Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK (37 page)

You’re stalling
. My conscience taunted me as Dad’s voice droned in what had to be the world’s longest prayer. I didn’t want it to end, though, because once it did, I had yet another choice to make. My hands grew slick as I fought a private battle.

I wished Marta were here, but she had to attend her host family’s church this week. She’d hold my hand and tug me down the aisle if she thought that’s what God wanted. But I didn’t need her courage. I had my own.

It just appeared to have been temporarily misplaced.

I lifted my head as Dad said “amen” and subconsciously swayed back and forth to the music as the invitational played.

“Go, Addison.”

I didn’t really think God spoke audibly, but the pressure urging me forward felt as if He had.

Shaking my head, I gripped the pew in front of me with both hands until my knuckles turned white.
They’re gonna freak, Lord. All of them
. I studied the faces around me, feeling nothing but a wave of condemnation that I knew was just my own mind running wild. They’d be happy, not judge me. Most of them anyway. Right? … But I couldn’t let go of the pew.

“Go, Addison.”

“I’m blocked in.” Oops, didn’t mean to say that out loud. I offered an apologetic smile at the parishioners to my left and right, wishing the carpeted floor would eat me up.
See, God? Boxed in. Trapped. I better stay right here and not interrupt
.

“One more verse,” Dad said from the stairs as the piano music continued. He extended his arms wide, a welcoming smile lighting his features. “If anyone desires to know more about the Lord, come now. We won’t sing forever.”

Hadn’t it already been an eternity?

I squeezed the bench harder, the wood warm beneath my hands. A wave of cheap perfume assaulted my nose as Mrs. Vanderford turned and rustled in her purse for another mint. I licked my dry lips, the scuffling of impatient congregation members’ feet around me ticking off the seconds like a clock with a bomb attached. Everyone was in a hurry to go home. If no one responded to the invitation, we’d sing a superfast hymn to dismiss, and all these hungry people could go to lunch. I’d be holding up the service if I went now. It was too late.

“Go, Addison.”

My chest tightened. Next week. Okay, God? One more Sunday
.

I didn’t really expect an answer, but the sudden silence that loomed in my heart seemed deafening. Here I was finally feeling as if God could hear my prayers, yet I ignored Him when He spoke. A sense of failure swamped my spirit in murky waves, lapping at my soul with regret. I’d been a Christian for one weekend, grown up in the church my entire life, and couldn’t obey
one
thing God asked of me? What kind of commitment had I made, exactly? I’d given up an immediate future with Wes for … silence? Disobedience? Sin? I wasn’t any better off if that was the case.

The closing piano chords faded away, and my stomach lurched. “Wait!”

Without another thought, I hurtled the pew in front of me, pushed past a dazed Mrs. Vanderford, and tripped out of the second row toward the altar.

My dad, standing in front of the pulpit, caught my forearms as I stumbled forward. “Addison?” His face grayed with panic. “Are you okay?”

“I’m—I’m …” My words faltered, and I fell into his chest, hiccuping. “I’m a Christian now, Daddy.”

My voice echoed across the auditorium, and I pulled away just enough to notice the microphone still clipped to the lapel of his suit.

Too bad Mrs. Vanderford didn’t share her peppermints because we had a whole slew of parishioners needing fresh breath. Yet as the congregation line filed past me to shake my hand and congratulate me on my new commitment, my paranoia decreased. No one judged. Oh, I heard a few surprised murmurs, of course, but after that pew vault, I’d have been gossiping, too. Somehow I couldn’t help but think God was smiling at that one. It was my own fault—if I’d obeyed when He first called, I wouldn’t have had to resort to such drastic measures.

“What a glorious day. I’m so happy for you.” One of the blue-haired women who’d taught me in Sunday school when I was younger clasped my warm hands in papery-thin ones, her ring digging into my palm. But I didn’t care. I welcomed her sweet smile and even accepted the stiff hug she offered before she ambled away on the arm of her nephew.

