The Other Side of Darkness (13 page)

“Well, you’ve got about twenty minutes to figure it out.” Then he stands and leaves.

I sit on the bed and attempt to pray, asking the Lord to lead me. What is the best thing to do in this situation? What is his will for me? for my family? Why is it so hard to discern these things?

“Come on, Mom,” urges Mary as she and Sarah slip into my room while my head’s still bowed. “Come to the movie with us!”

“Yeah.” Sarah takes one of my hands and gives it a tug. “It won’t be any fun without you.”

“Yeah,” says Rick from behind them. “I’ll even take you all out for pizza afterward.”

“Come on, Mom.” Mary grabs my other hand as both girls pull me to my feet. “We’re supposed to be a family, aren’t we?”

Well, how can I argue with that? “Okay, okay. Just let me get my coat.” And before I can reconsider my decision, we are piling into the minivan and taking off. But as soon as we’re driving toward the multiplex, I suspect I’ve made a mistake.

Once we’re seated in the crowded theater, far too close to the front, I know I’ve made a terrible mistake. And when the movie actually starts, following several horrible trailers for films that my girls will
not
be seeing, I am absolutely certain that I am the stupidest Christian mother on earth. What was I thinking to agree to this?

This disgusting movie is nothing more than the glorification of witches and demons and evil spirits and all sorts of Satan-inspired forms of entertainment. Oh sure, some of it is highly disguised, and I almost laugh at some of the lighter scenes, but for the most part, it is horrible. And if I were alone, I would’ve left the theater long ago. How I long to grab my girls’ hands and drag them from this vile exposure. But that would only make a big scene, and I would end up looking like the bad guy, the spoiler. So for their sakes and for Rick’s, I remain planted in my seat with my fingers holding on to the arms of
my chair in a death grip. But, I promise myself, I will never make this mistake again.

After the movie my stomach is in a tight knot as Rick drives us to our favorite pizza place, but the girls chatter away happily, replaying scene after scene of the horrifying movie. I’m trying to pray but not succeeding. I feel almost as if I’m not really here at all, as if the Lord has come down and swooped me away and I’m simply watching this scene from someplace above the minivan. And maybe that would be best for everyone. As it is, I’m determined to keep my mouth shut for fear that I will say something very hurtful and ruin this day for everyone.

I must pray my way through this
. Then I realize we’re already at the pizza place and Rick is parking the minivan.
I must keep quiet and just pray through this
. And later on when Rick is not around, I will gently explain to the girls why that film was not only unacceptable but very ungodly as well. I think if I say it right, they will understand. I think I can turn this nightmare into a learning moment for them. But first I need to really pray.

“I need to use the rest room,” I tell my family as we enter the noisy building. Then I go into the ladies’ room, enter a stall, and standing there with my head pressed against the cold metal door, I pray.
I pray and pray and pray
. And after a while, I realize I’m standing in a very dirty place with my head touching a very dirty door, and I find this extremely disturbing.

So I go out to the sinks, where I wash my hands and my face and then my hands again. But each time I wash my hands, I don’t quite get it right. I accidentally touch something that defiles them again. It’s so difficult to get clean in a public rest room. And for some reason my efforts keep getting frustrated, almost as if I’m
under satanic attack, probably due to the images that were burned into my brain during that disgusting movie. For whatever reason my old system of turning on the hot water and soaping my hands, then pulling out the paper towel while my hands are still soapy, then rinsing and rinsing, then drying on the ready towel, and then using it to turn off the tap and open the door is not working. So I do it again. And again.

“Mom?”
Mary pokes her head into the women’s rest room. “What are you doing?”

Flustered, I throw the paper towel in the trash, and while Mary is still holding the door open, soiling her own hands with its invisible but deadly germs, I make my exit without saying a word.

“Are you okay?” she asks as we walk toward the table where Rick and Sarah are waiting with questions on their faces.

“I’m fine,” I tell her. But when I see that the pizza is already at our table, which means I must’ve been in that filthy rest room for nearly twenty minutes, my cheeks grow hot with embarrassment.

“Sorry.”

