stealing penny candy.
“Sarah, all I’m trying to say is, if you need to talk, any one of us is here to listen. You shouldn’t go through this alone.”
I clenched my teeth, getting angry. Not only because some man I’d known for ten minutes thought he knew what I needed, but because of the way he said my name. Sarah. Like he cared about me, about what happened to me. No one had ever said my name like that. Not my grandmother, not Aunt Ruth or David, not Brad-or-Brian from the night before or any other sweaty fling. It was the way my mother would have said my name, if she had lived.
If my father hadn’t killed her.
“And what am I going through?”
“Sarah—”
“Stop saying my name,” I said, “and leave me alone. You have no idea. And you don’t want to.”
I went upstairs to my room. The bed was made, as if I were never there.
I wanted to leave. I wanted to cry. Mostly, I wanted to spit in Jack’s face. I saw in his eyes how he pitied me, and how he loved my father.
No one should have loved my father.
My head pounded again, pulsing at the temples to my heartbeat. I dug through my bag to find the Tylenol Beth had given me the day before. There were five left. I took them all. Then I put on my pajamas and got into bed. The sheets were cold against my bare feet. I should have kept my socks on.
chapter SEVEN
Jack reran his conversation with Sarah over in his mind again and again, until his words blurred and all he clearly remembered were her eyes—brown and haunted with the ghosts of too many lost dreams.
Could he have said something different? Probably not. It had been a long time since she trusted anyone, and her walls wouldn’t fall over a plate of mashed potatoes and an “I’m here for you,” no matter how well his mother cooked, or how sincere his words.
Yes, he had sworn to Luke that, if Sarah found her way to Jonah, he would look after her. But she was more to Jack than a promise to a dying friend; she offered him a chance to prove his days could be counted in more than sermons and breakfast specials.
A sermon. He still needed to finish his for Sunday. With a groan, he took a legal pad and pen from his desk and sat in the squeaky antique chair. He flipped open his Bible, scrawling a few uninspired sentences, then tore off the defaced sheet of yellow paper and threw it across the room at the blotchy watercolor one of the church members painted for him. He would not be writing anything tonight, and so closed his book with a defeated thud.
Jack pushed back from the desk, rolling to the center of the cramped room because the old floor bowed so badly. The chair wheels caught on the corner of the braided rug and stopped. Not much larger than the church’s fifteen-passenger van, the room pulled triple duty as his office and living and eating areas. The sofa, supple brown leather with matching ottoman, had been an impractical splurge, but he’d salvaged the dinette set from Goodwill. It didn’t matter that the chipped top was an ugly ‘70s avocado green, and the uneven legs caused the table to rock like the apostles’ rowboat in the storm. He rarely ate at home, and when he did, he stood at the counter in the equally modest kitchen.
The tight surroundings irritating his cluttered brain, Jack bundled up and walked out into the night. Undisturbed, the snow in the field to his left undulated softly toward the woods. He stepped into it, sank to his ankles. Then he continued walking, marring the snow, which, despite the almost full moon, did not look white but gray scale. After fifty paces he turned his head to glance back at his footprints, small black pits intruding on the otherwise smooth landscape. Leave it to man—to him—to screw up God’s perfection with his muddy feet.
Yes, he was wallowing in good ol’ self-pity, as much as he hated to admit it. His confrontation with Sarah played just a small part in a melancholy that had persisted for, well, too long. Not that he had any doubts
“Sarah, all I’m trying to say is, if you need to talk, any one of us is here to listen. You shouldn’t go through this alone.”
I clenched my teeth, getting angry. Not only because some man I’d known for ten minutes thought he knew what I needed, but because of the way he said my name. Sarah. Like he cared about me, about what happened to me. No one had ever said my name like that. Not my grandmother, not Aunt Ruth or David, not Brad-or-Brian from the night before or any other sweaty fling. It was the way my mother would have said my name, if she had lived.
If my father hadn’t killed her.
“And what am I going through?”
“Sarah—”
“Stop saying my name,” I said, “and leave me alone. You have no idea. And you don’t want to.”
I went upstairs to my room. The bed was made, as if I were never there.
I wanted to leave. I wanted to cry. Mostly, I wanted to spit in Jack’s face. I saw in his eyes how he pitied me, and how he loved my father.
No one should have loved my father.
My head pounded again, pulsing at the temples to my heartbeat. I dug through my bag to find the Tylenol Beth had given me the day before. There were five left. I took them all. Then I put on my pajamas and got into bed. The sheets were cold against my bare feet. I should have kept my socks on.
chapter SEVEN
Jack reran his conversation with Sarah over in his mind again and again, until his words blurred and all he clearly remembered were her eyes—brown and haunted with the ghosts of too many lost dreams.
Could he have said something different? Probably not. It had been a long time since she trusted anyone, and her walls wouldn’t fall over a plate of mashed potatoes and an “I’m here for you,” no matter how well his mother cooked, or how sincere his words.
Yes, he had sworn to Luke that, if Sarah found her way to Jonah, he would look after her. But she was more to Jack than a promise to a dying friend; she offered him a chance to prove his days could be counted in more than sermons and breakfast specials.
A sermon. He still needed to finish his for Sunday. With a groan, he took a legal pad and pen from his desk and sat in the squeaky antique chair. He flipped open his Bible, scrawling a few uninspired sentences, then tore off the defaced sheet of yellow paper and threw it across the room at the blotchy watercolor one of the church members painted for him. He would not be writing anything tonight, and so closed his book with a defeated thud.
Jack pushed back from the desk, rolling to the center of the cramped room because the old floor bowed so badly. The chair wheels caught on the corner of the braided rug and stopped. Not much larger than the church’s fifteen-passenger van, the room pulled triple duty as his office and living and eating areas. The sofa, supple brown leather with matching ottoman, had been an impractical splurge, but he’d salvaged the dinette set from Goodwill. It didn’t matter that the chipped top was an ugly ‘70s avocado green, and the uneven legs caused the table to rock like the apostles’ rowboat in the storm. He rarely ate at home, and when he did, he stood at the counter in the equally modest kitchen.
The tight surroundings irritating his cluttered brain, Jack bundled up and walked out into the night. Undisturbed, the snow in the field to his left undulated softly toward the woods. He stepped into it, sank to his ankles. Then he continued walking, marring the snow, which, despite the almost full moon, did not look white but gray scale. After fifty paces he turned his head to glance back at his footprints, small black pits intruding on the otherwise smooth landscape. Leave it to man—to him—to screw up God’s perfection with his muddy feet.
Yes, he was wallowing in good ol’ self-pity, as much as he hated to admit it. His confrontation with Sarah played just a small part in a melancholy that had persisted for, well, too long. Not that he had any doubts
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