CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE RAIN HAD STOPPED. It was well before dawn and Jack was walking. His landlord didn’t owe him any favors. He wasn’t even sure if the man even owned a vehicle. He had lied to Leslie and he remained unsure why.

It just seemed appropriate.

The truck was not that far from town. If he walked fast, an hour or two, he’d be there. The walk would give him a chance to think, to burn off the alcohol that was left in his system, a chance to be by himself. He seldom felt alone, even in his solitude.

Ghosts. Too many ghosts.

He strode with purpose along Route 8, nearly oblivious to the passing traffic. He recounted his steps last evening; he recounted the actions that led him to where he was this morning. He knew what Leslie said was true. He could have killed himself. Or worse yet, he could have killed someone else. The vision of that—of him careening into a car filled with innocent victims—so terrified him that he had to stop and breathe deeply. The vision caused him to nearly become sick—not just spiritually sick, but physically sick. He saw images swirling of him plowing into a family car. He saw faces of small children, their eyes lit in terror at the galloping headlights aimed at them, their little hands held up in an attempt to protect themselves from the carnage.

He began to run, began to run from the image, running fast for a mile, maybe two, then slowing to a jog, then a quick walk, his sides hurting, his shins burning, his lungs tight. But he had escaped the visions, he had outrun the terrifying images and thoughts and the might-have-beens and the there-but-for-the-grace-of-God scenarios.

Now he was just a tired, hungover man on the way to rescue his truck, stuck lightly in the mud.

He crested a small hill, and there it was, his battered truck, parked well off the side of the road, as if parked there on purpose. He squinted, hoping to determine if the police had placed a ticket on the windshield. He squinted and walked with a quicker step.

There was no ticket.

He breathed a sigh of relief.

He looked again at the damage. It was not severe at all. The mirror was gone, but the door was only slightly scratched. It would be no problem to get a replacement mirror and the scratch buffed out. Or he could leave them as they were.

He unlocked his door and climbed in. The cab stunk of liquor, a sour, decaying smell, tinted with an acrid cigarette odor. He didn’t think he had smoked last night, but he might have, in an effort to drive sober. It had never worked in the past, but the past was so difficult to outrun.

He turned the key. The engine started right up. He put it into reverse gear and gingerly applied the gas. The truck lurched a bit; the tires scrabbled to catch purchase in the moist dirt and gravel. A spray of stones splattered the undercarriage, then the truck bumped and rose up and backward. He was not as stuck as he’d feared. He stopped the truck on a piece of drier ground, still well off the road, and put the transmission in neutral.

He took his cell phone from the holster on his belt. He knew the number. He’d known it all the time. He was good with numbers. And this one, he remembered.

He dialed it and waited.

“Yes … when is the next meeting? In Butler. Downtown is best.”

He listened and heard a page being turned.

“Grace at Calvary? Grace Street at Calvary Street? I don’t know where that is at.”

He listened a long moment, his eyes watching the morning traffic speed by.

“Oh … a church. The big old stone one on the square? That’s Grace at Calvary?”

He nodded.

“An ‘at’ sign. Yeah. I know where the church is. What time? Okay. Good. It’s not a closed meeting, is it? That’s good. Great.”

He closed the phone, slipped it back into the holster.

He put on his seat belt, looked over his shoulder behind him, and pulled out, a thin spray of stones shooting off his rear tires. He settled down as he drove, making plans for this morning, making plans to stop at McDonald’s for breakfast, then on to work, then tonight, at six, he knew where he must go.

And maybe, during the day, he might see Leslie.

He had absolutely no idea of what he might say to her, other than assuring her that her faith in him was not unfounded.

Even if such faith in him, by and from others, always had been unfounded and undeserved in the past.

Leslie had fallen asleep late, well after 1:00, maybe closer to 2:00 a.m. She rose early and forced herself to be wide awake before Ava was up. Then she remembered. Ava was at the Stickles’. She would not be home until lunch.

It felt strange to have a morning by herself, without her daughter. She padded into the kitchen in her pajamas, walked to the french doors, and looked outside. She walked back to the kitchen. Then she went into the living room, where the smell of last night’s fire still lingered, and sat on the sofa, switched on the television, switched it off, and went back into the kitchen.

The buzzer rang, making her jump and turn as if being attacked. It buzzed again, and she ran to the french doors, peering down, hoping to see who was ringing her bell that early in the morning. Outside, double-parked, was a white-paneled truck with The Bloomery painted in fancy scrolled letters. She opened the french door and shouted down, “Who is the delivery for?”