Beside me, Dad caught my eye and beamed, and I couldn’t help but bask in the attention of his approval. Of course that wasn’t why I made my decision, but it felt nice having his attention for once. “We’ll get lunch after church, so don’t make plans,” he whispered before the next parishioner whisked up in line.

As I chatted briefly with old Mr. Davis and his great-grandson, I spied Mr. Keegan slipping out the back doors of the church. My stomach knotted. Maybe he’d realized I’d been at the hardware store that night and overheard his confession of problems. Would Wes have told him I’d been there?

Wes. My heart protested the thought, and I tried to shake him out of my mind, wishing he’d been there with me this morning, wishing he could see the truth about God that I saw so clearly now for the first time in my life. He needed peace. He needed purpose. So why was he letting a couple of hypocrites hold him back from trying to reach either? Somehow I couldn’t help but wonder if his secrets went even deeper than I realized.

Mrs. Vanderford stepped up in line then, jerking my thoughts back to reality. She gripped my arm, her hold borderline uncomfortable, and leaned in close. “That was quite the moveyou made back there.” Her lips smiled, but her eyes didn’t.

I tried to subtly free my arm. “Sorry about that. I almost waited until it was too late.”

“I’ll say.” Her lined eyebrows rose toward her pouf of hair, and she sniffed. “Sixteen years is quite a while.”

My lips pursed into a tight line. Part of me wanted to call her out on what she meant, but the other part of me didn’t want the conflict—especially with my dad standing beside me. I collected my thoughts then pasted on an easy smile. “I don’t understand.” When all else fails, play dumb and put the ball back in the meanie’s court.

“I think you do, dear.” She glanced at my father, who was involved in conversation with a deacon, then back at me. “He must have had quite the shock this morning. To think he’s been leading a church all this time when his own house wasn’t even in order.”

I sucked in my breath as my back arched. If I’d been a cat, my claws would have been out and scratching. How dare she imply my dad wasn’t doing his job? He couldn’t make someone change their life or their priorities. He could only encourage, preach, coax…. My spiritual life wasn’t his responsibility—not directly. It was mine. “Mrs. Vanderford, I don’t think—”

She cut me off. “Don’t worry, dear. I’m sure everyone will recover from the surprise in due time. And the embarrassment.” She tossed a superior smile my way before moving out of the line. “Congratulations again.”

I glanced up at Dad as tears pricked my eyes, relieved he was still talking about the upcoming budget meeting with a handful of deacons and didn’t notice. The attention finally seemed to be off me, and as I smiled and nodded at the last person in the receiving line, I knew the tears couldn’t be restrained any longer.

“I’ll meet you in the car, Dad.” I didn’t wait for an answer, just sped to the third row to collect my purse and Bible and barreled out the back door Mr. Keegan had exited minutes before. My former joy dissipated, I carried my stuff outside to the car before realizing Dad had locked it. I set my bag and Bible on the roof then leaned against the passenger door, whipping out my phone to pretend to text as I let the tears drip down the front of my sweater and black pants.

Maybe Mrs. Vanderford was right. As haughty as the woman was, she had a point in that Dad had to be completely caught off guard by what I did today. And I didn’t mean the pew-jumping and the louder-than-life confession into his microphone. What if his smile and look of pride was just a cover for the embarrassment? Maybe he did feel like a failure as a parent, and as a pastor, for not realizing where I’d been all these years. Had I been that good an actor? Or had I been fooling myself, too?

What if nothing had really changed?

The questions swirled through my head like the mix of gray clouds in the sky above. All those years of disconnect between me and Dad, I’d blamed on him. He’d always put so much into the church that he often seemed to put me—us—on the back burner. I knew he prayed for me. I’d seen my name in enough of his prayer journals lying by the recliner to know that much, but had it done any good? Had he even a clue of my struggle? And if today finally broke some ground between us, could it last with the coming distraction of Ms. Hawthorne in our daily lives?

My head throbbed.

