One Prayer Away (5 page)

I
t had taken eight months for Virtue to seek the help she needed following a series of misfortunes that began with her separation and ultimate divorce from the man she had once called her soul mate and ended with the burial of her beloved mother. Seven years seemed like a lifetime ago, and in a sense it was, but seeing Mitchell Andrews during her visit to Dallas had all but erased the healing that her year-long therapy had helped her to gain. Now here she sat again on Dr. Beverly Oliver's couch, doing what she did best—crying.

“Listen, Virtue,” Beverly said as she took slow, quiet steps toward her patient, turned friend, turned patient again. “I know life threw you a curveball with this one, but you don't have to let it be a setback for you. God has been too good to you for you to allow this one sighting to destroy all the strides that you made. For the past three weeks, you've been walking backward. You can't fall apart because of this. I won't let you.”

With a quick, involuntary jerk of her body, caused by
the gasp she took in an attempt to control her tears Virtue struggled to force a smile in the direction of her therapist. Beverly was a godsend. It was really the only word that adequately described her. Virtue was, for the most part, a loner, and she credited her life's experiences for making her that way. She'd been in Houston for more than five years now, and there was still no one her own age that she would define as a friend. She worshiped with a thousand other church members every Sunday and rehearsed with a dozen praise dancers three times a week, but once their time in their respective settings was over, there was little or no communication until the routine began again.

Following her breakup from Mitchell, she'd made several moves in search of a better life. For a little while, she remained in Detroit, but she took advantage of a job opportunity that relocated her to Flint, Michigan. When an even better opportunity presented itself in Houston, Virtue accepted, not once expecting to run into Mitchell Andrews. He loved Detroit, and she couldn't imagine what had brought him back to his childhood home of Dallas.

Virtue had just made her move from Flint to Houston when she met the then-forty-nine-year-old woman who was to become her mentor and friend. Beverly had been standing at the exit doors, serving as an usher, at the Temple of Jerusalem Church on the first Sunday in June three and a half years ago. Virtue often recalled the day with bittersweet fondness. It was a day that marked the beginning of a long journey to hope and healing. On that day, just like today, Beverly walked up to her and placed a fresh Kleenex in her hand to absorb the flow of tears that ran so heavily down Virtue's cheeks that they pooled at her chin and overflowed into large drops that landed on her skirt.

The cushions on the couch where Virtue sat sank under the pressure as Beverly joined her. The woman, well-respected in her field, had the striking beauty of a retired model, but a trunk that was more reminiscent of a retired
Model T. Her hips were full and wide, but every pound of her was full of love and kindness. To Virtue, Beverly had become a mother, a friend, and a therapist, all in one. Not having friends her age left no feeling of void in Virtue's life. Following that Sunday morning service, Virtue's unlikely heroine invited her to her home for dinner, and Virtue never left. Not permanently anyway. She found out that Beverly was a practicing psychiatrist who used her expertise in a center for abused women.

Whoever said that the first step was the hardest decision was right. Although outwardly Virtue had convinced herself that she could make it through her traumatic experiences on her own, inwardly she knew she needed help. Her life was slowly crumbling, and she had gotten to the point where she felt plagued with thoughts of ending it all. In Virtue's mind, there was little left to live for. She was hurting in a way that was slowly killing her, both mentally and physically. Virtue's walking into the Temple of Jerusalem Church had long ago been defined by both women as an act of God. With the mental battle that had been going on inside Virtue, had she not seen the church on the corner lot that morning and somehow gathered enough wits about her to wander in, she was sure that she would have taken her life that very day.

As a reminder of the miracle God had performed, Virtue had kept the bottle of pills that she'd purchased from the drugstore that Sunday morning. She'd endured enough pain in her lifetime. She didn't need to die in the same manner in which she'd lived. Her plans had been to go home, write a letter for whoever would have the misfortune of finding her body, and end her life's sufferings. But God had different plans.

