Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2) (27 page)

By the time Christmas rolled around, Mom and I had an actual, normal conversation. She apologized for seeming so short with me, once again conceding to my desire to see this “Roland journey” through. I think sometimes she gets her Roland journey mixed up with mine, and has a hard time processing that there might be a different outcome for me and him. Sometimes I have that difficulty, but its less now than it was in September.

Roland’s siblings and their kids arrived at their parents’—my grandparents—house the day before Christmas, and it’s been a whirlwind ever since. It was a blast watching the kids open their presents, and I was surprised to find a few under the tree for me. Safe gifts, but thoughtful nonetheless. Gift cards to iTunes and Amazon came from Roland’s brother and sister, and Roland purchased for me a set of hardcover C.S. Lewis books.

His writings were always highly regarded in my church growing up, but I never made it past
The Chronicles of Narnia
. For the life of me, I can’t remember ever telling Roland of my interest in Lewis, but I’m heartened that he paid attention to whatever signals I gave off.

Also, spending Christmas in Kentucky
does
have its advantages as far as the weather is concerned. It feels like late March, rather than late December, and I’m able to take a few minutes to myself out on the back deck while the little kids bask in their day-after-Christmas toy hangovers. The blue ceramic mug filled with cocoa warms my hands as a dry breeze blows a few flurries across the frozen ground.

“Quieter out here,” Nora remarks, sliding the glass door shut behind her.

I smile and nod, sipping the cocoa. “It’s so quiet here. Peaceful.”

Nora wraps her scarf around her neck a second time. “Is it noisier in your town?”

“Sort of. I mean, there’s not a lot of traffic or anything, and the town sure boasts its exclusivity but … there’s just a lot of people. And money. And people showing off their money.”

Nora chuckles but says nothing more. I love the privileged upbringing I had in Greenwich, don’t get me wrong. But the more distance I have from th
at
environment, the more it’s making me question
the
culture all together. Sure, I grew up in the church, but what did I learn? What did I internalize? I know for a fact that Dick Watkins, who always sat two pews in front of me and Mom, was a corporate litigator. The kind that went to bat for big companies and smushed non-profits under his heel with little more compassion than he’d show a bug.

On the flip side, there was my mother—purveyor of justice against social wrongs. Still, in order to make any money fighting for the underdog, you’ve got to be good. And to be good means you sometimes have to play dirty. She never did anything illegal that I’m aware of, but her battles often ended up being more about mudslinging than the morals for which she was sent to fight.

“It’s confusing,” I blurt out to Nora mid-thought. “I’ve lived my whole life surrounded by people who are faithful, whether Christian, Jewish, or whatever else, but I don’t think I spent a lot of time around really
nice
people, except for my immediate family and a few friends, until I came here. I mean, I know that doesn’t sound fair because I know very little about most of their personal lives …”

“Whose personal lives?” Nora asks, turning to rest against the rail of the deck.

I twitch my lips. “Good point.”

“I’m serious,” she presses.

“I meant the people in Greenwich. All cut-throat business folk or actors looking to hide in their
modest
five-million-dollar homes. They throw lots of money at causes from time to time, but it’s rare to see any of them board a plane to help the starving children.”

“There is that one actress and her husband that do that … she’s too skinny though, isn’t she?”

I laugh at Nora’s accurate and refreshingly real insight. “Yes. But I don’t think the Jolie-Pitts have a place in Connecticut. I could be wrong though—it
is
kind of hard to keep up sometimes.”

“And the people at CU. You thought they were full of it too when you first got here, didn’t you?” She grins. I like her more by the second.

I nod. “I still think some of them are. But … it’s different. I feel like where I came from is a caricature of how America is, and where I am now is one of how it should be. Why is this so complicated?” I put my hands on my hips and chuckle a little, though I’m not so sure what’s funny.

Nora waves her hand. “People, dear.
People
are woefully complicated. It’s hard to see hearts, but I see yours loud and clear
.
”

Lifting my eyebrows, I take a deep breath. “You do? Care to share some insight?”

Her face softens into a grandmotherly smile and she takes my hands. “You’re fierce, like both your mother and Roland. And, incidentally, both of them fight for justice, which I think you want to do, too. You just don’t know how. You want to do what’s right, but you’re trying to find your footing.”

“Huh,” I whisper, my throat growing tight. “You’re good.”

“I have something for you,” she says, pulling a small rectangular box from inside her coat. “I didn’t give it to you yesterday during all the present excitement because I didn’t want to put you on the spot in front of everyone.”

“I appreciate that.” And, I really do. I love surprises, but I hate having to manufacture a reaction.

She extends the package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. I tuck it under my arm while I take off my mittens.

“You don’t have to open it now if you don’t want to,” she says without sounding like she’s committed to the words.

I grin. “For you, I’ll make an exception.”

