Color the Sidewalk for Me (2 page)

I stepped into the shower and stood under hot water, letting it wash away the residue of my dream as the scent of lavender soap flowed around me. If only it could wash away the stain on my soul as well. Fifteen minutes later I was dressing, still pushing away the memories, as I'd done countless times in the past seventeen years. It was a well-honed defense, this distancing from myself. On automatic, I donned a cornflower blue business suit that matched my eyes, brushing my shoulder-length blond hair. With smooth skin and a natural blush to my cheeks, I needed little makeup. I knew people thought me beautiful. Not that it mattered.

By the time I was ready, my thoughts were in place, wrenched from the tragic past and firmly wedged into the present. Mentally I went over my schedule for the day. As typical, it was overloaded with clients to please and coworkers to supervise. But the day did promise a new event, something I knew I'd never forget. My “surprise” party.

A few days before, I'd been walking down the hall toward the lobby when I overheard Monica, our young receptionist, scheming with our business manager about “how to keep Celia away from the conference room while it's being set up.” I almost rounded the corner and asked, “Set up for what?” when I heard further discussion about a cake and whether it should have thirty-five candles for my age or ten for my years with the firm. I'd stopped in my tracks, scarcely believing it. They were planning a surprise birthday-anniversary party—for me. I'd never imagined anyone doing such a gracious thing. For a moment I'd just stood there as the realization sank in. Then I quickly faded back down the hall the way I'd come. Not for the world would I let them know that I'd overheard. Only later when I was again at my desk did I further realize whose idea the party must have been. Neither Monica nor our office manager had been around long enough to know when I started working with the firm. Only Quentin Sammons, owner of the agency, would have reason to remember that date. The thought that Quentin, busy as he was, would take time to honor me left me feeling all the more humbled. He was truly as much a friend as he was my boss, and our admiration for each other was mutual.

Quentin Sammons' agency was in its twenty-seventh year and was one of the most prestigious advertising firms in Little Rock. I had joined the firm as the lowliest of employees and had risen to an account executive. Not only was I more than capable at coming up with ideas and creating visuals; I also had a “way with words,” as Quentin put it—a knack for painting a picture verbally. How ironic that the same glib tongue that had earned Mama's wrath so often when I was young would help earn my living now.

Mama.

Another thought to push away. I still had to eat breakfast, feed the cats, water a few plants before I left for work.

“Mamie! Daisy!” I called, opening a can of fishy-smelling cat food. They appeared from opposite directions, padding expectantly into the kitchen with tails raised high. I petted them both, then left them to their meals.

During the twenty-minute drive downtown, as hard as I tried to focus, scenes from my dream kept crowding into my head. Sighing, I stopped at the final red light before pulling into the parking lot of the Conart Building, the imposing six-story black glass structure that housed the exquisitely decorated offices of the agency. Forcefully then I shoved my haunting past aside. I would not think of it. This wasn't the time to deal with it anyway. It was never the time. I had too much work to do.

And a party to attend.

chapter 2

S
urprise!”

I froze in the doorway, mouth dropping open, eyes widening. Even though I'd known, I was still overwhelmed at the sight. Every Sammons employee was crowded into our conference room, grinning.

“Oh, you all,” I breathed when I could find my voice. “This is
incredible.”

“Well, come on in,” Quentin cried. “Join the party!”

Chattering, the crew pushed me toward the long, polished cherry-wood table spread with presents and a multiflowered cake. Chairs had been pulled back to line the wall, some of them sporting sassily bright helium balloons. Streamers hung from the ceiling. Quentin shushed the small crowd and made a glowing speech about my importance to the firm, complete with humorous quips. Everyone laughed and applauded. When he was done, I tried to express my gratitude, but no words could have sufficed. Fortunately Quentin rescued me.

“You'd better start opening all these presents,” he prodded.

A rare anticipation surged within me. “Oh well, if I must.” With growing gusto I tackled the first one. “Look at this!” I cried, holding up a T-shirt that read
When in doubt—go for it.
“Thank you, Jack.” I hugged my colleague. He pecked me fondly on the cheek.

