Authors: Julie Carobini
Sweet Waters (19 page)
Norma removes a fat, blue book from a rack, flips through the pages, and cracks it open wider while holding it in front of both of us. A wafting of incense mixed with the scent of old wood overtakes me. From some hidden place, a resounding organ begins to fill the church like something out of an old movie, or maybe a major league baseball game.
I'm beginning to wonder whether coming here this morning was such a good idea.
The congregation stands to their feet and I follow, albeit with a two-second delay. This seems to light extra energy beneath Norma, who thrusts the book out in front of us as if it were a treasured photograph. Her voice fills the space between us . . . and it's magnificent.
All the frustration, disappointment, and worry that stumbled in here with me this morning has been made mute as I add my own warble to the mix. There's ease in following along, richness in the melody, and inherent strength in the textured, aged voices. I think I might cry.
Norma slips an arm around my shoulders, loosening the knot at the base of my neck, and I fight off the growing urge to let my emotions out of the safety of their locked cage. Tears prick the corners of my eyes, and a few escape down the sides of my cheeks. As if on instinct, Norma squeezes me tighter, and we stand like this until the last note of the organ is played.
My new friend hands me a tissue as the entire congregation is seated, and the pastor, this time wearing a robe of his own, approaches the podium. He proceeds to welcome us, then read through a lengthy list of announcements before settling into a story . . . about food?
“The prophet Isaiah writes, âListen to me, listen well: Eat only the best, filling yourself with only the finest.'”
I perk. Josh and I were feasting on fine food last night, until . . . well, until the conversation changed and I found myself without an appetite.
“âPay attention.'”
I jump a little. I'm convinced Pastor Cole can tell my thoughts strayed from his sermon to my date last night, until I realize that he's still reading.
Oh.
“âCome close now, listen carefully to my life-giving, life-nourishing words.'” He closes the Bible and steps out from behind the podium. “My friends, God is letting us know here, that the things we hunger for the most, even more than good food and drink, are the things that only God can give us.”
Oh.
“âCome close now, listen carefully to my life-giving, life-nourishing words.'” He closes the Bible and steps out from behind the podium. “My friends, God is letting us know here, that the things we hunger for the most, even more than good food and drink, are the things that only God can give us.”
My first reaction is to ask, like what? What can God give us that will fill that nagging hunger within me? Other than last night's doggy bag, that is. If I'm honest, though, the pastor's words have a calming effect. It's as if something deep inside tells me to listen up because the antidote to my worries is near.
“He's instructed us to seek Him, and to pray to Him while He is near. This is because He has made a covenant with us, a promise of a life of honor. He wants you and me to have a life of joy, to be whole and complete. And that starts with Him. He is the foundation on which the most fulfilled lives are built.”
I press the backs of my fingers over my mouth, suppressing a smile, remembering Holly's counseling on proper foundations. Then my eyes flit around, as the pastor continues to speak. No lightning bolts have struck, so I guess I can safely assume that the man of the cloth cannot read minds.
Seriously, though, Eliza's longtime motto has always been, “It starts with me!” Her confidence and fortitude have impressed me, guided me even, as I've taken seriously my role as firstborn. Admittedly, though, I've never quite been able to follow her lead
and
find the success in life that I've longed for.
and
find the success in life that I've longed for.
Maybe I'm missing something.
“Amen.” The pastor concludes, and it's obvious that, yes, while lost in a swirl of conflicting thoughts, I must have missed something important. I want the life of joy he talked about, and to feel whole and complete.
Seek Him,
the pastor said, and
pray to Him
.
Seek Him,
the pastor said, and
pray to Him
.
Although it feels like baby steps, I resolve to start there.
As he takes a sheet from the podium, it looks as if Pastor Cole's about to launch into more announcements. With a sudden rise of his chin, he looks up from the paper and into the crowd.
“I'd like you all to join me in praying now for our friend Josh Adams, who's in the hospital after suffering from a fall last night . . .”
I hear nothing more. Norma and I twist toward one another, mouths open, and dart quickly from the pew and out through the massive double doors.
Chapter Eighteen
My heart races again, full-on, catch-in-your-throat racing. Norma and I made it through town fast, considering its length consists of one major street and two stop lights. But getting to the hospital took another twenty-five minutes along a winding, dirt-edged road.
We dash down the hallway of Twin-Towns Medical Center and halt just outside Josh's room. Words like
consciousness
and
pupils
and
vomiting
flow into the hall and land on us like a stifling hot blanket.
consciousness
and
pupils
and
vomiting
flow into the hall and land on us like a stifling hot blanket.
Two beautiful people emerge from Josh's room. Both tall, the woman's auburn hair rests on her shoulders and she holds the elbow of a man with deep crow's feet bordering captivating eyes. Josh's eyes.
The woman lets go of the man's elbow. “Norma! So good of you to come.”
The women embrace and Norma reaches to me. “Shirley, have you met Tara?”
The lines near Shirley's eyes soften. She takes my hand in both of hers. “No, we've not yet met, but I've heard your name. I'm Josh's mother. So good to finally meet you.” She hugs me like I'm her own and tears prick my eyelids for the second time this morning.
Norma guides the man my way. “And this is Pete, Josh's father.”
He shakes my hand vigorously, like we're old friends. “Josh said you were beautiful and he wasn't kidding.”
Okay, so now I'm blushing, but at least their son must be all right or they wouldn't be acting this happy as they greet me in this stark hall.
Shirley takes my arm. “We are thrilled to meet you. I so hope you will accompany Josh to his father's celebration next month.”