“Come on, Dad, let’s go,” I mumbled under my breath, rubbing my arms to keep warm as I kept one eye on the door to the church. He said we’d go to lunch, but I might turn into a Popsicle first if he didn’t hurry. Should I tell him what Mrs.

Vanderford said? Let it go? Hope she wasn’t right? Maybe I could gauge Dad’s real reaction over a cheeseburger.

I glanced back up at the gloomy weather and cringed. Looked like snow. Perfect.

I’d be left out in the cold once again.

W
ho wants a turkey?” Ms. Hawthorne turned from the stove with a smile, a turkey-shaped sugar cookie balanced on her spatula.
If it weren’t for her killer black boots, she’d look incredibly too domestic, standing in our kitchen with Dad’s E
VERYTHING
T
ASTES
B
ETTER
WITH G
RAVY
apron covering her skirt and jade-colored sweater.

“Me!” Marta’s hand shot up like we were back in the classroom instead of sitting at my kitchen table, though I knew all too well how easy it was to get confused.

Ms. Hawthorne spooned a cookie onto Marta’s plate before turning to me. “Addison?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.” This was too weird. Sure, the bowls of different colored icing and the feathers cut from fondant looked like fun, but I wasn’t a five-year-old making an edible Thanksgiving craft. I was almost seventeen, being served treats by my English teacher while my dad handled some church business in his home office. Since we were out of school on break, Marta had come over on this windy Monday morning so we could go to Got Beans and vent about yesterday’s crazy circumstances. Instead, somehow, we ended up at a table so festive it looked like Thanksgiving had thrown up.

To make matters worse, Dad had invited Ms. Hawthorne along to lunch yesterday, so we never got to have our talk. I supposed she’d eventually start attending our church instead of her own outside of town, and then she really would be everywhere.

“Come on, girls. Let’s get in the holiday spirit.” Ms. Hawthorne wiggled her eyebrows at me as she dumped a cookie on my plate. Then she nudged the bowl of icing closer to me and stuck a paintbrush in my hand. “And what better to be thankful for than sugar?”

Good point. There wasn’t much to be thankful for about living out the world’s most embarrassing Sunday at church, or for giving up a totally hot guy with a penchant for leather, or for realizing how soon Ms. Hawthorne would be living in my house permanently. I just
thought
I’d been invisible before. With her stuffing Dad full of home-cooked meals and wafting her honeysuckle perfume all around the house, I’d downright disappear.

Though I had to admit, the cookie was a nice touch—
and
made from scratch. I’d baked cookies for almost a decade now and had never seen one without a Pillsbury label.

I dipped my brush in the bowl of red icing and began to paint. “All right, why not?” I grinned at Marta and touched her wrist with my brush, leaving a red smear. “I know someone who is always grateful for sugar.”

She wiped it off before plunking her brush into the bowl of yellow. “That, too. But I am thankful to be here celebrating my first Thanksgiving.” She coated the turkey’s golden feathers. “And for new friends.”

“And new family.” Ms. Hawthorne joined us at the table with her own cookie and offered me a tentative smile.

I forced one back, wondering if it’d always be weird between us or if eventually we’d find our new normal. Only time would tell.

“David should be joining us soon.” Ms. Hawthorne sat down at the chair across from me and began delicately painting her turkey. “He asked us to save him a cookie.”

I eyeballed Ms. Hawthorne across the table, another round of doubts assaulting my midsection. After the wedding, would she be careful to keep an eye on Dad’s diet and cholesterol like I’d done the past several years? Or would she spoil him with treats and let him get unhealthy in an effort to make him happy? My father was one of the most disciplined men I knew—he could get up at five a.m. like clockwork, even on his days off, and spend a solid hour in prayer and Bible study with zero caffeinated assistance, yet he couldn’t turn down a sweet if his life depended on it—and I didn’t ever want it to.

I put my brush down. “Ms. Hawthorne?”

“Sweetie, call me Kathy. At least when we’re in your own house. Don’t you think that makes more sense?”