Authors: Robin Brande
The Hard Faith
[1]
In answer to her question I handed
Posie the recorder. She rewound and played it back. Our voices warbled at
times as if we were underwater. My father sounded normal, reasonable. I was
the psycho.
“We can’t use it,” I said when she
had listened to my father’s parting words.
“Wait, I’m not sure.” She rewound
it, but I stopped her before she could play it again.
“Posie, face it—it didn’t work.”
Posie sighed. She clutched the recorder,
still damp from my skin, and seemed anxious to press her own good wishes inside
it. “We can’t give up.”
I shrugged as if I were taking the
whole thing well.
“Lizzie,” she ordered, “don’t be
that way. So it didn’t go great—so what? You still have the letter. And
maybe you can try again later.”
“No.”
“Come on,” she said with false
brightness, “don’t let it set you back. We’ll talk to Angela, regroup, and—”
“And what, Poz? He knew what I was
trying to do—obviously. Can’t you hear how careful he was? He’s on to me.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Look, I screwed up. I had one
shot at it and I couldn’t pull it off. Let’s just admit that.”
“We’ll take it to Angela.”
“Fine. She’ll say the same thing.”
[2]
It seems to me if you’re going to
say you trust God you have to trust him all the way. That means trusting him
when the news is filled with stories of people dying for no reason. It means
trusting him when the rapist is already inside you, or your house has already
burned to the ground, or someone you love didn’t get well no matter how hard
you prayed.
That’s the hard faith—the kind that
sets you apart either as an unrealistic lunatic or a saint of uncommon
courage. Is it better to plunge blindly ahead believing God will always do
what’s best for you, or to give up your foolish faith and take your life into
your own hands?
Maybe it was stupid, but I chose
faith. It was a faith that made my teeth chatter and my hands shake, but I
wanted to prove to myself this was real—that believing everything will always
work out for the better isn’t just something you do when things are already
good. I was going to keep going through with this, no matter what happened.
No matter how hard it got.
Angela Peligro was frank. “It isn’t
enough.”
“I know.”
“But you’re getting there.”
“Not really.”
“No, listen to this.” Angela
rewound then forwarded until she found the particular part.
“
It’ll be just me and your
brother in the house. If I was really doing all the bad things you say, I can’t
imagine you’d want that, hm?”
“Sounds like a threat to me,”
Angela said.
My enthusiasm was less than
lukewarm. It was a stretch, and we both knew it. Angela just wanted to pump
me up for a second go round.
“He knows. He’s not going to say
anything.”
“You’re guessing,” Angela answered.
“Come on, Lizzie, this is important. If you can get him to admit anything at
all . . .”
Posie, ever optimistic, ever rabid
about the topic, asked to come in. For whatever reason, Angela let her this
time. Posie lowered herself gracefully into the chair beside me and said, “Let
me try. Let me meet with him.”
Angela’s brows lifted in
skepticism. “Does he know you?”
“Not really. I mean he knows I’m
Lizzie’s friend.”
Angela sucked in some fumes and
recycled them toward the ceiling. “What would you say?”
“I’ve been thinking about it.”
“Of course you have,” I said wryly,
but I’ll admit my heart lifted just a little knowing Posie was on the case.
“I think I flatter him first—flirt
with him a little.”
I groaned.
“Just to get his guard down. I’ll
tell him you were really upset after your last meeting, and you don’t like how
it ended. You hadn’t meant for things to get ugly. What you want is for your
family to come together again, like it was before. Maybe I’ll even throw in
your mom somehow—something like you’re trying to talk her into coming back.”
Angela stubbed out her cigarette
and lit her third that I had seen. “This isn’t something to play at, Posie.
We have to be serious with it.”
“I know that. I’m dead serious. I
think he’d be suspicious of Lizzie trying to act all sweet again. I think it
makes sense that she’d send her friend to make peace.”
The hour appointment spilled into a
second hour while we practiced and debated and worked out contingencies.
I admire Posie Sherbern. You read
stories about people in the worst possible circumstances—a miner trapped under
rubble with only an inch of breathing room, the last hostage left after all the
others have been shot, someone clinging to the side of a canyon wall as a flash
flood washes everyone away—and you wonder what makes them who they are. Why do
some people understand that the worst thing is to give up too soon, while the
rest of us tell ourselves we’re only being realistic? Posie would be the one
still running down the stairs of a burning high rise while I sat crying in a
corner wailing, “We’ll never make it! We’ll never make it!”
No, I take that back. If Posie
were there she wouldn’t let me. She’d grab me by the arm and hoist me to my
feet and drag me down the stairwell shouting maniacally the whole time, “Keep
moving! Don’t you stop!”
I’ve noticed that little kids aren’t
embarrassed when they’re watching a TV show or movie to point at the hero on
the screen and say, “I’m that guy.” It seems obvious that all our make believe
is based on that, but it’s so pure to hear the words said out loud.
