Composing Amelia (33 page)

He was halfway to the cafeteria when he saw a sign for the chapel.
Even better.
He followed the arrow and came upon a wooden door propped open at the end of a hall. Inside were eight rows of short pews and a platform on which stood a simple wooden stand. A bank of tea lights stood against one wall on a table draped in wine-red velvet, and an upright piano sat in the opposite corner. The sight of the piano made his heart hurt.

He sat in one of the pews and opened the journal.

Dear Amelia,

He stopped, thinking about what exactly he should write. What he
wanted
to write was not likely to convince her to see him, though getting it out of his system would certainly make him feel better.
Any ideas, God?

After a few minutes he began to write a rough draft, telling himself he’d just say whatever he wanted first and then rewrite a final letter later. He certainly had the time.

Dear Amelia,

Hey babe. How is it in there? I keep picturing it like the cafeteria, for some reason, but without the buffet. Have you had the red Jell-O yet? Good stuff.

So … I miss you. I’d like to think you miss me, but given how the last few days have gone, I’m guessing you probably don’t. Is it something I said? Or didn’t say? I know this is new territory for you, but it is for me, too, so if I’ve done something wrong I hope you’ll give me a do-over. Or maybe you’re embarrassed, or scared. You don’t have to be, because I love you. That’s what it all comes down to. I love you.

Marcus reread what he’d written and decided a straight-from-the-heart letter was better than something edited and polished as though destined for public consumption. He carefully ripped the page from the journal and folded it, then walked it back to reception. “Don’t suppose you have an envelope, do you? I promise to bring my own next time.”

The receptionist chuckled and pulled one from a drawer. “On the house.”

“Thanks.” He sealed the letter inside and wrote Amelia’s name on the front before handing it back.

“You’re welcome.” She gave him a sincere smile. “I hope you get to see her soon.”

Marcus nodded. “Thanks. Me, too.”

Marcus had visions of Amelia calling in tears, begging forgiveness for refusing him and promising to see him whenever he wanted. But it didn’t happen. The resolve he’d felt earlier dissipated in the face of her silence as the day wore on, and when Marcus went to bed that night he decided not to go back up the next morning. He wasn’t going to keep going if she had no intention of seeing him.

He showed up at work the next morning and the secretary wagged a finger at him in mock disappointment. “Pastor Sheffield, don’t make me call Ed.”

He flashed a terse smile. “I don’t really have a reason not to come in today. I’ll be in my office.” He took his mail from the corner of her desk and closed his office door behind him a tad too loudly. He didn’t really want to be here, either. He just didn’t know where else to go.

He’d just finished emptying his inbox when his phone rang. “I hear you’re in to work today,” said Ed’s jovial voice.

Marcus glared at the door. “Yes, I am. I’m being paid to do a job, not to sit at the hospital and wait for my wife to decide to see me. And since I don’t know when that’s actually going to happen, I figured it made more sense to be here.”

“Your wife needs you, Marcus.”

“You know, I don’t think she does. I’ve been up there the last three days, and every single time she’s refused to see me. I’m over it. When she’s ready to talk she can call me, and I’ll be happy to go up then.”

“I can tell you’re frustrated, Marcus—”

He snorted. “Can you?”

“—but I think you need to go back up there anyway.”

“What for? So I can waste more gas and another two hours in the car just to have the receptionist give me that look of pity again?”

“No. So Amelia sees just how committed to her you really are.”

“She knows.”

“Does she?”

Marcus was irked. “Of course she does.”

“Remember that actions speak louder than words. It doesn’t matter how much you say it, if what you do tells a different story.”

Marcus was about to spout off a list of ways he’d shown Amelia his commitment, but couldn’t come up with a list. A different one, however, queued up easily. He’d put his career ahead of hers, he’d been working the kinds of hours his father had always worked and that Marcus had always resented, and now he was essentially giving up on her until she’d proven herself to him.

Marcus shut down his computer with a sigh. “All right. I’ll go.”

“I think that’s wise.”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime, son. Anytime.”

The chapel was as good a place as any to spend his time while in Omaha, so after being rejected yet again, Marcus returned with his notebook and pen, an envelope folded in his back pocket, and sat in the same pew as before to write another note to Amelia.

So … you don’t want to see me. Okay. Are you … I don’t know … testing me or something? I wouldn’t mind if you were, though I would appreciate knowing how long it was going to last and what I had to do to pass. You are okay in there, aren’t you? I need to know you’re all right.

