The First Ninety Days Ch. 14

Jesus. I'm getting old. How long until my first gray hair?

So. Christianity, starting over. Without prior misconceptions. Without prior conceptions ofany sort.

The first Christians were the disciples. Jesus called them, and they came. They believed in what he was doing. That's still true today—you aren't a Christian unless you believe. And unless you're willing to express that belief.

Is that was Caitlyn was complaining about? Because, sure, it's easy to say that Jesus was a good guy, that you agree with him... But less hard to act it. Less hard to live it. Have I been living it?

Immediately his brain started to protest. Phrasing it that way made it sound like Jon had been living a bad life, one filled with vice and iniquity. Jon silenced that voice as well as he could. It was true that he had been living as moral and virtuous a life as he could, and trying to do as much good as possible; and there was dignity in that. But it wasn't the same as trying to follow Jesus.

Human life is so selfish. If left to our own devices we just do whatever the heck makes the most sense to us—hurt this person, take this stuff, sleep with this lady. No thought of consequences. No thought of love. We live for ourselves and for no one else. But that's how we know that Jesus was a divine influence: he encourages us to transcend our mere humanity. He wants us to bemore than just plain old selfish human. He wants us to care about others more than we care about ourselves. He wants us to... Love.

Caring about others more than he cared about himself was something Jon was very familiar with. It was what he felt about Caitlyn, to be certain; and there were others in his life—not many, but some—for whom he wouldn't hesitate to drop everything and go to their aid. Four of them had been in this apartment not half an hour ago. And it was how he felt about his children too, hypothetical though they might be: once they were born, there must be no higher priority in his life. This part of the territory, at least, he understood.

But what about people like Harold? It was clear what Jesus would call him to do: to love this person anyway, no matter how unlovable Jon might find him to be. But doing so would only open Jon to further aggravation and annoyance.Where's the virtue in doing something stupid like that? I have no idea whether he's ever gonna change.

And yet wasn't that what everyone had been telling him? That therewas hope of change, and that Jon shouldn't give up. That sometimes what you saw wasn't the entire story. That there was hope of change.

I don't know if I believe that people can change.

Well, you better, because if you don't, you're never getting your wife back.

Could he give God a chance? Could he give the world a chance?

Jon got on his knees and clasped his hands together, as he had been taught by his parents from beyond time immemorial. But the pose felt juvenile to him, and he had done it insincerely so often that he couldn't believe in its power anymore.This is not for me. Not anymore.

Casting around for a suitable pose, he found himself sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, his hands clasped in his lap, his eyes closed. He took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind.Our Father... No, that was meaningless too. He felt a moment of frustration that Caitlyn wasn't here. Surely she'd have some ideas.God, why isn't she here? Right when I need her the most, too...

What had Christa said? Focus on what was important to him, and bring that to God. All right. What was important to him? How was he supposed to approach God?

The answer to the first question was easy.Caitlyn. She was everything he wanted his life to be. He supposed that, if push came to shove, he could let this separation occur. He could give up; he could move on. He could divorce her, and go on to marry... Who? He tried to picture such a future, and all he saw was an empty, misty gap where some unknown woman would presumably go.

That isn't for me. It was really that simple.That isn't for me. My future lies with Caitlyn Delaney now... One way or the other.

But how was he to go to God with that? It wasn't like writing a letter to Santa Claus or anything.Dear Santa, I want my wife back. Please leave her in my stocking on the chimney... Right, likethat was gonna work.

He suddenly realized the synchronicity of it all.Isn't this a sign that this is the right path for me?—that I can't do it without Caitlyn. That Ihave to do it, whether or not she's there to help me. Or is it a sign that Caitlyn is the right woman for me—that the right choice is to stay with her? (As if I could ever do anything else...)

What do you think?

He suddenly realized that, though his eyes were closed, his face was upturned, as though oriented to some distant heaven. He felt like a radar dish, scouring the skies for faint signs of life... And yet it seemed right to him. Wasn't that where he had been left?

What do you think, God?

