Monday Morning Faith (12 page)

I started to protest and then stopped, knowing I could never run across the parking lot in these shoes. I couldn't walk — forget run. Puddles filled low places. There was a sullen grumble of thunder and a flash of lightning. The rain fell in earnest.

When Sam's BMW braked in front of the theater, I hurried toward the car. Rain pelted me, increasing in velocity. My left foot slipped off my new platform shoe, twisting my ankle and throwing me off balance. My arms pivoted like a windmill in a hurricane, trying to find something to hold to. My ankle gave and I sat down on the rain-soaked curb, water soaking through my new leopard-print skirt. Pain ripped my ankle.

Sam bolted from the car and hurried around the hood to help me to my feet. I leaned against him, feeling the blood drain from my face. His voice came from a distance. “Johanna? Are you hurt?”

Yes! I was crippled for
life
. “My ankle,” I gasped. “I can't put any weight on it.” Plus I was going to black out any second. A gust of wind-driven rain lashed my face, startling me back to consciousness.
God telling me to get a grip?

Sam knelt and gently manipulated the foot and ankle. When I yelped he shook his head. “I think it's just a nasty sprain, but we'll need X-rays to make certain nothing's broken.” His eyes focused on the inappropriate footwear, but he refrained from sharing his thoughts. Thank heaven. He helped me into the car and drove to the emergency room.

I hopped into the hospital, leaning on his arm, still wearing my killer shoes. It was either that or go barefoot. I hadn't gone barefoot in public since my teen years. The reception desk was a couple of miles from the door, or so it seemed when one is trying to reach it by hopping on one foot and dragging the other.

I apologized to Sam. “I'm sorry. I should have worn sensible shoes.”

He smiled. Though gracious as ever, his expression left little doubt that he agreed. I caught a peek of myself in a lobby mirror. My hair had swelled to monstrous proportions. Primal Headhunter came to mind. Black mascara ran down both cheeks. I was certain either one or both fake lashes were out of kilter by now. My eyes were so dry they squeaked, and I'd left my contact case at home.

I filled out the required form and Sam carried the information back to the receptionist. She reacted the way all women acted when confronted with his startling Tom Selleck looks. She drooled.

I wanted to throw a magazine at her.

After a thirty-minute wait, I was ushered into a cubicle. Dr. Walker was short, with a stocky body, white hair, and an overworked expression. I remembered him from a couple of visits he had made to the library. He glanced at my shoes. “Ah. A woman with a death wish.”

For a moment I thought about taking offense, but he was right. As soon as I got home these invitations to disaster were going in the trash, and I was going back to sensible shoes. I didn't need this kind of humiliation.

After poking and prodding my ankle, he announced (like Sam) that I had a bad sprain. He wrapped the injury and gave me a prescription for pain pills. I hobbled out, barefoot now, unable to get my shoe back on and not feeling up to wearing a three-inch high shoe on one foot with nothing on the other. Sam leaned over the desk, talking to the receptionist, drinking coffee from a white foam cup.

We stopped by an all-night pharmacy on the way home. While we waited, Sam suggested a pair of crutches. I cringed at the thought but purchased them anyway. By now my pride had gone down the drain. With Sam I was either falling on the floor in the library hallway, sliding beneath my car, or falling off curbs. He had to suspect I was clumsy.

He helped me into the house, and I slumped down in a chair, crutches propped within reach. Itty whimpered and hid behind a chair. I was turning my dog into a neurotic mess. He seemed to hate change as much as I did.

“Are you going to be all right here alone?” Sam's concern warmed my heart. “I'll call Nelda and see if she can come over and stay the night with you.”

“It's just a sprain. I'm going to take a pain pill, and I'm sure I won't know a thing until morning.”

Sam sent me a questioning look, but after he was assured I'd be fine, he said good night and left. I hobbled over to the door to lock it. After making sure everything was secure, I made my way to the bathroom, where I spent a good two minutes staring at my reflection in the mirror.

My hair was frizzled and bushed out like a banshee. The dark mascara circles made me look like a clown, and my new leopard skirt was a damp, wrinkled mess. Sam had been kind and helpful, but I'd detected a certain touch of reserve. I wasn't sure he favored my new look. But I
was
sure I didn't care for it. I looked like a train wreck with no survivors.

The next day I hobbled into work on crutches. Nelda watched me thump my way across the wooden floor. “My goodness.” Her hands came to her hips. “That was one rough date.”

I struggled into my chair, out of breath, my armpits aching from the stupid crutches. “I twisted my ankle when I fell off those platform shoes you made me buy.”

One brow rose. “Now why didn't I realize this had to be my fault?”

“Those shoes are
dangerous.
The emergency room doctor said so.”

Nelda sniffed. “What does he know about fashion? Just because you had a little incident? Could have happened to anyone. Why blame the shoes?”

I fixed her with a cold look. “Because the shoes were the reason I fell. They aren't safe.”

“But they're stylish. Girl, you looked smokin'.”

I didn't doubt one bit that my foot was “smokin' ” when I hobbled into the emergency room. And so was I — for buying the ridiculous things. “They're an accident looking for a place to happen. I'm pitching them in the trash.”

“Fine.” Nelda blew it off, but I could see I'd offended her fashion maharishi. “They're your feet. Wear what you like. I'll work the desk today. You stay in the office.”

The hours dragged by. The pain medicine left me feeling woozy and out of it. Sam called to check on me, but he didn't come around. My heart leaped when I saw the BMW parked in front of my house when I got home. I parked and maneuvered my way out of the driver's seat to find him standing beside me. I'd been so engrossed in getting my balance on the crutches I hadn't seen him approach.

