Paige Torn

  “Oh, you’re the one who missed the meeting,” Tyler says, but then he grins and I sigh. I have to tip my head up to meet his eyes, which are crinkled up in a smile.

  It’s nice. I don’t get to feel short often. And Tyler’s smile is friendly, if not a little mischievous, like a little kid planning a way to break into his mother’s cookie jar.

  “I forgot, I forgot,” I say. “So, how long have you been coming to Grace Church?” Our church is huge, so there is a good chance he’s been here since the first grade and I just never met him. Those are always awkward conversations. “Oh, you mean I should have known you my whole life?” Very awkward.

  “Almost a year,” Tyler says. He has pretty blue eyes. “I moved here from Austin about two years ago, and it took me a few months to find a church I liked.” He shrugs, and I notice his shoulders look like they are made to haul logs around. “Time to start getting involved in something other than passing the offering plate to the person beside me.”

  I smile. I’m sure Rick is relieved. He’s been looking for someone to teach the ninth-grade boys for a few months now. The guy who used to teach them, Jason Waters, up and moved to some fancy new job three states away. Rick grumbled for weeks about how money was too big of a factor for some people.

  Really, I think Jason did the right thing. And really, Rick isn’t mad about Jason taking a higher-paying job. He’s just sad that he had to find a new leader for the boys. Tyler has big shoes to fill.

  I watch Tyler as he grins at the kids filling the hallway, and I get a good feeling about him deep inside. I usually can trust that feeling. It has only screwed up on two occasions.

  Granted, those results were disastrous, but I have finally moved on.

  I am pretty sure, anyway.

  Rick lets out a loud whistle and the hallway quiets. “Everyone get to your groups!”

  The hallway turns into a frenzied movement of people finding the right room. I wave at a still-smiling Tyler, follow red-haired Megan to the preschool Sunday school classroom our small group meets in, and close the door after all ten of my girls are inside.

  “Hi, guys.” I turn to face them as they all settle onto the carpet, Bibles in their laps. This is our eighth weekly meeting. The routine has been set.

  I take prayer requests and pray, and then we start our lesson. We are slowly going through 1 John, and I’ve been enjoying the study on God’s love. I have Olivia pray for us in closing, and then we join the other small groups for snacks and music.

  I make a beeline to the snacks but get waylaid by Rick. “So, Natalie is two centimeters dilated,” he tells me, standing right between me and the quickly disappearing Oreos. High school boys equal snacks that don’t last very long. Except for the time when Natalie brought organic peanut butter on celery sticks. She had plenty of leftovers that night.

  “Fine,” Natalie grumbled, packing up more than half of what she brought. “Rot your teeth out. I don’t even care anymore.”

  I think some early pregnancy hormones had been causing a little of that rage.

  “Where is Natalie?” I ask.

  “Dilated. Didn’t you hear me?”

  “I heard you.” Two more Oreos make their way from the package into someone’s digestive tract. My stomach is grumbling in protest.

  “So she can’t be out around teenagers when she’s dilated.”

  I frown and look at Rick. “Why?” Obviously, I don’t have a lot of firsthand knowledge about babies and dilation and things that go along with that, but I am fairly certain that teens will not scare the baby out into the loud, scary world. If anything, they’d convince the kid to stay in there longer.

  There are still a few ninth-grade boys who haven’t quite gotten the hang of putting on deodorant every day. Some weeks, it is enough to scare me away.

  A wave of pity for Tyler and his sinus areas washes over me.

  Rick grabs a couple of Oreos and waves his other hand. “Germs,” he declares. “They’re swimming in them.”

  Justin, one of my favorite boys who I’ve seen grow up at this church and is now, in my opinion, one of the funniest guys in the youth group, rolls his eyes. “Speak for yourself, dude.”

  I have to give Justin the upper hand in this debate. I have been around Rick on retreats when he hasn’t showered the entire time we were there.

  Youth pastors are a strange breed of human.

