Stepping Into Sunlight (8 page)

Everything I’d lost in the past weeks rushed through me like the backside of a hurricane, pulling away from me with wicked speed. Tears clogged my throat and burned my eyes. I didn’t want this irrational fear, but the longer I pushed against it, the faster my heart raced. Finally I breathed a prayer and yanked the door open.

Our car parked along the curb seemed to be miles away, the space between us vast and threatening.

Come on, Penny. It’s a beautiful, sunny day. Go outside.

No pep talk could force my legs to move.

There’s nothing dangerous out there. It takes ten seconds to reach
your car.

Logic didn’t work, either.

You’re acting crazy. Stupid. What is your problem? Get over it.

Shame couldn’t prod me forward, though it dug talons into my shoulders and cawed raucously into my ear.

Come on, Penny. Don’t give up now. When the bus company you
hired for the youth group trip went belly-up, you didn’t give up. You found
cheap train passes and got the group across country. When the first two
offers on the house fell through, you researched ideas on staging a home so
the next open house went great. This is just a setback. Remember, you’re
doing this for Tom and Bryan.

The air didn’t have the crisp chill of a Wisconsin autumn, but at least it was no longer sweltering. Tom’s oversized jacket hung in the closet by the entry. It would probably be too warm, but I pulled it on anyway. I needed to bring him along on this adventure. The car keys dug into my hand as I clenched them. Then, with a shaky breath, I stepped through the front door.

Measured steps carried me to the curb. My car lay in wait—a steely-eyed mountain lion watching me. My last outing with Bryan hadn’t gone very well. Driving somewhere would take me too far from home and refuge. I stuffed my keys into my pocket and walked past it. Change in plans. A quick walk around the neighborhood was a better first step.

A dark thread of inaudible laughter seemed to mock me, so I walked faster, past the bus stop corner and across another street, desperate to outrun the scornful voice in my head. My attention focused on holding back my tears, so they wouldn’t splash to the ground and betray me. I didn’t pay attention to where my feet carried me.

Coward. Baby. Can’t even drive. And you dress like a bag lady
.

The snarling voice had shown up a few days after the shooting, and since Tom had left, it spoke with greater frequency. I tried to argue with it or ignore it, but the fight always left me exhausted. I sped up my efforts to outrun the thoughts, nearly jogging past another block of small red-brick houses. A Doberman exploded from behind one of the homes and rushed at the chain-link fence, throwing himself against it with throaty barks of warning.

I grabbed my chest and veered off the curb and into the street until I was well past that house. The sidewalk grew more uneven while broken glass and fast-food wrappers multiplied. A crooked sign in front of one house offered
Hair cuts. Cheep.
I smiled at the spelling error, imagining a row of fluffy yellow chicks chirping as they waited for a styling. Two more houses down, a yard full of plastic play equipment and squabbling toddlers made the
Mabel’s
Day Care
sign unnecessary.

I reached a small grocery, its windows plastered with
We accept
food stamps.
A few more residential homes wedged into spaces next to a Laundromat. Through the glass I saw a United Nations assortment of elderly women stooping under the burden of baskets, smoking, flipping through tattered magazines. Without thinking, I’d headed toward the infamous projects—temporary housing thrown together for soldiers during World War II. Meant to be torn down, it became a refuge of the desperate—a step up from homelessness, but only a baby step.

I stopped short on the cracked sidewalk and turned to go back. The last thing I needed was another experience as a crime victim.

Jesus Saves!
Sloppy, hand-painted letters shouted at me from across a tinted glass storefront. The corner of the glass was cracked and duct-taped. A dented steel door bore a small cardboard sign, plastered in place with more duct tape
. New Life Mission. You are
welcome hear.

More spelling errors. I smiled, imagining the soft cadence of a Virginia voice telling me, “You’re welcome. Hear?”

The door opened, and I jumped back.

A short, thick-necked man with gray whiskers planted himself on the threshold. “Coming in? Don’t just hang around on the sidewalk.”

Stick a pipe in his mouth and he’d look like an elderly Popeye, complete with out-of-proportion, muscular forearms.

“Oh, that’s okay. I . . .”

“Don’t need savin’? Every fish in the sea needs savin’, child.” His smile twinkled, even with the gap of a missing incisor. Sun damage tanned his Caucasian skin and hinted at years of hard living.

