The Big Picture (22 page)

“Uh-huh. And how long have you been sober? Five months? Five days? Five minutes?”

“Five years.”

Oh.

Still, why would he jeopardize his sobriety by hanging out with my mom? She’s not exactly a sure bet in terms of having it together.

“Katie, I think that’s enough rude questions for now.” My mom leaves us for the kitchen. “Save some of your obnoxiousness for later.” She shakes her head and digs into the fridge.

“It’s okay, Bobbie Ann.”

No! It’s not okay.
Nothing
is okay. There are red flags everywhere. Doesn’t anyone see them?

My mom boils water on the stove and reaches into the cabinets for a bag of chips. “How many hotdogs do you want, Katie?”

“Are they all beef?” I ask like Millie just took over my body.

Mom frowns. “What?”

“Er . . . just one. Thanks.” The Millie in my head tells me to read the hotdog package label, but I resist. The days of soy burgers and tofu dogs are gone. I’ve got to adjust to my life here — my overly processed, artificially flavored life.

We sit down to a dinner of hotdogs, pork-n-beans, Fritos, and tall glasses of fruit punch Kool-Aid. Once the plates are filled, I bow my head.

Then remember I’m not at the Scotts’. I peek through my lashes to find John and Mom staring at me.

“Is there something wrong with you?” My mom squeezes mustard up and down her bun, her eyes suspicious.

“Um . . . no. I was just . . . um . . .”

“Praying.” John’s easy smile catches me off guard. “Why don’t we all pray?” He reaches for my hand, then my mother’s.

Staring at the two of us like we’re alien life form, she sets her hotdog down on the plate. “Well . . . fine. Sure. Whatever.”

John lowers his dark head then thanks God for our food.

“When did you start doing that?” my mom asks.

My answer overlaps John’s. “Since I lived with the Scotts.”

“I always have. Just never have around you.”

Mom shifts uncomfortably in her seat, narrows her gaze at me and her boyfriend, then shrugs it off.

“So . . . John. Where’s a good place to go to church?” If I don’t find a church, I’ll never hear the end of it from James.

He takes a swig of fruit punch. “I think Maple Street Chapel is great. Very small, but a good pastor.” He daubs at his small mustache with a napkin. “It’s where I go. Been trying to get your mom to go for weeks, but she won’t.”

“I work on Sundays. Got too much to do.”

“You should go
this
Sunday, Mom. I’ll go. We can have a little more mother-daughter time.”

She considers it then shakes her head. “I have to work. I took today off. I don’t get three weeks’ vacation like the rich folk you know.”

“You don’t have to work in the morning, do you?” I prod. “Can’t you clean the beauty salon after church?”

Mom’s spoon clanks on the table. “I
said
I have to work. Surely God understands frivolous things like food, water, and electricity bills that need to be paid.”

“You could ride with me tomorrow, Katie. I pick up a few of my elderly neighbors, but I have room for one more.”

“I can drive my own daughter to church, John,” my mother snaps.

His forehead wrinkles in a frown. “Well, of course you can. Just thought it would be easier on you if I picked her up, since I’m going that way anyway. And then you could get done whatever you have to do before work.”

I feel an undercurrent here that has nothing to do with the earlier church tension. I lift my brow in question and lock my gaze on Mom.

She picks up her Kool-Aid and swirls her glass around, the ice clinking. “He’s just being a worrywart. I had a little fender bender last week in my car. No big deal. Just wasn’t paying attention.”

“I’m just concerned, that’s all.” John folds his napkin in half, then thirds.

“People have little accidents all the time. I just spaced out. I was probably messing with the radio. I don’t even remember.”

“It’s your second ‘little accident’ in three weeks.”

“I said I was messing with the radio. I wasn’t paying attention. I think I’m still perfectly capable of driving my daughter down the street to the church.” Mom stands up and grabs her paper plate. “I need to run and check on some things at the beauty shop.” She dismisses John with a nod.

He rises from his chair, his focus intense on my mom. “They’ll be closing about now.” She doesn’t say a word. John nods then moves toward the door. “It was nice to meet you, Katie. I’ll be seeing you around.”

“Yeah, I guess I’ll see you at church tomorrow.” Awkward. Weird. Uncomfortable.

John lets himself out the door as my mom grabs her purse.

