Along the sightless path, you may begin to consider yourself separated from God and feel that you are left to act for yourself.
JEANNE GUYON
I WAKE TO the same nausea and debilitating fatigue that followed me home from the meeting with Brigitte and Max yesterday, but I determine I'll push through it. Gerard's death, the uncertainties of what his trust contained, and the continued stress of living under Brigitte's rule have taken their toll. My body is reacting—telling me what I haven't wanted to face.
Haven't had the courage to face.
It is time to leave.
Time to take care of myself, to be a good steward of the life God's given me, as Jason suggested.
It is time to stand back from Brigitte.
To stand back from the life I've known and my own understanding.
Not only because I believe this is the meaning of God's message to me this last year, but also for my own well being. How can I follow God and His purpose for me if I can't function? If I spend more time sick than well?
It is time to pick up my cross and follow Him.
It all seems clear now.
I raise my head off my pillow, take a deep breath, and then sit up and put my legs over the side of the bed. I stand and determine, again, that I won't give in to my churning stomach. I walk to my closet, put on my robe, and decide I'll go to the kitchen and force myself to eat a piece of toast and drink some juice. It is early enough that I know I won't run into Brigitte, or even Hannah.
I hesitate at the elevator, but no, I'll make myself walk down the stairs. I take each step like a woman far beyond my thirty-three years. Winded as I reach the last step, I decide I'll call the doctor tomorrow just to make certain this isn't the infection. I haven't wanted, couldn't entertain that possibility. But it's time to face reality again.
Nicholetta, the cook, is alone in the kitchen when I poke my head in.
"Good morning, Jenna. May I get you something?"
"Good morning, Nicholetta. Just a piece of toast and some juice, please."
"Would you like it in your room?"
"No, don't bother bringing it up. I'll just have it here, if that's okay?"
"Of course."
I pull out one of the stools from under the island, and sit while Nicholetta drops a piece of sourdough bread into the toaster and pours me a glass of apple juice. When she sets the juice in front of me, she pauses.
"You're sick again."
I shrug my shoulders. "I'm . . . okay."
"You don't look okay." Then she leans in and lowers her voice. "It is this house—the atmosphere—it is her. Pardon me for saying so, but you cannot stay here and be healthy. You are free now. Mr. Bouvier is gone. You are free to leave. You must go. Otherwise, you will fall to depression. You will be sick forever."
I watch as she steps back from me, reaches for her gray bun, adjusts a bobby pin, and then goes to the sink, washes her hands, wipes them on a towel, and then butters my toast.
This is the first time in eleven years that one of the staff has said anything personal to me, or perhaps more surprising, anything against Brigitte. When Nicholetta sets a plate with my toast in front of me, I reach out and grab her hand. "Nicholetta, thank you. I think . . . I know you're right. Thank you."
She nods her head. "You need to take care of yourself." She smiles and gives my hand a squeeze then returns to her duties.
I take a small bite of the toast, chew it, and make myself swallow. Then I take a sip of the juice. I force myself to eat until the toast is gone. All the while thinking of Nicholetta's words. Depression. Yes, that's the gray cloud—the fog that's followed me. And I've read it can lead to physical ailments. Perhaps that is what plagues me.
It is time to go.
I knew it when I woke this morning.
And now that knowledge has been affirmed.
I stand, take my plate to the sink, and smile at Nicholetta before turning to go.
I don't have a plan, but I'll make one. I'll call my dad and Jason this morning. I leave the kitchen and climb the stairs while deciding what to do. I'll get Dad and Jason's advice. Maybe I'll stay with—
"Jenna, please come in for a moment."
Brigitte stands at the door of her suite and motions for me to step inside. She wears her robe and holds a cup of coffee. Her tone is cold, hard.
My stomach lurches and I long to turn and run, but there seems no way to avoid her, so I follow her into her suite and then into her office. I notice the file folder sitting on the desk. She goes behind her desk, sets her coffee cup down, and reaches for the folder and hands it across the desk to me.
"You left Max's office yesterday without signing the agreement. I thought you'd like to take care of that this morning so we can . . . get on with things." She opens her desk drawer and takes out a pen and hands it to me.
I wasn't prepared to face her.
Not yet.
But maybe being unprepared is better.
I set the file and pen down on her desk, and put my hands in the pockets of my robe so she won't see them shaking. "I've"—I clear my throat—"I've made a decision." Her icy stare makes my skin crawl, but I must continue. "I won't . . . sign the agreement." As I speak the words it feels as though my lungs collapse. I take a shallow breath and feel my pulse pounding in my temples. My tongue threatens to stick to the roof of my mouth. I swallow. "I'll . . . make arrangements to move."
