Space (14 page)

True.

The drive to the church was silent and tranquil. It was a time to gather our thoughts and sift them until the junk fell away. Until the focus moved from worldly cares to spiritual serenity.

At church, I was pleased to see a burst of wall banners in the vestibule with gigantic Kinko's enlarged, grinning photos of Jensen in various poses, surrounded by messages from everyone wishing him
Bon Voyage, Be Safe, Take Care, Stay in Touch
and touching patriotic thanks for laying his life on the line for his country.

I was weeping by the time I finished reading them.

So was Faith.

In fact, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose all throughout the preliminaries and music, flanked by Dan and me on one side and Jensen on the other. Chloe, was planted at her brother's other side. Jensen kept teasing and poking Faith gently. His cajoling helped slake the
sadness during the preaching hour. Chloe kept peering around Jensen, her eyes flatly surveying Faith.

Following services, a luncheon in Jensen's honor was held in the fellowship hall. Ladies of the church brought dishes from home and joined the family in bidding farewell to one of their own.

Chloe rushed to quickly plop down in the vacant seat beside her brother before Faith could get there. I sized up the situation. Lexie already occupied the space on the other side of her son.

I motioned for Lexie to come over as I filled my plate and whispered. “How about giving Faith your seat, Sis, and you joining Dan and me at Priss' table? That way both our girls can get their way.”

“Sure,” Lexie said, rolling her eyes. “I'm only the
mommie,
for goodness sake.”

“If you'd rather not — ”

“Just kiddin', Sis.” She grabbed my shoulders, laughing. “Lighten up, for goodness sake.”

“I just don't want this occasion to be ruined — ”

“By our obnoxious offspring.”

“Exactly.”

We hugged and finished filling our plates and joined our other clan members. Afterward, the family lingered at Jensen's table, each storing up these moments for the months ahead without him.

Faith, now seated at Jensen's side, grew more and more quiet. She looked unusually pale and distant. Later, when we said our goodbyes, she hugged her soul-mate for a long time, crying quietly as he gently and jokingly reassured her that he would return safe and sound.

Chloe tolerated it, I suspected, because she'd have Jensen all to herself for the final goodbyes the next morning.
For the moment, she sat at the table, arms folded, gaze averted, her crossed whip-thin leg swinging impatiently.

Jensen patted Faith's heaving shoulders and said, “Remember the old Eagle slogan, huh? We fly above any and all danger. Don't forget that.”

Back at our house, Faith rushed into the house ahead of us, ran upstairs and soundly locked her door. Somehow, I knew she would not come out for a long, long time.

And I wondered, who will she confide in now?

Dan's and Faith's relationship spiraled downhill from the day Jensen left.

It was as though a part of her went with her cousin. From babyhood, they'd cried together, laughed together, finished each other's sentences and, in the worst of times, been there for each other. Many a time I'd called on Jensen to help Faith through difficult times when my counsel did not set well.

Now, I had no backup except Priss, at least not anyone who seamlessly bonded with Faith.

Faith was and is one of the most complex people I've ever known.

Her relationship with her father had deteriorated so badly that I dreaded the times when Faith truly needed money for necessary things.

“Dad, could you loan me five dollars?” she asked one day.

“Loan?” he said flatly. “What for?”

“Just — some personal things I need,” she snapped, irritated at the inquisition.

“I don't have any cash on me,” he said and started out of the house. He stopped at the front door and turned. “When are you going to get a job, Faith? Huh?”

“I'm going to put in my application at some places this week.” Her voice turned frosty at the turn of discussion.

“Yeh,” Dan shook his head, agitation rising. “You've been ‘going to' for months now. You never follow through.”

“I will,” she visibly reigned in her temper. “I just need five dollars, Dad.”

Dan stared at her. “I can't keep handing out money like this. I'm already paying child support payments to keep you out of jail. And cigarettes, you know? And you know how I hate buying them for you. Makes me mad as blazes, knowing they're slowly killing you. You could stop, you know?”

Faith rolled her eyes, fighting to hold her tongue. “I know,” she grudgingly conceded.

“But you won't,” Dan said disgustedly. “I don't have five dollars.”

He slammed out the front door.

Faith did not take kindly to “no.”

Dan met these flaws head-on. Brutally frank.

“With Faith, you build up no favor. Each new crisis negates the former crisis resolution,” Dan would say in frustration. “Enough is never enough.”

“True,” I agreed.

Her sense of entitlement, in the worst of times, knew no bounds.

