Where Hope Begins by Catherine West (11)

“I gave in, and admitted that God was God.”

—C.S. LEWIS

We’re all mad here.”

I sip coffee and stare at the plaque on the wall of the kitchen, a Christmas present from Kevin to my mother years ago. I find the Alice quote rather appropriate this morning.

It’s still early and the house is silent. I barely slept; my thoughts raced all night long, ping-ponging between anger and sorrow and stupefaction. As I ponder what to do with Kevin’s questions, I catch a glimpse of the amaryllis on the windowsill above the sink. I rub sleep from my eyes and look again. The vibrant red flower, in proud full bloom yesterday, has withered into drooping brown, about to fall off its shriveled stem.

How did that happen? I know they usually last for weeks. I stick my fingers in the dirt, but it’s not too wet or too dry. I should check the others.

The three white pots are lined up along the red-checkered table runner on the dining room table where we enjoyed our feast last night. These flowers are also dead, the green leaves and stems shriveled.

I ignore the urge to blog, finish my coffee, force down half a bagel, then bundle up, pull on my boots, and trudge through the snow toward the greenhouse.

The old door creaks in welcome as I push it open and step inside. Clarice is already there, huddled under her brown fur coat, examining the other pots we put the amaryllis bulbs into a few weeks ago.

Hers are dead too.

“What’s wrong with them? Why did they die?” I don’t even bother to say good morning. Clarice sighs and puts down the one she’s holding. She moves along the newly erected shelf and touches each sickly plant in turn.

“Yours also, Savannah?”

“Dead. All of them.” I grab a broom that sits in the corner, wrap my gloved hands around the wooden handle, and start to sweep. I smack at fallen leaves and leftover debris in furious motion, pushing the deadness away into corners, scanning the room for any signs of life.

We’ve planted bulbs and seedlings and created space for flowers and plants that we’ll get going in warmer weather. Somehow my mind has convinced me I’ll still be here. Maysie has an area mapped out for hydroponics. Apparently she’s been learning about the practice and wants to try it out. “Do you think they had a bug or something?”

“I don’t know.” Clarice stands in front of what I believe to be a rosebush. She pulls a new green branch gently toward her, inspects it, then turns to me and smiles in that way that is both heartwarming and disturbing. “Did you talk with Kevin last night?”

“We talked.” I kick at some stray gravel, study the newly repaired windows, and watch a flock of birds heading over the pines on the other side of the garden. “I’m sorry for that. The tension. Dinner was pretty awful. It wasn’t how I’d planned Christmas this year.”

“Oh, my dear.” She laughs with the raspy good-natured sound I’ve grown used to. “Think nothing of it. At my age, a little drama is most welcome.”

“At least I didn’t throw anything at him.”

“I suspect you wanted to.” She moves to the other side of the shelves and starts stacking new pots. “Didn’t you?”

At the far side of the greenhouse, there’s a cherry tree. At least that’s what Clarice tells me it is. The light-beige trunk is mottled and quite thick. She figures it’s about twenty years old. Thin branches stretch long fingers toward the light. If I look closely, with enough faith to believe there will be blossoms in the spring, sometimes I see green shoots on the branches.

I don’t understand the way things work in here, but I’ve come to accept it.

We’ve talked many times by now, Clarice and I. She knows all my stories. Some days I wonder if she knew them before I got here. “Kevin told me he ended things with Alison.”

“I see.” She starts to whistle a haunting tune that is somehow familiar. Somewhere in the depths of my memory, I know that song. “And how do you feel about that?”

We turn to look at each other at the same time. Her steady eyes burn into me, and I clasp my hands behind my back, feeling very much like a child about to be reprimanded.

“It’s too late.” The words that kept me awake all night spill in welcome release.

“Too late?” Clarice’s size 5 brown boots crunch over new white gravel as she comes toward me. She takes my hands and stares up at me, searching my face for God only knows what. The truth, perhaps. Truth I can’t yet face. “Do you really believe that?”

My heart beats fast and it’s difficult to catch a breath. Difficult to form words that might convey the vast depths of emotion I’m wrestling. “Sometimes.” The whispered word bounces off frosted glass and floats back toward me. “I thought I was ready to move on. Move past all this.”

Clarice tips her head, folds her arms against her thin frame, and takes one step back. “With Brock.”

Cords of guilt tighten their hold again. “He told you?”

“Not in so many words.” She smiles and shakes her head. I think there’s a hint of sadness in her eyes. “I’ve lived a lot of years, Savannah. I see things. And as much as I adore my nephew . . .” Her chest rises and falls and she looks away for a moment. “He is not yours. You have no claim on him. To think you might . . . is neither fair to him or to you. Or to Kevin.”

