Robert Whitlow - Deeper Water

"What was that all about?" I asked as soon as we reached the front steps. "Why mention all the rules to her? It sounded so juvenile."

Daddy put his hand on the side of the truck and faced me. "You'll do all those things and more, but it satisfied Mrs. Fairmont, didn't it?"

"Yes sir."

"It was for her benefit, not yours. She needs to see herself giving you more than a bed to sleep in at night."

We each carried a box into the house. Mrs. Fairmont was standing in the hallway with the door to the basement open.

"I'd better stay here," she said. "I don't want to chance my luck on the stairs."

Daddy followed me into the basement.

"It's a plain room," I whispered. "Mrs. Bartlett thinks the dog lives down here. It was rented out years ago when this was a boardinghouse."

I pushed open the door and stopped in shock. The efficiency apartment had been completely redecorated with new carpeting and furniture. I peeked into the bedroom. Light streamed in onto a pretty twin bed. There was a white chest of drawers with matching nightstand. I opened the door to a bathroom that was sparkling clean.

"It's been totally redone," I marveled.

I bounded upstairs.

"Mrs. Fairmont, it's beautiful! You shouldn't have gone to so much trouble."

"Gracie and her nephews did all the work. It was fine as a hideout for Flip when Christine came for a visit, but not fit for a young lady like you."

I leaned over and hugged her.

"Thank you," I said.

None of my secondhand furniture would look right in the garden apartment, so it only took thirty minutes to unload the truck. Everything else would spend the summer in Powell Station. It was work, but not as much as I'd expected. Mrs. Fairmont went into the den. Every time we passed the room on the way to the basement door, I could see her sitting in a chair, staring out the windows.

"I'll unpack the other things after the sun goes down," I said to Daddy after I hung my dresses up in a long, narrow closet in the bedroom.

We went upstairs. I knocked on the door frame of the den. "We're finished," I announced.

Mrs. Fairmont didn't respond. I couldn't see her face. I turned to Daddy, who gave me a questioning look. I walked softly across the room.

"Mrs. Fairmont? My father is leaving now. He'd like to say good-bye."

I reached the chair. Flip was curled up on the floor at Mrs. Fairmont's feet. The old woman continued staring. I reached down and gently touched her on the arm. She jerked so violently that I stepped back.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Mrs. Fairmont rubbed her temples. "I have a headache. Did you hear the bird flying around inside the house? We need to open all the doors and let it out. It came in through the veranda."

She pointed to a screened-in porch that overlooked the garden. I opened the door. All I saw was a set of beautiful wicker furniture and some green potted plants.

"Mrs. Fairmont," I said calmly, "there's not a bird in the house. The doors are all closed."

Mrs. Fairmont frowned and shook her head. "I heard it as plain as you talking right now. Be quiet and listen."

We were all silent. Mrs. Fairmont waited a few moments then sighed.

"It's gone." She looked up at me with sad eyes. "Or I had a hallucination. That can be part of my illness. What have I been doing?"

"Sitting in this chair and staring out the window while we brought in my things and put them in the basement."

"Gracie says I sit and stare at nothing. It's like my brain freezes up, and I don't know it. I'm so scared that IT put something on the stove and won't watch it."

"Maybe I can cook for you," I said.

Mrs. Fairmont stared out the window in silence so long that I thought she'd had another brain freeze. She turned in her chair and saw Daddy. He stepped forward and gently took her hand in his.

"It was nice meeting you," he said. "I have to leave now. It's a long drive home."

"Yes, it is," she responded then continued staring.

Daddy and I quietly left the room.

"Her condition may be more serious than her daughter realizes," Daddy said as we walked down the front steps. "Keep a record of what happens for her family and the doctors. And pray there will be a chance to tell her about Jesus."

"Yes sir."

We reached the truck.

"Are you going to be okay on the drive?" I asked.

"Remember, I've hauled freight to California. The nap refilled my tank. I'll be in Powell Station by bedtime."

I longed to go with him. He hugged me and deposited a last kiss on the top of my head.

"Call us."

I nodded, not wanting to speak as emotion welled up in my heart. Daddy got in the truck and pulled away from the curb. I watched him leave, turned, and went inside the house.

Mrs. Fairmont was sitting in the den. She'd turned on the TV to an afternoon show. She muted the volume and motioned for me to come into the room.

"I'm better now," she said. "I drank a sip of water, and it washed away the cobwebs of my mind."

"That's good."

"But I know that water isn't the cure for what's wrong with me. Did I say anything stupid? I hate embarrassing myself."

"You were staring out the window," I answered slowly as I debated whether to mention the imaginary bird.

Mrs. Fairmont continued. "Your father is a good man. I can tell by the way he looks at you that he loves you very much."

"Yes ma'am. I'm blessed to have my family."

Mrs. Fairmont pointed at the TV. "This show is about children abandoned by fathers who turn up years later looking for a handout after the child becomes a financial success. What do you think about that?"

I watched the silent images of people pointing fingers and arguing with each other. The camera flashed to the studio audience, some of whom were on their feet yelling. It gave me a queasy feeling.

"That the producer of the TV show is more interested in entertainment than solutions. I wouldn't watch something like this."

Mrs. Fairmont glanced at me with a frown on her face. "You're probably right, but I want to hear what the host tells them to do. Why don't you go downstairs and finish unpacking your things."

I WENT DOWNSTAIRS but didn't unpack. My first action was to pray that God would spiritually cleanse the beautifully decorated apartment. I went into the bedroom and knelt beside the bed. I prayed for about thirty minutes, then turned my focus to Mrs. Fairmont.

The spiritual warfare to be fought for the elderly woman's eternal destiny was real, and I would need all the help heaven could muster. I asked God for grace and the ability to discern his voice directing my steps. A few seconds later, a deep male voice faintly called my name. "Tami!"

I'd never heard the audible voice of God. My guidance had been less distinct, but nonetheless effective. I'd learned to trust the impressions that came to my spirit as divine communication, a birthright I enjoyed as one of God's children. Passages of Scripture about the experiences of Moses, Samuel, and Isaiah raced through my mind. I shut my eyes tighter and clenched my hands together. I quickly settled on the response of the boy Samuel when the Lord spoke to him in the middle of the night.

"Speak, Lord," I said under my breath. "Your servant is listening."

I waited. In a few seconds the voice spoke again, only louder.

"Tami Taylor!"

I kept my head bowed.

"Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening," I repeated.

I waited, but the voice didn't continue. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I opened my eyes, but the narrow bedroom was empty. I heard a loud knock that made me jump.

"Are you in there?" the voice repeated. "It's Zach Mays from the law firm."

I looked toward heaven and saw nothing except the white ceiling. At least I now knew that God didn't talk like the young lawyer from California.