“Where are you really going?” I know this woman.

She pauses, her hand on her bag. “I said I was going to run to work real quick.”

“Mom, it’s after six. Can’t it wait?”

“No, it cannot. I need to check on next week’s schedule and talk to my boss. I have to ask off for your doctor’s appointment.” She grabs her own cell phone and hustles to the door. “Don’t go anywhere and don’t open the door for anyone. And don’t do anything stupid like jumping off the front steps on your crutches.” She forces a smile. “Be back soon.”

From the kitchen window, I watch her drive away in her 1990 Cougar.

Heading the opposite way of the beauty shop.

Chapter twenty - five

WHO KNOWS WHAT TIME MY mom got in last night. As they say in Texas, she must’ve stayed out with the dry cows. Whatever that means.

I run my flatiron down the last section of my hair, and give it a small mist of spray. My stomach turns a small flip as I think of once again being the new girl at church, the new girl in town. Of course, it helps that this time I don’t have a rap sheet that says breaking and entering. I didn’t exactly make the best impression when I first landed in In Between. But still, I won’t know anyone. Won’t have anyone to sit with. Won’t be able to look up at the choir loft and see Millie’s sweet smile. Or glance behind me and catch Maxine sneaking bites of Cheetos during the invitation.

My crutches stab into the linoleum as I make my way across the trailer and into my mom’s room. I knock. Loudly. You never know. And in case her boyfriend came back with her last night, I don’t want to barge in and see something that will scar me for life.

I finally hear her rustling around, then her feet thud onto the floor. “What?” She cracks open the door.

“I’m going to church, remember?”

“Yeah?”

“You said you wanted to take me.” I wait for her brain to join us in the conversation.

“Oh, yeah. Uh-huh.” She lifts a hand to push back her tangled hair. “Gimme a sec. I’ll be right out.”

The door shuts, and I limp back to my room to get my toothbrush and beg God one more time for some confidence. Maybe I’m rushing this. I mean, do I really need to go to church the second day here? I’m sure James would understand my taking a Sunday off. I’m tired. I’m depressed. And my mom has satellite TV.

I brush my teeth over the kitchen sink, watching some kids do donuts on their bikes in the street.

“Do you want some breakfast?” Mom ties her knee-length robe closed and reaches for her coffee pot.

“Some of your turbo-charged coffee would be nice.”

“You can’t get that at no Starbucks.”

We share a tired grin. “Nope. Nobody makes it like Bobbie Ann Parker.”

“Got you some Pop-Tarts, too.”

“Aw, Mom. You do care.” But I will have to reconsider if she serves me the s’mores kind. The taste of graham cracker does not belong in breakfast. “So where did you go last night?”

She doesn’t bother looking up from the toaster. “Work. I told you.”

I hope it’s the legal kind. “You must’ve gotten in pretty late.” Or early, if you want to get technical.

“I stopped by the salon then had some errands to run.”

“What if child services had shown up?”

My mom stills. “Can we have one peaceful moment together? Is that too much to ask? Is it?”

“No. I worry about you, though.”

“Well, don’t.” She snaps up my Pop-Tart and plops it on a napkin. “John’s church starts in fifteen minutes. You’d better eat in the car.”

I ask her one more time to go with me, but she refuses. Mom throws on some sweats, then helps me out the door and into the car.

The drive to the church is a quiet one. My eyes adjust to the sight of Middleton like I’m stepping from dark to light. Like they need to refocus. It’s unexpected. It’s unfamiliar. And it’s not In Between.

“You’ve got your phone. Call me when you get done. I should have time to pick you up before I go to work.” She pulls up as close to the door of the small church as possible.

I hoist myself out and walk toward the building that’s just crying for a new coat of white paint. Men in suits stand on either side of the walkway, greeting everyone who passes them by name. Sometimes it’s a huge comfort how friendly church people can be. This is not one of those moments. I just want to slip inside, find a seat, and —

“Oops, dropped your Bible. Let me get that.”

Before I can contemplate the challenge of bending over, a blond-haired guy jumps in front of me, reaches for my leather-bound NIV, and hands it to me with a Johnny Depp grin and a twinkle in his eye.

“You’re new here.”

“How’d you guess?” Boys. I’m so over them.

“I’m Tate Matthews.” He continues to hold my Bible.