I know this is the right path for me. I think that's been bludgeoned into my head by now—by Caitlyn, by my friends. By You, since clearly all those things were the sound of You trying to tell me something. But... I don't know if I can walk it. It's scary, to put my trust in someone else's hands. It's scary, to put my life in someone else's hands. And, to me (as I'm sure You know) they're much the same thing. I'm not saying I can't or won't try, I'm just saying... It's scary. It's something new and different, and every time I've tried it in the past, it just... It hasn't worked out.

Will you help me? If I give it a try... Will you help me?

He didn't know how he knew, only that he did; only that suddenly, it seemed easy. That with so many friends helping him, with so many factors lined up in his favor, it must be nearly impossible to fail. He could do this. Hewould do this. It was what he was called to; it was what he was meant for.To live as well as possible, to love as well as possible... To follow Jesus. To turn the other cheek. To have faith in the world. To believe... That there is hope.

The feeling faded, and he became aware of the pain in his bent back and folded legs.

Jon sighed.Maybe I can do it. But I guess it won't be easy. And I'd better start now, before I lose my nerve.

He had an hour or so before he needed to sleep. Caitlyn had left her copy of the Bible. He got up, opened it to the Book of Matthew, and began to read.

Day 78

When her alarm went off, Caitlyn woke up with no idea of where she was. She didn't recognize the noise of the alarm clock, and there was an unfamiliar ceiling above her, and what looked like a fringe of Beanie Babies peeking over the rim of a shelf. She was low to the ground, not waist-high the way she preferred her beds, and somehow she felt as though she were backwards—as though her head should be where her feet were. And there were distant noises like dishware being used, which wasn't right for this time in the morning.

Then she realized she was at home, in her parents' house, in her old room. The room she had lived in for 14 years. The room that had been hers... Until she met Jon.

She was in a sleeping bag on a squashy air mattress, and there was no question about it—shewas backwards. When her bed was here, the headboard had been where her feet were. But the bed was not here; she and Jon had taken it when they moved to her apartment. She was wearing one of her oversize T-shirts, one that reached halfway down her thighs; she had left them here when she moved, and now was somewhat regretting it. Only now did she realize just how naked she felt when sleeping with nothing on, husband in bed with her or not. Besides, the T-shirt was truly voluminous, probably large enough for her and Jon to wear together if for some reason they decided to do so; there would have been plenty of room for him to slide a hand up to clasp a breast, the way he always seemed to. She had a feeling it was simply unconscious, that he couldn't stop if he wanted to. She had never felt confined by his embrace; in some ways, it made her feel free.

The shirt had twisted in the night, and clung now to her body. It was like Jon that way.

She wasn't wearing panties—why, she had no idea, except that they would have gotten in the way while she was still with her husband, in a way that the T-shirt would not. That was why they had given up on wearing clothes to bed in the first place—why bother, when all you did was sleep in them? And sometimes not even then, if one or the other of them should get amorous before slumber took them. It was far easier for him to have his way with her if she just wore nothing; far easier for him to simply slip up into her from behind as they spooned together. Far easier for her to take him inside her with nothing in the way; nothing even to have to worry about taking off.

All these thoughts were making her horny. She wished her husband was with her. She wished she had some form of relief. Maybe if she touched herself... No, not here, in her parents' house; not with the alarm going off, which her mother had undoubtedly overheard. She wouldn't feel comfortable and relaxed here, the way she needed to for orgasm; she also had a feeling that all the fumbling around and experimenting would just frustrate her even further. How long would it take to give herself an orgasm? Far longer than she had, certainly—here in this stranger's house with this new alarm clock going off, in this uncomfortable sleeping bag and this swath of shirt. Even if shehad had a husband here, she doubted she would feel comfortable enough to entertain sex.

She had never felt naked in bed with her husband. It was only now, in this stifling T-shirt, that she felt indecent. ...Indecently clothed. How bizarre.

As she moved to slap off the alarm, she became aware of stickiness between her thighs. Looking down, she realized her period had come. The shirt had bunched between her legs, and its hem was thick with red.

