From The Dead (26 page)

“But how do you know God directs you?”

“Funny as it sounds, I don’t think of myself as the
one preaching. I look at myself as an empty vessel, and it feels
like God speaks through me for an hour—God’s words, something
special He wants to share with the people in the room. The words
seem to rise up, so I speak them. Later on, I don’t always recall
the details of what I said, but somehow God causes it to minister
to somebody. That’s what I love about it: God uses me as a tool to
help people. But when I look in the Bible, I see that God doesn’t
to restrict that to preachers—He wants all of His people to carry
inside them that sensitivity to His voice.”

A knock on the door—Jesse forgot he’d left it
open.

“Hi, Pastor Chuck. I didn’t see Maureen outside, so
she’s probably out to lunch. But your door was open, and—”

“Come on in, Bethann.”

“Oh, you have company! I’m sorry to interrupt. I came
to pick up the paperwork for the youth trip. Do you happen to know
where she left it?”

“Next to the fax machine, hidden from view. She said
you might swing by,” Chuck replied. He gestured to Jesse. “This is
my son, Jesse.”

With a warm smile, Bethann shook Jesse’s hand. “Oh,
how nice to finally meet you! I didn’t know you live here.”

“I lived in L.A. for a long time. Just came back
three months ago.”

“Bethann and her family moved here nine years ago,”
Chuck said.

Disinterested, Jesse feigned interest and nodded
anyway. Jesse had met countless individuals who wanted to be
personal friends with the minister; in response, Jesse had
developed a habit whereby he disregarded them. After all, he had
shared his father with them throughout his childhood.

Bethann was effervescent, a quality Jesse found
genuine for some and a façade for others. Jesse tried to determine
which of these he saw now.

“So tell me, do you plan to be a minister like your
dad?”

Jesse detested that question. What was it with
people? Who did they think they were? Why did they try to force
their way into his life and expect him to live in his father’s
footsteps? He’d escaped this place to escape his father’s shadow;
yet no matter how many years passed, the issue continued to bubble
up. Because he was the preacher’s son, he’d felt shoved into a
public spotlight, one where people seemed to feel an entitlement
toward him, as if he were public property.

Jesse bit his lip—along with his tongue. Another
irritation he endured as a preacher’s son: Any outbursts of anger
would reflect poorly on the preacher himself.

Chuck, with one look at his son’s lips in
compression, changed the subject. “We’re content to let him become
the next Marlon Brando instead. Thanks for taking the time to grab
that paperwork.”

“Not a problem.” She offered Jesse a parting smile.
“Nice to meet you.”

Jesse painted himself a polite grin and gave her a
two-finger wave. Bethann closed the door behind her.

Jesse still simmered beneath the surface.

“Sorry about that; she didn’t mean to put you on the
spot with the minister-to-be remark. People mean well.” He examined
his son, then added, “You know, you have me one-upped: I don’t know
firsthand how difficult it is to be a minister’s kid.”

Jesse pretended to shrug it off. “How do you know
she’s not faking it with all the God stuff—the happy face, the
serving?”

“I’ve been her minister the whole time she and her
family have lived here. I’ve watched her. I’m familiar with her
spiritual growth. When you’re the minister, you keep an eye out for
wolves that try to penetrate the flock with harmful
intentions.”

“Isn’t that a form of judging people?”

“It’s a matter of protecting people. Nobody’s
perfect; any Christian who won’t admit they have faults is lying to
you. People who seek answers or seek to know God—they’re welcome
here no matter where they’ve been in life or what they’ve done. God
never turned away the heart cries of people who sought Him. That’s
different from people who come to a church with the sole intention
of causing disruption—I’ll show them the door myself. As a
minister, I’m a shepherd and I’ll protect my sheep. Much like I
protect my kids.”

Jesse’s jaw grew rigid. “So you’re telling me if some
prostitute or heroin addict who’s still high walked into the
church, they’d be welcome?”

“Absolutely.”

“And the other people in the chairs are just waiting
to say hello?”

“I hope so. If not, they need to stop and remember
the way they used to be before they became a Christian.”