  If Rick can grab Oreos while talking to me, I can too. I reach around him and yank four from the package, hungrily devouring them.

  “Sheesh, Paige. Eat much?”

  “I had a cheese stick for dinner.” I try my best not to spew Oreo crumbs as I speak. “Give me a break.”

  “All the more reason to get married. Marriage equals home-cooked meals and clean laundry.”

  “Yes, but Rick, who makes these home-cooked meals and does your laundry?”

  “My smoking-hot wife.”

  Justin gags and walks away. I nod. “See? I don’t have the time to do my own laundry, much less someone else’s.”

  Rick makes a face, then leans over and sniffs my shoulder.

  “Uh, what are you doing?” I scoot away from him.

  “Is that a clean T-shirt?”

  I sigh. “My last one.” There is a middle-of-the-night trip to the apartment complex Laundromat in my near future, and I am not looking forward to it.

  Rick shrugs. “I’d offer the services of Natalie, but like I said she’s two centimeters dilated. I’ve been doing all the cooking and cleaning lately, and I’m about 98 percent certain you don’t want me doing your laundry.”

  I am more certain than that.

  “And considering Natalie got all grossed out because I made Beanee Weenees for dinner, you probably don’t want me cooking, either.”

  I finish my last Oreo and nod. No wonder Natalie does the laundry and the cooking. I need to add high-class chef to the list of qualities I want in a far-off, distant future husband. “Well, laundry awaits me.”

  “Eat dinner,” Rick says, walking away.

  I wave at a few of my girls who are standing around waiting for their parents to show up, and then I drive back to my apartment. I sort out my dirty clothes and then head to the Laundromat.

  It is almost ten at night. I have to be at work by eight the next day.

  And I still haven’t eaten anything other than a cheese stick and some Oreos.

  I shove my first load into the washer and mash quarters into the machine. “God, please give me more hours in my day tomorrow.” As the washer starts humming, I lean against the machine and close my eyes.

  And please let those hours count somewhere.

  Iwork at the Lawman Adoption Agency. Mark Lawman, my boss, is an attorney who specializes in family law. There are two family counselors — Peggy Foreman and Candace Mitchell — who also work there. Both of them are in their late forties with grown kids of their own.

  Which makes me the junior member. Basically, I run the office side of things, and when the caseload is extremely high, I get to take on a few clients and actually use my degree. I majored in child learning and development. I’ve spent half my life waiting to make a difference in people’s lives.

  It’s never actually happened that I’ve gotten to take on clients, though I’m told it’s a possibility. The longer I work here, the more I think that word possibility is just a proverbial carrot to get me to stay. In this economy, any job is a good job, but I still get a sinking feeling in my gut every time I think about being just a secretary.

  I get to work at eight and flip on the lights in the

  tiny front office/waiting room. There are two sides to any adoption — the adoptive parents and the birth parents. Usually it’s just the birth mom as opposed to both the birth mom and dad we have contact with, but there are exceptions.

  Thursdays are generally filled with adoptive parents. New parents come in for their initial interview and to set up a time for Peggy or Candace to do a home study.

  Mark gets there
about eight thirty, right after I’ve finished turning on the computer, copier, and fax machine and writing up all of the voice-mail messages we received after hours.

  “Morning, Paige,” he says, smiling. Mark Lawman is an average-height, balding man who just turned forty-nine, so he bought a motorcycle. At least, he calls it a motorcycle. It has three wheels, so to me that makes it a tricycle.

  But I humor him. I need the paycheck to continue to eat my cheese-stick dinners.

  “Morning, Mr. Lawman.”

  “You’ve really got to stop calling me that, Paige. You’re making me feel older than I am,” he says, frowning.

  “Good morning, Mark.”

  “Thank you. Any messages for me?”

  I hand him a stack of message slips, and he goes down the short hallway into his office, mumbling to himself.

  That may be a sign of old age. Right behind getting a motorized tricycle.

  Peggy and Candace come in the door together, talking recipes. “And then I just added a can of pineapple juice, and it was about the moistest chicken I’ve ever tasted,” Candace says.

