Tides of Truth [02] Higher Hope (34 page)

There was an open space in front of the platform. As soon as people reached the area they knelt down. Many put their faces against the carpet. Sister Dabney remained behind the podium. I avoided her eyes. People prayed quietly for several minutes. I tried to blend in.

“You there,” she said.

I looked over my shoulder and saw Zach sitting impassively at the rear of the sanctuary.

“Young woman,” Sister Dabney continued, “the one wearing the yellow dress. Stand up.”

I glanced down at my dress. It had not miraculously turned green.

“That’s right, you,” Sister Dabney said. “With the brown hair.”

An older man next to me on the floor nudged me in the arm. There was no escape. I’d left the safety of the pew to be surrounded by a mob that would offer me as a human sacrifice upon Sister Dabney’s command. I had no choice but to look up and meet Sister Dabney’s gaze. She had startling blue eyes beneath bushy eyebrows. I touched my chest with my index finger.

“Yes,” the old woman answered impatiently. “I don’t want to spend the whole service playing hide-and-seek with you. Get up.”

I rose to my feet. Everyone else stayed on their knees. I heard nothing from Zach in the rear of the room.

“I know what’s in your heart,” Sister Dabney said.

I swallowed. I was found out. I could either stand there and be blasted or take the initiative. Like a soldier who knows how to respond in combat because of countless repetitions in training, I knew what to do.

“I’m sorry,” I began in a voice that surprised me with its strength. “I came here today—”

“Quiet!” Sister Dabney cut me off.

I shut my mouth.

“You came here today burdened for a man I haven’t thought about in many years. Does the name Callahan mean anything to you?”

I swallowed again. This time in shock.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Many years ago I knew a great preacher named Callahan. He had a son who wandered from the fold of God, but I see that son coming back to the faith of his father. Continue to pray for him, and this time he will not backslide.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sister Dabney paused. “And he will recover fully. The enemy wanted to take him out, but the angels of God didn’t let his foot strike a stone.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, child. Thank the one who doesn’t want any to perish but all to come to the knowledge of the truth. How many prodigals are in God’s house this morning?”

Hands all across the front shot up. Sister Dabney turned away from me and commanded a man on the opposite side of the room to stand up. She told him some things about his childhood that caused him to weep.

I returned to my place on the floor and prayed for Oscar Callahan.

24

BY THE END OF THE SERVICE, I’d decided Sonny Miller’s negative description of Sister Dabney’s meetings was the product of his own rebellion. The congregation returned to the pews, and Sister Dabney preached a message not unlike hundreds of others I’d heard during my lifetime. She knew the Bible and quoted verses from memory. There was a sharp edge to her presentation, but I knew from experience sometimes that’s what people need to hear. The service ended with an altar call for anyone who needed prayer. Zach nudged me.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“You want to go down front and pray together?”

“No, leave.”

The woman next to me waved good-bye as I slipped from the pew and followed Zach outside. When we were seated in the car, he took out the recorder and turned it off.

“We didn’t get anything for Mr. Carpenter,” he said. “Jason Paulding wasn’t on the program for the day.”

I hadn’t thought about the developer after the meeting started.

Zach turned onto Gillespie Street.

“But what did you think?” I asked.

“About the service?”

“Yes, that would make sense considering where we’ve been the past hour and a half.”

Zach reached back and gave his ponytail a slight tug.

“You enjoyed it more than I did.”

“How could you not be blown away by what she said to me about Oscar Callahan?”

“Mr. Carpenter might say she did her homework.”

“What do you mean?” I asked with surprise.

“She knows the law firm has filed a lawsuit against her and could have found out about you and your connection to Powell Station. Didn’t you say that for years Mr. Callahan was the only lawyer in Powell Station?”

“Yes, but why would she go to all that trouble? Researching me doesn’t make any sense. Sister Dabney didn’t know we were going to be in the congregation this morning. And what she said about Mr. Callahan was positive, not negative.”

Zach took a deep breath. “Look, you jumped into Reverend Dabney’s little pond this morning and felt right at home. If God showed her something about Mr. Callahan, I think that’s great. However, that doesn’t change how she’s treated our client, which looks more like harassment than the conduct of a sincere minister.”