"Mom!"

"What, honey?" came her mother's voice from down the stairs.

"Where are my... Umm. Napkins?"

"Your WHAT?"

"My sanitary napkins! It's... That time of the month!"

There was a bit of silence from the kitchen, followed by the thuds of her mother ascending the stairs. Her mother appeared at her threshold shortly.

"So?" said Mom. "You know the rules, Caitlyn. We give you your supply, and store them somewhere yourself." Mom hated menstruation. Caitlyn had barely started her own courses when Mom had gone through menopause; her good cheer had been something to behold. Evidently it was a joy to no longer be 'unclean in the sight of the Lord.'

"Mom, I don't remember where I put them."

"How could you forget? Did you change your storage spot recently?"

Yes, she had; now they were stored in the cabinet under the sink, in her apartment with Jon Stanford, fifteen minutes from here next to Shellview State. But her parents preferred to ignore that she had ever been absent from under this roof.

Caitlyn said nothing; Mom seemed to hear it anyway. "Well, that's your business then. I have no idea where you put them, Caitlyn, and if you can't remember, that's your problem. Now. Once you get yourself sorted out, breakfast will be ready, and then you have classes to go to." She went back down to the kitchen and resumed her clattering around.

Caitlyn had to go downstairs still wearing the bloodstained shirt—sure, there was a nice little blotch right in the middle, but she sure wasn't going to put onanother shirt and blotchthat one up too. Rex was lying in the family room; he wagged his tail as she passed, but didn't come and follow her. (Maybe he smelled the blood.) She ransacked the bathroom looking for those darned Maxis With Wings. Had she taken them all with her? Of course not; she remembered the jump of panic when she got her first period in the apartment. There must be some around here somewhere. If nothing else, she would use her mother's. Now, if only she couldfind them.Where were they?

It was only after three minutes' bathroom demolition that she remembered they wereupstairs—and that, furthermore, she had taken them out the day after Christmas and planned to bring them with her to the apartment. They'd been accidentally left behind in the pile in her room; Caitlyn had tripped over them last Tuesday, stumbling in for the first time in months, and almost broken her neck. They weren't here at all. Also, this toothbrush was hers. She'd used it daily until that fateful afternoon when Jon took her away from here. She'd seen the color at the drugstore—a red body with black grips, so unusual in this day of alabaster dental hygiene—and bought every copy of it she could get her hands on. Who did she think it was, her dad's?

This isn't my home anymore, she realized.I can come back here, and I certainly have, but this... This isn't my home anymore. I don't belong here. I'm not welcome here. My parents have made that endlessly plain.

But I'm not welcome with Jon either. Not anymore.

While digging through her sock drawer for something appropriate to wear—hopefully those black ones with the pink, yellow and purple polka dots; had she left those at the apartment?—she felt a little flash of pain. Frowning, she began to pile socks on the floor until a glint of metal emerged. It was a claddagh ring, with the band in a Celtic pattern.How did this get in here? I haven't put my rings on yet. Then she realized it was the original, the one she had lost; Jon had bought her a new one, which currently rested on the night table next to the foot of her mattress bed. This was the original one. This was the first. This was the one that didn't have Jon's heart in its hands.

She wondered if this was an omen.Wheredo I belong? It's like I have a choice now. She didn't wear her engagement ring anymore; she had bagged it carefully and put it in her jewelry box. The silver wedding band she found hard to part with; eventually she moved it to her other hand, where it didn't mean the same thing. (Or something like that. She'd have to look this up.) And now here she had two claddagh rings: one she'd bought for herself, the other bought for her by Jon.

The rings, she saw now, were not fully identical. The heart on Jon's was a little bit bigger, the hands on hers a little bigger. Which was more important, to have a heart or to offer it?

She left them all on the nightstand. Today she would go ringless.

