Читать книгу Decidedly Married - Carole Page Gift - Страница 13

On Saturday Julie telephoned her father, Alex Currey, in Crescent City, two hours’ drive from Long Beach. Since her mother’s death last year Julie had telephoned her father once a week to check on him and make sure he was okay. In some ways it was an empty ritual, for Julie always had the feeling her father wished she hadn’t bothered to call It was as if he were saying, We never talked when your mother was alive…what do we have to talk about now?

Still, she phoned him every Saturday at noon, as regular as clockwork. Her questions were always the same: Are you feeling okay? Are you eating right? Have you gone anywhere? Have you seen anybody? Do you need anything?

Her father always answered with one-word, often one-syllable replies: Yes…no…sure…nope…can’t…dunno…why?… nothing…nobody…nowhere. All dead-end answers, conversation stoppers, as if he deliberately wanted to keep communication with his only daughter nonexistent.

Julie always felt dry-mouthed and tongue-tied when she called her father. No matter what she said to him, he had a way of making her feel stupid for having said it. It often took her days to recover her self-esteem after one of their conversations. That’s why she limited the calls to once a week; that was all she could handle.

Not that her father was an ogre or even mean-spirited; it was just that they had always been on different wavelengths, coming at each other from separate planets, aliens of the heart forced to live together all those years under one cramped roof. She had never understood him; he had never understood her.

Alex Currey was a solemn, private man, a former aerospace engineer who had been forced to retire during the massive layoffs prompted by the recession several years ago. He still lived in the same small, stucco, frame house where Julie had been born and raised. He seemed to her as changeless, invariable and eternal as the house itself.

The only time her father’s low, melancholy voice took on a lilting note was when Julie mentioned Katie. Then her father would suddenly come alive and declare in a startlingly cheery tone, “Let me talk to my girl, Katie! Tell me, what’s that granddaughter of mine up to these days, anyway?”

This time, Julie had the irresistible urge to reply, “Your darling granddaughter is dating a high school dropout with long hair and a ring in his ear. He’s a grease monkey in a garage and lives on the wrong side of the tracks. That’s the good news; the bad news is that he could be a gangmember or on drugs or having sex with Katie or who knows what all? And dear Michael has invited him to a family barbecue tomorrow!”

But Julie quickly edited her comments, telling her father only that Katie had a new boyfriend who was coming over for a Sunday barbecue. Why worry him? Let him think life in the Ryan household is idyllic and problem free.

And, as always, after a few minutes of abbreviated conversation, her father droned, “Well, this call is costing you money—you’d better go.” Knowing this was his way of saying he had talked long enough and wanted to hang up, she always promptly ended the call without argument, but she was often tempted to say, So what? It’s my money and I’ll spend it the way I please. I’ll talk all day if I want to!

But, of course, she never said such a thing; it was painful enough to know her father apparently found not the slightest pleasure in talking with her. After hanging up, she was often left with an odd melancholy feeling, as if something had been stirred up again for the umpteenth time and not resolved; never resolved. And what this thing was she had no idea, except that it was like the flaring up of an old toothache; she had probed the sensitive core of some deep-set need just enough to remind herself the pain was still there, buried somewhere beyond reach.

Julie spent the rest of her Saturday painting watercolors—two bright, churning seascapes taken from her own photographs of the Pacific Ocean off Laguna Beach at sunset, and a rather prosaic still life of garden flowers in an antique ceramic vase.

Painting was another of Julie’s weekend rituals, like the phone calls to her father. The calls were made out of a long-standing sense of obligation, but painting sprang from Julie’s deepest yearnings to express creatively all the multilayered feelings in her heart for which she had no words. Painting was tied to Julie’s innermost nature; it was as much a part of her as breathing, and just as necessary.

In college she had dreamed of receiving her degree in fine art and then studying painting in Europe for a year or two before launching her professional career in New York, perhaps even in New York City’s Greenwich Village. She had hoped to work possibly as an illustrator for a national magazine, or more likely to freelance, conducting workshops and exhibiting her own one-woman shows until she found a prestigious gallery to represent her. She had known it would take years of dedicated hard work to build her name and reputation as an artist, but she’d been willing to endure whatever it took.

But that was all before Michael and Katie. Seventeen long years ago. After learning she was pregnant and agreeing to marry Michael, she knew his education would need to take top priority. So she quit college and got a nine-to-five, bread-and-butter job to pay the bills, and her art career became “the road not taken.” She had accepted her fate and taken solace in being a weekend painter, but always at the back of her mind was the nagging question, What would I have accomplished as an artist if Michael and I had never—She never finished the question—at least not in so many words, for it seemed somehow a betrayal of both Michael and Katie.