  “Wait, pineapple juice?” Peggy asks.

  “Right. And a can of Coke. In the slow cooker for six hours.”

  Whenever Candace is making a point, she stops talking in complete sentences. What would take the normal person two or three sentences at the most to say takes Candace forty-seven fragments.

  It makes transcribing her home studies a joy.

  “Morning, Paige.” Peggy smiles sweetly at me. I love Peggy to death. Since my mom lives two hundred miles away, Peggy is basically my second mother.

  “Hi, Paige.” Candace waves. “Any messages?”

  I hand them both their stacks of voice-mail slips and tell them good morning.

  “I don’t know, it sounds awfully sweet,” Peggy says to Candace as they walk down the hall.

  “Oh, but it’s so good. And I just scooped a little of the broth into a pan and thickened it up with cornstarch for some sauce.”

  “I’ve never had good luck with cornstarch,” Peggy says.

  “The trick is to put the cornstarch into hot water. It has to be hot. Boiling hot. Like lava. Except water.”

  Like I said. Home studies are a joy.

  I spend a good chunk of the morning responding to e-mails. Tuesdays and Thursdays are my e-mailing days. We get e-mails from people all over the world, thanks to Mark’s nephew who decided to create a website for the agency. It was for one of his computer classes at school, and he did a great job making it all fancy and professional. He just failed to mention that we can only do home studies for people in Texas, preferably in the Dallas area.

  I’m sorry, we are not currently staffed to perform your home study in Canada, I write in an e-mail.

  I really need to get ahold of Mark’s nephew and ask him to show me how to add a sentence in the “About Us” section.

  The other thing I need to do is go to the grocery store after work today. My lunch break will be spent driving to Sonic for a quick hamburger or something, because I looked in my freezer for a Lean Cuisine or something to eat today and came up with nothing, except a frozen-solid bag of green beans.

  And while that sounds nutritious, it doesn’t really sound tasty.

  “Hey, I’m going to Sonic for lunch,” I say a little while later, poking my head into Mark’s office. “Want anything?” It’s a dumb question. Mark is a Sonic freak. He thinks their tater tots will be served in heaven alongside a Route 44 Coca-Cola.

  He looks up at me from his desk. “Sure, let me get you some cash.” He digs out his wallet and passes over a ten dollar bill. “Can I get the number two with tots?”

  “Coke?”

  “Diet.” He nods.

  Mark’s funny that way. He will order the most calorie-packed meal in the restaurant and then a Diet Coke. At that point, it would be better to just go ahead and get the Coke and only eat carrot sticks the rest of the day.

  “Oh and Paige?” he says as I leave his office. I stop and poke my head back in. “How are things coming on the banquet?”

  Every year, our agency throws a huge banquet as a fund-raiser to help some of our clients who can’t afford the legal bills. It really is a great thing we do and one of the biggest reasons I wanted to work here.

  It is scheduled for the end of February. “So far so good. I’ve got three speakers lined up, and a news team from KNJO is coming to do a special on it.”

  “Music?”

  “I’m going to be listening to three different bands this week,” I tell him. Two I have already picked out as potentials for the banquet. One is a band that Layla wants to go listen to and see if they will be a good choice for her parents’ anniversary party. But after listening to a few samples on their website, I think they might be good for the banquet as well.

  Two birds and one stone. Or two Oreos and one cup of milk. Or three Oreos. Or whatever the preferred idiom is.

  “Great, great,” Mark says, turning back to his desk. “Thanks for heading that up, Paige.”

  I ask Peggy and Candace if they want anything from Sonic and they decline, telling me how they are on days twelve and fourteen of their new diets. If they eat something now, they won’t be able to splurge at Christmas this coming year.

  “And, Paige, I am eating my pecan pie,” Peggy declares, then swallows her Special K shake and reaches for a Ziploc bag of raw almonds.

  “It’s January,” I say.

  “Regardless.” Peggy waves a hand.

