Abigail decided to take a break from the Moose Creek article. The words weren’t coming anyway, and she was weary of staring at a blinking curser. She locked up the office and drove from the parking garage, turning onto the empty street. The sun had gone into hiding behind a thick bank of gray clouds.
She pointed the car toward her apartment, wondering what she’d do when she got there. She’d skipped lunch but wasn’t hungry. Couldn’t stomach the thought of eating. She could use a nap, but her bed had become a place to avoid. A place where memories haunted her until she slept, and then the dreams started. Dreams that made waking up painful.
She wondered what Wade and Maddy were doing right now. Probably packing their belongings and talking about how awful Abigail was, how glad they were she was out of their lives. Where were they moving? Once they left Moose Creek, they’d be lost to her forever.
Who are you kidding, Abigail? They’re already lost to you.
The thought knotted her stomach. Why was she torturing herself?
She made a turn and kept driving. She’d drive around all afternoon if she had to, but she couldn’t go back to those four walls. She had to stay busy.
Noise. She needed noise. She flipped on the radio, and a country and western tune filled the car. The song reminded her of riding in Wade’s pickup truck. Of that Saturday night at the Chuckwagon in Wade’s arms.
Abigail changed the channel. The sound of peaceful strains of strings and flutes filled the car. Maybe classical music would soothe her.
Leaving the city, she turned toward the suburbs and a succession of sleepy streets. She passed a group of neighborhood children running through a sprinkler, enjoying the last days of summer, a precious weekend after a week in a new school year. Maddy would start school on Monday, her first day of sixth grade.
Under the shade of a giant oak, a young girl wearing a helmet wobbled down the sidewalk on her pink bike.
Pink. Like Maddy’s.
Stop it, Abigail. Don’t go there.
She turned the corner, down a lane lined by small brick homes, similar to the street where she’d grown up. A middle-aged woman, down on all fours, weeded her burgeoning flower bed. Abigail thought of Aunt Lucy’s plastic flowers, and a tiny smile formed. She thought of her vegetable garden, and the smile slid from her face. It would die now. The plants wouldn’t stand a chance under the August sun without the sprinkler. Not that it mattered, since there’d be no one around to harvest the vegetables. Soon there’d be a big commercial For Sale sign at the end of the drive, under the Stillwater Ranch archway.
There she went again. Why was every image, every thought, a direct highway to Moose Creek?
Abigail turned at a four-way stop and progressed down the next street. Hedges and low fences divided the small lawns. Sidewalks stretched out on both sides of the narrow street. Children played games of street hockey and kickball in the cul-de-sacs.
Reagan’s words about Julia rang in her head. Did she still carry guilt? Why else would the memory of Julia be painful after all these years? Yes, she did carry guilt. It surfaced sometimes when she least expected it.
And she subconsciously chose to expose truth now to make up for the one time she hadn’t? Is that why she experienced that satisfying sense of justice when she finished a column? Was there a connection?
It made sense, though she hated to admit it. She was driven in her job. Her mom had called her a workaholic on more than one occasion. Was she so driven because she enjoyed her work, or was she trying to earn her own redemption?
Maybe I am. The words rang of truth, a subject she was only just beginning to understand.
Only One could redeem a person, and He was the same One who called Himself Truth. The irony didn’t escape her.
She reached the end of a street and turned right. The sign in front of a low sprawling brick building caught her eye. She hadn’t been here in years. And yet it looked just the same. Well, maybe a bit smaller.
Abigail parked the car along the grassy curb and exited the car. She hadn’t meant to wind up here, but it seemed appropriate somehow. The gray clouds swallowed the sky now, hiding any trace of the sun, shading her from its punishing heat.
She followed the curved walkway to the back of the building, passing her dad’s old classroom. Colorful construction paper pictures adorned the windows. Everyone had loved her dad. He’d been the best teacher in the school.
The walkway led to the empty playground, and Abigail followed it until she reached the metal swing set. Fresh wood chips covered the base now, a safety precaution that had been added since she’d been in school.
How many hours had she and Julia spent on this swing set? Every recess from kindergarten until fifth grade. They’d pump their legs to see who could go higher, then coast for a while playing Would You Rather. Would you rather eat a whole jar of peanut butter or walk all the way home barefoot on the hottest day of the year? Would you rather tell Mr. Lugwig that you love him or kiss Scottie Bowlen?
Abigail lowered herself onto the rubber seat. It cradled her hips tightly, forcing her knees together, her ankles apart. She grabbed the cool metal chain and pushed off.
Would you rather clean the whole school or hitchhike to Canada?
Julia had been better at Would You Rather, making them so equivalent in difficulty it was nearly impossible to choose. They’d debate forever which exercise was worse, but in the end they’d usually agree.
Abigail pumped her legs, and the air whipped through her hair, cooling her skin. The metal links creaked and groaned rhythmically, the sound taking her back years.
She extended her arms, leaned back, and watched the leaves overhead shimmy and shake under the breeze. Beyond them, the sky was a gray abyss.
I’m sorry, Julia. I wish I’d told somebody. You were a good friend to me, and you deserved a better childhood.
A drop of rain hit her forehead, followed by another on her arm. She dragged a foot in the wood chips on her next pass, wanting to escape before it started raining in earnest.
Then she remembered Julia’s love for playing in the rain. How she’d stay out until she was soaked to the skin and say it was no different from taking a shower except for the clothes.
A moment later a steady drizzle began to fall from the sky, wetting Abigail’s skin, her clothes. She extended her legs and leaned back again until her arms straightened. Then she blinked up at the sky.
It was time to move on, to forgive herself. She needed to lay it down and let Jesus take it, stop trying to make it right. Because no column could erase the past.
Reagan was right. She was tired of dragging a load of guilt. The stories had alleviated the feeling, but only temporarily. Abigail was ready for a permanent fix. She was tired of feeling restless. She wanted peace, and she wouldn’t have it until she found redemption. She’d spent most of her life seeking self-redemption instead of Truth. Redemption was free; how had she forgotten that?
You can have it, God. I’m giving it to you, and I’m not taking it back. I can’t work my way to redemption, and I don’t need to when you already did that for me.
She didn’t know what that meant for the future of her career and didn’t care at the moment. She was making the choice to forgive herself and was going to move forward however God wanted her to. Abigail began pumping her legs, working higher and higher until she reached the pinnacle, then she leaned back in the rain and smiled.