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

She did it.

Still out of breath listening to the end of Roland’s sermon, I can’t take my eyes off of Kennedy. I grin that she’s wearing a dress, since she normally pushes the dress code to the limit with her skirt
s
with pockets and almost too-casual t-shirts.

This morning, though, she’s wearing this dark blue dress that stops a few tragic inches below her knees and she’s got a yellow sweater around her shoulders. Her hair is long and loose, not curly like her mom’s but dark brown like it.
It
’
s
a little wavy, I guess. Kind of like Roland’s, but I wouldn’t have ever drawn the connection based on their hair. Their eyes, however … that is scary unreal. Carbon copies that, when I saw Kennedy for the first time, stopped me in my tracks. I’m a guy, so I don’t wander around paying attention to other guys’ eyes, unless they’re replicated on a gorgeous girl. I would have known who she was the second she introduced herself since I knew her name, but when I saw her that day I went to Word with John and Jonah, I
knew
that I was looking at Kennedy Sawyer—long-lost daughter of Pastor Roland Abbot.

Today her face is pale, even for a Yankee, and she keeps wiping her hands on the front of her dress. I worry that maybe I was too intense when I begged her not to dog out on us. Us. The PK’s who have been looking for something—someone—to call our own. Someone who
gets
it. She doesn’t realize she gets it, but she does.

This semester, and her previous eighteen years have prepared her in ways she doesn’t yet understand. Seeing more of her father on TV, at church, or planned lunches is a typical day in the life for a PK, especially one with a popular dad like Roland or my father. Always just on the outside, in the shadows, Kennedy is the perfect person to put a face on PK’s and how most of us want to be represented because she hasn’t been indoctrinated the same way the rest of us have. She won’t harbor the same guilt the rest of us might by fighting against an institution two millennia in the making.

I know she’s a Christian, but we basically come from two different planets there. If I question it I’m “backsliding.” If she questions it she’s “learning.” I need her to keep questioning. To help give me a voice. Roland’s closing words pull my focus back to him.

“Let’s pray.” He takes a deep breath and clears his throat while the rest of us close our eyes. I bow my head to help me focus. “Father God, we ask that you …”

I zone out. I know that God is supposed to be our ultimate father, “even when our earthly fathers fail,” people have told me, but it’s kind of a hard concept to buy into when you’ve been burned over and over again by your
earthly
father. How can I trust that the “perfect love” is perfect when I’ve seen more evidence to the contrary? I wonder how Kennedy feels about the “Father” talk.

I wonder how she feels about a lot of things, actually. The most I’ve seen her act like what I think is
herself
was a few days ago when I tagged along on her mission to Planned Parenthood to check on her roommates. Despite her stance against what Bridgette and Eden were doing—handing out pictures of aborted fetuses to people walking into the brick building—Kennedy was first and foremost concerned with their safety. It was mind-blowing to watch, and gave me a tiny peek into the kind of person she is. Still, I know very little
about
her. Silas tells me that his sister, Bridgette, has talked with Kennedy about what being “born again” means, and he frequently prays for his twin and her roommates during our nightly floor meetings, but the way his prayers are tailored, it seems like he’s praying specifically for Kennedy.

“Help remove the lies of the devil,” he’ll say in his forever-serious voice. “Keep Bridgette’s eyes on you as she spends the year living with people who might not share the same heart for you.”

That one ticked me off. He should know better than to judge the hearts of others.

So should I.

Lifting my head, I take a peek at Kennedy. Her eyes are closed but her head isn’t bowed, allowing me to study the vertical line running between her eyebrows as she scrunches them. I can’t tell if she’s concentrating or in pain. Or both. I lean forward a bit and glance at her mom, to my left and down a few people, who has almost the same expression in prayer. Interesting.

“Amen,” we say in unison when Roland
concludes
his prayer.

The worship band resumes their places on stage to play a closing song, but Roland takes the mic one last time.

“If those of you in the front row could follow us backstage during the closing song, that would be great.” He nods to Kennedy’s mom—Wendy I think her name is—and casts a quick glance my way.

Thank you, Jesus
.

I’d been worried that I wouldn’t see Kennedy again until our New Testament class tomorrow, given that she’s on temporary lockdown at Roland’s house, and I figured there would be
no
chance I’d get to her after the service today. Seems someone was looking out for me there. Probably Kennedy. She always appears to be a step ahead of everyone here, despite her self-doubt to the contrary. And except for that bit with Joy. None of us saw that coming. I didn’t see her when we were filing in, but it’s no wonder. If I were her, I wouldn’t want to be seen for a
very
long time.

As soon as the drummer clicks away the final beat, I rise to my feet and jump one step down to the stage, filing behind the associate pastors and Wendy.

“You’re Matt Wells,” she addresses me over her shoulder. Her eyebrow is arched and there’s a tiny grin on her face.

A soft laugh precedes my response. She just quasi-introduced herself to me the way Kennedy did for the first time a few weeks ago. Not a question. A solid statement indicating she knows more about me than I may have given her credit for.

