past her dad and out the front door without a word, a duffel bag in hand and her backpack slung over her shoulder. Jared looked at me as though he was going to say something, but decided against it and he pulled the front door shut behind him.
Paul and I stood there for a few seconds. I stared at the door; Paul looked between me, the door, and the kitchen. “Well,” he said after a few seconds, clapping his hands together. “That was fun.”
I glared at him. “Thanks for your help,” I said, feeling angrier than I logically thought was warranted but too emotionally fractured to curtail it. The whole day had gone from bad to worse, and I just wanted to throw it all away and start over tomorrow. Right now, I had to believe that was possible or I’d break into a thousand pieces, and I couldn’t let myself do that.
“What did I do?”
“Exactly my point,” I said, turning on my heel. I needed to be alone. I grabbed Poisonwood Bible off the counter—an excuse for solitude—and stormed into our room, shutting the door rather than slamming it, even though I was sure a slam would make me feel better.
I dropped on the bed and closed my eyes, clutching the book to my chest as I listed all the injustices that had been waged against me today. Tears rose and I choked them down. Big girls don’t cry, right? After a few minutes of self-pity, and feeling rather disgusted by myself for every word I’d said since entering the house tonight, I flipped open the book and turned to the first page. I could only hope that I could lose myself completely within the words of the story. I wasn’t good company, and I needed to get far away from my life. What better way than with a missionary family in the jungles of the Congo in the 1960s? Thank goodness for a distraction that could keep me from seeing myself in all my ugly glory.
What a horrible day.
Chapter 8
“I’m sorry,” I said, standing just inside the doorway of the living room. I felt like a petulant child, but that wasn’t undeserved. I’d gotten lost in the book for a while, but as I read about the family’s interactions and saw the dysfunction there, I saw myself a little more clearly. Too clearly.
Paul looked up from his laptop set up on a TV tray and closed the lid. He leaned against the back of the couch and put his hands behind his head. I didn’t want to meet his eyes, didn’t want to see the censure I knew I deserved, but the silence stretched too thin and I couldn’t avoid it. Paul was staring at me, waiting, but his eyes were soft, and I felt a lump form in my throat. He was a good man. That acknowledgment made me feel even worse.
“Are you okay?” he asked, and I knew he wasn’t just talking about this moment. “You seem . . . out of sorts.”
“I don’t know what’s going on with me,” I said, which was true. “I don’t feel like I’ve been sleeping well.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” I said sheepishly. I considered telling him that I worried I was coming down with something too—hence the reason why dinner had turned me off—but I knew that wasn’t what we were talking about either. He extended his arms, taking them from behind his head and holding them out as though inviting me into them. I didn’t hesitate and hurried across the room to snuggle up next to him on the couch. I tucked my feet beneath me and let him put his arms around me.
“I love my daughter, but I’m tired of raising teenagers,” I said, though I was distrustful of saying it out loud. After all I’d said earlier tonight, it seemed an even greater betrayal of Stormy to say it again, only using different words. “It’s impossible for her to not take that personally.” I sighed, heavy and laden with regret.
“Well, if I said I was tired of my wife, you might take that as a hit.”
“I might.”
He gave me a shoulder squeeze and kissed my hair. How was it that Paul could talk about almost anything and stay calm when I couldn’t?
Paul and I stood there for a few seconds. I stared at the door; Paul looked between me, the door, and the kitchen. “Well,” he said after a few seconds, clapping his hands together. “That was fun.”
I glared at him. “Thanks for your help,” I said, feeling angrier than I logically thought was warranted but too emotionally fractured to curtail it. The whole day had gone from bad to worse, and I just wanted to throw it all away and start over tomorrow. Right now, I had to believe that was possible or I’d break into a thousand pieces, and I couldn’t let myself do that.
“What did I do?”
“Exactly my point,” I said, turning on my heel. I needed to be alone. I grabbed Poisonwood Bible off the counter—an excuse for solitude—and stormed into our room, shutting the door rather than slamming it, even though I was sure a slam would make me feel better.
I dropped on the bed and closed my eyes, clutching the book to my chest as I listed all the injustices that had been waged against me today. Tears rose and I choked them down. Big girls don’t cry, right? After a few minutes of self-pity, and feeling rather disgusted by myself for every word I’d said since entering the house tonight, I flipped open the book and turned to the first page. I could only hope that I could lose myself completely within the words of the story. I wasn’t good company, and I needed to get far away from my life. What better way than with a missionary family in the jungles of the Congo in the 1960s? Thank goodness for a distraction that could keep me from seeing myself in all my ugly glory.
What a horrible day.
Chapter 8
“I’m sorry,” I said, standing just inside the doorway of the living room. I felt like a petulant child, but that wasn’t undeserved. I’d gotten lost in the book for a while, but as I read about the family’s interactions and saw the dysfunction there, I saw myself a little more clearly. Too clearly.
Paul looked up from his laptop set up on a TV tray and closed the lid. He leaned against the back of the couch and put his hands behind his head. I didn’t want to meet his eyes, didn’t want to see the censure I knew I deserved, but the silence stretched too thin and I couldn’t avoid it. Paul was staring at me, waiting, but his eyes were soft, and I felt a lump form in my throat. He was a good man. That acknowledgment made me feel even worse.
“Are you okay?” he asked, and I knew he wasn’t just talking about this moment. “You seem . . . out of sorts.”
“I don’t know what’s going on with me,” I said, which was true. “I don’t feel like I’ve been sleeping well.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” I said sheepishly. I considered telling him that I worried I was coming down with something too—hence the reason why dinner had turned me off—but I knew that wasn’t what we were talking about either. He extended his arms, taking them from behind his head and holding them out as though inviting me into them. I didn’t hesitate and hurried across the room to snuggle up next to him on the couch. I tucked my feet beneath me and let him put his arms around me.
“I love my daughter, but I’m tired of raising teenagers,” I said, though I was distrustful of saying it out loud. After all I’d said earlier tonight, it seemed an even greater betrayal of Stormy to say it again, only using different words. “It’s impossible for her to not take that personally.” I sighed, heavy and laden with regret.
“Well, if I said I was tired of my wife, you might take that as a hit.”
“I might.”
He gave me a shoulder squeeze and kissed my hair. How was it that Paul could talk about almost anything and stay calm when I couldn’t?
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