Virtue made it clear early in her first conversation with Beverly that she would not live in the housing that the center offered. After she was convinced that Virtue's ex-husband was not a dangerous man who might be stalking
her, Beverly stopped pressing but insisted that Virtue move in with her so that she would not be alone. It had taken a fair amount of coaxing on Beverly's part, but Virtue agreed to the arrangement, realizing that it would also spare her many of the expenses that her two-bedroom apartment required. The arrangement worked perfectly, and in the end Virtue was grateful for the professional and personal attention she got from the licensed expert. Both Beverly and the Temple of Jerusalem became beacons of hope and salvation for Virtue.

“You do know that nothing happens by accident, right?” Beverly said, using her hand to force Virtue to look directly at her. “God is in control of everything, and just like He directed your path and led you to church back in yonder years, He also led you to that restaurant.”

Virtue often saw eye-to-eye with Beverly's conclusions, but this time the vigorous shaking of her head showed her utter disagreement. “No,” Virtue refuted. “That was the devil's doing. God wouldn't do this to me, Beverly. Not after all that I went through with that man. Not after all the pain and hurt. God wouldn't do that.”

Beverly sat back in her spot on the sofa. Although Beverly didn't readily dispute the declaration, Virtue could tell that her friend still held to her own findings. But Virtue knew better. There was no way that God would have directed her to Bob's Steak & Chop House if He had known. . . .

Catching herself, Virtue reevaluated her line of thinking.
Okay . . . God knows all things, so of course He knew that Mitchell would be there, but my running into him was not orchestrated by God. I had been saying that I had a taste for Chinese food. Had I followed my own mind, I would have gone to a different restaurant anyway. I was out of God's will.

“Virtue, our thoughts are not God's thoughts and our ways are not His ways,” Beverly said in a manner that made Virtue feel that Beverly had read her thoughts. “By our understanding, it would seem foolish—brutal even—
for God to put you in the path of the man who hurt you so deeply. But sometimes God takes the foolish and uses it to show us things that we may not see otherwise. It's like Elder Bradley preached a couple of months ago. Sometimes God has to remind us that . . .”

Virtue had heard enough. “You know what God uses to remind me of Mitchell?” she challenged. “This!”

Using her fingers, Virtue created a part that separated her thick strands of hair. “Do you see this scar?” she demanded. “This is from the gash that I received as a result of his violence. If I had fallen differently, the impact could have killed me, Beverly. It's easy for somebody like you, who have never experienced any kind of domestic abuse, to quote Scriptures and cite appropriate sermons that make me out to be the villain. But I wonder if you could see it so simply if you were the one who lived through what I did. It's pretty hard to forgive and forget when you have permanent scars to remind you of it every single day of your life. And if my unwillingness to wipe the slate clean and run up and shake Mitchell Andrews's hand makes me a bad Christian, then oh, well!”

By the time her rant ended, Virtue's tears had once again begun pouring. Taking on more the role of a mother than a therapist, Beverly reached over and pulled Virtue against her, so that her head rested on Beverly's chest. Nothing was said for several minutes. Even after Virtue's tears had slowed, her head remained in its comfortable place, and she stared at the warm colors in the fibers of the carpeted floor.

“Do you love him?”

Beverly's words froze Virtue. Everything seemed to momentarily stop. Her tears, her breathing, her heartbeat—all of it was lost in time. Her immediate instinct was to jump to her feet in a fit of rage and scream at Beverly for even suggesting such a thing. Mitchell Andrews had struck her, and in doing so, he had torn their entire lives apart.
Because of it, she'd been left with nowhere to call home. Because of it, she'd had no strong shoulder to lean on in the trying times that followed. Love him?
She hated him.

“Virtue?” Beverly spoke in a calm, soothing tone. “Do you love him?”

The urge to throw an Emmy-winning tantrum remained, but Virtue couldn't get her body to cooperate with her mind. No one had asked her that question since her mother had asked it the first time she'd taken Mitchell to meet her parents. Virtue still remembered the conversation like it was yesterday.

