The Carpenter's Daughter (27 page)

“Name it.”

“Call your dad.”

Not what I was expecting. The light-headedness dropped, as did my heart. That was the last thing I wanted to do.

Sarah

Two promises. One I didn’t want to keep. But that one kept swirling in my head, spinning a demanding mantra.
Call your dad. Call your dad. Call your dad.

I groaned. Or snarled. “Fine,” I barked at my phone, which was still in my hand. But in my head I kept arguing. Why should I call him? He was the one who exploded the night Jesse came. He was the one who was pushing me away right when I needed him most. He should be calling me.

I promised Jesse.

My shoulders drooped. Okay, calling Dad. Should be fun. I slid my thumb across the phone screen. Less than two seconds later, the call was going through.

What was I supposed to say to him?

“Yeah?” snapped his choppy voice.

I swallowed, forcing away the urge to hang up. “Hi, Dad.”

“’Bout time.”

Now wait one minute…
“You have a phone too, you know.”

“Haven’t talked to you in almost a week, and you only called to argue?”

“No. But you could have called me.”

“I told you to let me know when you’ve figured this out.” He stopped long enough for me to open my mouth, but not long enough for the reply to make it out. “Are you done chasing illusions yet?”

“What illusions?” My empty fist curled at my side. “What exactly is it you think I’m after, Dad?”

“I don’t know!” His shout made me tremble. “Twenty-one years you and I have lived in peace. I don’t know what the hell is going on with you now.”

My lip quivered, but I wasn’t ready to back down. “I go out on a date, and you freak out. I wear clothes cut for a woman, and you go nuts. I’m not sure the problem is with me.”

Silence gripped the digital air between us. Where was Jesse when I needed him? Oh, he was gonna hear about that—some brilliant plan this was.

He’s afraid he’s losing you…

Huh. That was a peachy sentiment, except Dad was shoving me over a cliff. More like he was trying to get rid of me.

Dad’s calm, low voice destroyed that theory. “Come home, Sarah.”

I bit my lip and dropped onto the bed.

“We don’t fight like this, girl.”

“I know.” I had to push the words out. “I hate it. But I can’t come home right now. I need to finish this job.”

I waited. He gave me nothing.

“I
am
working, Dad. I promise I am.”

“Doing what?” Though his voice remained low, a snappy current ran through it.

My defenses regathered. “Building. Remodeling, actually. What did you think?”

Silence yet again. What did he think? That suddenly I turned hooker on him?

I sighed. “You know what, Dad? Think what you want. I may not know exactly who I am, but I have a pretty good idea of what I’m not. Apparently you don’t. I’ll be back when I can, and then I guess we’ll figure out what’s next.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that my life and yours have apparently developed an incompatibility. Maybe it’s time for me to move on.”

He mumbled—pretty sure something unsavory. “If that’s what you want.”

The connection fell, and that was the end of that.

Dale

At least she was alive. God knew doing what.

When Sarah was twelve, we would watch movies together on Friday nights.
Star Wars
.
Indiana Jones
.
Pirates of the Caribbean
. Good movies. Action, adventure. She loved them. One night she plopped down next to me on the couch, a full bowl of popcorn in her hands, and with uncharacteristic directness, she blurted out, “Most girls need a mother, Dad.”

I sat shocked—didn’t know what to say. Fears stacked in my mind like lumber coming off a delivery truck. Twelve years old, wasn’t that when girls started…changing? How was I going to handle that? No answers. None. I didn’t know what to do or say.

She rescued me. “I’m not most girls though, am I?” She shook her head, answering her own question. “I only need you.”

Right then I knew we’d do okay. Still didn’t have a clue how to navigate through teenage girl stuff, but I knew she’d give me a whole lot of room to figure it out and together we’d get through it. And we did.

How could we make it through all of that, and yet this… We couldn’t do this?

She’s turning into her mother.

Fear had an inaudible voice that made your hair stand on end and your skin feel like you’d hit a hot wire. I could handle Sarah moving out, standing on her own. Truly I could.

But becoming her mother? I couldn’t handle that.

Jesse

There was a place between asleep and awake where reality became uncertain. Sometimes I felt like I was floating, though I could feel the mattress at my back. Sometimes what I hoped for and what was true blurred into a surreal oneness, and I felt the satisfaction of grasping a dream.

That night, in that haze, I felt Sarah at my side, her head resting on my shoulder. With my eyes shut, I imagined fingering her glossy dark hair, smelling the hint of vanilla I remembered filling my truck the night we went to Kearney.

