Paige Rewritten (25 page)

She's quiet for a few minutes, staring at my blank TV, lost in memories, I assume. I don't try to rush her. I just sip my water and wait.

“There wasn't anyone waiting for us in Indiana,” she says. “But we tried to do some things there anyway. We played a few times. We were completely broke. There were four of us and all the equipment all crammed into this van, sleeping there, living there. I took showers at road stops for a while. I don't know how we managed to keep gas in the van. Then one of the guys' aunts said she would pay us to play at her daughter's wedding if we could make it to Chicago and learn some tame songs.”

She shakes her head. “Spike was livid. Said we would be selling out if we went there and played some crappy wedding songs.” She looks down at her hands. “I remember thinking then that maybe he wasn't the guy I wanted to live with forever, but he finally came around. We drove to Chicago and ended up getting a few more gigs from people at the wedding. Bar mitzvahs, anniversary parties, stuff like that. With each one we took, Spike just got more and more angry.”

She stops abruptly and clasps her hands in her lap, fingers white from the pressure. I'm pretty certain I don't want to know details of everything my baby sister was going through during that time. “Those were dark days,” she says finally. “I didn't know what to do. I couldn't go home. Not after the way I left. I couldn't stay with the band, not with the way Spike was hurting me. So I left. We played a gig, I told the guys I was going to pack up the drums, but instead I just carried them right across the street to a pawn shop, got a hundred bucks for them, and left.”

She rubs her face. “I found a disgusting little motel in the heart of downtown Chicago that only charged twenty dollars for a night and stayed there. That night someone was killed in the room next to mine. I woke up to cops surrounding the building and ordering everyone out. One of the cops was sent there by Jesus because he saw me leaving with nothing but my clothes and for whatever reason, he offered to take me to his church's rescue mission.”

My brain is spinning. I sit very still, very quiet, but I'm gripping my glass like the Hulk. I'm trying my best not to blink because I might start crying.

What if Preslee had been killed instead of whoever was in the motel room next to hers? What if Spike had seriously hurt my sister? What if I had never seen her again and she had died with such a huge chasm between us?

Preslee tucks her hair behind her ears and continues. “Things changed after that. I lived at the rescue mission for four months and I got very close with one of the ladies who volunteered there. She reminded me a lot of Gram.”

I smile. Gram was spunky.

“She kept telling me that I was smart, that Jesus was still going to use me for some wonderful thing. About two months into getting to know her, I became a Christian. I started going to her church, I started reading my Bible, and I started studying so I could take the high school diploma equivalency exam.”

“How come you never called?” The million-dollar question.

Preslee sighs. “I just couldn't. I had to come back changed. I couldn't come back and have everything start all over again between Mom and Dad and me. I needed to know I was different.” She bites her bottom lip. “I should have called though.”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry,” she says again. “I started working as a waitress and spent the next two years working, taking correspondence classes through one of the colleges in Chicago, and going to church. I was asked to share my testimony with the youth group, and that day is when I met Wes.”

She takes a sip of water and shrugs. “After that, time just flew past. I fell in love. He's really a wonderful man, Paige. I'm so excited for you to get to know him better. He proposed and I told him that there are a few things I need to take care of before I get married.” She looks at me and nods slightly.

I assume I am one of those “things.”

She takes a deep breath and leans back against the sofa. “And that's the condensed version. Still kind of long. Sorry about that.”

She looks exhausted, and I feel completely emotionally drained. I'm not sure I can have a coherent conversation about her long story right now.

I am one of those people who needs to process things.

“Thank you for telling me that,” I say in a quiet voice.

“Thank you for listening.”

We both just sit there in silence for what feels like an hour but is probably closer to two minutes.

“I think it's bedtime,” she says finally.

I nod and go pull out an old comforter and an extra pillow from my linen closet. “Do you want sheets?”

She shakes her head and slips off her shoes. “I'm just going to curl up on the couch. I can sleep anywhere. Don't worry about me.” She tucks her hands in her pockets sheepishly. “Obviously I didn't plan this too well, but you don't happen to have an extra pair of pajamas and an extra toothbrush, do you?”

I smile. “Follow me.” I lead her into my room and dig out an old pair of gray pajama shorts that have coffee cups all over them and a black T-shirt. I point to the cabinet under my sink. “There are a few toothbrushes in there.” I hate the toothbrushes my dentist gives out, but I just have issues throwing away a perfectly good toothbrush, so I just stockpile them under my sink. I always have this vague idea of donating them to a homeless shelter, but I never remember to do it.

I should do it.

She comes out of the bathroom a few minutes later all ready for bed. “Good night, Paige.” She clasps me in an awkward hug. “I love you. Thank you for letting me stay here tonight.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

I shut my bedroom door, change into my pajamas, brush my teeth, and climb into bed, pulling the covers up around my waist. I plug my phone in and there's a text from Tyler that I missed.

H
OPE YOUR TIME WITH YOUR SISTER WENT WELL
. I'
VE BEEN PRAYING FOR YOU
. S
WEET DREAMS
, P
AIGE.

He really is very nice. He was all concerned after I told him who was spending the night and even prayed with me before I left.

I look over at my Bible on my bedside table next to my phone and just sigh.

I'll read tomorrow.

Chapter

19

M
y alarm goes off at seven for church.

I would be very okay with a midafternoon church service. Maybe one that also served Starbucks and freshly made chocolate-chip cookies.

The chewy kind.

I am suddenly remembering the stories the last missionary who visited our church told us about starving children who walked three hours across deserts and through dangerous ravines just to go to church, and I am suddenly hit with good old-fashioned American guilt.

I take a lot for granted.

