Waves of Light (3 page)

T
he alarm went off at five a.m., and we dashed around the motel room, pulling on clothes and packing up our stuff. Vivian wanted to find a little church to attend because it was Easter Sunday. I offered to Google something on Vivian’s iPhone on the way, but she refused.

“How hard can it be to find a tiny church with stained-glass windows and a steeple?”

She seemed more concerned about how the church looked than the service, but I didn’t say so out loud.

We piled into Vivian’s pickup truck; drove through McDonalds for breakfast sandwiches, OJ, and coffee for Viv; and then we were off, back on the highway. As I’d expected, the roadway wasn’t peppered with white, steepled churches. But since it wasn’t even seven o’clock yet, we still had time to find Vivian’s perfect church. I closed my eyes and the truck’s motor lulled me to sleep.

When the truck stopped, I jerked awake. “What’s going on?”

I didn’t need to ask, really. We’d just pulled into a full parking lot next to a white, steepled church with stained-glass windows — exactly what Vivian had wanted.

The church sign read:
BUTTERFLY SERVICE,
9
A.M.

“Not Easter service?” I asked.

Frankie shrugged as we walked up the steps and through the front door. Once, she’d called me “churchy.” And then a few months later, she’d started going to youth group with me. So she wasn’t totally opposed to churches. But this place, with its wooden pews and kneeling pads, was a little foreign — even for me.

People stood in the aisles and all around the room, hugging one another and complimenting the kids on their Easter dresses, suits, and even hats. Frankie and I had worn comfortable driving clothes, and our jeans and tennies were a little out of place. Vivian had planned ahead, though, and she was wearing a long moss-colored dress.

We slipped into a pew after shaking a few hands and explaining that, no, we weren’t from around here, we were actually on our way to New York, and we’d wanted to find an Easter service to attend on the way. The knowing smiles from the regulars started to make me nervous.

They all said something along the lines of, “Well, this will be a treat for you, then.”

What did they mean, exactly? That church would be a treat for us? Or that something during the service would be a treat?

Before I could worry too much, the organ launched into the “Hallelujah Chorus,” and everyone stood as the music rumbled through the church. When the song ended, a bright-eyed woman came out in a white robe. She introduced herself as Janie, the head pastor.

Janie told the Easter story in her own words. And then she talked about transformation — how when someone goes through a period of darkness, she comes out on the other side of it changed and can’t go back to the person she was before. I thought about the box and the key in my drawing the night before, and I wondered where I was — still in the darkness or on the other side?

“Life is a series of transformations,” Janie said. “Just when we think we’ve finally changed for good, we learn there’s more.”

She explained that we go through the deepening process many times during a lifetime. Since God sent his Son to the world to walk among us and to sacrifice for us, Jesus had become like a bridge, fully human and fully God at the same time. Jesus knew all the unknowable things that God knew, but he also understood what it was like to be human, the pain and the joy. Maybe we couldn’t connect with God very easily because God was so beyond our comprehension. But because Jesus had actually walked with us we could talk to him, and he could help us along the road to deepening.

Someone I could connect with. Yes. That was how I felt. I liked Janie and the way she put things. Words bubbled out of her, full of joy and something more — truth, I guess. She
didn’t seem to be talking about an idea she’d read about once. Her voice echoed with knowing, like she’d gone through darkness of her own. I wished I could talk with her more.

After she finished speaking, the choir led the congregation in a few more hymns, some of which Cameron’s band had played during youth group. But the music sounded totally different when accompanied by an organ and the choir. “Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee” was the final song of the service. I read the lyrics in the hymnal as the congregation sang:

I looked for the songwriter’s name. Henry J. Van Dyke. He had to be an artist. The words were like drawings come to life with notes and rhythm. As the song finished, Janie brought out an armful of baskets filled with banded white boxes. She handed a basket to each usher, and they distributed the boxes down the rows.

Once she made it to the back of the church, Janie called, “Everyone have one?”

