In Broken Places

15




THE PUPPENMUSEUM IN RIEDLINGEN was a little girl’s dream. A local lady had turned a big old farmhouse into a toy museum where dolls and teddy bears covered shelves and chairs and miniature dollhouses. There were only six tables in the café, spread out over three rooms. The lighting was dim and the ambience so cozy that it felt a little like being in someone’s home.

Shayla, still excited from the Christmas tree shopping, immediately took herself on a tour of the toys with firm instructions not to touch a thing. Scott seized the opportunity to lean across the table and ask, “Is this okay?”

“Scott, it’s perfect. Shayla’s going to want to eat here every day.”

“Not the restaurant,” he said, and he was wearing the same expression as earlier, in the car.

“Oh.”

“Is it okay if I . . . ?” He reached across the table and linked his fingers with mine. “Is this okay?” He was as earnest as I’d ever seen him, and I realized his question had a lot more to do with our relationship than with our hands.

“Scott . . .”

“I just need to know, Shell. If this makes you uncomfortable . . . or if it’s too soon. I don’t want to rush anything or . . . you know.” His eyes met mine with an intensity of sincerity and hope that frightened me.

I knew this was a pivotal moment and I knew his vulnerability required my utmost care, yet I couldn’t help myself. It was sheer panic that made me do a terrible Scarlett O’Hara impression and say, “Why, Rhett, I do believe you’re blushing!”

He didn’t move, but something steel-gray came down over his gaze as he slowly disconnected his fingers from mine. He had risked rejection and I’d given him worse than that—I’d given him ridicule. There was nothing I could think of that would allow me a do-over.

“I’m sorry, Scott. I . . .” My mind felt sluggish, hampered by remorse. There was something crippled in the silence between us.

Shayla came bounding in with a giant teddy bear clutched in her arms, and I saw muscles clench in Scott’s jaw just before he shifted and tried to assume a casual position.

I was an idiot.

But this idiot had a daughter who’d swiped an animal off of a display shelf, and I had some explaining to do. The restaurateur was friendly, thank goodness. She just requested that I accompany Shayla on any future tours. She asked Shayla if she understood, and my fast-becoming-bilingual daughter responded in German that she would not touch any stuffed animals again. I think. I pried Shayla’s fingers from the bear’s thick fur and returned the animal to its owner under Scott’s somewhat-brooding gaze.

We made polite conversation over our Flammen Kuchen, and I was grateful for Shayla’s oblivious cheer. Then Scott drove us home and waited patiently while I put Shayla to bed.

“She’d like to say good night,” I told him after Shayla had whined about it for a while. “I tried to convince her that you’d already said your good-nights, but . . . you know.”

We walked into Shayla’s room, where she was busy making shadow animals on the wall with her hands. It was a trick I’d taught her several weeks ago, and it hadn’t yet lost its appeal.

“Okay, little girl,” I said, “say good night to Scott.”

“But we haven’t said pwayohs,” she said, temporarily distracted from the mean dog on her wall.

“Say good night first; then we’ll say prayers.” I was trying to remain patient, but nervousness about what would happen next had me a little on edge.

“No—with Scott. Please?”

I sighed and looked over at Scott. He was wearing his usual Lady Shay smile, the one that was so real and gentle and, somehow, proud. “Do you mind?” I asked.

He shook his head and went to sit on the edge of Shayla’s bed. I took my usual position on my knees at her side.

Shayla knew she’d gotten her way and was emboldened by the victory. “You pway,” she said to Scott.

I held my breath. The intimacy of that moment was so visceral that it felt fragile and taut.

Scott took hold of Shayla’s hand and she grabbed mine with the other, squinting her eyes shut and waiting for the prayer.

“Jesus,” Scott said, holding her hand in both of his and using words Shayla would understand, “please be with Shayla tonight. Keep her dreams happy and her spirit sweet. And be with Shelby too—there’s a lot going on in her life. And in mine. We rest in you. Amen.”

“Amen!” Shayla chirped.

I kissed her face and returned her hug, then headed out to the living room while Scott said good night again. I was sitting on the couch when he joined me, though he chose to sit on the chair nearer the window.

“I’m sorry, Scott,” I said. “I know you were being sincere, and I went and opened my big mouth and ruined it. . . . And I’m sorry. Really, Scott, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot—like that’s anything new to you.”

