perfectly tailored suit with her short, dark hair styled in a precise bob.

His father wore glasses, along with a black, expensive-looking suit and a bland gray tie. He was clean shaven, and his brown hair was all business, short and sensible.

Zander seemed to represent his father’s alter ego. While he shared the same brown hair and blue eyes, his hair was almost messy, but stylish. He was clad in tan Dockers and a sky-blue collared shirt that made his eyes even bluer, if that were even possible. He gave Logan a cheesy grin that caused Logan to snicker.

Zander met my gaze and his smile changed to warm and honest. My eyes locked with his. I tried to smile in return, but my lips were cemented in place. And then I felt my cheeks heat and wished I could crawl under the pew.

But I knew that I really didn’t want to disappear. I wanted to know him, and I wanted him to know me. And that truth caused my heart to race even more.

The pastor appeared at the altar and welcomed everyone, and I buried my eyes in the bulletin. The organ began to play, and the service commenced. I went through the motions, reciting the prayers and singing the hymns, but it all felt forced. Although I tried, I once again couldn’t feel the connection with God I’d enjoyed before I lost my mom. I felt eyes on me and
glanced over to find Zander watching me a few times during the service, and I absently wondered if I had a hair out of place or if my slip was showing.

During the sermon, I covered my cross with my hand and lost myself in memories, contemplating the Sundays my family and I had spent at our home church. My mother had a deep faith that had been ingrained in her as a child. She read her Bible and prayed every night, like it came easily to her. She never missed a service — until the week before she died.

Some nights I would curl up in her arms while she held me and I cried to her, asking her why God had given her that wretched disease. She told me all things happen for a reason, and it was all part of his plan. She insisted that even though we don’t understand why God chooses certain people to be ill and others to be healthy, we have to trust him and believe he’ll take care of us.

The words offered me no comfort. It still didn’t make sense why he’d bestowed the incurable disease on
her.
I’d continue to cry and she’d tell me that her love for me would live on forever and would hold me close with invisible arms whenever I was sad. She’d kiss my cheek and say, “Now Emily, just remember my favorite verse, and it will get you through.”

That verse was Hebrews 11:1. She recited it often and even requested we have it engraved on her headstone. The verse floated through my mind: “Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” I understood what it meant, but I couldn’t put any stock in it.

She also told me that if I was ever sad, or angry, or lonely, I could open my heart to God and he would get me through. And when the waves of grief threatened to drown me, I tried to open my heart. I tried with all my might.

But I couldn’t.

It was as if my faith had evaporated and I was left an empty shell of the Christian I used to be.

Music from the organ brought me back to the service. I lifted a hymnal from the pew pocket and flipped it open. The series of chords flew together in my mind, and I realized what hymn was playing: “Beautiful Savior.”

My mother’s favorite.

At her request, it had been the last hymn the congregation sang at her memorial service.

My eyes filled, and I gnawed at my lower lip, trying in vain to stop the tears. A hand covered mine and I looked up at my dad, who gave me a sad smile as if to tell me he understood. I cupped my mouth with my hand to stifle a sob, but the tears flowed, betraying my efforts and rolling down my hot cheeks.

Consumed with embarrassment, I slipped by Logan. As I started down the aisle, I felt dozens of eyes focused on me. For a split second, I met Zander’s gaze and thought I saw a concerned expression.

My body shuddering with sobs, I pushed through the ladies’ room door and locked myself in the handicapped stall at the far end of the restroom. I leaned against the wall, hugged my arms to my chest, and cried, silently cursing myself for losing it in public. What was my problem?

The restroom door opened and slammed shut, and I held my breath, willing the tears and sobs to stop.

“Emily?” Darlene called. “Emily, dear? Are you in here?”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice thin. I snatched a handful of toilet tissue and wiped my eyes and nose.

“Are you okay?” she asked, alarmed.

Clearing my throat, I unlocked the door, and it swung open with a groan. “I’m fine.”

She clicked her tongue and pulled me into a hug. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. I wish I’d known we were going to sing that.”

“It’s okay.” I held onto her, thankful for her warm, comforting arms, despite her past criticisms. At that instant, I
just needed a hug, and she provided it. “I should’ve kept it together.”

She pulled back, her eyes serious. “That’s where you’re wrong. You don’t need to be strong. Let God do that for you.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I’d been hearing phrases like that since my mom was diagnosed, and each time the words were like a placebo the speaker believed would cure me. If it were only that easy.

The door opened and banged shut again, and Whitney rushed over, looking panicked, with two girls about our age in tow.
Leave it to Whitney to make this a social event.