Sometimes it’s nice not to be the only one a little off-kilter.
“Sure.” I give Preslee maybe the first genuine small smile since she came back a few weeks ago.
She grins so wide I worry she might pull a cheek muscle, and then she runs for her bags, carrying them to the kitchen table. “Okay, so that home-goods store close to Frisco? Amazing,” she gushes, pulling all kinds of white knickknacky things out of the bag.
There are distressed-style tall, white wooden candlesticks, white metal lanterns, four huge bags of white tea-light candles, and a bunch of other stuff.
I look at the tiny wooden place-card holders that clearly say $2.50 on each of them and think about how we could totally have made those ourselves for about ten cents apiece. If that.
Preslee is ecstatic, though. She sits at the table so we can look more closely and I join her. “I’m going for the whole shabby-chic thing,” she says. “We’re going to get married in the cutest little church in Austin, but I haven’t found a reception area yet. I want something eclectic but cute, you know? Like an old barn or something we could totally dress up.”
It seems like an old barn would be an easy find on the outskirts of Austin, but I guess I’ve never looked for one.
It wasn’t exactly a high priority back in high school, when I was more concerned about what the humidity was currently doing to my hair and whether or not Luke liked me.
Best to move off that thought train.
“You know,” I say, taking a deep breath because I know I’m basically handing her the proverbial olive branch. “We could make these for a lot cheaper than two dollars.”
She just looks at me, eyes wide and bright, and all of a sudden there are tiny lakes hovering around her lash lines. “Really Paige?” she whispers.
I would take that to mean she’s recognizing the branch between us as well. We might as well change into pajama pants, start brushing each other’s hair, and tune up my old guitar so we can sing “Kumbaya.”
“I mean, it’s just a dowel rod and a couple pieces of wood they’ve cut down, sanded, and painted white,” I say, looking at it. “I’d say three hours, maybe four tops, of good work and you’ll have a hundred of these for ten bucks.”
I can see the wheels turning. “Meaning I could have one for every guest,” she says.
“What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking about putting little note cards with verses special to Wes and me on them and just kind of scattering them on the table.”
I shrug. “Or you could do that. You don’t have to make them. I just like … making stuff,” I say, feeling weird that I’m telling my sister something so well-known about me.
“I knew you liked drawing.”
Drawing. I haven’t drawn anything since high school. I’ll doodle when I’m on the phone, but I’ve turned more to crafty things. Wreaths. Sewing projects. Sometime, hopefully in the near future, I want to learn to knit.
Not like anyone needs knitted caps here in our winters.
Such a sad, depressing thought.
“I’ve kind of moved on to other things,” I tell her. “I like doing a bunch of different stuff now.” I fiddle with the place-card holder in my hands. “Do you … like doing anything … uh, creative?”
This could not be more awkward.
She shrugs and pushes her long, dark hair off her shoulder so it swings around to her back. “Well, Wes says I’m very creative at dancing.”
And apparently my earlier statement was wrong.
She freezes and then blushes about 112 shades of red as she realizes what she just said. I’m pretty sure I’m at least a nice coraly pink that would make my general practitioner request a blood-pressure reading on me.
“Oh my gosh,” she stumbles, gasping, her hands over her mouth. “Oh that’s not what I meant at all. I just meant that we like to go to this place that does country line dancing and … oh my gosh … I am so … I didn’t mean …” She crosses her arms on the table and drops her face down onto them.
I’m giggling now, and even though there is still a big part of me that is resisting this, I have to admit, it is really nice to be laughing with Preslee again.
She starts grinning at me too, eyes sparkling, and shakes her head. “So, no, I don’t do anything crafty. I’ve tried to be more crafty, but even walking into Hobby Lobby makes my head hurt.”
She’s so sad about it that this makes me laugh too.
“How did you even start wanting to do this kind of stuff?” Preslee asks. “It’s not like Mom is all crafty.”
No, Mom is not at all. I could pretty much bet money that she’s never held a hot glue gun in her entire life.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I moved here and decided I wanted a front door wreath, but no one had one that was exactly like what I wanted for the price I wanted to pay. So I went to Hobby Lobby, bought all the stuff, came home, and made it myself.”
“You’ve always been a self-starter,” she says, all Dr. Phil on me.
“You’re the one who started a band,” I say before thinking, then I mash my lips together, wondering if it’s safe to bring up the past.
After all, the band was one of the bigger reasons Preslee left.
Or rather Spike or whatever his name was who was in the band with her. He played the electric guitar if I’m remembering right. The only thing I remember 100 percent about him is that he had an inch-long silver spike sticking out of his chin.
It was gross.
Preslee looks at me for a long moment and then nods slowly. “Yes. Maybe you tend to be more creative in the arts and I tend more toward creativity in music.”
“Probably.” She hadn’t seemed to mind the last question, so I ask another. “Do you still play?”
Preslee played mostly drums in high school, but she was also pretty good at guitar.
