“Troy, try to eat. You don’t want to be in here longer than you have to, right?”
“Yeah, you’re right about that. I’ve already wasted too much valuable time.”
“I don’t think getting well classifies as wasting time, Troy.”
His voice is weak. “Pam, you don’t know how far behind this little stint is putting me. I’ve got tracks to complete for Aria’s debut, and I’ve got other artists waiting for music.”
“They can wait until you recover,” I said, getting angrier by the moment.
“Then there’s the tour to worry about.”
“You can’t seriously still be thinking about a tour in your condition.”
Troy sighs. “Pam, I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to let those kids down.”
“Look, Troy. A few days ago we didn’t know if you were going to live or die. Now you’re talking about going on the road in four months. You’ve lost your mind.”
“Pam . . .”
I respond angrily, but in a controlled tone. “And I guess we’re just going to ignore your little substance abuse problem, huh? We’re not even going to talk about that!”
“Pam, I had too much to drink that night. I admit that, but I’m not an alcoholic.”
“Seems to me you been having too much to drink too many nights.”
Troy silently continues to pick at his food. I’m tired of constantly reminding Troy of his reckless behavior. I’m hoping this accident causes him to recognize that he’s hurting himself and our family.
“Pam . . . you don’t understand the music industry. You have to play the game. I drink with them because it’s good for business.”
“And you smoke weed for that same reason?”
“I don’t smoke weed,” he says. “I haven’t lied to you. It’s around, I know—the kids use it.”
I don’t know whether Troy’s lying or not. Either way, he still hasn’t admitted to having a problem with alcohol.
“Look, Pam,” Troy continues, “I don’t need you to be my conscience. I know that I cannot handle my liquor and I almost killed myself because of it. Do you think I take that lightly?”
“I hope not.”
“But just because I intend to lay off the alcohol doesn’t mean that I’m exiting the music business. I can’t stop now.”
“Why can’t you? We have enough money! We have more money than most people will ever make in their lives!”
“That’s not good enough for me, Pam. I want to have a legacy. I want to be able to employ my entire family if need be. You just don’t have enough vision, but please don’t try to hold me back. I’m doing this for us.”
I sigh wearily. “Troy, don’t worry about that right now. Get some rest.”
I get up and walk out of the room. Partly because I need some fresh air and partly because Troy can’t follow me. As I walk down the narrow hospital corridor, I notice the wall artwork. It’s not the least bit calming. I need to be looking at some tranquil meadows or serene beaches. Instead I see huge modern contraptions that, in my opinion, don’t even qualify as art.
But what do I know about art or artists? It’s funny, I’m married to an artist, and I don’t truly grasp how important all this mess is to him. It seems like an obsession. I guess that technically, me being a writer and all, I’m an artist too. But my passion doesn’t get in the way of common sense!
How can Troy not see how this is hurting our family? Our daughters hardly ever see him, and when they do, he’s preoccupied with something. They don’t even expect to spend any time with him anymore. Neither do I.
I drift into the main waiting area and go over to the soft drink machine. Of course, all the lights are on for every one of my selections. I plop down on one of the worn-out couches and crack open the Mr. PiBB. After one sip I’m convinced that this tastes nothing like Dr Pepper, and anyone who would compare the two is an idiot.
I’m glad that Yvonne came and sat with me yesterday. Anytime she shares her problems with me, it immediately puts my stuff in perspective. Her prayers are soothing as well.
She mentioned something about finding herself an apartment. That’s the smartest thing I’ve heard her say since all of this mess came out. I know she needs money, but she’ll never ask. I’ll have to remind myself to write her a check.
I finish off the too-sweet beverage and pull my notepad and pen out of my purse. Again, the words flow from the pen to the page, as if I’m not even writing. My emotions are guiding my words onto the page. I’m already half finished with the novel, and I haven’t touched a word processor or a computer. Writing in longhand seems to be unlocking some hidden talent and ability.
My story is about a man like my husband. He has a successful music career with all the money and trappings, but he doesn’t have God in his life. In my story, though, I get to choose his path, and it’s not left up to pride and ambition. In my version of Troy’s life he accepts Christ and uses his talents to create songs that praise God.
