Stepping Into Sunlight (15 page)

“Come on, Mom.” Bryan bounced from foot to foot. “There’s my teacher.”

“I’m coming.” I forced myself to follow my son to his Sunday school room. Bryan’s teacher, a young woman with stubby pigtails, was rushing to set out craft supplies around the table.

Fighting my instinct to flee, I stepped into the room. “Can I help?”

Bryan’s teacher looked up and smiled. “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver. I’m running late again, and if I don’t have everything in place before a dozen second-graders descend, the whole hour is chaos.”

“Tell me about it. I only have one, but he keeps me hopping.” I tweaked Bryan’s nose and reached for a coffee can of crayons and distributed them around the table.

Bryan went to a chart on the wall and studied the gold stars. “See, Mom. I missed three.” He turned to his teacher. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“I’m sure God understands.” Her pigtails stood at attention as she grinned. She thrust a pile of construction paper into my arms.

By the time I had dealt out a generous variety, more seven-year-olds scampered into the room, and I ducked away.

I made my way toward the sanctuary, careful to avoid eye contact with other parents delivering their children to classrooms. The narthex was crowded, and everyone seemed to know each other. The happy chatter grated on my nerves, and I dodged around a few clumps of people and slipped into the back of the church.

Usually, a deep sense of homecoming descended on me every time I went to a Sunday service. Even when we had first moved here and visited, I felt embraced by the worship time and welcomed into the fold like a long-lost cousin, part of the body—the mysterious interconnection of roles. But in the past weeks, I’d stopped being a useful part of this organic community.

Now I was a gangrened limb that deserved to be cut off.

My stomach burned. To comfort myself I opened my shoulder bag and pulled out my notebook and pen.
Sunday—helped Bryan’s
teacher set up for class.

The sourness in my throat retreated. Sitting here was beyond uncomfortable, but I was doing it. And my project gave me at least a glimmer of hope. I was beginning a slow climb out of my lonely pit.

Music swelled for the opening hymn, and I stood with everyone else. This morning, Tom was on a destroyer leading a small group of sailors in worship just like this. Back home, my parents, sister, and friends were all turning their thoughts to our Creator and Savior. A sense of community routed my loneliness, even though I knew no one around me. Maybe instead of amputation, the infusion of grace from worship would bring healing to the wounded limb that I’d become.

The pastor stood and welcomed the congregation. Then, as he had the other times we’d visited, he asked everyone to greet one another. I shook hands with a bearded old man sitting in front of me. Then I turned to greet the person who had slid in from the other side of my pew.

Stringy bangs, dark hair, red-rimmed eyes. The young man gripped my hand.

My smile froze, and liquid nitrogen surged through my veins.
It’s not him, Penny. It’s not.

But he looked like him. That was enough. Too much. I backed out of the pew and made it the few steps to the door. Good thing I’d sat in the back of the church.

Casting aside the last of my control, I raced across the narthex and out into the morning sunshine. Over a landscaped berm, a city park stretched toward a pond. The play equipment was blissfully empty. I kept running until I reached a small picnic shelter. I dropped onto a metal bench and buried my face in my hands. My body spasmed as if I’d touched a high-voltage wire.

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. Make it stop.

Horrible minutes passed while my body responded to a panic so deep I had no hope of controlling it. I feared I’d pass out. Then I hoped I’d pass out. Anything to make this crawling terror vacate my body. For a long time the physical sensations dominated my mind, blocking out rational thought. When those burned away and I could think again, my first thought was black despair. I couldn’t even sit through a church service. How on earth was I going to receive the spiritual help that was part of my “healing checklist”?

My blouse was damp from the cold sweat that tried to purge the fear from my pores. All my muscles felt heavy and limp. My head ached.

Dr. Marci had warned me to expect setbacks. But now that I’d identified the post-traumatic stress, I’d expected to have power over it. I’d also thought that my project would help me leap forward into well-adjusted normalcy.