A tall woman joined him at the door. In her navy blazer and skirt, she looked like a realtor for high-end properties, not a member of a storefront church. “Barney, stop scaring the window-shoppers. Come along in, baby-girl.” A tight Afro framed her creamy dark face, and a chunky wooden necklace broke up the conservative blandness of her outfit. Tired, wise eyes met mine—an anomaly in her strong, unbending body. She might have been in her fifties, but it was hard to tell. Her eyes looked older and her skin younger.

Barney waddled back on bandy legs that seemed more fitted for a ship’s deck. “Weren’t you looking for a place to talk to Jesus?”

Muscles in my back tightened, and my neck bones tingled.
How did he—?

“That’s generally why folks stand on the sidewalk starin’ at our sign.”

Two lanky teens strode up the block, shoving each other and cursing loudly. I flinched and stepped through the door.

chapter
6

T
HE WOMAN BEAMED AT
me, then thrust her head outside. “Lamont and Curtis, don’t you think I won’t be telling your mama that you’re cutting school again. And I’ll tell her to wash out your mouths, too.”

Apparently satisfied, she stepped back in to the strange oneroom church and let the door swing shut behind us.

Half a dozen rows of dented folding chairs filled the far end of the room, facing a brown cross painted on the whitewashed wall. A musty smell choked the air, probably from the ancient upholstered couch on the near end of the room or the gaunt man in an overcoat who snored from one of the tattered easy chairs. A coffee table was strewn with garish tracts, and a small bookshelf full of Bibles canted sideways along one wall. Sunlight streaked in through rips in the dark plastic tinting that coated the glass window-front.

“Can I pray with you about something?” The poised middle-aged woman tapped one of her navy blue pumps.

I blinked. At my church, no one would haul a visitor in the door and offer to pray with them without a word of introduction.

She smiled at my confusion. “Sorry. My name’s Lydia. You know, like the seller of purple.”

Barney snorted. “More like Lydia for her aunt who’s full of herself,” he muttered.

Lydia lifted an eyebrow at him and turned back to me.

“I’m Penny.” I said quietly.

“A Penny saved is a Penny earned.” Barney chuckled, then looked at Lydia. “I’ll be in back making some calls. Unless the phone’s out again. Did you pay the bill this month?”

Lydia’s eyebrows climbed further, and Barney laughed as he shuffled his way past the metal chairs and through a door near the cross. Apparently this tiny storefront mission didn’t operate with the same efficiency as my church back home.

“So, how can I help you?” Lydia took a few steps toward the folding chairs, and I drifted along with her.

“I was really just out for a walk.”

“Mm-hmm.” She led me to one of the chairs near the front and we both sat. “I’m sure God won’t mind me prayin’ for someone who was just out for a walk.”

Before I could form further opinions about the two odd people, she took my hand. “Holy Spirit fall on us now. We’re needin’ your presence. This little lamb is caught in the briars, and we ask you to come for her now. Give her the rescuin’ she needs.”

This was the most ridiculous, laughable, bizarre experience I’d ever had. A wino snoring in the background, a grizzled sea captain slamming around in the back room, and an elegant Condoleezza Rice look-alike holding my hand.

Yet the loneliness that had frozen into a bundle behind my sternum began to melt. I had needed to feel God’s touch. Now it was as if God held me with a tangible hand. A hand with flesh and blood and skin. Black, bejeweled, with clear nail polish. Who knew His hands could look like this? The fingers that gripped mine offered me support I hadn’t sought or deserved.

Tears pricked my eyes as she said a robust, “Amen.”

“Thank you.” My words came out hoarse but heartfelt. I glanced at my watch. “Whoa, I need to leave. My son gets home from school soon.”

She walked with me to the dented metal door and pushed it open. “Come back anytime. That’s why we’re here.”

I squinted into the sunshine, marveling again at how warm it could be on a September afternoon.

Suddenly a teen on a skateboard sailed past, baseball cap backward on his head. A friend ran after him, skidding on hidden wheels inside his tennis shoes. The first boy whooped and spun, heading back up the sidewalk and across the doorway again.

The muscles around my knees stopped working, and my thighs began to tremble, refusing to hold me upright. I stumbled back a step and sucked in a harsh breath.

