Fourteen years earlier…
“You think you’re so wonderful, don’t you? You think your looks and your perfect little body are going to get you anywhere in the real world? You’re a slut, Phoebe Gustafson, a smear on the good name of this family. You’re just trash.” Renata’s words ricocheted off the walls of the living room, slamming into Phoebe again and again as they careened and crashed around the shocked and silent witnesses. “Your looks and your body and the way you barely keep it covered are going to get you somewhere, I can assure you. On your back, that’s where!”
She’d been right. Renata had been right. All along….
The Homecoming party was supposed to be fun. It was supposed to be wild and crazy and good old teenage fun. A little booze, maybe some pot if she got lucky, and some slow-dancing with upperclassmen who wouldn’t remember her name in the morning. She liked a good party because it helped her forget, too. At least for a couple of hours.
It had started out that way. Fun, a little wild and crazy, although she’d only scored one hit off a guy’s joint because she wouldn’t make out with him. But the night was still underway and she’d known a lot of people there, at least by name, even though she didn’t run in the same circles at school. Parties often laid waste to social barriers. Or at least the alcohol at parties did.
Then she’d seen Brad Haley saunter in, Renata nowhere in sight. Phoebe had almost run into them earlier—she’d ducked out of the way just in time. She didn’t need any flak from Renata about being there. Her sister would accuse her of crashing the party, of trying to act like she was older than she was, of being trashy. Ren might even try to make her leave.
Phoebe hadn’t cared if Ren was there or not. In fact, she’d actually felt a little rush at the sight of her. Maybe Ren would lighten up a little. But the look on her sister’s face evidenced that Ren was more uncomfortable at the party than Phoebe had ever been sitting in church next to Granny G each Sunday. So Phoebe had made herself scarce, avoiding the group she usually gravitated toward, a group that often included Brad Haley.
Brad Haley. Phoebe couldn’t understand what her sister had seen in him, except that he was the first guy who’d ever shown a real interest in her. But Brad was a slick beast. He came across as a gentleman, and the ladies fell for it hook, line, and sinker. Not Phoebe. She had stumbled upon him a few too many times pressed up against different girls at different parties, mouth usually too busy to talk, hands out of sight. Once she’d bumped into him coming out of a closed-off bedroom behind a woman who must have been a good ten years older than he was. He’d just winked at her as he’d passed.
But Renata wasn’t going to hear about any of it from Phoebe. Not only would she not believe a word of it, she would most certainly accuse Phoebe of trying to ruin her life, or worse, of trying to take Brad for herself.
So when Brad strode through the room without Renata, Phoebe’s antennae had gone up, and she’d hurried across the room to cut him off. Where was Ren? They hadn’t been gone long enough for him to have taken her home. And besides, she knew Brad drank heavily at these parties and shouldn’t be allowed behind the wheel.
“Where’s my sister?” Phoebe had demanded, her voice raised over the loud music and conversation around them. “I just saw her with you a minute ago.”
“Phoebe Gustafson. And I was just looking for you.” The smug expression on his face should have warned her to be careful, but her concern had been focused elsewhere.
“Is Ren okay? What did you do to her? Where is she?” Maybe Brad was looking for her because Renata was upset and needed her. “Did she ask you to find me?”
He had stared down at her for several moments, his eyes narrowed, one side of his mouth quirked up in just the hint of a smile.
“Brad! Where is Renata?” She’d clutched at his shirt with both hands, pulling him closer to make sure he heard her, picked up on how serious she was.
“Come with me,” Brad had said, taking her hand and pulling her away from the melee, down the hall toward one of the rooms. “She’s fine, really. But you should come talk to her, just in case.”
And Phoebe had followed Brad without reticence, anxious to come to the aid of her sister, to be needed by someone. She’d even rushed ahead of him into the darkened bedroom, an avenging angel sweeping in to rescue the damsel in distress.
Not an angel, but a stupid, naive lamb, being led to slaughter.
She hadn’t realized what was going on until she’d heard the door close firmly behind her, like the sound of an ax blade falling; not until she’d felt Brad’s arm snake around her from behind, one hand closing gently, but securely over her mouth, the other hand sliding insistently up the front of her thighs beneath her skirt.
