Stepping Into Sunlight (9 page)

“Yoo-hoo.” Laura-Beth shot from her lawn chair and scooted toward us. Her dog gave a halfhearted woof and resettled himself in his patch of dirt. My neighbor leaned on her chain-link fence and gave Lydia an assessing stare. “Howdy.”

Lydia crossed her arms, gaze traveling over Laura-Beth’s frowzy hair and wrinkled blouse.

“Lydia, this is Laura-Beth, my neighbor. Laura-Beth, Lydia works at the mission a few blocks from here.”

Laura-Beth took a step back and held her hands up. “I gave at the office.”

Lydia ignored that. “I better get back before Barney makes a mess of things. You come by and visit anytime.” She smiled at Laura-Beth. “You too.”

“Thanks for your help.” I held up the card. “And for this. I’ll look into it.”

Lydia smiled and marched back up the block, clearly ready to bring order and spiritual life to the neighborhood.

Laura-Beth shook her head. “I hope you don’t mind a piece of advice—”

“Oops, I think I hear the phone.” I had the ringer turned off, but Laura-Beth didn’t know that. I raced into the house and latched the door firmly. My greatest fear was happening. I was going completely insane. I couldn’t venture a few blocks from home without a disaster. Terrified by skateboarding teens? Getting lost? I tried to laugh at my misadventure. Tears began to escape, and soon I was laughing and sobbing at the same time. I sank to the floor and leaned against the door, hugging my shins.

Oh, God. It’s getting worse. How am I going to take care of Bryan?
I almost didn’t get home before his bus. And he’s counting on me to help
with the school play. And Tom needs to know I’m doing fine, so he can
concentrate on his work. He’s dreamed of this for years.

My yellow notebook rested on the coffee table. Penny’s Project. This was one project I couldn’t fail. The stakes were too high. If I kept slipping away I’d lose everything.

Like Alex had.

Oh, God. Am I going to turn into my brother?

Huddled on the floor, I pressed my forehead against my knees, shutting out that thought. How long could I play Hans Brinker and plug leak after leak before the dike came crashing in to drown my sanity?

Outside, the school bus stopped and then roared away. I forced myself to my feet, and when Bryan tapped on the door, I quickly pulled him inside.

“What’s wrong now?” His scowl held more irritation than worry as he stared at me. My face always turned blotchy when I cried.

“I’m not feeling good again. I think I need to lie down. Do you want to watch a movie?”

“We don’t have any good ones.”

“Bryan, please! Just watch something, okay? Stay out of trouble.”

His wounded look reproached me, but I fled the guilt and shut myself in the bathroom. I’d never understood alcoholics and addicts and why they would let a momentary pleasure destroy their lives, but today, if I could have swallowed something or shot something into my veins to stop the shaking and the irrational fear—and my shame for not being able to control it—I would have done it in an instant. Was this how my brother, Alex, felt all those years ago? Did I inherit the same gene? Had irrationality been lying in wait for a trigger like the crime? I splashed cold water in my face.

Don’t go there. Hold it together. Just a few hours. Then you can put
Bryan to bed.

While Bryan indulged in afternoon cartoons, I made him a sandwich for supper. My hand shook as I spread the peanut butter, and milk splashed on my hand as I tried to pour it into his favorite cup. At least I had a few homemade cookies to add to the plate. I managed to hold the tray steady as I set it on the coffee table for him.

By bedtime, I was able to slip fully back into the role of a normal mom. I cooed over Bryan, but he held himself stiff in my arms as I read to him.

“Honey, I know this isn’t fair to you. It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have been crabby to you.” I stroked his thick bangs over to one side. “Will you forgive me?”

His eyes were flat as he stared at me. “When is Dad getting home?”

“Soon, sweetie.” I hugged him, and my throat tightened. “I’m really sorry.”

“Mrs. Pimple sent you another note. It’s in my jeans.”

“Okay. I’ll find it. Let’s say our prayers, all right?”

With my help, he dutifully recited an evening prayer that Tom had taught him last summer. I had teased Tom that the prayer was too archaic for a seven-year-old, but Tom insisted that his father had taught him that prayer when he was still in kindergarten.

