Composing Amelia (26 page)

He’d achieved the trifecta: accomplished wife, esteemed job, and a child. This had to be it, what his father had been hoping for his youngest son. Marcus sent the email and waited eagerly for the response.

He was working on his sermon before lunch when his computer chimed the arrival of an email. He clicked over immediately, and smiled. His father had written back.

Marcus,

Congratulations. I hope Amelia is well. Have you discussed how many children you’ll have? You need to do that sooner, rather than later. When a couple is not in agreement on that, or have not discussed it thoroughly, there can be unfortunate results. Children are expensive and require a great deal of time and attention. It has always been my belief that two is plenty for any family; anything more than that is a burden, especially on a ministry income. God’s work is of the utmost importance, and anything that detracts from that should not be tolerated. I’m sure you’re discovering this in your own life, given your new job. Tell Amelia we are happy for the both of you and look forward to meeting our new grandchild.

—Randall

Marcus had to read the email twice—he was sure he’d missed something that explained where this diatribe was coming from. Instead, the words finally sank in and dissolved the film of neediness through which he’d viewed his father all these years. For the first time he saw with crystal clarity how his father truly viewed him, and finally their relationship made sense.

His father hadn’t wanted him.

He picked up the phone and called his mother. “Mom, was I an accident?” He didn’t care how abrupt it sounded. At this point, he had a pretty good idea that his mother would know exactly what he meant.

The pause before she spoke confirmed his fears. “Accident is a terrible word for it, Marcus,” she said in a weary voice.

“That’s how Dad sees it, though, right?”

“Oh, sweetheart. What did he say to you?”

Marcus read the email to her, wishing he could hold out just a sliver of hope that he’d misinterpreted the entire thing. But the meaning was clear, he knew. Now he just wanted to find out what had happened.

“Money was always tight,” she finally said, “and I had a hard time balancing my volunteer time at church with taking care of your brothers. Your father said we were done, but … I wasn’t, not in my heart, even with all that was going on. And I prayed God would make me content with just John and Eddie, but He didn’t. Your father wanted me to get my tubes tied, so I told God I was willing to have another baby, even if your father wasn’t, but that I didn’t want to argue with him over the procedure, and that God should just get me pregnant before I had it done if He really wanted us to have another baby.” She sighed, but it sounded like a happy one. “Lo and behold, a month later I was pregnant with you.”

Knowing the backstory didn’t make it any easier to handle. “So he just … what, decided to write me off entirely?”

“Your father is a complicated man, Marcus. Sometimes it’s difficult to understand his motives.” It was the closest thing to criticism he’d ever heard his mother utter against his father. “It’s always hurt me to see how he treats you, and to see how hard you’ve tried to win his affection without success. I wish I could have fixed it for you somehow, but a boy’s relationship with his father—it’s so different than with his mother. I know my praise has never meant as much as the same words would mean from him. But please know that I did my best to make up for the lack of them.”

He appreciated her words, but just like she said, they did nothing to soothe his wounds. “Thanks, Mom,” he managed. They said good-bye, and Marcus hung up the phone and stared again at the email on his screen. No wonder the harder he strove for his father’s attention the harder his father pushed back. Who wants someone they don’t love hounding them all the time?

He felt foolish. Angry. Embarrassed. Why couldn’t he have figured this out on his own? How could he have been so blind? The signs were right there.

He wondered if his brothers knew. He hoped not. The thought made him ill.

Marcus shut down his computer and locked the door behind him as he left his office without his work. “I need to, um, leave early,” he told the secretary.

“You have a four o’clock with Pastor Cort from Wheatridge Baptist. Shall I reschedule?”

“Yes. Thanks. Tomorrow’s appointments, too; I’m not sure if I’ll be in.”

He walked halfway to his car, intending to pull out his spare outfit for jogging so he could hit the streets like he always did when he was stressed, but then stopped. He didn’t want to jog. Not just right now—he wanted to give up the hobby entirely. He’d only started because his father valued his brothers’ athleticism, and it was the only thing he could do remotely well in the sports arena. He didn’t know what else to do, though, so he stood for a moment in the parking lot as though he’d lost the car that sat less than twenty feet away. How else could he preoccupy himself while he processed? Nothing came to mind. At a loss for other options, he set out for the sidewalk at a comfortable pace.

The pleasant spring day was at total odds with the tumult in his mind and soul. Everything he’d done since he was five years old had been for naught. It had never mattered what he did, how hard he tried; his father would never give Marcus the affirmation he needed. But now that he knew that, he found himself in a life that was driven, if he was going to be truly honest, by pointless ambition. Why else had he gone to seminary? Or taken the job that pulled him from his wife? Nearly everything he had done was in question. Nothing mattered now as it once had.

Which parts of his life had he actually wanted, and which parts had he chosen just to please his father?

One realization after another burst through his thoughts. He’d never questioned Christianity, but had accepted it as truth because his father said it was so. What if it wasn’t? He’d never prayed that God would show him what to do with his life—he’d simply assumed that God would want him in ministry. Why wouldn’t He? Wasn’t ministry the highest calling, the most important thing a person could do with his life? But—what if it wasn’t? What if there was something else he could—should—have done, something he could have done better, would have enjoyed more? What if he’d been meant to marry someone else, live somewhere else …?