“Are you feeling okay?” Rick echoes Mary’s earlier question.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want some pizza?” Sarah hopefully points at the pizza that’s already been partially eaten. “We ordered half-and-half with your favorite on this side.”

I take a narrow slice of the mushroom, olive, and sausage pizza and pretend to nibble on it, but my stomach feels like someone poured wet concrete into it, concrete that has hardened into stone. And I know that I’m probably overreacting, but I don’t know how to stop it. The best I can do for now is to remain quiet, to keep my worries and concerns to myself. But as I do this, I am enraged at
Rick. After all, this is really his fault. If he hadn’t insisted on taking the girls to that vile and evil movie, none of this would’ve happened. And as he drives us home, I sit with my attention focused out the passenger window, silently fuming.

W
hen I was about Mary’s age, I discovered I had a grandma. Oh, I knew that our dad had parents—Grandma and Grandpa Reynolds—but they lived in New Jersey and were getting pretty old, and other than a random birthday card or holiday greeting, I didn’t really think too much about them. Then one morning, right out of the blue, my mom told me that Grandma Clark had invited me to come visit.

“Grandma who?” I looked up from the Nancy Drew mystery I was reading.

“My mother,” she said with her typical impatience. “Grandma Clark. She wants you to come visit her.”

“Me?” I studied my mom closely, wondering if this was some kind of trick. I was usually the last one picked for anything special. In fact, I had been moping around for a week, feeling sorry for myself, because Lynette was off at a month-long summer camp, and Jonathan was just starting Little League. It seemed I was the only one in the family with a boring summer to look forward to. Oh, that and the extra household chores due to my siblings’ extracurricular activities.

My mother nodded. “She just called and asked to see her grandchildren.”

“Grandchildren,” I repeated, wondering if my mother understood that this word was plural, as in not just one. Not just me.

“Obviously Lynette is gone, and Jonathan is committed to baseball. You’ll have to go alone, Ruth.”

I frowned up at her, trying to decide if this was a good thing or not. “By myself?”

“That’s what ‘going alone’ means.” She shook her head as if she couldn’t quite fathom how she had raised such a dense child. “Go pack your things.”

“Right now?”

“Of course, right now. Did you think I meant next Tuesday?”

“When am I going?” I stood and dog-eared a corner of my paperback. I actually wanted to ask whether or not I had a choice in any of this, but I suspected by the firm tilt of her chin that I didn’t.

“Today. I’m driving you over just as soon as you’re packed.”

Well, being twelve going on thirteen, I suppose I felt I had some right to question my own destiny, especially when it concerned matters like previously unknown grandparents. “What if I don’t want to go?”

My mother’s brow creased as her eyes narrowed into her don’t-cross-me look.

“I mean, I don’t even know this person.”

“She’s your grandmother, Ruth.”

I wanted to say, “Yeah, so what?” but her expression was getting even grimmer.

“She lives at the coast,” my mother added, almost with a sweetness to her voice, as if she were offering me a bribe of candy.

“Really?” I took the bait. “Close to the beach?”

“Go pack. You’ll see when we get there.”

So, imagining myself wearing a bikini, which I didn’t even own, and stretched out on some sunny beach, maybe even learning to surf
and changing my name to Gidget, I hurried into my room and began packing all the appropriate items.

My mother acted strangely out of character as she drove us along the winding coast highway. She was actually congenial. She talked about when she was a girl and growing up in a small town on the Oregon coast and how she loved to get up early after a storm and walk down the beach, scouring the sand for treasures.

“Did you find any?” I asked, caught up in the story.

“Yes, I had a whole box full of wonderful shells and agates and things.”

“Do you still have them?”

She frowned. “No.”

“Why not?”

“My mother got rid of them.”

“You mean she gave them away?”

The frown deepened. “Something like that.”

“Oh.”

That’s where the happy conversation ended. But we were getting close to the ocean, and the smell of the sea air combined with the excitement of being someplace new and different from boring old home was distraction enough for me. Wait until Lynette heard about this.

