God's Not Dead 2 (5 page)

“‘Yucky’? Is that a legal term you find yourself using often in court?”

There’s this polite and charming sort of fire underneath her. I smile and understand her jab. “Do you have a better word for it?”

She doesn’t say anything as she grips her coffee cup with both hands and looks out the window away from me.

“Grace, look
 
—I’m going to level with you. Nobody wants your case.
Nobody.
I know the reality of my situation. I can be very honest about it. I drew this case because I’m the low man on the totem pole in a place where seniority means everything. If for whatever reason you don’t approve of me, you don’t have to agree for me to represent you, but then you’re gonna be on your own.”

That anxious look faces me again. I smile and try to make sure she understands I’m not bullying her. I’m being completely honest.

“You’re free to hire your own attorney
 
—out of your own pocket
 
—but educational law isn’t exactly a common specialty.”

“But it’s not
your
specialty either.”

“I’ve been in the world of education my whole life,” I tell her. “As for educational law, I’ve been mastering it the last few years.”

A businessman enters Evelyn’s Espresso and passes our table with a casual glance at Grace. He’s in a suit and a tie and probably made a million bucks this morning alone. Grace notices him, then looks back at me, lost in thought.

She’s weighing all her options and realizing there aren’t that many of them. Armani suit stepping right by us probably isn’t a realistic possibility for someone like her.

“Look, there’s good news,” I tell her.

Grace doesn’t believe me. “What?”

“I don’t like to lose,” I say. “And listen
 
—I’m willing to fight for you.”

“Are you a believer?”

That brings me up short. “A what?”

“A believer. You know
 
—in God?”

I believe in lots of things, Grace. Just not that.

“You mean am I a Christian? No. But listen
 
—I think that’s an advantage.”

“Defending something you don’t believe in?” she says, her voice seeming to soften as she asks the question.

“Defending someone like
you
.”

“How is that an advantage?”

“You want to know something our world absolutely
loves
? Passion. And I can tell just sitting here and reading the report that you’re passionate about what you believe. Let’s face it: that’s why you’re in trouble in the first place.”

“I’m in trouble because I quoted Jesus in the context of a conversation, in the context of a question asked by a student. I might be passionate, Mr. En
 
—
Tom
 
—but in this case I was talking as an educated history teacher. I’m passionate about history, too.”

I nod and wave my hand. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I understand. But this passion
 
—you just showed it right then
 
—it can blind you to the realities of procedure.”

“And that’s a
good
thing?” she asks.

“In my boat, yes. I’ve lived a long time with procedures. I mean . . . if you only knew.”

“So you want to break them?”

“Not necessarily. I want to think outside the box. I love passion. And more than anything else
 
—especially the last few years
 
—I absolutely love fighting against systems and powers that be. Those things haven’t been so good to me.”

For a moment Grace studies me and then nods. “Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay, I agree for you to represent me.”

“Good,” I say in a tone that says there really wasn’t any doubt she’d want me.

At least I can try to sound confident like any lawyer might.

“Can I ask one question?” Grace says.

“Sure.”

“Are you growing a beard?”

I have to think for a moment; then I touch my jaw and remember the scruff on my face. “I haven’t decided yet.”

She nods but looks like she has more to say.

“Don’t like beards?”

“I once dated a guy who would grow a beard every season. He was from Canada, and the Edmonton Oilers . . . well, all I can say is I know more about hockey than you know about the law.”

“So you’re not a big fan of beards, then?”

“I’m just not a big fan of my ex.” Grace grins and tightens her lips, then picks up her coffee.

I have to admit, I’m already completely on this woman’s side, regardless of what particular side it might be.

As long as I win in the end, that’s all that matters.

AMY CAN SEE
the collision seconds before it happens. She’s standing at the counter, ready to order a coffee, when she glances over at the flighty woman who was in front of her in line. The brunette, who’s lost in her phone, scoops up her iced coffee blend and swings around to blast the tall man waiting patiently behind her. He’s wearing a white polo shirt, which Amy bets he will never wear again. A nice clump of brown lands on his chest, then starts to drip down like a really bloody gunshot wound in a movie.

