Guilty of Love by Pat Simmons Page A

ten phone calls to her mother, Gayle,
in recent weeks. Only two were returned. Gayle had even declined
Cheney’s offer to visit.
    “ Why don’t you and Janae
stop by?” Cheney had asked during phone call number seven.
Working around the house on Saturday was starting to lose its
luster.
    “ Don’t have time. Your
sister and I are going shopping,” her mother had
replied .
    “ Oh.”
    “ We’ll wait for your
housewarming. Surprise us,” she had told her.
    “ I’d like to go. I’m back
home now; invite me,” Cheney wanted to shout, but didn’t. Just as
well. She didn’t want anyone to see her masterpiece until it was
presentable.
    Her house , she smiled. It would
become her work of art. Cheney glided up the hardwood stairs,
passing the first bedroom, which she’d painted blue, then
backtracked. Folding her arms, Cheney leaned against the doorframe
and admired the denim bedspreads on the bunk beds. A blue-plaid
rectangular rug covered most of the room’s hardwood floor. One day,
she hoped to have children to tuck in.
    She stepped into the adjacent room—her
favorite. She had stenciled white daisies on the walls to match the
ones on twin lilac comforters on the white juvenile furniture.
Colorful throw pillows were stacked in a corner, but the room’s
focal point was an adorable pink dollhouse-shaped bookshelf that
artistically displayed dolls from various countries.
    Settling into a rocker, Cheney
squeezed a teddy bear dressed in a pink ballerina skirt. “I wish I
had made another choice. Since I didn’t, I’ll have to redeem
myself.” Closing her eyes, Cheney imagined a teenager stretched
across the bed, dressed in faded jean shorts with a red shirt with
the latest designer shoes crisscrossed at the ankles.
    Cheyenne chattered
non-stop on a three-way call with her girlfriends, twisting a long,
thick, black ponytail. Posters of teenage idols vied for wall
space.
    Soon Cheyenne’s skinny
body would blossom into a beautiful young woman. Then her daughter
would exchange her sweet girlfriends for hormone-driven
boys.
    “ Mom says if I keep up my
grades, I can have a birthday party when I turn thirteen or go on a
shopping spree.” Her head bobbed. “I’ve got the best
mom.”
    Moisture spilled as Cheney opened her
eyes. “If only I’d been a good mother and given you a chance from
the beginning. I was afraid and weak. I never gave you a chance, my
beautiful daughter. I vow to right my wrong with or without
God.”
    Wiping away the lone tear, Cheney
glanced down at her watch. The reoccurring child phantoms almost
caused her to be late for the home-improvement class. She sprang to
her feet. She couldn’t change the past. What’s done was
done.
    If My people, which are called by
My name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and
turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and will
forgive their sin, and will heal their land, God spoke 2
Chronicle 7:14.
    Indignation filled Cheney. “I’m not
your people, God,” Cheney shouted as she raced down the hall,
jumping three stairs at a time. She was behind the wheel and
turning the key before she closed her car door. “Besides, I didn’t
own a Bible.”
    Cheney arrived minutes before the
start of a ceramic tile installation class at Home Depot. She had
enrolled the day she signed the title. One student was an elderly
woman, dressed in white overalls and a white cap, who was eager to
get home and try the techniques. Cheney snapped numerous how-to
pictures, asked plenty of what-if questions, and scribbled several
pages of notes. The following week, she would install a Himalayan
Rock ceramic floor tile in her kitchen.
    Two hours later, Cheney was exhausted,
but her mental activity was full of energy. She dragged her body to
her Nissan and deactivated the alarm. She reminded herself that the
classes and preparations were for one thing—her housewarming. So
much was riding on it. She craved the togetherness she had once
enjoyed with