I shuffle backwards with plans to retrieve my coat on Sunday after morning services. Then Jude steps from the shadows, his towering figure already familiar, and joins her.
He isn't new to these meetings. He went through the motions like the rest of us. He said the right things and nodded sympathetically at the appropriate moments. He’d even known to listen—a skill only a seasoned veteran acquires.
Still here he is approaching a woman who has her guard down to offer comfort. I thought he was the Devil before, but now I know he can't be. The Devil doesn’t offer solace, even when he lies. But an angel is too much to hope for, and I’d stopped believing in them long ago.
But a man—flesh and blood and all the complications that come with—is the most dangerous possibility of all.
I can't hear what he says to her as she nods her trembling head. His hand rests on her upper shoulder and I can almost feel the comforting weight of it on my own.
The fantasy jerks me back to the present and I leave without my coat. Without another word.
Without looking back.
Chapter 2
For the rest of the week, I brace myself when I arrive at church each day. It’s an unavoidable ritual, and although I know that Narcotics Anonymous only meets once a week in the basement, I can’t help feeling exposed each time I cross the threshold. I don’t want to run into the mysterious Jude. I’d even looked into different meetings in town, but I’d decided that was a last resort. This town is my home. That meeting is my safe place. No one, especially not a rude, arrogant newcomer is going to run me out. Chances are good he’s a visitor anyway, like so many people I see on the streets each day. Tourists come to delight in the artsy port-side city on their ways to more exciting places. Seattle. An Alaskan cruise. Montreal. This is a waypoint and people pass through, leaving nothing behind as transient as waves on the open ocean.
That’s how it’s always been, and one of the reasons I chose to carve out a life here.
I will leave the storms to the sea and find peace on solid ground.
An affirmation I’d written down so long ago that I can’t remember if it came from my own lips or another’s. It’s become my truth.
So why do I hope each day that I’ll open this door and see him again? Jude is a storm—a tsunami—that I’m not prepared to face. If I could I would head to higher ground. I would head to the Olympics and climb until my lungs burned rather than be caught in his wake. But I can’t evacuate my life, so I open the door, comforted by the familiar creak it greets me with. Bypassing the sanctuary, I head to the hall.
Max greets me at the door, a wide grin splitting his face. I don’t make it two steps inside before he’s tackled me. His thin arms wrap around my legs, but I know better than to pry him off. Instead I reach down and scoop him up. He settles into place on my hip as his teacher flies across the room, shouting edicts at the other children to clean up and gather their things. Max looks nothing like me except for the faint freckles that dust his nose. He didn’t get his unruly, dark hair from me. Mine is fine and light. It hangs straight down my back. His is the definition of a mop-top. My eyes are hazel, skewing toward green, and his are as bright blue as the sky. And still when I look at him he is the reflection of my perfect self.
“He always knows when you’re here.” Miss Marie catches Max’s gaze, signing as she speaks. “He’s got a Spidey sense, right?”
Max nods his head gleefully, pretending to shoot webs from his wrists, and I feel hot, wet prickle of tears smarting my eyes. I blink them back, but Marie strokes my shoulder soothingly.
“Leaps and bounds,” she whispers.
“Because of you.” I plant a kiss on my son’s forehead and snuggle him tightly. Miss Marie has been working on cued speech with my son for months, helping him to acquire lip reading skills along with his sign language.
Marie snorts and shakes her head. “One of these days you’re going to have to accept how amazing you are, Faith.”
I smile, because she doesn’t know that I’m anything but amazing. Because she doesn’t know that I’m twisted and broken and that this little boy is the only reason I hold myself together. I smile because I’ll never convince her of the truth, and I learned a long time ago to accept the things I cannot change.
Red. It’s the first word that comes to mind when I look at my best friend. She’s dressed down today. Her unruly hair plated into two long braids that cascade over her shoulders. The brim of her newsboy cap casts a shadow over her gray eyes. But despite the casual ensemble, there’s nothing girlish about Amie.