In Broken Places

2




IT HAD TAKEN two flight attendants and a wheelchair to get Bonnie off the plane. Whatever she had taken to help her sleep had all but knocked her unconscious. I’d stayed on board until a doctor had pronounced her alive (which the raucous snores, to my unmedical mind, had already confirmed), then helped Shayla into her pink backpack and pulled my own carry-on toward the exit.

Although I’d made a halfhearted pass at listening to language CDs in the weeks preceding my departure for Germany, the guttural sounds that assaulted my ears as soon as Shayla and I disembarked came as a nearly physical blow. The plane ride had convinced me that I was leaving the US, Bonnie had convinced me that I was in for some surprises, the landscape we had seen through the window had convinced me that this definitely wasn’t Kansas anymore, but it was the language and the impatient glares of airport personnel that truly brought reality crashing home. I was in Germany. Or Djoh-many. My four-year-old pseudo-daughter of six months and I had arrived in a foreign land where the language was as mysterious as everything else, including where I would live, what I would do, and how we would both survive the changes.

After a cursory glance at our passports and the luggage stacked on my cart, a portly customs agent motioned us toward electric doors that swooshed open and ushered us almost directly into the arms of a woman I had never seen before.

“Shelby, Shelby, Shelby,” she said, wrapping me in a bear hug that disconnected Shayla’s hand from mine. I didn’t want to seem rude, but Shayla’s safety at that moment was more urgent than returning the hug, so I pushed away and quickly scanned the space around me for Shayla’s blonde head.

I had been amazed, in the weeks following her arrival in my life, at how instantly and dramatically my view of the world had changed. I’d never been responsible for someone else’s safety before, and a guardian’s heart, until then buried under layers of determined singleness, had surged to the surface the moment Shayla had come into my care. It was that ferocious protectiveness that gripped my chest in panic as I looked around the arrival hall and failed to see Shayla’s pink backpack in the crowd. With fear fueled by jet lag, I gripped the arm of the woman who had been hugging me moments before and stuttered, “Where’s . . . where’s Shayla?”

“Whatsa mattoh, Shelby?” came Shayla’s sunny voice, a little rough around the edges from lack of sleep.

She was right next to me, her head level with mine, her supple body completely at ease in a stranger’s arms.

“I’m Gus Johnson,” he said amiably, extending his hand and meeting my startled gaze with a Santa Claus chuckle. “And this woman who forgot to introduce herself before she grabbed you is my lovely wife, Bev.”

I looked from Gus to Bev, at a loss for words. “Oh . . .” I attempted a smile and expelled a tight breath. “Hi.”

“I’m so sorry, Shelby,” Bev said, her arm coming around my shoulders in a maternal hold. “I was just so happy to see you that I forgot all my manners.” Her Southern accent had a soothing quality that threatened to unleash unexpected tears. “And this,” she continued, reaching out to flick Shayla’s nose, “must be beautiful Shayla.”

“It is,” I said, snapping my brain into gear. “And it’s wonderful to meet you after all this time. Thank you so much for driving so far to pick us up.”

“No trouble at all,” Bev said. “We love a good excuse to get out of town now and then.”

Shayla, who was amazingly unfazed at being held by a strange man, smiled tiredly in Bev’s direction and settled more heavily against Gus’s chest. I blamed his appearance for her lack of concern—his graying hair, rosy cheeks, rounded belly, and sparkling eyes evoked Christmas trees and presents.

“Say hello, Shayla,” I prompted. “This is Bev and Gus Johnson. Remember the e-mails I read to you? They’re going to help us get settled.”

“Did you see my new house?” she asked, a yawn distorting her delicate features.

“We sure did,” Bev answered. “I even went over there last night and put some flowers in your bedroom for you.”