The deliveryman, holding a wrapped package, stepped backward toward the curb and then looked up. “Leslie Ruskin.”

“That’s me. You can leave them on the stoop. Or wait. I’ll be right down.”

She ran to her bedroom, found the nice robe that she rarely wore, and hurried downstairs, with two dollars to tip the driver. Wrapped in gossamer paper was a lovely bouquet of flowers. She could tell that the arrangement had been selected from the florist’s autumn collection.

Back upstairs, she unwrapped it carefully and breathed deeply. The scents were wonderful. She took the small envelope attached to the bouquet and opened it slowly, not sure why she was hesitant.

Thanks for last night. Sorry for moving too fast, but I liked the end of the evening the best. You are wonderful. Mike

His handwriting grew smaller and smaller and tighter and tighter as he got to the end of his message. She could barely make out the “Mike.”

Who else could it be—really?

She took the artificial flowers out of the glass vase on the kitchen table and primped at the fragrant flowers and the ferns as she placed them just so in the vase, turning it one way, then the other, and stepping back to admire them. It had been a long time since anyone had sent her flowers.

And as she looked at them, standing in the kitchen in her robe and pajamas, she felt it. The tight bands. The constriction. The sense of dread and doom. The panic slowly rising. She tightened her hands into fists, her knuckles turning white.

She retreated a half step at a time, until she bumped into the far corner of the kitchen. Her shoulders wedged against both walls, she let her body slide down until she was on the floor. Her legs splayed out beneath her, her arms tightly folded across her chest. Her eyes shut, and her mouth softly formed the word no over and over again.

Not now. Not today. NO!

But today, something unexpected happened. She summoned all of her strength in an effort that surprised her—in fact, amazed and shocked her. She placed her palms flat on the floor and pushed herself back up first to a kneeling position, then a standing one. She felt tears and pushed them back, at least for now.

I will not cry now. No tears.

She looked at the clock on the microwave in the kitchen. It was always five minutes fast.

At 9:10. I will call. I have to. Now. Today.

She stumbled to her purse and tried to control her hands as she removed the phone from its base. Her eyes all but refused to focus as she punched in the number.

She listened to the recorded message. There was always a recorded message. A woman with a pleasant voice listed the worship times and the evening prayer and fellowship hour, and the sign-up dates for the senior high spring break trip to Williamsburg.

“If you want to leave a message for Miss Whiting, please press 2. If you want to leave a message for the senior pastor, please press 3. For the associate pastor, press 4.”

Leslie jabbed at the number three. Expecting to hear a tinny recorded voice, she was surprised, almost to the point of dropping her phone, to hear a real person pick up on the other end.

“Pastor Blake here.”

In that instant, Leslie all but forgot why she had called.

“Uh—hello?” She forced herself to think, to focus, to force herself to remain in the moment. “Pastor Blake?”

“Yes, this is Pastor Blake.”

“Pastor Blake. Good. I got your name from … well, I guess it doesn’t matter where I got your name.”

Why can’t I remember Ava’s teacher’s name? Why in heavens did I forget that now?

“No … it probably doesn’t. How can I help?”

He sounds so kind.

“This person … she said that you had suffered from panic attacks.”

There was a moment of silence.

“I did. I suppose I still do. Or could. I haven’t for quite some time.”

“Pastor Blake, I need help. I can’t function anymore. I don’t know what to do.”

“Have you been treated for them in the past?”

“No. I don’t want to take medicine. That makes people like zombies. I mean … if you take it … well, maybe it isn’t that bad.”

She waited until he replied. “No. I don’t take the medication. Although I have seen people who have been helped by it. But I didn’t go that route.”

Okay. Maybe he does understand.

“Then what can I do? How do I get out of this?”

“There are ways to treat the condition. There are behaviors that will help you cope—help you and those around you deal with the attacks. But you know … the most important thing you have to do is to find a center, find that peaceful place inside of yourself. I know of only one way to really find peace.”

“That’s what I want. Peace. Can you help me?”

She waited.

“Yes. I think I can. Well, I sure can try. We can both try, right? Can you come and see me? This morning?”

