Beyond Shattered Dreams: (Sequel to Just Below the Surface), page 5
Then he turns and walks out of the kitchen.
And I burst into tears.
Chapter 7
It’s been over a week since I saw Prescott. The ache in my chest is still picking at me; it won’t let up. I usually love Mondays. I know, it’s weird. But I see it as a new beginning, a fresh start, a freedom from the negatives of the week before.
But this Monday is different. This week stretches before me like an endless river of sorrow. I truly don’t know which hurts worse—not hearing from Prescott and living with the unknown fear or living with the knowledge that he wants nothing to do with me.
My thoughts are interrupted when I feel Mabel’s hand gently touch my arm. “Are you alright?”
I notice that I’m leaning on the counter near the register with what I’m guessing is a spaced-out look on my face. I sigh. “Not really,” I say, honestly.
“Do you need to take some time off?”
I shake my head. “No. That would be worse, I think. I need to keep busy.”
Mabel nods in understanding and says, “Okay. But just say the word if you change your mind.”
I give her a quick squeeze and a peck on the cheek. “Thanks, Mae. But I think I’m going to get started reupholstering those dining chairs we got in last week.”
She pats my arm in a motherly fashion and smiles. “I saw the fabric you picked out. Just beautiful.”
I force a smile. “Thanks.”
I head back to the waiting room and breathe in deep, trying to gather my thoughts. Grabbing the bundle of summery floral fabric, I kneel next to the first of four chairs and begin to go over the last week in my mind.
After leaving Penny’s that Sunday, I cried nearly all the way home. I cried in gratefulness that Prescott was alive and home. I cried in grief for the loss of his arm. And I cried in anguish because of his harsh, surprising words and actions toward me.
Some fairy tale life I was leading.
I called Billie later that night. I didn’t give her any warning before the whole story came spilling out. She was shocked, of course, but still tried to support me. We cried together and prayed together. After ending the call with her, I felt somewhat better. I guess it was just that it had really begun to sink in.
As I flip the chair over to get a good look at the bottom of the seat, Mabel pops her head in the doorway.
“Hey, you have a visitor.”
I glance up. The smile on Mabel’s face lets me know I’ll want to see this person.
Who is it? I mouth.
Mabel just continues to smile and disappears from the doorway.
A half-second later, Nicole walks into the waiting room.
I stand and rush to hug her. “Nicole!” I step back, smiling. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
She gives me a sheepish look. “How are you doing?” I can tell she still blames herself for what happened last Sunday.
I place my hand reassuringly on her arm and smile. “I’m not going to lie—it still hurts. But it’s better than not knowing.”
She smiles and I see her relax. “Oh,” she says. “I found this after you left.”
I look at the item in her hand. It’s the little wooden carving I had brought for them.
“Oh my gosh,” I say. “I forgot all about that!”
Nicole chuckles. “I figured. I found it in the living room where you sat. You must’ve set it down and not realized it.”
“Yeah, it was a pretty…” I search for the word. “Weird day,” I finish.
She nods. “Yeah.”
“Well, do you like it?” I ask, trying to brighten my face.
“Oh, I love it! And Mom, too.” She looks down, studying it for a moment and then says, “Mom put it on the mantel above the fireplace. I caught Prescott staring at it yesterday for the longest time.”
“He was?” I ask softly.
She nods again. “Mom said she’s seen him looking at it, too.”
“Why?” I blurt out. “Why is he acting this way toward me?”
Nicole’s eyes well up with tears. “I think… I mean…”
“What? Just tell me, please.”
She swallows hard. “I think he’s ashamed.”
I step back. “What in the world? Ashamed of what? That he’s a wounded soldier, a war hero?” I stare at her in disbelief.
“I really shouldn’t…” She shakes her head. “You just need to talk to him.”
Now I’m irritated, and my words come out louder than I intend. “He won’t talk to me, Nicole, and you know that!”
