Can I Get An Amen?

Praise for

CAN I GET AN AMEN?

“A sparkling debut novel about dealing with family and finding love. An absolute treat!”

—Janet Evanovich,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Stephanie Plum series

“An emotional and satisfying novel that’s as tender as it is funny—a fabulous debut that’s fresh, honest, and addictive. Don’t miss it!”

—Emily Giffin,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Something Borrowed
and
Where We Belong

“Sarah Healy’s
Can I Get An Amen?
’s wonderfully flawed heroine suffers like Job at the book’s opening. Infertility, unemployment, divorce. At thirty-one, Ellen is forced to move back home to New Jersey, and in with born-again parents she can’t relate to. Former enemies surface, as do old hurts and bad memories.… Funny, smart, wise, and refreshing,
Can I Get an Amen?
is the work of a great new talent and an obviously gifted writer. [This book] doesn’t need my blessing to be a huge success!”

—Valerie Frankel, author of
Thin Is the New Happy
and
Four of a Kind

“A soaring debut! Sarah Healy examines divorce, parental relationships, sibling relationships, religion, and love with humor, poignancy, and a compelling tension.
Can I Get an Amen?
is a beautiful story that will leave readers waiting breathlessly for her next book.”

—Beth Harbison,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Shoe Addicts Anonymous
and
When in Doubt, Add Butter

“
Can I Get an Amen?
is touching, funny, and full of heart. A highly entertaining novel about love and family, secrets and forgiveness. Don’t miss it!”

—Lisa Scottoline,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Come Home
and
Save Me

• • •

SARAH HEALY

For my parents, Peter and Maureen

My sincerest thanks…

To my editor, Ellen Edwards, for her skill and patience in shepherding this book through the publishing process. And to my agent, Stephanie Kip Rostan, whose keen instincts and insights have been invaluable.

To my parents, Peter and Maureen Enderlin, for believing in me before I did.

To my siblings: Matthew Enderlin, for occasionally returning my calls; Jonathan Enderlin, for all of those delicious nuts; and Erin Enderlin Bloys, for loving this story despite the fact that I wrote it.

To my husband, Dennis Healy, whose kindness, optimism, and love have sustained me. And to our three beautiful boys, Noah, Max, and Oliver.

And finally, my deepest gratitude to my remarkable sister, Jennifer Enderlin Blougouras, without whose generosity of expertise, encouragement, and time this book would simply not exist.

• • •

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

CHapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

W
e loved Jesus. We loved Jesus and Jesus loved us. This was what we were told. This was the message that accompanied the lukewarm apple juice and stale Nilla Wafers we had every week in Sunday school. We were Christians, and that meant that an omnipotent and benevolent deity had our backs. He bestowed upon us his love in the form of blessings, which we preferred in lump sums, as
blessing
was often just another way of saying
tropical vacation
or
new car.
We had blessings. And we prayed for more.

We went to Christian camps where fresh-faced counselors with bangs and friendship bracelets coached us on accepting Christ into our lives. We said our prayers, we read Bible stories, and we never, ever played with Ouija boards. “Amy Jenkins used to play with Ouija boards,” warned our mother with crossed arms and wide eyes. Yes,
Amy Jenkins
. She was once a sweet little blond girl whose well-respected family belonged to our country club. Now she lay foaming at the mouth and strapped to a bed in a mental institution. My mother’s head began a subtle and
rhythmic nod as we connected the dots; terrible things can happen if you allow Parker Brothers to patch you through to Satan.

Oh, Satan. He was a nasty one. Any ill that befell us could be attributed directly to the work of Satan and his minions. We understood that this was the primary reason for being a Christian, to avoid Satan and his black realm of fire, torture, and agony. It seemed pretty simple and really quite reasonable: just accept and worship God in the earthly realm and you could spend the afterlife lounging on fluffy white clouds. You could hear the clear, bell-like voices of angels rather than the eye-piercing shrieks of the damned. Those were the rules and we followed them. We didn’t ask why.

But like a political party changing its platform to attract the next generation of voters, the God that we were presented with slowly evolved as we grew. The tit-for-tat God that slammed the pearly gates and shooed you away with a broom was replaced by more of a
Match.com
type of deity. “The Lord wants a relationship with
you
, Ellen!” my mother would plead. “Your heavenly father wants you to know him!” This was after I stopped referring to my parents, brother, and sister as
we
. This was when they were no longer able to force me to get into the car and attend a two-hour service where palm fronds were waved and demons were cast out. This was when I was supposed to be forming a new
we
.

I still selected “Christian” on hospital registration forms; it was as much a part of my makeup as other check boxes such as “female” and “Caucasian.” I always cottoned to the concept of a God and was quite keen on the idea of his unconditional love. My mother claimed that she loved us all unconditionally, but we knew better. There was always a loophole.

“Would you still love me if I had a dead, milky eye?”

“I’d love you more.”

“What if I was a porn star?”

“Ellen!”

There is a limit to human love.

I found this out when Gary came solemnly into the house one breezy summer evening in July. He set his briefcase on the floor and placed his keys quietly on the countertop. “Ellen, we need to talk.” I could see how he had steeled himself for this conversation. How his shoulder muscles were tensed, how his face held that determined set. It was early, too. At least for Gary, who had been putting in twelve-hour days at the firm for as long as I could remember. It was eight o’clock and I was just finishing up the dishes from the dinner that now sat neatly organized in square glass containers in the fridge.

It turned out he wasn’t, as he had said, “okay” with the fact that we might never have children. And since the problem seemed to be mine and not his, the solution was simple. I wrapped my arms around myself as I fought, with clenched jaw and scarlet face, not to cry.

“But the doctor said that we could try in vitro again,” I managed.

He sighed, and only then did I see pain in his eyes. He pulled me to his chest and held my head against him, then spoke in quiet, sympathetic words. “Elle… we’ve tried that,” was all he said as he silently tabulated the bill for his ideal family of four children.

“Maybe my parents could help this time,” came my desperate, muffled words.

But there was the cost, and then there was the likelihood of success. And besides, blessings were few and far between these days, for both my current and my former
we
.