He lent a hand to steady me. “Easy now.”

When we reached the house, he followed me up the walk and waited until I'd unlocked the door and invited him in. Itty bounded to meet us, bypassing me for Sam. He bent and scooped up the wiggling little bundle of short white hair. The Maltese's black button nose quivered; his mouth dropped open, tongue pink and lolling, as Sam scratched behind the dog's ears.

I dropped down in the nearest chair and Sam sat across from me. We sat for a moment in silence. Sam looked as uncertain as I felt. He cleared his throat as if he'd just made a decision. “Shall we have takeout tonight or should I cook for us?”

That is the moment I made my second serious mistake: I allowed the relationship to shift to a different level. We were now talking like a couple.

“Takeout.”

“Takeout it is. I vote for Chinese.”

I did too.

Right there, right then, on a darkening mid-December afternoon, our relationship turned a dangerous corner. We liked the same things — basically. We were both willing to change. If he'd suggested Thai food I would have agreed to please him. I was sure the change would lead to disaster, but I was powerless to stop it.

Not unlike a hapless driver of an out-of-control car, watching the headlights of an approaching semi.

EIGHT

I
continued to sow a failed crop, dating Sam, aware the ever-growing relationship would never work. But somewhere in my heart I hoped for a miracle. Sam would change. I would change. I was sure of it.

And I was wrong. Nobody changed.

Christmas arrived, and Sam spent the morning with Belinda's parents, then we joined Mom and Pop for late-afternoon church services at The Gardens. We stayed for the evening meal, then headed to my house to exchange gifts. I oohed and aahed over my favorite perfume; he loved the silver cuff links I'd bought for him.

Like a Norwegian freighter, Sam plowed on with his plans to leave for Papua New Guinea. His departure was down to days now. I continued my work at the library and my halfhearted apartment search. Mom and Pop were thriving in their new atmosphere, a fact I resented. I smarted off a lot the few times I was invited to have dinner at their table.

I eyed my dinner plate the Thursday night after Christmas, replete with garnish. “It must be nice to have three hot meals a day.” I now existed on Very Cherry yogurt and packaged peanut butter crackers.

“Johanna — ” Pop reached for a pat of butter — “I brought you into this world, and I can just as easily take you out.”

Pop had never lifted his voice to me, let alone a hand, but I knew I was crossing the line with my persistent resentment. What could I say? I still had bruises from being kicked out of the nest.

On New Year's Eve, Sam and I had a dinner date, and I sensed something different about him. Sort of a suppressed excitement tempered by anxiety. There had been a quiet edginess between us all evening. I think he was feeling his imminent departure as much as I. After dinner, he pushed his dish aside and rested his folded arms on the table.

“We need to talk.”

Yes.
Be still my heart. He sounded so serious. Could it be … Was he about to mention marriage? Nothing had been mentioned, but we could feel the connection between us — the unspoken longing. Was it possible?

Was he going to give up mission work for me?

I didn't know whether to feel glad or culpable. What about God? Would he be mad at me?
Why, of course not, Johanna
. Was he mad at the hundreds of thousands of disobedient children he smote?

I shook my head. Of
course
he was! And if he still smote people, I was edging to the front of the line.

Still I was geared up to give Sam at the least an “I'll think about it” when he held up a warning hand. “Don't interrupt until I'm finished, okay?”

I eyed him. Somehow he didn't look like a man on the verge of proposing. Well then, what was on his mind? Oh dear … breakup. He was going to break off the relationship!

He reached for my hands, expression sober. Soft candlelight splayed across the white cloth. His eyes searched mine, and I realized whatever he had in mind was of utmost importance.

“I want you to come on the mission trip with me.”

I stared at him, stunned into silence. He couldn't be serious. I knew love was blind, but even Sam should see how preposterous that was.

“You … but … I …” The idea startled me so that I couldn't put a coherent sentence together.

“Not for the entire mission. I'm not sure how long I will stay, maybe a couple of months.”

I swallowed. “How long would you want me to stay?”
Johanna! Stop! Don't consider it!

“Three weeks — a month. Stay a month — long enough for you to see if you take to the mission field. I know you've never considered mission work, but the trip will allow you a chance to experience the village, its people. What do you think?”

There was more to it than just seeing the country, and I knew it. This trip would give me a chance to see if I could live Sam's life. The tacit, improbable thought seesawed back and forth between us. I sat staring at my hands, which were quivering.

He managed a smile. “You may speak now.”

I could? I couldn't think of a single word to say. Then reality kicked in and I cleared my throat. “Sam, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but it won't work. I've seen the pictures and heard the stories. I couldn't live like that — not even for a little while.” No indoor plumbing. Flies. Snakes, bugs, disease.

His hold tightened on my hand. “I don't expect an answer tonight. All I'm asking is that you think it over. But don't think too long, because you'd have to get your passport and visa before you leave, and we're already pushing the paperwork deadline.”

What
was
it with people in my life not understanding a simple
no
? I shook my head. We didn't have the same calling, no matter how much I wished we did.

Sam's voice came as if from a tunnel. “An extra sixty dollars will expedite the passport process, and I'm a doctor. I can administer the required inoculations.” His straightforward gaze silenced my protests. “I know this is frightening to you. Don't say yes or no. All I'm asking is that you think it over. Promise me you'll do that.”

Oh, I could promise all right, not that it would do any good. I couldn't leave everything familiar and go to some faraway land because I had fallen in love with this man. “All right, I'll think about it.”

What? Someone other than me must have said that!