Normal? I didn’t even know what that looked like anymore. When the hour was up, I slipped into the church, grabbed Bryan, and hurried home.

Tuesday night I actually looked forward to the victim support meeting. I needed to know that I wasn’t the only person who was having trouble functioning on planet Earth. I’d sent a card to another of my Wisconsin Moms In Touch friends for my Monday random kindness, and was running out of people to help. So Tuesday I decided to reach out to Henry.

When he entered the conference room, I handed him a small bag.

He looked inside and gave me a crooked smile. “Wow. Thanks. This is really nice of you.”

“What is it?” Ashley drawled. Skin flushed with a combination of sheepishness and appreciation, he showed her what Bryan and I had collected all week: gum wrappers.

“So, Penny. How was your week?” Dr. Marci’s questions caused all eyes to turn to me.

I slumped lower in my chair. This still wasn’t comfortable, but I felt a little more prepared to open up. “Not great. Thursday I helped my neighbor put up wallpaper, but the next day I had a rough phone call and got pretty depressed. Saturday I managed to cut the lawn, but Sunday I freaked out at church and couldn’t stay.”

“One day at a time. They said it at drug rehab until I wanted to scream, but it’s true.” Ashley pushed up one of her sleeves and turned her forearm toward me. Fine scars tracked across her skin, but none were fresh.

I understood. “You had a good week.”

She sniffed and tried to hide her grin, but we all saw it. Camille applauded lightly. “Way to go.”

“And how was your week?” Dr. Marci turned to Camille.

The door nudged open before Camille could answer. We all watched as it eased another few inches. A man’s caramel-brown face peeked into the room and then withdrew. Dr. Marci stood and gestured toward Camille. “Go ahead. I’ll be right back.”

This group had the gift of not finding anything strange. That alone made this a safer place for me than the “real world.” Our discussion continued, and I was genuinely excited to hear about Henry’s job interview and Camille’s progress at finding a new place to live.

Ten minutes later the door swung open and Dr. Marci coaxed the slight, elderly man into the room. “Daniel, this is Penny. She just joined us last week.” He dropped his chin and gripped the back of a chair as if trying to anchor himself. I could see the quiet tension of his muscles, the yearning to run.

The others greeted him warmly but gently, as if he would bolt at any sudden noise.

“So what were you discussing?” Dr. Marci sat down and expertly drew focus away from Daniel. As Camille talked about the apartment she’d found, Daniel gradually eased into the room and took a seat.

A week ago these people had seemed a troubling mirror of what I was becoming. Victims, yes, but also misfits who hadn’t been able to bounce back. But now I saw a courageous woman finally deciding she wouldn’t let the man she loved hit her anymore, and a girl with a horrific past who had depths of compassion hidden behind her piercings and vampire makeup, a lonely man who had climbed and fallen and was trying to find his footing. And now, Daniel.

“Daniel, tell us about your week.” Dr. Marci pitched her voice low and calm.

“I . . . I didn’t go out much,” he whispered. Then he brightened. “Sammy’s doing better, though.”

His imaginary friend?

“His dog,” Henry explained.

Daniel nodded. “Samson. Sammy for short. He had an ear infection. But it’s better now.”

Dr. Marci leaned forward. “Dan, you and Penny have some things in common.”

He stared at the floor.

“So when are you going to really tell us about what happened?” Ashley braced her chin on her fists and raised an eyebrow stud at me.

I felt the challenge. Could I go there? Was I ready?

Dr. Marci nodded.

I sucked in a deep breath. “It was the dumbest thing.”

Henry barked a laugh. “That’s always how it starts.”

I smiled wryly. “I suppose so. It’s just that I keep thinking about how different things would be if I hadn’t been craving a Coke.”

“Coke?” Ashley straightened up.

“A Coke. A soda.”

“Oh.” She sat back, her flare of interest dampened.

“That’s what I mean. It was so silly. We’d been unpacking boxes.” I turned toward Daniel. “We’re new to the area. It was so hot, so I told Tom I’d run down to the Quick Corner and get a Coke Slurpee for us to share. It was the middle of the afternoon.”