And if there was one thing Julie was, it was loyal. She loved her husband and daughter and couldn’t imagine life without them. Surely they were more precious than any imagined career success. Seventeen years ago she had chosen the two of them, and she would make the same choice all over again, without hesitation. And yet, in spite of her commitment and loyalty to her husband and daughter, in spite of what she had given up for them, lately they both seemed to be slipping away from her…irretrievably away.

As usual on Sunday morning Julie and Michael attended services at Bethany Chapel, where they had been members for more years than Julie could recall. Katie was there in the congregation, too, sitting a few aisles away with Jesse. It was the first time she had brought him to a morning service. She was obviously ready to let the world know she had a new boyfriend.

From the corner of her eye Julie could see the two of them whispering together, Katie touching his shoulder and his hair in the intimate, possessive way women let others know they’ve found their man. Be careful, Katie, Julie wanted to shout. Don’t throw away your future on this boy. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life!

But there’s nothing I can say, Julie realized. The distance between us is too great, in every way.

“She never sits with us anymore,” Julie whispered to Michael, as if she expected him to offer a consoling word.

He merely gave her that look that said, What do you expect? She’s a teenager!

Julie knew, of course, with or without Jesse, Katie would be sitting elsewhere with her friends; it had been years since she had sat in church with her parents. She was too old now, she would insist, practically an adult. Julie never argued with her about it. And as Michael was quick to remind her now in a confidential whisper, “You know how it is, Jewel. Teenagers don’t like to be seen in public with their parents unless it’s absolutely unavoidable.”

But Julie missed having her daughter beside her, their arms touching lightly as they shared a Bible during the Scripture reading; she missed hearing Katie’s light, clear soprano when the congregation sang hymns and praise choruses.

But it wasn’t just Katie she missed. Something else was lacking, too. Julie couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Often when she left church she felt the same inexplicable sadness she felt after hanging up the phone with her father, as if she had gone through the motions but hadn’t quite connected.

Where was God during church? Why did she always feel as if she were worshiping Him from afar? Surely if she were going to feel close to Him, it should be here.

Perhaps if I were worshiping God in some glorious, centuries-old cathedral in Europe, something wonderfully Gothic or Byzantine, like I studied in art history, I would feel God’s presence. How different that would be from these modern, sterile, utilitarian church buildings.

Bethany Chapel was typical of so many in Southern California these days. The structure was fairly new, still smelled new, in fact—a sprawling stucco building, attractive in a spare, serviceable sort of way, but nothing like those exquisite European cathedrals, nor even like the little country church Julie had gone to growing up.

Her childhood church had possessed lovely stained-glass windows showing Jesus the Good Shepherd and Jesus with His disciples at the Last Supper. It was a quaint, picture-postcard church complete with a steeple and belfry. In sharp contrast, Bethany Chapel’s huge all-purpose auditorium served as both sanctuary and gymnasium, and from the outside it could be mistaken for a school or even an office building Still, it was better than the public school gymnasium they had met in for years until the money was raised to build their own facility.

Julie felt a stab of guilt as Pastor Brady fleetingly met her gaze from the pulpit. He was a genteel, middle-aged man with a witty, urbane manner, impeccable taste and flawlessly styled graying hair. He had a way of looking right through you so you were convinced he had crafted his sermon just for you. He was looking at Julie that way now. Did he realize her mind was wandering? She relaxed a little as he cleared his throat and moved his discerning eyes over the rest of the congregation. What had he said? Was he waiting for some response? Shamefacedly she realized he was halfway through his sermon and she hadn’t heard a word.

In his sonorous tone he was saying, “We are going to look today at God’s most significant commands to His children. These verses are found several times in both the Old and New Testaments. That shows us how vitally important God considers these instructions…”

But even as her fingers moved automatically through the rustling, tissue-thin pages to the Gospel of Mark, Julie’s thoughts turned inward again, meandering, traveling to a far corner of her consciousness. She was facing an inner crisis, something she couldn’t even articulate, but it had been building for days. A dark, ominous cloud had settled over her soul; the darkness encompassed Michael and Katie, her father, and even a woman named Beth and a boy named Jesse. With her mind whirling in such a maelstrom, how could Julie sit quietly and listen to mere words, even from a man of God?

