On the morning of her sixteenth birthday, Abby ran. With the darkness of the night behind her, the gray twilight ahead, she ran. She wore sneakers, sweatpants, sweatshirt, and gloves. No hat. She liked the feel of her red hair flaming out behind her. So no hat, no matter how cold it got. And it was cold this morning. Her lungs burned, her calves ached, a stitch in her side threatened to spill out her insides, but she kept running. Never stop. Push through the pain. Smash through that wall no matter how much it hurt. Pain was not something to fear; it was a thing to be conquered. If dealt with correctly, pain could even be used to one’s advantage.
As she ran in the road to avoid the patches of snow and ice on the sidewalks, Abby thought back to that drizzly autumn morning more than a year ago when she had stood at the starting line of her first-ever cross-country race. A freshman, she had been terrified that she wouldn’t finish the race. All she could visualize at that starting line was herself doubled over half-way through the three mile course and puking her brains out as the other runners zipped by her. Now, in the middle of Elm Street and close to home, Abby grinned. Her legs pushed her body onward as her arms slashed through the frigid air. She remembered how, halfway through that race, the pain had hit her. The wall, as they say. It had sprung up in front of her and smacked her entire body. The cramps had got so bad that she had come close to quitting.
But that would have meant letting the pain defeat her, and that was something Abby could never allow. It hadn’t mattered to her if she had to crawl across the finish line in last place. She would not let something as superficial as pain stop her. She had continued. And she had finished that race, crossing the line in fifth place to the cheering of her coaches from the sidelines and the two teammates that had finished in front of her. She then hobbled to the nearest tree, dropped to her knees, and with one hand on the slimy bark, the other ripping out clumps of dirt and grass, proceeded to puke her brains out.
Abby ran because she was good at it. Sure, she could write poetry and short stories, and yeah she was a decent point guard on the court and played a mean defense as a fullback on the field hockey team, but running…. She was good at it. Finishing fifth in her first cross country race wasn’t too bad, and finishing third in the state meet only a few months later wasn’t too shabby either. For Abby, though, it was a lot more than finishing first and beating everyone else, as fun as that was. Running was who she was. That sounded so cliché and trite, but it was the only way she could think of it. Running was who she was.
Rounding the corner onto Cherry Street and heading for home, Abby thought about what lay ahead for her. The euphoric feeling she usually felt near the end of her run dissipated like the vapors of her breath. There was another wall waiting for her at home. It sat in the den, in the chair, behind the safety of the desk. Abby would go home, take a three minute shower, get dressed, and confront that wall that was her father.
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Abby Lynne Graham stood outside her father’s den. She wore blue jeans with a red T-shirt, and over that her black high school sweatshirt with the orange wildcat logo. Finishing off the look were the brown suede boots with the tassels that she loved so much. In one hand she held a green Army knapsack which, on school days, was stuffed with useless textbooks and scribble-filled notebooks, the pages covered with not just math and history and social studies notes, but also poetry and short stories she wrote during study halls. This morning she had packed a change of clothes, a Polaroid camera, and her journal. Stuffed inside a pair of socks was a rolled up wad of three-hundred and twenty-five dollars she’d lifted from her father’s ‘hidden’ shoebox on the top shelf in his bedroom closet. In her other hand she held the blue winter parka with the fake fur-lined hood her father had given to her this past Christmas.
Wet strands of red hair dangled in front of her eyes. She blew them away. They fell back. Great. Abby inhaled deeply. She tightened her grip on the knapsack and parka, counted to three, and stepped toward the threshold that separated her father’s den from the hall.
With that one step, Abby found herself sliding into a long-forgotten memory. The trigger was an overwhelming scent of Old Spice. Invisible tendrils of the familiar aroma enveloped her mind and massaged her soul as she planted both feet inside the den. She was no longer sixteen. She was a little girl who had just jumped out of bed and run down the hall in her Wonder Woman pajamas to find her father sitting at his desk and reading his Bible. He jotted sermon notes into his blue spiral notebook. She climbed into her father’s lap and snatched his reading glasses perched on his nose, trying in vain to get them to stay on her own while pretending to read from her father’s big black Bible. His name was embossed in silver script on the lower right corner of the cover. Dropping her voice to mimic her father, she recited Bible verses she had memorized in Sunday school. For God so loved the world, that He gave His only Son, and whoever believes in Him will be saved. Treat others the way you want them to treat you. The Lord is my Shepherd I shall not want.
Abby closed her eyes and inhaled the Old Spice, soaking in more of the memory. She heard her father’s gentle laugh, mixing and mingling with the birdsongs and lilac scents drifting in through the open window on those early mornings that now seemed a lifetime away from her. That laugh had never failed to wrap her in a blanket of safety and acceptance, conveying to her soul that whatever she had to say, no matter how silly it sounded, no matter that she had interrupted her father’s quiet time, whatever she had to say was important to both him and God.
