Lost and Found (38 page)

Then I dig in my purse until I find my phone.

"Ahsan, I need . . . a . . . ride."

"Mrs. Jenna?"

"Yes."

"Are you all right?"

I hesitate. "No . . . no I'm not."

"Where are you?"

Still breathless, I give him the names of the streets.

"Mrs. Jenna, I will call another cab. I cannot be there soon. It will be at least twenty-five minutes."

"No, Ahsan. I want . . . I . . . need you . . . to come. I'll wait."

"But Mrs. Jenna—"

"Please, please come." I choke back tears.

"I will be there, Mrs. Jenna. I will be there."

WHEN AHSAN ARRIVES, I'M
soaking wet and shivering. I'd put my coat back on and waited under an awning, but I was wet to begin with. He pulls up at the curb, gets out, and leads me to the front passenger seat.

I slide into the cab and he closes the door for me. Then he goes around the back of the car, opens his trunk, slams it closed, and comes back and gets into the driver's seat. He hands me a towel. "It is clean."

"Thank you."

He reaches for the console, turns the heat up, and makes sure the vents are pointed in my direction. His simple acts of kindness cause my tears to flow again. I put the towel to my face and wipe my eyes.

Ahsan reaches over and places his hand on my shoulder. "Mrs. Jenna, what has happened?"

"Oh, Ahsan . . ." I tell him the whole story as we sit in the warmth of the cab, rain thrumming on the windshield as I talk. Ahsan is attentive, his turbaned head nodding as he listens.

"Ahsan, what did you mean the other night when you said I've run the race well, but now the course changes?"

"The courses of our lives change, but if our focus remains on Jesus, then we remain steady. He makes our paths straight."

I stare out the window into the gray afternoon. "Has He done that for you?"

"Yes, Mrs. Jenna. My course changed when God led me to America. I had to leave my family, people I care for and who depend on me. And not all agreed that I should go. My father and my wife were very angry. But my eyes were on Jesus and this is where He led."

"Why? Why did He lead you away from your family?"

"He did not lead me away from my family, He led me closer to Him."

I take the towel Ahsan gave me and dry the ends of my hair as I ponder his words. "But how did you know? How did you know for sure that you were to come here?"

"I did not know for sure. We must walk in faith, Mrs. Jenna, which means being uncertain of where we go, but certain of He who goes with us."

His gaze holds mine, and I read compassion and understanding in his eyes.

"Now that I am here, I see more clearly. In America, I am free to worship my God, to live a life of dignity, to provide for my family. But the way is still uncertain. I do not know when God will bring my family here. I do not know many things. But I know Him." He points his finger heavenward.

As I listen, my soul settles and peace envelops me. I reach out and put my hand on Ahsan's arm. "Thank you, Ahsan. You offer God's mercy this afternoon."

He nods and smiles. "You are tired, Mrs. Jenna. I will take you home now?"

I look out the front windshield, through the pouring rain, and then nod my head. "Yes, take me back to the house."

It is not my home.

If entering into deep union with God were as easy as walking into a room, many would gladly do it. The door that leads to life first leads to many deaths.

JEANNE GUYON

I STARE AT
my computer screen, stare at Lightseeker's last e-mail, until the letters on the screen blur into a jumbled mess—much like the thoughts jumbled in my mind. I lean my elbows on my desk, and my head in my hands. Then I rub my eyes, sigh, and lean back in the chair again.

Since my failed meeting with Brigitte, agitation has gnawed at me like a piranha, destroying my confidence in my own abilities. As an adult, I've controlled my circumstances and often the actions of those around me. Now, for the first time, I find myself in a situation I can't control.

That realization both angers and scares me.

I'm consumed with that reality and in desperate need of help—hence, my return to Lightseeker's e-mail. Okay, I admit, I've read it multiple times a day since she sent it. Good grief. You'd think I have nothing better to do. Though, I haven't followed through on her suggestion to read the Bible.
Whatever
.

I swivel the chair and turn away from the computer. But before doing so, I reach for the remote control. I face the flat screen hanging on my office wall and turn the TV on and flip through channels, but nothing holds my attention. Nothing stops the nipping of the piranha.

I flip back to CNN and let it drone as background noise.

I concede and get up, go to the hall closet, and grab the box I dropped in there several days ago after it was delivered to my door. In the box is the Bible I ordered. Somewhere, I have a Bible from my childhood—a small book with a white leather cover. But I refuse to dig it out—too many reminders.

Anyway, that isn't the God I want to know.

Instead, I decided, if I was going to read the Bible, as Lightseeker suggested, I wanted a new Bible for a new God. Okay, so maybe He isn't new. But I need a new understanding of Him. That much I get.

I think back to the evening I ordered the Bible online. Who knew there were zillions of Bibles to choose from? And translations. Give me a break. I e-mailed Lightseeker back for a recommendation.

Now, I go to the kitchen, set the box on the counter, and then tear it open. I pull out the heavy book, take the wrapping off, and then hold it up to my nose and breathe in the rich scent of leather. I take the Bible and head back to my desk where I sit, set the Bible on the desk, and fan through the fragile pages.