Sitting in that smoky stale room
with short, dark-haired Angela with her husky voice and destructive habit, and
with Posie Sherbern, lean and idealistic and so feminine in her
go-to-see-the-lawyer costume—a soft rose sweater and basic black skirt—I
slipped out of my own awkward skin and tried on each of theirs for a while.
When I was Angela I was tough and brash and said things like, “Fuck the
bastard,” and felt better for it. As Posie I took on an unshakable confidence
that good would always triumph over wickedness, and that it was my job to make
it so.
I’m that girl.
Sometimes when I replay it all,
starting from the first moment things started to go wrong that night I came
home from the prom and found out my mother was gone, I like to pretend I’m
Posie and see what I would do instead. I think about every critical moment
along the way when my choice was to act this way or that, and I imagine the
decisions Posie would have made instead. Considering everything that happened
later, I now know how different things would have been if it had been Posie
living inside my skin instead of me. But that’s how we learn, right? We have
to do our worst and then look at it and study it, and be willing to admit how
desperately we’ve screwed up.
I’m nobody but me. Sometimes that
works. Sometimes it does not.
And I could only go on as I was,
making every mistake I would make, and mopping up the blood afterward.
Games
[1]
Posie never had a chance to meet
with my father. By the time we could arrange it, he had already hired a lawyer
who knew better than to let him do it.
Samuel Greaves was a good Christian
lawyer—everybody said so. Angela told me he wore a bow tie and a bad toupee,
or maybe that was his real hair, which was just as unfortunate. He was tall
and spindly like Ichabod Crane, and he had adopted a slight twang like a
gentleman southerner, even though Angela said she looked him up and he was
actually from Iowa.
There were lawyers everywhere now.
My mother hired a divorce attorney named Toni Margress. I met her in
mid-October.
I sat across from her in her office—pale
wood, sleek metal, everything clean and orderly and in no way resembling Angela
Peligro’s office—and I looked at my mother’s lawyer—this classy blonde wearing
a pale salmon blouse and cultured pearls and a sleek navy suit—and I noticed
the easy confidence she displayed not by slouching into her chair the way
Angela did, but by sitting erect and ready for battle. And while Toni Margress
ran through the questions she thought my father’s lawyer might ask me (“Why
didn’t you call the police? Why did you wait so long to tell your mother? Do
you really expect this court to believe…”) I tried to distract myself by
wondering how many different permutations of female lawyer there might be in
the world. So far I’d met two, and only Toni Margress fit the image of women
you see on lawyer shows. Did that mean she was a better lawyer than Angela
Peligro? I had no way of knowing.
“Lizzie? Did you hear me?”
I was sweating again. I smelled
like I did that afternoon on the park bench when the digital recorder stewed
between my breasts and my body busily diverted all the moisture from my mouth
into a stream of noxious sweat rolling down my backside.
“Don’t be nervous,” Toni Margress
said. “There’s no question Greaves is going to try to intimidate you—that’s
his job—but he can’t really hurt you. The judge isn’t going to let him slap
you.” Toni smiled. “That was a joke, Lizzie. Relax.”
How could I possibly relax? I was
as tight as a spool of wire.
“Now,” she continued, “Greaves is
going to try to make you look like a liar—that’s his best case—so we have to be
prepared for that.”
“Uh huh.”
Toni Margress sat back and gazed at
me kindly. “Okay, Lizzie, I’m through asking you questions for now. Your
turn. I’m sure you must have some questions for me—this all must feel pretty
strange.”
What, lying under oath? Nah, I
do that all the time.
“Yeah.”
“So ask me. What would you like to
know?”
I sat up straighter. Time to get
serious. “So my father will be there, right? When I testify?”
“Yes.”
“Who else?”
“Greaves, me, your mother, the
judge—”
“Will my brother be there?”
“No, I wasn’t planning on it.
Usually judges don’t appreciate when we bring kids to these hearings unless
they’re going to testify.”
“Anybody else?”
“Whatever witnesses we both call.”
“Like who?”
“We haven’t exchanged witness lists
yet, but it’s usually family counselors for each side, a few character
witnesses—whatever we think we need to make our case. Considering who your
father is, I expect him to bring in church leaders to vouch for him.”
“Oh, brother. Not Pastor Mills.”
“Why?” Toni Margress asked.
“He doesn’t like me.”
“He’ll be testifying about your
father, not you. Unless there’s something specific he knows about you—”
My face felt hot. “Um, no, not
really. He just doesn’t like me.”
Toni Margress frowned. “Lizzie,
Greaves is an aggressive lawyer. He’ll try to dig up any dirt he can find on
you. I have a policy with my witnesses that I’d rather hear the bad stuff from
them first, rather than from the other side. That way we can deal with it. So
now is the time. Tell me everything Greaves is going to find out about you.”
I didn’t know what to say. So much
had happened at the end there—with Pastor Mills, with Tessa, my parents—but
would my father really bring any of that up? He was satisfied I had told the
truth, right? Why would he bother going into it again?
“Um, I just had some problems with
the pastor. He and I had a fight, and he told me not to come back to church.”