Of course, Zach had a point about Sister Dabney. I also sensed he was more negative about the meeting than he let on. It had been different from my home church, but similar enough that I liked it. Sister Dabney and most of the people in attendance were serious about their faith.

“What are you going to say to Mr. Carpenter?” I asked.

Zach shrugged. “It would be entertaining to play the recording, or at least the part where Dabney talks about Mr. Callahan, but Mr. Carpenter isn’t interested in a sociological study of religion. I’ll prepare a brief memo that will disappear into the file.”

We turned along the riverfront.

“Where would you like to eat?” Zach asked. “There are a couple of good restaurants ahead on the left.”

“Thanks, but I have something at Mrs. Fairmont’s house.”

Zach slowed to a stop at a light.

“No eating out on Sunday,” he said. “I forgot.”

I knew we were thinking similar thoughts. Two many jagged edges of belief could rip compatibility to shreds.

“The firm will expect you to bill the time spent in church to the case,” he said.

I’d been so caught up in the drama of the morning I hadn’t thought about time and billing for work on Sunday. Would it be wrong to bill a client for attending a church service?

“He’ll notice if I don’t?”

Zach nodded. “Absolutely. He’s meticulous about that sort of thing.”

“What do you think?”

“I’m not your conscience. Because I was there on law firm business, I’ll bill the time.”

“Maybe I could work extra tomorrow and make up for it.”

“He’ll want you to bill that, too.”

Zach stopped in front of Mrs. Fairmont’s house.

“Are you enjoying my predicament?” I asked in frustration.

“No, but if this is a conviction for you, it could become an issue at the firm later. Situations arise with clients or cases that force all of us to go into the office on Sunday. It doesn’t happen a lot, but you can’t entirely rule it out.”

I thought for a moment.

“Okay, bill my time since we were there mostly for work reasons, especially to hear what Sister Dabney had to say about Mr. Callahan.”

Zach drove off, leaving me with frustration at him and lingering guilt about Sunday morning billing.

When I called home, my family hadn’t returned from church. I wanted to let Daddy know what Sister Dabney told me about Oscar Callahan. Sitting in the kitchen, I ate a salad I’d fixed the night before. It wasn’t that hard honoring the Sabbath; it just took a little preparatson and planning. After I ate, I phoned home again. Still no answer. Either the morning service had lasted longer than usual or my family was spending the afternoon away from home.

I left a few minutes early for my meeting with Mrs. Bartlett. I’d gotten used to driving the big car. I knocked quietly on the door of Mrs. Fairmont’s hospital room. No one answered so I peeked inside.

The room was empty, the bed ready for a new patient. Mrs. Fairmont’s flowers, clothes, and the photo of Flip were gone. I hurried to the nurse’s station.

“I’m looking for Margaret Fairmont.”

“She was discharged this morning,” the nurse on duty answered.

“Where did she go?”

The nurse turned to another woman sitting at a different station.

“Louise, do you know where they took Mrs. Fairmont? She was in 3426.”

“A spot opened up at Surfside Manor,” the woman answered.

“What’s that?”

“A brand-new nursing facility south of town.”

I was stunned.

“Do you have the address?”

The nurse pulled a folder from a small cabinet and handed me a brochure.

“This has the contact information and a map to locate it.”

In the elevator, I speed-read the brochure. The pictures made it look like a resort, but there weren’t any patients in the photos. From experience I knew the rooms wouldn’t look so inviting if occupied by someone with severe dementia or end-stage cancer. Mrs. Bartlett had obviously been able to coerce her mother into doing what she wanted.

I backed out of the parking space, intending to return to Mrs. Fairmont’s house, but after paying the parking fee, I turned south instead. The nursing home, even though it was named Surfside Manor, was on the Abercorn Expressway, closer to the Little Ogeechee River than the Atlantic Ocean. Sure enough, the only surf in sight was a cresting wave painted on the sign at the entrance. I entered a sparkling clean lobby exactly like the picture in the brochure. I asked about Mrs. Fairmont.