Traffic in the town seemed busy—station wagons, campers, bikes, and people on foot, all of whom looked like they’d come here expressly for the purpose of fun—and my expectations soared even higher. I took note of the ice cream store, the candy shop, a place that rented surfboards and crab pots, and even a store with bright-colored bikinis hanging in the window. I wondered how much something that small might cost.

I began to imagine what this mysterious grandmother’s house might be like. Would it be right on the beach? Maybe a large stone mansion with a dark, haunted past like the place Nancy Drew was currently visiting in my book, trying to solve the mystery of the missing sea captain. Or maybe it would be a modern beach house, like something from a movie, with large windows overlooking the ocean, a big rock fireplace, and clever nautical décor. Or even just a cozy cottage with faded wood siding, window boxes spilling with bright red geraniums, and a calico cat sleeping in a wicker rocker on the front porch. That was probably the favorite image playing in my mind as my mother slowly drove her Mercury through the bustling tourist town.

Then instead of turning left onto one of the streets that ran directly toward the ocean and the beach, she eventually turned right, down a gravel road where a rusty and decrepit mobile home was parked. Not a fancy double-or triple-wide either. This one was long and narrow, resembling a sausage more than a house, and where the rust hadn’t yet taken over, the paint in faded tones of pink and turquoise was peeling.

“This is it?” I said, my tone dripping with disappointment.

She nodded grimly, almost as if she too was surprised. “It’s gotten a little run-down.”

I just sat there in the front seat, too stunned to move, thinking I had to find some way out of this. I was not going to stay in this horrible place. It probably smelled inside. What kind of a person lives in a place like this?

“Come on, Ruth.” My mom opened the passenger door and handed me my suitcase.

“I don’t know …”

She started to give me her look—the one that meant “Do not mess with me!”—but she stopped and her face softened. “Look, Ruth, I know this seems strange. But your grandmother isn’t a bad person. She’s just a little different. Mostly I think she’s lonely.” She reached out and actually took my hand. “Come on, I think you’re going to like her.”

Well, I had no idea how my mother ever got that idea, but like the proverbial lamb being led to the slaughter, I allowed my mother to lead me through the weed-infested and overgrown yard toward the questionable trailer. I slowed down in front of some rickety-looking steps, but my mother’s grip tightened, tugging me up. I might’ve giggled when the high heel of her shoe went right through a soft spot on the lopsided porch except I was so worried about what lurked beyond that rusty door.

My mother knocked several times, louder with each try, and I fostered a teeny bit of hope that perhaps this grandmother wasn’t home. Or maybe she’d died in there. Then my mother tried the door, and it was unlocked. “Mother?” she called into the dim interior of the sausage house with a strange-sounding, singsong voice. “We’re here. Ruthie is here to visit.”

I followed my mother into the house, fully prepared to smell something truly horrible. Maybe even something dead. Or perhaps, like our crazy neighbor lady down the street, my grandmother might be housing dozens of cats. But I was pleasantly surprised by the smell of something baking.

“Gingerbread,” my mother said as if in answer to my unspoken question. “Your grandma loves gingerbread.”

Of course this immediately brought to mind the story of Hansel and Gretel along with the frightening image of the wicked old witch
who fattened up the children so she could eat them. Why do grownups encourage children to read such things?

“Hello?” called a fragile-sounding voice. “Is that you, Cora?”

“Yes, Mother. And I have Ruth with me.”

And to my surprised relief, a petite and fairly normal-looking elderly woman emerged from a small door, which I later discovered led to her tiny little bedroom. “I was just freshening up a bit.” She smiled as she came closer. “Why, little Ruth. You’re as tall as me, almost a grown woman. And pretty as a picture!” She reached out, almost as if she was going to touch my face, but then she stopped, withdrew her hand, and wiped it on a white lace-trimmed hanky. “Welcome to my humble home.”

I grinned at her. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. Although her home was indeed humble and very tiny, it was also immaculate. Nothing like the shabby exterior. In fact, the inside of her little sausage trailer house reminded me of a dollhouse, and if I used my imagination, I could easily make myself believe that this truly was the interior of the little sea cottage with the geranium-filled flower boxes.