Shayla looked at me with a “she’s nice” smile, and I reached out to squeeze her arm in agreement. There was something about Bev that inspired familiarity and confidence. She had a direct gaze and an energy that made her chubby, five-foot-three frame somehow seem taller than it was. She stood there grinning at us in her patchwork vest, white turtleneck, and denim skirt, and her smile held all the warmth and welcome of her Southern heritage. Though she’d hidden her graying hair under an artificial shade of reddish brown, she still exuded a grandmotherly charm that had made me like her on sight.

“Looks like this little one is ready for a nap,” Gus said, plopping Shayla in the basket of our luggage cart. Her legs draped over the edge and her feet rested on the stack of suitcases. “How ’bout we head to the car and get you ladies home?” He set off toward some elevators, carrying on a warm, one-sided conversation with the small pink bundle sitting atop the cart.

“I’m so happy you’re finally here,” Bev said as she linked arms with me and followed Gus through the crowd pressed around the customs exit. “We’ve been counting the hours. Haven’t we, Gus?”

“Indeed we have,” he said over his shoulder, turning just long enough to wink in my direction.

And that was the moment the enormity of it all hit home. After so many weeks of frantic preparations and adrenaline-fueled activity, I had expected the breaking point to come. And I’d imagined that something upsetting like a disappointment or confrontation or frustration or one of Shayla’s temper tantrums would set it off—but a mirthful wink from a friendly soul? This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen. It was embarrassing and completely out of my control. As Bev ushered me out of the elevator and into the parking garage, my tears began to fall. I told myself to think positive, and still they fell. I told myself that I was making a terrible first impression, and still they fell. I told myself that I was supposed to be the grown-up in this scenario, and still the tears welled up and overflowed my self-control. Bev, who seemed to have witnessed this kind of thing before, merely handed me a handkerchief, patted my arm, and prattled on about airports and airline food and Gus’s driving.

I had always prided myself on being able to stifle the kind of emotion that was presently overwhelming me and, in order to do so, had developed various techniques. The National Enquirer technique required losing myself in the pages of a tabloid until my own woes seemed minor compared to women birthing chimps and aliens running for the presidency and Madonna claiming to be the reincarnation of King Tut. The Jon Stewart technique involved imagining what the caustic comedian might say about my emotional demonstration, like “Ladies and gentlemen, it seems icebergs are indeed melting” or “And this just in: the women’s liberation movement has just been set back fifty years by the sheer spinelessness of an Illinois woman” or even “Yo, Shell, mascara landslides are not a good look for you.”

My most effective approach, which I reserved only for desperate occasions like tears in very public places, was the Daddy Dearest technique. This was the most brutal of my emotion-avoidance mechanisms, and it was a surefire solution to my more acute meltdowns. “Look at you,” my dad’s voice would say in my head, his words dripping with acid, “carrying on like a two-year-old. You’re an embarrassment, Shell. A disgusting humiliation. Stop your whining! Grow up! No one is ever going to give you the time of day if you can’t get a grip on yourself. Get out of my sight until you’re ready to be an adult. No daughter of mine is a sissy. . . .”

And on and on his voice would drone, as it was droning now, though it had serious competition from Bev. By the time we reached the car, I’d been battered back into good-girl mode, completely in control and with the lid screwed firmly on. Shayla had fallen asleep in the cart, bent over at an impossible angle, and Gus lifted her into the rear car seat as if he’d had plenty of practice.

“Poor dear,” Bev said as she reached into the car to fasten Shayla’s seat belt. “Did she do okay on the flight?”

I nodded. “She fell in love with the clouds.”

“Well then, she’s in the right country! It’s cloudy for most of the year around here.”

Gus closed the door behind me and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Brace yourself, Shelby,” he said. “You haven’t really driven until you’ve experienced the autobahn.”

“Gus,” Bev warned.

“I’ll be good, darlin’. I’ll be good.”

Bev turned in her seat to look back at me, one eyebrow raised. “Gus’s ‘good’ is everyone else’s ‘certifiable.’ I swear—he thinks the autobahn is a challenge to his manhood.”