"Well, Sam, I guess there's no time like the present." Sam, who's laying under the lamp on my desktop, stretches his front legs out and then curls back around himself. I begin flipping through the pages again. I stop when something catches my eye, though most of it seems meaningless. I stop at the book of Ecclesiastes and read:

"Meaningless! Meaningless! Utterly meaningless!"

"My point exactly."

I keep reading:

"What does man gain from all his labor at which he toils under the sun?"

I read to the end of the chapter. This, I get. It's what I've felt all week long. I inked a deal with a cable channel for the
Andee Bell Show
. I looked at buildings with Cass and the new broker and found two to choose from—both are perfect. I completed the first draft of my current manuscript. And I interviewed two potential publicists.

But so what?

None of it stirred anything in me.

The enjoyment I used to derive from my work seems lost to me.

I've done it all.

I have it all.

So what?

With the Bible still sitting on my desk, I close it, and then lean forward and rest my forehead on it. For the first time in my adult life, I have no idea what to do.

Everything is pointless.

Along the sightless path, you may begin to consider yourself separated from God and feel that you are left to act for yourself.

JEANNE GUYON

I WAKE TO
the same nausea and debilitating fatigue that followed me home from the meeting with Brigitte and Max yesterday, but I determine I'll push through it. Gerard's death, the uncertainties of what his trust contained, and the continued stress of living under Brigitte's rule have taken their toll. My body is reacting—telling me what I haven't wanted to face.

Haven't had the courage to face.

It is time to leave.

Time to take care of myself, to be a good steward of the life God's given me, as Jason suggested.

It is time to stand back from Brigitte.

To stand back from the life I've known and my own understanding.

Not only because I believe this is the meaning of God's message to me this last year, but also for my own well being. How can I follow God and His purpose for me if I can't function? If I spend more time sick than well?

It is time to pick up my cross and follow Him.

It all seems clear now.

I raise my head off my pillow, take a deep breath, and then sit up and put my legs over the side of the bed. I stand and determine, again, that I won't give in to my churning stomach. I walk to my closet, put on my robe, and decide I'll go to the kitchen and force myself to eat a piece of toast and drink some juice. It is early enough that I know I won't run into Brigitte, or even Hannah.

I hesitate at the elevator, but no, I'll make myself walk down the stairs. I take each step like a woman far beyond my thirty-three years. Winded as I reach the last step, I decide I'll call the doctor tomorrow just to make certain this isn't the infection. I haven't wanted, couldn't entertain that possibility. But it's time to face reality again.

Nicholetta, the cook, is alone in the kitchen when I poke my head in.

"Good morning, Jenna. May I get you something?"

"Good morning, Nicholetta. Just a piece of toast and some juice, please."

"Would you like it in your room?"

"No, don't bother bringing it up. I'll just have it here, if that's okay?"

"Of course."

I pull out one of the stools from under the island, and sit while Nicholetta drops a piece of sourdough bread into the toaster and pours me a glass of apple juice. When she sets the juice in front of me, she pauses.

"You're sick again."

I shrug my shoulders. "I'm . . . okay."

"You don't look okay." Then she leans in and lowers her voice. "It is this house—the atmosphere—it is
her
. Pardon me for saying so, but you cannot stay here and be healthy. You are free now. Mr. Bouvier is gone. You are free to leave. You must go. Otherwise, you will fall to depression. You will be sick forever."

I watch as she steps back from me, reaches for her gray bun, adjusts a bobby pin, and then goes to the sink, washes her hands, wipes them on a towel, and then butters my toast.

This is the first time in eleven years that one of the staff has said anything personal to me, or perhaps more surprising, anything against Brigitte. When Nicholetta sets a plate with my toast in front of me, I reach out and grab her hand. "Nicholetta, thank you. I think . . . I know you're right. Thank you."

She nods her head. "You need to take care of yourself." She smiles and gives my hand a squeeze then returns to her duties.

I take a small bite of the toast, chew it, and make myself swallow. Then I take a sip of the juice. I force myself to eat until the toast is gone. All the while thinking of Nicholetta's words. Depression. Yes, that's the gray cloud—the fog that's followed me. And I've read it can lead to physical ailments. Perhaps that is what plagues me.

It is time to go.

I knew it when I woke this morning.

And now that knowledge has been affirmed.

I stand, take my plate to the sink, and smile at Nicholetta before turning to go.

I don't have a plan, but I'll make one. I'll call my dad and Jason this morning. I leave the kitchen and climb the stairs while deciding what to do. I'll get Dad and Jason's advice. Maybe I'll stay with—

"Jenna, please come in for a moment."

Brigitte stands at the door of her suite and motions for me to step inside. She wears her robe and holds a cup of coffee. Her tone is cold, hard.

My stomach lurches and I long to turn and run, but there seems no way to avoid her, so I follow her into her suite and then into her office. I notice the file folder sitting on the desk. She goes behind her desk, sets her coffee cup down, and reaches for the folder and hands it across the desk to me.

"You left Max's office yesterday without signing the agreement. I thought you'd like to take care of that this morning so we can . . . get on with things." She opens her desk drawer and takes out a pen and hands it to me.

I wasn't prepared to face her.

Not yet.

But maybe being unprepared is better.