Faking Grace, page 21
“What water?”
“I … it started when your father and mother were dating.” She pulls her hands from beneath mine. “I was just being honest when I told her she wasn’t right for my son.”
I sit back. “You actually said that to her?”
Her back straightens. “I certainly did. Marched right up to her parents’ house and told her on the front porch. And what did she do? Went and told my Samuel and got him so upset that he didn’t talk to me for weeks. Next thing I knew, they were married.” Her mouth pinches. “Do you know how I found out? Edith showed up at my door with the announcement from the paper. Not even Bert could console me.” She glowers. “Of course, for some reason your grandfather liked Lily, so I can’t say he tried all that hard.”
“Did you ever apologize to Mom?”
“Humph! Did she ever apologize to me?”
There’s only one thing I can think to say and only because I read it fairly recently. “You’re the Christian, Grandma. I know that won’t make it less difficult, and there’s no guarantee she’ll accept your apology, but at least you’ll have done what you’re supposed to do.”
Grandma’s eyes flash. “Is that what your Dumb Blonde’s Guide told you?”
Caught. “Um … something like that.”
She wiggles her fingers. “Hand it over.”
“Well, it’s—”
“Under the sofa.”
How does she know where I keep it? Feeling as if caught reading an unsavory magazine, I fish out the book I claimed from the airport’s Lost and Found where Avery so kindly turned it in.
She frowns at the wide-eyed cartoon blonde on the cover, turns the book over, skims the blurb, then hands it back. “Read me the part about forgiveness.”
“But you know what the Bible says.”
“Yes, but I want to know what that book says.”
If I hadn’t decided to call in sick so I could spend the morning with Grandma before taking her to the airport, I’d beg off. “All right.” I turn to the page and begin to read.
Crazy Little Thing Called Forgiveness
You said. She said. You meant. She meant. You’re offended. She’s offended. Then—woohee!— toss a few friends into the mix, give it a good stir to make sure they know your side of the story (as she’s doing on her end, right?), and you have a recipe for unforgiveness. Get the picture? Not a nice one. In fact, as you’ve probably already discovered, unresolved conflict can be u-u-u-u-gly. So ugly that you’ll lose sleep over it, perhaps even friends or family—
I peek over the top of the book and look at Grandma.
“Don’t stop now.”
—maybe even years of your life. No, it won’t necessarily kill you (directly), but it will eat at you. However, you as a Christian, regardless of whether or not she’s one, can turn it around.
Eyes downcast, Grandma waves a hand for me to continue.
No buts! You may be the one who was wronged (or, at least, who received the first blow), but it’s time to suck up your pride and get right. How? Though offenses come in all shapes and sizes, forgiveness comes in one: Jesus. He set the example. And what an example! Psst—it might be a good time to open your Bible and take a look at Matthew 6:12; Mark 11:25; Ephesians 4:32; and Hebrews 8:12. You know what you have to do now, don’t you? If possible, seek out the other person and ask her to forgive you.
Grandma winces.
Yes, it’s gonna hurt, especially if she won’t accept your apology or ask for forgiveness in return. But God has you covered. He forgives you, and being right with Him matters above all else. Slate wiped clean (until the next time—and there will be a next time).
In conclusion, this crazy little thing called forgiveness is actually big. Huge. Ginormous even. But you must master it, as it will not only aid in your healing and the other person’s but will also help you to grow toward a more Christlike life. What are you waiting for?
Grandma sighs. “Not bad, though a bit cheesy.”
“Would you like me to look up the Scripture? Uh, Matthew 6:12?”
“The Lord’s Prayer.” She juts her chin at her cross-stitched handiwork beside the door. “ ‘Forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors.’ Believe me, I know that one by heart.”
I’m struck by those last two words, the literal meaning of which not only escapes me more often than I care to admit, but probably escapes her—at least where Mom is concerned. I decide to draw her attention to them in a roundabout way. “I wish I knew it by heart.”
“Tch! All you have to do is read it over and over until it sticks.” She taps her temple, then stills. “Actually”—she lowers her hand—“there’s more to it than that.”
As I’m also learning.
The silence stretches. In her aged face I can almost see the gears of forgiveness engage.
And then, as if someone plugged her in, she slaps a thigh. “I’d better get packed.”
Woofer scrambles to his feet. Grandma probably thinks it’s in response to her thigh slapping, but I know better. That little mutt senses a turning of the tide.
I nod at him as I rise.
Perk goes his ears, ticktock goes his stub tail.
“It’s the right decision, Grandma.” I kiss her cheek.
“Yes, that it is.”
I want to ask about Mom, as I long to hear that things will be different between them, but I don’t want to push. “I’ll grab a shower; then we’ll go out for breakfast.”
“What about work?”
“I’ll call in …” No, I’m not sick. “I’ll call my boss. I’m sure she won’t mind if I take the day off to spend with you before you leave.”
“Wonderful.”
“Then Pancake Pantry it is.”
“Ooh, William was going to take me there. He said it’s scrumptious.”
“I’ve heard that too, but speaking of William …”
She nods. “He’ll be disappointed by my early departure, but he’ll understand.”
