Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)(10)

Roland shoots his eyes toward me and I shrug. “She says she doesn’t know …” It’s repeat information, I understand, but it’s all I have.

“Excuse me for a second.” Roland moves swiftly to his office and returns less than fifteen seconds later, handing an envelope to Mom. “Take a look. I was certain it was from you.”

Of course he’d still have the picture, though I feel very naked with it being examined in front of me.

Mom carefully pulls the picture from the envelope, pausing for a moment to smile at the image before shaking her head. “I was still far too angry at you for anything like this.”

“I figured that’s why you included the note you did.” Roland shoulders up next to Mom as he unfolds the paper, laying it bare in front of her.

“That’s Dan’s handwriting,” she blurts out before covering her mouth with her hand.

“What?” I rush over to them, snatching the letter from Mom’s hand.

Sure enough, just like Mom, I recognize the writing in a second. Dan’s handwriting scrawled across the page sends my head spinning. The words are cold, void of any feeling whatsoever. Yet, the man who apparently wrote this has been nothing but encouraging of my relationship with Roland in the years since this picture was sent.

“What?” I reiterate. “Why … What? And you didn’t know about this, Mom?”

“Look at me,” she demands curtly, drawing attention to her ruby-hued cheeks. “Does this look like the face of someone in the know?”

I drag both hands through my hair. “No. No!” My heart races as I take a few steps back.

“Kennedy,” Roland says slowly. “What’s going on?”

No. No. No.

I point to Mom and then back to Roland. “She was supposed to be the one who sent it. Her moment of grace, or whatever, that completely changed your life around without her ever knowing it. That, that moment was the one …”

“Honey,” Mom enters. “What?”

I take a long look at Roland before sharing a very personal piece of his story. Because now it’s part of mine.

“He’d been drunk for years,” I start with the nitty-gritty. “In and out of his parents’ house and all of that. Then one day when he was at the bottom of the whiskey barrel that picture,” I point for effect, “came in the mail. It was the first time he’d ever seen me.” My voice tightens and tears sting my eyes.

“He saw me. He saw him in me,” I whisper, backing toward the door. I’ve been cooped up in this life for several days too long. “It saved him, Mom. And I thought that you’d done that. I thought for a moment you wanted him to be in my life somehow. That for just a brief moment in your life you had wanted to give him a second chance.”

Mom’s eyes light with fire. She walks toward me, ignoring Roland, it seems. “He’s the one who didn’t want one chance, Kennedy. Never mind a second chance. He didn’t want you!” She snaps, her eyes widening as she seems to instantly regret the words.

“But he did!” I snap. “He called you when I was eight. I remember it like it was yesterday. He got the picture and he wanted me and you wouldn’t let him in.”

Roland walks toward the both of us, exhaling with a puff of his cheeks. “Okay, let’s just all take a seat, okay? I’m sure we can talk through this without screaming at each other.”

“Roland,” Mom lowers her voice significantly, “I’m sorry for what I said just now. But you have to understand how hard this is for me.”

He nods, tilting his head to the side. “I do, Wendy. I do.”

“Of course he does,” I spit out. “Because he was the one refused access to my life for almost fifteen years.”

“Kennedy,” Roland’s clipped tone catches my breath. I’ve never heard anything but congeniality from his lips. “That’s enough. Come and sit. Let’s talk about all of this.”

I shake my head. “I need a break. I’m going downtown.”

Roland starts to speak, but I hold up my hand.

“And, no, I don’t care about the rules. Write the demerits yourself if you must, but I need a damn minute.”

With that, I swing the door open. Roland calls after me once my feet hit the stairs, but in a softer voice, I hear Mom sigh.

“Just let her go, Roland. Sometimes you have to let her go.”

***

“All that just happened?” Asher leans back in his desk chair, rubbing a hand over his face.

I shrug. “I don’t do anything half-a—” I cut myself off with a growl, leaning my forehead on his desk.

I basically ran the two miles downtown to the back parking lot of Word, where I banged on the door until Asher answered. I knew he would be in his office; he always does inventory on Sundays. I had half the story of this morning’s post-service drama out of my mouth before we even sat down.

“Thanks for coming, by the way,” I mumble with my head still down, my mouth half an inch from the top of his desk.

“Why’d you ask me to come? I mean, thanks, but why did you want me there?”

“Because you’re normal. I needed normal.” I lift my head and lean back, finding Asher studying me curiously as he usually does. “Why do you look at me like that?”