She ate the pancakes her mother served her without comment; they were the same pancakes her mother always made, with the same vaguely-cinnamon flavor. Perhaps this was meant to make Caitlyn feel at home. Certainly Linda Delaney seemed to be feeling an undeniable pleasure at getting to serve her daughter breakfast again. For her part, Caitlyn chafed with impatience, wishing she could chew faster. But she knew she wouldn't be allowed to leave the table until her mother was seated and eating.

Finally Mom got herself pancake'd out and seated. She held out her hand.

Caitlyn stared.Oh, come on. No way.Every meal?

Mom glared and gestured with the hand.

Caitlyn sighed, put down her knife and fork, and took Mom's hand. Mom then reached out with the other as though someone else was sitting there, and closed her eyes.

"Heavenly Father, we thank Thee for the bounty we are about to receive. We give thanks for the glory of Your creation, for the friends and family You have blessed us with, for the privileged place You have given us on this good green Earth. We give thanks also and especially for the return of Caitlyn, who, like the prodigal son our Savior spoke of, was lost and now is found. Help us welcome her back into the shelter of Your Peace and Your Grace, which flow through the loving walls of this home. In the name of Jesus our Savior we pray. Amen."

"Amen," said Caitlyn, eager to be shut of this mess. She might've known her mother would do something like that—especially with the subtle dig about her life out of the house; the Prodigal Son reference implied her to be either foolish, a sinner, or both. And besides, the idea of 'loving walls' brought to mind some completely different imagery if Jon was involved.

She found herself asking, before she could stop it: "Mom, when's the last time you and Dad had sex?"

Her mother almost choked on her mouthful of pancake. "Wh— I—What?"

"Mom," said Caitlyn, keeping her patience about her, "I'm a grown woman. I know how babies are made. If you don't want to tell me, that's fine—I mean, it's your private matters and all—but don't think you have to shield me from adult truths or anything."

"Well," said Mom, "youare growing up. You've gone through puberty and everything. Perhaps it's safe to talk to you about these things."

Caitlyn wondered if Mom would have said that had Caitlyn's period not struck so explosively this morning.

"Well... Caitlyn... When a man and a woman love each other very much, they often feel... Urges. But all people, woman especially, must be careful about these urges, because they lead to sin."

"It's sinful to have babies," said Caitlyn in a flat voice.

"It's sinful to indulge in too much of Earthly pleasures, Caitlyn," said her mother in a surprisingly earnest voice. "Remember, we are Christians. Our place is not here, but in Eternity; and our calling is not to be comfortable here, but to prepare for Paradise."

That much was true, but... "So the fact that your body is meant to feel pleasure—"

"Temptation, pure and simple," said Caitlyn's mother. "God made carnal thoughts to test the faithful."

"So, probably not for years, huh?"

"Probablywhat not for years?"

"Since you and Dad... Did it."

"Not formany years, Caitlyn. In fact, I don't believe your father and I have engaged in that act since you were born."

Caitlyn was astounded despite herself. "You mean... The last time you two were intimate together was when I was conceived??" She was twenty-one years old!"

Mom's eyebrows jumped. " 'Intimate'? What sort of a word... Oh. Oh, Caitlyn." She sighed, and—to Caitlyn's eternal surprise—reached out a motherly arm to draw her daughter close. "You got out of there just in time, didn't you. My poor baby..."

Caitlyn was shaken to realize that her mother said it the same way Jon did. Without the element of prurience, of course, but... With the same all-encompassing affection, the same encapsulation—the same sense that this word was merely a label, a way of invoking that galaxy of experience and time that they had shared. And as for the hug... Was it the first time this decade? Quite possibly. Quite possibly.

She got on campus almost forty minutes early. That just made her miserable again; her apartment was only five minutes away, and she could think of some very nice things she and Jon could be doing to fill the time. Some of them involved being naked. Others involved her begging him to take her back. Had it really been almost a week without him? She'd gone to classes, done homework, gone to church—with her parents, for the first time in a long time; without her husband, for the first time in longer—and even played for one of the services, albeit on her three-quarters harp since Gabriel the full-size was still at the apartment. There was another thing she missed.