Probably a good thing there were a thousand-plus miles between us. But still. Was it that wrong to hope that someday…

The text
meep-meep
from my phone pulled me out of my dreamworld and back into the land of reality. I reached for the cell, which was resting on the nightstand.

Sapphira.

The corners of my mouth lifted into a smile, and I opened the message.

Sarah:
Called my dad. Not good. Thanks for that.

Oh boy. Should I call her?

Me:
I’m sorry. Are you okay?

Sarah:
Peachy.

Me:
Want to talk?

Sarah:
No. Need sleep.

Yeah, that was why she texted me. I drew a long breath.

Me:
I’m really sorry it didn’t go well.

I stared at the phone, waiting for her reply. Just kept staring. And staring.

Nothing.

Me:
Did you listen to that song I sent you?

A whole lot of more blank screen. Maybe she shut her phone off.

Me:
Here’s another. Found it today. Listen to both. You promised.

After sending the new link, I turned the phone over and replaced it on the table. She wouldn’t text me back tonight. Which gave me time to pray.

A much better use of my presleep time.

Sarah

Texting my anger out to Jesse didn’t fix it. I was so mad at my dad.

Jesse’s solution? YouTube. Terrific.

I wasn’t sure why I didn’t want to tap the links Jesse sent me. Knowing Jesse, the link would have something to do with love or Jesus or something. What if I tapped those links, they promised the longings that tugged on my heart, and I found them to be wrong?

I couldn’t handle any more emotional disappointments.

But I did promise.

My thumb scrolled up to the conversation we’d had earlier and hit the link. There, I opened it. Was that good enough?

I knew it wasn’t.

The advertisement played itself out, and then a male voice sang as words scrolled over the screen. I didn’t latch on to any of it until he got to the chorus part of the song.

Jesus, He loves me…

See? Jesus and love. Jesse was predictable.

Was he right?

Jesus, He loves me…

Suddenly Jesse’s question from an earlier conversation resurfaced.

Would it still matter to you what happened to that house?

Yes. It was only just a house, but it was my workmanship, and I loved it. Wanted it to be loved.

My breath caught hard in my chest.

Do You love me?

That Chris guy on the video kept saying so. But I wasn’t him. I wasn’t Jesse. I wasn’t Darcy or Adam or Jeff.

Do you love
me
?

The corners of my eyes itched. I rubbed at them and found wetness. The most important question of my life transformed from
Who am I?
to
Do you love me?

I needed an answer. Now.

Because the answer to the second question would determine the answer for the first. I didn’t know how or why, but I was certain of the connection.

I scrolled on my phone to the second link Jesse had sent minutes before. This time there was no hesitation. Open. Skip the ads. A beautiful woman named Kari started into the song.
I am not alone.
I hung on every lyric and wept.

If Jesus loved me, then I was not alone, and I was His. Or at least I wanted to be His.

How?

I squeezed my eyes shut.
Please show me how.

Was that what Jesse meant when he said he prayed whenever he felt the need? Could it really be that simple?

I leaned back against the pillow, tapped repeat on the YouTube link, and shut my eyes. When the song ended, I closed the link and settled back again.

Please, Jesus, if You love me, please show me how to be Yours
.

Jesse

A distinctive
meep-meep
woke me before my alarm chime went off. Who texted before coffee?

Sarah:
Is it true?

I rubbed at the sleep weighing my eyelids down. Only six in the morning, which meant it was earlier in Nebraska. Had she stayed up all night?

I assumed she was talking about the songs I’d sent her.

Me:
He loves you.

Pushing off the bed, my bare feet scuffled on the carpeted floor to the bathroom across the hall. A small ball of frustration bounced inside of my chest. Why did she have to form this serious interest in the things that were so important right when I had to be here and not there? I reviewed everything that had happened over the past couple of days while I’d been gone. She’d found her passion—rehabbing houses. Wanted to pursue it, but was afraid. She fought with her dad, again. What was his deal anyway? Now this.

Sarah was on some kind of emotional roller coaster. Maybe my being there would only add more twists.

I brushed my teeth and stared into the mirror for a few moments. My own life had turned into a bit of a ride too, and Sarah had been the major catalyst. Once again, I found myself questioning my motives, because, let’s be honest, we all had a selfish bend.

Please, let this be about You and her, not her and me.

More awake, I walked back to my room, looking for my phone. She’d responded.

Sarah:
I want to believe you.

Not about me.

Me:
Believe Him.

Waiting for her to text back, I tugged on my work jeans and shoes. The
meep-meep
sounded as I tied the second set of laces.

Sarah:
I have to go see my dad this weekend.

Hold up, that was an interesting switch. Had we been talking about the same thing? Another message flashed.