And there was more.

After all these years I still sit here feeling anonymous, wearing a mask, pretending. I’ve seen these same people for years and yet never gotten to know them well. We go through the same routine every Sunday—entering the vestibule, smiling and saying hello, exchanging brief pleasantries, then sitting down, singing, praying, listening, getting up, going out and wishing one another a nice day or a good week. But we never go beyond the surface of one another’s lives.

With a start, Julie realized something else. God forgive me, I maintain the same facade with You, Heavenly Father—dutifully praying or reading a few verses, my time with You sandwiched among myriad other demanding activities. What does it mean? Who do I think I’m fooling?

From a distance she heard Pastor Brady raise his voice and declare with a solemn authority, “‘And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind and with all your strength. This is the first commandment.’”

I love you, Lord—surely I do, Julie reflected with a twinge of conscience. Isn’t that one of the givens of life, one of the things we just assume? But I admit I don’t know You very well. Dear God, sometimes I wonder if I know You at all, or do I only think I know You?

Pastor Brady was still reading. “’And the second, like it, is this: you shall love your neighbor as yourself. There is no other commandment greater than these.’”

Pastor Brady paused for a long moment, allowing his words to take root. Then he went on in his smooth baritone, “Dear friends, how well do we even know God and one another? Have we cut God down to our size to fit conveniently into our priorities, our time restraints, our selfish desires? Sadly, many of us have hardly scratched the surface of knowing and loving God and one another. Because of our own blindness and indifference, we are destined to remain strangers all of our lives—strangers with God, strangers with one another.”

He’s talking about me! Julie realized. She felt as if someone had gripped her shoulders and shaken her like a child. He’s describing me. That’s exactly how I am. That’s my life!

Every relationship I have is superficial, transitory, with little meaning. I have no connections with anyone, nothing that allows me to vent the raw, unedited emotions I feel. I have no one with whom I can be totally myself. Was I ever truly myself with Michael? Or have we always worn the masks we thought the other wanted to see? Do I know Michael at all? Do I know Katie?

Startling her out of her reverie, Michael leaned over and whispered, “Are you okay, Julie? You look a little pale.”

“I’m fine!” she told him, but she said it with such force that several people in the pew ahead glanced around curiously.

“I’m fine,” she said again, licking her dry lips.

But she wasn’t fine. Her mind was going a mile a minute, dredging up alarming thoughts and painful insights in a random, pell-mell rush.

After all these years, how can we be such strangers to one another? How can you live in the same house with someone, the same little collection of rooms, the same walls and windows and furnishings and pictures—and not know someone? How can you live together in the routine of daily life and remain strangers? How can you live together for years and hardly scratch the surface of who they are, and have no idea what they think or how they feel?

Another thought was just as dismaying.

If Pastor Brady is right, I’ve spent my whole life living among strangers. I knew my mother—thought I knew her, but did I really? How well have I known anyone in my life—my father, my husband, my daughter, and yes, even God? Have I even bothered to try?

Or have I accepted superficial relationships because they’re easier, because they demand nothing of me? I’ve struggled to understand myself and I’m still light-years away from knowing who I am, what I feel and what I want. How can I know others if I’m not even sure about myself? What can I do to reach across the barriers and feel the texture and grain of another living soul?

And what if no one wants to let me in? she wondered darkly. What if remaining pleasant strangers is all anyone really wants of another person? What if everyone else is as protective of their private world as I am of mine? How do I start breaking down barriers and getting inside where someone else lives?

Is it possible others have been trying to break down my barriers, and I’ve never noticed? Michael? Even Katie? Have I been as impervious to the invasions of others into my life as my father has been? In the name of heaven, am I just like him?

The questions were overwhelming, terrifying, shattering. But before Julie could even begin to explore the answers, her attention was drawn back suddenly to Pastor Brady. He was saying, “Are you listening to me, my friends? This is important. This hits at the crux of all our lives.”

Julie gave the sagacious man in the pulpit her full attention. He had touched a raw nerve and she needed to know what healing balm he was going to offer.

“My friends,” he said, his deep, resonant voice growing buoyant with hope, “I challenge each of you to let yourself fall in love with Jesus…get to know Him as you would your most intimate friend. Make Him a vital part of your daily life. Don’t leave Him in the pages of your Bible or in the walls of your church. Let Him come alive in your heart. Let His Spirit breathe and speak in the hidden rooms of your mind. Let Him move in you and change the very landscape of your soul.”