“I thank Thee, my heavenly Father, through Jesus Christ, Thy dear Son, that Thou hast graciously kept me this day; and I pray Thee that Thou wouldst forgive me all my sins where I have done wrong, and graciously keep me this night. For into Thy hands I commend myself, my body and soul, and all things. Let Thy holy angel be with me, that the wicked Foe may have no power over me. Amen.”

Tonight the words battered me. The “wicked Foe” seemed to have a lot of power over me these days, and fear continued to twist my stomach. From one perspective, God had kept me safe in the store that day. I was alive. And today, when I’d had another spell, He’d sent Lydia to guide me home. But in spite of that, I found it difficult to commend myself into His hands anymore.

I pulled the quilt up to Bryan’s chin and kissed him one more time. Gathering up scattered clothes, I tiptoed from his room, leaving the door open a perfect six inches. He liked to see the spill of hallway light as he fell asleep.

Our washing machine lurked in an oversized closet off the kitchen. I tossed the clothes into the basket and carefully checked the pockets. Bryan had a habit of forgetting dead beetles or chewed wads of bubble gum for me to discover in the washing machine filter. Today all I found was the note from Mrs. Pimblott.

Dear Mrs. Sullivan,

I had hoped to talk with you about the Thanksgiving play but
haven’t been able to reach you. If you aren’t able to participate, please
let me know soon, so I can recruit another parent.

I’d also like to arrange an appointment with you. Bryan is a delightful
student, but in the past week he’s been distracted and irritable. I
know you’ll agree that we should discuss this before problems escalate.
You can stop by my classroom after school any day this week, or call
me to arrange a meeting. Thank you.

Mrs. Pimblott

I smoothed the letter, pressing out each wrinkle beneath my fingers. Stark against the top of my dryer, the black ink condemned me. Of course Bryan was distracted. His mother spent half her time avoiding him or snapping at him, and the other half trying to make it up to him.

God, you’ve got to fix me faster. For Bryan’s sake.

I groped in the pocket of Tom’s jacket looking for a Kleenex. The card Lydia had given me met my fingers. I pulled it out and studied the italicized phone number. Should I call? Could I?

I padded out to the living room and penciled the words into my notebook.
Call the victim center.

Dark fear threaded through me. If I went to a counselor, wasn’t that admitting I was broken? Emotionally disturbed? I’d be starting down the same futile road as Alex.

Oh, Lord, please no.

I erased that entry and wrote
Exercise
instead. I drew a checkmark next to
Explore neighborhood.
I’d walked outside, and I’d even talked to God—sort of. At least Lydia had talked to Him on my behalf.

The computer screen beckoned me like a warm companion—the only one available in the middle of a lonely night. With my small yellow notebook at hand, I surfed more sites about panic attacks, the keys clacking beneath my fingers in a desperate tempo. Reading the loops where people wrote about their struggles gave me a glimpse into a wealth of pain. Seeing these stories could
cause
depression and anxiety.

On the other hand, I felt less alone. And here in this jumble of the world’s knowledge, there had to be an answer. I scrolled and clicked, skimmed and clicked again. The next page could provide me the key. My eyes burned, but I continued to search.

One blogger linked to a Web site with summaries of recent medical research. I scrolled through indecipherable lingo and began to yawn. Then I stilled the mouse. An obscure site reported a study where people with emotional disorders benefited from small volunteer efforts. Helping others created an emotional upsurge that helped the patients improve. Lydia and Barney at the storefront mission came to mind. Her core strength. His playful enthusiasm. They were busy “doing for the least of the brothers” and they seemed happy.

Inspiration tingled under my skin. I turned to the first page of my notebook.

Penny’s Project,
it read
. Move toward healing. Be Penny again, in
time for Tom’s return.
I printed an addendum in block letters.
Do
one kind thing for someone each day.

I studied that goal. I’d be able to do nice things for Bryan all day long, but it wouldn’t help me conquer my anxiety.

Okay.
I erased and tried again.
Do a kind thing for someone NEW
each day.

The words sang to me. This could work. But how would I find people? I wasn’t even going out for groceries anymore.

Well, I could send my friend Sonja a card without leaving home. And I could call my mom and tell her how much I appreciated her. Or maybe I could make cookies and give some to Jim-Bob next time he played in our backyard. And give a bottled water to the grocery delivery gal. I scribbled headings to new pages. Bryan, Tom, family, neighbors, church, school, the nearby mission.