Sarah:
He hates religion. I don’t know what I’m doing.

Okay, so we were sort of on the same page. Close, anyway.

Sarah:
He’s really mad at me, and I don’t understand why. I don’t know what to do.

Was that her asking for advice? I didn’t have any good advice—I didn’t understand what was going on either. Who got mad because his grown daughter went on a date or wanted to stand on her own two feet? There had to be more mixing into that mess, but if Sarah didn’t know what, there was no way I was going to figure it out.

Sarah:
Are you there?

Me:
I’m here. Thinking. I don’t understand the situation.

Sarah:
Me neither. He’s never been mad at me like this.

I sighed. What if I could be there, go with her? Not an option, and apparently not the will of God. Maybe I’d make it worse or get in the way.

Me:
All I know is that we’re supposed to love God and honor our parents. I don’t know how that will play out for you, but I think you’re doing the right thing by going to see him.

Even as the message was flying over the digital waves, hesitation—no, actual fear—gripped my insides. Was her dad a violent man? What would happen if they fought again? Did she have anyone else to run to? And what about the
love God
part? Was she there, or were we still tiptoeing around the whole idea?

I would have given anything to be there with her. Sometimes God and I didn’t share the same blueprint.

Sarah

Friday came before I wanted it to. I’d told Mack I wouldn’t be around for the weekend, sort of hoping that he would pressure me to stay.

“Most of my workers have other responsibilities, carpenter-girl. I appreciate all you’ve done.”

That was that.

I really wanted to see the house finished, but my presence wasn’t really necessary anymore. The design and the framing were done. Other experts and volunteers would have the project wrapped up soon, and the Browns would be able to move in the following month.

The project house was void of noise and workers by the time I packed up my toolbox. Alone, I toured through the redesigned space, touching the smooth wood of the cased openings, running my hand over the new island we’d anchored in the open kitchen, admiring the airy bathroom we’d connected to one of the bedrooms to create a master suite.

Shutting my eyes, I pictured it complete. Wasn’t hard. The drywall crew had hung Sheetrock throughout half the house. The shell was taking on skin, and my drafted design was coming to life.

My work.

I loved it. Loved this house. Loved knowing what it had been and seeing it become so much more.

A house renovated.

A heart renovated.

Could Jesus do this to my heart? Would I find the satisfaction in His work like I found satisfaction in this?

And, most important, would
He
find satisfaction in it? Could He love me?

I turned and meandered to the front of the house again. Eyeing the entry, which had been fitted with a new steel door inset with a window that gave it a semi-craftsman feel, I sat down on the third riser of the open staircase. I pulled my phone from my back pocket and slid through my texts until I found the links Jesse had sent.

Chris Tomlin and Kari Jobe sang to me in the stillness of that house. It was their voices, anyway. But—and I couldn’t really fathom this, but felt it as sure as I felt the wood beneath me—Jesus was singing to me. Those words were His.

I love you, Sarah.

You are not alone.

I love you.

With my eyes closed and my lips trembling, I leaned back and listened. Though the music ended, I remained still, soaking in a voice I couldn’t really hear, and wondering at this presence I couldn’t see.

“I’m scared,” I whispered in the silence. Of these things I didn’t understand. Of how powerfully tied my heart felt to Jesse. And of going home to face my dad.

Did this Jesus understand what I meant?

That presence remained, but I couldn’t hear the voice.

Maybe I’d imagined it. Quite possibly I’d gone nuts. Crazy people heard voices that weren’t there.

I pushed forward and pulled myself to my feet. Time to go. For better, or, more probable, worse, it was time to go home.

An hour later, I couldn’t decide if I wished the drive had been longer or shorter. A longer drive would have kept me away until dark, and then my dad would be in bed, and I wouldn’t have to deal with him until the morning. But then I’d have to lie in my childhood bed, imagining all sorts of scenes that would play out when I saw him again.

A shorter drive meant that I’d have made it for supper, and that would have been awkward. Somehow sharing a meal with someone you were not on the best of terms with was…well, horrible. I’d enjoyed my supper in the peace and safety of my truck, thank you very much.

Now it was time to face it—all the bad stuff between Dad and me that had somehow developed over the summer
.
I pushed through the screen door, my bag slung over my shoulder.

Dad was where I’d suspected. Sprawled out in his oversized recliner, remote in his right hand and a Big Gulp in his left, with the paper remains of a takeout burrito from the Circle K crumpled up on the table beside him.

I stopped two steps inside the door, and we stared in a silent deadlock while blood pounded through my veins.