It could happen. This novel may even be prophetic. All I know is that I can’t stop writing and I can’t help believing. Troy must not know who he’s dealing with. He’s got a wife that was spoon-fed on faith since birth. And I am not ashamed.
Yvonne
I
woke up this morning feeling brand-new. It’s the first time in weeks that I’ve been able to get out of bed without something hurting. Could that mean that it’s finally time for me to start taking my life back? I think that’s it.
If I don’t find a job soon, I’m going to be up in Pastor’s office asking for money to pay my utility bills. I always talked about folk for begging from the church. How judgmental of me! It would probably be a fair turn of events for the begging to be coming from me. Luke still hasn’t taken any money out of our accounts, but he hasn’t made any deposits either. Pam gave me a check for two thousand dollars. I didn’t want to accept it, but she insisted, and I sure need it.
I’ve spent the entire day packing my necessities. A sister in the church offered to rent me her finished third floor for only one hundred fifty a month. I know the Lord is able, because I didn’t even tell anyone that I was looking. I must admit that it’s a little bit humiliating, though. Luke and I own a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar home, and I’m about to move into somebody’s attic. I just try not to think about it because the whole idea is depressing.
It crossed my mind to find a means to actually continue living in my house. I’ve been here for fifteen years, and I know it like I know my own body. But Luke’s essence is on everything I touch here. Every piece of furniture, every appliance and even the paintings on the wall are screaming with reminders of Luke. If I’m going to survive this ordeal, I need to purge myself of the man.
So far, I’ve got packed all of my good church suits and hats and a small collection of spring and summer clothing. The weather finally decided to break, and the warm temperatures are here to stay for a while. I guess that after the divorce is final, I’ll be able to come back and get the rest of this stuff. I’ve got a good mind to give most of it to charity or to somebody at New Faith that can use it. Today I’ve seen blouses and skirts that haven’t been worn in years.
I’m reaching on the top shelf of the closet to see if there are any empty hatboxes that I can use for my toiletries when my hand strikes something that feels like a handle. It’s just a little groove in the shelf, but it’s noticeable when I run my hand over it. I pull a chair up to the closet so that I can see the shelf, and sure enough, there is a little, barely noticeable handle. I give it a good pull, and surprisingly it opens quite easily to what seems to be a secret compartment. Resting at the bottom of the shallow hole is a wooden box that I’m sure I’ve never seen.
Somehow I manage to bring the box down from the shelf. It’s heavier than it looks, and it has a little lock on its side. I feel like I’ve found a buried treasure. The box is beautifully carved oak. It looks worn at the hinges, but other than that, it’s been wonderfully preserved. I wonder if it was here before Luke and I bought the house.
For a brief moment I consider not opening the box. But my curiosity dashes that thought almost as quickly as it appeared. I look around downstairs to find something to break the lock, and the best I can do is a hammer and a butter knife.
With one swift pound the rusty lock falls to pieces. I eagerly open the box, and I’m almost disappointed to see that it’s only letters and photographs. Someone’s keepsakes. I flip through the pictures one by one. Most of them are of a pretty little brown-skinned girl. Toward the end there are pictures of the same girl, obviously grown up to be a teenager, standing next to my husband.
I’m shaking my head in disbelief, but the evidence is all here. Luke has another child. A grown daughter. I finger through the letters, and they all start, “Dear Daddy.” There are also some canceled checks to an account that bears only Luke’s name. The checks are from a bank in Columbus, and they’re in varying amounts, with the largest one being twenty-three thousand dollars. The memo line on this check says, “First year college tuition.”
I hardly feel the tears burning my face as I read the letters, telling Luke of field trips and birthday parties. This girl, named Amanda, seems to know Luke well, and there is never any mention of me—only her mother, Angela.
Just as I feel as if I’m about to explode, I realize that Luke is standing in the doorway of my bedroom. Fear quickly descends upon my body, and I start to tremble. I said that I would be prepared for Luke, but all I can do is grip the hammer in my shaking hand.