“Oh no
 
—I’m so sorry
 
—I’m just running late,” the woman says, loud enough for everybody in the coffee shop to hear.

The man just stands there with a comical look as if he knew this was going to happen. “I’ll bet that’s caramel, right?” he asks her.

“Yes. Caramel Bliss.”

Amy watches as both of them grab for napkins. A guy serving drinks tosses them a towel to use.

The fashionable young woman behind the register widens her eyes and smiles at Amy, dimples flashing. “What’re the odds she offers to pay his cleaning bill?” Ms. Dimples asks her.

“I’d say it’s three to one,” Amy says. But the frazzled woman is starting to appear as if she’s preparing to leave the premises. “Actually, I’d say it’s a complete long shot.”

It’s after dinner, and Amy is at her usual nighttime haunt, ready to work for a while. Even though there’s a Starbucks she could go to across town, she loves Evelyn’s Espresso. It’s smaller and cozier and resembles the genetic offspring of a local coffee shop and an indie bookstore. There’s something about being surrounded by people and conversation and activity and background music that makes her feel a lot better about being alone. She can work better in a place like this. She’ll often put in her earbuds and drown out the noise, but it’s still nice to know it’s there.

Amy gives her usual order to the fashionista, who rings it up. She’s never seen the girl here before. Amy would have remembered. She’s wearing an oversize tee with half-length sleeves and a design that has the words
Style Is in the Mind
down the front in the shape of a ladder. A long rock necklace and matching leather bracelet complement the shirt.

As the girl gives Amy her card back, a pop-song ringtone begins to play. The server behind the register grabs her cell and tells Amy to excuse her for a moment. Everything about the girl’s expression changes as she listens to someone on the other end of the phone.

“So what time do I need to bring you there?” she asks, then quickly adds, “No, no, it’s fine. Mom, seriously.”

The young girl brushes back the dark locks falling to her shoulders.

“It’ll be fine. I’ll be there. Okay. I have to go. Love you.”

Then she looks back at Amy and apologizes.

“It’s fine,” Amy says.

“It’s my mother. It’s just
 
—she’s going to be starting chemo tomorrow and I told her
 
—promised her I’d bring her.”

The girl takes a few minutes to make Amy’s medium vanilla latte, then hands it to her with the look of concern still covering her face.

“I understand,” Amy says with a smile. “I’ve been there. Things will work out.”

The young girl forces a smile in return. “You had to drive a parent to get their chemo?”

“Actually, I had to drive myself,” Amy says. “Mayo Clinic. Oncology unit. I wish I’d had a chauffeur.”

The girl freezes and looks more mortified than the woman who just spilled half her drink on some poor stranger. Amy suddenly feels bad for making the witty remark, especially since she was being complimented.

“Look
 
—it’s okay. And honestly, I’d never make such a trite statement like that if I didn’t mean it.”

It’s true, too. Sometimes things
did
work out, so it was okay to tell others that. Amy had earned that right.

“You know what?” Amy says, eyeing something in the glass case next to her. “I think I’m in the mood for the biggest chocolate brownie you have.”

Fifteen minutes later, with half of Evelyn’s Espresso full and nobody new coming through the doors, the fashionista approaches Amy’s table.

“How was the brownie?”

“Best brownie I’ve had all year,” Amy says. “Maybe a top ten in my life.”

“Wow. Well, I know they’re homemade. The manager’s wife makes them all from scratch every day.”

“Tell her they’re amazing.”

“Well, I think you’ve earned it,” the girl says. “Chemo is horrible, from what I hear.”

“It was.”

“Can I ask
 
—?”

“Triple negative invasive ductal carcinoma,” Amy answers without needing to hear the full question. “Breast cancer.”

“Sorry.”

The girl sits down in the chair across from her, so Amy shares a little of her story. She’s careful not to complain. She’s fortunate and grateful and always needs to be mindful of that. Plus, the last thing Amy wants to do is scare her with any horror stories.