Why was I here again?
God wants us to love Him and honor our parents.
Right. Because…why, exactly? My mother left, so she was not even around to play that one out. And my dad—what the heck was going on with him? All of this anger and silence. Was that honorable? I needed him, and he was rejecting me. Was that worthy of my respect?

Jesse hadn’t qualified his advice, which probably meant honor whether you wanted to or not. Whether he deserved it or not.

My thoughts caught me off guard. Where were these insights coming from?

Didn’t matter. I was standing there like a statue while the strain between us continued to build in the silence. I’d come home. Might as well make an effort.

“Hi, Dad.”

He frowned. “Didn’t expect to see you.”

Tonight? Here? Ever?

“Thought we needed to sort this out.”

He grunted.

I dipped my shoulder, letting the duffel strap slide down my arm. The bag dropped to the floor.

“Words, Dad.” I stepped forward. “I need you to use some words. Why are you so angry with me?”

His look was like a laser into my eyes. “You left. Didn’t call for days. Think that’s acceptable?”

My head lowered, and I focused on the spot nearest my shoes. “No. I’m sorry.”

Another grunt.

Holy smokes, did the man know how irritating that was? I looked back at him with a glare. His focus was back on the television. My temper spewed like a volcano. “You flipped out on me for no reason. What did you expect from me?”

He glanced at me and then returned to his stupid show.
NCIS
? Yes. Way more important than talking to your daughter whom you haven’t seen in over a week.

I marched over to the flat-screen, punched the Power button, and then turned to stab him with a look.

He scowled for two breaths, then flipped the foot of the recliner down. Without a word, he stood and left the room.

Three seconds later, his bedroom door smacked hard against the frame.

Welcome home to me. This was a terrific idea.

Maybe he needed to sleep on it. I didn’t. Sleep, that is. In the hollow silence of the house that used to feel like home, I fumed. About my dad. About Jesse and all of his brilliant, saintly ideas. And about how now I felt trapped. I didn’t have anywhere to be, anywhere else to go.

My life in this small town had been completely entwined with my dad’s. Six months before, I didn’t think about it, let alone mind. Now I hated it. I couldn’t stay there, live like that.

The sunlight finally reached a level of brightness that would make it acceptable for me to be up. Dad was already about, slumped over a newspaper at the table, with a half-empty mug of coffee near his large hand.

“Coffee hot?” I asked, skirting him just enough that it wasn’t obvious I was keeping my distance. I hoped.

“S’pose so.”

Yay. We could use words.

I slopped enough black bitterness to fill three-quarters of my mug and then went to the refrigerator.

“No creamer.” Dad’s gravelly voice stopped me from opening the door.

“What?”

“Ran out last week.”

“How?” I was the only one of the two of us who used it.

He gave me nothing. Not even a grunt. I glared at him, willing him to look at me or to move at all. Nope. He stayed like a cement blob staring at a paper I knew for certain he wasn’t actually reading.

“You dumped it, didn’t you?”

His jaw jumped, but he still wouldn’t look at me.

“Why would you do that?”

His fist curled on the table. “You left.”

“So you dumped my creamer?” I slapped my coffee mug onto the counter. “Did you empty my closet too? How about my tools? Are they gone? Maybe you should change the lock, make it official.”

The paper crumpled in his hand. “Maybe you should think twice before you take off. I swear, Sarah, the more you chase after this
finding yourself
crap, the more you become like your mother.”

I had to force air into my collapsing lungs. He
hated
my mother. Every single memory I had of her coming up between us, all of which I could count on one hand, screamed his absolute contempt for the woman. And I had hated her too. For him. Because my daddy didn’t deserve what she did.

But then again I didn’t know the whole story.

“How the heck would I know anything about that?” I pressed my palms against the counter and leaned forward, toward him. “I know nothing about the woman. Everything I know comes from a man who apparently has a dark side I’d never seen until now. Maybe I hated a faceless person who didn’t deserve it.”

He finally looked up, fire smoldering in his eyes. “That what you think?”

“I don’t know what to think!” Anger trembled through me. “How is anyone supposed to handle you when you’re like this, Dad? I came home because you asked me to, and I got all of a two-sentence greeting followed by a door in my face. You bit my head off for wearing clothes made for a woman, and you came unglued because I’d gone on a date. That’s not reasonable, so it makes me wonder what really happened between you and my mom.”

One tightly bound fist slammed against the table. “It’s not your business.”

“She’s my mom!”

He stood, sending the chair beneath him flying against the wall. “We’re not talking about this.”

We were never talking about it. How many things in my life did we never talk about? Had I missed the signs of a split personality all of these years?