Leslie walked away from the church, feeling lighter than she had in months and months, and stronger, more like she was before, before she had been beaten down and nearly destroyed. That destruction, that deadly erosion of her soul, of her confidence, had taken years. She realized now that it had started even before Randy. Looking back at her tumultuous years as a teen, and even as far back as her childhood, she couldn’t think of a single person in her life who had ever really believed in her. It had taken years, but she had even stopped believing in herself.

Maybe getting better would take less time.

I am a well person. At least I was. I was. And I can get there again.

Pastor Blake had promised Leslie nothing—no miracles, no “turn to Jesus and be instantly cured.” He had not merely recited words written in one of his dusty theological tomes. But he had given her hope. He had listened to her story and, with compassion, had given her reassurance that she wasn’t going crazy, that her problem was not a matter of human willpower, nor the lack of it. That it was often caused by stress, loss, or separation. He had told her that people who sought treatment for panic attacks often got better. That they could lead normal lives. He had shared his own experience, and told her how the peace of God had changed his life. He had asked her if he could pray for her, and she’d agreed. After the prayer, he had said, “Leslie, I believe in you.”

He had also given her a book to read that had helped him, and a Bible that was called a recovery Bible. There were pages of verses that spoke of God’s promise to help a believer desiring help.

“They are both important,” he had said, as he walked her out through the silent sanctuary, with its magnificent golden stained-glass windows, to the front doors of the church. “But this one—” he’d pointed at the Bible “—is the most important.”

Before she had left, Pastor Blake had said, “As you read, I want you to think about where you are with God, Leslie. Next time, maybe we can talk about that, okay?”

Now Leslie held the books to her chest. Those last words kept echoing in her mind.

Where are you with God? Where are you with God?

She looked at her watch. It was only 11:00. She hurried her steps. She stopped at Friedman’s for milk and cupcakes on her way home. Even though she imagined Ava would be chock-full of forbidden treats at the Stickles’, Leslie could not help herself and wanted to offer her daughter one more birthday treat—a little celebration with candles for just the two of them. She asked for a half dozen cupcakes this time—an indulgence for both herself and her Ava.

Whistling, she put the cupcakes on a plate, put six small candles on one of the cupcakes, put the other groceries away, and placed the book and Bible from Pastor Blake on the kitchen table. She was ready to spend the next thirty minutes or so reading and thinking about what the pastor had said. And waiting, anxious for Ava’s return.

Leslie sat down and opened the Bible. It was something she had never done in the past. Her parents were not really churchgoing people, except for Christmas and Easter, perhaps. She had gone to summer church camp and a few other events for kids, and she remembered kind people telling stories about Jesus and other Bible characters. As a child she always knew God was there. While majoring in art history in college, studying in detail the intricacies of the most beautiful, remarkable, diverse works of art ever made by humans throughout the world, over the course of their time on planet Earth, she had become completely convinced that the creative impulse, the passion of artists and artisans to express themselves, had to have been placed inside their souls by an incredibly creative God. But things of faith were never really discussed or practiced in her home. She thought about Grandma Amelia: with all that had happened in her lifetime, and despite her own shortcomings, she had great faith, a steadfast belief in God that was so integrated into her life. Leslie wondered what had happened in her family between the time of her Grandma Amelia, and her grandparents’ and mother’s time. Such faith—or even a little—apparently hadn’t been passed to them. Or perhaps it had been, and they had chosen to walk away from it.

Now she had drifted as well. She and Ava had stopped going to church when Randy had given her so much flak about it, and it seemed like a lifetime since she’d even thought about it.

Where are you with God?

Her phone rang. Leslie did not recognize the number on the caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Les. Long time, no see. How’s tricks?”

She did not want to recognize the voice, but she did—sweet and almost oily, with just a sprinkling of malice to it.

“Hello, Randy.”

She debated on what to say next. She had had imaginary conversations with him every day, conversations where she would get angry, or grow quiet, or tell him of her successes with the building, or that other men had found her attractive, or that Ava was blossoming without his darker presence. But she said none of that. Now that her ex-husband was really on the phone, none of her rehearsed speeches felt right.

“How are you?” was all Leslie said in reply.

“Well, I would think you might have more to tell me. You never were at a loss for words before. Things not quite as rosy in Butler as you imagined? Is that it? You have nothing good to say to me? From what I read in the papers, Butler is the new up-and-coming place. Lots of pleasant opportunities. You’re not letting them slip by, are you?”

Leslie felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, bristling at his happy, confrontational style. “No. We’re fine, Randy. Ava and I are doing just fine.”