She shrugs. “I don’t really play the drums anymore. I sold my set when the band broke up.” Sadness crosses her expression briefly, but she blinks it away. “Every so often my church needs a fill-in for music, so I’ll play the guitar or piano for them. Honestly, it’s been kind of hard not to be around music anymore.”
Preslee always lived with her iPod plugged into her ears.
I’m not like that. I enjoy silence. I think I always have. When it’s just me at the apartment, I rarely turn on music.
There are a lot of holes in my story about Preslee. I look at her as she settles against the chair back. “Are you up for answering a few things?” I ask her quietly.
Her face becomes very serious and she nods. “I was praying we would get a chance to talk about everything, actually.”
“Oh.”
She takes a deep breath and sits up. “Could we move to the couch?”
“Sure.” I nod to her half-empty glass. “Want more water?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” She stands and goes into my living room, sits on one side of my couch, kicks her shoes off, and curls her feet up underneath her.
I refill my water glass and then join her, sitting on the other side of the couch, feeling very weird that I am in my apartment with Preslee and about to hear her side of the story that broke so many hearts.
Doesn’t seem real.
“So …” She rubs her face. “I guess I’ll just start at the beginning.”
Suddenly Maria from Sound of Music is singing in my head.
“I know I was awful growing up,” she says. “I don’t know exactly where all the rage was coming from, but I do know that I made your life a living hell, and for that, I want to apologize.” She gives me a very sad look. “You have no idea what I would do to change the past.”
I nod. “I know. Keep going.”
“So, when Spike came into the picture, I thought I was in love. He was cool, he was edgy, he was very unpredictable. It was …” She takes a deep breath. “Well, at the time I thought it was exciting. It was like a constant game of figuring out what his mood was going to be like that day.”
It sou
nds exhausting to me.
“So anyway, there was this potential gig in Indiana and a potential agent who was potentially willing to listen to us.” She rolls her eyes. “We were so stupid. Risking everything for a potential. I remember thinking that this was it. We were going to break out, and I’d never have to come back to Austin again, unless it was to perform.”
She’s quiet for a few minutes, staring at my blank TV, lost in memories, I assume. I don’t try to rush her. I just sip my water and wait.
“There wasn’t anyone waiting for us in Indiana,” she says. “But we tried to do some things there anyway. We played a few times. We were completely broke. There were four of us and all the equipment all crammed into this van, sleeping there, living there. I took showers at road stops for a while. I don’t know how we managed to keep gas in the van. Then one of the guys’ aunts said she would pay us to play at her daughter’s wedding if we could make it to Chicago and learn some tame songs.”
She shakes her head. “Spike was livid. Said we would be selling out if we went there and played some crappy wedding songs.” She looks down at her hands. “I remember thinking then that maybe he wasn’t the guy I wanted to live with forever, but he finally came around. We drove to Chicago and ended up getting a few more gigs from people at the wedding. Bar mitzvahs, anniversary parties, stuff like that. With each one we took, Spike just got more and more angry.”
She stops abruptly and clasps her hands in her lap, fingers white from the pressure. I’m pretty certain I don’t want to know details of everything my baby sister was going through during that time. “Those were dark days,” she says finally. “I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t go home. Not after the way I left. I couldn’t stay with the band, not with the way Spike was hurting me. So I left. We played a gig, I told the guys I was going to pack up the drums, but instead I just carried them right across the street to a pawn shop, got a hundred bucks for them, and left.”
She rubs her face. “I found a disgusting little motel in the heart of downtown Chicago that only charged twenty dollars for a night and stayed there. That night someone was killed in the room next to mine. I woke up to cops surrounding the building and ordering everyone out. One of the cops was sent there by Jesus because he saw me leaving with nothing but my clothes and for whatever reason, he offered to take me to his church’s rescue mission.”
My brain is spinning. I sit very still, very quiet, but I’m gripping my glass like the Hulk. I’m trying my best not to blink because I might start crying.
What if Preslee had been killed instead of whoever was in the motel room next to hers? What if Spike had seriously hurt my sister? What if I had never seen her again and she had died with such a huge chasm between us?
Preslee tucks her hair behind her ears and continues. “Things changed after that. I lived at the rescue mission for four months and I got very close with one of the ladies who volunteered there. She reminded me a lot of Gram.”
I smile. Gram was spunky.
“She kept telling me that I was smart, that Jesus was still going to use me for some wonderful thing. About two months into getting to know her, I became a Christian. I started going to her church, I started reading my Bible, and I started studying so I could take the high school diploma equivalency exam.”
“How come you never called?” The million-dollar question.
Preslee sighs. “I just couldn’t. I had to come back changed. I couldn’t come back and have everything start all over again between Mom and Dad and me. I needed to know I was different.” She bites her bottom lip. “I should have called though.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I started working as a waitress and spent the next two years working, taking correspondence classes through one of the colleges in Chicago, and going to church. I was asked to share my testimony with the youth group, and that day is when I met Wes.”
She takes a sip of water and shrugs. “After that, time just flew past. I fell in love. He’s really a wonderful man, Paige. I’m so excited for you to get to know him better. He proposed and I told him that there are a few things I need to take care of before I get married.” She looks at me and nods slightly.