Brigitte says nothing, but leans across the desk and picks up the file folder. She turns, opens the top drawer of her credenza, and replaces the file. Then she pulls out a different file and sets it on her desk. She turns back to me.
"That is a shame, chérie. I was hoping we could do this simply. But if that is the choice you've made, then I should share some additional information with you." She reaches for the new file, her acrylic nails clawlike as she pushes it across the desk.
"What is this?" I pick up the file and open it.
"That, my dear, is a little piece of business. Your father's business."
I read the sheet of paper in the file once. Twice. And break into a cold sweat. "I . . . don't understand."
"It's a demand note. Your father borrowed money against Azul and then never repaid the note. Not only does he owe the amount of the original loan, but also twenty-six years of interest."
"What?" I can't take in the information. It makes no sense. "Why . . . why do you have it?"
She reaches for her robe and pulls the top of it close to her neck. "I purchased the note from the original holder. I paid a great deal of money for it. So now, I hold the note and, if I so choose, will demand payment from your father for the entire amount."
I look at the note again and try to imagine what twenty-six years of interest alone would add up to. But the numbers are too big. Plus, I have no idea what Brigitte paid on top of that. I look at Brigitte, my earlier nausea replaced with roiling anger. "What . . . are you saying?" My voice trembles now, but not from fear.
"You will sign the agreement presented yesterday, Jenna, and adhere, of course, to the stipulations. Or I will demand full payment from your father, which, as we both know, he won't be able to pay. Simply speaking, it will force him into bankruptcy."
"No." I gasp for breath. "No! You're lying!" I'm shouting, but I don't care. "I would have known." I gulp back angry tears. "He would have told me—told Jason."
"Evidently you don't know your father as well as you think you do."
Her calm infuriates me. I close the file and slap it onto her desk and turn to leave. I can't respond. I have to think—to call my dad. I can't—
"Jenna, there is one more thing."
Her tone sends a chill through me and I stop and turn. She hasn't moved—just crossed her arms across her chest. "You will end your relationship with Matthew MacGregor. If you don't—if you choose not to sign the agreement and abide by the stipulations—I will expose your affair with Mr. MacGregor in a very public and humiliating way. Humiliating, I'd imagine, for both of you."
I'm struck dumb by this outrageous claim. Me? Matthew? An affair?
She picks up the file folder, returns it to the credenza, and makes a show of locking the drawer. She drops the key in the pocket of her bathrobe. "Don't doubt that I have evidence to back my claims. I don't make false accusations. I have proof, of course."
The nausea returns and assaults me. I turn and run from her room.
I run down the hallway, through my room, and make it to the bathroom just in time. I lose the toast and juice I'd forced myself to eat. For more times than I care to count in recent weeks, I find myself on the bathroom floor—heaving and crying. I pound my fist on the floor and gasp for air.
It's too much, Lord. This is too much!
I heave, my stomach convulsing, until there is nothing left. I lay on the floor—I have neither the strength nor the dignity to get myself up. Thoughts of Brigitte crowd my mind. I see her, finally, for what she is—a sick woman who cares about one thing, and one thing only: herself. Love me? She's never loved me or anyone else. She is incapable.
She lives life as a game, moving people as pawns at will, determined to win.
And won she has.
Checkmate.
Game over.
I think of the demand note and though I doubted its validity, I know Brigitte wouldn't threaten something she couldn't see through. I don't know why my father never spoke of it, but now it will destroy him. And Jason.
Unless I sign Brigitte's agreement.
What choice do I have?
Again, the anger boils and bubbles within. Not only toward Brigitte, but this time also for myself. How stupid I was to think I could just walk away. Just pick up and leave. What a fool I am!
I roll to my back on the bathroom floor and tears pool around my ears.
Oh, Matthew, I'm so, so sorry.
What "proof" can Brigitte have when there was no affair? When, in fact, there was never anything like that between Matthew and me? I don't know. But again, she doesn't make veiled threats. She will produce some trumped-up evidence. Something that will convince all concerned that her baseless accusations are true. And I don't doubt that the humiliation would be public and painful.
Too painful.
Defeat calls my name and I respond.
The fight is over.
I roll over, pull myself to my knees, and get up.
I reach for the box of tissue on the counter, wipe my eyes, and blow my nose again. And then I wobble my way from the bathroom back to my bed. I drop onto the edge of the bed and stare at the floor. I sit like that for a long time and consider what's to come. And consider my own failings.
I lift my left hand and look at the band on my ring finger—the symbol of my union with God . . . and now the symbol of my broken vow.
I shall have no other god before You . . . except Brigitte, it seems.
I slip the ring off, open the drawer of my nightstand, and drop the ring inside.
I shut the drawer.
Then I lie down, pull the covers up, and curl into myself.
And shut my soul.