Die to live.
JEANNE GUYON
I ROLL OVER in bed and open my eyes. The room is almost dark. I glance at the bedside clock—4:00 p.m. Outside, I hear a storm raging. I lay my head back down. My legs are tangled in the sheets and my unwashed hair tangles on the pillow. I haven't changed out of the pajamas I put on . . . when? Two nights ago? Three nights ago? I sit up in bed and push my hair out of my eyes. The air in the room is stale. A long-cold cup of peppermint tea sits on the nightstand, specks of dust float on top of the murky liquid.
I can't stay in bed forever.
I can't hide from the choice I've made.
I get out of bed, reach for the robe draped across the stool at the vanity, put it on, and then amble out of the room and down the hall to Brigitte's suite. I tap on the door.
"Come in."
I take a deep breath, and then push the door open and walk in. Brigitte sits at her desk, glasses perched on the end of her nose. She looks at me, takes the glasses off, and then motions me to the chair opposite the desk.
I walk to her desk, but don't sit. A weak act of rebellion.
"Good to see you up, my dear. I thought I might have to come hoist you out of bed myself."
"I'll sign the agreement. Now." Lightheaded, I reach for the edge of her desk and steady myself.
Brigitte looks at me, her eyes narrowed. "Yes, I knew you would see reason, chérie." She turns to the credenza and looks for the file then pulls it out. As she does, my heart begins thundering in my chest and a film of sweat beads on my upper lip. Mouth dry, I swallow.
She opens her desk drawer, pulls out a pen, and then hands both the agreement and the pen to me.
I bend to sign the agreement . . . but my hand begins to shake.
I shake my head to clear my mind. And then I stand straight, pen dangling in my hand at my side. I look at Brigitte and then think of my dad . . . of Jason . . . and Matthew.
"Sign it, Jenna. You have no choice." Her tone seeks to intimidate and, for the moment, it works.
I bend and place the tip of the pen on the signature line. But again, something stops me. And a new wave of nausea swells. I stand, drop the pen, and cover my mouth with my hand. For the second time in less than a week, I run from Brigitte's office.
I stagger to my bathroom, gulping for air. I wait for the expected and now so-familiar result, but as I breathe in and out, in and out, the moment passes and my stomach stills. I slump against the bathroom counter.
Then I turn and look at myself in the mirror.
The woman who stares back is unknown to me. Her eyes are lifeless, her complexion gray. I hang my head and my hair falls forward.
I can't look at myself.
I pull off my robe and drop it on the floor. I check the bathroom door to make sure it's locked, then open the door of the large glass enclosure and turn the shower on. I reach for the small panel on the far wall and set the temperature and timer for the steamer as well. I get a bath sheet and place it on the towel warmer next to the shower, and then I step inside.
With the door closed and the glass fogged, I feel as though I've escaped—Brigitte . . . and myself—for a few minutes. I fill my lungs with hot, humid air, and let the water from the dual heads pulse against my taut neck and shoulders.
But the sense of escape flees as thoughts torment me. A thousand images crowd the screen of my mind, but like television static, nothing is clear. I see only flashes—flashes of Brigitte through the years.
I see her contempt. Her conniving. Her control.
I see her for who she is, but it does nothing to change my circumstances. I think, for the first time in days, of the blog and the readers who follow it. I think of Andee and the questions she's asked. Am I really willing to just shut the door on the blog—on the readers?
On God?
Lightseeker seems almost unknown to me now. Her purpose seemed clear, but my own has been thwarted.
Images war within.
I long to make a different choice, but . . . how?
Confusion, a slithering serpent, wraps itself around my mind and constricts—suffocating the last of my hope. You are crazy, it hisses.
My tears, as hot as the water spouting from the showerheads, blur my vision. I turn toward the wall of the shower and lean my forehead against the glass tile.
Yes, I am crazy.
Crazy to have stayed all these years.
Crazy to have put up with Brigitte's abuse.
Crazy to fall to her final ploy.
That is crazy.
Hope gasps for breath.
For the first time in days, I pray. I beg God.
Show me another way. Show me, please.
I turn, lean my back against the tile, and slide down the wall to the floor of the shower. I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my knees. Show me! I scream the words to God. Not out loud but rather in the recesses of my soul—that place where faith tells me He still resides and hears my pleas. Rescue me. Please . . . rescue me. I . . . don't . . . I don't know what to do!
I want to follow You.
Whatever the cost.
My sobs reverberate between the glass walls. I sob into my knees until my stomach aches. I lift my head and gulp the thick air. Please, show me!
Choose life!
I lift my head from my knees. "What?"
Will you choose death or will you choose life?
The question spoken to my soul is as clear as if it were audible. And the words are familiar. They are the words I was led to pray that dark night. Words I believed I was praying for another. Had they really been for me? My heart and mind still.
God has broken His silence.
This day I call heaven and earth as witnesses against you that I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life, so that you and your children may live and that you may love the Lord your God, listen to his voice, and hold fast to him.
All is still.
The only sound is the song of water droplets against glass.
But in my soul, God speaks. The words from Deuteronomy run through my mind as though I'd read them just moments ago. I repeat the words: "'Now choose life, so that you and your children may live . . .'"
And repeat again, "'. . . so that you . . . and your children . . . may live.'"
I gasp.
Fresh tears flow.
"Oh . . ." I relax my hold on my knees and move my hand to my abdomen and rest it there. "Oh . . ."
Knowing comes like dawn.
His mercies are new every morning.
Just as He spoke creation into being, His words unfurl the serpent wrapped around my mind and soul and crush it. The static images are replaced with one, clear thought.
Choose life!
And to stay with Brigitte would be choosing death.
And so, in that heartbeat, I decide.
I choose life.
I don't know how. I don't have a plan. But I have a Rescuer.
I entered the shower lost.
I emerge found.
As I blow-dry my hair, I make a plan—though it doesn't extend beyond the next several hours. But certainty flows through me. God will lead, one step at a time. If I think ahead—or if I think of my dad, or Jason, or Matthew—fear threatens. Instead, each time those thoughts arrest me, I hand them to God.
I will trust Him.
I dress in jeans, a blouse, and a black wool sweater. Then I take a suitcase from the closet, lay it on the bed, and fill it with clothes, toiletries, and other necessities. I sit on the edge of the bed for a moment and open the drawer of the nightstand. I take the ring out that I'd dropped inside and slip it back on my left ring finger.
"Thank You for Your forgiveness. Thank You that nothing can separate me from Your love."
When Hannah knocks on my door with dinner, I open the door just a few inches and take the tray she holds. I tell her I need nothing else.
I set the tray on my desk and then sit and make myself eat the bowl of chicken soup and a piece of bread. My stomach recoils, but I take it slow and get most of the soup down.
I eat with new purpose.
When I'm done, I push the tray aside, and open my laptop. I log into my blog server, and begin a new entry:
Dear Readers,
My name is Jenna Durand Bouvier . . .