Can I Get An Amen? Page 5

  I directed him to Kat’s condo, reaching deep into my bag to confirm the presence of the spare key that I had figured I would never have occasion to use. Kat’s was closer than my parents’ and for some reason I didn’t want him to see their large, handsome home.

  The ride to Kat’s took ten minutes, during which I tried to think of topics of conversation that wouldn’t seem either silly and inconsequential or heavy and intimate. I asked him about his friends, making sure that they weren’t stranded without a ride home. “Don’t worry about those guys. O’Brien had already left and Jay can take care of himself,” he said.

  My stomach lurched when we turned into Kat’s complex and I realized that I had to leave him, that I had to stand up and open the door and get out of his car. I felt immobilized. It was so much more than a physical attraction; I just couldn’t imagine him driving away, and never seeing him again. I told myself that it was because he had saved me. There had to be a name for what was happening to me, that some doctor had given an eponymous title to the condition of being attracted to your rescuer.

  “So,” he said, eyeing the white buildings, the car creeping forward, “which one is yours?”

  I pointed toward Kat’s. “Number seventy-eight.”

  He pulled right up front and double-parked, the emergency brake creaking compliantly.

  He turned to face me, then smiled again kindly. “Ellen, you take care of yourself, okay?”

  “Thank you for everything, Mark.” I hesitated, not wanting to leave. As we stared at each other, I sensed that we both had more to say, but neither one of us spoke. Finally, I reached for the door. “Well, good night.”

  “Good night.”

  He didn’t leave until I was up the stairs and had opened Kat’s door. Dead bolting it behind me, I slipped off my shoes. I pulled out my cell phone and scrolled to my mother’s name, sending her a text to let her know that I was sleeping at Kat’s, a fact that I was sure she would check in the morning.

  Kat’s condo was beautiful but surprisingly traditional. Most people expected her to live among clean modern furniture arranged with a minimalist’s eye, but Kat’s place was all about comfort. Thick, cable-knit cashmere throws were draped over big white slipcovered couches. The hardwood floor was partially covered with a nubby wool area rug, and her old TV was hidden away inside an imported Balinese armoire. Everything was serenely soft and neutral.

  I tiptoed up the stairs and creaked open the door to Kat’s room. She immediately jolted up in bed, squinting toward the door.

  “Kat, it’s me.”

  “Ellen?” she asked. Her usually sleek hair was in disarray and she was wearing a hideous V-necked nightshirt that had slipped off one shoulder. My mother gave us nightshirts each Christmas, and, surprisingly, Kat actually wore hers. “They’re comfortable,” she’d claim when Luke and I would tease her. This one had a frolicking dolphin pattern, as they all tended toward the juvenile and girlie. My mother usually had better taste, but I imagined that she still liked to picture us sleeping in a pastel pink bedroom with a crucifix above the bed and white cotton underwear in the drawers.

  I walked over to Kat’s bed and slipped off my cardigan, tossing it on the chair in the corner.

  “Ellen, what’s wrong?” she asked, more alert now.

  She reflexively made room in her bed and I slid in next to her under the fluffy white down comforter. We nestled into each other like we had done as children, when one of us was scared or in trouble. It used to be Kat who came red eyed and sniffling into my room.

  Again I found myself fighting tears. “I have been so fucking stupid, Kat.”

  I felt her chest rise and fall. “At least you know it now, Elle,” she said. Her voice was laden with a fatigue that came from more than sleep.

  . . .

  I told Kat everything that had happened, with Ted and then Mark. She listened, and I could feel her rage building. “You need to go to the police. You have to have that asshole arrested.”

  “Go to the police and tell them what, Kat? That some guy lied about a basketball and put his hand over my mouth?”

  “That’s not what happened.”

  “But that’s how he would make it sound. Believe me.” And even Kat couldn’t argue with that.

  I could tell that she was suspicious of Mark, and heard her disapproval when she learned that he had driven me there. “You shouldn’t have gotten in the car with him, Elle.”

  I let my head cock to one side. “Check your voice mail, Kat. What was I supposed to do?” I waited for her to become visibly chastened before continuing. “Anyway, I promise that it was totally safe. He wasn’t going to do anything.”