“A fight about what?”
“This promise thing he had us do.
It was really stupid. My parents were okay with me not going any more. It
wasn’t a big deal.” Lie, lie, lie.
“Lizzie—”
“I swear. It’s nothing.”
Toni Margress checked her slim gold
watch. “I have to leave for court in a few minutes. Is there anything else
you want to know?”
I wondered if I should, but in the
end decided this was my time with the lawyer, and if she wanted me to be
honest, she could do the same. “How can my mother afford you? I thought she
didn’t have any money, and obviously. . .” I swept my hand across the office,
and ended with the well-turned-out lawyer herself. “I mean, if it’s okay to
ask.”
“I can’t disclose the particulars.
Maybe you should ask her.”
“Is Charles Gray paying?”
“I really can’t say. Maybe your
mother will tell you if you ask.”
Toni Margress checked her watch one
more time and talked faster. “Now, the last thing I wanted to talk to you
about is that Judge Beacons has ordered a custody evaluation. That means an
evaluator will be calling you soon to set up an appointment.”
“What for?”
“To see what you’re like. To hear
your story. It will probably be Henrietta Parse—she’s good. She’ll interview
your parents, too, maybe some of the witnesses, and then report back to the
judge with her opinion about the whole thing. She’ll act as an independent
observer—she doesn’t work for either side. Judges like to bring people like
her in on cases like this.”
“Okay.” It was all growing more
complicated by the minute. But then I thought, what did I expect? This was no
game—it was serious stuff.
[2]
Speaking of games, I think Jason
was tired of mine.
Like how I avoided being alone with
him whenever he dropped in at Posie’s. How I dodged him in the halls. How I
always conveniently found something else to do whenever he suggested we all go
out.
“Aimes—”
“Wilder—”
Jason edged closer to me on the bed
I slept in at Posie’s. Posie had gone to the bathroom, and he wasn’t wasting any
time.
“Do you want me to fall in love
with somebody else?”
“Ha!” But my heart skipped a few
beats. “I didn’t notice you suffering. Weren’t you with Maggie Barnes last
time I saw?”
“Lies.” Jason leaned back on the
bed and tried to pull me down with him.
I wrestled his hands away. “I’m
sure she’d love to know you’re over here tonight. What excuse did you give
her?”
“I don’t need an excuse. She’s not
my girlfriend.”
“I hope for your sake that’s true,”
I said. “That girl is a skank.”
“Then you should save me from her.”
“No, thanks.” I tried to pretend I
didn’t care, but I doubt that it was working.
When Posie returned Jason sat up
and leaned against the wall. He leveled his gaze at me and said in a hardened
tone, “Let’s talk about you, Aimes.”
“Let’s not.” I continued to
pretend to do my homework, re-reading the same paragraph from my chemistry book
that I’d been trying to get past since Jason arrived.
“Like why are you living here?”
“I want to.”
“I asked her to,” Posie said.
Jason wasn’t buying it. “Your dad
finally go ape shit on some guy?” he guessed. “Pistol whip him for sending you
roses?”
“No.”
Jason tisked his tongue. “You have
far too many secrets.”
“No, I don’t.”
He pointed to my hand. “Like what’s
that ring all about? I’ve always wondered about that.”
I covered it with my other hand. “None
of your business.”
“Your boyfriend give it to you?”
“What boyfriend?” I asked.
“The one you’re obviously holding
out for.”
“Shut up.”
“Leave her alone,” Posie said.
I closed my book in exasperation. “Can
I please get my work done? I know school comes easily for the genius—”
“You should talk,” Jason said.
“—but some of us actually need to
do our homework. Stay here and bother Posie.” I gathered my books and
escaped.
Jason followed me to the living room.
He tried to sit right next to me on the couch, but I drew my legs up to create
space between us.
I glared at him. “Jason, what?”
“What the hell is going on with
you? Do you hate me now or something?”
I hoped he couldn’t see me
shaking. Why do some people have to be so direct? “Of course I don’t hate
you. But you can’t expect me to be excited about you coming over here in
between sexcapades.”
“Are you saying you want to date
me? Because all it takes is a word—”
“No! I already told you that.”
“Then what’s the problem?” he
asked. “You can’t have it both ways. You can’t tell me to go away then act
all jealous when I do.”
I groaned. He just didn’t get it.
“I don’t have time for this.”
“Fine.” He stood up and strode to
the front door. “Sorry I ever touched you, Aimes. I had no idea you’d freak
out like this.”
“I’m not—”
But the door slammed before I could
finish.
I sat there for a few minutes
trying to regain my brain. Forget it. There was no way I’d be able to
concentrate on homework anymore. I left it on the couch and returned to Posie’s
room.
She looked up from the play she was
trying to memorize, took one look at my face, and smiled in sympathy. “Complicated,
isn’t it?”
“Incredibly.” I plopped onto my
bed.
“You still love him?
“No.”
“Really?”
I laughed pathetically. “No.”