Tears are now spilling freely down Nicole’s cheeks. “Just try,” she pleads. “Keep trying.”
I feel my own eyes burning, and I realize that I shouldn’t be taking my frustrations out on Nicole. I step closer and pull her into a hug.
“I will,” I whisper. “I’ll try.”
She hugs me fiercely and cries a moment longer. Finally, pulling away, she says, “And keep praying. He’s so mad at God right now.”
I wipe my face with my sleeve and nod. “Of course.”
After Nicole leaves, I start working on the chairs. But this time, I don’t relive the horrible conversation I had with Prescott and feel sorry for myself. This time, I pray.
* * *
Today, Ben is taking me to lunch. I’m glad. It’s been a while since we’ve gotten to talk. I know he knows a little of what’s been happening, probably from his aunt and uncle, but he hasn’t heard about it from me. I want to update him.
We head out around 12:30, deciding to go back to Basil’s where we had those delicious subs. On the way, we chat about store stuff—Mrs. Downing and her single sons in particular—and keep the conversation light.
Laughing, I step out of the car. “She just has such high hopes,” I say, shutting the passenger door.
“And she seems to just tune out reality,” Ben says, making me laugh harder.
He holds the door open for me and we step inside to order our food. Shaking my head, I say, “She just won’t accept that I’m already—” I cut myself off, a lump forming in my throat. “I don’t know,” I finish lamely.
Ben smiles sympathetically. “Let’s get our food. Then we’ll talk.”
I nod, swallowing the lump.
We order and find a table in what looks to be a quiet corner. After sitting down and situating ourselves, Ben starts.
“Alright, Blondie,” he teases. I know he’s trying to keep the mood light. “Let’s hear what’s going on in that head of yours.”
I swallow the first bite of my Italian sub and wipe my mouth with my napkin. “What’s not going through my head would be the easier answer,” I say. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this confused over a situation in my life.”
I go on to tell him everything—from pulling into Penny’s driveway that Sunday to crying all the way home. I end with Nicole coming into the store to see me today.
He blows out a breath. “Wow.”
“Yeah,” I say, chuckling. “So, that’s where I am. What I’m thinking.” I shrug. “Can you make sense of his behavior?”
Ben shakes his head. “I couldn’t say. I don’t know the guy.”
“If you could’ve read the letters—he seemed like he couldn’t wait to get home to me. I believe… or believed…” I hesitate.
“He loved you,” Ben finishes.
I nod, feeling foolish. “My mom always used to tell me that real life isn’t a fairy tale from my books. I just always imagined it could be.” I pick at the bread of my sub. “This is more like a nightmare.”
“Are you going to keep reaching out to him?”
“I want to, yes. But I’m completely lost on the when, what, and how.”
“A letter?” Ben suggests.
I shake my head. “You should have seen him. I guarantee it’ll go right into the fireplace as soon as he receives it.”
Ben crumples up his now empty sub wrapper and leans back in the booth, a thoughtful look on his face.
My phone chimes and I glance at it and see a text from Felicia. Call me when you can.
I close my eyes and rub my temples.
“Everything okay?”
I sigh. “It’s my foster care worker. There’s probably more paperwork I need to fill out or something.”
“You’ve got a lot going on, huh?”
“Ya think?” I tease.
Ben laughs and stands, gathering up the trash from our table. “You taking that with you?”
I glance at my half-eaten sub. “Yeah.” I wrap it back up in its paper.
We walk out of Basil’s and as we’re getting into the car, Ben says, “I know things will work themselves out. You can talk to me anytime, you know.”
I nod. “I know, thanks.” I genuinely appreciate his thoughtfulness and friendship.
On the drive back, it’s quiet. I don’t want things to work themselves out, God, I pray silently as I stare out the window. I need you to work them out. I just need you right now.
Suddenly, I’m so thankful that God isn’t afraid of our messes.