He steepled his fingers in front of his face, his eyes on me, and kept silent for a moment. There was neither frustration nor disappointment in his gaze—though they’d been there before, when my Scarlett O’Hara had put a damper on our day. Now it was just pensive. Subdued.

He took a breath and held it, then exhaled loudly, the sound filling the room that had become too quiet. He spread his hands out in front of him and said, “I’m not sure where to start—or how to say it. I’m not even really sure of what it is, actually.”

“What were you going to say at the restaurant? Can we rewind and play that over? I promise Scarlett’s gone for good.”

He withdrew into thought again, his eyes on me but his mind clearly elsewhere. When he finally spoke again, it was in a tentative way, weighing each word and scanning my face for a reaction.

“What I was going to ask you at the restaurant was if it would be okay for me to hold your hand—like at the tree lot—and if it would be okay for me to spend more time with you. With you and Shayla.” He paused. “But given your reaction . . .”

“I didn’t mean it! It was just a knee-jerk thing!”

“Given your reaction, I think I need to change my question. And given your reaction, I’m really scared of doing so.”

I didn’t want him to change questions. I knew the answer to the hand-holding one. “Okay.”

“I know there’s stuff you haven’t told me.”

“Like my David Hasselhoff fantasies?” He gave me a look and I threw up my hands in defeat. “See?” I groaned. “I can’t help it!” I gave myself a mental kick in the butt and continued. “Other people twist their hands or get twitchy when they’re nervous, and I just go straight for the sarcasm—straight for the zinger—but it’s not because I’m trying to be hurtful! It’s just—it’s a reflex thing. Like screaming when I’m scared or eating when . . . well, just about anytime. That one doesn’t work.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“See?” I was all out of steam and Scott hadn’t moved, except for the smirk on just one side of his mouth. “Ask me your question, Scott. I promise I’ll be good.” There was a six-year-old sound to the statement, but I didn’t care.

Scott levered himself out of the chair and came to sit near me on the couch. He raked his fingers through his hair and dropped his head for a moment. When he looked up, he had his game face on. And I couldn’t blame him, as I hadn’t exactly made things easy for him so far.

“I’m—and I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a teenager—but I’m attracted to you, Shelby. Have been for a while, in case you hadn’t noticed. And I’d like to . . . I’d like to pursue you, if you’ll let me. Not just hold your hand or spend time with you and Shay.”

And that was when the warm, Scott-shaped glow in my chest froze, then paled, then coiled in on itself into a solid, icy core. There were voices in my head, but they didn’t belong to me. They belonged to spent circumstances, to pain, to crushed expectations and juvenile bravado. They were so loud, so overpowering, that they contracted my muscles and chilled my skin, numbing me to all but the piercing agony of impotence.

I could have said yes to holding his hand. I could have said yes to curling up beside him and letting myself bend into his care. I could have said yes to spending more time together and saying bedtime prayers with Shayla and sharing Christmas trees. But accepting his affection? Allowing his pursuit? Opening myself to the pain of dashed hopes and faded love?

No.

I couldn’t.

Scott was instantly concerned, the suddenness of my transformation bridging the abyss of his guardedness. I saw him clasp my arm, but I didn’t feel his hand. I felt his breath against my face, but I didn’t hear his words. I had reached an impasse a lifetime in the making, and there was nothing, not even Scott’s kindness, that could draw me back from my self-inflicted sanction.

I rose from the couch, and the motion subdued the clamor in my mind. “I’m sorry, Scott,” I said. And truly I was. I was sorry for him and sorry for me and sorry for my daughter, who so deeply loved this man.

“Shelby, I was only saying—”

I shook my head and felt a jagged emptiness crushing my heart. “I know what you were saying, and, Scott . . .” The tears were too close. I wouldn’t allow them. I took a calming breath. “You’re so kind, Scott. So loving to Shayla. So . . . so a lot of things. All of them good. But I’m Shelby. I’m Shelby, Jim Davis’s daughter, and I can’t let you in. Not this way. Not with . . . You said attracted and pursue—and I know what those mean. And I like you too much to—to inflict myself on you.”

He was standing too, his hand on my arm, his eyes boring into mine with confusion and worry and something like affection. It was the affection I found most terrifying.

“I can’t care for you, Scott. Not the way you want. So . . .” I heard a sob and felt a spasm in my chest. There was grief on my face, dripping in hot regret down my neck. “I’m sorry.”

I went to the door and held it open—my eyes averted, my resolve firm—and tried to wrap some poise around my tears.

