“Hello,” my mother said in her usual way.
“Mom, how are you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Pretty good, I guess.” The gaiety that I’d heard in her voice the day before had vanished. I pictured her camped out on the couch blotting her tears with a soggy handkerchief. I was about to offer to come over and keep her company, but before I could speak she said, “I know you were being sarcastic when you asked me what Jesus would say. But it got me thinking about God’s unconditional love, how he keeps forgiving me each time I wander off course. Vern was over here pleading for forgiveness, wanting to come home. It’s too early for him to move back, but I agreed to go to a marriage counselor with him on Friday.”
“Wow.” I felt like jumping for joy. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all week.”
“Now, don’t get your hopes up too high. I don’t know if I can forgive your father—I really don’t.”
“But you’ll try?”
“Yes.”
“Wonderful. And, Mom?” It felt odd giving my mother marital advice, and I proceeded with caution. “Remember, it took a long time for you two to get to this point. It might take awhile to get things back on track.”
Minutes after I hung up, the phone rang. Hoping to hear Laurie’s voice, I eagerly grabbed the receiver.
“I’m just checking to see if you got my message,” Henry said.
My free hand moved to my collarbone. “I did, but I can’t come over.”
“How about tomorrow?”
“No, never.” I told myself to stand firm. I’d taken the road of least resistance too many times. “If you have something to tell me, please say it now.”
“You sound upset. And you have a right to be.”
“No, I’m not. But it’s better for everyone if we don’t speak to each other again.”
A long pause followed; the silence crackled in my ears.
“I’ve hurt you, haven’t I?” His voice tapered to just above a whisper. “I’m sorry, I’ve only been thinking about myself.”
“No, it’s not you.” Darkness threaded through my limbs as I realized I would never see him again. I felt myself beginning to crumble. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to say thank you for the class and good-bye.”
“I do mind. We need to talk.”
This conversation hurt badly enough without prolonging the agony. I thought about hanging up on him, but my hand gripped the receiver. “Here, I’ll make things easier for you. Someone’s threatened to tell you everything about me. You’d be disgusted if you knew the whole story.”
“I doubt it.”
Anguish flooded my mind and spilled out in a tangle of desperate words. “What would you think of a woman who got herself pregnant on purpose, then threatened to abort her child if the father didn’t marry her?” I felt like someone had knifed me open to expose my insides.
“I’d think she was young and foolish,” he replied without hesitation.
The backs of my knees weakened. “You’d be furious at your daughter if she act liked that, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes. But I’d forgive her, even if I disapproved of her actions.”
I felt my throat close with anxiety. “I shouldn’t be talking to you about this.”
“It’s all right, it’s my turn to listen. I’ll come over.”
“No, I’ll come there. But just long enough to make you understand.”
As I drove toward Henry’s studio, I wondered what in the world had made me agree to see him. How could I look him in the eye after what I just revealed? And what good could come of it? I needed to get over the storybook dream that a man—even a friend—was going to fix everything in my life. Another person couldn’t do that for me.
Coasting down a side street, I saw a brownish orange shape out of the corner of my eye. I jammed my foot on the brakes just as a cat streaked in front of me. My tires squealed as the car jolted to a halt. The seat belt gripped my torso, and my head snapped forward, then fell back against the headrest. Oh, no! I thought. Please, no. I held my breath and waited. A moment later the cat skittered under a car on the other side of the road.
Someone honked. I checked my rearview mirror to see a UPS truck right behind me. I eased up on the brakes, and my car began to creep forward. My heart beat frantically—as if I were the cat running for dear life. What was wrong with me?
I turned onto Henry’s block. Telling myself I would only be there for a minute, I rolled into a parking spot in front of his place, leaving more than a foot between the curb and my tires.
Henry answered his door on the first knock. “Come in.”
“We can talk here,” I said, backing down one step. “Say what you have to say.”
“Please come in. I won’t keep you long.” He turned, and without glancing back, strolled around the corner into his studio.
I watched his wide shoulders, his easy gait. Feeling a tug deep inside, I followed.
He led me to a canvas sitting on an easel. “I’ve been working on this all week,” he said, standing back.
I gaped at the full-length portrait. He’d painted me, of all people. I was shocked, as you can imagine. I’d never seen myself so realistically yet beautifully portrayed. Not even in a photograph. I was dressed in a long, flowing dress, the kind I might have worn in college. A gentle breeze seemed to flutter against the silky fabric, impelling me through an open door. The area outside the portal lay tinted with grays and sepias, but I was stepping through it into a lush, flowered meadow that stretched to snow-capped lavender mountains. My eyes were lifted toward the moon. Now here’s the crazy part: He’d painted the same pearly moon and misty halo I had drawn.
“That’s impossible,” I said.
“I hope you don’t mind that I painted you without asking your permission,” he said from over my shoulder.