She thought she heard a laugh of derision, but it could have been Randy clearing his throat. He often said he was just clearing his throat when he was laughing at her.

“Well, isn’t that great. I am glad to hear that.”

There was silence for a moment. Leslie was not providing any cues, not speaking any more than required.

“And things are going well for me … and Lisa. She’s a great gal. Keeps the house just perfect. Cooks something new every night. Things couldn’t be more wonderful.”

Leslie nodded and did not speak.

“She says she wants kids. I told her we need to wait awhile. You know what I mean. Get used to each other. Not like we did it. Or you did it, I guess.”

He had always accused her of getting pregnant with Ava in an effort to further tie him down.

“Anyhow, Les, I’m calling because … well, I know that the judge you finagled to get on our case did not want to hear anything of the truth. Hey, and that’s okay. You have Ava. He said sole custody, and I can deal with that. Even if I have every right to an appeal. My lawyer said so. That judge was nuts. But you remember that he allowed for visits. And you know I haven’t insisted on those visits. I mean—you had to move the whole way to Butler, just so I couldn’t see my daughter every day. And I want to see her. I want her to get to know Lisa. They’ll have a ball together. Lisa is real nice, a real normal gal, if you know what I mean. So … it’ll be okay, right?”

Leslie could hardly catch her breath to speak.

Okay? For what? For you to come here? Invade my life? For you to take my little girl? To have her meet your new wife—the wife who isn’t crazy like me?

“Come on, Leslie, don’t make me spend my hard-earned money getting some expensive lawyer to demand what the judge said were my rights. I get to see Ava. And I want to see her. I want to make sure that she has everything she needs. I want to make sure she’s safe—you know what I mean? A visit. That’s all. A visit. I’ll take her out to get ice cream or something. Maybe Lisa can buy her some clothes, okay? She does need new clothes, doesn’t she? I mean, just because you never bought yourself anything cool to wear doesn’t mean my daughter has to look like a poor person. I’m thinking of next weekend. On Saturday. I’ll have to get up early on my day off so I can drive the whole way from Greensburg.”

Leslie could not bear to remain silent. “Butler is less than two hours away from you, Randy. The way you drive, it’s less than an hour.”

“Hey!” he shouted into the phone. “Don’t you go poisoning our little girl’s mind like that! Saying I’m some sort of maniac driver. I’m not. She loves her daddy. Maybe you don’t—or can’t. But Ava does. Don’t go telling lies about me to her—you hear? If you do, the judge is going to hear about it.”

She did not reply.

Neither did Randy.

“Ten o’clock on Saturday?” she finally suggested. Her words were as void of emotion as she could render them. He hadn’t even remembered it was Ava’s birthday.

“Fine. I have the address. Ten.”

The connection broke.

And the words on the pages of the Bible began to waver and swim.

He’s going to take her from me. He is going to try and take my sweet Ava away from me.

“He’s going to come and take her away. Or at least try to. I know he is. I just know it!” Each word of Leslie’s on the phone became tighter, higher pitched, more clenched.

“Leslie, listen to me,” Pastor Blake said, calm, measured, knowing that any other tone simply would add fuel to Leslie’s fire. “All will be well. With God’s help, you are in control now. Randy is not. You remember what we talked about last time, don’t you?”

“I do. I think I do. But I don’t know anymore. All I can see is him coming here and taking her from me. Finding some reason that she has to go home with him. I’m worried, Pastor Blake. I’m really, really worried.”

Pastor Blake’s small office was barely able to provide enough distance for a proper pacing as he talked to her. The church, built over one hundred years ago, originally the Second Presbyterian Church, was a wonderfully brooding Romanesque stone castle on the southeast corner of Diamond Square. Butler dropped off at the southeast corner of the square—or at least the geography did. A steep valley, train tracks, and a smallish creek that would go a ways and soon become the Connoquenessing River all lay before him, spread out like a relief map in a museum. He never tired of the view, watching the cars wind around the sharp corners and struggle up the tight, steep Kittanning Street hill.

He always wished he could expand his space—just a little—but he knew that would be difficult. Any sort of renovating of the old structure took a team of stonemasons to accomplish—and Pastor Blake’s church was not that flush with excess cash.

I can make do with small, he told himself often. If he were working on a difficult sermon, he would pace in the sanctuary instead, up and down the aisles, until his theological problem had been solved.

Today, the problem facing him was not theological in nature but by no means less thorny.