She hadn’t screamed. She hadn’t cried out or begged him not to do it. Oh, she’d resisted fiercely at first, but when he’d dug his chin into the bend of her shoulder, making her whole arm tingle, when he’d growled into her ear that he knew she wanted it, that no one would believe her if she said differently anyway—they all knew she was a slut…. “Two Gustafsons in one night,” he’d murmured salaciously. “I’m going to call this one a win-win.”
It had been the thought of Brad forcing himself on Renata in the same way that had turned Phoebe to stone; her sister would not have had sex with Brad willingly. Phoebe knew she was strong enough to withstand the horror of Brad’s assault, but Renata? How would she endure? How would Ren even survive?
She’d barely noticed when Brad left the room. Some time later, she’d gotten up off the floor, straightened her clothing, and had slipped out a window into the balmy night. Then she’d walked the two and a half miles home, her heart broken, not for herself, but for Renata.
The moment she’d set foot in the house, Renata had gone after her, shrieking like a banshee, hurling accusations at her until Grandpa G had stormed into the room to shut Ren down. But instead of coming to the aid and comfort of Phoebe—sick at heart, bruised in spirit, her body aching in places she didn’t know she could hurt—he’d gone to Renata and embraced her, offered his solace to her as though Renata had been the victim in all of it.
And Phoebe had stood in the doorway trembling and silent, desperate to keep it together long enough to escape the room full of people looking at her. Alone in a room full of people.
Oh, so alone.
~ ~ ~
By Christmas, Phoebe had known she was pregnant.
By Valentine’s Day, she’d changed her style completely, telling everyone she was embracing a bohemian lifestyle. She’d worn blousey shirts and big poncho-style wraps over leggings and fuzzy boots. She took long afternoon naps in the RV in the back yard; she’d turned the camper into her own little pad, complete with incense burners and beaded curtains. She’d even learned to play the ukulele.
During the Good Friday service the first week in April, Phoebe had wept silent tears as the pastor talked about the death of Jesus and the grief and fear that surrounded his followers over the next few days. Phoebe hadn’t been mourning the death of Christ, but of her parents; oh, how desperately she needed her mother. She grieved because they weren’t going to rise again like Jesus had and make everything okay.
She’d never felt more alone than she had in that moment, sitting tightly packed between her sisters in a crowded pew, surrounded by a whole congregation of people who talked a whole lot about saving the lost and feeding the hungry and turning the other cheek, but they didn’t ever say anything about unreported rape and unplanned pregnancies.
By the end of April, Phoebe had taken to wearing too-tight sports bras and gimmicky weight loss girdle things under her clothes, not to get in shape, but to mask her fuller breasts and the cantaloupe-sized baby bump pushing against the skirts of her flowing dresses.
Then on the second Sunday in May, Mother’s Day, when Phoebe was exactly seven months along, she sat in church and listened as the pastor spoke about how important mothers and mother-figures were in the lives of everyone, especially young women who were soon-to-be mothers themselves. He told the story of Mary, the mother of Jesus, her pregnancy still hushed, going away to stay with her older cousin, Elizabeth, who mentored and encouraged and stood by Mary. A mother figure in Mary’s life.
Was it possible Phoebe could find an Elizabeth in her own life? Was there someone right there in that church who would be a mother figure to her? She knew in her heart Granny G would find a way to embrace her, but her grandparents already had so much thrust into their hands when Maman and Papa had died, leaving the elderly Gustafsons with four girls to raise.
The next day, Phoebe ditched school and slipped inside the double doors of the church. She stood in the cool shadows for a few minutes while her eyes adjusted, a little surprised to find the building unlocked and unattended. But she was glad. She wasn’t quite ready to explain her presence there; she wasn’t even sure how to word her request, or who to ask in the first place. And now that she was there, she suddenly realized she’d have to tell whoever she spoke to about that night. She’d made every concerted effort to not think about that night ever again, to the point where she could almost convince herself there was no connection between that night and the baby growing inside her.
She only thought of it as that night and nothing more.
Phoebe skirted the back row and moved quietly up the side aisle, keeping as low a profile as possible in the quiet building. It was so peaceful, so unlike the busyness of church on Sunday morning. The silence felt almost reverent, like she was walking on holy ground, and she was loath to make any kind of a disturbance. Still. Quiet. No one else around.
