Reinventing Rachel (3 page)

Rachel paced the kitchen for a moment, letting her brain process everything she’d just heard. Then she stopped. “Wait—that doesn’t mean he really wants a divorce, right? I mean, he could come back to his senses, realize he was crazy and didn’t mean what he said.”

Her mother shrugged. “I suppose he could. But he’s not the one that wants the divorce. I do.”

“
What
?”

“I don’t expect you to understand, Rachel.” Her mother raised her chin, resolved.

“How could you?

“You can’t imagine the stress I’ve been under, living with him when he’s like this. And it hasn’t just been the last week, or even the last two months. Over the last five years, things have steadily declined. It’s been a nightmare that just keeps getting worse. When he’s depressed I have to watch him like a hawk and lock away all the knives and pills so he can’t kill himself. I have to come up with one story after another for why he’s not at work, why we’re not at church, why I have to cancel plans with people.” She closed her eyes for a moment. Her lip quivered, but when she spoke again, her voice remained calm. “When he’s manic, I have to chase him around, tracking down receipts from shopping sprees, praying like mad that he won’t crash the car or do something stupid, worrying when he disappears for hours at a time. He’s almost lost his job twice, and I’m pretty sure he won’t have one after this week. Our savings isn’t going to keep us for long, and we’re too young to dip into our retirement without a penalty. If he’d file for disability we’d at least get some assistance, but he won’t do it. He’s too proud, or embarrassed, or both, or neither—I don’t know.” She sniffed and pulled a tissue from the box. “Thank God we own the house and the cars outright. I can find some kind of job to pay the bills, at least. But I can’t do this anymore with him.”

Rachel was stunned. “What about ‘in sickness and in health’?”

“It would be a different story if he wanted to get better, sweetheart. But the last few years make it clear he doesn’t. And I didn’t sign on to be a babysitter.” She sat back, shoulders slouched, face lined with fatigue. “If he wants to be on his own, then fine. It’s just as well, because I’m done.”

Chapter 3

Rachel only stayed long enough to try to convince her mother to change her mind. But when it was clear she was resigned to—even pleased with—her choice, Rachel left.

She drove aimlessly for half an hour, eventually reaching a park where a handful of children were playing as a few adults looked on. She parked and leaned forward, her forehead resting against the steering wheel. Her mind was spinning. She couldn’t follow a single thought to completion. Driving had given her a focus, but now that she was parked, her emotions got the best of her, and tears began to stream down her cheeks.

She was dumbfounded. It seemed her whole identity was invalidated. Her family, her history—had all of it been a lie? She began to conjure scenes from her childhood, examining them for clues to her father’s condition.
Dad’s last-minute business trip to Washington—a front for one of the spells? The Christmas when I got twenty presents—the result of a manic-driven shopping spree? What if his enthusiasm for my accomplishments was just the mania? What if he wasn’t as crazy about me as I always thought he was?

She felt as though she’d been punched in the gut. He hadn’t even called her to say good-bye.

Her shoulders shook with sobs she couldn’t voice. She felt lost, unmoored. Her scattered thoughts finally coalesced into a pointless prayer.

God, how could you let this happen?

When she pulled herself together, Rachel drove to Patrick’s house to await his return from the softball game. She needed to see him, to be comforted by him.

She pulled into a visitor space and was grateful to see his car already in its numbered spot.
He must have just gotten home,
she thought. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself and ascended the stairs to his apartment. She knocked, then sank onto one of the two lawn chairs that he kept by the door. The darkening sky with its smattering of pinprick stars was soothing.

The door opened after a minute. “Rachel? What are you doing here? You all right?” He stepped out, closing the door behind him, and sat in the other chair beside her. “You’ve been crying.”

She nodded as tears threatened to come again. “My mom is divorcing my dad.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You’re kidding.”

“Hard to believe, huh?”

“Very.”

“There’s more.”

He sighed. “Oh man. What else?”

Rachel stared at her hands, which were pleating the end of her shirt. “The reason my mom is divorcing my dad is because my dad has bipolar disorder.” She hoped he wouldn’t jump to any conclusions and worry that she was a carrier. Him worrying about her possibly passing the disorder along to their future children was the last thing she needed.

He frowned. “Like, manic depression?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

She told herself not to read into the subtle shift in his body that created another inch of space between them. “When did that happen?”

“Before I was even born, apparently. Everyone knew in my family but me. Can you believe that? How do you not tell your daughter something like that? That’s like not telling her that you have diabetes or something. Never mind that she might have it too, or that she could maybe have helped you all these years.” Tears began to sting her eyes again. “I’m so angry at them. And hurt. He’s off his medication, apparently, and he just left. Told her he needed to go find himself. What kind of crud is that?” She fought to keep her voice from quavering into incomprehensibility. “And how could he just leave without even saying good-bye?”