The longer she talks, the more comfortable she feels around the girl. She would guess she’s probably in college, maybe not even twenty-one yet. Their conversation goes to a natural place
 
—losing your hair after starting chemo.

“Here’s a nice shot of me without any,” Amy says, showing off one of the photos taken at the hospital.

“You’re beautiful,” the girl says.

“Do they pay you for compliments?”

“No, I’m serious. Some people do
not
look good with bald heads. Sometimes you see an actress get her head shaved and it just looks wrong, you know? But it works for you.”

“I have a very round head,” Amy admits, scrolling through her phone.

She sees a picture of herself with Dr. Stevens. He looks like he always did, carrying a carefree smile around with him. He was the one who initially diagnosed her.

One of the few who were there with me at the very beginning and stuck with me.

Of course, that was his job, but it doesn’t matter to Amy. He was there
 
—that was the important thing.

“This is my doctor.” Amy shows the girl. “Dr. Stevens. The ironic thing about this whole experience is that the man who diagnosed me, cared for me, and believed with his whole heart that I would be cured . . . he died of ALS the week after I went into remission.”

“Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry. What a terrible loss.”

“He was an amazing man,” Amy says.

“Well, he helped get you into remission. And
remission
is a beautiful word. It means you can start thinking of yourself as a survivor.”

Comforting words from a stranger she just met. More than she ever received from Marc, a man she spent six months with, someone she gave herself to, body and soul.

Someone who had absolutely nothing to give back when the reality of life suddenly popped up.

“I agree. By the way, I’m Amy. What’s your name?”

“Chelsea.”

“I know you have to work, Chelsea. But thank you.”

“Sure,” the girl says with a look that tells her she’s not sure what she’s being thanked for.

I hope you stay this positive.

“Tell your mother about our conversation,” Amy says. “I hope it’ll be encouraging.”

Chelsea bounces back to her station behind the register, and all at once Amy has a familiar feeling, like pressure building inside her that has to be let out. She knows she’s going to write. She
has
to write.

It takes three minutes to get the page set up and enter the title. Now it’s time to begin another journey that doesn’t consist of miles but words.

Waiting for Godot

A Blog by Amy Ryan

It amazes me how we as human beings think. I’m fascinated by this mysterious thing called faith.

If you’ve been reading my blogs for a while, you’ve seen the sea change that’s happened inside of me. For a while I spent all my time writing and mocking humans and their faith. I’d identify popular targets and then make it a point to find their weaknesses. It was easy making fun of Christian stuff. The hypocrites, the moneymakers, the celebrities. But then
 
—well, you know.

Then I found myself battling for my life. My perspective changed. My new blog suddenly became about that journey. During those moments, I felt like I was willing to hold on to anything, including God. Even though I didn’t really believe in him until that moment, I became convinced that I had felt him my whole life.

But now that the battle is won, now that I’m officially in REMISSION, I suddenly find myself questioning everything.
Including his existence.
And then I wonder
 
—if God is truly there, then how does he feel about my doubt and questioning?

I remember in college during an English course studying
Samuel Beckett’s
Waiting for Godot
. It was a play where a couple of people are waiting for this person called Godot (pronounced “Gah-
doh
”). And that’s it in a nutshell. Anybody could embrace and interpret the play for themselves
 
—everyone from Marxists to Christians. Once it started being performed, Beckett became famous. He eventually said this about the story:

“The great success of
Waiting for Godot
had arisen from a misunderstanding: critic and public alike were busy interpreting in allegorical or symbolic terms a play which strove at all costs to avoid definition.”

We live in a world full of definitions, don’t we? It starts with our name and the family we are a part of. Then it builds from there. Where we live. What we do in life. Who we’re friends with. How we spend our time. What we believe in.

Belief.

It’s strange to find myself in a coffee shop, not quite sure how to define my life and my faith. So, effective immediately, my writing will be posted to this new blog, using Beckett’s play as inspiration. I’ll be sharing my personal investigation into the existence of God. This is my story in search of truth.

I have no idea how this will all turn out. I just hope that I discover something.

Or maybe something will discover me.