But she didn’t feel alone.
She slipped into a pew about halfway up the aisle and sat down. She automatically propped her huge shoulder bag on her lap to camouflage her baby bump, but then set it aside, realizing she didn’t have to hide it today. She even went so far as to rest a hand around the curve of her belly, smiling when the baby inside bumped against her palm like he or she was acknowledging her touch.
She had no idea how long she’d been sitting there when a door off to the side of the stage opened and two men came in, their conversation loud and cheerful.
“—parent meeting went really well last night. There were lots of questions, but I think most of them are really glad their kids are getting this opportunity.”
“Well, it’s good to have you on board, young man. We need young men who are fired up about discipleship taking charge on programs like this. I know you’re inspiring many of our high school students to think more deeply about going into full time ministry. The harvest is ripe and the workers are few.”
Phoebe rolled her eyes. She hated hearing Christians talk that way. It was so…elitist, as though they spoke in a special Bible code. And what the heck did it all mean? To her, it just sounded like words to appease themselves with. If I say the right thing, use the right words, the right phrasing often enough and loudly enough, maybe no one will notice I don’t actually act any differently than anyone else.
“I’m just grateful for the opportunity to come alongside the high schoolers this way. I think it’s so important that we set Timothy up as an example. Paul discipling him didn’t just change his life, but it continues to change lives generation after generation, because we have so much of his discipleship training in the Word,” the younger guy replied. He looked like a college frat boy in his khaki Dockers and tucked-in green polo shirt…or a pastor in training, she decided, averting her gaze as though he might feel her eyes on him.
“It’s all right there for us to replicate,” he continued, clearly unaware of her presence. “And you know what the Good Book says, ‘Train up a child in the way he should go and when he is old he will not depart from it.’”
“Amen. I hear it all the time. That early foundation of faith is so important. Even the prodigal son knew where to go when everything else had failed him. Why? Because his father had trained him up to understand unconditional love. It took him a while to embrace it and accept it, certainly, but deep in his heart, he knew where home was because he’d been trained up to recognize it.”
Phoebe hunkered down low in the pew and kept her head lowered as the two men made their way down the center aisle toward the back of the church and the double doors she’d come in. Please don’t notice me. Just keep walking. Please, please, please—
No such luck. The conversation broke off and the footsteps stopped.
“Excuse me,” the older man said, his voice friendly, but curious. “Is there anything I—we can do for you?”
Phoebe lifted her head but kept her eyes downcast. “No, that’s all right. I’m just—just praying,” she said, knowing that was the perfect response to give in a church.
The young guy cleared his throat softly, then said, “Would you like us to pray with you? Or send someone else—a woman, maybe?—out to pray with you?”
Phoebe hesitated. Was it that simple? Was it possible some woman would slip into the pew next to her and be Elizabeth to her? “Um, I don’t know. Maybe.” The last word came out on a whisper, but the men seemed to have heard her.
“I’ll go see if Ruthie is available,” The guy in the polo shirt said to the older man. “You go on ahead—I know you’re running late already.” Then he turned back to Phoebe and she forced herself to look directly at him.
He was much younger than she’d expected. In fact, he didn’t look much older than she was—early twenties at the most? He had soft, curly hair that flopped forward over his forehead, and he actually seemed to smile with his eyes. He wasn’t conventionally handsome in a male model way, but he definitely had that boy-next-door vibe that made him come across as surprisingly approachable.
Which made the Bible code jargon he’d just been spouting seem incongruous, almost duplicitous to her. She felt her guard rise, but she wanted to trust that she was in the right place. She needed this to be the right place, and she needed him to be the right person, at least until he could round up this Ruthie person.
Ruthie. Even the name sounded motherly, didn’t it?
“My name is Trevor. I’m a youth pastor intern here. I work with the high school group, but I don’t think we’ve met. You’re a high school student?” He asked the question, but it was clear he assumed she was.
“No. Yes.” She fumbled to find the right words. He had slipped into the pew in front of hers and was close enough to notice her belly, even in the dim lighting. She hunched forward a little and fluffed her skirt so it formed a camouflaging tent over her lap. Let him think she was a fashion freak. Better that then a pregnant teen. “Yes, I’m a high school student, but no, I don’t go to youth group here. We do go to church here, though,” she amended.