“Yes!” they all shouted back, like it was a well-rehearsed game.

“Well, come on, then.” She threw open the doors and bounded down the front steps, her robe billowing behind her.

“What’s going on?” Frankie asked.

Vivian shook her head. “No idea. Let’s go find out.”

We followed everyone outside. From the top of the steps, I looked down over the bright green lawn filled with kids, parents, and grandparents each one holding a white box. Janie counted to three and then took the band off her box, lifting the lid. The others did too, and suddenly the air was on fire with reds and yellows and oranges.

Eyes wide, I turned to Frankie. “Butterflies.”

She nodded and whispered her own count to three. We opened our boxes, and our butterflies joined the fluttering of wings. They swirled in the air, lifted along by the wind.

“You wanted to draw air, right?” Frankie asked.

Now it was my turn to nod. I could hardly wait to get back into the truck with my sketchbook and draw a heart unfolding like a flower, the clouds of gloom melting away, and the air filled with a butterfly sunrise.

B
y the time Vivian pulled up to Frankie’s mom’s brownstone in New York, my neck was stiff and my back ached from sitting too long. Vivian circled the block once to find a parking spot, but none of us felt very patient. So she gave up and parked in a nearby pay lot almost right away. We lifted our suitcases out of the truck and rolled them down the sidewalk.

Along the street, stairs and iron railings led up to doors with old-fashioned paned windows. Individual mailboxes and flower boxes gave the street a neighborhood feel, but at the end of the block, cars rushed by constantly with horns honking. Frankie’s lips pressed together, and her shoulders stiffened with every step. I couldn’t understand her reaction. The city buzzed with energy, full of possibilities. Wasn’t she even the tiniest bit excited to live here?

We found the right set of stairs, and Vivian rang the buzzer. Immediately, we heard footsteps clicking, as though Frankie’s mom had been perched inside, watching for us.

“Chase, they’re here!” Her words glided musically up and down the scale.

“Boyfriend,” Frankie mouthed to me just before the door swung open.

Frankie’s mom threw open her arms sending ripples through the glittery silver scarf draped over the shoulder of her entirely black outfit.

“Francesca!” she said, her voice deep and husky like a movie star in a black-and-white movie. “You’re finally here.”

She swooped Frankie into a big hug, which Frankie couldn’t have returned even if she’d wanted to because her arms were now pinned to her sides. After a long squeeze, Frankie’s mom kissed her on both cheeks and then turned to Vivian and me. I backed up a step, not ready to be kissed by a woman I’d never met. But, with practiced grace, Frankie’s mom merely extended a hand toward Vivian — the perfect hostess.

“I’m Georgiana. Delighted to meet you! Thank you so much for driving Frankie down here.” She let go of Vivian’s hand and smiled at me. “And you must be Sadie. I’ve heard so much about you. Well, don’t just perch on the stoop. Come inside.”

I followed Frankie and Vivian inside and instantly felt shabby in my jeans and sweatshirt as I pulled my battered suitcase with the wobbly wheel that squeaked. The house was white-glove clean, but artsy too.

“I’ll give you the full tour in a minute. But for now, you must be thirsty. Come into the kitchen. Leave your bags here. Chase will take care of them.”

She swept down the hallway, and we followed in her wake. Frankie shot me a “See?” look. I shrugged. Her mom was a bit over the top, but she was nice, too. At least she wasn’t sagging in a chair because she didn’t have the energy to stand up. Like my mom.

Georgiana kept up an endless stream of chatter as she guided us to three stools at the stainless-steel bar in the stainless-steel kitchen. The whole room was metal. If you wanted to, you could probably close the hall door and just spray down the counters and floors with a hose.

“We have goat cheese and edamame crackers. Oh, and blueberries. Those are an antioxidant, you know.” Georgiana arranged the food on little white plates and handed us each a napkin. “Help yourself. I also have sparkling water: blackberry, lemon, or lime.”

When she paused for a breath, Vivian answered, “I’ll take blackberry, thank you.”

