Lost and Found (40 page)

I ROLL OVER
in bed and open my eyes. The room is almost dark. I glance at the bedside clock—4:00 p.m. Outside, I hear a storm raging. I lay my head back down. My legs are tangled in the sheets and my unwashed hair tangles on the pillow. I haven't changed out of the pajamas I put on . . . when? Two nights ago? Three nights ago? I sit up in bed and push my hair out of my eyes. The air in the room is stale. A long-cold cup of peppermint tea sits on the nightstand, specks of dust float on top of the murky liquid.

I can't stay in bed forever.

I can't hide from the choice I've made.

I get out of bed, reach for the robe draped across the stool at the vanity, put it on, and then amble out of the room and down the hall to Brigitte's suite. I tap on the door.

"Come in."

I take a deep breath, and then push the door open and walk in. Brigitte sits at her desk, glasses perched on the end of her nose. She looks at me, takes the glasses off, and then motions me to the chair opposite the desk.

I walk to her desk, but don't sit. A weak act of rebellion.

"Good to see you up, my dear. I thought I might have to come hoist you out of bed myself."

"I'll sign the agreement. Now." Lightheaded, I reach for the edge of her desk and steady myself.

Brigitte looks at me, her eyes narrowed. "Yes, I knew you would see reason, chérie." She turns to the credenza and looks for the file then pulls it out. As she does, my heart begins thundering in my chest and a film of sweat beads on my upper lip. Mouth dry, I swallow.

She opens her desk drawer, pulls out a pen, and then hands both the agreement and the pen to me.

I bend to sign the agreement . . . but my hand begins to shake.

I shake my head to clear my mind. And then I stand straight, pen dangling in my hand at my side. I look at Brigitte and then think of my dad . . . of Jason . . . and Matthew.

"Sign it, Jenna. You have no choice." Her tone seeks to intimidate and, for the moment, it works.

I bend and place the tip of the pen on the signature line. But again, something stops me. And a new wave of nausea swells. I stand, drop the pen, and cover my mouth with my hand. For the second time in less than a week, I run from Brigitte's office.

I stagger to my bathroom, gulping for air. I wait for the expected and now so-familiar result, but as I breathe in and out, in and out, the moment passes and my stomach stills. I slump against the bathroom counter.

Then I turn and look at myself in the mirror.

The woman who stares back is unknown to me. Her eyes are lifeless, her complexion gray. I hang my head and my hair falls forward.

I can't look at myself.

I pull off my robe and drop it on the floor. I check the bathroom door to make sure it's locked, then open the door of the large glass enclosure and turn the shower on. I reach for the small panel on the far wall and set the temperature and timer for the steamer as well. I get a bath sheet and place it on the towel warmer next to the shower, and then I step inside.

With the door closed and the glass fogged, I feel as though I've escaped—Brigitte . . . and myself—for a few minutes. I fill my lungs with hot, humid air, and let the water from the dual heads pulse against my taut neck and shoulders.

But the sense of escape flees as thoughts torment me. A thousand images crowd the screen of my mind, but like television static, nothing is clear. I see only flashes—flashes of Brigitte through the years.

I see her contempt. Her conniving. Her control.

I see her for who she is, but it does nothing to change my circumstances. I think, for the first time in days, of the blog and the readers who follow it. I think of Andee and the questions she's asked. Am I really willing to just shut the door on the blog—on the readers?

On God?

Lightseeker seems almost unknown to me now. Her purpose seemed clear, but my own has been thwarted.

Images war within.

I long to make a different choice, but . . . how?

Confusion, a slithering serpent, wraps itself around my mind and constricts—suffocating the last of my hope.
You are crazy
, it hisses.

My tears, as hot as the water spouting from the showerheads, blur my vision. I turn toward the wall of the shower and lean my forehead against the glass tile.

Yes, I am crazy.

Crazy to have stayed all these years.

Crazy to have put up with Brigitte's abuse.

Crazy to fall to her final ploy.

That
is crazy.

Hope gasps for breath.

For the first time in days, I pray. I beg God.

Show me another way. Show me, please.

I turn, lean my back against the tile, and slide down the wall to the floor of the shower. I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my knees.
Show me!
I scream the words to God. Not out loud but rather in the recesses of my soul—that place where faith tells me He still resides and hears my pleas.
Rescue me. Please . . . rescue me. I . . . don't . . . I don't know what to do!

I want to follow You.

Whatever the cost.

My sobs reverberate between the glass walls. I sob into my knees until my stomach aches. I lift my head and gulp the thick air.
Please, show me!

Choose life!

I lift my head from my knees. "What?"

Will you choose death or will you choose life?

The question spoken to my soul is as clear as if it were audible. And the words are familiar. They are the words I was led to pray that dark night. Words I believed I was praying for another. Had they really been for me? My heart and mind still.

God has broken His silence.

This day I call heaven and earth as witnesses against you that I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life, so that you and your children may live and that you may love the Lord your God, listen to his voice, and hold fast to him.

All is still.

The only sound is the song of water droplets against glass.

But in my soul, God speaks. The words from Deuteronomy run through my mind as though I'd read them just moments ago. I repeat the words: "'Now choose life, so that you and your children may live . . .'"

And repeat again, "'. . . so that you . . . and your children . . . may live.'"

I gasp.

Fresh tears flow.

"Oh . . ." I relax my hold on my knees and move my hand to my abdomen and rest it there. "Oh . . ."

Knowing comes like dawn.