Scott stopped in front of me. “I can’t leave you like this.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Shell . . .”

“I’ll be fine, Scott.” The anger in my voice took him aback.

“Can I call you tomorrow?” A muscle was working in his jaw and his eyes seemed edgy.

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

He took his coat from the rack near the door, clearly tortured at the thought of leaving me this way.

“Thank you for . . . Thank you for saying it, Scott. It means . . .” How could I tell him what it meant to me? “It means a lot to me.” I hoped he could distinguish my sincerity behind the layers of fear and distress and pain.

He nodded, slipped into his jacket, and with a final, laden glance, he left.

I wasn’t sure how long I lay on the couch, flooding the silence with inconsolable despair. I had found a friend in Scott, a kindred spirit, a source of comfort and contentment and challenge and joy. And in my ignorance, I’d hurt him. I’d let him imagine the impossible and dismantle my reserve. I’d crushed us both. And the desolate places in my heart groaned in solitude and grief.

I’d spent my life until then clinging to God while I’d raged against the people at the root of my brokenness. But on this night, my world had shifted and I found myself railing at God as I clung to the people I loved—like Scott, who deserved so much more than I could give him, and Shayla, whose innocence I feared crippling. Why had I been born into a destructive vortex that had made the thought of loving so intolerable? Why hadn’t God intervened? Why hadn’t he stilled the forces that had rendered me powerless and damaged? Why couldn’t I trust myself enough to love sufficiently? How was I supposed to live the rest of my life in this paralyzing fear of personal failure? My anger was opaque and rough, craggy and raw and frantic.

It was nearly 4 a.m. when I woke. My eyes felt bloated and my limbs impossibly heavy. The numbness in my mind was a relief. There was nothing else to do but pick up the phone and dial.

“Hello!”

“Trey?”

“Shelbers! What time is it over there?” He’d become a pro at time-zone calculation, but this middle-of-the-night call had made him doubt his expertise.

“Nearly four.”

There was a beat while he made note of my tone of voice and came to conclusions. “What’s happening, Shell?”

I sighed. I couldn’t find the words.

“Is it Shayla?” His voice was sharp, his worry audible.

“No. She’s fine, Trey. Really. It’s not her.”

“So . . . ?”

“I need a Rolo.”

“That bad.”

“Yup.”

“Have the Germans been nasty to you? ’Cause I can fly over there and give ’em a piece of my mind, if you want. Really. Just say the word.”

“We got a Christmas tree today.”

“Okay.”

“And then we went to the toy museum for supper.”

“Strange, but I’ll allow it.”

“And we came back and had prayers with Shayla.”

“Always a good plan. Just a question, though—who’s ‘we’?”

I moaned a little. “Scott and Shayla and me.”

He didn’t say anything. He just waited, my ever-patient brother who would read between the lines and understand the source of my dysfunction without need for explanations.

“He’s great, Trey. You’d like him.”

“And you like him.”

I sighed. “And he told me tonight that he’d like to pursue me.”

“What—is he Victorian?”

“Trey.”

“Sorry.”

“He’s so careful. So . . . noble.”

“And you said . . . ?”

“I pulled a Shelby on him.”

“Shell . . . why?”

“I don’t know. I panicked. Told him he shouldn’t care about me. That I can’t care for him—not that way.”

“How many times are you going to do this?” There was a hint of anger in his voice. “How many times are you going to sabotage something good because you’re too scared to risk it?”

“I don’t know, Trey; how long are you going to keep at it?”

“We’re talking about you!”

“Well, I don’t know! It’s not like I set out to be this way!”

“I know.”

I knew he did.

“There should be a switch somewhere,” I said. “Some kind of existential breaker that allows us to disarm the past. Seriously.”

“It’s looking for that breaker that landed me in the hospital,” my survivor-brother said.

There was no arguing that point.

I allowed myself to think about my parents for a while—something I rarely did—but it seemed appropriate, as they were so entangled in the moment. “When do you think Dad turned into . . . well, Dad?”

“I don’t know.”

“I mean, Mom wouldn’t have married him if he was as bad then as he was later, right?”

Trey thought about it for a moment. “Probably not,” he said. “I hope not.”

“So there’s a good chance that he was a nice guy at one point in his life—nice enough for Mom to fall in love with him.”

“I guess it’s possible.”

I sighed. “It’s more than possible. She told me herself—with pictures and letters to prove it.”

“When was this?”

