I stared at the blinking red light on my kitchen phone until it was like a heartbeat in my mind. I had turned the ringer off after my lunch with Jack. That was two weeks ago. Two weeks of hiding out in my house, not knowing what to do. Two weeks ago I thought I could choose between medical therapy and spirituality. Now I had neither. I’d managed to rouse the ire of God by my sin, and Dr. Alexander by my missed appointments.
But instinct told me who had left messages. Mom, Heather, Dr. Alexander’s receptionist. I didn’t want to talk to any of them. And Maggie. I hadn’t spoken to her since right after the car accident. A slice of guilt cut through my gut. She deserved better. They all did. I’d pushed them away for something they had nothing to do with—had no control over. In the case of The Reverend, they didn’t even know what had happened.
I snatched the receiver and punched the code to access my messages: Mom, calling twice, just checking in, “Are you eating?”
Then Maggie’s voice: “Kate darling, I’m just calling to see how things are going. Your mother tells me you’re seeing a doctor in the city. Do call.” Maggie again: “Kate? I hope all is well. I understand you’re seeing a psychiatrist. I’d love to hear how it’s going for you, dear. Do call.”
Laura-Lea’s voice came on. “You’ve missed two group sessions. Please call me when you get this message.” As an afterthought she said, “I hope everything’s okay.” I jotted down her number, but what would I say? That I was avoiding group therapy because I didn’t want to bump into the pastor that hung around the building?
In truth I longed for group therapy—missed them all, but if I went to Glen Hills, I would see Jack, and I couldn’t face him. Couldn’t face talking to him about the God he served. The God that didn’t want anything to do with a sinner like me. He was an angry bully, not a loving God. Jack said God loved me, but he also said God was holy. The Reverend showed just what holy really meant: angry. God was a bully. And I was getting tired of bullies.
The bullies of the past few weeks stood up for roll call in my imagination: Kevin, my lover and tormentor, killing me with his kindness, and then with his violent words and accusations—and lies. Blair, and his lies of omission. Donna, the worst sort of adversary, hidden in dark corners, sabotaging from invisible places. And now Rev. J. D. Slater Sr., whose only saving grace was his inability to outrun me as I fled for my life.
Yes, it was time to start standing up for myself. To stop letting bullies push me around. I snatched up my keys and headed for my car.
I backed out of the driveway and sat for a moment, deciding if I should do what I was thinking of doing. My gaze followed the line from the front lawn up to my bedroom window, its screen missing. Maybe there really was a devil in me.
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. The Reverend seemed to believe there was.
I clutched the steering wheel, hands shaking. I tipped my head back against the headrest and tried to clear my mind. A question floated to the surface: Why no phone message from Heather? It wasn’t like her not to call.
I swatted the question away and put the car in drive. I had more pressing matters to consider, like confronting the harlot who had slept with my husband. I steered the car toward downtown, toward First Bank and Donna Walsh.