Falling Up (7 page)

I learned about that “payoff' thing on a “Dr. Phil” show. And I have to say it made sense at the time. So now I have to ask myself, what is Natalie's payoff in keeping this wall up between her and God? Especially considering how tight she used to be with God. What can she possibly get from this kind of isolation and self-punishment? I think and think about this, and finally I come up with something. Okay, I could be totally wrong, but its all I've got at the moment.

Pride. I hate to say it, but I think Natalie always had a fair amount of pride when it came to being a Christian, or what her megachurch was doing, or even in her own beliefs and convictions. And I think it hurt her pride to fail in this area, like she sees herself as this fallen, unredeemable person now. As ridiculous as it seems— when you consider how Jesus is the only One who can remove our sins—I think its her pride keeping her from coming to God. Like if she stays away, she won't have to admit that she's blown it.

Okay, that sounds really lame, and I'm probably just spinning my wheels, but it's the best I can come up with at the moment. Anyway, I might just ask her about it. Well, when the timing seems right. Which might not be ever.

Saturday, May 18

Matthew took me over to meet his grandparents tonight. I was really looking forward to it and was all ready to be impressed since I know that: 1) they are very wealthy, and 2) they are very into really good education. And call me shallow, but those two things definitely get my attention.

Its not that I'm unimpressed with Matthews mom. I mean, she's a nice person and all, but she's so totally different from me and my family. Maybe its just her artsy, creative ways, but she's kind of weird too. It's like she enjoys getting noticed—whether it's for her strange sense of style (she likes to wear clothing from other countries) or the Bohemian way she decorates her home or the theater crowd she hangs with. She's just very different than what I'm used to.

So when we pulled up to the elder Barclays house, make that mansion, I felt myself being instantly pulled in. You enter through a big metal gate, and their home is a stately white colonial-style house with big round columns and a circular driveway paved with bricks— kind of like a scene from “Gone with the Wind,” but we don't live in the South. The grounds were immaculate with large trees, some that were blooming, growing in just the right places. Really beautiful.

“Wow,” I said to Matthew as he parked his old pickup in front. “This is very nice.”

Matthew nodded, seemingly unimpressed, but then why should he be since he's grown up around this? Still, it caught me by surprise since its so totally different from how he and his mom live. As we walked up to the front door, I was glad that I hadn't worn jeans. It was such a nice sunny day that I'd opted for a skirt and top, actually one of the outfits Aunt Shannon had foisted upon me during her visit. But according to her, it was very chic. And after I tried it on again at home, I think I could almost see it.

Matthew didn't ring the doorbell but just walked right in. Naturally, I followed. But before we were halfway through the foyer (a room as big as our living room with marble floors and a staircase that swept in a wide circle like something out of a movie set), we were met by a maid.

“Matthew,” she said with a smile. “Your grandparents are out on the terrace.”

I suppressed a giggle—out on the
tenace
—I really was beginning to feel like I was in a movie and even wishing I had a script! We heard voices as we walked through a beautifully furnished room and toward the open doors that led to the terrace, and I realized that we weren't the only ones invited to dinner.

“Who else is here?” I asked Matthew, suddenly feeling even more nervous.

“Some friends of my grandparents,” he said absently. “Someone he wanted me to meet.”

“Oh.”

“Don't worry,” he said quietly. “That'll just make it that much easier for us to slip out early if we get bored.”

Then we went outside and suddenly introductions were being made. The “friends” of his grandparents turned out to be the dean of Mr. Barclay's alma mater, as well as a law professor and the two distinguished men's wives. The group seemed to be enjoying a happy reunion, and I couldn't help but feel like an intruder, not to mention excess baggage. All attention seemed riveted onto Matthew, and to my surprise, he seemed to enjoy it. It was obvious that this was a well-planned mission to talk him into attending their prestigious school.

Occasionally, I'm sure out of politeness, a question would be directed to me such as: “What are your plans for college?” or “Do you have any extracurricular interests?” And while I did my best to answer in an intelligent fashion, I was under the distinct impression that they couldn't care less.

The funny thing about all this is that my GPA is higher than Matthews, and my chances of getting a music scholarship for violin are probably better than Matthew's would be for art. Also, if I wanted to blow my own horn, I could tell everyone that I am the famous writer of a syndicated advice column. Instead, I was forced to say that I had recently been interested in journalism as a major.

Then Matthew mentioned that my dad was the managing editor of the local paper, and they all smiled indulgently, as if that was a “nice little occupation,” although not nearly as Impressive as their illustrious careers in law and education.

It turns out that Matthew s grandfather recently retired from “the bench.” After a successful law career, Mr. Barclay became a high-level judge. If I'd been paying attention or been in trouble with the law, I should've been aware of that. I'm guessing my dad knows who he is. I suppose I should've asked. Oh, well.

As dinner wore on, I wondered why I felt so thoroughly disengaged. Almost as if I were on the outside just observing. Was it because Matthew was the center of attention and I was a little nobody? Which actually seemed odd since I don't usually like the limelight anyway Or was it just that I felt like such an alien in their somewhat exclusive world of wealth and influence? And that didn't even quite fit, because I think in some ways I could fit better into that than Matthew.

Then it occurred to me that I was the only one in the
group of different ethnicity, and I got to thinking perhaps that was it. Or maybe it was because I was the only Christian in the group. Or at least I assumed that was the case, based on the consumption of alcohol and some of the language and off-color college stories I was hearing.