* * *
Felicia sounds eager to speak with me when I call her after work.
“Anne! How’s your day going?”
“It’s going,” I laugh. I don’t feel like going into everything with her just now.
“Well, I hope I can brighten it just a little for you. It’s official. You’re licensed for foster care.”
I squeal. “Are you serious? I thought you were going to tell me there was another hoop for me to jump through!”
She laughs. “I’m so serious. So be ready when the call comes. Do you have any questions for me?”
I spend the next forty-five minutes chatting with her about the process, the what ifs, and the possibilities. It’s more excitement than nerves, but I just can’t stop talking.
Before we end the call, I say, “I really needed this good news today, Felicia. Thanks.”
“It was my pleasure,” she says. “And God always knows exactly what we need, when we need it.”
“He does.” I smile.
After we end the call, I pick up my pink leather-bound Bible and sit in my chair. For a moment, I allow myself to dream about a little girl or boy sitting on my lap while I read the story of David and Goliath. I smile as I remember how I used to act out that story, too.
I flip my Bible open to Romans and read: “And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them.”
I’m still smiling as I think about how when everything looks like it’s falling apart, God always has a way of letting you know He’s still working things out for the good. His good.
Lord, I’m sorry for not always trusting You. Help me to never forget that Your ways are the best ways and Your timing is the best timing.
When I finally fall into bed, sleep meets me alongside of a peace that I haven’t felt in a very long time.
Chapter 8
I’m going to do it. I’m going to visit Prescott today. If he won’t talk, he’s going to listen.
I didn’t go through over a half a year of torture to give up now. All those letters, all the prayers, all the worrying. He will hear me out.
I understand that he’s been through a lot. I want to hear the story. I want to know what he’s thinking, how he feels, what he sees for the future. I’m sick to death of being left in the dark.
I spoke with Al and Mabel and they understood that I need some time off. They gave me a week, which I realize is much needed. I’ll get to spend some time with my mom and Billie as well, and I’m glad for that.
But first, Prescott.
After eating a bowl of oatmeal making some iced tea to go, I get in my red Cruze and start it, letting the air conditioning blow on my face.
Then I pray. I’m going to need God to be with me every moment of this day, and I let Him know that. I pray for Prescott. I pray for his family. I pray for peace and strength.
Then, I drive.
* * *
I pull into Penny and Will’s driveway about 11:15. My nerves attack me in protest, but I’m determined to get out of this car and knock on the door. It takes me a few minutes, but finally I’m standing on the porch.
Penny answers quickly and waves me in. After hugging me she pulls me into the kitchen for privacy.
“He’s doing okay today,” she says, her eyes hopeful. “He actually shaved.”
We both laugh, but I know how huge that is.
“He’s in the den watching The Lord of the Rings trilogy. He’s on the second movie and has only stopped for a bathroom and snack break.”
I nod. “Pray for me.”
She squeezes my hand. “I have been.”
Suddenly I’m super nervous, my thoughts running in all directions. I simultaneously think that this was a huge mistake and the best idea ever. Swallowing my fear, I make my way back to the den, wiping my sweating palms on my jean shorts. I adjust my ponytail and take a deep breath.
I walk in and see that Prescott is sitting on the couch, facing the TV with his back to me.
He’s at the part where King Théoden is under Saruman’s spell by the influence of Wormtongue.
I step around the couch so he can see me, shake my head sadly, and say, “Poor Théoden. He looks like he’s got a really bad case of the suds.”
Prescott looks up at me, and I can tell he’s surprised to see me.
“Oh, come on now,” I say, taking a seat next to him on the couch when he says nothing. “That was funny.”
He grabs the remote and turns the volume down a little, then turns to me.
“What are you doing here, Anne?”
Okay. Progress. He doesn’t look happy, but the cruel anger is gone from his eyes. He just looks distressed. Maybe even a little annoyed.
I try to keep things lighthearted. “I never pass up a chance to watch Lord of the Rings.”