“Yes ma’am,” I nod and make brief eye contact with her before she turns her attention back in front of her as we move behind the heavy black curtains and backstage.

“Keep going straight to the green room,” Roland’s assistant, Jahara, instructs us.

“Green room?” I mumble over my shoulder, knowing Kennedy’s roommates are behind me. I know New Life is a combination church and TV studio, but … a green
room?

“Guess so,” Bridgette’s shaky whisper gives
a
way her nerves. She always seems nervous.

I keep my eyes forward, trying to catch a glimpse of Kennedy. She’s been walking at the front of the group, her head down and her steps quick. As we round a corner, she lifts her eyes and waves first to her mom, then leans her head a little to the side and seems to catch my gaze. I offer her a smile and a nod. I’d love to talk to her alone, but I’m assuming our special privileges regarding time together during the aftermath of the Joy storm are on their last legs. Unless I’m invited to family dinners at the Abbot residence, my one-on-one time with Kennedy is on indefinite pause.

The group finally slows as Kennedy, followed by the rest of us, files into what I’m to assume is the green room. Though, in true New Life style, this is no ordinary green room. Not that I’ve ever seen one in person before, but I’ve heard they’re generally like doctors’ waiting rooms. Not a lavish conference room with food and drink set up, and not to mention the couches and chairs scattered around the room.

“Please, everyone, take a seat.” Roland speaks up while we all stand around awkwardly.

The following game of musical chairs is even more uncomfortable. Kennedy moves to her mom and they hug for a long time. The knot in the center of my chest pulls my eyes away and I focus on the task of finding a seat. Eden and Jonah sit next to each other on a couch, and Silas sits next to them. Bridgette places herself in the chair across from them and they engage in what I’m sure they mean to seem as casual conversation, but their eyes flickering toward me every few seconds gives me a hint of the subject of their conversation. Taking a deep breath, I run my hand over my head and move toward the food table. I’ll stand.

“Matt.” A soft hand on my shoulder fills me with warmth.

“K. Sawyer,” I turn around and offer her a playful smile.

She bites her lip
, which looks
bare without its ring
-- even though I
’
ve only seen her wearing it once
—and gives a tiny shrug. “So?” Her eyes lift and meet mine with a shocking amount of nerves.

I touch her upper arm for a second, before realizing all the eyes on me, and then shove that hand in my pocket. “You did good.” I smile and bite my lip, too.

She scrunches her nose like she smells something rotten and rises to her tiptoes, whispering in my ear. “Why are you being weird?”

I tilt my lips toward her ear. “This is all kind of weird, don’t you think? What are we doing here?”

“Oh!” She giggles nervously. “Right.”

With a deep pink overtaking her cheeks, Kennedy turns to the rest of the room, addressing them with a bold confidence returning to her voice

“Thank you guys for coming back here with us. Roland and I just wanted to have a chance to touch base with everyone once the service ended, and we knew the crowd might be a bit much today. So, we’re going to hang back here and have some lunch. If you need or want to leave at any point, feel free.”

A quick movement catches my attention out of the corner of my eye. Whipping my head toward a far exit of the room, I can’t believe what I see. Who I see.

My father, former pastor Joseph Wells. Buck Wells if you knew him before his ministering days. I still don’t know how Kennedy’s mom knew that was his nickname, but we’ve all been kind of busy since that revelation, so I’ve let it go for the time being.

He leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms in front of his chest. I don’t know what possessed him to show up. He didn’t bother to grace me with his presence when my mom came up for
P
arent’s
W
eekend. The back of my neck breaks into a sweat.

“Excuse me,” I mumble to Kennedy and whoever might be in earshot, and I walk toward his towering shadow. I’d say his presence,
rather than shadow,
but he hasn’t been present for quite some time. My breath quickens the closer I get to him, and my hands ball into fists inside my pockets.

“Matthew,” he clears his throat but speaks while barely moving his lips, his jaw set tight.

I draw a deep breath through my nose, exhaling my response. Careful that no one else hears me. “What the
hell
are you doing here?”

The back of my throat burns as the curse flies out of my mouth toward my father. His eyes close in one long blink
,
as he seems to let the words wash over him while he takes a deep breath. His rigid jaw flexes before he speaks.

Under normal circumstances, words like this would have granted me an open-palmed slap across the face. I’m sure of it, though I’ve never had the gall until this very moment. A moment when I know there’s nothing he can do or say.

“Matthew,” his voice is raspier than usual, even in his whisper, “ I know you’re hurt, but that’s no excuse to forget the kind of man you are. Or
where
you are. I suggest you start that over again.”

I swallow hard, my hands
, now at my sides
fighting to bunch into fists
.
“Yes,
sir
.” I clear my throat. “What are you doing here?”

He tilts his chin toward the room. “Seems you’ve gotten yourself into something here.”

I shrug. “Kennedy’s a friend, Dad.”

“Girlfriend by the sound of things.” His tongue moves slowly over his lips as his eyes roam the room. I can tell by how they widen that they’ve settled on Kennedy.

I swallow hard and roll my eyes. “You above most people in this room know that we shouldn’t take rumors at face value.”