But the truly amazing thing about the whole evening was how Matthew seemed to be getting more and more pulled in. And finally when the dean really pressed the question to him, reminding Matthew that they'd already extended the deadline and this was absolutely his last chance, Matthew said that he'd made up his mind.

“I think my grandpa is right.” He turned to Mr. Barclay. “I should go ahead and accept this generous offer.”

Of course, this made the old guys very happy, and this naturally called for another round of drinks. “And bring out the champagne,” Mr. Barclay called out. “We'll all make a toast.”

I felt a little silly refusing their offer of champagne, but I knew it was right for me to do this. But Matthew accepted a glass, and I couldn't really blame him since it was his life they were toasting. I raised my water glass and echoed their well wishes, but all I wanted was to go home. And I have no idea why, but I really missed my mother right then. And I actually felt on the verge of tears, which seriously aggravated me. Why is that?

Finally, it was time to leave. I thanked Matthew's grandparents for inviting me. And they were more gracious than they'd been all evening, thanking me for
coming and thanking me for encouraging Matthew to follow in his grandfather's footsteps.

“What did they mean by that?” I asked Matthew once we were back in his truck.

“By what?”

“Thanking me for helping you to make this decision.”

“Oh, I told them that you thought it was a good idea for me to go there.”

“I did?” I tried to remember exactly what I'd said. I thought I tried to see the positive side of both options. But perhaps I appeared to lean in this direction.

“Yeah, you said it was a great opportunity, Kim. Don't you remember?”

“I guess so. And it is a great opportunity. If that's what you want.”

He didn't say anything.

“Is that what you want?”

He kind of shrugged. “Maybe I'm not entirely sure what I want. I mean, it's not like I can predict the future. But getting free tuition at such a prestigious college…well, I guess I wonder how I can go wrong with it.”

“And your art?”

“I can still pursue that.”

“Will you?”

“Of course.”

Still, I'm not so sure. When I got home, I went online and did a little research on Matthews “college of choice,” and I wasn't all that surprised to see that they offered very little in the way of art degrees. The only thing I
could find was “art and archaeology,” and it sounded like it had more to do with art history than anything else. But I'm sure Matthew knows all this. Besides, he could always change his mind after he spends a semester there. And maybe free tuition is more important to him that I realized.

Even so, I feel sorry for him. Its as if he got cornered tonight, like all the big guns were pointing at him, and he threw up his hands and said, “I surrender.” Too bad he can't do that when it comes to God. That's where he really needs to surrender.

Finally, I just couldn't stand to think about Matthew and his “future” anymore. So I decided to answer some column letters. I think it's my little escape hatch sometimes. My dad left a new batch in the familiar manila folder on my desk. One letter in particular caught my attention. It was a handwritten letter sealed in an envelope with “To Just Jamie” on the front.

Apparently it was hand-delivered to the newspaper. But something about it looked familiar, so I dug in my box of old letters until I found one that looked just like it. It was the letter that Charlie Snow (owner of the newspaper) gave to my dad last fall. It was written by his daughter Casey. And the small, neat handwriting looked identical.

Casey's first letter had to do with God, and it came at a time when I would have nothing to do with God, and consequently I had a hard time answering her questions. Of course, that has all changed, so now I'm thinking I
ought to be able to handle another Casey letter. Besides that, she's also been on my prayer list since it seemed she was really searching for spiritual answers.

Wow, it sounds like Casey is having a really hard time. And it makes me wonder what's going on in her life that would get her to such a low place. I'll have to ask Dad about this. In the meantime, I'll write a response and make sure it goes in the next edition.

I print out a copy of my response, along with Casey's letter, for my dad to see. I suspect he's gone to bed, since it's pretty late and the house was quiet when I got home. But when I go into his den to leave the letters, I'm surprised to see that he's in his chair. His head is leaned back and his eyes are closed, and for one freaky second, I think that he's dead! But then I hear him quietly snoring, and I realize that he's only asleep.

I go over and gently nudge him. “Dad, don't you want to go to bed to sleep?”

He jerks awake and looks at me with surprised eyes. “Oh, Km, you startled me.”

“It's after eleven. I thought you were in bed.”

“When did you get home?” he asks.

“About an hour ago.”

“Did you have a nice time?”

“I guess so.” I'm not sure how much detail to go into since Dad really does look tired. He's got dark circles under his eyes.

“What's that?” He glances at the papers in my hand.

So I sit down and quickly relay the contents of the letter and how I'm pretty sure its from Casey Snow. Then he reads it for himself and just sadly shakes his head.

“She sounds so hopeless,” I say.

“I wonder if Charlie knows… “

“Is there some way you could let him know, without giving it away…1 mean, about the letter?”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“Are you okay?” I ask him, worried about how tired he looks.

He removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “I guess I'm as okay as I can be, Kim.” Then he sighs. “Its not easy, you know.”

“I know.”

Then we both just sit there in silence.

“They have therapy groups,” I finally say, “to help you to deal with grief and loss.”

He nods. “But Fm just not a therapy group kind of guy.”

“You can talk to me… “

He kind of smiles. “Thanks. And you can talk to me.”

“But we don't…”

He scratches his head. “I guess Fm not even sure what to say, Kim. Just that I miss her. I miss her so much.” And then his voice cracks, and he's starting to cry, and now I don't know what to do. So I stand up and go over and put my hand on his shoulder.