Sway (30 page)

“Then why did you do it? After all this time, why do you continue to stand onstage with him and say all these things against perfectly good people?” Maybe I shouldn’t be so harsh, but she owes me this. Besides, my hand is really starting to hurt.

“Because your father believes in this cause. And in a way, I guess I do, too. Faith can—and should—stay private. I’ve managed to keep mine that way all these years. And even if I didn’t feel that way, it’s too late to change things now.”

I shake my head. “But Mom, it’s not too late—”

“I’ve made my decision. I won’t walk away from your father. He’s built—
we’ve
built—too much to give up now.” She tilts her head in thought, focusing on my wall. “In the oddest way, even though I know it’s wrong, I’m still proud of what we’ve accomplished. Proud to know that we’ve made a difference in the way this country practices religion.”

“Even if it means kids get thrown out onto the street?”

“There is always another place for kids to go when a center like this one closes. A Boys and Girls Club. After school programs…”

“Kids can’t spend the night at either of those places.”

“It’s my understanding that not many spend the night at Caleb’s place, either.”

“Not many isn’t the same as zero, Mom.”

She says nothing, because there’s really nothing to say. We blink at each other until one of us makes a move. That person is my mother, but she leads us right back to where we started.

“Kate, I turned my back on the way I was raised a long time ago. I hurt people. Your father hurt people. People who loved us both…some we haven’t seen in over two decades. It’s been exactly eleven years ago today since I’ve seen my own mother. We tried to keep a relationship going for a while, but it just didn’t work. Too many differences.” Again, her expression turns faraway. One tear slips out of her eye and glides down her nose. “She sure thought you were special, though. Do you remember the way she cried the first time she saw you? I think you were three at the time…”

I say nothing, because I don’t remember it. Until now, I never knew we once had a relationship.

“I ran from everyone who loved me, and in turn, they eventually gave up on me.” My mother swipes at her eyes and fixes her gaze on me. “That won’t happen to you,” she says, looking so momentarily resolute that it unnerves me. “If you choose to walk away from the way we’ve raised you, you’ll never lose me. And I can promise you—
promise you
—that you won’t lose your father, either.”

I don’t move as the implication of her words settles around me. It’s as though she’s known all along, as though her life is being lived out in reverse and she has a chance to redo it through me. She ran away from God to save her relationship.

And she’s telling me to run toward Him to save mine.

Still, I grasp for an anchor. Something I know. Something to save me from that life-changing turnaround I wished for just last night with Caleb. Because up until now, life has been steady, and steady is comforting.

“What about the media? Everyone will talk. You and Dad and everyone in the organization will be ridiculed and—”

She stops me with a hand to my knee.

“Your father is a master at getting people to see things his way. Don’t worry about him. He’ll be upset at first, but he’ll understand. Once I point out the irony of your situation being the exact opposite of ours, he won’t have a choice.”

Still, I’m not certain. “You’re suing him; Caleb. His church. What makes you think he’ll have anything to do with me after that?”

Guilt darts through her eyes. She covers it with a small smile. “He’s known about the lawsuit for weeks. If he hasn’t turned away from you yet, something tells me he never will.”

My eyes burn with unshed tears as I weigh her statement and everything she’s handed me. An out with them. An in with Caleb. The freedom to live my life the way I want to, and the promise that I’ll be loved in spite of it.

It takes only a heartbeat to make my decision, and I’m off the bed, opening my closet and pulling out my coat. The pinkest, puffiest, furriest one I own. Even my mother grimaces through her tears, and she’s the one who gave it to me.

“You’re going to wear that?” She doesn’t ask where I’m going. She already knows.

I grin and kiss her on the cheek. “Trust me. Caleb will like it.”

My father walks in just as I make it to the kitchen. “Dinner smells good.” He looks at me, takes in my attire. “Nice coat. Where is she going?” he asks my mother.

She and I share a look, and in that moment I know something else.

My mother has my back. She’s always had my back, even as I stood on a stage giving speech after speech that I never plan to make again.

I realize something else.

No matter where I go—no matter how things turn out with Caleb—I’ll never stand in front of a crowd again. My photo will never be on another pink flyer. In fact, after tonight, I’m done wearing pink for good.

And it’s at this moment that I feel free. From expectations. From spectacles. From the spotlight. Even from fear.

For the first time in my life, I’m not afraid, and I’m not running anymore.

“She’s going out for a bit,” my mother says to my father, slipping me a quick wink as she snakes her arm around his waist.

I kiss my dad on the cheek. He is a good man. And if I’ve learned one thing lately, it’s that there’s always hope for men like him.

“I’m just going out,” I tell him, repeating my mother. “But I’ll be back. I’ll definitely be back. Save me some lasagna.”

“Don’t count on it,” he says, jabbing a knife into the first corner piece.

I smile and take a moment for this image to sear into my mind. My mom. My dad. My family. For years and years, the three of us against the world. Figuratively, and at times, literally.

For most of my life, I’ve loved it that way.

But now it’s time to grow up and make my own way.

With one last glance behind me, I turn and walk out the door.

Caleb

“The Truth”

—Kris Allen

T
here are four things I’ve learned in twenty-four years of living, three that I hope to pass on to my own son someday.

One: it sucks to be alone. I should know; I’ve been that way for most of my life. When my father left, when my mother died, when I was shuttled from one foster family to another because no one wanted me. When I was in jail—sitting in a dank cell with concrete walls so thick they closed in on my nineteen-year-old brain like a clamp determined to squeeze all thought process and emotion out of me. I’d never felt more abandoned than in that moment. Hope to never be in that place again.

Two: it never hurts to find a good friend.