Patrick squeezed her shoulder. “Sometimes people make mistakes, Rach. We’re all broken, you know? We’re all fallen. It sounds like something has a hold on him that he can’t control. I’m sure he misses you. And of course he loves you. This is all separate from you, though, you know? Don’t take it personally.”

She sniffed and smudged the tears beneath her eyes. “No offense, sweetheart, but that wasn’t helpful.”

He shrugged. “I’m not good at this kind of thing—you know that.”

Rachel shimmied closer to him and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Eloping has never been that appealing, but I sure wish we could just get hitched right now so I could stay here with you all night.”

Patrick laughed.

“Glad my misery is entertaining for you,” she said with a quivering lip.

“Oh, Rachel, I didn’t mean anything by it.” He smoothed her hair and platonically patted her back—not the kind of touch she’d been hoping for. She squirmed beneath his hand and sat up with a sigh, which he echoed as he ran his hand through his hair. “Look, Rachel, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do to help you.”

“I know, I know—I don’t know what you can do, either. I’m sorry too. I’m just … I don’t know. I’m just angry, and sad, and … I just don’t understand how God could see all this happening and not step in to fix it. Barb, my dad, my parents’ marriage …” She shook her head and shrugged, unable to find the right words.

“C’mon, Rachel—it’s not like this is the end of the world. There are other people who have it a lot worse.”

“So since other people have it worse than I do, I shouldn’t be upset?”

“That’s not what I mean. You’re just taking it awfully hard, given that, in the grand scheme of things, it’s not like these are earth-shattering events. God’s not stepping in for actual earth-shattering events … so why would he step in for this?”

Rachel stared at him, mouth gaping. “So God doesn’t care what we go through, is that what you’re saying? Jesus seemed to say a lot differently in the Sermon on the Mount.”

“No, I’m not saying that. I just—” He shook his head. “Look, never mind. Forget I said anything.”

They sat in silence, stewing and mulling. Rachel stared at the darkened sky, eyes pulled to the blinking lights of an airplane far in the distance. The sight triggered the conversation she’d had with Daphne. Escaping for a weekend looked a lot better than it had at lunch.

“I’m going to go home.” She stood and folded her arms across her chest against the cool breeze that began to blow. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Patrick reached out and caught her elbow. “Hey. I’m really sorry, Rachel. I want to help make you feel better—just tell me what I can do.”

She shrugged. “I guess there isn’t really anything. I’m sorry if I made you feel bad for not knowing what to do, when even I don’t know what I need. This is new territory for me. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.”

Patrick pulled her into a hug, his chin resting on the crown of her head. She sank into him. “You still are blessed, Rach. I guess that’s what I was trying, poorly, to say earlier. God still has His hand on your life.”

“Yeah—I guess.” She had offered similar consolations to others over the years, but she had never needed them for herself. She winced at how hollow the words felt.

She drove home with the radio off. The silence gave her space to think, though her mind was stuck on one word:
Why?
Patrick was right, of course—everyone was flawed. No one’s life was perfect or free from pain. But when you’ve lived twenty-six years tragedy-free, you can’t help but start to think maybe you’ve done something right, and that God’s smile shines a little brighter when he looks at you.

So what had she done to make him frown?

Chapter 4

Rachel awoke Wednesday morning tangled in a stifling quilt of exhaustion and sorrow. Sleep had eluded her for most of the night, though by God’s grace she was closing the café instead of opening it, so she was able to hide beneath the sheets for a while.

But soon enough she needed coffee. So when she finally dragged herself from bed, she headed for the kitchen and opened the pantry door. After a short deliberation she pulled the canister of Guatemalan Santiago Atitlan, her go-to for emergencies, from the back of the top shelf and dumped two tablespoons of the grounds into her French press. In the state she was in, she needed something with some hefty body and snap to get her in shape for work.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the rich aroma. With the scent clearing her head as it filled the small galley kitchen, she returned the canister to the pantry and added the boiling water to the press pot. Then she carried a bowl of cereal to the table to wait for the grounds to steep.

Her thoughts swirled like steam as she munched her Special K. She knew she should be praying, but for the first time in her life, she didn’t really want to talk to God. Of the three people she typically went to in a crisis, two of them
were
the crisis, and the other had proven himself less than competent at helping her cope. She couldn’t really blame him, she realized—he’d had no practice at comforting her since they’d been together because nothing this bad ever happened in her life. Certainly he’d get better with it over time—not that she hoped he’d have more opportunities to work on his skills.

She didn’t want to talk to her high school girls about it all—she was there to minister to them, not the other way around, and she didn’t feel comfortable being so vulnerable with them. All her other friends were Christians and would come at her with the same clichés Patrick had used and that she had always relied on, but she didn’t want to hear them. She didn’t want to forgive. She didn’t want to trust it would all work out for good for those who love the Lord. She
did
love God and had devoted her life to him. And yet things were most definitely
not
working out for good.