“Kevin left me! He’s been sleeping with another woman.” Anger surges and reminds me my heart still hurts. Still bleeds and pulses with voracious wounds that have not healed. Wounds that may have no intention of healing.

“Yes, he left you, Savannah. But it sounds to me like he’s starting to regret his transgressions. And perhaps trying to make amends.” She moves around me and runs a finger along the blotchy branch of the cherry tree. “May I ask you something?”

I almost laugh but sniff instead and shrug. “You will anyway.”

“Well, that’s true.” She sets that knowing smile on me again. “Last night, when you and Kevin talked, did you show your husband grace, Savannah?”

“Grace?”

Her look says she doesn’t need to explain what she means. She’s right.

Did I?

Of course I didn’t.

I was too angry.

Too hurt, too blindsided, and too eager to strike back.

Grace is no longer part of my vocabulary when it comes to Kevin.

“You don’t have to answer. Just think about it.” She coughs, the rattle in her chest alarming.

“Are you all right, Clarice?”

“Of course. Just a little bug I caught from Maysie.” Her smile returns, but she moves away from me. “I’m going in. Come inside for some tea if you like. And I believe Hope may be ready to go home with you this week. If you still want her.”

“Oh yes.” That I do know. I want that bundle of fur more than anything. When she sets her deep golden eyes on me, I don’t feel so sad. So vulnerable. I feel like I might actually get through this overwhelming season of my life. Brock was right. I did choose well.

Once Clarice disappears, I slide down, sit on the cold ground with my back against the cherry tree, and put my head in my hands. “Okay, I give up. Help me out here, God, because I don’t know what to do.”

I haven’t voiced my thoughts, prayers, out loud in a long time. Not really. It’s something I used to do a lot, to help me process. Back when my faith was stronger, I believed I’d get answers. Some, Brock perhaps, would write the words. I speak them. And sometimes I yell.

The heart-wrenching, aching, guttural groans that escape between fits and starts bring tears of sorrow and anger and, finally, a strange sense of joy. Even though I’m not altogether convinced I have any sort of solution, I feel it might be possible to release some of the bitterness I’ve been holding on to.

As I push up, my body stiff and sore and cold, a flash of pink catches my eye. I move closer to the tree, shake my head in wonder as a smile splits my face. There, on the lowest branch, sits one perfect pink bud, open and infusing the air with scent. I lean over, inhale, and stay in the moment. In five minutes it may not be there, but for now, inexplicably, it is. And I am simply thankful for the gift.

The following afternoon the house is quiet. Dad is snoring in front of the television, Hugh and Peg have taken the kids tobogganing, Zoe and Adam have gone to lunch with Kevin, and I’m puttering around in the kitchen. Paul and I talked for hours last night. I know he was tired when they arrived. Janice and the girls went upstairs shortly after supper, but my brother and I sat in the deserted dining room, drinking coffee and catching up. And I told him everything.

Paul challenged me to search my heart. To seek wisdom and truth, not to rush headlong into a situation I might soon have no control over. I teased that he sounded just like Clarice. He laughed at that and said he hoped to meet her while he was here. I think he’d like to meet Brock as well, but I’m not sure I want him to.

“Anything I can give you a hand with?” Janice walks through the kitchen running a finger across the counter. She immediately grabs a cloth and wipes it down.

“Just putting a few dishes away.” I try to smile but it’s difficult. My sister-in-law and I have never gotten along.

“You’re looking quite well, Savannah. Have you lost weight?” She reaches for a plate to dry. As usual, she’s dressed perfectly. Today she’s wearing crisp beige trousers with a striped sweater, her blond hair pulled back in a neat bun at the nape of her neck. And she is as slender as the day she married my brother. Janice is a few years older than me but I swear she looks younger. She homeschools their three girls, runs the women’s ministry at their church, and does a million other things I could never begin to wrap my brain around, all with seemingly very little effort. She is the perfect pastor’s wife.

I glance down at my plaid shirt, untucked over faded jeans. I am neither svelte nor stylish, and I’m not bringing sexy back anytime soon, but I have managed to shed a few unwanted pounds. “I’ve started working out a bit. Of course the holidays . . .”

“Yes, well. You look good. Considering.”

“Life goes on, Janice.” I search the room for something else to wash, relieved when I spy a forgotten frying pan on the stove. I grab it and plunge it into the sudsy water.

“I was surprised to see Kevin up here,” she starts up again, apparently determined to break through our usual stilted conversation. “That’s good, don’t you think?” She begins rearranging my mother’s glassware, putting them in order of size. I grin, thinking of the battle that will ensue later, once Mom discovers Janice has been meddling with her stuff.

“Good for the kids, I suppose. How’s the weather in Oregon this winter?” A lame switch of topic, but I’m desperate to get her to move on.