“Girl, I
love
this,” Monica declared as she ogled the shirt. She put it down abruptly. “Here, do mine next.”

Coming from Monica, it would have to be over the top. It was—a heart-bedecked coffee mug large enough to swim in.

“I'm not sure this thing will fit on my desk,” I chuckled.

Before long I had an impressive pile of gifts and still had a few to open. A picture frame, two novels, a pen, a couple of CDs, and other thoughtful presents littered the table. I'd cut into the cake, and Marilyn and Wendy, two new graphic designers under my supervision, were passing out pieces. Monica was running in and out to answer the phone, indignant at each interruption. “I'm just taking messages,” she announced as she returned after the third call. “After all, we'll probably have to wait ten years till we get another party.”

But after she disappeared the fourth time, she stuck her head back in the conference room to look at me with trepidation. “I think you'd better take it,” she said carefully. “It's your mother.”

My coworkers were well aware of my business skills but knew little about my personal life. I never spoke about my childhood tragedies—the losses, the funeral attended. All my colleagues knew was that I was estranged from my family and spent holidays volunteering at Hillsdale Nursing Home. Undoubtedly they had speculated among themselves about the details.

At Monica's disquieting announcement, heads turned, curious. Discussions melted. Within seconds the ballooned and streamered room had fallen silent. A tingle shot through my chest as I clutched a present, my animation peeling away to lie, like the torn wrapping paper and ribbon, in tatters at my feet.

“She probably just wants to wish you a happy birthday.” Monica forced a smile, her face raw with the awareness that she had brought the party to an abrupt halt.

Of their own accord my hands reached to drop my present on the conference table. “Of course.” I glanced around the room. “Excuse me; I'll take it in my office.”

As I exited, I heard the chitchat resume.

Behind my closed door I steeled myself to pick up the phone. Mama did not call often and never did she call at work. I spoke to my father more frequently, but even those conversations were stilted and shallow. There was far too much pain underneath the surface—pain that I had caused. I didn't know how to begin to address all the issues surrounding it and so had never tried.

Slowly now I lifted the receiver. “Mama?”

“Celia.” Her voice sounded old. “It's your father.”

Dread hit me in the pit of my stomach. I collapsed into my black leather swivel chair. “What happened?”

“He's had a stroke. Last week. I've been meanin' to call you, but I wanted to wait until I knew more. The doctors think he'll improve but it'll take a lot of work. They're sendin' him home and I'll be takin' care of him. Right now he can barely talk or use his left side.”

A rush of air escaped my lips. I pictured my father—a Christian man, gentle, quiet. As meek under Mama's control as I had been contentious. And so loving to me, even after everything I had done. No one deserved this less than he. Tears bit my eyes.

“He needs you, Celia. He's been callin' your name over and over as best he can.” Her voice hardened. “'Course, I told him you won't come; you're not done runnin' yet, and maybe you never will be.”

The words slapped me in the face. They were so like Mama, accusing and cold.

“But he won't let up,” she continued. “Celia, you need to come home.”

Home?

It was too much to take in at once. A deep pain over the image of my father pitifully calling for me clashed with the dread of facing him and, far worse, facing my mother. I took a long breath, and in that instant the strangest succession of thoughts bombarded me. My eyes flitted waywardly over my desk, and I was struck by its sparseness. Most of my colleagues' desks were littered with pictures of children and spouses and siblings. Not so with mine. Between a basketed plant on either side was a meager grouping of three gold-framed photos. The first was of my cats cozily stretched across quilted pillow shams on my bed; the second, of me and a gap-toothed, brilliantly smiling old man at the nursing home; and the third, also of me, standing proudly in front of my little white house with its grass-lined sidewalk and muted blue shutters the day escrow closed five years ago. Gazing at that picture, I thought of how my Toyota just fit in the compact detached garage and how pretty the white wicker furniture looked on my back patio. I thought of the small second bedroom transformed into an office that conveniently beckoned with busyness when the ancient memories threatened. Raising my eyes to the off-white walls of Sammons, I focused on framed art from ad campaigns I had helped launch. Each one was a testament to the productive adult I had become.