“Oh? Have you tried our Tuesday Teen Nights?”
Had he forgotten he was going to go get Ruthie for her?
“No. We do youth group at a different church.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Renata still went to the group at their old church. They’d only started attending this church after Maman and Papa had died because this was where Grandpa and Granny G went. Phoebe hadn’t ever gone to any high school church group. Her parents hadn’t forced her to go, and neither did her grandparents.
“Well, that’s good to hear. Okay. I’m going to go see if I can round up Ruthie. She’s in charge of our women’s ministries. Sit tight, okay?” He started to move away, and then paused and turned back to her. “I’m sorry. What’s your name?”
Without premeditation, in a moment of sheer panic, she gave him her middle name. “I’m Jo. Josephine. Call me Jo.”
Trevor leaned over the bench and stuck out his hand. “Good to meet you, Jo. I’ll be right back.”
And he did, just as he said he would. Several minutes passed and the door at the front of the church opened again and Trevor returned, a warm smile on his face. “Ruthie is just wrapping up a meeting, but she promised to join us as soon as she was finished. About fifteen minutes, is that okay? Or do you have somewhere you’re supposed to be?”
I’m a high schooler. On a Monday morning in May. Where do you think I’m supposed to be? Phoebe bit back the snarky retort. “That’s fine. I can wait.”
Trevor was silent for a moment, and then said, “Are you all right, Jo? I mean, would you like me to wait with you? You don’t have to tell me why you’re here or what you’re praying about, but I feel bad just leaving you here alone.” He eased into the row ahead of her again. He sat down close enough that he could speak quietly to her and still be heard, but far enough away that she didn’t feel like he was crowding her. He turned sideways in the pew, propping one leg up on the bench beside him and looping an arm over the back so he could look at her. “My schedule is wide open for the next half an hour, so if you need company while you wait for Ruthie, maybe this is where I’m supposed to be.”
Phoebe didn’t mind. He exuded sincerity in spite of the Bible talk, and there didn’t seem to be anything threatening about him. “I don’t really feel alone in here, but I don’t mind the company,” she said.
Trevor smiled and nodded. “Yeah, this place never feels completely empty to me. I come here a lot when I need to clear my head, when I need to sort things out with God.” He turned his head away and faced the front of the sanctuary for a few moments, his expression suddenly distant, like he’d momentarily slipped away to another time and place. She wondered what he was thinking about.
“Sort things out with God, hm?” she repeated, her voice low. “I suppose that’s what I’m trying to do today. I’m not very good at praying, but I thought if I came here and just hung out, maybe God would whisper something to me. Give me some good advice.” She laughed softly. “That sounds so stupid.”
“No, actually,” he said, looking back at her again. She couldn’t meet his eyes but she could feel them on her face. She lowered her gaze to her knees, letting her hair fall forward to hide her features from his open scrutiny. “Sometimes that’s all praying is. In Romans Chapter 8, the Bible says, In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans. And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit interceded for God’s people in accordance with the will of God.” Trevor paused and glanced away briefly as though carefully measuring his words. “I think this is the perfect place to be if you don’t know how to pray or exactly what to pray for. The Holy Spirit is accessible anywhere and everywhere, but there’s nothing like physically sitting in a place of worship when you’re desperate to meet with God.”
Everything he said made such perfect sense and she felt tears beginning to form behind her eyes, burning at the bridge of her nose.
“You know how you can smell perfume even after a person has left? Or sometimes a crowded room seems to echo with the sounds of what was going on in it even after it’s cleared out? That’s kind of what it feels like in here to me. It’s almost as though the fragrance or the echo of worship hangs on even after everyone leaves on Sunday.” Trevor’s voice had quieted to the point where he almost seemed to be talking to himself. “Sometimes I think I can actually hear God breathing in here on mornings like this. Like he’s walking the aisles gathering up the burdens people laid down on Sunday, sorting through the prayers that were offered up.”
A tear fell from Phoebe’s eye and landed on her stomach. Without thinking, she spread her fingers wide over her rounded belly and left it there. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. “I need—I need help.”