Inevitably, a crisis would detonate and the fangsbared Faith emerged.

Like today.

“All I need is
freakin'
five dollars for some chocolate,” she unleashed on me as soon as her dad was out
of earshot. “My hormones are messed up and I've been craving chocolate. I'm going out of my skull sitting in the house all the time.” Another choice profane-phrase followed, turning the air blue.

“Would you please respect me enough not to use that kind of language?”

She didn't address my request. The language was a regular point of conflict. To Dan and me, it was the quintessence of contempt.

It dishonored us.

“Anyway, I don't have five dollars, either. Remember, I paid two hundred fifty dollars to circuit court yesterday?” My ire began to rise. Why didn't she ever say “no” to herself? I did it all the time.

“You always throw in my face all that you do.” There was that absolute “always” again, her favorite gibe.

“That's because I do all that I do. Where's gratitude, Faith? Huh?”

An expletive erupted from her. “I don't want your money! Just wait till you want something from me.” And after the famous last word, up the stairs she stomped and slammed her door.

“Good ol' Retribution-Faith,” I muttered and returned to my writing.

The dissing was so bizarre I had to delete it as soon as it appeared. Yes, I could have responded with ultimatums and chastisements — and I had in the past. But most of those times, we ended up screaming at each other, saying things I'd rather not have said and hearing more dissing I'd rather not have heard.

So I decided one day that I wouldn't lower myself to shouting matches again. It was too much wear and tear on me because though Faith, characteristically, was over
the upset within minutes, the emotional upheaval would usually decimate me for hours, sometimes days.

Today, I poured my heart into writing a column about a local Good Samaritan act. Next to the Man upstairs, it was my salvation.

I closed my eyes for a long moment, regrouping.

Please, God, make more good things happen around here.

Dan was a church deacon and daily read his Bible and prayed.

So I wondered at times, how he could go at the situation with Faith so differently from me. Oh, I understood why he lost his cool at times.

So did I. Often.

“Why can't you compartmentalize your feelings for Faith?” I asked him one day.

He looked at me, his eyes going flat. “What do you mean?”

“Can't you deal with her aggravating ways, do your spiel — once — and let it go, rather than going on and on about how hopeless she is? She is, after all, our daughter — ”

Dan's gaze narrowed and sparked. “Yes, she is my daughter. If it weren't for that fact, she'd have been out of here long ago. But, Deede, by my making things so easy for her, I've become her enabler. She doesn't need that.”

That word set off something inside me — a desperation — that swelled until I felt I would burst and then collapse into a flat, smouldering, desolate heap. I didn't,
but I sure came close at times. Rather, I held my tongue for ten counts, then appealed to Dan's understanding.

“Honey, what I mean is that Faith has genuine needs. Can't we — you — deal with them without being so angry — ”

“I'm not
angry,
” he growled. “I'm getting older, Deede. I stay so tired I can hardly breathe deeply at times. I can't keep up this pace I'm going at. And what, pray tell, will happen when I can no longer provide financially for Faith's needs? You can't meet them. We should be on easy street by now, traveling and enjoying life together, honey.”

He swiped fingers through his thick salt and pepper hair. The waves fell right back into place. How I loved his hair. How I loved him.

“I know, darling. I feel the same. It's just — I can't survive large doses of anger. It does something terrible to me.”

He pulled me to my feet and into his arms. “I'm sorry. I don't mean to dump on you.”

“Who else can you dump on?” I melted against him, embracing his comforting warmth.

“I don't want to put stress on you,” he murmured against my cheek. “I see how mine and Faith's skirmishes leave you.”

It was true. Depression ate me alive lately.

“Dan,” I approached the subject gently, “let's get counseling. The entire family.”

He looked down into my eyes. I saw sorrow swimming in his. “That can be costly, honey. I'm stretched to the limit.”

“I'll find someone with a reasonable fee. I'll work it out. You okay with it?”

“Sure,” he said. Then he held me close. “Anything for my girl.” He nuzzled my neck and whispered. “ Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being you.”

In moments like that, I felt everything would work out.

“Mom!” Faith called from the office where she checked her e-mail on her laptop. “C'mere.”

She shared Jensen's latest joke with me, one that had us both laughing till tears puddled. “Don't put both feet into mouth at the same time,” one proverb stated, “or you'll not have a leg to stand on.”

More laughter. “Now, that's funny,” I gasped.

The only time Faith seemed to come alive was when she got emails from Jensen. And then, once she disengaged herself, back to the porch she went, planting herself in a rocker and smoking as though her very life depended on it.