I laughed in spite of myself and tunneled a finger into Shayla’s fist, feeling a wave of exhaustion weighing down my limbs.

“You’re going to be just fine, Shelby,” my new friend said. “You and that precious child are going to be just fine.”

“Seat belt on?” This from the man revving the engine in the front seat.

“Yes, sir,” I answered, too tired to be seriously concerned about the driving ahead.

Bev handed her husband the parking receipt and pointed him toward the exit. “Get driving, Evel Knievel. The sooner we hit the road, the sooner we get to feed these tired little ladies their very first meal on German soil.”



SEVEN MONTHS EARLIER

“What is it?” I asked.

“Shut up and eat it,” Trey said. He was in full-on chef mode and not amused by my dillydallying.

“Well, since you ask so kindly.” I speared a piece of meat with my fork and piled what looked like boiled Honey Smacks on top, wrinkling my nose at the cook before popping his latest concoction into my mouth. “Mmmm,” I said, my thumbs-up clarifying the unintelligible review of his masterpiece. I washed the first bite down with a healthy slug of Perrier and motioned for him to keep the food coming. “Hope you have a lot more of this back there, buddy. I’m in an eat-myself-into-oblivion kind of mood.”

“Again?”

“Cut the sarcasm.”

“Or . . . ?” He didn’t look in the least intimidated.

“Or I’ll sit on you.”

He made a production of hurrying back to the kitchen for more food, mock terror on his face.

“If that’s your attempt at making fun of my weight, you should know that I’ve lost five pounds in two weeks!”

“Good,” came his voice from the kitchen. “Another sixty-five and you’ll be back to your fighting weight.”

“You know, that may have been funny fifteen years ago, but it just sounds dumb coming from a man your age.”

“I’m sixteen months older than you,” he declared with conviction, reentering the room. “Therefore I’m entitled to say anything I please.” He set another plate down across from mine and folded his lanky, six-foot-one body into a wrought-iron chair.

“Oh, be quiet and grow some facial hair.”

Trey put his hand to his face, where nothing much had ever grown below the bush of honey-blond hair that shadowed earnest eyes. “Don’t threaten my manhood, Shell. I may be thirty-six and virtually hairless, but I’m doing my part for ecology. Think of the razor blades I’m saving.”

“And razor-blade trees all over the world thank you for sparing them.”

“Not to mention shaving-cream trees.” He dug his fork into the steaming food in front of him. “And for the record—and for the thousandth time—you’re not fat. Never have been, except in your mind. So get over yourself.”

I looked around the empty tearoom. “Slow day?”

He smiled around a forkful of French cuisine. “They heard you were coming.”

I mopped up some cream sauce with a piece of baguette. “You never told me what this is.”

“Escalope de poulet à la zurichois.”

“English, please.”

“Chicken breast in cream sauce, with a zing of onion and a soupçon of herbes de Provence.”

“I’ll call it Trey’s chicken.”

“Works for me,” he said, rising from the table to open the door for an elderly customer.

I watched him at work, pleased by the enthusiasm on his face that belied the strain around his eyes.

Trey was a passionate dreamer, which meant that he usually met his goals, but at the cost of extreme physical and emotional exhaustion. He was a walking contradiction. Always had been—which I blamed on our parents. From our mom he’d gotten an innate kindness and an appreciation of art, travel, and haute cuisine. And from our dad he’d gotten the kind of drive that had made him a high school soccer star. He was the only teenager I’d ever known whose top grades were in both phys ed and home ec, and though he’d majored in sports education during a truncated college stint, his higher ambitions had found their fulfillment in L’Envie, the homey French bakery and tearoom that also served lunch, from noon to two, to a handful of devoted fans. There was only one meal offered each day, on what Trey called his “Like It or Lump It” menu, but the dishes were so tasty and unique that none of his customers complained.

