It is seven months later and I’m sitting next to my mother, four rows away from the pulpit at Prince of Peace Church. Mitch and Luke are on my other side. Mark is speaking this morning on grace, on the idea that God’s love is without conditions. Sometimes I still notice the curious stares from the other congregants. That’s the pastor’s girlfriend. I hear she’s not even a Christian. But it’s not enough to make me run, not even close.
My father was kept in the hospital for several days after that night. We all stayed, taking shifts to ensure he would rarely be alone. And it was during that time, when we were so grateful to have one another, so grateful to be a part of our family—our flawed, imperfect family—that my mother first met Mitch.
Mitch had come because he loved Luke. It was really that simple, that plain. He didn’t intend to infringe on what he assumed was a private, delicate time, and so he met Luke at a small table in the hospital cafeteria. He and Mitch were still there when my mother returned earlier than expected from one of her brief, infrequent dashes home to shower and change clothes. She was headed for the elevator when she saw them, sitting with their heads inclined, holding hands discreetly under the table. She faltered for a second; then, feeling her stare, Luke turned his head and met her eyes.
I don’t know what Luke expected her to do, but it certainly wasn’t to walk calmly to their table and shake Mitch’s hand. “I’m Patty Carlisle,” she said. “You must be Mitch.” No one knows how she knew his name. Maybe one of us had slipped and said it. Maybe she had known it all along. Either way, Luke hadn’t expected her to say it with such warmth. “The Lord prepared my heart.” That’s what my mother says when asked about that moment. “He used me to demonstrate his grace.” I tend to think it was one of those rare, pure instances when we don’t put qualifications on love. When we need it so desperately, so urgently, that we accept it when it’s offered. So maybe my mother and I are really saying the same thing.
It didn’t happen instantly, Mitch becoming part of our family. It happened slowly, gradually, in a series of increasingly frequent meetings, some more tense than others. It’s still happening. And there is still far to go. But it’s better. And I’ll take better.
Less than a month after my father was released from the hospital, my parents had to leave their home. We all helped them pack and move their things—Kat, Luke, Mitch, Mark, and I—into a rented two-bedroom condo in Kat’s complex. My mother stared at the house as they pulled away, quoting softly from the Book of Matthew, “ ‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust corrupt… But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.’ ” My father rested his hand on her knee as they drove off.
We have found many small mercies in their situation. My father, having taken a desk job with the commercial construction company of an old associate, has a steady but relatively small paycheck. And though much of what would be considered their “wealth” was lost, their IRAs remained intact. My father still hopes to rebuild his business, but he knows it will be a long road, maybe too long a road at his age. He keeps himself busy, though, and is with Kat this morning, looking at possible spaces for a new salon she’s hoping to open. My mother, having found that a forty-year gap in employment is problematic in today’s job market, has taken a more active role in managing my parents’ finances and continues to volunteer at the family center, where I sometimes join her.
I never returned to Kent & Wagner. After a few days, I called and left a message for Philip. It was brief and to the point. I didn’t hear back from him. I sent an e-mail to Brenda in which I apologized for leaving so suddenly, and congratulated her on becoming a grandmother. We exchanged a few more e-mails, the last of which indicated that she had given her notice at Kent & Wagner and was moving to Chicago. “I can be a secretary anywhere,” she wrote. “But I can only be a grandmother there.”
Jill is due in a matter of days with a baby boy that they are naming Gregory Jr., after his father. She has asked me to be his godmother. “And when you and Mark get married, Greg Jr. can be your ring bearer,” she suggested, pushing, as always, for us to “make it official.”
Later, I’ll go to work at the Italian restaurant where I waitress several nights a week. It’s not a career, but it helps supplement my gig as an intern at the magazine where Mitch works. “They are going to offer you something permanent soon, Elle,” promised Mitch, who got me the position. But I don’t mind paying my dues, even if it means being the oldest intern in the history of the publication. I live simply, in a studio apartment near Mark, and use the money from my divorce settlement to get me by until I have an actual salary.
Soon Mark’s sermon will end, and he’ll step away from the pulpit, looking at me as he makes his way down the center aisle. He’ll spend a while greeting the congregation, patiently listening, nodding his head and offering comfort, hope, and kindness. I’ll stare at him as he gets pulled from conversation to conversation, and I’ll see him sneak glances at me as I talk with my mother, Luke, and Mitch.
My mother will leave first—there is a new church that she has heard wonderful things about, and she is just dying to visit it. Mitch and Luke will then walk to Luke’s car, holding hands, two people who love each other.
I’ll wait for Mark.
And though I still don’t know what I am, or how to define my beliefs, I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I am blessed.