How Sweet It Is (28 page)

Zack leans toward the fire and whispers, “I like your face.”

It comes out so naturally, not forced, not asked for, just there, like a hostess offering hors d’oeuvres without any fanfare.

I’m glad it’s dark so he can’t see me blushing.

“It’s nicest when you smile.”

“Thanks.”

“You should do that more.”

It takes me a moment to come up with a response. “Really, why?”

“We deserve to see you happy, don’t we?”

Ah, happiness. What is it? Does it exist? Words from Grandpa Ernest’s letter come back to me. “
The greater part of our happiness or misery depends on our dispositions and not on our circumstances.”

“I mean, we all want you to like us here. You know, feel comfortable in these mountains.”

“I like y’all,” I say into the fire. I keep my eyes on the coals because I am too scared to look Zack in the face. I am afraid that I would get lost somewhere in his hazel-green eyes and not be able to find my breath.

He’s not for me. He is these kids’ hero. Yet… I glance over at him. He seems kind and trustworthy and—

No! He’s a man. He’s capable of breaking my heart. Bending it, pulling it apart like silly putty…

There are some things in life the heart is not willing to risk.

Abruptly, I stand and put on my jacket. “Good night, Zack,” I say. Then I leave him alone. I would like to think he has a surprised expression on his face, similar to the one Chef B had when I said I was leaving Atlanta. One that would clearly convey disappointment at my sudden decision to get up and leave.

I would like to think that.

I don’t wait to see.

————

As I lie awake in my sleeping bag in the girls’ tent with Rainy and Joy softly breathing beside me, my heart won’t let me sleep. It reminds me of a pot on the stove, boiling water raging down the sides, splashing against the flames. If I could just turn off the flame, the boiling would subside and I could close my eyes.

I recall the nights I slept in my sleeping bag in my apartment in Atlanta—the nights before I made my trip to Grandpa’s cabin. That final night before my move up north was lonely, one where I hoped that Vivaldi’s music would summon sleep. I kept looking at the clock and watching the numbers bring in a new day, frustrated that I couldn’t close my eyes, shut off my mind, and drift off. Now I sniff the sleeping bag to see if it has any aroma that reminds me of my apartment life. Perhaps a faint odor of fried calamari, cinnamon from a candle I often burned, or simply nostalgia.

I can’t get comfortable, and the ground is hard. Turning, I see the outline of Joy’s sleeping frame to the left of me and Rainy next to her. Rainy opens her mouth and lets out a snore. I think she’d be mortified if she found out she snores in her sleep.

Massaging my arms, I’m still able to feel Charlotte’s fingers as they played against my scars. I think of her view of the stars— how she imagines that God takes each of her uttered prayers and displays them in the sky. Each prayer, a shining light, worthy to be strung in the heavens. I would like to peer into her journal and read what some of those hopes are in her young life. Miriam told me that while the children hope to be connected to their despondent parents, they wish for other things, too. Kids are kids. Charlotte probably wants to grow up to be a ballerina like I wanted to when I was small. Or maybe she dreams of something more lofty—being a physician or an astronaut. I should have asked her, I think. I need to ask more and assume less.

I turn over again, draw my knees to my chest, which I find is hard to do in the constraints of a sleeping bag. I unzip the bag and try again. Now when I breathe, there is no scent of calamari but only of the smoky night. My hair and skin are fragrant from the campfire. Listening, I hear no voices, only the sounds from nature.

I suppose even Zack has gone to his tent. I go over each detail of the brief but comfortable time spent talking with him as the fire blazed. I smile at how we connected. Even though we said little, there was this feeling between us. Jeannie would call it chemistry, but I’m not ready to name it.

He’s not what I wished for.

The most remarkable part of the evening was one of the briefest moments. Darren talked to me. He did not yell or curse but actually acknowledged my scars and told me of his own. Sullen and angry Darren opened a little crack in his armor and let me see a hidden part, a section of himself. Tomorrow I’ll probably wonder if I dreamed his words to me.