No, not now. I have to get home. Bryan needs me to be there.

Panic crawled up my throat. The harder I fought—reminding myself that I didn’t dare allow it—the more it took control of my body. My heart pounded. My lungs felt dry and tight.

Lydia stared at me and poked her head outside. “Take it to the park, boys.”

They shouted a good-natured complaint and disappeared down the street.

Still, I wavered a few feet from the open doorway.

Go! You need to walk home now. Bryan’s bus—

I groaned and reached blindly for the doorjamb. Sweat beaded above my lip, and I licked away the taste of salt.

“Honey, can I call someone for ya?”

Arms guided me away from the doorway and inside to a couch. I let my head sag forward, but the sour staleness of the upholstery churned my stomach.

“I need to . . . my son . . .” A moan vibrated deep in my chest. This dizziness and nausea couldn’t be from anxiety. Maybe food poisoning. What had I eaten lately?

A liver-spotted hand thrust a glass of water at me. I looked up and saw Barney frowning at me. “Drink some. It’s either that or I throw it in your face.”

I choked out a surprised laugh and accepted the glass. A few sips helped the vertigo recede.

“Lamb, you look scared to death.” Lydia wrapped an arm around my shoulders.

Barney squared off with her. “You didn’t start speaking in tongues or prophesyin’ again, did ya?”

“That was only the one time, and—never mind.” Lydia turned toward me. “Did I say anything that upset you?”

I drew in a deep, shaky breath. “No. The prayer was wonderful. It’s not that. But really, I need to get home.” I struggled to my feet and then waited for the room to stop doing a fun-house tilt.

“Cherisse is coming by for the baby clothes anytime now,” Lydia said quietly to Barney. “You take care of it, okay? I’ll get this lamb safely home.”

I shook my head. “Oh, no. Please. I’m fine.” But when she took my arm, I let her support me. We stepped out into the sunshine.

“Which way? Despite what Barney says, I’m no prophet. Can’t find your house without at least a little clue here.”

I gave a breathy laugh and looked around. I’d come past that Laundromat, right? Or was it the other direction?

My throat tightened again. I was trapped. I couldn’t find my way back. And Bryan would get home to an empty house. A shiver spasmed through me.

“Okay. Let’s just walk a bit. That’ll clear the cobwebs. I’m guessing you aren’t from the projects, or am I wrong?” She steered me along the sidewalk.

“No, that’s right. It’s only a few blocks . . . I think. There’s a bus stop.”

She gave a throaty chuckle. “That’ll help. Not like there’re many of those.”

Right. I was sounding more like a lunatic by the moment. There were bus stops on every other corner. “This is the right way. I think. There was a barber for chickens. There it is.”

“A barber for—? Oh, I gotcha. Cheep. For a minute there I was going to take you back to the mission for a little casting out of evil spirits.”

I pulled my arm away from her.

She grinned. “Kidding. So, seriously, are you feeling any better?”

“I’m fine. Sorry. I’ve been getting over the flu or something. I hate to cause you so much trouble.”

“Child, I get up each morning and ask God to give me someone to serve. You aren’t trouble. You’re my answer to prayer.”

The peace in her voice made me ache. Like stretching on tiptoe for a high shelf, I could almost remember what it felt like to ask God for people to serve—instead of spending my day wishing the world would go away. Almost. “The least of these,” I murmured.

“Hmm?”

“ ‘Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.’ ”

Lydia beamed. “Exactly. That’s what I’m talking about.”

When we reached the corner of my block, I was breathing more evenly. “You must think I’m nuts. I . . . A few weeks ago, I was at a store that got robbed.” The restricting band around my lungs relaxed its grip by a centimeter, and I drew in a deep draught of air. Speaking the words hadn’t disintegrated me. “I’m still a little . . . I haven’t quite gotten over it yet.”

“Well, if that don’t beat all.” Without breaking stride, Lydia reached into her blazer pocket and pulled out a rubber-banded stack of assorted business cards. She pulled one out and handed it to me. “One of the women that comes to our Wednesday night worship is a crime victim. She’s been getting some good help at this place.”

I pulled to a stop in front of my house and took the card.
Victim Support Services.
I swallowed a laugh. Was God trying to tell me something?