“Dreary. You know, Savannah . . .” She closes the cupboard and turns to me, her blue eyes giving the impression that she might be on the verge of tears. “Despite what Kevin has done, it’s your duty to take him back. Surely you know that.”

“My duty?” I back up against the counter and twist a dry dishcloth a little too tightly.

“You know what I mean. God hates divorce. The Bible says—”

“I know what the Bible says, Janice.” I put up a hand and draw a deep breath. “Don’t stand there and throw that at me. You have absolutely no idea what this has been like. You don’t know how I feel or what I think or even what I pray for. The current state and future of my marriage is, quite frankly, none of your business.”

“Savannah.” She wears a pained look I’m tempted to slap off her face. “I was only trying to point out that—”

“You were judging me, Janice. And you have no right.”

Her lips pinch together as if I’ve mortally wounded her. “I wouldn’t say judging. That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

“Sounds spot-on to me.”

Kevin strolls into the kitchen, leather jacket open, his cheeks blistering from the cold. I know he’s heard most of the conversation by the anger simmering in his eyes.

Janice backs up a little, her flawless face gaining some color. “Kevin. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Clearly.” He shoots me a cautious glance. “You okay?”

“Fine.” I think I might actually be smiling. “I’m perfectly capable of defending myself.”

“So I heard.” I think he might be smiling, too, but Janice is still in the room so I look away.

“Well, I guess we’re all done here.” Janice attempts to scoot past him to the door but Kevin blocks her path.

“No, I don’t think we are done, Janice.” He clears his throat and looms over her. He can be quite intimidating when he wants to be. “I’m well aware of your opinion of me, but leave Savannah out of it. This isn’t her fault. If you must unleash your holy wrath on somebody, I’m right here. I’m more than happy to throw it back in your face and tell you exactly what to do with it.”

“I . . .” Janice just stands there gaping.

But Kevin isn’t finished.

“You know, the problem with you perfect people is that you actually believe the things you say are justified. You force your opinions on others and sleep soundly at night, secure in your small little minds that you’ve done right. And you don’t think twice about calling someone out when you think they’ve gone astray, but you don’t do it to help them, even though you say you do. You do it because it makes you feel better about yourself. Maybe it’s a way to cover up your own shortcomings. You believe you have some divinely inspired, indisputable right to cast judgment, and you wield it like a weapon, never thinking you might be doing more harm than good. Well, let me tell you something, lady, you don’t have that right.”

He pauses, pushes his fingers through his hair, and glares at her.

The kitchen is supremely silent. The ticking of the clock on the wall is almost too loud. I don’t hear the television anymore. Since Kevin’s here, I assume the kids are back. I imagine the entire family huddled in the living room, holding their breath.

My chest is so tight I’m ready to scream. The urge to grab my sister-in-law and push her out of the room before she does more damage is overwhelming. I study Kevin’s face, his tight jaw, hardened features, and tired eyes. He’s holding back. Actually showing great restraint in his silence. He’s not overly confrontational by nature, but when it comes to defending his family . . . oh, can he bring it . . .

The enormity of it, what he’s just done, standing up to Janice like that, defending me, floods through me, and it’s all I can do not to crumple to the ground and weep.

But Janice doesn’t back down easily. She’s rooted to the spot, staring at him like he’s the scum of the earth. “You have truly lost your way.”

Kevin draws a long breath, then lets it out slowly. “You’re right, Janice. I have lost my way. What I did was wrong. Abhorrent. But you know, the faith I hold on to, the God I still believe in, who I believe somehow still loves me, he’s all about forgiveness, not judgment. And I believe those who follow him are asked to extend grace and mercy. Even toward someone as vile as me. Shocking, isn’t it?”

Janice stalks past him and disappears. It’s only once she’s gone and I’m breathing normally again that I realize I’m trembling. I meet Kevin’s eyes and somehow manage a smile.

“Well, crap. I never did like that woman.” He slides a hand over the lower half of his face and gives a low groan. “But maybe I shouldn’t have said all that.”

Unspoken questions bounce between us like live wire. I can’t pick them up because I’m too afraid of the shock. So I cross my arms and nod. “You said what needed to be said. What I was thinking. And you probably said it better than I would have.”

“I think I’d like a drink.” He takes a few steps toward the refrigerator, then stops midway, looks my way with a wary glance. “You mind?”

“Whatever you want. And make mine a double.”

He grins and some of the tension etched across his forehead disappears. “Shall I ask Janice if she wants a beer?”

“Don’t you dare.” Laughter creeps up and spills from me. Next thing I know, he’s taken off his jacket and we’re sitting at the kitchen table drinking beer at three in the afternoon. Not really talking, but that’s okay. I think he’s said enough today.