I study Rainy’s sunglasses by the light of the moon. She’s placed them on top of her backpack at the foot of her sleeping bag. Now they look just like a small object, but when she wears them and chews her gum, those glasses seem larger than life. Maybe that’s one of the reasons sleep is so nourishing. When we sleep we remove all the masks we wear by day.

Zack is not what I wished for.

I rise up onto my elbows and watch the girls. Joy’s curly hair looks like a halo around her pillow. Amazing that when we sleep, all of us look so vulnerable, like we can’t help but be totally and completely lovable. Just like a photo taken in one second of time, an image captured on film that can be contained, held, and even framed. A smiling face locked in place so that it can’t talk back, rant, confess, or lie. There were times I longed to be just a happy image in a photograph with Lucas.

On my birthday, I didn’t watch the candles on my peach pie and chocolate cake and hope for something to happen between Zack and me. I wished for something else.

Peace. The word is there; it has always been there, in the Bible or on a sign posted to a kitchen door. Peace. I want peace deep inside my heart, lodged so deeply and firmly that no one can ever take it away. How sweet that would be.

But peace and anger can’t coexist. One day I will let the anger go. One day I will no longer care about my scars. One day I will stop letting Lucas control me, because even though we are more than one hundred and fifty miles apart, I’m still drenched in anger at him.

I wonder how Jonas can understand the value of forgiveness and operate in it, while I, with my undergraduate degree and normally functioning brain, have not found out how to do it. Jonas, I think, you are lucky. In so many ways.

If I’d brought my journal along, I would turn on my flashlight and write. But I didn’t dare pack my journal for fear the kids would confiscate it and read it aloud. I would never live that down. If that happened, I would have to leave town.

The crickets sing over the stillness of the mountain. Then I hear the familiar soothing voice—the sound I have grown accustomed to over these six months in the mountains. This owl’s cry is loud and steady, like a heartbeat. I listen over all the other noises around me and imagine which tree he might be in. I wonder what he looks like, how his feathers ruffle as his voice plays out over the breezes—his symphony of evening peace. Does he know the owl from the woods around my cabin? Do they get together and share a rodent or two for dinner, or give each other high fives as they fly from treetop to treetop over the Smokies?

Just before I drift into sleep, I form a prayer to God. It is one of gratitude, the kind my own dad gives. I smile in the darkness, a smile only God sees. Somehow, here, far from my hometown, far away from the life I carefully created for myself in Atlanta, God has given me a gift, and its name is richer and sweeter than any frosted cake. I have been presented with hope.

And I have realized that hope is the necessary beginning. With it, I can hope to one day jump into that river pastors preach and write about. It has a short name, and yet it takes a lifetime to truly navigate this river we call Forgiveness. Why is it so hard, sometimes, to put your hand in God’s?

thirty-eight

D
o you want to see, Miss Livingston?” Bubba asks as the sunlight filters through his hair.

“Or are you afraid?” Bobby laughs and pokes the base of the oak tree with a narrow, curvy branch he insists on carrying. He has brushed everyone’s skin with it even though Zack has told him to put it away.

We are on a hike on a woodsy trail. The morning is clear, with cirrus clouds moving across the blue sky. I can almost taste the sky—delicate and pleasing, like an almond butter strudel with a hint of nutmeg.

Earlier our hike took us to an opening that overlooked the gentle slope of the mountain range. The mountains were an array of scarlet, gold, and amber. As I breathed in the warm air and turned my face to the sun, I thought I could stay there all day. A hawk cast his wings before us and soared across two mountain peaks.

“It’s just beautiful,” Rainy said, removing her sunglasses, and she was right.

Now the kids say they have found the hole where an owl lives. With the help of three stones resting against each other to form a stair, each child takes a turn looking into an opened notch in the trunk of a gnarled oak tree.

Dougy peers into the hole, which is the size of a watermelon, and quickly jumps down. “He’s in there!” His voice sounds like steam from a teakettle.