“He seems like a nice young man, Virtue,” Peggy had said that day as she and her daughter worked together to put the dishes in the dishwasher following dinner. “He's handsome too.”

Virtue blushed. She was glad that her mother seemed to approve. “Yeah, he is kind of cute, isn't he?” she'd replied. “He's really nice, Mom. At first I thought he was just another man trying to play the game, but he's different. I can tell. He's so . . . sweet and considerate. I guess, in a way, he's a lot like Daddy.”

Peggy's eyes momentarily clouded over, but a wide grin quickly spread across her face and erased the fleeting former reaction. “Well, I don't think I've ever seen you so taken by a man, Virtue. This sounds serious.”

As Virtue recalled, she'd never responded to her mother's implication. Instead she blushed deeper and placed the last plate into the dishwasher. As soon as she closed the door and stood to her full height, Peggy reached forward and removed several stray locks of hair from her daughter's face and tucked them behind her ear.

“Do you love him?” Peggy had asked.

Just the sound of the question had had an emotional effect on Virtue. She found herself almost speechless, but when she nodded her positive response and managed a soft, “Yes, I love him,” there was no look of surprise from
her mother. It was obvious that Peggy had already known the answer before she'd asked the question.

“Now tell me.”

Both women had turned to see Mitchell standing in the opening that separated the kitchen from the living room where he had been sitting and chatting with Virtue's father. Embarrassed by what she knew Mitchell had witnessed, Virtue used her hands to cover her face. A few quiet moments passed before she felt Mitchell's hands tugging at the makeshift veil she'd provided. When she'd reluctantly lowered her hands, she found that the three-person gathering had been reduced to two. At some point during Virtue's reaction, Peggy had walked away and left Virtue to face her admittance alone.

“Tell me,” Mitchell whispered.

Suddenly uncomfortable with the man she'd been nothing but at ease with for the past month, Virtue dropped her eyes and shifted her feet. Her mouth became parched, and the roof of it begged for moisture that her dry tongue couldn't provide.

“Tell you what?” she asked, knowing full well that Mitchell wasn't naive enough to think she was clueless about what he meant.

“Tell me,” he had repeated. This time he cupped her face in his hands and forced her to return his gaze.

Virtue didn't know why her eyes filled with water, but they did, and she couldn't stop the spill that followed. Mitchell didn't flinch in his position. His eyes remained locked on hers, and his face was so close to Virtue's that she could almost taste his lips.

“Tell me, Virtue.” His eyes were pleading.
“Tell me,”
he urged for the fifth time.

Her voice broke and it was barely above a whisper, but Virtue knew that Mitchell understood the three words that he'd been begging to hear. They had barely escaped her lips when he covered hers with his. The temporary drought
that her mouth had endured was quickly brought to an end. Admitting her love for Mitchell and having him mirror her feelings had brought about a whole new chapter in Virtue's life. When she met his grandparents three months later, Virtue knew that this was the family she wanted to be a part of. She loved everything about Mitchell. Only a fictitious character like Cinderella or Snow White could relate to what she felt. She'd met her Prince Charming, only hers came in black; and instead of a white horse, he rode a dark grey Chrysler New Yorker. It had been a love story that was never supposed to end. But it did.

Virtue's mental trip back in time came to an end too. Her time was up. She'd waited too long to breathe. She'd waited too long to shed another tear. She'd waited too long to restart her beating heart, and she'd waited too long to answer. Her silence, as far as Beverly was concerned, gave consent. Even knowing the conclusion her therapist had drawn, Virtue couldn't find the strength to dispute it.

“Sweetheart, don't you see?” Beverly said, using her hands to push Virtue back into an upright position. “The reason you are so broken and angry isn't because you saw your ex-husband. It's not because you saw the person who you see as responsible for tearing your life apart. It's not even because you saw the man who delivered the blow that gave you that permanent scar. It's because you came face-to-face with all of that and you still have love for him.”

Five