“Why are you sitting there looking all afraid?” he says softly. “I’m not going to do anything to you. No matter what you believe, I do still love you, Yvonne.”
“Y-you don’t love me.”
“Now, that’s where you’re wrong.”
Luke walks up to me and looks down into my lap. He sighs when he sees the pictures and letters spread across the floor. In a swift motion he swoops down and collects the piles and snatches the box from my lap.
“I knew you would find out about Amanda one day.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“Yeah, right. That’s a real easy thing to do. Amanda’s mother was a very discreet woman. I knew she’d never tell. Besides, I didn’t want to hurt you.”
Luke is pacing the room holding the box. I have no idea what he is going to do. Why didn’t I change the locks?
Lord, help me.
I grip the hammer as tightly as I can and will myself to stop trembling.
The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?
I keep reciting the verse in my mind until my nerves calm. I feel my grip loosening on the hammer, and Luke no longer seems so menacing.
“Luke, why are you here?”
“I’m turning myself in today. My lawyer says that if I plead guilty the prosecutor will reduce the charge from felonious assault to domestic violence.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Yes. Yvonne, I’m going to ask you to do something. It might help me with the judge.”
“What’s that?”
“Please, Yvonne. Come to my sentencing and speak on my behalf. Just say that we’ve been married twenty years and that I’ve never hurt you like that before.”
I’m silent. Why does Luke think that I would want to do anything to help him? Any sane woman would want to see him up under the jail.
“I’ll come to the sentencing. I don’t know if I’ll be able to speak for you. I won’t lie for you.”
“Fine, Vonne,” he says softly. “I know that these words probably won’t mean much, but I am sorry for what I did to you. It hurts me to even look at you.”
“I don’t know what to say, Luke.”
“Can you consider not divorcing me?”
“I’ll pray about it. That’s all I can promise.”
When Luke sees that I have nothing further to say to him, he turns to leave. Why am I sitting here feeling sorry for him? Oh no! I will not feel guilty for wanting this man out of my life. The Lord said that he would never put more on me than I can bear, and right now . . . I can’t bear the sight of Luke.
Taylor
T
oday, for the first time ever, I took Joshua to Chuck E. Cheese. It’s not like I’ve never given him pizza, but I’ve tried to steer clear of family spots. They always seem to lead to questions that I don’t like to answer, because Joshua is not stupid. But today I’ve braced myself for my son’s inquisitive mind. I’ve prayed for wisdom in how to answer him. I can’t avoid him forever, and it looks like he’s going to be fatherless for a while.
I watched Joshua’s reaction to a little girl and her father playing on one of the restaurant’s many oversize toys. He’s still young, so his concept of a father is not complete. It’s amazing how he can tell that something is not right with our household. It’s not necessarily true that you don’t miss something you’ve never had.
Joshua asked me, “Is that her daddy?”
“Yes.”
“Mommy . . . do I have a daddy?”
“Well, Joshua, everyone has a daddy.”
“Will he take me fishing like Little Bill’s dad?”
“Who is Little Bill?”
“Mommy, he comes on TV. Right after Elmo.”
“Oh! Well, I don’t know if your daddy will take you fishing, but how about if I take you?”
He laughed. “Mommies don’t go fishing.”
“Who said? I love to fish!”
Joshua laughed for a little while longer, and then his face got serious again. I could almost see the wheels turning in his brain.
“Well, doesn’t my daddy like me?”
“When your daddy gets to meet you, he’s going to love you!”
“When can I meet him? Can it be today?”
“Not today, Joshua.”
“But when?”
“I don’t know.”
I can tell that Joshua is not satisfied with my response, but he doesn’t say any more.
I had a setback in my new, joyful, single-and-saved walk with the Lord. I had a conversation with my mother, and she asked me when I was going to get myself a man. Of course, I told her that I was focusing on the Lord and I don’t need a man in my life right now. And she, being her true carnal self, had the nerve to ask me if I’m gay or something.
I got angry and went home, but that one little comment got me to longing for a warm body in my bed. That’s how easy the devil can steal my focus. I need to hurry up and figure out what God has for me to do.