Masquerade (19 page)

“Look at me. How can you expect me to believe you see anything but ugly? I’m repulsive.”

“You’re made in the image of God, wonderfully and fearfully made.”

“Maybe I used to be. But now, this”—his hand, skin tight and dry, made a circular motion in front of his face—“is horror straight from the pit of hell.”

Hutchins pressed a hand over his slacks. “And God is in this hell with you.”

“I know that’s what you’ve told me, but somehow the whole idea of a loving God who would allow this to happen simply doesn’t add up.”

“Let’s talk about a loving God. Actually, He knows a lot about the reality you live. In Isaiah 53, the writer tells us about God’s only Son marred beyond human recognition when He died on the cross for you and me. No beauty. No physical attraction. He experienced rejection, shame, abuse. Sneers, jeers, and insults. He knows how you feel.” Hutchins leaned forward. His eyes narrowed as his voice trailed to a teary whisper. “He knows.”

He watched the pendulum swing on the grandfather clock behind Hutchins’ chair as they sat in silence.

A God who endured pain and did so for him? Too much to absorb and process. A God who really understands how he feels, what he’s going through? It didn’t make sense. His gaze floated to a picture above the therapist’s head. A man in a loin cloth and sandals knelt at the feet of another man wearing a flowing robe. With compassion in his eyes, the robed guy touched the head of the guy who knelt before him.

At last, Hutchins’ voice broke through the stillness. “Here’s what I’d like you to do. Yes, you’ve been through a lot, but you’re spinning your wheels. Your value and worth have nothing to do with your appearance. God looks beyond the exterior. His gaze goes much deeper, right to the core of who you are. He wants to give you a new heart. One that loves Him and loves others.” He clapped a hand on his leg. “Here’s my recommendation. I hope you’ll pursue the idea.”

“What?”

“Serve someone else for a change. Go to the Rescue Mission, the hospital, maybe even back to the burn unit.”

“I couldn’t, not the burn unit. Besides, I still have limited use of my hands. Fused joints in my forefinger and thumb on my left hand. Not good.”

“You still have a voice.”

“What’s left of it.”

“Let’s begin to hone in on what you do have, rather than what  you don’t.  It’s not so important who you help,

but that you do something for someone else. In our next session come ready to tell me about that person’s needs and how you addressed them. Will you do that?”

How could Hutchins possibly understand his dilemma? Even if he tried to get close to someone, and that was a big
if,
that person would most likely bolt or belittle. Either way, he’d lose. Again.

But for the sake of compliance, he nodded, albeit begrudgingly. He’d leave and then do what he wanted. 

“Now, tell me about your wife. Up to this point I’ve believed you to be single.”

“I might as well be.”

“And why is that?”

“I can’t go back.”

“And where is back, Randall?”

“Stop calling me Randall. I’m not Randall.”

Hutchins pinched the bridge of his nose. “Then who are you?”

“Joe. Joe Tatem.” He looked away. “And I can’t go back. Ever.” 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

In the living room, Celeste sat in the darkness. Alone on a Friday night. When Joe was alive, they’d go out on a date, even if it was only to the burger joint down the street.

A beam from her neighbor’s headlights traveled across the wall, then dimmed.

God wants to enter into a love relationship with you.
Barbara’s words rang in her head.

What did any of that have to do with adopting Lily?

Sure, she’d heard all about that Bible stuff while attending Catholic school as a child. So much of it had to do with good deeds, confessions, rituals. Endless performance. Get it all down, right to the last bead on the rosary. To her, God was Scrooge shouting “bah-humbug”
about everything she’d ever desired. Trying to be good enough for that kind of God exhausted her. She’d never measure up, not with the kind of meticulous accounting books He kept. She’d abandoned the hope of ever living within His favor. 

Barbara’s words, however, sounded just the opposite: liberating.  A  love  relationship? All Celeste had

ever experienced was religion. Do this; do that. Or else. 

Christ has done all the work for you.
Barbara’s words floated through her mind.
It didn’t necessarily mean
she’d get Lily, but it did mean God would forgive her and be with her for all eternity.

But what about Joe? She didn’t want to spend eternity without him. She rubbed her temples. Oh, it was all so confusing and tiring.

Perhaps a little wine would ease her pounding head. No, that was Mother’s way; she’d have no part of that. If only Joe had realized alcohol doesn’t solve anything. It only makes things worse.

She clicked on the television. A local news anchor spewed out the nightly report. Celeste returned to her easy chair, drew her feet up, and tucked an afghan around her. The television screen cast an eerie glow in the dark room.

“This morning at eight fifteen near State Road 933, officials sighted The Mishawaka Strangler, responsible for the deaths of twenty women to date. According to reports, more than fifty law enforcement officers combed a neighborhood on the southern edge of South Bend. ‘It was a positive sighting,’ Captain Ronald Myers, spokesperson for the South Bend Sheriff’s department, said. ‘However, we have reason to believe he may be headed toward the Schreiber area.’”

Celeste froze; panic squeezed her chest. A door banged outside, and she jumped as the anchorman droned on in the background. Heart pounding, she inched the  afghan  aside  and  lowered  her  feet  to  the floor.  A

popping sound in the wall. House settling, that’s what Joe would say. She took a deep breath, hurried to turn on the lamp.

Why not every light? She cinched her robe tighter around her waist and mustered up the courage to check each room. But first, she shut off the television. Why had she turned it on in the first place?