  “Elle,” she said, “frankly, you don’t have much credibility as a judge of character right now.” And it was my turn to be silenced.

  All my concerns and regrets competed for attention, keeping me awake long after Kat had fallen back asleep. I thought about Gary and the divorce, how stupid and reckless and selfish I had been. I saw Ted’s face and felt his heavy hand over my mouth, feeling a shame that was so unbearable, I had to relieve myself with thoughts of Mark. Thinking about him was like a respite from the rest of it.

  The phone gave a jolting ring at exactly 6:03 a.m., and we both knew exactly who it was.

  “You talk to her,” commanded Kat, facedown next to me, her voice muffled by a pillow.

  I reached over and grabbed the portable, waiting for the caller ID to confirm what I already knew. Again the phone rang loudly, frantically, demanding to be answered, as if it understood the urgency felt by the caller.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said, feeling like a guilty child.

  “Ellen! I can’t believe you think you can stay out all night long. Your father and I—”

  “Mom, I texted you. I wasn’t out all night,” I said, weakly defending myself. “I slept at Kat’s.”

  My mother was fiercely intuitive and sensed from my softer, almost contrite tone that something was wrong. “Oh my Lord… What happened, Ellen?”

  “Nothing, Mom.” I felt my face redden, and my voice cracked. “I just woke up.” So to speak.

  . . .

  “You need to give me another couple of hours,” muttered Kat. But my mind was already spinning, so I went downstairs and made a pot of coffee. Kat had recently redone her kitchen, and like the rest of the condo, it was understated and elegant, with white cabinets and soapstone counters.

  We had all shaken our heads and clucked our objections when Kat had decided to become a hairdresser. What a shame, everyone thought. She was always the most athletic of the three of us and seemed to cruise by academically with very little effort. She may have been the one for whom our prep school education paid out its dividends, until, as it was whispered, she threw it all away.

  But being a hairdresser had worked out nicely for Kat. She worked in one of the best salons in New Jersey, cutting and coloring the hair of the women who would normally go into New York for that sort of thing. Her schedule was fairly flexible and she never tried to make any inane conversation with her clients, garnering her big tips for the peaceful hour and great blow out. She heard a lot, though, often calling with bits of gossip about people we knew. “Remember Ashley Morrow?” she would say. “Two years ahead of me, one ahead of you? Anyway, her mother is leaving her father for a woman.” Kat was no prude, but she knew how scandalized the Morrows’ circle would be; anything having to do with homosexuality always sent the WASPs lunging for their vodka tonics.

  Finally Kat padded downstairs and poured a cup of coffee, joining me at the breakfast bar.

  “The kitchen looks nice, Kat.”

  She ignored me and took a sip. “Thank God you made the French roast. I have some hazelnut shit that my neighbor gave me. I was afraid I’d come down to my house smelling like a Yankee Candle shop.”

  “Why don’t you throw it away?” I asked, knowing Kat’s distaste for flavored coffee.

  “Because Mrs. Martin is a sweet little old lady, and if she comes over
I’ll have to make her some.” Kat really was so much kinder than she wanted anyone to know.

  . . .

  It was Friday, Kat’s busiest day at the salon, so she dropped me off at my car on the way to work. As we turned onto Summit Street, I craned my neck to spot it, half expecting it to be gone, a penalty exacted in lieu of the danger I had escaped. But my car stood exactly where I had left it, looking conspicuously static. It felt like everything had changed, but here was my silver Volvo wagon, with not so much as a parking ticket to show for the events of the previous night.

  “I’ll check on you later,” said Kat as we hugged good-bye.

  When I got home, my mother was primed to take advantage of my vulnerability. Even though she didn’t know what had happened, she knew. She always knew. Of course she could have no idea of the specifics, but in her mind the Lord had finally stepped aside, allowing me to see the inevitable and natural consequences of my behavior. That there were no phone calls from the police or hospital, no irreparable and devastating damage, was just further evidence of his goodness and mercy.