My stomach clenched. “Somehow that made it worse. The bright sunshine. Violence is supposed to happen in the dark, you know.”

The understanding murmurs around the table gave me courage. “So I grabbed my purse, hopped in the car, and drove about a mile. I was in the store. You know, looking at the candy bars and telling myself I was trying to eat healthier.”

I closed my eyes as I talked, and traveled back to the display of junk food. Snickers? Milky Way Dark? Or some healthy trail mix with sunflower seeds and raisins? An elderly couple came through the aisle, and I edged away to give them room. The woman had tight white curls and gave me a bright smile. She carried a store basket over one arm. Her other hand was tucked in the elbow of the man who walked slowly, planting his cane with each careful step.

“Florence, just make up your mind.” Affectionate teasing filled his raspy voice. “If you pick a Ding Dong today, you can still get a Snowball tomorrow.”

She giggled and slanted a look toward him like an eighty-year-old Scarlett O’Hara. “Let’s be really wild and get Twinkies.”

He laughed and grabbed a two-pack of Twinkies, a Ding Dong, and a Snowball and put them all in her basket.

“Why, Stanley, you’re spoilin’ me.”

“Hmph.” A dimple appeared on his weathered cheek as he fought back a smile.

They headed to the front of the store, as I imagined Tom and me in fifty years, arm in arm, making our daily trek to the corner store for a treat, comfortable in a lifetime of bickering, teasing, living, and loving. I smiled and crouched down to grab some red licorice for Tom.

The bells jingled at the door. The old-fashioned sound transported me to the general store of Mayberry.
I could get used to this
friendly Virginia neighborhood.

“The money. Now.” The harsh order near the front of the store was so incongruous that I froze, kneeling behind the candy aisle.

The young African-American woman at the cash register gasped. “Okay, okay. Take it easy. Here.”

My sluggish brain began to make sense of the conversation. Still crouched, I crept to the end of the row. On the other side of a display of Slim Jims, a teen brandished a gun. His stringy hair hung limp beneath his baseball cap. My heart battered my chest and breath choked in my throat.

A gun? This can’t be happening. Someone do something.

The old couple stood near the counter. Stiff. Trembling as if Parkinson’s had captured their bodies. The woman gripped her husband’s arm with both hands now, the red plastic basket still slung over her arm.

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. Help us.

The cashier pulled out bills and stacked them neatly as if she were helping a customer. “Here. That’s all there is.”

He swore and waved the gun wildly. “Come on. You’ve gotta have more. What about your purse?”

I caught a glimpse of his face as he threw a wild glance around the store. Drug-crazed, angry, barely touching reality.

Get help. Get help.

If I could back out and call the police—

My arm bumped a shelf, and a few peppermint sticks slipped from an overstocked box and hit the floor with a clatter.

The boy swung around. Time fragmented in a series of freeze-frames. At the counter, the clerk covered her mouth with both hands, capturing her silent scream. The gun fired before the boy completed his pivot. Once. Twice. The blast hurt my ears. Not the light pops of television-drama gunfire.

The elderly woman lurched. Her arm flinched inward as if protecting the Twinkies in the red plastic basket. Then she fell back against the shelves. The row of magazines wavered.

Cordite—the scent that rises from the corner of the park where fireworks are set off on the Fourth of July—filled the air. More sharp cracks.

No, no, no! This isn’t real. Someone help us!

The husband collapsed downward, one hand reaching toward his wife. His cane clattered to the linoleum. She continued to fall, sliding down the row of magazines and to the floor. Issues of
Redbook
cascaded down around her.

The gun swung in my direction. “Look what you made me do! I’m gonna kill you!” His red-rimmed eyes didn’t seem human. He was a caricature. Wild, slavering, twitching. The face burned into my memory. Hatred, contempt, and a level of desperation I couldn’t understand. Even in my shock and terror, a tiny corner of my mind pitied him.