Runaway Saint


By LISA SAMSON

Thomas Nelson

Copyright © 2014 Lisa Samson
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-59554-546-6


CHAPTER 1

Happy Birthday to Me


I'm thirty years old and Istill believe in ghosts. I believe in ghosts because I have one. He's likean imaginary friend, only with a bit more heft. Unlike an imaginaryfriend, he doesn't go away when I don't need him anymore and surely, atmy age, I don't.

Today is my birthday.

My mother, Rita, has arranged a birthday lunch, a typical mother-daughteractivity, which is weird in and of itself. I'm meeting her atGrove Street Artisan, a bakery two blocks down the street. It is March,forty-five degrees and ready to rain any second, but she's sitting outsideat one of the round, black iron tables, the chairs chained together likepetals around it. Her bike leans, chained, against the iron railing surroundingthe patio. What looks like a crumpled ball of paper tied withtwine sits perfectly centered over the umbrella hole. She's a beautifulfifty-something woman, her long white hair, having begun graying inher early twenties, a little ghost unto itself when viewed from behind.This morning that hair is contained by a long braid wrapped twicearound her head. My mother's features are delicate, unlike my own,which match my father's.

She sleeps year-round in a tent on an organic farm where she worksand lives.

It's fine. Go ahead and let that sink in.

"Don't open it here," she says, indicating the present. She rises fromher chair to kiss either side of my face. "You're all by yourself, I see." Shepinches the side of my hair close to my head between the blades of herindex and middle finger. "I like the cut. Makes you look like a pixie. Butthe color is new, isn't it?" She sits back in her chair, the thick fabric of herbaja bunching around her middle. There's not much of a middle. "I got it!"She snaps her fingers. "Baby, most people go blond, they don't cover it upwith red! That's what feels so different here!" She places her left work boot,complete with the steel toes necessary for chores like chopping wood ordigging fence posts, on her right knee, then gasps. "What if the Universegave you blond hair for a reason, and the reason happens tomorrow?!"

The Universe.

This from the woman who taught me that a TULIP wasn't just aflower but a system of theology worth dying for.

Well, we don't believe everything our parents tell us, do we? Butsometimes they leave an unwanted residue.

"Mom, I've always wanted red hair, so at least I'll have one moreitem off my bucket list before I kick that bucket."

"Baby, death is a misnomer."

I pivot one of the petals away from the table and sit down, notingeverything seemingly corporate and industrial-complex about my jeanseven though they're fair trade and cost me a fortune. "It's just me today.Finn has done a runner right on the morning of the big 3-0. No coffee.The sheets on Finn's side of the bed cold. He left early without leavingso much as a note. It's some kind of birthday mission," I tell her. "He wasdropping hints all night, but I couldn't get him to spill the secret."

She smiles.

"You know, don't you?" I ask.

She nods. "And that's how it's going to stay."

I rest my chin in my hand. "I figured. So, ready to eat?"

"I was going to order, but it would be better if you picked out what youwant. I don't want to lay that on you," she says, leaning forward across thetable and taking my hand in her small, well-muscled one.

Honestly, though. You just can't help but love someone that earnestabout individual freedom, both yours and hers. Hers first, of course.

We head inside to the counter together, her homemade drawstringpants, a touch too short, flapping around ankles encased in high-qualitywoolen socks. She may not have much, but what she has will last the restof her lifetime and probably mine.

We cast our eyes over the pastries under glass, each one carefullycomposed and artful. I love this place. When our turn comes, Mom ordersa piece of cake and a café latte, which she insists on having made withcoconut milk instead of the real thing. "Poor cows," she says, watchingthe counter-girl put a hefty slab of carrot cake on a plain white plate. "Notthat the rest of the cow is any better." She takes the plate as it's offered. Shesure didn't feel the need to change her sweet tooth all those years ago, andI'm glad. "If human beings would stop drinking cow's milk and eatingtheir bodies, the average life span would rocket up to a hundred and fifty.Not to mention how much better it would be for the cows themselves."

I can see her logic, but as for me, "I don't want to live in a worldwithout hamburgers, Mom."

"Baby, even not considering the cows, it's time to start valuingyourself more. That's the way the Universe works, you know. It won'tlook out for you if you don't start looking out for you first. It all workstogether. You and God. God and you. All together in one big Universe."

Mom is a big believer in the Universe. Manifestation. Think andyou will become.

Finn calls her the Buddha of Baltimore, and it all sounds fine comingout of her mouth, but Finn hasn't known her as long as I have. Theonly side he's seen of my mother is this free-spirited, crazy person whodoesn't want to get involved in such a way that might actually affect hislife. He's good with that. And when we visit her at her tent, it's Finn whotakes creek walks with her and helps with the meals on the camp stove.

The Grove Street Artisan opened up maybe six months ago. Myclothes all seemed to fit a little looser back then. As it is, the bakery sitsaside the path I walk every day from home to work and back again. Theowner, Madge, copper-skinned and freckled, comfortably plump, vivacious,always ties back a headful of tiny, honey-brown braids that godown almost past her knees with a sky-blue scarf. It's one of my favoritecolor combinations.