Screw him, I’m an adult.

“There’s so much you don’t know, Matthew.” He lowers his head, and for a second I see my dad. The real him. The one I know is buried deep in there somewhere.

“And just as much that you won’t tell me. Why didn’t you come to
P
arent
s
’
W
eekend?”

“Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I was ready to come … here.” He gestures behind him to where the sanctuary is located. “I’ve got a lot I’m working through, Son. You know that.”

“Yeah,” I snap. “We
all
know that.”

For a brief moment I’m thrown back into the living hell of the last year of my life. One that started with me fighting my dad because I didn’t want to come here, and ended with me fighting to be able to. His burnout began by affecting his work and family life. But now? Now it’s traveled so deep into his soul that his eyes are barely recognizable anymore. While a huge part of my heart wants to feel compassion for him, and knows I should, the moral trauma he’s put our family through—and is still putting us through—is too much for me to extend the hand I know he needs.

God’s gonna have to reach all the way down for this one.

“Perhaps we should continue this in the hallway.” Dad backs one foot out of the room, extending his hand.

I shake my head. “I have nothing to continue with you right now. I’m here supporting my friend. Shouldn’t you be supporting yours?” His ability to support me is clearly
zero
, so I gesture to Roland. “I know you didn’t come all this way to ask me about some girl.”

Some girl?

I crane my neck to look for Kennedy, who is hardly
some
girl. She’s staring openly at my dad
and me
, but turns around as soon as she sees I’ve spotted her. She leans in to whisper something to her mom and then walks over to her friends. Well my friends too, I guess, though I haven’t really laid any claim in that department yet. Friends just ask questions and make assumptions.

Kind of like you’re doing right now?

I squeeze my eyes shut. Opening them, I find Roland just a few feet from me, extending his hand to my dad with a genuine Roland-trademarked smile.

“Buck,” he says with a hint of question in his voice, “it’s good to see you, friend.”

Hm. I’ve never actually heard Roland call my dad
Buck
before. I knew that was his nickname in college, but hadn’t heard anyone other than high school friends of his refer to him in that way until Kennedy’s mom used that name a few days ago on the phone.

“Roland.” Dad gives Roland the firmest handshake I’ve seen him muster up in a while.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, feeling for my cell phone in my pocket. “I’ll be right back.”

I show myself into the hallway and duck into the first men’s bathroom I see before tapping my parents’ home number.

“Hello?” Mom answers in her best pastor’s wife voice. She may not live in that emotional country anymore, but she still carries the accent.

“Mama, what’s he doing here?” After spending the last couple of days talking a lot with Kennedy, I can actually hear how thick my accent is when my mom’s on the other end of the line. It’s always been thicker when I’m angry. “I’m sorry if I sounded rude,” I quickly correct my tone while silently cursing myself. She’s going through enough.

“Darlin’, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. He left in the middle of the night and I didn’t know until I woke up this mornin’. Was he at the service? I couldn’t see him on TV.”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see him till we were in the green
room after. He’s talking with Pastor Roland now.” It sounds weird to put his title before his name, but my mom’s always been strict regarding formalities.

“Just bite your tongue, Son.” When she says
son
it calms my forced breathing. Regardless of how I feel about my dad calling me that, or talking with me at all, Mom’s got nothing to do with this.

“I will,” I concede.

“Promise?” Her voice is bright and hopeful, but it’s shaking a bit.

I sigh. “I promise I’ll try. I won’t make a scene, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I know you won’t, darlin’. Call me tonight, okay?”

“Did he at least leave a note this time?” I ask of Dad’s moonlight departure from home.

The bottomless pause before she speaks brings back memories of the last time. Memories that were already edging their way to the forefront of my mind.

“Yes,” she whispers. “He did. No go on and get back to whatever you’re doing. Talk to you later.”

“I love you,” I force myself to say. I do love her, but saying it doesn’t always come easy.

“I love you.”

With a deep breath, I bow my head after ending the call.

“Please,” I whisper. “I know we haven’t really been on speaking terms lately, but, please just do whatever you’re going to do here. Grace, I guess? Something.”

Exiting the room,
I shake my head. Nearly every prayer of mine in the last year has gone unanswered. Or the answer has been “no.” All except for one. And as I situate myself in the doorway with Roland and my dad once again, I watch that prayer in her blue dress and yellow sweater engaging in an intense conversation with Silas. Though, I don’t know that any conversation with Silas could be anything
but
intense. That boy needs a vacation

“Everything okay, Son?” Dad puts his arm around my shoulders and I have to force my body to stay in place, rather than recoil the way it wants to.

Grace
.

I close my eyes for a moment. I prayed for it, but didn’t ask to be given grace to give. I’d like some. Maybe my prayer line is broken. God’s just not understanding what I need and I’m growing more frustrated by the day.

“Everything’s good. Mom just called to check in,” I lied. He knows it’s a lie and Roland probably does, too, but we all just nod.

I chance a quick look to Roland and find him eyeing me sympathetically. I look to the floor, where I wish I could keep my eyes for the entirety of this conversation. However long it lasts.