“Leslie, you know I can’t speak to the legal issues here. But I am sure that if it ever came to that, the courts would be fair. No one is taking anyone.”

“But the panic attacks. If he knows I’m still having them, and that they have gotten worse, he can find some smart lawyer to find that I’m unfit. Then she’s gone.”

Pastor Blake knew that a large part of his counseling job was simply calming people down, helping them to see the facts of a situation, and to deal with the reality at hand—rather than an array of terrible “could-bes” or worst-case scenarios.

Some people automatically think of the worst thing that might occur and then treat that like it is going to happen.

He had expected Leslie to be like that, and she was. It did not surprise Pastor Blake, nor did he think ill of her; it was just so very typical of her condition. And he understood—completely.

“Leslie, we have to take this one step at a time. He can’t just come and take her away. That would be kidnapping, since you have sole custody. He won’t and can’t do that. So you have to stop going to that place in your mind. Stop going there. Focus on your response—not on what might happen, but on what has happened.”

He heard her take a few deep breaths.

“That’s good, Leslie. Slow, rhythmic breathing. Helps you stay centered.” As he listened to her breathe, Pastor Blake was praying under his own breath.

“So what I am going to do now?” she asked, her voice still troubled.

“Well, I can’t see you today. I have several back-to-back meetings and appointments.” As soon as the words were out, he knew it was the wrong thing to say to the wrong person.

“Oh, I am so sorry, Pastor Blake. I know you’re very busy. I have no right to think you can drop everything for my stupid problems. I’ll … I’ll be fine. Really.”

Pastor Blake sat down, gently, not wanting to make his office chair creak more loudly than it did. For some reason, he never wanted a caller to know when he sat down.

I need to get a new chair, too.

It was a thought that often crossed his mind.

“Leslie, that’s not what I meant. Tomorrow is simply a better day. Can you come over at six? Can your neighbors watch Ava for you? We can talk. And then, if you want, you can stay for our prayer meeting later.”

He waited for her reply.

“Prayer meeting?”

“It’s not scary, Leslie.”

“Do I have to pray? I mean, does everyone have to pray? Out loud? In front of everyone? Or can I listen and pray silently?”

Pastor Blake would have chuckled, but he knew that to Leslie, it was not a chuckling issue.

“No, Leslie, you do not have to pray out loud or in front of people. You can just listen, if you’d like. Or you can be prayed for by others. Prayer helps. It’s vital, you might say.”

“Okay, then, tomorrow at six,” she said.

“Tomorrow at six.”

And when he put the phone back on the base, he offered a silent prayer to God, praying that He would reveal Himself to Leslie; reveal His love in some fashion, in some way, so she might know the truth. The truth that would set her free.

When he opened his eyes, a lumbering UPS truck was wheezing up Kittanning Street, politely elbowing oncoming traffic out of its way.

Amelia Westland, age nineteen years, three months

Indiana Normal School

Indiana, Indiana County, Pennsylvania

October 21, 1881

I can scarce believe it has been nearly two months time since my arrival here in the hills of western Pennsylvania. Fall has painted the landscape with a colorful palette of reds, oranges, and golds. The days fly by with exceedingly great speed as I diligently apply myself to learning. My mind is filled with wonder at the fullness of knowledge possessed by my professors.

My first weeks I experienced periods of melancholy and loneliness, whereupon the Preceptress, perceiving my disposition, has graciously taken me under her wing, as if God had sent a guardian angel to me. I am day by day taking an increasing part in the society of my fellow students, yet I sorely miss Catherine. I have received letters from her, as well as from Dr. and Mrs. Barry, who are making plans for my return to their home for the Christmas holiday.

I have taken it upon myself, much too forward for a genteel woman, I am sure, to, unsolicited, write to Mr. Beck during my tenure here at the Normal School. He has not answered every correspondence, but he has written in return on occasion, his hand less sure than mine, for his gift is in speaking rather than writing. But his few words cause my heart to stir. He works still at the livery, much to my happiness, and has recently stated that he is anxious to hear of the location of my posting as a teacher when I am graduated. If it is in Butler proper, I am praying that he will yet be in residence there and soon thereafter seek me out. I also pray I may have the happiness of seeing him over the Christmas holiday should it indeed be possible for me to return to Butler for the span of but ten days.

For it is written, He shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee:
And in their hands they shall bear thee up, lest at any time
thou dash thy foot against a stone.

—Luke 4:10–11