"Oh, this weather, yeah, Sara?" Madge calls across the counter, rubbingflour-caked hands on the front of her apron as Mom pays for ourbreakfast, pulling a small cloth change purse, probably from Peru, fromher pants pocket. Madge has the loveliest lilt to her voice, like she learnedEnglish in a Masterpiece Theater boarding school but spent her holidaysin a Caribbean shantytown. Apparently everybody in Trinidad speaksthat way. "You think it's gonna stay like this, all gray and depressin'?"

"Better not. It's my birthday," I say.

"Well, happy birthday, Sara. At least that's not depressin', yeah?"

She has no idea.

Madge's former position as a baking instructor at the FrenchCulinary Institute ensures our neighborhood not only these decadentbutter croissants fresh every morning but breads and pastries, someof them fancy enough to be served at Baltimore's best restaurants. Butshe's our best-kept secret. I save her croissants for a special treat, becauseotherwise I'd send Finn out for a batch every morning until my clothesstopped fitting. But it's my birthday. I take one back to an inside tablewith me, along with my coffee.

Mom bites into her cake, pronounces it a work of art, and then startspoking it apart. Something's on her mind.

"What is it?" I ask, knowing better. Why do I do that?

"Nothing," she says. "Have you heard from the Old Man yet today?"

Ugh.

Her lips turn down. "Of course you have. You probably had a cardfrom him yesterday."

I don't tell her she's right about the card. "Not today, not yet."

Ever since she left him, she's called my father, a professional calligrapherin a world that's gone digital, the Old Man. In her mind, everythingabout him is unliberated, chained down, and suffocating. He's lived hislife looking backward, with a sense that the more we progress, the morewe have lost, while Mom fancies herself a progressive thinker, anticipatingand embracing whatever is next, even if it means going back to thepast as long as it's a past she can relate to. Dad, however, is her last holdoutin her journey to accept all things and all people that the Universe bringsher way. Wu wei, she calls it. I have no idea what that even means, but Ithink it's from the Tao Te Ching or something like that.

All I can say to that is, thank God somebody was stable.

"Oh, I'm sure he will," she says with a magnanimity born of a suddensense of superiority. "I've got a rad new idea for a T-shirt, baby. Doyou think you could help me with the design?"

"What will it say?" You just never know with Mom.

"Wherever you go, there you are."

"Mom. That's been done before."

Her eyes widen. "Really?"

"Yes."

"But that's so Zen! Really?" She seems delighted. "I just tappedinto something bigger all on my own? Don't you just love it when thathappens?"

"I think I'm too busy for that sort of cosmic symbiosis to occur. Plus,I'm not sure if God really works that way or not. I mean, yes, truth is truth.But it has to come from a reliable source to mean anything, doesn't it?"

"Then, baby, if it's not happening, you're just too busy."

"I'm happy with my life the way it is, Mom."

"You know something, baby? We tell ourselves we're happy, whenwhat we really are is content. Contentment is nothing but the convictionthat things are 'good enough,' and we let our fear convince us thatif we try to make them better, we risk losing everything. Well, I don'tbelieve that, Sara. We tell ourselves the only reason to make a changeis because we're miserable. But change is the natural order. The peoplewho realize that and embrace it, they're the ones who discover realhappiness."

"You mean living like a hermit in a tent in Baltimore County?"

She gazes at me with imperturbable serenity. I really wish I couldperturb that serenity once in a while. That's our mother-daughterdynamic in a nutshell.

"If that's what it takes, yes," she says, letting the subject drop.

I finish the last of my croissant, licking the shiny residue off myfingertips.

"So what's next on your special day, baby?"

"After this, I'll probably check in at the office, even though I promisedmyself a day off. Don't worry. I won't do any work—I won't even sitdown at my desk. I'll just banter a little bit with Huey, see how the newposters are coming out, then make sure Diana knows who to call aboutsecuring the booth at the Wedding Expo, since I have a feeling Finnwon't have passed along the info. Maybe I'll chat with Madge a little andtake a bag of croissants into the office with me. No, wait, I'm not evensupposed to go into the office today."

"There's something we need to talk about, baby," Mom says.

The somberness of her tone sets me off guard.

She glances out the window at a woman passing on the sidewalk,a mother in tight jeans and high boots with a phone pressed to her ear,pushing a big-wheeled stroller loaded with twins. Her brow furrows,leading me to imagine all kinds of possibilities: she's been diagnosedwith cancer, she's filing for bankruptcy, there's another lawsuit, ormaybe even a new man.

"Mom, what's wrong?"

She gives an eloquent, helpless shrug. "I don't know how to break itto you, so I'm just going to say it. Bel is back."


* * *

Bel is back. Belinda. Aunt Bel. My mom's baby sister, a missionary inKazakhstan who dropped off the map about fifteen years ago after mygrandparents died.