“I’m Katie. Katie Parker.” He looks a little older than me, but I can’t be sure. He doesn’t dress as
GQ
as Charlie, but not too shabby. Better than Nash.

“Just visiting or is Middleton home for you?”

My chest constricts, and I have to look away. “Something like that.” Will this place ever feel like home?

“Will you be going to Middleton High? Let me guess . . .” Eyes as blue as the ocean squint as he studies me. “A senior?”

At this I do laugh. “No, a junior.”

“Ah, well, as a member of the Middleton Student Council, let me be the first to officially welcome you. We’re the home of the Muskrat.” His voice drops. “Our mascot gets beaten up a lot.”

My mouth tips upward, despite my sad mood. His student council
status reminds me of Frances, and his easygoing demeanor brings my drama buddy Jeremy to mind. So he can’t be all that bad.

“Are you meeting someone in here?”

I shake my head and move toward the door. “No.”

“And if I said I had a seat saved just for Katie Parker?”

“I’d say Tate Matthews was full of it.” But I let him walk me through the doorway and hold onto my Bible as I greet the men at the door.

“Look . . . Katie.” Tate slows as we reach the sanctuary. “If you don’t take me up on my offer of a seat —
just
a seat — all my friends will laugh at me. You don’t want to shoot me down and ruin my reputation, do you?” He lifts a brow and strikes a barely tragic pose.

I pretend to scan the perimeter. “I don’t exactly see friends flocking around you. Unless you count that lady over there giving you the eye.” I point to a woman who has poured her Rosie O’Donnell figure into a tube top, even though she could pass for somebody’s grandmother.

Tate winces. “Old girlfriend. She’ll get over me one day. Anyway, I happen to have a number of friends, which I’m guessing you are in short supply of as the new girl.”

His words sting, even though I know he doesn’t mean them to. “If you sit in my pew, I’ll introduce you.”

I chew on my lip and consider it. “Okay,” I sigh. “But for the record, I think you might be trouble.”

He holds up his hands in surrender. “My mom would agree, but you would both be wrong.” His hand rests lightly at my back. “This way, Muskrat newbie.”

Crutches and pews do not go together, so I let Tate take my hands and help me into my seat. He high-fives some people around us then introduces them to me. As Tate’s friends make small talk with me, my eyes drift to the door, half expecting James to march through and take the pulpit. But this isn’t his church. I just hope God shows up.

Across the aisle, I spot John, and I hold up a hand in greeting. He starts to get out of his pew, but the choir files in, and the pianist lights into the first few bars of a hymn.

Without asking, Tate helps me rise as the congregation comes to their feet for the opening song. His touch isn’t creepy or intrusive. It’s efficient and quick. Friendly. Reluctantly, I must admit I like this guy.
As a friend
. Totally as a friend. No dating for me. Not for a long time. My heart still howls for Charlie Benson. But I guess my heart wants a lot of things it can’t have. Like a mom. And Keira Knightley’s hair.

We sing “Amazing Grace” with a Chris Tomlin contemporary flare, and I’m reminded of the moment I walked down to accept Christ. I was surrounded by my friends at church, as well as victims of the tornado that had hit town, and we were singing this song. The words, older than me and my friends put together, were so fresh and new to me that evening. That was the night I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt I was a child of God. That he had created me with a purpose. And I was in In Between for a reason. And now I have to suck it up and remember I’m in Middleton with my mom for a reason.

So here I am, God. Keep me focused. Keep me on your path. And just keep me sane.

The same man who leads the choir walks to a microphone and welcomes the church. He reminds me of an older version of our youth pastor, Pastor Mike — muscular, bald, and his enthusiastic words twanging with their deep-South roots.

“That’s our preacher, Brother Jamie. He’s really good.” Tate points to the man as he returns to direct the choir.

And Brother Jamie is good. At least he passes the keep-my-attention test. His sermon is over, and I realize I didn’t look at my watch one time or draw hearts and deformed flowers all over my bulletin. He leads the church in a closing prayer, then dismisses us with a final serenade by the Maple Street Chapel choir.

“So . . .” Tate passes me the crutches and takes the Bible from my hands. “A group of us are going to Brother Jamie’s house for pizza and volleyball. I dare you to join us.”

“Let me guess, Brother Jamie is also the youth minister?”