  I drive to Sonic and yawn while sitting in the drive-through line. I was up until one doing laundry. I hadn’t done it in almost three weeks, and that meant I had three loads. And with the ancient dryers in the apartment Laundromat, it takes an hour each load.

  I’m pretty sure I fell asleep for a few minutes on one of the folding chairs in there, but it didn’t last long. Thankfully. I think our Laundromat is creepy, and it creeps me out worse that I actually fell asleep there.

  My phone buzzes right as I get to the speaker to order. It is Layla, so I answer and yell at her to hang on.

  “Sure, just let me know when you’re ready, ma’am,” the voice over the speaker says.

  “Oh, not you, my friend on the phone. I know what I want.” I tell the speaker my order and get a staticky total back.

  “What’s up?” I say to Layla, tucking my phone between my shoulder and my ear while counting change from my wallet.

  “I hope the chicken sandwich is yours,” she says.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Because,” she says in a duh tone of voice. “You have to fit into a bridesmaid dress in nearly ten months.”

  “Oh gosh. Please don’t tell me you are going to be one of those brides,” I tell her, because it is Layla and I can.

  She laughs. “Only a little. So here’s the thing. I am thinking we could do this whole girls’ night thing tonight, and you can help me pick out invitations for my parents’ anniversary.”

  “I thought you were going to send an e-vite?”

  “Or we could do that, too.”

  I sigh, away from the phone’s speaker, and hand a woman who looks about as tired as I feel my cash and accept the bag and two drinks from her. “Thank you,” I say.

  “For asking? Sure, no problem,” Layla says.

  It seems pointless to correct her. “When should I be at your apartment?” I ask instead, mentally calculating how much money it will cost to eat out every meal since I still haven’t made it to the grocery store.

  “Just come after work. And bring those gross black heels of yours.”

  “Why?” Layla has made no secret about her hatred for those shoes. At one point, I think she even composed a ballad about how she would rather walk across hot coals in Crocs than wear my heels to a concert benefiting research for some horrible intestinal disease.

  I think she was kidding, but I have been very careful to avoid wearing those shoes around her ever since. They aren’t bad shoes. They just apparently loo
k like something her great-aunt has been seen wearing.

  That makes them awful.

  “Because they’re your only heels.”

  I know that already. I am five foot eight. She is lucky I own even one pair of heels.

  “And they just might be nice to have with us in case we happen to come across any wedding dress shops and want to look at bridesmaid dresses. You know. For the length.”

  “Okay, first, your wedding is almost ten months away. We are seriously going to already start looking at dresses?”

  “I didn’t say we were going right now. I just said to have them with you in case we come across a shop. The practical bride is always prepared,” she says an octave higher than her regular voice.

  “Where did you read that?”

  “How to Be a Bride.”

  “Okay, whatever. Second, you’re really going to make me wear heels to your wedding?”

  “Yep!” she says, cheerfully.

  I sigh. Loudly and into the phone this time. Layla is a reasonable five foot four. She can wear heels around anyone and still be shorter than the average male. She has no idea how awkward it is to tower over men.

  And Peter is not what I would call tall. Actually, he’s not what any person would call tall. Quiet, yes. Withdrawn, yes. Tall, no.

  It looks like I’ll be praying for a tall best man.

  I pull back into the adoption agency’s parking lot as Layla chatters happily about possible venues for her parents’ anniversary party. “I think we should look into something exotic, like a yacht or something.”

  I think Layla sometimes forgets that we live in landlocked Dallas.

  I don’t mention it, though. “Mmm, listen, I’m back at work, so I’ve got to go. I’ll text when I’m on my way tonight.”

  “Okay. Hope you get a few kids adopted.”

  She hangs up and I push the button on my phone, shaking my head. I’ve been working here for a year, and Layla still has no idea how the adoption process works. In her mind, women set babies and children right outside the door, and then I have to take care of them until we finally find a nice couple to adopt them.

  That isn’t exactly how it works.