Sliding my finger under the tape, I take a moment to admire the simple, yet elegant wrapping. Judging by the crafty, Americana feel of the inside of Nora’s house, I don’t even have to question if she wrapped this herself. Martha Stewart would be proud. Actually, she wouldn’t even bat a perfectly-placed eyelash. Martha’s not a very nice person, and her garden parties are kind of boring. The stack of
Martha Stewart Living
magazines on the coffee table tells me to keep this information to myself—it’d just break Nora’s heart.

Peeling open the paper, my eyes fall on a black, leather-bound
Book of Common Prayer
. This is the main prayer book for Episcopal churches. In it are all the prayers we say in every church service, as well as prayers for holidays, weddings, funerals, and other occasions. Seeing the gold cross embossed on the front reminds me how deeply I miss my Episcopal services. The stained glass, the hymns, the Nicene Creed, and prayer of confession. The pageantry always centered me, which is why the relatively bare walls of New Life and stripped down “you and God only” prayers were hard to adjust to. I’m used to it now, but this book feels like my entire religious experience all in one. More so than the Bible, honestly.

“Nora,” I whisper, my mouth gaping and my eyes moving between hers and the book. “It’s … oh my …
really?
”

She smiles, biting her bottom lip. “Is it okay?”

Dropping the wrapping paper, I turn the book over and flip through the pages. On the bottom right-hand side is my name, in the same gold as the cross.
Kennedy Sawyer.

“Why did you? How …”

“I grew up in the Episcopal church. I’ve always loved the prayers.”

Meeting her eyes again, I step forward and give her another hug. “This is one of the best presents I’ve ever received. Thank you, Nora.”

My mind wanders to the words of the Nicene Creed. I can no longer view them through Anglican lenses only. Especially the bit that states
we acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins.
Growing up, I always just took that to mean one should be baptized. But, in the walls of New Life and CU, baptism is a whole other thing. For now, though, I’ll snuggle in the soft comfort of my religious roots.

“You’re welcome, Dear.” Inhaling deeply, she pats the back of my head and squeezes me once, really tight, before letting go.

Quietly, she slips inside, and I lean against the rail, snapping a picture of the book and texting it to Mollie.

Mollie:
From Gramma Abbot?

She’s fluid with terminology.

Me:
Yes. Sweet, right?

Mollie:
I like what I’ve seen so far. How’s the rest of the fam?

I pause a moment before I answer. The kids have been great, as I guess kids usually are, but after spending most of my life as an only child—since Jenny lived with her mom 75% of the time—I don’t really have a kid barometer.

Me:
They’re interesting. And interested in me. I play with them, so it’s not really that hard.

Mollie:
And the brother and sister?

Me:
Julia (sister) and her husband Carl have been great. Joking around with me. The brother’s wife Lindsay has been sweet, but Geoff seems a little weird. Not rude. Just … weird.

Mollie chimes back rather quickly.

Mollie:
Need I remind you that they have kids named Jacob and Marley?

I laugh, loving how Mollie found it as ridiculous as I did. Glancing up, I see said awkward relative shuffling toward me, alone with his hands in his pockets.

Me:
Point taken. He’s here, though, gg. X
O

Mollie:
XO

Tucking my phone into my sweatshirt pocket, I look up to greet Geoff, only to find that he’s plodded down the steps and lit a cigarette by the pool, noticeably out of view of any windows.

Alrighty then …

I bend down and pick up the wrapping paper I’d let fall earlier, and when I look up, Geoff is eyeing me through a cloud of smoke seemingly suspended in front of his face.

“Don’t tattle,” he says, kind of lightly. His accent is much thicker than the rest of the family’s, and it’s hard for me to tell when people with southern accents are joking.

I just hold up my hands and shake my head, miming that I don’t intend to. I make for the door, but his voice stops me.

“I’m sorry if I seem rude. This isn’t easy for me.”

Oh, not easy for you? Here, let me console you …

Stop.

“What?” I ask, trying to sound innocent as I walk over to his smoky corner. Like I hadn’t heard his words clearly and then judged him without mercy.

Geoff takes a deep inhale and keeps it there, starting his sentence with a lung full of smoke, slowly exhaling as his words go on. “He wasn’t always like this, you know. It wasn’t always good.”

Tell me more about how my recovering alcoholic, pastor birth father wasn’t always on the societal up and up.

Seriously, Kennedy, stop. Before it flies out of your mouth.

“I, uh, can imagine.” I shrug and cut myself some slack, letting a little slid
e
out of my mouth. “Given he signed his rights away … and didn’t really know about me until I was five … and didn’t meet me for a few years after that.”

Holding the cigarette between his thumb and index finger, Geoff takes one last drag before stomping the butt into the gravel beneath his feet. Once it’s out, he picks it up and shoves it in his pocket, I assume to avoid getting caught somehow, though his smell should give him away.