“So you don’t see a difference between right and
wrong?”

“It’s not a matter of right and wrong. It’s about
allowing people to change.”

“So what do you think of me?” Jesse said.

“Truth?”

“Yeah.”

“I think you’re searching for something. I think
you’ve decided to make a change somewhere in your life—exactly
what, I don’t know.”

“You’re telling me you never wondered what kind of
life I lived in California?”

“Of course I did. But in the end, that’s none of my
business. Everyone walks through life their own way.”

Jesse’s guilt wrenched inside. “Geez!” he shouted.
“Will you get angry at me
just once!
Stop being so fricking
understanding all the time!”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Tell me I’m a screwup! Tell me I don’t deserve to be
in your family anymore! Tell me
something
that takes the
guilt away!”

“Guilt? What guilt?”

“Never mind.”

Still on his feet, Jesse fumed as tension hung thick
as concrete in the air. He didn’t know how these arguments began,
but they had occurred often in the past.

Chuck appeared at a loss for words. “I don’t think
you’re a screwup,” he said at last.

“I wish you would.”

“I don’t see you that way. I remember where I came
from before I was a minister, before I even met your mom—I was a
teenager who got into a crowd I shouldn’t have. Started smoking pot
behind the factory where I worked in the summers—pot had just come
on the scene at the time. Other details I’d be too embarrassed to
go into.” Chuck peered at his silent son. “I know the attraction in
running wild. I’ve been there.”

“You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know
about my life—you don’t even know about my last
six
months!
”

Jesse wanted a remedy to take the stain away—the one
that festered in him. When he searched for a way to erase it, to
make up for his faults, he couldn’t find one. Life had begun to
improve with regard to Drew, Caitlyn and his family, but it wasn’t
enough. It didn’t fulfill his yearning. Jesse wanted to be free.
But the freedom he sought was internal, not external. He’d tried a
physical escape to L.A., but to no avail. So he remained
trapped.

“What are looking for from me, Jess?” Chuck said.

“I’m looking for a difference! You have no idea how I
detest
myself as a preacher’s son! I hate that I’m
considered open territory for anyone who’s interested in my
privacy. I hate that I’ve had to share you with anyone who asks! I
hate that when I look at you, I see a part of me—because, and this
might hurt you, but I don’t want to be
you!
Do you realize I
got
forced
into this? You got a choice in the preacher
thing; you chose to sacrifice your privacy. But I never got that
choice! That’s why I never visited: I didn’t want the life you had
to offer! Do you know what it’s like to be fourteen years old and
have adults scrutinize you, against your will, like they’re
entitled to it? Do you think I ever got a thank-you for it? I can’t
be the person
they
want me to be—I can’t be you! I can’t
break away from it, but I can’t reconcile it inside of me! And like
it or not, when I see you, you symbolize the issue. When I see you,
I’m reminded of my faults, of who I’ll never become.”

Angry, Jesse stormed out of the room. In the lobby,
he passed Maureen—of course she had returned from lunch in time for
the outbursts. She said nothing, but Jesse was sure she had heard
plenty.

CHAPTER 42

Hours later, still in a simmer from his argument with
Chuck, Jesse clenched his jaw and grabbed a knife from its wooden
block. He peeled an onion and, to vent his frustration, diced it
with forceful chops. He picked up the scent of ground beef as it
browned.

When Eden opened the door to the house, she heard the
knife chops before she saw their source. Jesse’s ears burned.

“What’s for dinner?” Eden asked.

“Taco salad.” With half the onion chopped, he used
the blunt edge of the knife to slide the pieces into a large bowl
of lettuce. Then he resumed with the other half of the onion.

Eden set her purse on the counter and took a seat.
She crossed her arms and took in the sight of Jesse as he unleashed
his anger on the innocent vegetable. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he said in his irritated-guy grunt. His next
verbal clue didn’t arrive until he cut his finger by accident.

A minor cut, he shifted to the sink to wash it. Eden
jumped up and headed over to him. When Jesse insisted he was okay,
she finished the onion while he wrapped a clean paper towel around
his finger and sat down at the table.

