45. Uninvited Guest

Why can’t I drown my sorrows? Why are adults and rebellious teens the only ones who get to do that?

It’s Saturday night, and I’m still sore and exhausted from the day of working at the inn, but I can’t get to sleep. Part of me is worried about Mom, who is really sloshed downstairs. It’s one thing if she’s passed out or if she’s not here, but she’s here and she’s awake and God knows what she might end up doing to herself. I worry about her going outside and falling off the deck and breaking her neck. So I lie in the darkness with my eyes wide open, listening and wondering and hoping.

I remember when Dad used to have bad days. He was gone so much that I didn’t see much of it, but during the last few years before he met God in the parking lot of somewhere, I’d see him downing the heavy stuff. That’s how Mom started, because they’d both drink together, casually at first at parties and all that other adult stuff they’d do. Then as the stresses of Dad’s job as a lawyer increased, so did the dark stuff he’d drink in the clear short glasses. Mom never liked it and didn’t like him drinking it either. Said he got mean when he drank, and he did. Mom drank wine and got tired.

Eventually, after Dad told us he’d been born-again and I seriously needed him to explain exactly what that meant (I’m still kinda wondering), he swore off the liquor altogether. I don’t think he was/is an alcoholic, but he just stopped drinking.

Mom sure isn’t born-again, because she’s only been drinking more.

I really have no desire to copy all that.

Yet—a very big yet—sometimes I want to escape. Not just this room and this shack, but this life. And I know that’s one way to do so.

It’s temporary, but it’s still a tiny escape.

Eventually, as I’m half in sleep and half out, I hear running water in Mom’s bathroom. She’s getting ready for bed.

Good.

I wonder what Dad is doing. I wonder how that’s going for him, how it feels to have been born-again and then to lose his family.

If that’s part of the deal, then no thanks.

I think of Jocelyn.

You not only need answers, Chris, you also need hope.

It’s easier to ignore my father’s ramblings than hers.

A monster slipped into our house this morning when I was asleep, and he came through the front door.

I’m walking down the stairs in my sweats, and I see him standing in the living room. The narrow weasely face. The square cool-guy glasses. The short cool-guy hair. For a second I think I’m dreaming.

“Good morning, Chris,” the politician—I mean piranha—I mean pastor says.

Mom looks worse than I do, because she’s in clothes that she slept in and she obviously hasn’t had a chance to do any of that fixing up that women do. I’ve always thought she was pretty, but she can’t cover the out-of-it look from the wine last night.

“I was on my way to church and thought I’d stop to see you folks and bring you some breakfast.”

He’s already in a button-down shirt with a fancy pattern on one side and nicely pressed jeans. I can smell his cologne or hair product or his girly-man soap.

“Do you like coffee?” he asks.

“Sure,” I lie, my voice and body and mind all hovering over this surreal moment.

I see a box of half a dozen donuts. Not Dunkin’ Donuts, because this place is too weird to have one of those. These should be called Devil Donuts. Each one comes with its own hallucination.

“We began a new series of sermons at the start of the year. I thought you might be interested. Chris, you’ve been to our church a few times.”

I think of the last time I was there, of the storage room, of the weird vibe I got stepping foot in the building.

“Yeah.”

“Not trying to bribe you with donuts.” He smiles his creepy smile. “But I believe that a church is about more than just a building or a pastor. It’s about community. It’s about the people.”

“It’s very nice of you to come by,” Mom says. “I feel embarrassed that I was—”

“Please,” Pastor Marsh says. “This is my big day, but it’s your day of rest. I don’t mean to disturb it at all.”

I see him watching me so I take a donut, even though I’m not very hungry. I smile as my mouth is full.

“How are you doing, Chris?”

He hasn’t done anything to me. Besides given me creepy, weird vibes.

So why do I feel like I want to run away every time he’s near?

“Doing good.”

What if I’m wrong? What if everything everybody’s told me about this guy is a lie?

“Staying busy?”

I nod.

“Chris got a job at the Crag’s Inn.”

The eyes move to me, and they change. I swear they change. They do something weird. Not like change colors and suddenly widen in horror, but they seem to lock on me like a bird zeroing in on its prey.

Maybe it’s just my imagination.

“And how are you enjoying it?” Pastor Marsh says without any change of tone.

“Good.”

“Is the old lady still working there?”

“Iris?” Mom asks. “Yes, she’s still there.”

He doesn’t stop looking at me. “Good to hear you’re keeping busy.”

Why does everybody want me to stay busy? As if what? As if I’m going to get bored and then suddenly build an atom bomb?

“My new sermon is on community. It’s about building bridges and building relationships. No pressure, but of course I’d love to see you there. Both of you.”

“Thanks,” Mom says.

She’s too tired and embarrassed to have her defenses completely up. If she did, she might tell the pastor what he could do with his community. Or where he could go with it.

“There are some great teenagers at our church, Chris. I think you’d enjoy getting to know them. In lots of different ways.”

He smiles, and I feel like something’s slithering down my back. I smile back, and it’s gotta be the worst fake smile ever.

“Enjoy your day. And your donuts.”

Mom thanks him as he walks to the door. Before he steps out, he turns.

“Oh, and Chris, next time just ask if you’d like a tour. I’ll give you one anytime.”

Then he’s gone, leaving me speechless and Mom cursing.

“Why did he show up here? It’s barely eight o’clock. I must look like a train wreck.”

You probably smell like a vineyard.

“Did you invite him over?” she asks.

“Are you serious?”

“Well, why would he just show up?”

“Maybe Dad put in a call to him.”

“Stop it. What did he mean about giving you a tour?”

I shrug and take a second donut.

“How are they?”

I nod. “If I die from poisoning, you’ll know who did it.”

Neither of us laughs.

As The Smiths say, that joke isn’t funny anymore.