I assume I am one of those “things.”
She takes a deep breath and leans back against the sofa. “And that’s the condensed version. Still kind of long. Sorry about that.”
She looks exhausted, and I feel completely emotionally drained. I’m not sure I can have a coherent conversation about her long story right now.
I am one of those people who needs to process things.
“Thank you for telling me that,” I say in a quiet voice.
“Thank you for listening.”
We both just sit there in silence for what feels like an hour but is probably closer to two minutes.
“I think it’s bedtime,” she says finally.
I nod and go pull out an old comforter and an extra pillow from my linen closet. “Do you want sheets?”
She shakes her head and slips off her shoes. “I’m just going to curl up on the couch. I can sleep anywhere. Don’t worry about me.” She tucks her hands in her pockets sheepishly. “Obviously I didn’t plan this too well, but you don’t happen to have an extra pair of pajamas and an extra toothbrush, do you?”
I smile. “Follow me.” I lead her into my room and dig out an old pair of gray pajama shorts that have coffee cups all over them and a black T-shirt. I point to the cabinet under my sink. “There are a few toothbrushes in there.” I hate the toothbrushes my dentist gives out, but I just have issues throwing away a perfectly good toothbrush, so I just stockpile them under my sink. I always have this vague idea of donating them to a homeless shelter, but I never remember to do it.
I should do it.
She comes out of the bathroom a few minutes later all ready for bed. “Good night, Paige.” She clasps me in an awkward hug. “I love you. Thank you for letting me stay here tonight.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
I shut my bedroom door, change into my pajamas, brush my teeth, and climb into bed, pulling the covers up around my waist. I plug my phone in and there’s a text from Tyler that I missed.
HOPE YOUR TIME WITH YOUR SISTER WENT WELL. I’VE BEEN PRAYING FOR YOU. SWEET DREAMS, PAIGE.
He really is very nice. He was all concerned after I told him who was spending the night and even prayed with me before I left.
I look over at my Bible on my bedside table next to my phone and just sigh.
I’ll read tomorrow.
Chapter
19
My alarm goes off at seven for church.
I would be very okay with a midafternoon church service. Maybe one that also served Starbucks and freshly made chocolate-chip cookies.
The chewy kind.
I am suddenly remembering the stories the last missionary who visited our church told us about starving children who walked three hours across deserts and through dangerous ravines just to go to church, and I am suddenly hit with good old-fashioned American guilt.
I take a lot for granted.
I take a quick shower and then quietly creak open my door. Preslee is still sacked out on the couch, long dark hair splayed all over my sofa cushion, face relaxed, mouth open.
She looks like she’s about twelve, and my chest hurts again for all the years we lost.
Here’s an issue. If I sneak into the kitchen to make coffee, she will likely wake up. If I don’t, I might get stuck drinking the coffee at church, which has a 50 percent chance of being good coffee.
Fifty percent is not that high when it comes to a ratio of good or bad coffee.
She looks so peaceful that I decide not to wake her up and slip back into my room to finish working on my appearance. The older I get, the longer this takes.
Except for a brief stint in junior high. It took me like two hours to get ready back then.
Sad that Danny Waggerston never knew how much I tried to impress him.
R
ick asked yesterday at the party if I would come sit in on the youth group Sunday school again this morning. I’ve gone a few times in the last few months.
“You just want me to decide I do want the job,” I told him.
“Well, duh,” Rick said, grinning.
I arranged a sub for the two-year-old class, which is never too hard to find. I just go for the women who have an empty nest and no grandkids yet. It gives them their kid fix and their own kids get a few more months of being spared the “when are you giving me grandchildren?” talk.
I brush on my eye shadow, add some liner and mascara, and then spend the next few minutes putting some curl into my hair. My hair is way too long.
It doesn’t help when I see all these girls around with these super-cute short cuts in preparation for summer.
But then I remember every girls’ dream of wanting to get married with long hair. Not that that is going to happen anytime in the near future, but it is a concern since it took a few years for my hair to get this long. If I chop it all off now, I’ll have to factor that into my dating life.
The thought of Tyler brings a smile to my face, but then Luke’s plea yesterday morning wipes the smile right off.
No more thinking about the dating life while looking in a mirror. I’ve apparently gotten some wrinkles I didn’t know I had.
I pull on a pair of jeans and a green Henley-style short-sleeve shirt over a white camisole with brown flip-flops and peek out my door again.
Preslee is still sleeping.
She was apparently on the tired side.
I sneak out into the kitchen, silently pull a notepad and one of my spare keys from the junk drawer, and write a quick note.
I went to church. Main service starts at ten, if you want to join me. Hope you slept —
I pause, pen in the air. Good? Well? English 101 is failing me this early in the morning.
— well. P.S. I will be your maid of honor.
Better to tell her this in writing so that: (a) I can’t change my mind and (b) neither of us will cry around each other.
I have this feeling that if we start crying, we just won’t stop.
That’s not good for maintaining the proper pH balance in your system. Or so says WebMD.