Ed is doing all the preaching this month—isn’t that kind of him? He’s an amazing man. I know you haven’t talked with him much, but I think you’d really like him. When things are back to normal, we’ll have to have him and his wife Lucy over for dinner. We’ll order takeout so we don’t have to cook. I know it’s not your favorite thing.

Not that we’ll ever get back to our old normal, hm? So … once we figure out our new normal, then we’ll have them over.

New is good, by the way. You don’t have to be afraid of it.

Marcus slipped the note into the envelope and sealed it closed. But instead of leaving for reception like he had before, he waited, the letter sitting beside him on the pew, and stared at the candles on the table against the wall. He didn’t try to focus on anything in particular, just let his mind wander, and after a few minutes he started praying.

So how much of my father have I projected onto You, God? Not only do I not know who I am.… I have a feeling I don’t really know who You are, either. If my views of what it means to be a pastor were as skewed as they were, then I can only imagine how messed up my views of You are.

He sat up straighter in the pew, cutting off the train of thought. He wasn’t ready to do that kind of detective work yet. He stood and left the chapel, heading for the sympathetic receptionist, and hoped this would be the day Amelia put him out of his misery.

When Amelia woke on her sixth morning in the hospital, her first thought was of the chocolate-chip pancakes her mother used to make on birthday mornings when she wasn’t bedridden from depression. Where the memory came from she didn’t know, but it made her mouth water with craving as she stretched beneath the sheets. Her second thought was of how much she missed the six-hundred-count sheets she and Marcus had on their bed—a wedding present from Dane and Jill and much more comfortable than these. Her third thought was of how tired she was of being in the hospital.

The fact that she was still depressed was not the fourth, or fifth, or even sixth thought she had that morning. Her eighth thought was one of surprise: She didn’t feel nearly as desperate and despairing as she had when she’d first arrived.
I’m actually getting better.

That small amount of improvement turned out to be just enough for her to see more clearly what her life had been like the last few months—what parts of it she could remember—and even though she was still depressed, she felt better able to think straight, and she had a lot to think about.

“You look … different.” Kristine set her breakfast tray beside Amelia’s and slid into the seat. Her mixed states had evened out and now she was just straight-up depressed. “Meds kicking in?”

“I guess so, yeah. I’m still depressed, but … not as bad, you know?”

“You’ll probably get to go home soon then.”

Amelia sat up from her slouch over the plate of lukewarm French toast. “What? But I don’t want to yet. I’m not ready.”

“Why not? Why would you want to stay here any longer than absolutely necessary?”

“Because I … I’m not sure I want to go back to my old life.” She let the words come out without too much thinking, just to see what she’d say. They felt right.

“What life
do
you want to go back to?”

Amelia pulled her fork through a puddle of syrup and let herself daydream. “One where I’m back in California. One where I’m not married to a pastor.” Though she did still want to be married to Marcus. With the heavy fog of the depression lifting, she missed him even more. “One where … one where I’m not a Christian anymore.”

“Wow. A really, really different life.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think you can just do that. I mean, you can give yourself a makeover, or go back to school to learn to be something else besides a pianist, and I guess you can go back to California if you want. But I don’t think you can just up and stop being married.” She sliced her French toast in precise squares. “I’m not sure about the not-being-a-Christian-anymore thing, either. I mean, how do you just erase all that thinking from your head and start … not thinking that way?”

Amelia sighed. “I know. But that’s why I don’t want to leave yet. I need to figure out first how I can make that my new life. How I can get back to Cali, and shake off all the Christian thinking, and …” She couldn’t bring herself to vocalize what it would take to no longer be married, even though the thought of being single again was enticing.

And that was the moment the baby chose to make herself known.

“Oh my gosh.” Amelia’s hand dropped to her stomach, her eyes wide. She sat still, waiting to see if it happened again.

“What? What is it?” Kristine looked worried. “Want me to call the nurse?”

“No, no, it’s all right, it’s just …” Amelia bit her lip as the sensation came again. “I think I just felt the baby move.”

“Oh, wow. Cool.”

“Yeah.” Amelia tried to smile, but instead she felt tears welling in her eyes as her own version of mixed states began.

The baby’s existence had been obvious ever since her stomach had begun to swell a month ago. The fact that she was pregnant had never exactly slipped her mind. But actually feeling the baby move solidified its presence in a way that no other indicator had. She couldn’t make her plans without factoring in this new being. She couldn’t just up and leave for LA without knowing what she’d do for childcare and how she’d juggle the demands of both a job and a baby. And as Marcus had pointed out, he had rights too—if she left, she’d be separating father from child, and she couldn’t do that in good conscience.