The Watchers by Mark Andrew Olsen Page B

back—maybe because she’d always prided herself on being Daddy’s strong girl, the flinty one who had bounced back from her mother’s disappearance with such obvious wholeness that everyone in her world marveled at her resiliency. Perhaps she simply didn’t think she had the strength to burden her father with a disclosure of her strange dreams.
    But there, just below the surface, lay something far more troubling yet. In the span of a single conversation her personal mystery had just tripled its depth.
    Mommy . . . For her whole life, the subject had been a fairly straightforward, although deeply painful, tale of mental illness and abandonment. A good mother who had lost her mind and tragically left her family forever. In the Southern California of decades past— haven to free spirits, psychedelic drugs, and profound eccentrics—it hadn’t proven such an unusual story.
    Yet for Abby, it had always been tinged with a hint of doubt she had never wanted to fully wrestle with.
    For such an unstable person, Abby’s mother had done one thing her daughter had never forgotten.
    She had only to close her eyes for the images to rush back. . . .
    She was eight years old. It was late evening, and the ranch house in Reseda—two homes removed from the mansion in which she now lived—lay wreathed in shadow. Her bedroom was lit only by her faithful Cinderella table lamp. Her mother’s face hovered close, her sandy brown ponytail accented by the single light source. She spoke in the low husky voice she only used at bedtime. But tonight her speech sounded even more laden with emotion than ever before.
    â€œAre you sure, sweetheart? You really know what this prayer means?”
    â€œYes, Mommy. I want Jesus to come into my heart. I want to live for Him.”
    It was something mother and daughter had talked about for weeks, ever since a clear though childlike understanding of spiritual things had clicked into place within her young mind. Years of Bible reading and quiet nighttime talks about God had taken hold and yielded a realization, however rudimentary, that she was prone to sin and needed Him in her life.
    Abby remembered every bit of the conversation, especially the sight of one lingering detail—the crystal-like tears that had wandered down the contours of her mother’s face while she watched her pray. Puzzled at the display of emotion, Abby had asked her mother why she was crying. At first, her question had only seemed to multiply the tears. Then her mother had cradled her cheek with one hand and spoken in a wavering voice.
    â€œHoney, I’m just so happy to be able to pray this prayer with you, that’s all.”
    â€œWell, who else would do it?”
    â€œI don’t know, Abby. No one. But I’ve been away so much the last few years. I’m just overjoyed to be the one sitting here with you.”
    â€œDaddy wouldn’t do it. He doesn’t even believe in God.”
    â€œAbby . . .”
    â€œIsn’t that why he doesn’t go to church with us?”
    â€œSweetie, your father loves you very much. He’s a good daddy.”
    â€œYeah, but he never prays at dinner, and when we do he keeps his eyes open. I’ve seen him.”
    â€œReally?” she said with a relieved smile. “Well, you must have had your eyes open to see it, didn’t you?” And she brushed off the subject with an affectionate squeeze of Abby’s forearm.
    The weeks that followed became a bewildering time for the little girl. In the aftermath of her prayer, her mother’s behavior seemed to split into dual and utterly contradictory paths. When speaking to Abby directly, she had continued to be nurturing and loving. Their bedtime conversations now stretched into the better part of an hour as her mother patiently answered countless questions about God and this newfound faith of hers. Abby had been a precocious little girl, and her ponderings had led