As she bustles toward the bedroom, hope burgeons that God may take something bad—Edith’s death—and heal the rift between Grandma and my mother and thereby my father. Feeling light on my feet, I start for the bathroom, only to pull up short when my computer catches my eye.
A few moments later, I sign on to my e-mail account. Besides Dad’s e-mail with the flight information and instructions on how to obtain a pass that will allow me to accompany my elderly grandmother to the departure gate, there’s a message from Tessie. I open it. It’s a reminder of what we discussed at the garbage can (appropriate) with emphasis on discovering Jack’s Achilles heel. Which I’ve already done and have no intention of divulging, even if it means disappointing Ray.
As I move my cursor to delete the message, I read the line beneath Tessie’s name: “PS—Don’t forget your rent is due in three days.”
Reality check. I need my job at the paper.
As Dad approaches behind the others disembarking ahead of him, wariness is entrenched in his face. And with good reason, as Grandma is glowering beside me with her arms crossed over her chest.
I lean down. “Remember how far he’s come. He’s here because he loves you.”
Her lids flicker.
“What shape and size does forgiveness come in? Come on.”
She grunts. “I’ll try, Grace.”
As she starts toward Dad, I lay a hand on her arm. “We should probably go back to plain Maizy. Or Maizy Grace. We don’t need to burden Dad with the pickle I got myself into.”
“Is that all it is—a pickle?”
Understatement of the year. “No, but I’ll work it out. You’ll see. One day we’ll laugh about it.”
She lays a hand over mine. “That seems a stretch, but I suppose it depends on how you handle the situation.”
How am I going to handle it? “Of course.”
“Mom?”
We look up, and there’s Dad.
After a long moment, Grandma steps forward and puts her thin arms around her thick son. “I’m so glad you came, Samuel.”
Over the top of his mother’s head, a surprised Dad meets my gaze.
I smile and join in the embrace.
An hour is all we have, but we make the most of it, sitting at the departure gate with Dad between me and Grandma. As the safest topic is Grandma’s exploration of Nashville with William, that’s where we stay until the boarding call.
Dad’s hug and kiss on the cheek make my eyes mist, and I realize how much I’ve missed him and Mom. Grandma’s hug is more of the same, and a tear spills over as I watch them walk away.
“Maizy Grace.”
I flick away the tear and raise my eyebrows at Grandma where she’s stepped out of line.
“That guide of yours—you know the one.”
I glance at Dad, who’s frowning across his shoulder. “Yes?”
“Why don’t you see what it has to say about integrity?”
My grandmother. Always looking out for my best interests. But does she really know what those best interests are? Lately I’m not sure myself.
“And while you’re at it, see what that newfangled Bible of yours has to say.”
“I’ll do that. Have a nice trip.”
Dad takes Grandma’s elbow. “What was that all about?”
“Just an article your daughter’s working on for the paper.”
“Ah. And the new Bible?”
“She’s rediscovering her faith. Isn’t that wonderful?”
I sense Dad’s hesitation, but he nods and says something that is swallowed by the bend in the walkway.
So back to normal. Back to the way things were before Grandma. And that’s a good thing. I think. Though Woofer will be thrilled by a return to two, I might just miss three.
Or maybe not.
“I’m sorry about your grandmother’s friend.”
Jem’s concern sounds genuine, and I’m touched that she called to discover if my absence from work was a result of illness. “Thanks, Jem.” Phone between ear and shoulder, I sink deeper into the stiff bubbles that only a $1.99 bottle of dishwashing liquid can produce. No, I won’t smell like sun-drenched gardenias when I climb out, but these bubbles aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. In fact, I’ll probably have to squeegee them off.
“How was your weekend?” I ask.
“It was … all right.”
I’m so tired that her hesitation almost slips past. “Are you eating?” Ooh, that was direct.
And her further hesitation confirms it. However, just as I’m about to apologize, she sighs. “It’s hard. I thought I was doing good easing back into it, and I even had a decent-sized dinner on Friday night …”
I push back to sitting, and the bubbles stick to me like peanut butter on bread, preserving my modesty even though Woofer’s the only one to see me. “But?”
“I totally bloated. I could hardly button my pants, and when I looked in the mirror, my back flab was puffing up over my waistband.”
I draw a hand up through the suds and rub my temple. “Jem, did you …?” I leave the word vomit unspoken.
“I had to one last time.”
“One last time?” I know I should temper the judgment in my voice, but a throb has set up shop between my ears.
“Look, I can do this. I need to take it slower, that’s all.”
“No, you need help. Jack checked with Human Resources, and—”
“You told Jack?”
I did not think that through. “It was unintentional. It just came out. I’m sorry.”
“Well, thanks. I trust you and what do you do? Blab my troubles to everyone.”
“Not everyone. Just Jack. And I didn’t mean to—”
“I have to go.” Click.
Wishing I hadn’t answered the phone, I push the Off button, drop the handset to the rug, and sink into the tub. Guess I’ll get to see how long these bubbles last, ’cause I’m not getting out anytime soon.