Rachel put the bowl in the sink and finished her coffee preparations, then curled up on the couch with her favorite mug. She took a deep breath and focused her thoughts as she blew gently over the top of the brew. Her mind drifted to Daphne’s proposal. Regardless of their differing views, Daphne was the only person left in Rachel’s life that she could imagine talking with honestly. There was no pretense or posturing with Daphne. They were practically sisters. Daphne may have taken a path in life that Rachel disagreed with, but that didn’t mean she didn’t still love her dearly or value her friendship. And for once, Rachel was interested in hearing her friend’s suggestions on how to cope. Las Vegas was the last place she felt like visiting, but getting away for a weekend with Daphne could prove to be beneficial.

She took a tentative taste and smiled as the heat moved down her throat
.
She took sip after sip, savoring the flavor, and let herself contemplate a weekend in Sin City. Considering the week she’d had so far, the word “sin” seemed to fit. Barbara, her mom, her dad—they’d apparently been living in their own versions of Sin City for some time now.

By the time the mug was empty, she felt more prepared to face the day. And she was actually getting excited at the idea of the trip to Vegas. She resolved to shower and dress and give Daphne a call to hash out the details.

What could it hurt?

Rachel was halfway through her walk to
Espress-Oh!
when her cell vibrated in her pocket. “Don’t bother coming in,” said her boss when she answered. “The kitchen and stock room are flooded.”

“Oh no!” She stepped into the shade beneath a storefront’s awning and leaned against the brick façade. “What about tomorrow?”

“Plumbers are already here and working. They think they’ll have it fixed by seven or eight tonight. I’ll need you here tomorrow morning to help clean and get things back in order. Hopefully we’ll be open by lunchtime.”

“All right then. See you in the morning.” After hanging up, she couldn’t help but smile. It was a gorgeous day, and she didn’t have to work. She tried calling Daphne but got her voice-mail. After leaving a message, she stepped back into the sunshine and crossed the street at the corner, making her way toward the used bookshop where she knew the staff by name. She deserved some serious pampering after the day she’d had yesterday.

She left the overstuffed bookstore with a bag of literary treasures and made one more stop at a corner market for a bottle of water. From there she meandered to a park she always passed on the way to church, where a giant oak stood guard in the center surrounded by benches. She snagged the last empty bench, broke open her water, and pulled Jane Austen’s
Emma
from the paper bag.

A few hours later a rumble in her stomach plucked Rachel from the fictional world. She stretched and tossed the book back into the bag before heading home. The beauty of the day, Austen’s eloquent English, and the giddy feeling of having started a good new book worked together to buoy her spirits. As she walked home she found herself feeling optimistic and content for the first time in two days.

Patrick’s car was in the parking lot when she crossed through from the street. She did a double take, thinking it must simply be the same make and model, but there was the scratch on the fender and the Sports Chalet license plate frame around the familiar numbers and letters.

But it’s the middle of the week.
Her steps quickened as she smiled—this day was getting even better.
Surprising me for lunch, maybe? How does he know I’m off work?
She thanked God for the small blessing and headed up the stairs. Seeing her fiancé would be icing on today’s cake.

When she arrived at her apartment, she was surprised to hear arguing inside. But when she opened the door, the voices suddenly stopped. The ensuing silence was broken by a single surprising epithet from inside Trisha’s room, spoken by Patrick and barely loud enough for her to hear.

Rachel stood in the doorway of the apartment feeling like she was in an alternate universe. After she stood silent for a moment, the voices began again to argue, this time in whispers, though they soon evolved into sniffles and consoling murmurs.

Rachel set down her bag of books, walked to Trisha’s door, and knocked. “Patrick? Trisha? What’s going on?”

The voices stopped again. Then, after a final exchange of harsh whispers, the door opened. Patrick stepped out, and before he shut the door Rachel could see Trisha wipe tears from her cheeks. Patrick took Rachel’s hand and led her to the living room. “We need to talk.”

A black hole opened in the pit of her stomach.

“I have to confess something.” Patrick’s gaze hovered somewhere around her chin. “I know I told you that Trisha and I have known each other for a long time. But I never told you that we dated.”

“Oh.” The hole grew. “When?”

“In college. We broke up but … I’ve always had feelings for her.” He stopped, swallowed, took a deep breath. “I found out recently that she still had feelings for me too.”

Rachel felt dizzy. “Patrick—are you breaking up with me?”

“No, I just need to be honest with you … but—”

Trisha emerged from the bedroom. Her face was red, her cheeks still wet. “You are such a coward. Just spit it out already!”

Rachel saw panic slip across Patrick’s face. “Just let me do this, Trisha.”

“You won’t—you can’t. You don’t have the guts. You didn’t back then and you still don’t. I thought six years would have changed you, but you’re still pathetic.”

“Trisha, don’t—”

“He’s been cheating on you.” Trisha stared Rachel down. “With me.”