I'm taken aback. “Uh, well . . . that would be lovely.” She's over the moon; I clear my throat. “Can we see him?”
Pete steps back and sweeps an open arm toward Josh's room. “Yes, of course. Please.”
Norma stays behind as I step into the room. The low buzz of medical machinery greets me and I grip the doorjamb. I haven't been in a hospital room since Daddy died and a familiar taste of nausea builds in my throat.
“Tara?” Josh lies in a half-sitting, half-prone position.
I release the doorjamb and approach his bed, fighting a floaty sensation. I'm not sure if it's a leftover from the days of visiting Daddy, or because of the new kind of intimacy this visit brings. “Hi.”
“How'd you hear?”
“The pastor mentioned it at churchâ”
“You went to church this morning?”
My eyes narrow. “Why the surprise?”
Josh's mouth opens and he draws in a quick breath. “No, I mean . . .”
I lower myself to the bed and cover his hand with mine. “Stop. Sorry. You've obviously been hurt so this may not be the best time to get into another argument.”
Josh's lips curl into a smirk. “So we were fighting last night, then?”
I look down at the pale blanket beneath me. “Not fighting, exactly. Maybe moving just a little too fast, though.” I glance into his face. Even with fresh scratches and that yellowing bruise along one chiseled cheekbone, he makes my heart flutter. “What happened to you . . . after you left?”
Josh blows out another breath, this one hard and jagged. “I got careless. Found myself up on a roof in the middle of the night and landed on a soft spot. Tried to right myself, but couldn't.”
“So you fell off a roof?”
“Onto my shoulder . . . and head. It's only a mild concussion. I'll be back at it next week, or maybe sooner.”
“Is that what the doctor told you?”
He tries to shrug, but winces from the pain of a beat-up shoulder. When he sees me watching him, Josh drops the pained expressionâas if I didn't already notice. “They have their policies and I have mine.”
“You're getting ahead of yourself.”
Josh sets his jaw. “I thought you weren't going to start any more arguments?”
“I'm the one starting all the arguments? Last night you were the one making more of my situation than even I did.”
“If it's no big deal, then why not tell the rest of your family?”
I stand and cross my arms. “Apparently your memory's still intact. And I never said it wasn't a big deal, just that you made more of it than expected. I'm still trying to figure everything out and to make an intelligent decision about where to go from here.” I glance out the window toward a stand of pine so thick it's a wonder birds can fly through it. “I told you about it for . . .”
“Sympathy?”
I unfold my arms and spike the air with my palms. He's made up his mind about my situation, which I find odd
since even I'm unsure of all that's transpired. If only he actually knew my father, he'd be less inclined to accept the worst.
since even I'm unsure of all that's transpired. If only he actually knew my father, he'd be less inclined to accept the worst.
“We're doing it again.” He glances out the window. “You're driving me crazy, you know.”
And vice versa.
“Josh, I'm glad you're okay. I know you are committed to your line of work, however dangerous it might be. And when the pastor asked everyone to pray, I just . . .”
“Josh, I'm glad you're okay. I know you are committed to your line of work, however dangerous it might be. And when the pastor asked everyone to pray, I just . . .”
He quirks an eyebrow. “You prayed for me?”
“Will you quit doing that?”
He turns both palms toward the ceiling. “What?”
“Finishing my sentences! All I'm saying is that I felt
bad
that you were hurt, so I came to check up on you. It's not a crime to care.”
bad
that you were hurt, so I came to check up on you. It's not a crime to care.”
This time Josh's eyes penetrate mine and despite the budding indignation forming in response to his attitude, a generous ripple skitters through me. “You're right,” he says. “It's not a crime at all.”
“C'MON, LET'S GRAB A bite.”
Norma wraps an arm around my shoulder and nudges me toward the hospital cafeteria, which by medical facility standards isn't all that terrible. They even have color on the wallsâazure-blue and fuchsia stripes. Simka would be proud.
Norma fills up her tray while I take a salad from the ice bin and a bottle of water. I could use a cup of coffee, but the last time I'd tasted a cup at a hospital almost cured me of the addiction.
“You and Josh have a spirited relationship.” Norma smiles and takes a bite of mashed potatoes drenched in dark, dense gravy.
“We have differences of opinion.”
Norma wags her head, her mouth in a conceding smile. “All best love matches do.”
I exhale. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Why's he so . . . mysterious?”
Norma laughs. “Mysterious? I've never thought of Josh in that way. What makes you ask that?”
“He's got some strong opinions, but won't fully explain himself. And why does it seem like he's on-call with the fire department 24/7? Everybody needs a day off, am I right?”
“I know what you're saying there.” She takes a sip of her coffee, winces and sets it right back down. “Ever since he handled a particularly tough rescue, he has seemed more focused on the station. I've seen him fly out of church even and he spreads himself pretty thin already with all the volunteer hours he puts in.”
“Were you talking about the fire on Fogcatcher LaneâBeth's house? I live on that street.”
“So you've heard about that. It's still very hard to think about.” Water redness tinges Norma's eyes. “I'm not sure if he's really over that one.”
“What happened?”
“Beth hasn't talked about it much. Not to me, anyway. I was on the care committee that visited her in the hospital afterward and that's when our friendship really began. All I really know is that the fire got started in the kitchen.” She lowers her voice. “Gordonâhe's her ex-husbandâhe was always such a cheapskate and the rumor is he rigged a lot of the switches and outlets himself. I read in the paper that some of them may not have worked, which may be one reason a couple of the outlets were so overloaded. Just a matter of time till one of them sparked.”
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