It was the contrasts I found most endearing in my brother. This chef-slash-coach who had been perceived for most of his life as a sissy-slash-jock had evolved into a functional paradox of the highest caliber, a human being whose spirit and wit and aspirations and compassion far surpassed the best prognoses for a product of our family. Though the term family only vaguely applied to us.

Trey ushered his customer out of the store and returned to the table where I sat in front of an empty plate. “Still living in the pantry?” I asked.

He smiled. “It’s not a pantry, Shell.”

“You know, I’m pretty sure there are apartments for rent in town.”

“And I will look into those,” he said patiently, “just as soon as I pay off the stove and the bathroom remodel.”

“How many of your customers actually use that bathroom, Trey?”

“Not many. But those who do absolutely love the Italian tile and French art.”

My brother the aesthete. He’d slept on a cot in a tiny room at the back of the bakery for the past few months to save enough money to transform a cesspool of a bathroom into an international artistic delight. Buying an imported industrial stove, I could understand. It was the kind of investment an astute businessman would make. But a bathroom? I shook my head in despair, neither for the first nor for the last time, I was sure.

“Want more?” he asked, eyeing my empty plate.

I shook my head. “I’m holding out for a decadent dessert later.”

He observed me closely and I felt again that warm flow of recognition. We sparred a lot. We loved more. And when Trey looked into me like he was doing right now, I knew that my darkest demons were not only safe, but understood.

“Made a decision yet?” He’d been the first to know about Shayla.

“Yup. I think I’ll keep voting Republican unless Roseanne Barr runs again.”

“Good,” Trey said. “I was worried something stupid like becoming a mom might interfere with your political wranglings.”

I sighed. “Dana and I went to see her a week ago.”

He put his fork down and clasped his hands in front of him. “And it’s taken you this long to tell me about it?”

“I’ve been . . . Trey, if you could see inside my brain right now, you’d be calling the guys in the white jackets.”

“What’s she like?”

For the hundredth time, my mind went through an inventory of Shayla’s most endearing features. “She’s beautiful. Luminous. Artistic. Precocious. Sweet . . .”

“So not a chip off the old block is what you’re saying.”

“She seems to be everything he wasn’t.”

“And . . . ?”

“And . . . Trey, I’m terrified.”

“Good. Then you’re getting the big picture.”

“I like my life,” I said on a sigh.

Trey raised a dubious eyebrow.

“I do!” I repeated with greater conviction. “I like that there’s only me in it. I’m the only one making decisions and living with their consequences. And I’m the only one decorating my house and paying my bills and picking out DVDs. Just me. It’s not selfish; it’s effective management.”

“Yup.”

“It’s a good life, Trey. I do what I want when I want, I eat what I like, I go where I please. . . .”

“Uh-huh.”

“My life is just the way I want it.”

“Sure.”

“Stop agreeing with me!”

“All right. I disagree.”

A brimming silence passed between us. “What part do you disagree with?”

“Oh, you know. The great-life, just-the-way-I-want-it part.”

“You don’t think my life is good?”

“I don’t think your life is as good as you think it is. There’s a difference.”

I let his words sink in, tasting them like one of his exotic concoctions before voicing my reaction. “So you think I should go ahead with it.”

“I think you shouldn’t let your ‘perfect life’ stand in the way of something meaningful.”

“But Trey—”

“I know, Shell.”

“She’s his. His, Trey.”

“And for reasons I won’t even try to understand, he wanted her to be yours.”

“I’d rather inherit his watch. Seriously. I really liked his watch. You know, the gold one with the filigree and the chain and—”

“Yeah, Shelby. I know the watch.”

“They need my answer soon. So they can look for other options if I don’t take her.”

“How soon?”

“A week or two. I might be able to buy more time if I bribe Dana with some of your esclep di pol . . .”

He smiled. “I hate it when you try to speak French.”

“I love that you hate it.”

“Do it, Shell. What do you have to lose?”

His question dumbfounded me. “Uh . . . let me see now.” I made an I’m-calculating face. “Yup. Just as I thought. Everything. I’ve got everything to lose.”