EIGHTEEN
It’s all for the best, I tell myself as the week wears on into Friday and Jem pulls a U-turn on every potential encounter. Yes, for the best, as I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to rebuild my career by exposing the truth. Case in point: the strawberry blond Steeple Side store employee who just knocked over a display of books and said a very bad word.
Turning down the greeting card aisle, I locate the “Thinking of You” cards. Surprisingly, the selection is expansive, meaning I’ve just saved myself a trip to a card store. Now to find the perfect card to let Grandma know I’m thinking of her. And one for my parents, who have gone above and beyond to support her by letting her stay with them during this difficult time.
I grimace in remembrance of the strain in my mother’s voice last night when she mentioned that she and Grandma had argued over the length of my sister’s skirt. Mom backed down, but she won’t do that indefinitely. Which is why I encouraged Dad to transition Grandma back to independent living. He agreed. Wholeheartedly.
Fifteen minutes into my lunch break, I start toward the front of the store only to draw up short when the “I’m Sorry” cards to my left bring Jem to mind.
Just leave it. Remember? All for the best.
I ease a bright blue card out of its slot. Above a cartoon rendering of a plucked, repentant-looking chicken are the words “My Bad.” That surprises me. It’s so hip. Guessing a scripture like those referenced in the “Thinking of You” cards is tucked inside, I open the cover. No scripture, just: “Your grace. Puh-leeease forgive me.” Cute. While I need to back off my relationship with Jem, that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try to mend the fence. It certainly would be the Christian thing to do.
Three cards it is.
The checkout line is four deep. As I move into position, I glance at my watch. I should be able to make it back to my desk with a few minutes to spare. But then in walks Jack, whom I’ve caught little more than glimpses of over the past four days.
Though I have no reason to hide, I duck my chin.
Moments later, canvas shoes appear to my left. “I see you’ve discovered our convenient retail store.”
Oh, that accent. Which has no business shimmying down my spine. One order of surprise, over easy. “Jack!”
His eyes dance and lips tilt.
So much for faking it. “What are you doing here?”
“Picking up an audio book for my grandmother. Her birthday is next week.” He looks around, then back at me. “Is Jem out ill today?”
I blink. “I don’t think so.”
“I thought the two of you were steady lunch buddies.”
Lie Number—no. And no reason for evasion either. I hold up the chicken card. “We had a falling out.”
His eyes slide to the woman ahead of me, who has turned her ear toward us. “Want to talk about it while I browse the audio books?”
I do. Of course, it may mean inciting the wrath of Fiala. I hesitate, but decide that Jack should probably be told of his part in the falling out. “Sure.”
I fill him in on Monday’s events, which begin with a sketch of Grandma’s early departure from Nashville and conclude with the ill-fated call from Jem.
Leaning an elbow against a shelf, he nods. “Sounds like she needs help.”
“I know, but I handled it wrong, then alienated her further by letting it drop that I confided in you.”
“Did you tell her about the article on eating disorders you’re writing?”
“I … under the circumstances, I didn’t think it was a good idea to mention it.”
“You prefer that she believes you’re a gossip?”
“I guess I didn’t think it through.”
He pushes off the shelf. “I could speak with her. We’ve known each other for a while, so she might be receptive.”
“Or resentful.”
He inclines his head. “Let me think about it.”
“I’d better get back. Thanks for listening.”
“Any time.”
I start to turn away, but he says, “You could return the favor by giving me two minutes of your time.”
I’m late already. What’s two more minutes? “Sure.”
He scans the spines of the audio books and picks out two. “I was here yesterday and couldn’t decide between these.” He holds up a CD case with a glowing cross center stage. “A daily devotional with emphasis on the New Testament.” The second CD case shows a dirt path through a misty wooded area. Very peaceful. And familiar. “Or this one that sets Psalms and Proverbs to music.”
I tap the latter. “That picture looks as if it was taken at Percy Warner Park.”
He turns it toward himself. “It certainly does.”
“I love that park.”
His eyebrows rise. “You go there often?”
“As much as possible. My dog loves long walks.” I make a face. “Providing I lug him most of the way. He’s a bit lazy.”
“I hope he’s a little dog.”
“He has his moments.” Or did. With Grandma’s departure came a return of appetite, and it’s been hard to ignore his begging, especially as I’m not completely back in his good graces.
“I haven’t seen you at the park,” Jack says.
“Do you go there often?”
“Regularly. It’s a great place to jog.”
Remembering the conclusion I drew on my first day at Steeple Side, I gasp. “I knew you were a jogger!”
The surprise that flashes across his face nearly makes me groan. “How’s that?”
Catching his citrus-y scent, I take a step back. “You look like one.”
“And how does a jogger look?”
“Fit, I suppose, in a …” This is embarrassing. “… lean way.”
He smiles and I’m reminded of when he made it perfectly clear that he was flirting with me this past Sunday. “Thank you.”
That was a compliment, wasn’t it? And now he probably thinks I’m flirting with him. I clear my throat. “So you jog regularly at the park?”
The smile I hoped to send packing takes on an impish slant. “A few days a week around 7 a.m.”
“I usually only make it on the weekends, and it’s always after eight.”