I take a quick shower and then quietly creak open my door. Preslee is still sacked out on the couch, long dark hair splayed all over my sofa cushion, face relaxed, mouth open.

She looks like she's about twelve, and my chest hurts again for all the years we lost.

Here's an issue. If I sneak into the kitchen to make coffee, she will likely wake up. If I don't, I might get stuck drinking the coffee at church, which has a 50 percent chance of being good coffee.

Fifty percent is not that high when it comes to a ratio of good or bad coffee.

She looks so peaceful that I decide not to wake her up and slip back into my room to finish working on my appearance. The older I get, the longer this takes.

Except for a brief stint in junior high. It took me like two hours to get ready back then.

Sad that Danny Waggerston never knew how much I tried to impress him.

Rick asked yesterday at the party if I would come sit in on the youth group Sunday school again this morning. I've gone a few times in the last few months.

“You just want me to decide I do want the job,” I told him.

“Well, duh,” Rick said, grinning.

I arranged a sub for the two-year-old class, which is never too hard to find. I just go for the women who have an empty nest and no grandkids yet. It gives them their kid fix and their own kids get a few more months of being spared the “when are you giving me grandchildren?” talk.

I brush on my eye shadow, add some liner and mascara, and then spend the next few minutes putting some curl into my hair. My hair is way too long.

It doesn't help when I see all these girls around with these super-cute short cuts in preparation for summer.

But then I remember every girls' dream of wanting to get married with long hair. Not that that is going to happen anytime in the near future, but it is a concern since it took a few years for my hair to get this long. If I chop it all off now, I'll have to factor that into my dating life.

The thought of Tyler brings a smile to my face, but then Luke's plea yesterday morning wipes the smile right off.

No more thinking about the dating life while looking in a mirror. I've apparently gotten some wrinkles I didn't know I had.

I pull on a pair of jeans and a green Henley-style short-sleeve shirt over a white camisole with brown flip-flops and peek out my door again.

Preslee is still sleeping.

She was apparently on the tired side.

I sneak out into the kitchen, silently pull a notepad and one of my spare keys from the junk drawer, and write a quick note.

I went to church. Main service starts at ten, if you want to join me. Hope you slept —

I pause, pen in the air. Good? Well? English 101 is failing me this early in the morning.

— well. P.S. I will be your maid of honor
.

Better to tell her this in writing so that: (a) I can't change my mind and (b) neither of us will cry around each other.

I have this feeling that if we start crying, we just won't stop.

That's not good for maintaining the proper pH balance in your system. Or so says WebMD.

But then again, my PMS headaches always turn into brain tumors on WebMD's symptom checker.

I leave the note and the key in the bathroom where she definitely will not miss it. Then I grab my purse, slip out the door, and lock it as quietly as I can behind me.

I am even leaving a little early, which warrants a stop by Starbucks, I think. I pull out of the drive-thru a few minutes later with a macchiato and then head toward the church.

This will play into my decision about the job, I think. There's a Starbucks directly on my way to church.

I could live with that.

I wonder if I could factor in some coffee money into my salary from the church.

Rick is standing in front of the sound-booth thing in the youth room when I walk in. Our youth room looks like a huge garage, basically. There's concrete floors, open ductwork, and the whole place echoed when they first built it, so Rick finally had them add some of those sound-absorbing boards on the walls, which made conversations and Sunday mornings way more bearable.

A few kids are milling around in the room, talking small talk or staring blankly at the band setup, obviously up a little too early.

“Good morning, Paige,” Rick says when I walk over, but he doesn't look away from the computer where he is typing out the lyrics to what looks like “Our Great God.”

Great song.

“Morning. So. This job thing,” I say.

He perks up immediately and looks right at me. “Yes?”

“I might need a coffee allowance.”

“Done.”

“Because I — ” I stop. “Wait, what?”

He shrugs. “It was already part of the job description.”

I just gape at him. “You are kidding.”

“Nope. You're supposed to be meeting with students. So we are prepared to give you a hundred-dollar prepaid Visa card every month to take you and the girls out with.” He waves a hand and goes back to typing. “As long as you make it last through the month and meet with a bunch of students, I don't care where you use it or what you use it on. Go to Starbucks. Go to Putt-Putt. Go waterskiing. I don't care.”

I swear I have not heard this bit about the job before. I knew the meeting with students part, but he did not mention the Visa card.

Suddenly, the job is looking a little better. Using my major
and
doing it at Starbucks?

“Okay.” Rick pushes the Save button on the computer. “Words are all set. Remember how to do them?”

The last time I did words, I spent the whole time panicking that I was going to mess up and cause everyone's worship experience to come to a screeching halt. I back away with my hands up. “Oh no. I'm not doing that again.”

“It wasn't really a question.” Rick smirks at me. “You'll do fine. Cut yourself some slack. Speaking of slack, did you get the e-mail I sent you yesterday?”

I hadn't been around my computer all day yesterday, but I did check it on my phone this morning. One of the only ways I can honestly say that I actually utilize the smartness of my smartphone.

“I didn't see anything from you.”

“Shoot. Must have gotten lost in hyperspace.”

“I think you mean
cyberspace
.”

He shrugs. “Whatever.”

“I thought hyperspace was when you were going someplace really fast.”

“Oh my gosh,” one of the sophomore guys comes over, making the universal signs for choking. “You guys are
killing
me. How does neither one of you know the proper terminology for hyperspace, much less cyberspace?”

Rick and I just look at him and then he proceeds to spend the next twenty minutes talking about interstellar trade, safe routes, and something about droids being required to navigate. He loses me about ten seconds into his speech, and I just stand there, thinking about how nice it would be to have a conversation with a fifteen-year-old boy that didn't involve a reference to
Star Wars
, girls, or sports.