“Okay, so think about how much you have to gain.”

“Like what? How can I possibly know if there’s anything to gain from any of this?”

“You can’t. Not until you dive in.”

“This is me, Trey. I’m not good at diving. And certainly not at diving blind.”

“Look on the bright side. You’ve lost five pounds in two weeks. Shayla might be the best diet plan you’ve ever attempted.”

“But what if she becomes just the latest one I’ve failed?”



“And this,” Gus said, “is Lady Shayla’s bedroom.” He rolled her suitcase across the room and turned to us. “It’s little, but it’s cozy. And that bed right there—” he pointed toward the small bed below the room’s sole window—“is the most comfy bed in the whole town of Kandern.”

Bev spoke softly by my side as Shayla and Gus tried out the bedsprings. “I made up both beds for you, so you’re all set for now. There’s no hurry to get the sheets back to me. I’ve stocked your kitchen cupboards with the essentials, and there’s a water kettle and fresh bread on the counter. That should get you through ’til morning.”

So this was home. The past twenty-eight hours of travel and discovery had been a prelude to this. I glanced around the small apartment with the stark white walls and large windows, taking in the hand-me-down furniture and lacy white curtains, and the exhaustion of too much stress descended on me like a lead-filled blanket. I wanted to sleep—desperately so. But I also needed to absorb some of the realness of this moment.

The ride to Kandern from the Frankfurt airport had been memorable, punctuated with multiple near-death experiences caused by Gus’s enthusiastic driving. It had taken all the self-control I could muster to keep from throwing my body over Shayla’s as a sort of human shield against the collision I knew was bound to happen sooner or later. Driving on a German autobahn was much like playing bumper-car tag at ninety-five miles per hour, but Gus, Bev, and Shayla had seemed oblivious to the danger. While the two adults had carried on a hearty conversation, Shayla had slept, her body warm and supple against my arm.

“That’s Europa-Park,” Gus had said after a couple hours of driving. “You’ll have to take Shayla there.”

“What is it?”

“An amusement park. Costs an arm and a leg to get in, but it’s great fun. The school goes every year. We put our problem kids on the worst roller coasters and see if we can scare them straight.”

“Gus . . .” Bev shook her head—again—and turned to whisper, “He exaggerates.”

“I’m sittin’ right here. I can hear you, darlin’.”

“Only when you want to, love.”

As we got nearer to Kandern, the Johnsons described in detail every point of interest we passed, but my mind was more on fear of death than on churches, ruins, and distant mountain peaks. Every time Gus turned to point at something, I pushed an imaginary brake pedal and prayed we wouldn’t become the losers in a Porsche-versus-old-beater crash. It was a relief when we finally took the Müllheim exit and merged onto smaller roads that hugged the vineyards.

“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” Bev said. “I’ve got a pot roast cooking and plenty of caffeine to perk you up! Oh, and there are two families in town who have some furniture to donate, if you want it, so we might go out this afternoon and see if it’s your cup of tea or not. How does that sound?”

I smiled at her kindness and reached over to stroke Shayla’s hair, hoping she’d wake slowly from her deep, jet-lagged slumber. “You’ve gone to so much trouble,” I told Bev, moved by the Johnsons’ solicitousness. “If you’d rather just drop us off at our place and let us muddle through on our own, that’s fine too.”

“Nonsense,” Gus said. “You’re our special guests and we take that kind of thing seriously in the South . . . even if this is southern Germany. Besides, if we leave you alone, you’re likely to sleep the day away, and that’s just begging for jet lag to beat you. Nope, we’re going to get you through your first day in style, Shelby Davis. It’s the least we can do for important people like you!”

I observed the countryside as we drove the last miles to the beginning of my new life. The towns were small, some no larger than villages, and it seemed there wasn’t a straight road to be found in them. We curled down main streets that wove along streams and tree lines, crowded at times by too-close homes in various shapes and sizes that made the roads and sidewalks appear impossibly narrow.

