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Philippe and Elodie sat in their kitchen, eating a beef stew that Elodie had burned while reheating it. It was barely palatable, but Philippe didn’t criticize—he could not have done much better. They hadn’t heard from Meredith since her friend had called to say she’d kicked her out. Night after night they both lay awake, not talking, each wrapped in their own thoughts, maybe prayers.
When the phone rang, Philippe stood immediately, avoiding Elodie’s gaze. He picked up the receiver. On the other end was the person he wanted most—and feared most—to hear from. He braced himself against the doorjam, needing strength.
“Hi, Dad.” Meredith sounded half asleep. Probably more like half drunk, he thought.
“Hi, honey, how are you?”
“Yeah, well, okay.”
“Really?”
“Look, I need money.”
He heard music pulsing in the background. A bar. Or a bedroom.
“I can’t,” Philippe choked out.
“Yes, you can!” she said.
“I’m not supposed to enable you—” Philippe stumbled in his thoughts. He shouldn’t be revealing to Meredith how weak he was at following the Tough Love strategy.
“Enable? I’m your child, you’re supposed to help me.”
Philippe agreed with her, and not with Tough Love, at that point. He steeled himself not to give in to his urge to meet her, hand over lots of cash so she could eat and have a roof over her head. But she would just keep drinking, remember that, Philippe. Don’t give in. Don’t help her to destroy herself.
“Dad? You there? How about helping?”
He forced himself to say it. “I wouldn’t really be helping you if I gave you money.” His voice was full of air because his breathing was so shallow, he was so tense. He felt dizzy with how awful his life had become.
“What the fuck? Are you crazy?”
He wrapped the phone cord tightly around his fingertips. They hurt.
“Honey, get sober, come home, get a job,” Philippe said. “You’ll have money. We’ll help you.”
In the background, a man’s voice said, “Come here, baby.” Philippe cringed.
“Then what I’m doing is all your fault!” Meredith shouted, and the line went dead.
“What did she say?” Elodie asked.
Philippe’s mind went blank. He had to spare Elodie the truth, but he couldn’t think of a thing to tell her. After a long pause, he managed to say, “Oh, just that she’s fine.”
Elodie looked down. They resumed picking at their bowls of stew. In the end they threw it all out.
That night they lay next to each other, fingers touching, but just barely.
“Cheri, talk to me. Don’t shut me out.” Elodie’s voice was soaked in grief. Philippe wanted to communicate with his wife. It used to be easy.
But he was so angry with God. He couldn’t admit it, not even to his own wife. He was a pastor, and he wasn’t supposed to be angry with God, his creator, his redeemer, the lover of his soul. He couldn’t pray. Everything inside him was askew with anger and grief. All of his high ability to function, to minister, to bless, had been destroyed. When would he ever come to some sort of peace with this situation? Never. It was too dreadful.
He didn’t hear his own teeth grinding.
When the alarm went off in the morning, they both crawled off the bed, dark smudges under their eyes. They went silently to work.
