Cherished - By Kim Cash Tate Page 0,67
won’t succeed. Got it?”
“Got it!” they said.
“Ready to pray?”
“Cyd, first . . .” Heather could feel the nerves inside. “I don’t know how to say this, but . . . last week at the mall, I noticed the tension between you and Dana, because of me. I just wanted to say I’ve gotten a lot out of just these two times we’ve met. I think I’ll be fine studying on my own from here.”
Cyd’s eyes were soft, sympathetic. “Heather, you don’t even have a church home. I love your heart, but I’m looking forward to spending more time with you and covering more ground. Discipleship isn’t an overnight process.”
“I feel so bad, though. What do you do when you’ve played a part in devastating someone like that? I know I can’t go to her and apologize.”
“This is one of those hard realities,” Cyd said. “You know you’re forgiven. You know you’re a new creation. But sometimes we still have to deal with the consequences of the past. Honestly? Dana may never like you. And no, I would not advise going to her.” Cyd made a face that said it would not be a wise move. “But you can always pray for her. In fact”—she nodded as she thought about it— “that would be awesome.”
The suggestion moved Heather. “I like that. I’d like to start right now.” Heather thought a moment. “And I have something else. My mother’s having a fiftieth birthday party tonight, and I don’t really want to go. When she and her friends start drinking . . . it’s a scene I can do without.”
Cyd and Kelli were listening. Heather never talked much about her family.
“But the main thing is I want to get her a Bible,” Heather said. “I know she’ll think it’s weird, but I’ve been praying for her to know Jesus too, and this could be a first step. I guess. I don’t know, I’m really nervous about it. Can we pray?”
THE FRONT DOOR WAS AJAR, PEOPLE COMING AND GOING as Heather walked up to her mother’s house. Her mother had lived in this north St. Louis neighborhood for more than ten years. If nothing else, she’d built a great camaraderie with the neighbors.
“Heather, haven’t seen you in a while!”
She turned. “Hi, Mrs. Harris. Good to see you. You’re looking quite festive.”
“When Diane said she was throwing a seventies party, I got excited. That was my time, you know.” The raspy-voiced woman was in her sixties, decked out in polyester bell-bottom pants and a long-sleeve paisley shirt. She flicked her cigarette, and orange-colored ashes fell to the ground. “I still had the clothes, and my daughter found me this wig at some secondhand shop.” She fluffed her Afro. “Ain’t it nice?”
Heather chuckled. “Just don’t stand next to me. You’ll show me up, for sure.” The most she’d done to get in costume was wear her widest-legged jeans and a T-shirt with a peace symbol on it.
Heather and Mrs. Harris walked inside the ranch-style home together. The front room had been transformed with tie-dyed sheets over the furniture, but the main action was obviously in the basement. “YMCA” blasted through the floorboards, along with loud voices.
“Hey, I love that song!” Mrs. Harris went straight for the stairs.
Heather headed to the kitchen to drop off her gift bag. Her mother probably wouldn’t open gifts until tomorrow. Heather hoped she’d discover this one in just the right mood, quiet and reflective, though she wasn’t sure it would make a difference.
She stepped inside the kitchen—and turned right back around. A couple she didn’t recognize was leaning against the counter, kissing. They didn’t even pause when they heard Heather’s footsteps.
She headed to the basement instead, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the disco-ball lighting as she joined the partiers. Donna Summer was playing now, the crowd lively, covering most of the floor space. Heather saw many of her mother’s friends as well as neighbors, all of them wearing some form of throwback attire—and almost all of them with a beer bottle or other drink in hand. Finally she spotted her mother, disco dancing in a sparkly minidress and go-go boots, her blond hair styled like Farrah Fawcett’s.
Her mother saw her too. “Heather,” she called. “You made it. Come here, honey!”
“Happy birthday, Mom,” Heather said, giving her a hug.
Her mother stopped dancing and posed. “Not bad for fifty, eh?”
“Not bad at all,” her dancing partner said.
Diane smiled and poked him in the chest. “You, sir, are a shameless flatterer. And