You need to come home.

The words wrenched my thoughts from Little Rock to tiny Bradleyville, flung against the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains in eastern Kentucky. Bradleyville was a highly conservative town, founded by my great-grandfather upon Christian principles that I'd once held dear. I had fled Bradleyville at age eighteen, shedding not only my Kentucky accent but also my family, my friends, and ultimately God himself. Now I couldn't imagine finding a welcome among any of them.

Home? I
was
home.

chapter 3

J
erome's bustled with its suit-and-tie crowd at the plaza across the street from the Conart Building. Lush green ferns hung from beamed ceilings. Tables were spread with white paper, a coffee mug of crayons inviting doodles. Enticing scents of garlic and pasta filled the glass-walled rooms, the noise level a low buzz. Carrie Wells had insisted that I forgo my habit of working through lunch and meet her at Jerome's every other week. “You know what they say about all work and no play,” she said, raising a plucked eyebrow. After Mama's phone call I'd almost canceled but knew Carrie wouldn't hear of it.

Three years previously I'd literally bumped into Carrie as I hustled into the Conart lobby elevator one day. She was clad in a dark green suit that gracefully fit her slim figure, strawberry blond hair layered and falling in gentle waves to her shoulders. Her makeup was subtly perfect. The poise she exuded was intimidating. And then she'd grinned at me, showing straight white teeth. “Whoa,” she teased, “you're supposed to take the stairs in case of fire!”

I managed a smile. “Sorry. I just met with one of our advertising firm's new clients, and my mind's already on logos.”

We chatted briefly on the way to the fifth floor, and she informed me she worked as a title officer for First United.

“Oh,” I responded, “your company handled the purchase of my home five years ago. Were you there then?”

“No.” Sadness flicked across her face. “I was mostly nursing my husband at that time. He died of cancer. I went back to work soon afterward.”

“Oh, I'm sorry.” I felt a sudden urge to watch the elevator numbers glow red in sequence. Her loss, too similar to mine in depth, had left me tongue-tied.

At that moment Carrie apparently chose to take me on as her personal mission, recognizing the pain in my eyes that reflected her own. As we became friends, she eventually managed to draw out information about my past that no one else had. And she was always bold in speaking about the importance of Christ in her life, gently prodding me to return to the faith of my childhood. She just couldn't understand that for me it was too late.

“Well,” she breathed after the waitress at Jerome's had brought our salads, “I was all set to tell you my news, but you look like you've been hit by a truck. What happened?”

“Gee, thanks.” I smiled weakly. “But I'm not ready to talk about it yet. You go first.”

She looked at me askance. “You know I'm not going to let you wallow in whatever it is by yourself.”

“I know, I know.” Tiredness washed over me, and I leaned my head back against the booth cushion as a waitress refilled our water glasses. “I promise I'll talk. But what's going on with you?”

Her face lit up as she began to describe the new assistant pastor at her church. “Thirty-eight years old, dark hair, brown eyes, even a dimple in his cheek. And never married, can you believe that? His name is Andy. I'm so attracted to him, I hardly know how to act.” She paused for a bite of salad topped with nonfat dressing. “I mean, the instant I saw him, I felt this . . .
pull
. Isn't that amazing? And guess what? He feels it, too!”

Since her husband died, Carrie had not been interested in any other man. She had wanted to be, believing that an attraction would be a sign that her grief had finally begun to ebb. For all her vivaciousness—and selfless concern about me—I knew Carrie still mourned her husband. It was that time-seasoned pain that allowed her to understand mine.

I smiled, very glad for her. “Carrie, that's terrific.”

“We went out to dinner last Saturday, and I had a great time,” she babbled on, waving a red-nailed hand. “He's a wonderful man, so interested in his ministry at the church. His values and goals are the same as mine, and we just have this sort of . . .
chemistry.”