60. Alone

We sit on the floor in front of the crackling fire eating our sandwiches and potato salad and chips. It’s a pathetic meal, but Jocelyn acts like it’s the best meal of her life. She sits cross-legged with her dress spread out over the ground like a tablecloth and watches me as I talk about the school back home and stuff with my family. I suddenly find myself talking about my parents, a subject I never discuss with anybody.

It’s a freeing thing, opening up like this and being listened to. Not judged or critiqued.

“What ultimately did it?” Jocelyn asks.

“Depends on who you ask. My mom blames God. Well, not even the God, because she doesn’t believe in one. Just the idea of God. She blames God because my dad suddenly changed his life and his beliefs and didn’t seem to have much time for what my mother and I wanted.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Yeah, I don’t either. It’s just—he quit his job. Felt ‘called’ to do this and that, all while my mother ends up having to carry the load. It was too much. They argued all the time. My dad wanted my mother to find faith. But you can’t force someone to believe.”

“I know,” Jocelyn says. “I know too well.”

“The whole thing left a bad taste in my mouth.”

“I can imagine.”

“It’s crazy—I’d never say this to Mom or Dad or—well, I guess to anybody. But it almost seems like—like it would have been better if my mom had found my dad cheating on her.”

“What? Are you kidding?”

“No, listen. I know—that would’ve been bad. But this was like, like Dad lost his mind. He found God and then abandoned his family. I don’t get it. Mom doesn’t get it.”

“You said she was the one who ended things.”

“Yeah, because she couldn’t deal with him following God. At least, if he was following some other lady, that would make more sense to me, because she’s there. God—who knows?”

“There’s this Christian radio station I listen to a lot. I like the music. They’ve got these commercials or segments that are different people reading psalms. It’s kinda cool. They always make me want to—I don’t know—find out more, figure things out myself. But I guess—well, that’s a problem in itself. How can we ‘figure out’ anything? Faith is still about believing in something you can’t see.”

“Faith gives me a headache,” I say.

“It shouldn’t. It should set you free. At least that’s what somebody keeps telling me.”

“Who’s that?”

“Just someone—someone who believes. A very strong Christian who’s been reaching out—probably trying to save my poor, wretched soul.”

“I don’t think you have a poor, wretched soul.”

“Oh, I do,” Jocelyn says.

I study her face to see if she’s joking, but she’s not.

“I think we all do,” she says.

“Hey, speak for yourself.”

She slides over and finds my hand, taking it in both of hers. She studies it for a long time. Outside the sun has disappeared behind storm clouds. I see the light of the burning fire flickering over her face.

“What are you thinking?”

“Chris—I don’t want you falling for me, okay?”

I start to ask what she’s talking about, but she continues.

“Just—I want you—I want things to be like this, okay?”

“Okay. Me too.”

“No, just like this. Like friends. Like really close friends you can tell anything. Or almost anything.”

“That’s cool.”

“No, you don’t understand. I don’t—I’ve told you this. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“You planning on leaving anytime soon?”

She smiles a beautiful, sad smile and grips my hands harder.

“You know the one thing about faith that makes it look—well, that makes it seem so appealing?” she asks.

“What?”

“It’s this idea that we’re not alone. That someone is up there who knows.”

“Yeah, but does that mean He is looking out for us?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think it always works out that way.”

“I don’t either.”

“But someone knowing everything—to me that’s a pretty cool thought.”

“Why?”

“Because then you know you’re not totally alone.”

“You’re not alone, Jocelyn.”

She looks at me, those hazel eyes so full.

“I think we’re all alone. No matter who we are, we’re alone.”