His mercies are new every morning.

Just as He spoke creation into being, His words unfurl the serpent wrapped around my mind and soul and crush it. The static images are replaced with one, clear thought.

Choose life!

And to stay with Brigitte would be choosing death.

And so, in that heartbeat, I decide.

I choose life.

I don't know how. I don't have a plan. But I have a Rescuer.

I entered the shower lost.

I emerge found.

As I blow-dry my hair, I make a plan—though it doesn't extend beyond the next several hours. But certainty flows through me. God will lead, one step at a time. If I think ahead—or if I think of my dad, or Jason, or Matthew—fear threatens. Instead, each time those thoughts arrest me, I hand them to God.

I will trust Him.

I dress in jeans, a blouse, and a black wool sweater. Then I take a suitcase from the closet, lay it on the bed, and fill it with clothes, toiletries, and other necessities. I sit on the edge of the bed for a moment and open the drawer of the nightstand. I take the ring out that I'd dropped inside and slip it back on my left ring finger.

"Thank You for Your forgiveness. Thank You that nothing can separate me from Your love."

When Hannah knocks on my door with dinner, I open the door just a few inches and take the tray she holds. I tell her I need nothing else.

I set the tray on my desk and then sit and make myself eat the bowl of chicken soup and a piece of bread. My stomach recoils, but I take it slow and get most of the soup down.

I eat with new purpose.

When I'm done, I push the tray aside, and open my laptop. I log into my blog server, and begin a new entry:

Dear Readers,

My name is Jenna Durand Bouvier . . .

This preoccupation with your accomplishments or your failures leaves no room for you to be totally enamored with God alone.

JEANNE GUYON

LIGHTNING FLASHES IN
sharp, jagged bolts above the city. Rain beats against the panes of floor-to-ceiling glass.

"Someone's ticked." I shiver and walk to the wall behind me and turn up the thermostat. I was invited to attend a party hosted by
Urbanity
this evening, but I declined. I've turned down every invitation I've received lately. With this storm raging, I'm glad I've adopted the hermit lifestyle.

I shake my head. "You're going to have to get a life, Andee."

I sigh.

Nothing holds any appeal.

I hear my computer
ding
in my office and walk in to check my e-mail. "Well, hello Lightseeker. Where've you been hiding yourself?"

I open the new post and read:

Dear Readers,

My name is Jenna Durand Bouvier . . .

"What the—?" I read those words again, but struggle to assimilate the information. Anger prods. "What an idiot." I'm not sure if it's myself or Lightseeker—no,
Jenna
—I'm speaking to.

I continue to read:

You have known me as Lightseeker because I've feared revealing my identity. But this evening, I'm choosing to crucify fear. And there will be no resurrection. Illumination came as I fully surrendered my will and my ways to God.

For many weeks I've considered what it means to take up my cross and follow Jesus. It seemed like an impossibility. It means, for me, standing back from all I've known. Standing back from my life, hands open, and offering all to God. Standing back from my own understanding. Standing back from owning responsibility that wasn't mine to own. Standing back from enabling, encouraging even, the sins of another.

Stand back, Jenna. I have heard God's command for me, over and over.

Tonight, I also stand back from omission, and claim my God-given identity. I am Jenna Durand Bouvier. I am God's child. I am His unique creation. And I am standing back from everything and everyone who has something other than God's purpose in mind for me.

Tonight, I stand back from my life—which means I will walk away from my life.

I will walk into the unknown. Down a dark and winding path. But I will not walk alone. He will illuminate the path ahead, one step at at a time.

I finish reading and I want to stand and cheer for Lightseeker. "You go, girl!" But I want to strangle Jenna. How can they be one and the same?

How could she correspond with me, knowing it's me, and not reveal herself?

How could she betray me like that?

How could she betray—

The thought smacks me in the face. "Well, there's irony for you." Sam mews what I interpret as agreement. "Hey, whose side are you on?"

I wander around the penthouse trying to make sense of what I now know. Hadn't Jason told Jenna about the way I let him go—okay, the way I dumped him? Yet, she still responded to me. Still . . . treated me with respect. Or maybe she didn't know. Maybe Jason kept that to himself, too embarrassed to let on that he'd been dumped. But no, that's not Jason's style.

I make the circle through the living room, kitchen, and back through the office, ending up in the living room again. Then it hits me. The
who
of Jenna's posts—the person she is walking away from tonight is Brigitte.

I think back to the first encounter I witnessed between them that morning in the solarium at the Bouvier home. I recall Brigitte's anger and disrespect. But I also remember earlier, the moments before Brigitte made her debut as the wicked witch. Jenna's . . . peace. My sense that she was somewhere else—something else—
ethereal
was the word that came to mind.

Now I understand. Okay, understand might be a little strong. I don't get it, but I know, having read her posts, that her peace that morning came from an encounter with God. "I hope you can find that happy place tonight, Lightseeker. And stay there."

I assess her reality—and then feel sick.

The reality? She's walking away from the Bouvier estate—and that's a chunk of change. And where's she headed? Back to Daddy, I assume, who is now owned by Brigitte.

Thanks to me.

I sold you out, Lightseeker.

The same way I sold out Jason.

I sabotaged not just myself, but I also destroyed the Durand family. What will they do?

Somehow, I figured they'd always have Jenna—and all that Bouvier money—to fall back on. But no. They'll have nothing. Again, I clamor for a solution, a way to fix what I've destroyed. A way to redeem the situation.

And myself.