Now, standing in the middle of the den, in the middle of winter, no birdsongs enchanting her ears nor lilac scents tickling her nose, Abby opened her eyes and thought, Was that us? Was that really us? As the memory faded, she waited for her father to look up from his Bible. She cleared her throat. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, cocked her hip, and twisted her leg and foot mannequin-style, employing the art of body language that was the sole domain of every teenage girl who had ever grown impatient with a parent, which, by implication, meant every teenage girl who had ever graced the surface of planet Earth.
Her father kept reading, his head bowed and shoulders hunched over the Bible as if he was a miner in the California gold rush sifting for a stray nugget of gold hidden at the bottom of his beaten and dented pan.
So, Abby thought. That’s how it’s going down. Fine. She pulled her body into alignment, cleared her throat again, and delivered the two words she had been practicing for the past week.
“I’m going.”
Apparently, she hadn’t practiced enough. The words stumbled over themselves, the letters causing a traffic jam as they left her mouth. Instead of delivering them clothed with the authority and assuredness she had intended, she breathed them into existence completely naked. Bravo, Abby, bravo! Great performance! Three syllables. Two words. One line. And you couldn’t deliver. Betrayed by your own voice. What’s next?
Her father still did not look up from his Bible. His lips kept moving—a habit that infuriated Abby—as he continued reading to himself. He’s deliberately doing this, she thought. He knows why I’m here, and he’s stalling. He wrote in his notebook, turned a page in the Bible, then another, wrote again in the notebook, and then, without looking up, said, “I’m sorry sweetheart, what was that you said?” There was a pause, a moment when it seemed as if he might actually raise his head, look at her, and pay attention. But then his lips started their annoying silent exercise again.
“You heard me.” Yes. There it was this time. The confidence he needed to hear in her voice. That she needed to hear.
He held up an index finger and kept reading.
So much for confidence overwhelming him. Fine. She’d go along with his silly charade. She could wait him out. She clasped her hands together, holding the parka and knapsack in front of her as she surveyed her father’s surroundings. She shook her head. His den was usually the epitome of organization: books standing at alphabetical attention on the shelves, desktop properly appointed with pens, pencils, writing pads and notebooks, and various magazines resting in the rack next to his desk. Everything in its proper place and a proper place for everything, as he liked to say.
Evidently he’d given up on that mantra. Empty shelves bore evidence of books that had been pulled out of active duty and had been packed away in boxes stacked against the wall. The desk was cluttered with crumpled pieces of paper, a couple of open Bible commentaries, empty Styrofoam cups, and a tangled mass of neckties. The magazines—Time, Newsweek, Leadership Journal, Biblical Archeology—with dog-eared pages scarred with coffee stains were left to fend for themselves on the two cushioned chairs, ottoman, and file cabinet.
Abby centered her attention back on her father. Edward Graham. He was proud of his last name, considering it a privilege to share it with the Reverend Billy Graham. She got the sense that her father actually believed that the Almighty Himself had christened him with the name, bestowing upon him the same Great Commission as that of Billy Graham and Paul the Apostle, that being to evangelize the lost and save the hapless sinners from the depths of hell and the clutches of eternal damnation. Or, as was the true state of affairs in her father’s case, to preach a Sunday morning sermon to a hundred souls who already knew Jesus as their personal Lord and Savior, lead a dozen hard-core fanatics in a Bible study on Wednesday nights, and dole out tidbits of marriage counseling when needed. So, yeah, it was quite the divine calling.
Oh, wait a minute. Let’s not forget the part about screwing the church secretary. Abby was pretty sure Billy and Paul had never considered that part of their divine calling. Her father must not have been listening too closely when he received his marching orders from on high. Either that, or he figured that since he wasn’t married it wasn’t really cheating because he didn’t have a wife to cheat on. Never mind the memory of her mother, that the secretary he had cheated with happened to be lawfully wedded herself, and that the act of sexual intercourse outside of marriage was contrary to the stupid Bible he reads every day!
But those were just details. Nothing to fret over.
Abby watched her father’s lips. To think that six months ago she would’ve had no problem comparing her father to the real Reverend Graham.
She cleared her throat for the umpteenth time and opened her mouth to allow more confidence and authority to spill out, but caught herself. Don’t lose it, she thought. Stay in control. Focus.
Her father finally dragged his attention away from the Bible. His eyes flicked to the parka, to the knapsack, and back to the parka before settling on Abby. He raised his eyebrows, leaned forward in his leather swivel chair, planted both elbows on the oak desk, and steepled his fingers. The drawn-out charade reminded Abby of that geeky substitute teacher who had filled in for Mr. Kendrick’s geometry class back in January. The geek had tried everything in the book to exude confidence in his abilities. The ruler-clacking on Mr. Kendrick’s gray metal desk, the grim-faced pacing in front of the classroom with his head bowed and hands firmly clasped behind his back, and the empty threats to send any miscreants to the principal’s office succeeded in one thing and one thing only: to reveal the ugly yet all-too obvious truth that Mr. Substitute Geek was in way over his head and never, at any time, had the control over that class that he either thought he had, or desired to have.
“Go where?” Her father began tapping his index fingers together.
Abby did not answer her father, but kept her eyes steady on him. Control, Abby. Don’t play this game. Stay in control.