  My mother realized that she had a window of opportunity to bend me to her will, and she intended to maximize it. She sat at the kitchen table, reading from Evangeline, one of her magazines that focused on the issues affecting the Modern Christian Woman. On the cover was a man staring lewdly at a computer screen, with a dreamlike bubble floating above his head featuring an amateurish montage of a marijuana leaf, a few lines of cocaine, and a stack of money. The cover line read, THE PRINCE COMPLEX. It was hopelessly goofy and out of touch.

  “Hi, Ellen,” she said, almost formally, when I walked in the door. “How is your sister?” It was unnatural, her speech, forced.

  “Good…,” I said tentatively, placing my keys on the counter. I knew what was coming, and I stood waiting for my mother’s lecture like it was a flagellation.

  She purposefully closed her magazine. “Ellen, I have kept my mouth shut over these past few weeks, but I’ve seen what you’ve been doing.”

  “I know, Mom. I’m really, really sorry.”

  She assertively raised one finger, her eyes flashing. “I’m not finished, Ellen. You are going to listen to me.” She had been waiting weeks to give this speech and was not about to let me rush her through it. “You have been running away from your pain, trying to pretend that everything with Gary never happened. Instead of pressing into the Lord, you’ve been looking for escape in all the wrong places.” She paused for effect. “You thought you could find comfort in men.” It must have been with a heroic effort that she maintained eye contact, for any reference to sex, no matter how oblique, never failed to embarrass her.

  “Mom…” I felt my face flush in humiliation.

  “Not to mention how you’ve been hanging out at the mall all day.” She said mall as if the word had a particularly offensive flavor. “You need to get your priorities straight. I know how much you have been through, but it’s time to face reality.”

  “I know, Mom,” I said as I stared at the shiny granite counter. “I’m going to look for a job. I’ll start looking online today.”

  “I don’t mean start looking for a job. I mean get a job. I don’t care if it’s at the supermarket.” My mother sat up straight as she went in for the kill. “Your father and I also want you to start coming to church with us.”

  I sighed deeply and let my head flop back, but that was my only protest.

  “I mean it, Ellen. That is our condition,” she continued, primed for more of a fight. “If you want to live in this house and come and go as you please, all we ask is that you attend church and bring in an income. Your father and I can’t support you indefinitely.” There was an edge to her voice, a slightly hysterical twinge. Accurately interpreting my silence as acquiescence, she continued. “And the Arnolds are coming over for dinner tonight. We’d like you to join us.”

  “The Arnolds?” I said weakly. I knew I was beaten but had to make my displeasure known.

  “Yes, the Arnolds,” she said, daring me to push the matter further.

  The Arnolds were the reigning monarchs of my parents’ church. Edward Arnold had started a company that several years ago rode the wave of the technology boom and sold for hundreds of millions of dollars. He was now content to invest and donate, both of which he did with equal acuity. Christ Church now had an enormous new wing for its, ahem, contemporary services, the funds for which came from an anonymous donor who was anything but anonymous. Lynn Arnold was on the board of every conservative charity in the state and ran a weekly gathering for well-heeled young women at her house, at which she provided tutelage on how to be a “fine Christian wife.” It was, she figured, the least she could do.

  Only after my mother saw that her demands would be met with little resistance did she soften. “Come here, my baby girl,” she said, standing and wrapping her arms around me. “With all that’s happened, you’ve been trying to go it alone rather than relying on your savior, your heavenly father.” Her hand stroked my hair. “We live in a fallen world, Ellen. Terrible things happen all around us. They happen to everyone, whether we see it or not. But it’s Jesus who sees us through. He is the only thing that we can rely on always, for eternity.” Slumping, I buried my face into her shoulder and, squeezing my eyelids together, felt tears escape from the corners.

  I told my mother that I loved her and went upstairs. Turning the shower on hot, I let the bathroom fill with steam before I got in. Sitting on the floor, I watched great beads of condensation form on the mirror, growing heavy and fat before rolling down the glass, leaving thin lines of clarity. When I finally stepped underneath the soft, steady stream of water, I stood there motionless for a long time. It began without warning, as it always did. The words reflexively slipped from my lips as barely articulated whispers. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you, God. Thank you. It was a prayer of fleeting thanks in a moment when I felt grateful for everything I still had. I was home. I was safe. I was alive.

