7
Juliet pulled into the small parking lot of the New Beginnings birthing center, located on a lot next to the campus of the Talavera Community Church, a multibuilding complex off Bandera Road. According to Juliet’s mother, the elder board had generously donated the land at her request, a fact that brought her mother a lot of personal pride.
TCC, as her mother referred to it, was a megachurch by anyone’s standards, with members numbering in the thousands. The pastor’s messages were broadcast via a weekly television program with a national following that rivaled Oprah. Well, maybe not that big . . . but he did have more books on the front tables of their local bookstores than James Patterson and Lisa Scottoline combined.
Juliet had been seventeen when her mother claimed she’d “accepted Jesus.”
She’d been sitting at the kitchen counter with a bag of Fritos and an open biology textbook when her mother appeared dressed in cream-colored slacks and a navy blouse and told her she was going out with Sandy. “Honey, I probably won’t be home until late. I left a chicken and rice casserole.” She dug in her bag for her car keys. “In a half hour, turn the oven to 350 degrees, and make a salad for you and your father,” she added before heading for the door.
Juliet remembered thinking her mother was far too optimistic, given her father hadn’t made it home for dinner in over a month. As if reading her mind, her mom stopped and looked back in her direction. “If he’s not home by seven, put the remaining casserole in some Tupperware and store it in the fridge.”
Later Juliet learned Sandy and her mother had attended a Billy Graham crusade that night. Local newspapers reported the four-day event drew nearly two hundred fifty thousand people and filled the Alamodome for the first time in its three-year history. On the last night, some even watched from nearby Hemisfair Park, including her mom, who in the days following traded her weekly martini night with the girls for a fellowship group, which met in various homes for Bible study.
Juliet had watched with amusement as her father’s face drew into a puzzled frown. “What do you mean you’re born again?” To his credit, he tried to talk his wife out of it. “Carol, what sense does it make that a man died and then three days later he came alive again? That’s scientifically impossible.”
Her mother remained unmoved by his logic. “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen,” she quietly responded. “I don’t need physical proof. I believe what the Bible says.”
In the end, Juliet’s father accepted his wife’s new faith. As had she. They didn’t really have a choice. And it had seemed to help her . . . with everything.
Juliet parked next to her mom’s Buick Enclave. After checking her iPhone for messages, she made her way inside, where she found her mother on a ladder painting what appeared to be some kind of quote on the front lobby wall.
“Hi, Mom.”
Her mother turned, paintbrush in hand. “Oh, honey. What a surprise!” She pointed to her handiwork. “Do you like it? When I’m finished, it’ll read, ‘I am fearfully and wonderfully made.’” She grinned broadly and dipped her long-handled brush in the paint can nested on the top of the ladder. “From Psalm 139.”
“Mom, please be careful up there. You could fall.”
“Oh, pooh. I’m fine.” She motioned to an overstuffed chair next to the window. “Sit, sit. I’ll be done in a couple of minutes.”
Juliet nodded and sank into the chair to watch. Her mom returned to her task, finishing up the lettering. Her short red-haired bob was tied up in a cute scarf, and she wore a matching apron over her T-shirt and jeans.
To pass the time, she picked up a magazine on a nearby table. The pages were filled with photos of pregnant women and articles on caring for infants.
“That’ll be you someday.”
Juliet looked up at her mother, confused. “What do you mean?”
Her mother pointed at the magazine. “You,” she said. “I can’t wait to see you wearing maternity clothes and deciding what color to paint your nursery.”
Juliet held up an ad. “And buying hemorrhoid cream? Uh, no thank you.” No matter how much her mom pushed, motherhood was not a club she was anxious to join.
With one flowing stroke, her mom painted a perfect letter F in a calligraphy font. She leaned back to inspect her work. “You won’t remember the bad parts, honey. Only the good.”
Juliet closed the magazine and tossed it back on the table. “Well, that’s a ways off. I have to find someone I’d want to marry first.”
“Well, if you’re having trouble in that department, there are some nice men at the church. I could introduce—”
“Uh, no,” Juliet interrupted. “That’s okay. I don’t have time for any of that right now.” Greer Latham flashed in her mind. Her mother would never approve of her casual relationship with a co-worker. And Greer wasn’t exactly marriage material. “To tell you the truth, Mom, I’m not sure I’d enjoy being someone’s wife.”
Her mom opened her mouth to argue when a woman with gray hair and bright red glasses peeked her head into the lobby from down the hallway. “Carol, the plumbers called. They’ll be here Monday morning, as promised.”
Juliet’s mom nodded. “Okay, Jean. Thanks.”
The woman wiggled her fingers at Juliet before retreating back down the hall.
Her mother placed the brush carefully across the top of the paint can and stepped down. She wiped her hands on a rag. “Honey, take some advice from someone who loves you more than her own soul—life is so much better when shared with someone.”
“Not always.” Juliet felt the words escape before she had time to consider their impact.
Her mother dropped the rag onto a rung, nearly toppling the can off the top. “I know what you’re implicating,” she said.
“But—”
Her mother held up her hand, cutting her off. “But, nothing. Yes, your father made mistakes. He’s human.”
Juliet shook her head. “Mom—all those women.”
“That’s between us.” Her mother gathered herself. “You never understood. I loved him. We got through it.”
Juliet’s throat went thick with unshed tears, and she sank deeper in the chair. “Well, someone had to fight. You didn’t.”
Her mom’s face softened. She placed her hand on her daughter’s shoulder, then knelt at her feet. “Sweetheart, I did fight. I fought for my marriage. I forgave him. That doesn’t mean I placed a stamp of approval on what he did. It means I accepted his apology and released my husband from any grudge I might hang on to—so he could be free to choose a more honorable way of living.” She took Juliet’s hands in her own. “We are never more like God than when we forgive.”
Juliet wanted to roll her eyes at the Christian cliché. Instead, she stared across the room at the freshly constructed admitting desk. Her mother was quick, smart, and well-read, but when it came to her father and issues of faith, Carol Ryan’s mind remained rigid as that countertop.
“I got way more than I gave up. Consider what I’m telling you.” Her mother patted her hand and stood. “Forgive him, Juliet.”
Juliet answered quietly, “I’m sorry, Mom. I can’t.”
Her mother’s eyes filled with sadness. She sighed and stood. “I swear you two are just alike. You even chose the same line of work.”
“No, Mom. We have very different jobs. Dad talks about food safety . . . and I’m on the front line actually making sure food products are safe.”