“Right after her stroke.”

“And I’m just hearing about this now because . . . ?”

I shook my head in frustration. “Because I didn’t like it. The part about Dad being romantic and lovable. I tried to forget it, actually.”

“But she said he was.”

“Yup.”

“So . . .” I could hear his reluctance in the hesitation that preceded “We have to believe her.”

I sighed again, more wearily this time. “Yeah, I guess we do. But maybe he was just faking being nice to get the girl. Whatever it was, she believed him.”

“And you think Scott’s a nice guy too,” my brother said with intimate understanding.

“And more.”

“And your point is that you think he could turn into Dad, since Dad was probably all sweetness and light before we knew him.”

“Yup.”

“And the other half of the point,” he continued with unerring accuracy, “is that you could become Dad.”

“There are no guarantees, Trey. We were raised with him. We absorbed some of him in all those years. We had to.”

“Or maybe we had such good seats at the Jim Davis horror show that it scared us straight. Ever think of that? Maybe we’re not going to become him because we’ve seen him up close and personal—and because he was so revolting to us.”

Something cold trickled through the marrow of my spine. “I hate him.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “You’ve never said that before,” Trey said quietly, with no reproach.

I sighed and squeezed my eyes shut. “I’ve never felt quite this derailed before.”

“It’s . . .” He paused. “I don’t think it’s a good thing for you to suddenly decide you hate him, Shell.”

“Maybe I’ve spent too much time making excuses for him. That’s what you used to tell me, remember?”

“But refusing to hate him is what kept you sane.”

“No, Trey, it’s what kept me barely functional. And there aren’t very many upsides to that. Not for me, anyway.”

He understood. I could hear it in his sigh. “Don’t hate him.”

I remembered Scott’s face when he’d left my apartment and couldn’t quell the heat of fury in my blood. “Dad did this to me,” I said.

“Yeah, but he’s not around to fix it. So hating him isn’t going to do anything except wear you down.”

I wasn’t sure I could withstand more wearing down. There were enough other factors in my life competing for the honor. Still, I hated him just then with a very childish passion.

“Hating people bleeds a person dry, Shell. It does. You’re better off using that energy to figure yourself out.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“I think you should try.”

The international connection hummed as we fell silent, me with my pain and Trey with his compassion. “Have I told you I love you, Trey?”

“Uh—that’s a bit of an abrupt topic change, there, Shelby.”

“There’s a line in the play where Joy finally gets to tell Lewis she loves him—right before she dies—and I’m worried I haven’t told you often enough.”

“You’re not dying, are you?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Good—then I’ll allow the comparison with Lewis and Joy, but only because you’re emotionally distraught. And I know you love me. There isn’t a moment in my life that I haven’t known that. So it’s okay that you haven’t said it as much as you wanted to. It got said other ways.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” We let a pause lengthen. “Think you can sleep now?” he asked.

“Probably not, but I can give it a shot.”

“How undoable is this Scott thing? Can you reverse the engines?”

“Not sure. I need to decide first if it’s worth the risk.”

“Well, take it from someone who’s lived through your worst PMS and gone jeans shopping with you. Any guy would be lucky to have you.”

“I’m damaged goods.”

There was a tense silence. “Okay, now you’ve made me mad. Don’t ever say that about yourself again, Shell!”

“Okay,” I said in a very small voice.

“Jim Davis might have been your father, but you’re worlds apart from him. Planets. Don’t give him the power to make you damaged goods—not even in your head.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now go to bed!” There was a smile in his voice again and it warmed my innards.

“To the brotherhood, buddy.”

“And the Davishood, Sis. For better or for worse.”

We hung up.

In the quiet that followed, God spoke. I didn’t hear a voice. I didn’t sense a presence. But a revelation blossomed in the space between my heart and mind, so elemental in its simplicity that it blanketed the ragged edges of my anger with gossamer appeasement.

God hadn’t been idle while my father’s words and actions had threatened my sanity and bruised my dreams. He hadn’t been passive when rage had battered me and fear had shackled me. He had given me Trey. He had given me a living, breathing, comforting warrior whose devotion had mirrored his own. It wasn’t he who had so wounded me—it was he who had rescued me. And though the consequences of my father’s depravity were still mine to bear, I knew at that moment, more clearly than I had ever known, that God had been faithful. And it was because he’d been there that the horror had been survivable.

The thought quelled my anger but not my grief as I walked slowly, heavily toward my bedroom.