Then I returned to the first page and added the familiar words,
“Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine,
you did for me.”

I hugged my notebook with a surge of new optimism. I’d dabbled in some baby steps, but this was a breakthrough. Progress. Caring about other people would heal my shaken mind and heart.

I hoped.

chapter
7

T
WENTY-ONE.
G
ROAN.
T
WENTY-TWO.
G
RIMACE
. Fifty crunches and a handful of modified push-ups would revitalize me.

Argh.
My muscles burned and I flopped back in an non–athletic sprawl. Exercise had seemed like a good next goal from my notebook. The infomercials I’d seen during my recent insomnia-plagued nights had made a convincing argument. “Feeling sluggish? Tired all the time? Not yourself? You need more exercise!” I couldn’t afford the oversize beach balls, ropes and pulleys, and other gizmos, but I could certainly do a few basic exercises. If I were to be honest, it also gave me a way to stall before tackling the new “acts of kindness” challenge I’d set for myself—or even worse, confronting the decision to call the victim center.

I had barely been able to pull myself out of bed this morning, but as soon as Bryan left for school, I hit the floor of the living room and started sit-ups.

Bad idea. Nausea roiled through my gut, and I curled on my side. Was that Bryan’s milk money under the couch? I stared at the dust bunnies, feeling as if my body were a piece of lint on the carpet—grubby and lifeless.

A Navy SEAL would push through the pain, ignore the heavy limbs and constant fatigue. I rolled to my stomach and tried a push-up.

My arms wobbled and gave out, and my chin crashed into the floor. Clearly, I was not a Navy SEAL.

If you fail at these little goals, you’re out of options. You’ll need to call
the victim center and ask for help.

Adrenaline fed my muscles, and I pressed back up to my hands and knees and did enough modified push-ups to break a sweat. Then I cranked up the stereo and marched in place to a Celtic worship CD. The first song was an energetic reel, and my spirits lifted. I could almost infuse some enthusiasm into my minced steps around the room. The next song opened with a plaintive
a
cappella
voice, rich with yearning and passion. The melody was the sort that burrowed past rational layers in my mind and pressed a finger against raw emotions. Buried grief welled up in my spirit. I clamped down on it and quickly switched off the stereo.

I’d heard somewhere that aggressive housework counted as exercise, and I’d let things go in the past few weeks. Maybe folding laundry and dusting would be a smarter idea than calisthenics.

An hour later, the bathroom sparkled, laundry was folded and put away, the mess in Bryan’s room was swept into a pile to one side of his bed, and I was steeping a cup of tea in the kitchen. I pulled out my notebook and wrote
Clean house
on my list of goals, and then drew a firm check mark alongside. It might be cheating to write something down
after
I’d done it, just so I could check it off, but I needed the sense of accomplishment. Did cleaning the house count as my daily good deed for someone? No one saw it but Bryan and me. Bryan didn’t care that I’d vanquished the dust bunnies. On the other hand, it would make my mom happy. She often recommended housecleaning as a cure-all. This could count as a sort of gift to her.

Carrying my tea in one hand and a dust cloth in the other, I strolled into the living room and buffed the shelves on the wall of our makeshift office. Our CDs were still a mess from my frantic search, stacked haphazardly with Handel’s
Messiah
next to a Broadway cast recording of
West Side Story.
We really needed a system for organizing our music. I tossed aside my dust cloth and set my tea on the coffee table. Now was as good a time as any.

I tried to ignore the precious DVD from Tom, still waiting for me on the top shelf. But as I reorganized our movies and CDs, I found myself glancing up every few minutes.

Finally unable to resist, I popped the blank DVD into the player again. With the channels set up for the movie I’d just finished, I pushed the tray in and hit Play.

Snowy static filled the screen.

I tried rewinding, pausing, forwarding. Nothing helped. I poked the DVD rack in and out and examined the unlabeled disc for scratches. I needed Bryan. I’d learned long ago to get his help with electronic equipment. He knew how to program our VCR to tape his favorite cartoon, how to switch to the correct channel to play video games, and what was wrong when I couldn’t get sound to play. He could operate three remotes at one time.