“Me too,” I added, and elbowed Frankie.

But Frankie was too late. Her mom had already launched a new stream of chatter.

“This house has been here for more than a hundred years, but Chase had it entirely remodeled. We left exposed brick in the other rooms; but here, we wanted cooking and cleaning to be simple — and what’s more simple than steel?” She handed me my glass, and eyed Frankie. “Francesca, would you like some water?”

Frankie nodded, and that’s when I realized she hadn’t said a word since we’d walked inside. Maybe this was the problem. Her mom was like a tornado, and she couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

“Don’t eat too much.” Georgiana took a tiny nibble from her cracker. “We’re going to Waldy’s for pizza tonight.” To Vivian she added, “Don’t worry, it’s thin crust. Not as many calories. We figured the girls might enjoy something familiar for their first night in New York.”

After a long pause during which I felt like someone had better say
something
, Frankie finally spoke. “But it’s Easter.”

“I know, darling,” Georgiana said. “That’s why pizza’s so perfect.”

No one explained why pizza was perfect. No one asked either.

“Well, here they finally are,” a man’s voice said from behind us.

I smelled him before I saw him. He smelled like the trendy stores that pumped cologne through their vents to bewitch mall shoppers to come spend money. This must be Chase, the boyfriend. He had dark curly hair and olive skin, and there wasn’t a spec of lint on his three-piece suit.

“Chase, darling.” Frankie’s mom hugged him and kissed him on both cheeks.

“Georgiana.” He lifted her up until her feet left the ground and twirled her around in a circle. I’d never seen anyone do that except in the movies.

I couldn’t, not even for a second, imagine Georgiana with Frankie’s dad. Why would two such opposite people
get married? Georgiana introduced Chase to us, and then she launched into her next monologue about how much Vivian would love the art studio, how she couldn’t wait to show it to her tomorrow, and how she was excited about our plans for the mural in Frankie’s room. She didn’t ask a single question, though, just told us how wonderful it would all be.

Once we’d eaten, Georgiana led us on a tour of the house, with its priceless — and strange — artwork, distressed plank floors, mood lighting, and plants that looked like they might want to eat you. While we toured, Chase brought our bags up to our rooms.

We ended the tour in Frankie’s room, which had beige everything: walls, comforter, area rug.

“Neutral. It’s the perfect canvas for your mural.” Georgiana pointed to the long empty wall. “We can’t wait to see what you’ll do.” Again, she pulled Frankie into a death-squeeze hug and said to Vivian, “We’re so proud of our little artist. Now, let me show you to the guest room. Girls, we’ll head out for dinner in about twenty minutes. Why don’t you freshen up in the WC?”

After they left, Frankie opened the bathroom door and gestured as though she were presenting me with a luxury hotel room. “The WC, my lady.”

I pressed my hand to my mouth to hold back the giggles and tiptoed inside. The bathtub was the size of a small hot tub, and the sink looked more like an ice sculpture than a sink.

“Ugh. How am I supposed to do this?” Frankie sat on the edge of the bathtub.

“Give it a chance, Frankie.” I turned on the water and pumped foamy lavender suds onto my hands. “You might get used to washing your hands with Essence of Violet.”

She rolled her eyes and waved her hand in front of her face. “Eeesh. Turn on the vent. That stuff is strong.”

I shoved my dripping hands directly under her nose, and she pushed me away, laughing.

“Come on. We’ve got to freshen up.”

“Whatever that means,” Frankie said.

We quickly washed our faces and hands, and then we brushed our teeth and hair. After I’d changed into a less-rumpled top, I made Frankie put on some lip gloss. Before joining the others, we inspected ourselves in the mirror.

“Okay?” I asked Frankie.

“Okay.” She nodded. “I have to admit, pizza does sound good.”

I couldn’t help adding, “And you won’t have to think of a thing to say.”

Frankie laughed. “No, darling. I sure won’t, will I?”

We giggled all the way downstairs.