Elbow on the table, Jesse held his finger upward and
applied pressure to the cut to aid the clotting. Besides his recent
nosebleed symptoms, he had noticed cuts took longer to stop
bleeding as well, so he waited.

The ground beef continued to snap and sizzle on the
stove. The scent of black pepper and green chiles engulfed the
kitchen. After she added the remaining ingredients to the salad
bowl, Eden sat across from her brother. “What happened today? Why
are you so ticked off?”

“It’s nothing. I had a fight with Dad, that’s
all.”

“Was it that bad?”

“No. I don’t want to go into it.”

“Maybe you should. Obviously, internalizing it hasn’t
helped.” No response from Jesse, so
Eden asked, “Why do you get so upset with Dad? It used to happen
all the time. What did he do today?”

“It’s not what he does—more like what he
doesn’t
do. Look, it’s confusing; I’ve never figured it
out.” Jesse took a deep breath. Lucky he hadn’t sliced his hand, he
figured a count to ten might serve him well at the moment. At last
he said, “It’s a constant frustration that doesn’t go away.”

“In you?” she clarified.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I feel a weird sense of guilt.
And I can’t escape it—it just lurks in me day and night. I end up
so confused that I don’t know what I feel or who I’m angry at: Dad
or me.”

“And this just started happening?”

“Are you kidding?” Jesse murmured. “It started when I
was a kid—maybe fifteen.” He stared at his finger, where blood had
seeped through the layers of the paper towel. Jesse rewrapped the
cut with the unstained portion of the towel. “I hate living in his
shadow. If I imitate him, I’m a fake; if I act like myself, I make
the preacher look bad. All I ever wanted was to break free,” he
said. “Geez, I just wanted to figure out who
I
am. That was
the plan when I went to L.A. The acting didn’t take off like I’d
hoped, but at least I was free to be myself—whatever that is.”

Eden listened. Both of them were preacher’s kids, but
each had adapted in a manner that matched their respective
personality. Eden hadn’t found it problematic. Jesse, on the other
hand, had sought unique opportunities to vent.

“You visited me out there,” Jesse continued. “You
know what I mean: The place is always full of
life
.”

He watched her ponder this for a moment. Then she
said, “I also remember you called it cosmetic over there, not to
mention the pressure to project an image—kind of like a minister’s
kid in reverse.”

“Sure it was cosmetic, but at least it was
active
.” He bit the inside of his cheek, a nervous habit.
“Maybe I have too much time to think here.”

“To be honest, after all those visits, I never
thought you seemed happy there.”

“Things got dry the last couple of years. But before
that, my life was in constant motion. Remember all the running
around we did when you first visited? We had a blast.”

“I’m not talking about external stuff. On the
outside, yes, you seemed upbeat and at home. But I could sense
sadness about you, the kind that dwelt deep down. I could see it in
your eyes—a longing, a distanced look, the way you would gaze at
the Hollywood hills. It’s tough to hide your eyes, Jesse. It looked
like dense smog settled into them, a heaviness that stood between
you and the utopia you were seeking.”

Jesse let out a soft, knowing laugh. “So many people
there,” he said, almost to himself. “How can someone be surrounded
by people, by friends and a girlfriend, and yet feel so—alone?”

Eden allowed the comment to settle before she asked,
“Have you talked to Jada lately?”

“No, I haven’t.” Jesse’s finger had stopped bleeding.
He headed to the wastebasket to toss the paper towel and wash his
hands again. The meat for the taco salad looked ready. He tossed
the salad, fixed two plates, and spooned the beef on top. After he
brought two glasses of water and sat down again, Eden said grace
over dinner and they started to eat.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said. “But I saw
the way you and Jada used to interact. I had the impression Jada
was a distraction. A
welcome
distraction: It got your mind
off other things.”

Jesse relented. “Psychoanalysis from a social
worker,” he quipped. “And your diagnosis?”

Eden acknowledged his prods with a grin, yet kept her
words sincere. “Maybe you felt a hole inside and tried to use Jada
to fill it.”

With a snicker, Jesse swallowed a bite. “I think we
used each other.”