“Duh!” Bubba cries. “We told you. We don’t lie.”

“What does he look like?” asks Joy, who is still too fearful to stand on the rocks and have a turn.

Bubba makes scary sounds, and Bobby jabs Joy on her arm with his stick.

Joy jumps into Zack’s arms while everyone else laughs.

Again, I am asked, “Do you want to see him, Miss Livingston?” I look at the child who has just spoken. His dark eyes and hair seem tranquil today, the first time I have ever felt this way about him. He says, “He’s sleeping. He won’t hurt you.”

I am not worried. I would not miss an opportunity to view an owl nestled in a tree. The kids don’t know how long I have searched for this nighttime musician. “Yeah,” I reply to Darren. “I’d like to see him.”

I step onto the wobbling stones and adjust my eyes to the dark hole. All I see is a mass of brown feathers, a few tainted with gray. Cautiously, I edge forward to get a closer look, grasping the trunk of the tree with one hand. I am determined to see this owl, even if I trip and fall into his sleeping place. I focus, squint, and observe the huddled dark figure. I see his body moving ever so slightly. He’s alive, I think, real and breathing. He’s resting up so that he can serenade the forest again tonight. He is a perfect picture of peace.

“Did you get a good look?” asks Joy, able to speak once more.

“There isn’t much to see,” I say as I step down from the stones.

“He’s a tawny owl,” Darren tells us. “Those are the ones who sing the best.” Coming from a good singer, I guess he would know.

“Where’s his poop?” asks Bobby circling the tree trunk with his stick.

“Yuck.” Rainy pops her sunglasses back over her eyes.

“We had to study owl’s vomit once,” says Bobby. “Remember? In fourth grade?”

“Duh, I remember. It was filled with tiny mice bones.” Bubba is enjoying this conversation too much.

I might just throw up today.

Charlotte speaks into the boys’ cackling. “They toss it out of their mouths. Did you know that?”

“Toss? Toss what?” Rainy eyes her suspiciously.

“The things they can’t digest, like bones, feathers, and claws.” Her voice is mellow even when she is relaying something as disgusting as owl vomit.

“Yeah.” Bubba stretches the word out long and loud. “You’re right. It comes out of their beaks.” He uses his scrawny arms to pantomime a regurgitating animal.

Charlotte is so happy to have everyone’s attention she looks like she just won the spelling bee, not shared information on the digestive patterns of owls.

“Is that right, Miss Livingston?” Dougy asks as he watches Bubba’s gestures.

“I never got to study owls,” I say.

Soon we are back on the trail, ambling on top of damp leaves, pine needles, and pine cones, the tall North Carolina pines shielding the sun. Zack and Robert are in the lead, Rhonda is next to Bubba, and Charlotte and I are at the end. The others are scattered across the path, laughing about the most disgusting things they can think of.

“Let’s talk about something else,” Zack suggests as he runs a hand through his curly hair.

“Like what?” asks Lisa.

“How about food?” Bobby volunteers. “Breakfast was a long time ago.” He pats his stomach and announces, “I vote we head back to the campsite and eat lunch!”

“It’s only ten thirty,” Rhonda says as she looks at the time on her cell phone.

Bobby inserts his blue inhaler into his mouth and takes a couple puffs. He fills his lungs with air and then coughs. “Ah,” he says, “but I can’t breathe, and I need nourishment.”

“You’ll be fine,” I tell him with a smile. “Think of your favorite things.”

“Owl throw-up,” whispers Bubba, and then we are all laughing.

“You like owls, Miss Livington?” asks Joy as she paces her strides to mine.

I think of how the one in my backyard calls throughout the night, how it kept me awake early on. Then one night the noise that had been so disturbing became a welcomed lullaby.

“Because I hate them.” Spontaneously, Joy covers her hand to her mouth. “I mean,” she says with careful intonation, “I don’t care for them.”

“They sing me to sleep at night,” I tell her. “So I guess I do like them.”