The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,101
Rick beside me and my brother straight behind me. In the rearview mirror, Sam’s eyes stare back at me. Clear eyes, I should add. You wouldn’t think, seeing her now, she was the same girl I first met under the coil of sheets, her face a mess of black makeup.
“Maybe I should go first,” I say. “Let Mother Zacchaeus know we’re coming. She doesn’t handle surprises very well.”
“Are you sure?”
Gregory leans forward, clears his throat. “That might be the best idea.”
They arrived on our doorstep around noon, having driven up from the community college in Virginia. The thought of being the object of Sam’s pilgrimage had kept Rick up for hours last night. He squirmed all through the morning too. But once he saw her, once he saw the transformation just a few weeks off the needle had made, his nerves disappeared.
I was proud of him.
While Sam and Rick spoke in the living room, I led Gregory back to the kitchen and brewed some tea. He filled me in on the girl’s progress over the past couple of weeks, how he had gotten her into a counseling program, which she seemed to be taking seriously.
“There’s a long road ahead, but she’s off to a good start.”
“And what about her mother?” I asked.
He turned shy. “What about her?”
“Hmm . . . based on your reaction, I assume you’re now more than friends?”
“With everything that’s happened, we’ve gotten close. That’s understandable. I really like this woman, Beth. I think she might be . . .”
“What? The one?”
“You’re laughing, but yeah.”
“I’m not laughing,” I said. “I’m just happy for you.”
Through the doorway, I could hear Rick speaking. Although the words were indistinct, I recognized the tone of paternal advice.
“Remember Christmas Eve, back when I was a freshman? The time we went looking for that meetinghouse?”
Gregory thought a moment, then nodded. “When you had that crappy Bug. Not much has changed, has it?”
“You were really good to me, you know. I was thinking about it the other day. With everything you must have been dealing with, I remember you telling me everything was going to be okay. Reassuring me.”
“Hey, I was right, wasn’t I? You never found that place, and everything still worked out. You have a couple of great kids, a mentally ill husband, this house, an even worse Volkswagen than you had then—and with an embarrassing piece of religious art on the bumper, to boot.”
“You’re right. I’m truly blessed.”
I took the steaming tea mug from his hands, then clasped them in mine.
“Seriously,” I said. “Thank you.”
He pulled away, abashed. “It was nothing.”
Down the block from Mission Up, a couple of kids in puffy vests bounce a basketball off the front stoop of a narrow house. I watch them a moment, waiting for cars that pass. The windows of the house are boarded up. They bounce the ball off of them too.
At the pink door, I glance back to the car, then take a deep breath. Reminding myself to keep an eye out for Mother Zacchaeus’s right hook, I knock.
This time there are no locks to turn, no bar to move. The door shudders open and Mother Zacchaeus appears. She wears an apron over her black priest’s shirt, hiding most of the pins on her chest.
“Well, well, well,” she says. “Look who it is. You come to take another one of my girls away?”
“I’ve brought one back.”
She squints at the car. “Well, well, well. Yes, you have.”
“She wants to talk to you. I think she wants to apologize, and to thank you for saving her life.”
“Come again?”
“For saving her life.”
“She don’t need to do nothing like that. You tell her for me.”
“I’ll go get her,” I say, motioning toward the car.
Rick opens the passenger door, then Gregory gets out and circles around, the two of them flanking Sam protectively as she crosses. It’s a sweet gesture, but maybe a little over the top. They glance around suspiciously, like bodyguards on the presidential detail.
Mother Zacchaeus backs into the vestibule and I follow her in. A couple of girls in spangled jeans and hooded sweatshirts are coming down the stairs; some kids in the lounge are running, their laughter nearly drowning out the sound of the television. As always, Mission Up is a hive of activity. As always, every surface looks encrusted and contagious.
“That pink box of yours,” I say. “I talked to a friend of mine about trying to fill it.”