Even a nerdy, scrawny, quiet one who likes church potlucks and chess and is nothing like you. After all, looks can be deceiving. Sometimes the chess player in the plaid shirt has the guts of a heavyweight and winds up being the person who saves your life. After he rips the heck out of your hand in a cheap move that scars you forever, that is.

Three: sometimes life requires abandonment, loneliness, scars, and a walk through a pit of awfulness to make a person appreciate the sweetness of true, lasting, unadulterated freedom. And I’ve learned the way to real freedom is to find God. To accept that He has a plan for your life. A strange plan, sometimes—not all of it is pretty, some of it isn’t pleasant, and some of it seems downright weird. But I’ll take His weird over my idea of perfect any day of the week. Because, I, Caleb Stiles, found God. I’m free for the first time in my life.

And four: life’s a heck of a lot better with a hot girl on your arm.

Hey—I said this was for my son. I’d never say something that stupid to a daughter.

I’ve officially turned in my man-card, spit on my masculinity, kicked my ego to the dirt—and that was
before
I used make-up to cover the top half of my tattoo. Still, in the middle of all this chaos, it’s hard to be embarrassed. Or to care. Because today—I’m Santa Claus.

But that doesn’t mean I won’t break every bone in Scott’s hand if he shares that make-up part with anyone, because I will. I told him as much at least a dozen times earlier tonight as he spread layer after layer of Cover Girl on my chest. It’s bad enough that I’m two hundred pounds underweight and didn’t have time to find appropriate stuffing to fill this suit. Santa
cannot
show up with an eight-inch strip of black ink all over his chest.

Although, looking at Scott now, I doubt I have anything to worry about. The guy is wearing pointy green shoes with fuzzy red balls at the tips and a matching cone jingle bell hat that keeps flopping in his eye. I doubt even Will Ferrell would be caught dead wearing that get-up.

We both look like morons.

Happy ones, but still.

A person can’t help being happy while surrounded by dozens of excited kids.

“Hold on a minute!” Scott says, giving me a look of pure exhaustion. He isn’t fooling me. I haven’t seen him this excited since last August when What’s-His-Name chess player won the national title after a record-breaking round that exceeded last year’s playoff by a whopping forty-seven minutes.

What can I say? Scott’s a nerd. As straight-laced as they come. And the coolest guy I know.

“Listen to Scott!” I say above the screams. These kids are wild. Like last year’s group on crack. Which is strange, because our numbers are up only by three. Not enough to create this kind of temporary madness. “I want everyone to sit down right now!”

I’m not sure if Santa is supposed to bellow more than the customary
Ho-Ho-Ho
, but this Santa does. It takes a couple of minutes, but the kids quiet down and slowly form a ring around my feet. The younger ones look wide-eyed at me, fear lacing their expressions that this angry Santa Claus will leave here without emptying his large white pillowcase of toys.

That isn’t going to happen.

I take a deep breath, and when the noise dies down—
thank you, God
—I slowly open my bag.

“Okay, now. Who wants to go first?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. A tarantula tossed onto the middle of the floor wouldn’t draw as many gasps and squeals. Scott nails me with a look, but I ignore him. With more dramatic flair than should be allowed for a straight guy, I withdraw the first item. It’s just a dollar-store jump rope, but the entire room spins into a frenzy as I hand it off to Shelley, a little blonde girl sitting partially on top of my left foot. She grasps it with both hands and toddles off to her case worker—her foster family was too busy to show up tonight.

I start to bristle with anger again before I remember that Santa is supposed to be jolly. Anger isn’t part of the shtick.

I force a smile that turns into a real one when Scott trips over his shoes and almost lands headfirst into the tree. The room erupts in laughter and I reach for another toy to give to Matt, a precocious six-year-old currently hopping from one foot to the other in front of me. He’s missing a shoe; I have no idea why. Maybe in his excitement, he started ridding himself of clothing.

“This one looks like it’s for a boy,” I say in my best baritone voice. Matt fist-pumps the air with both hands and lets out a whoop.

Christmas Eve is in full swing once again.

*

Kate

I expect to see a lot of things when I push through the door, but the sight of Caleb—and I can tell it’s Caleb because never in the history of shopping-mall Santa’s has one ever looked
that
good—in a fuzzy red suit wasn’t it. It stops me in my tracks just inside the door, and I can’t help the slow smile that works its way across my lips. He’s holding a bulging pillowcase and doing a poor job of disguising his voice while he passes out gifts, but the children are loving it. A little boy wearing one shoe bounces excitedly in front of him while Caleb reaches into his bag. The missing shoe puzzles me until I see it a few feet behind him. I laugh softly to myself. Some kids like to be free from the confines of clothing. I used to be one of them.

While trying to stay as inconspicuous as I can in this hideous pink coat, I stand in the shadows and take in the room. It’s my first Christmas ever, and I want to remember all of it.

The lights on the tree are brighter than I remember them being last night; definitely brighter than the ones in my little apartment. I watch them for a moment, the way they dance across the gleaming wooden floor that makes up the basketball court. Just beyond the room a sliver of the dining room is visible, candlelight casting shadows over the darkened walls. The tables look untouched, which means dinner hasn’t been served.

I can make out the top of Ben’s head as he sits in the middle of the large circle of kids. He raises his hand and I see the flash of a toy sword. I roll my eyes. It seems Santa isn’t above handing out weapons to small children, especially when Santa’s persona and his elf sidekick have been taken over by two men-children who are nearly as raucous as the kids.

Speaking of kids, I take in Santa’s sidekick, a very awkward Scott who has tripped twice in the thirty seconds I’ve been here. In his defense, walking in high heels is hard enough. Walking in oversized floppy shoes would be next to impossible. Caleb laughs at him. So do I. I don’t mean for the sound to come out so loud.