Alison Strobel - The Heart of Memory

She braced herself for the inevitable we-need-to-talk-to-Pastor-John speech. If he pulled that card, she would confront him about the mysterious receipts; she’d been holding onto that tidbit for when she needed to divert a probing conversation away from her and her behavior, though honestly she was afraid to hear his response.

But he did not threaten to call in the pastor; he didn’t even continue the conversation. Instead, without a word, Shaun walked past her and into his office, then shut the door.

She sank back onto the couch and held her head in her hands. She was glad he hadn’t kept on her about her night out, but she was also worried about why he hadn’t. Did their marriage not matter to him anymore? Did he not care that they were floating further and further apart, that they barely spoke anymore, that the air was thick with tension when they were alone together? The last time they’d struggled, back when A &A was first starting, he’d practically dragged Pastor John to their house after the service one Sunday, he was so desperate to start counseling and get things back on the right track. His ambivalence this time was disturbing.

She finished her piece of pie, then a third and fourth slice, ignoring the nausea in her stomach and going straight to bed when she was done. Wired from all the sugar, but physically exhausted from a day spent working so hard on the book, she lay unmoving in the bed and let her thoughts run wild. It took two hours for her to fall asleep. She never heard Shaun leave his office. She drifted into dreams making a checklist of ways she’d rebuild her life after he left her, because she was sure that was what he was going to do.

THE REST OF OCTOBER PASSED MUCH LIKE SEPTEMBER HAD: awkwardly. Shaun spent as much time away from home as he could, and Savannah spent as much time away from A &A as she could without it looking as though she was avoiding the place. Operation Old Savannah lasted a couple weeks, but by the end of the month she was exhausted from all the acting. And I didn’t even get an Oscar nomination.

She had successfully transitioned into a full-time loner. Marisa and Shaun were the only two people she spoke with anymore, and she avoided even that interaction as much as possible. Colleen, Andi, Mary, and Bethany had doggedly pursued her, and she had rebuffed them with equal perseverance. Doctor appointments, both real and fabricated, imaginary illnesses or threats of illnesses she’d “heard are going around,” and convenient bouts of depression or insomnia that required long stretches of daytime sleeping had given her plenty of excuses to throw at them when they wanted to get together. They’d even tried showing up on her doorstep uninvited. She didn’t answer the door. She’d banked on Shaun’s recent reticence to socialize to keep their husbands at bay as well, and he had unwittingly come through. Eventually, to her immense relief, they’d finally gotten the hint.

She spent the bulk of her days on her laptop, reading the transplant forum. Or she’d lose herself in novels to escape her new reality. She chose books at the library based on their thickness, and finished even the 800 page tomes in a matter of days. She avoided anything that might make her think about the impending book tour, though the increased severity of her sour stomach – which stole her appetite and the desire to cook-told her that her subconscious was dwelling on it night and day. When the beginning of the tour was finally upon her, she was almost relieved – the sooner she started it the sooner it would end.

The night before the first gig in Colorado Springs, she slept less than three hours and spent most of her awake time dry heaving in the bathroom. She assured Shaun that it was just nerves, and though she was telling the truth, she still felt deceptive. When she awoke in the morning, feeling like death and almost wishing for it, she couldn’t eat breakfast and worked herself into a panic – dropping her notes and scattering the unnumbered pages.

“Savannah, just breathe,” Shaun said, holding her hands in his. They had hardly touched in weeks; the intimacy of the gesture made her feel even worse. “I’ve never seen you such a wreck. Why are you so nervous?”

“I… I don’t know, Shaun. I don’t know. I just am.”

He nodded as though this made sense, then made her sit down while he reassembled her talk. “Here,” he said after setting down the stack of papers. He reached out for her hands again. “Let me pray for you.”

“Please don’t.” The words were out before she could stop them. He looked at her, confused. “I just… I’m afraid it will make me emotional. Even more emotional, that is. I don’t want to start crying and mess up my makeup.”

“Oh. Okay.”

A knock on the door announced Marisa had arrived to pick up Savannah. “Break a leg,” he said to her, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “I’m sure it’ll all come back to you. You’re a natural.”

She gave him a look that said, “What’s natural anymore?” His seemed to sadly agree.

“You ready?” Marisa asked when Savannah opened the door. Her face fell when Savannah’s expression registered. “Oh dear. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” She shut the door behind her, the folder of notes clutched tight in her hand. “Just nervous about getting back on the horse.”

“Okay.” Marisa sounded unconvinced. Savannah begged her telepathically not to comment further. She wasn’t sure how long she’d be able to keep things together.

They didn’t speak as they drove. When they arrived at the church that was hosting the event Savannah’s hands began to shake. She held them tightly in her lap. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. Make a crack about being out of practice. They’ll all understand. Just read the talk, get it over with, and you can go home.

And do it nine more times.

Marisa gave her a sharp look when she groaned. “Savannah?”

“I’m alright, really.”

They entered through the back door. She could hear her church’s worship band warming up on the stage when they entered the green room. Marisa opened a water bottle and passed it to Savannah, eyeing her closely but saying nothing. Savannah sat down and took a long drink, keeping up the chant in her head. She had no choice; she had to make this work.

The band stopped playing and came down into the green room. It was the first time any of them had seen Savannah since before her illness; they crowded her with hugs and congratulations, and the smile she forced made her cheeks ache. Marisa rescued her with a call to the stage for sound check. She followed Marisa up to the podium, where the sound tech threaded the wireless lav through her blouse and clipped the mic to the lapel. She tried to settle her nerves with the familiarity of the routine, and began pacing the stage as she spoke, getting a feel for its size as the tech fiddled with the levels from the booth. The familiar motions were comforting. If this was all she had to do, she’d be fine. If only she could encapsulate this feeling and pop it in pill form before coming up to speak.

Sound check ended and she switched off the battery pack for her mic and went back to the green room. Some of the band tried to engage her in conversation, but she extricated herself as quickly as she could and escaped to the women’s bathroom. The window there conjured movie scenes of people crawling out to freedom. She wondered briefly how far she’d get before Marisa came in to check on her.

She sat on a small stool with her back to the mirrors, not wanting to look at her own stricken face. Marisa, bless her, left her alone, and while she waited for her call she stared at a blank wall, trying to gather that blankness and superimpose it over the panic she was feeling. If she could just remove the emotion, the fear, she might get through this.