He doesn’t laugh. He does, however, try to nonchalantly hide his left arm between himself and the side of the couch. I pretend not to notice.
“Prescott, I’m not giving up on us.” I look at him, even though he continues to stare straight ahead.
“You should.” His voice isn’t cold. It’s just… sad.
I sit for a moment, picking nonexistent lint from my shorts, unsure of what to say. He turns back toward the TV. I’m not going to let him off that easily.
Finally, I say, “I’d like to hear what happened.”
He glances over at me. “So, we’re doing this, then?”
“Yeah. We need to do this, Prescott.”
“Then will you leave?”
“If I leave, I’ll be back.”
He shakes his head. “You’re so stubborn.”
“Yep.”
“I’m not some war hero in one of your fantasies, Anne. Not even close.” He doesn’t even attempt to hide the bitterness from his voice.
“I haven’t assumed anything about you, Prescott, so don’t jump to conclusions about me.”
“Fair enough.” He adjusts himself on the couch so he’s turned toward me more than the TV. I make it a point not to look at his arm. He plunges into the story as if wanting to just get it over with. “Everything was going great. Duties day after day, training, same old stuff. While on liberty one day, a few of us decided to just drive for a while. Clear our heads and take some time for ourselves. I brought my paper so I could write…” His voice trails off.
“You were going to write to me,” I say softly, finishing for him.
He nods, then continues. “We made it about a half mile down the road when my buddy, Phil, hit a hole in the road the size of a basketball. We were cutting up and he wasn’t paying attention while he was driving.” He stops, staring in the distance as if the memories were playing before him like a movie.
I wait patiently for him to finish. I don’t move or say anything now, for fear of setting him off again and shutting him up.
I see him swallow hard and he says, “We were on a narrow road with no guardrails, and when he lost control, we went over the side. It was a small hill, but we were in an open jeep, so it felt like falling down a mountain.”
I stay perfectly still, managing to keep myself from gasping. But inside, I want to grab him and cry.
He plows on with the story. “I guess I got knocked out sometime during all of it, because I opened my eyes and found myself underneath the jeep, my hand and wrist completely crushed.”
“Oh my Lord,” I whisper, covering my mouth. “Prescott, I’m so sorry.”
Snapping out of his memories, he looks at me, cold fury in his eyes. “You’re sorry? Do you know how humiliating it is for me to be sent home because my friends and I were idiots and destroyed our lives?” He leans toward me and I instinctively lean back, away from him. “I’m no hero, Anne. Not even close. I don’t deserve you and I would never tie you to a loser for the rest of your life.” His dark brown eyes seem almost black now, rage and unsaid words looming behind them. I know he’s holding back.
I don’t know where the boldness comes from, but suddenly I stand up so I’m looking down on him, maybe to feel a little less intimidated. “So you decide, on your own, to be a complete jerk to me, hoping I’ll dump you?” I scoff, giving a sharp bark of humorless laughter. “And I get no say in this.” I point my finger at him. “You’re acting like a coward, Prescott.”
He stands, now, too. “I’m sorry we all don’t live with you in your fantasy world, Anne. The truth is ugly.”
I scoff. “Oh, really. Tell me more about my fantasy world, Prescott. Please, enlighten me. And tell me why it’s so bad to believe and hope for the best. In your fantasy world, I guess when something goes wrong, your entire existence gets put on hold, and you don’t care who it affects.”
“When something goes wrong?” He’s nearly yelling, now. “I lost an arm, Anne! And it’s not like I did it rescuing women and children or taking down the enemy. You can’t know how that feels. I’ll never be the same.” His face is twisted in anger, shame, regret.
“Oh, I see.” I cross my arms, my stance a bit like a mother calling her child out on a bogus excuse. “Prescott needs to save the day. Prescott needs validation. Prescott needs to be the big, bad, military hero!” I’m in his face now.