To understand the importance of her return is to understandmy family, something I'm not able to do. I would look at her photoon my grandparents' mantel when I was a kid. Aunt Bel gazed at mewith hooded eyes, as if she concealed some secret understanding, herfull mouth upturned slightly at one corner, like the cryptic women ofRenaissance art. She was a blond and beautiful teenager, her chin tiltedin defiance at whoever was taking the picture.

My grandmother organized her church's missionary conferenceevery year, so you can imagine how they felt about their youngerdaughter. Growing up, I knew Bel was the favored one, the holy one, theMahatma Gandhi if they would dare to even bring up someone from,gasp, India of all places. She was part of God's plan to save the elect fromthe fires of hell, and if that isn't the mission of all missions, nothing is.

"First I got this strange postcard in the mail," Mom says. "Therewas a picture on the front, one of those churches with the golden oniondomes. The postmark was from Romania, and it said she was thinkingof me and thinking about home. I didn't recognize the handwriting atfirst and she didn't sign the card, but I knew it had to be her. After allthese years. So weird."

"She's here in the States?"

Mom nods. "She got back over the weekend. As soon as she got toyour father's house, she called the farm and left a message saying shewanted to see me."

"Wow," I say. "She's at Daddy's?"

"Yes, if you can believe that. Apparently they've kept in touch allthese years. Just every so often, but still. That was news to me."

"Where else is there to go, then, I guess."

"I guess. It's been so long. This will sound terrible, but I kind ofthought of her as if she were dead."

"It's not like she kept in touch," I say.

"Of course you were too young to understand what was happeningat the time, but the whole thing was very traumatic. I mean, you don'tgo overseas for the summer and then decide you're never coming back.That's crazy. She was only nineteen. Your grandfather was going to flyover there and get her, whether she wanted to come or not."

This is more info than she's ever given me. "Did he go?"

She shakes her head. "Your grandmother laid down the law, the wayshe does. As far as my mom was concerned, Aunt Bel was a saint. Shecould do no wrong. And having a missionary in the family? Over themoon. It was because Aunt Bel gave her so much trouble as a teenager.When she straightened herself out, when she became so devout, well, thatwas Mom reaping her reward. 'Train up a child in the way she should go.'"

"Did they ever see her again?"

"No. And even so, Aunt Bel was golden in her eyes." The bitternessin her tone comes as a surprise. Not that she feels it, but that she'sallowing herself to express it, and me to see it. "Anyway, I think it wasme who finally convinced him not to go. Just wait, I said, and Bel wouldcome home on her own."

"You were right."

She laughs. "I guess I misjudged how long it would take her. Do youremember much about her?" she asks as if she hopes the answer is no.

All I can do is shrug. My actual memories of my aunt Bel are allmixed up, just a fuzzy set of half-remembered sensations. She'd leftfor the field when I was four. I have some warm but vague recollectionsfrom family Christmas parties, Aunt Bel always my biggest fan,throwing me in the stroller to go hang out with friends. I seem to recalla tall, lissome girl sitting on the floor, holding me in her lap as I openedpresents. No word she ever spoke to me is preserved in memory. Only avague aftertaste of her presence, the sweetness diminishing each year,but never fully gone, remains.

"Here's the thing," Mom says. She's done with her cake, but uses herfork to tap the empty plate. "I don't think she's here for a visit. She plansto stay for good. She doesn't have a job, obviously, and I doubt she hasmuch money, though she's living on something. She's going to need aplace to stay. Walter doesn't have the room."

She shifts the crumbs on her plate here and there, long enough forme to see where this conversation is leading.

"What about your place?" I ask. "She's your sister."

She raises an eyebrow. "I don't think she had living in a tent in mindwhen she got on the plane to come back, baby. But I figured you mightwant to put her up, since you and Finn have a lot in common with her,you know. Being religious, I mean."

For Mom the word religious means signing on the dotted line ofconformity that you will hereby cease and desist all autonomy and freedom.That all decisions have been taken out of your hands and intothe grips of prideful old men with loads of money—if not their money,yours. Mom is very spiritual, as she's quick to point out, but not at allreligious.

I'm not sure how I feel anymore about all of that. Really. If Aunt Belseems mysterious, Jesus is even more so. He seems so different from allthe ways God has been presented, and while I've rejected the notion thathe was hanging on the cross with just a few people in mind, I just can'tsee him as anything else. I've never had one of those experiences whereJesus came into any kind of focus. So I just trust that he's like Finn says,full of grace and truth, whatever that even means.

"And you have so much more room," she adds. "At least I guess so."

"Finn won't go for it."

"Baby, he'll go for anything you want. That boy is putty in yourhands. Compared to him, you're a rocket scientist, and yet he's smartenough to know that!" She seriously thinks she's giving us both acompliment.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from Runaway Saint by LISA SAMSON. Copyright © 2014 Lisa Samson. Excerpted by permission of Thomas Nelson.
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