Marcus walked, head down, through the oak-lined residential streets of Wheatridge for two hours. When his stomach rumbled for the lunch he’d missed, he turned back toward the church and forced himself to shelve the emotions that were churning. Regardless of whether he was meant to be or not, he was a pastor now, and he had a job to do. A breakdown would have to wait for later.

Amelia picked at the spaghetti she’d made for dinner and tried to watch Marcus without him feeling her stare. Something was wrong. The last three days he’d been quiet, and Marcus was never quiet, not like that. No joking, no animation in his gestures … He looked the way Amelia had felt when her depression had first started. The fact that he’d quit tutoring the college students didn’t bode well, either. Marcus wasn’t the kind of guy who liked a lot of downtime.

Her own depression had been getting better over the last couple weeks, despite learning about the baby. Contrary to what she’d told Marcus, she hadn’t started taking the antidepressant yet, because she’d wanted to see if the slow but steady improvement she’d noticed right before she’d moved would continue on its own. Sure, she still had angry thoughts, and still felt sad, but nothing like she felt in LA. But she wasn’t ready for Marcus to have the same problems. She was still trying to figure out how to take care of herself and keep her mood on an upward swing. She couldn’t handle Marcus being depressed too.

What isn’t he telling me?
Marcus was a talker, a sharer. The fact that he wasn’t sharing now must mean she was the source of his stress. Why else wouldn’t he do what he always did: process aloud, bounce things off her, ask for her insight?

But what had she done?

Unfortunately, once she asked herself that question the possible answers came in hordes. He was turned off by her because she was pregnant. He no longer wanted the baby either. He was angry at her for not being more excited about the baby. He was mad at himself for insisting she move out to Nebraska. He was angry at her for being depressed. There really was something going on with Karis.

Honestly, she hoped it had something to do with her, rather than the baby or Karis. It was only his enthusiasm for the pregnancy that kept her from truly resenting it. Without his support and excitement, she’d never make it to October.

She shook her head as her thoughts became more jumbled and twisted, trying to dislodge them so they didn’t start taking deeper root. She couldn’t afford to add that negativity to the stockpile she already had.

And that meant she was back to square one. She had to be here in Wheatridge. And she had to figure out how to make Marcus glad that she was.

She analyzed the past two weeks since she’d arrived. What had she done, other than sleep, eat, and sit around? Nothing.
No wonder he’s angry.

She had to make some changes. She had to show Marcus she really did want to be with him, that she did love him, that she wasn’t going to be a total drain on him. She had to keep the depression from worsening again—and sitting around moping was not the way to do it. She needed to start living a real life here in Wheatridge.

“I was thinking about looking for a job,” she blurted over a forkful of pasta. She hadn’t, really, but now that she said it, she knew she should.

He looked up at her, confusion on his face. “Huh?”

“I’m going to look for a job.”

“Oh—that’s great.”

“Yeah. I thought, um … maybe I can look into teaching lessons at Blue Note, like you suggested, and maybe subbing in the schools. I could stop subbing when the baby comes and just take a little break from lessons.”

“Sure. Sounds good.”

“And … I think I still have that bulletin from Easter, with those women’s info on it. Maybe I’ll give them a call.”

“Great.”

Why were his responses so apathetic? Maybe because he had no reason to believe her
.
She cut the conversation off, already feeling overwhelmed by what she’d claimed to be planning, and decided to apply herself to those initial steps and see how they went. Maybe once he saw she was following through he’d be more enthusiastic.

The next morning, Amelia showered and dressed with more care than usual, then set out for Blue Note at a slow pace that accommodated a body that had grown unused to exercise. By the time she reached the shop, her legs and back ached, but mentally she felt better than she had in a long time. The manager gave her an application to teach piano, which she filled out on the spot. He assured her they were in fact looking for piano teachers and promised she’d at least get an interview. The news made her feel better than she’d expected. In fact, if she felt like being liberal with the definition, she might even say it made her feel happy.

She was on her way out when the sight of the baby grand that sat in the front window arrested her. She hadn’t touched her keyboard since moving, and how long had it been since she’d played on the real deal? She went back to the manager, feeling uncharacteristically shy. “I was wondering … would you mind if I played on the baby grand for a minute?”

“Sure, help yourself,” he said. “I’d like to hear you play.”

“It’s been a while,” she said quickly. “I just moved and haven’t had the chance to practice in a while.”

“Don’t worry,” he said with a smile. “I won’t count it as an audition.”

She sat down on the quilted bench and ran her hands over the keys. She wasn’t really dying to play; it was more a feeling of not wanting to miss what was usually a rare opportunity. She played a couple chords, reacquainting herself with the feel of real keys, then began to play Mozart’s
Piano Sonata no. 15 in C
. Her fingers fumbled a bit here and there, and she played more slowly than the proper tempo, but just as with riding a bicycle, muscle memory carried her through the song with relative ease despite not having played it in over a year. Satisfied with the impromptu performance, she started in on Kirby’s “Dance of the Antilles,” a piece she hadn’t played nearly as much as Mozart’s but which she had greatly enjoyed during the short time she’d worked on it. It felt good to be playing again, even though her fingers were awkward and her speed was gone. At least she knew what she had to work on before she auditioned for teaching lessons.