She crept into the kitchen and flicked on the light over the sink. The neighbor’s German shepherd barked.
Thank God for that dog!
On through the utility room and to the spare bedroom where she slid her hand along the wall searching for the light switch. One flick and the room flooded with light. Everything appeared okay, but what if someone was hiding in Joe’s closet? She pressed her cheeks.
Get a grip, Celeste.
She rechecked the back door. Locked.
Maybe some warm milk might calm her nerves and help her sleep.

Back in the kitchen, she drew the café curtains taut. While she waited on the milk to warm, she rechecked the front door. Since she rarely used it anyway, it remained locked. She poured some milk in a mug and slipped quietly to the master bedroom, switching on the bathroom light as she passed. Not good for the budget to burn every light in the house, but at least she’d feel safer.

She made a mental note to install some sort of security lock on both exterior doors. If only Joe were here. He’d do all this for her. She shook off the thought. Time to suck it up and go on. Joe wasn’t coming back. But oh, how it hurt to think of going on without him. Only the prospect of adopting Lily eased her pain. Why did Barbara insist on

blocking her efforts? She respected the woman, but Barbara also made her mad. And anger was better than fear right now. At least that emotion made her feel tougher.

She tossed her robe on the end of the bed and climbed under the covers. Propped against two pillows, she sipped her milk. Her brain hurt from the day’s interactions. Time to think about something else.

She trained her mind on the room décor. Maybe that would detract her from thoughts of intruders. Glad she’d gotten those mini-blinds up a few weeks ago. The latest in window treatment options, her new blinds served a good purpose—privacy with a contemporary aura, allowing the light in or out according to the whim of the home owner. Warming her hands around the mug, she cocked her head. Might be an effort to clean them, but curtains would require periodic washing, too. Maybe she’d add a lace valance for a touch of elegance and romance.

Romance . . . what for? She sighed and slid down the pillows, set the mug on the nightstand. She’d never gotten the chance to fix up the house for Joe. So unfair. She pulled the covers over her head and clutched Joe’s pillow.
I miss you so much. Will this pain ever go away?

If only she could adopt Lily, make a home for her. Then maybe the ache in her heart would disappear. Perhaps if she spent more one-on-one time with Golden Girl after school hours, she’d build additional respect in the Millers’ eyes. Maybe then they’d support her adoption desire.  But then, it wasn’t really up to them anyway.  The

state controlled Lily’s fate. Mental note: Check out the possibility of a single woman adopting a child in Indiana.

The gas furnace clicked on. The rush of warm air through the vents created a comforting effect. Celeste reached over and pushed a button on the radio. Donna Summer’s silky voice filled the air as she sang the 1978 hit, “Last Dance.” She thought about the last time she and Joe had danced—on their anniversary. Remorse cloaked her heart, threatening to steal her breath away. She’d been so distracted by her secret pain that evening. Something Joe hadn’t seemed to pick up on.

Was he really her last chance for love? Would she ever dance again, or was that anniversary dance her last?

She clamped her hand on the radio button. The music evaporated into silence, leaving only the hum of the furnace. She burrowed her face into the pillow, forcing other thoughts into her mind—
I love you, Tater Tot, I always will . . . I love you . . . I love you.
Over and over until her eyelids grew heavy. . .

A rainbow appeared, spanning the length of the sky. A man with dark hair and outstretched hand beckoned her, but she couldn’t make out his words. His speech was thick and garbled, like a record on the wrong speed. His face a white spot in the blinding sun. She cupped her hand over her eyes and stepped onto the grass. Dressed in a pink pinafore, large bow fastened in the back, Lily skipped out from behind a weeping willow tree.

When the little girl spotted Celeste, she ran toward her, head tilted back in laughter. She tossed petals from a

basket held in the crook of her arm. Her left arm. Celeste’s hand flew to her mouth. Lily’s deformed arm was normal. Wherever a petal fell, a yellow mum would spring up. Mums peppered the countryside, at last forming a hedge between Celeste and Lily.

When Celeste reached her hand across the floral fence to touch the girl, Barbara and Sonya, with flapping wings on their backs, swooped down from the sky. They clutched Lily by the armpits and dragged her away. Why was Golden Girl giggling? They were taking her away, and she was laughing. She didn’t understand. They didn’t understand.
No, wait!

By now the hedge had grown so tall she could no longer see the man with dark hair. She tried to separate the blossoms, to peer through to the other side. Perhaps Joe was waiting for her. She had to get to Joe. The harder she clawed at the mums, the tighter they adhered to one another, until finally the golden barricade morphed into a drab cement wall. She pounded the surface with her fists. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she slumped to the cold ground.

A horrible blast, a chipping sound, sawing as if through concrete. She covered her ears as the air filled with white smoke. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and held it against her mouth and nose. Legs attached to grimy work boots struggled through a hole. A breech birth, followed by the torso and head. A man with hands over his face. Joe?

Clear of the opening, the man jumped up, dusted off, and offered his hand. “May I have this dance?”

Celeste grinned, placed her slender hand in his large hand, and rose to her feet.

He pulled her close. A band played on the top of the wall. She buried her face in his shirt, and they began to sway to the song, “Last Dance.” She lifted her eyes, looked into his face.

This isn’t Joe.

The man wore a nylon stocking over his head, distorting his features. She struggled against his grasp as he spun her faster and faster along the edge of the wall. The music screeched now, a reel-to-reel tape gone amuck. They burst through a filmy material and into nothing but air. Her captor spun off into space, a maniacal chortle spewing from his throat. Celeste fell through the sky, passing Joe and Lily and Barbara and Sonya who floated like fairies amidst the clouds.

Falling . . . falling . . . falling . . .

Celeste woke with a start, panting and gripping the sheets. When would these crazy dreams stop? She rubbed her eyes against the morning light streaming through the window.