I loved the gentle slope of hills, the rhythmic lines of vineyards, and the surprising contrast of ancient and modern. Some barns looked centuries old and on the verge of collapse, but they were often flanked by homes so avant-garde in design and color that the two seemed to belong on separate planets. There were small Gasthaus restaurants everywhere, and I longed to stop at one and try my first German meal in a courtyard under a canopy of rustling vines. But Bev and Gus had different plans for us, and we rushed toward Kandern in a blur of speeding traffic and overlapping narratives to arrive at their home just in time for lunch.

Shayla woke with difficulty from her too-brief nap, clinging to my neck as I pulled her from the backseat and whining weakly every time I tried to put her down. Bev ushered me into their home and directly to an armchair, where I collapsed with Shayla, grateful for the high armrests that helped me support her weight. Though Shay’s eyes were half-open, her mind was clearly still on pause, so I was content to sit there with her in my arms, listening to the Johnsons as they scurried around the kitchen in preparation for our meal. A few minutes later, while a whistling Gus took an electric knife to the pot roast, Bev joined me in the other room.

“Remind me how long you’ve had her?” Her eyes were compassionate as she watched me trying to balance Shayla and the before-lunch drink she had brought me.

“Six months,” I said to Bev, amazed at how permanent such a recent situation already felt.

She smiled and absentmindedly used her dishcloth to polish the silverware she was laying on the table. “What an amazing story you two share,” she said, her Southern accent melodious and sweet. “And what a miraculous thing that you’ve chosen this place to start your lives together.”

“Only because of you, Bev.”

“Are you kidding? When Gus asked me how I’d feel about watching Shayla while you’re teaching, it’s like God said, ‘There you go, Bev. There you go. You wanted to feel useful, and here’s your chance.’ I tell you, Shelby, the hardest part of this missionary thing is being away from my kids and my grandbaby. Shayla here, bless her little toes, is going to make it all a lot more bearable for me.”

“And for me. This single-mom routine is more complicated than I realized.”

“You’ll figure it out. There are tricks we moms develop that make life a lot easier.”

“Like always carrying a Disney Band-Aid in my purse?”

“And never mentioning what’s for dessert before she’s finished eating the rest of her meal. That’s another winner.” Bev shook her head in amazement. “A new mom—in a new country. There’s only so much ‘new’ a person can handle before it becomes a tad overwhelming.”

“I passed that point about six months ago.” I laughed. “And now I’m adding a new job and a new language to the mix. You think I might be overdoing it a bit?”

Bev chuckled. “And you haven’t seen the last of it. The students at this school are—how shall I put it?—unique.”

“I figured they would be, with missionary parents and international backgrounds.”

“Actually, in most ways, they’re not that different from American teens. They get in the same kind of trouble, believe me. But they’ve dealt with a lot heavier stuff than, say, a fifteen-year-old kid from North Dakota. So they develop some pretty interesting coping mechanisms. That’s where the unique part comes in. Old souls and quirky minds make for a great combo. And I wouldn’t be surprised if that uniqueness reached entirely new heights when they’re involved in a creative project.”

“Like acting in a play?”

“Exactly. So you, my dear, are in for a treat.”

“I’ve never directed a play before, Bev.”

“Gus hadn’t ever been a custodian before either, but he caught on pretty fast. Though I’m sure directing plays is a whole ’nother ball of wax.”

My worry was exacerbated by the fog of jet lag. “I don’t know, Bev. I’ve taught English for twelve years, so that part won’t be anything new, but . . . theater? I tried to tell them that I wasn’t qualified when they gave me my assignment, but no one seemed overly concerned about it.”

“Shelby, honey, a person learns two lessons mighty fast at Black Forest Academy. One, there’s no business like God’s business. And two, what you used to do, think, and be is entirely irrelevant to your presence in this place.” She snapped her dishcloth at me and flashed a conspiratorial smile. “But don’t tell anyone I warned you.”