He looks at me with pursed lips as though I’ve somehow been offensive. “You got off easy.”

Lifting my eyebrows, I cock my head back. “Okay, then. Nice talking with you.”

I can’t take any more of this conversation without turning into someone I’d rather not be, so I clutch my gift from Nora to my chest and reenter the warmth of the house, slipping off my shoes before retreating to my room fibbing about my need for a nap.

In reality, I lay on the bed facing the ceiling, my book still in my hand as I think about a teenage Geoff trying to navigate high school with his former all-star brother drying out on his parents’ couch. A picnic? No, I suppose not.

But neither is abandonment.

“Sounds like Geoff can pack his sanctimonious attitude and take a flying leap.”

“Eden!” I yelp, burying my face into the pillow to muffle my laughter. “That’s not
nice.
”

“Sure it is,” she says, pushing my shoulder. “I didn’t say what I
thought
. And, he wasn’t nice, either. Honestly? It’s Christmastime. And he’s there with his whole family to meet you, and he tells you that you got off
easy?
Really?
”

Eden’s parents were more than happy to drive her to Roland’s parents’ house so we could have some serious girl time before Roland and I head to Georgia. Her parents stayed and chatted up Roland, Nora, and Tim, before returning home, leaving Eden and I to have free-range girl talk.

I sigh, propping my back against the wall. “I don’t know. But, if I picture the worst image in my head of Roland during that time, and then try to see it through the eyes of someone only two years younger than me who once worshipped his older brother? It
had
to be depressing.”

“Still,” Eden huffs, “has he ever heard of compassion? How was he around Roland? Snobby?”

“No,” I say, surprised at my answer. Thinking back on the past few days, Roland and Geoff seemed to get along like any other adult brothers that belong to a loving family. “Maybe my presence just drudged all the yuckies up. Like it did with Joy, and Dean Baker …”

“
Don’t
,” Eden snaps. “Stop doing that to yourself.
You
can’t control how other people feel or behave,
especially
if they don’t even know you.”

I take a deep breath, and nervously ask her the question that’s been on my mind for months. “What was your first impression of me?”

“That you were gorgeous,” she answers quickly.

I laugh. “Seriously.”

Her eyes widen as she gestures to me. “Seriously! I may or may not have thrown up a prayer that Jonah wouldn’t notice you the way I did. I know we weren’t together then, but sheesh!”

I wave my hand. “Even if I had liked him I still think there wouldn’t be anything to worry about. You’re far more his type than I am.” I’m past the point of thinking Jonah—or anyone else for that matter—is too good for me. It’s not about “good” or “bad.” It’s a simple fact of where I come from, geographically, politically, and spiritually. I’m just as good for them as any other girl is, even if they don’t know it.

Maybe they do. You’re kind of scary in that inciting way.

Eden seems to read my mind. “I think you don’t give yourself enough credit. Maybe if we were all in our thirties and in an environment like this, it would be different. When people are supposed to
know
what they want. But, up until now, people from my world have been told what they want. Wait, haven’t you, too?”

I huff through my nose. “Yep. You’re right. And what I’m
supposed
to want doesn’t usually involve anything in, or around, CU.”

“And what I’m supposed to want is the version of Jonah all the parents see and love.” Her eyes fall, taking my stomach with them.

I clear my throat. “Um … what?”

Everyone’s got a closet. Maybe Jonah’s is filled with something Eden can’t bear. Or the other way around? No. Definitely not the other way around.

She puffs out her cheeks, eyes scanning the room through her exhale. “How long till he gets here?

“Tomorrow. I think you’re safe.”

In breaking news, Jonah will be joining Roland and me on our trek to Georgia. Apparently Jonah worked his dad for months to allow it—since his dad is far more conservative than Roland. But, once his dad realized they’d be attending the most conservative thing in America since George W. Bush’s inauguration, he okayed it.

“You’re not worried that he and I—” I try to project her hesitation onto my pending road trip with Jonah. Matt’s family has a guesthouse, where Roland and I will be shacking up, while Jonah will be in the main house with Matt.

Eden violently shakes her head. “God no, nothing like that. I trust you, Kennedy. It’s just …”

“You want the version of Jonah all the parents see and love, even if you try to not want it?”

She nods, slowly.

“I’m reli
e
ved,” I admit.

“Why?”

“To know you’re normal. It’s normal to rebel and it’s normal to feel okay in your skin. You want the all-American pastor for a husband.”

She nods again.

“And that’s okay,” I continue. “But, what I’m wondering, is why you’re suggesting that this version of Jonah is, in fact, a
version
, and not
who
he is.”

“At first,” she sighs, “I thought it was just him experimenting with his expectations and his parents’ expectations. Maybe some general questioning.”