“She checked in earlier today,” a woman at the information desk told me after checking a computer screen. “Your name, please?”

“Tami Taylor, Mrs. Fairmont’s caregiver before she was hospitalized a few days ago.”

The woman took out a diagram of the complex and drew a line showing me the location of Mrs. Fairmont’s room. As I walked down a long hallway, I glanced from side to side. Most of the rooms were empty. Mrs. Fairmont’s room was at the end of a short hall, which meant she probably had an extra window. The thought of such a tiny bonus made me sad when I considered the beauty of the elderly woman’s home. The door was closed. I knocked.

“Come in,” a familiar voice responded.

Mrs. Fairmont was sitting up in bed, watching TV in a large private room with a separate sitting area and a shiny coffee table. I recognized several items from her house. The photo of Flip was prominently displayed on a shelf near the bed. I took it all in with a glance. Sure enough, she had an extra window.

“This is nice,” I said, trying to sound appropriately enthusiastic.

“Don’t be silly,” Mrs. Fairmont replied, turning off the television. “It’s a gilded cage. Better than one with iron bars, but still a prison.”

She was wearing a nightgown with an IV still attached to her hand.

“Sit down,” Mrs. Fairmont said, pointing to the chair closest to her bed. “You weren’t around to represent me so I had to do it myself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Christine brought in a lawyer to talk to me. I listened for a few minutes, then pretended to go to sleep. They didn’t leave, so I told them I needed to call Sam Braddock about any legal matters. That took care of the lawyer.”

“What did he want you to do?”

“Sign a paper so Christine could take care of all my business.”

“A power of attorney?”

“Probably, I didn’t even read it. She already has one that gives her the right to make decisions about my medical care if I turn into a vegetable, but as long as I have a few lucid moments, I want to handle my own affairs.”

I was so relieved that Mrs. Fairmont seemed to be doing better. It made me feel happy even though we weren’t sitting in the blue parlor at her home.

“This really isn’t a bad place,” I said. “It smells nice, and looks more like an apartment than a hospital room.”

Mrs. Fairmont sniffed. “This is a compromise Christine and I agreed to after listening to Dr. Dixon. He says I need to be monitored closely for a few weeks and then I may be able to go home. I didn’t want to hear the part about being monitored. Christine didn’t want to hear the part about me going home. This place agreed to let me pay a month’s rent. The sales agent who showed us around hopes I’ll want to come back when I really can’t look after myself.”

“And Christine brought some things from your house?” I said, pointing to a familiar vase.

“No, Gracie stopped by the house this morning before coming to see me. She said you weren’t there.”

“I went to church with Zach.”

“Which one is he?”

“The one with the ponytail and the motorcycle.”

Mrs. Fairmont nodded. “He’s all right, but I like the boy from Charleston better. What’s his name?”

“Vince.”

It was the first time Mrs. Fairmont had expressed a preference between the two men.

“And a little competition is good for their egos,” she added. “There are too many girls chasing boys these days. I think the flower should attract the bee.”

I smiled at the old-fashioned image.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Fairmont closed her eyes for a moment. I sat quietly, not sure if she was dozing off or not. After a couple of minutes she opened her eyes.

“Will you bring Flip to see me? I miss him.”

“Yes. There are benches near the entrance where we could sit outside.”

“Bring him to my room. I asked Dr. Dixon if spending time with Flip could be part of my therapy, and he put it in my chart.”

“You’re better at getting your way than your daughter.”

Mrs. Fairmont smiled. “Even though Christine can be hard to deal with, I see her differently now. And it’s not that I’m getting senile. It has to do with how I feel about life.”

Mrs. Fairmont reached out and took my hand. We’d never had contact like that.

“Promise me one thing,” she said, looking directly into my eyes.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That you’ll bring Flip to see me tomorrow.”

I laughed and released her hand.

“We’ll both look forward to it.”

I left Surfside in a much lighter mood. Back at Mrs. Fairmont’s house, I called home. One of the twins answered the phone. When I wasn’t around the girls every day, it was hard to distinguish their voices until I heard more than a simple greeting.