  . . .

  My mother spent the day preparing for the Arnolds’ visit, flitting nervously about the kitchen, cleaning, then cooking, then cleaning again. She declined my offer to help, insisting that the best thing I could do was stay out of her hair. She had never been the you-chop-while-I-slice type, so I made good on my promise to begin the job search. It was another vehicle for procrastination, as there was another, more grim task in front of me: calling Gary. I had been avoiding his calls, ignoring his messages, sending noncommittal e-mails about moving forward with the sale of the house, the divorce. But I was too emotionally drained to speak with him, so I sat in my father’s study and pored over the meager job listings.

  Prospects were slim and my mother may not have been far off when she suggested a job at the supermarket. When I realized just how little demand there was for my vague skill set, I toyed with the idea of taking a nap. I told myself that I didn’t deserve a nap, but I felt useless and weak and thought that maybe it was the best thing for me. I expected to see Ted when I closed my eyes, to smell his vodka-heavy breath and feel his thick slab of a body. But it was Mark who filled my mind.

  My father knocked on my door at five o’clock.

  “Come in,” I called with a sleep-heavy voice, hopping out of bed.

  He poked his head in. “Have you been sleeping?” he asked reproachfully, surveying my disaster of a room. There were shopping bags scattered about and dirty laundry on the floor, and my suitcases still lay open and shoved into a corner.

  “Just for an hour or so,” I lied. “I spent most of the day online looking for a job.”

  He eyed me skeptically. “Why don’t you get ready and see if your mom needs some help.” It wasn’t just a suggestion, but an order. Dinner with the Arnolds would be the beginning of my penance.

  . . .

  “Well,” said my father, who was studying the label of a bottle of wine when I walked into the kitchen, “don’t you look nice.” He was always pleased when his daughters looked and behaved
like ladies. My parents were both wearing their most flattering colors, and I knew that my mother had orchestrated their outfits, she in a nicely tailored navy blue shirtdress, while my father wore a salmon-colored button-down. I had selected a pencil skirt and a Lynn Arnold–friendly ivory twinset. The house looked beautiful, too, with the kitchen island already housing a spread of plump shrimp, a board with several small and interesting artisanal cheeses, and a platter of charcuterie. At the wet bar sat a good bottle of scotch; a few different wines, including a nice Sancerre; and several bottles of San Pellegrino so that Lynn Arnold could make herself a spritzer. From what I understood, Lynn did not approve of women becoming inebriated. My mother saw me eyeing the bar. “Ellen,” she said, looking at me from beneath her brows as she pulled Saran wrap off a bowl of olives, “I want you to take it easy on the alcohol tonight, okay?”

  “Yeah, I was planning on it, Mom.” My mother always got worked up before company came, but she seemed particularly on edge tonight and was clearly pulling out all the stops for the Arnolds.

  “Good girl,” she said, sticking a spoon in a simmering pot of lobster bisque. “Your father and I really want tonight to go well.”

  My parents seemed to have attached an inordinate amount of importance to tonight’s dinner and I wondered why. Aside from the occasional church gathering or event, I had never known them to do much socially with the Arnolds and was aware that my mother had her secret misgivings about them, as she had about many members of their church. “They may go through the motions every Sunday, but that doesn’t mean that they have a relationship with Jesus,” she’d say. It was no secret in my family that my mother preferred the flamboyant, charismatic Christian church that we had attended as children to the more staid, conservative Christ Church, where my parents were currently members. My father had convinced her to switch, and Luke, Kat, and I all gratefully echoed his wishes, hoping that my mother would learn to tone it down, to blend in. While both of my parents identified themselves as “born again,” my mother was unapologetically outspoken about it. She had never really fit in at Christ Church, as her brand of faith tended to make everyone a little uncomfortable. While the rest of the congregation went to church each week and attended the occasional Bible study or prayer meeting, my mother rarely went more than ten minutes without mentioning Jesus. It wasn’t just about tradition or community for her; Christianity was the lens through which she viewed everything. And Jesus was as real to her as I was.