Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [108]
I’d decided to use part of the two weeks to visit my father and Peter, who lately seemed to be involved in their own emotional-tug-of-war. Carl dropped me off at the airport on his way to Pine Knoll. The awkward quiet settled on us much like the dust on the fan: layers of it, months, years of bits of life, accumulated. We didn’t realize how much had built up on the fan until it stopped and forced us to see what was there. Melinda handed us the tools, but the business of cleaning hurt. After every session, she’d pray with us, and I’d want to reach for Carl's hand. I wanted my desire for him to find God and for us to find a church home to burn through to him. On Sundays, I’d visit a church, he’d visit the golf course, and we’d both visit a restaurant. So far, I hadn’t found a place to worship God, and Carl hadn’t found a God to worship.
This, too, will pass.
Carl pulled into the line for airline drop-offs. “Did you remember to bring cash?”
“Got the debit card,” I said. “I’m good. Oh, I decided to rent a car while I’m there, so I won’t have to depend on Dad or Peter to taxi me around.”
“When did you decide to do that? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I called yesterday for the reservation. With trying to pack for both of us, arrange Merry Maids, postpone the newspaper and the mail, and leave a check for the lawn-care service, I honestly didn’t think about it until we drove past the rental car sign. It's not like I’d keep it a secret; it's on the credit card.”
I shoved my sunglasses up as a headband and looked at Carl. I wanted him to see my eyes, to see the new Leah, who had made the responsible decision and thought ahead to make reservations. Not the old Leah whose entire month's check would hang in her closet, with the price tags cut off. He’d ask, “Is that new?” That Leah would answer, “No, silly. I’ve had this. You just don’t remember seeing it on me.”
“I would have appreciated if you would have mentioned it to me first. You know I hate surprises on the credit card. Did you ask Dr. Nolan about driving? You’re not driving in the city, are you? Since Katrina, you know it's not safe.”
We coasted to the Southwest Airlines zone. He parked and hopped out to roll my baggage to the Sky Cap. I waited for him at the curb. “I didn’t ask Dr. Nolan because I still have four months to go. I’m not going to drive in the city alone. I promise.”
He lifted the sunglasses off my head and handed them to me. He moved my floppy bangs aside; his hands dusted my forehead with tenderness. Carl's eyes traced the outline of my face like he was searching for something he could recognize. He placed a hand against my cheek and said, “You know I love you, don’t you?” I nodded.
“I just worry about you when you’re not with me. I don’t want anything to happen to you. That's why I ask and say the things I do. I care about you.” He kissed me on my forehead and hurried to the car.
Carl bathed his words in sincerity, and I wanted to honor what he’d expressed as love. But as I pulled my bags up and handed my tickets over, I felt as if the gift he’d tried to give me was one size too small.
44
I’m relaxed now,” I said to Peter. “Go ahead. Hit me with it. I know that's why I’m here. Spill.”
Four hours after Carl dropped me off at the airport, I sat in my brother's den with my feet propped on his ottoman to keep the rest of my body from disappearing into his sofa. He walked in from the kitchen, handed me a water bottle, and sat in a deep-chocolate leather armchair.
“Sorry. I’m rude,” I apologized. “Love the house, love the furniture. Did you pick one of everything