“Ah!” A smile appeared on his face, like a light switch had been flicked on inside his head. He reached under the desk and pulled out a box wrapped in shiny green and purple paper with a white and red ribbon tied around it. It wasn’t a bad wrapping job, and purple and green were her favorite colors. But I’m not buyin’ it, sweet Daddy-O. Not for one second.
“How could I forget?” He rose from the leather chair and proffered the gift with one hand, steadying himself against the desk with the other.
Abby rolled her eyes at the peace offering. “When I turned sixteen.” Abby fixed her eyes on him. “That’s what you said.”
He withdrew the offering and held it close to his chest. He arched his brow and tilted his head.
“Fine.” Abby dropped the knapsack onto the carpet. It landed with a dull thud, echoing the sound within her heart. She slid one arm into the sleeve of the parka and tilted her head forward to allow her hair to spill inside the coat. She slipped her other arm in.
“What are you doing?” Her father set the gift on the desk.
“What does it look like?” Abby zipped the coat. “If you won’t bring me,” she stooped and picked up the knapsack, “then I’ll get there myself.”
Her father leaned over the desk, placing his hands on either side of the green and purple box. “Will you please tell me what this is all about?”
Did he really think she was that naïve? She hoisted the knapsack up and over one shoulder, then the other. “I’m sure it’ll come to you.” She turned and headed for the door.
“Abby, wait.”
Abby stopped, turned, and faced her father.
He hesitated for a moment, then reached for the wooden cane that leaned against the waist-high bookshelf behind his chair. He stepped out from behind the desk to approach Abby. He stopped. He stepped back, lowered himself into the chair, and leaned the cane against the desk. He removed his glasses, folded them, and placed them on the open notebook. Leaning back, he closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. The chair hinges squeaked as he rocked back and forth. The bags under his eyes, the sunken cheeks, the slowness of his movements—it all spoke of the toll the last two months, and in particular the last two weeks, had taken on him. He looked a lot older than his thirty-nine years. Abby wished she felt sorry for him.
“Abby.” He stopped rubbing his eyes and dropped his hands into his lap. He stopped rocking and looked directly at her. “Sweetheart.”
Here it comes. The excuse masquerading as a reason. It used to be that he always spoke the truth to her, no matter how inconvenient for either of them. At times he had to feed it to her in bite-sized morsels, yet he always seasoned his words with grace and understanding. What she was about to get was a heaping mound of blatant lies served on a silver platter, slathered with self-pity and rationalizations.
“You know what I have to do today to get ready for Sunday’s service.”
And there it was. The truth buried so deep in a layer of unspoken lies that you’d have to dig halfway to China to find it.
Abby started to speak just as her eyes slipped to the gift on the desk. She found herself haunted by another memory that had been tucked way back in the corner of her mind. When she was nine years old she had opened a much bigger box wrapped in green and purple and red and white paper with Santa and reindeer and snowflakes covering every square inch. It, too, had been handsomely wrapped, but that hadn’t prevented her from tearing off the paper to reveal the one thing she had wanted more than anything else that Christmas—an Easy Bake Oven. She had leapt for joy and shouted and cried and hugged her daddy. The two of them had spent that entire morning baking, she in her pajamas covered with flour and dough, her father in his sweatpants, T-shirt, and slippers, both of them laughing, relaxing, eating, and having a wonderful time. They had baked a miniature cake, eaten it, baked another one, eaten that one, and had kept baking and eating until they had used up all the ingredients. They must’ve baked at least a half-dozen cakes that morning, eating all of them, not caring about stomach aches or cavities or crumbs. Her father had helped with the first one, then he had let her bake the rest on her own, watching to make sure she did everything right.
Abby had played the part of Julia Child—complete with a terrible British accent—while her father played the part of the silly dad having a grand time with his little girl.
Except, back then, he hadn’t been playing the part. It had been genuine.
And now, with a shiny gift and a pathetically veiled insouciant plea for sympathy and understanding, Daddy was looking to buy his way out of keeping his word.
Abby turned toward the door.
“Abby.” She heard the chair’s wheels roll over the hard plastic covering the carpet and her father’s shoes scuff along the same surface. “Abby, listen to me.”
She stopped in the doorway. Why am I stopping? Why have my feet stopped moving? Just keep going. Don’t listen to him. But she did not keep going. She stopped to listen to him, but not turn to face him.
“I think I know what this is about. I…I remember what I said, and I want to follow through on it. Honestly, sweetheart, I do. It…it just can’t be today. You have to understand. It’s important that I—”
With a swift one-eighty and two runner’s strides, Abby covered the distance between them and pointed a finger in his face. “It’s important that you keep your word.” She lowered her finger and leaned toward him. “Sort of like keeping a vow.”
He leaned against the desk, propped the cane against his leg, and crossed his arms. “That’s unfair, young lady. And it’s disrespectful.”
Executing an about-face, Abby marched out of the room. This time her feet kept moving, propelling her down the hall, through the kitchen, out the front door, and into the frigid freedom of the gray February morning.