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  EMBRACE ME

  OTHER NOVELS BY LISA SAMSON

  Quaker Summer

  Straight Up

  The Church Ladies

  Tiger Lillie

  Club Sandwich

  The Living End

  Women’s Intuition

  Songbird

  © 2007 by Lisa Samson

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible and from the HOLY BIBLE: NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Samson, Lisa, 1964–

  Embrace me / Lisa Samson.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-59554-210-6 (pbk.)

  1. Women circus performers—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3569.A46673E47 2008

  813’.54—dc22

  2007048456

  Printed in the United States of America

  08 09 10 11 — 6 5 4 3 2 1

  FOR BILL, VAL, LIAM,

  FAMILY AND FRIENDS

  “To love means loving the unlovable. To forgive means pardoning the unpardonable. Faith means believing the unbelievable. Hope means hoping when everything seems hopeless.”

  —G. K. CHESTERTON

  “He who is devoid of the power to forgive is devoid of the power to love.”

  —MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR.

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  PART TWO

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  DREW: 2002

  It’s amazing how good a priest looks when you’ve got nobody else to turn to.

  The sign says he should be here. The front doors are unlocked and I walk right down the aisle. It feels creepy, despite the white walls—that Catholic, old world creepiness cemented by the statue of Mary standing on the earth, stepping on a serpent whose mouth stretches wide in agony.

  Good for you, Mary. We’ve never given you enough credit. Not that we’d overdo it like these guys. I shove my hands in my pockets, looking around at the altar, the stone baptismal font, two pulpits—one big, one small—two rows of pews, a side altar with a statue of Joseph, I think. The doors at the back, another side altar with the statue of Mary.

  But I see no carved wooden booth with a curtain hanging down like they always show in the movies. So I call out, my voice reverberating against the stone walls of the small church. “Anybody here?”

  No answer.

  Thomas, his stained-glass face eating up the late afternoon sun, looks doubtful of my presence and I can’t blame him.

  I sit on the front pew, my gaze resting on the rack of votive candles flickering in their red cups and then skating up to the round glass window in the back wall where Jesus—hands spread wide and welcoming, a dove above his head, beams of light shining—looks out over the room.

  A small man enters the room—much younger than I expected.

  “Hello there.”

  “Are you the priest?” Great. I’m in the greatest inner crisis of my life and God sends a guy fresh out of seminary who probably doesn’t know a thing about the real world. Fitting.

  “Yes. Sorry I’m a little late. There’s always so much to do before mass begins.”

  “I understand. I hear the priesthood is waning.”

  “An understatement. Too much to give up these days. Are you here for confession?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you visiting Ocean City?” He sits down next to me, laying a comfortable arm across the back of the pew.

  “Sort of. Extended stay. My mother and I used to vacation here when I was younger. I’m not Catholic.”

  He stares at me, brown eyes calm as he rubs the five o’clock shadow on his chin, then straightens his short dark hair. “Well, God isn’t choosy about who’s allowed to confess their sins if they are truly repentant. Are you a religious person?”

  “I used to be a pastor—nondenominational.”

  “Oh my. Well, I won’t hold that against you.” He chuckles then settles into something more relaxed. I’m not a priest but apparently he recognizes someone else willing to answer a call. “Forgive me. I sometimes say too much. So what’s on your mind? And just to reassure you, this will still remain confidential.”

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  “You’re not Catholic. This isn’t the movies. No need to go with such formalities.” He waves it away. “But you did say it so heartfelt. I’m not used to that these days. Vacationers. You know, they went out the night before and committed all manner of mortal sin, and they’re planning on doing it again. Thankfully, God is the true judge of the heart, not me. I only do what I’m supposed to and leave the rest up to Him. It’s all any of us can do.”

  “I wish someone would have told me that a long time ago.”

  “So, tell me your troubles. I’m Father Brian, by the way.”

  Brian? I smile.

  “Yes, I know. The trials of being a young priest with a youthful name.”

  “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Repentance goes a long way in the saving of our souls. Anywhere is fine. God knows the end from the beginning anyway. Unless, of course, you’re an open theist. Are you an open theist?”

  “No. That never made any sense to me.”

  “Nor to me. Sorry for interrupting. Go on ahead. Just talk to me.”

  I try to form the words on my tongue. Nothing comes. I imagine the surf pounding outside. Seagulls circling above a piece of trash. I picture sunbeams and Bibles and Jesus dying on the cross. Even picturing the Resurrection and the anticipated gathering of the nations does nothing to resurrect my tongue from the bottom of my mouth.

  He leans forward slightly. “Are you ready for this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tell you what. Write it all down, then come and see me. Be assured that God is waiting to forgive you. He joys in a repentant heart.” He taps the back of the pew three times. “Even if you’re not Catholic.”

  “All right. That’s what I’ll do.”

  “Then come back. If you make an appointment, I can give you all the time you need. Do you mind telling me your name? I’ll pray for you in the meantime.”

  “Drew.”

  “Good, Drew. Come back soon. In the interim, pray like your life depends on it. And w
ould you pray for me too?”

  “I’ve forgotten how.”

  “There’s no trick to it.”

  “I don’t need a rosary or anything?”

  “No. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m not quite picturing you as the kind of man who’s used to asking a woman for anything. Oh there I go again! Forgive me.”

  He doesn’t realize he just landed a firm punch to my jaw. “Thank you.”

  “Feel free to stay and pray.”

  “Thanks, but the statuary kind of gets to me.”

  He laughs. “A common response from protestants. No worries. Just call me when you’re ready.”

  The priest rises and walks toward a door at the side of the church. A minute later a young woman stops before a door right next to it. Oh, that’s the booth. Her head is bowed, perhaps beneath the weight of her sin, and her hand trembles as she reaches for the knob.

  I can’t watch another second of this.

  I trudge back to my room, stopping at the pharmacy for a notebook and a pack of pencils. Maybe I shouldn’t plan on doing a lot of erasing, but I’d like that option.

  I came to Ocean City because I couldn’t think of another place I wanted to go. Chapel Hill? No way. DC? Definitely not. That town killed me before I ever had a chance.

  The Dunesgrass Hotel where I’m staying is scheduled for demolition come spring. My mother and I stayed here for a week every summer, just her and me, tanning to a ruddy brown and reading books on the beach, walking the boardwalk every night, eating caramel corn and pizza or pit-beef sandwiches. Not exactly a vacation that suited the tastes of my father. This hotel smells old now. The sconces that lit the hallways don’t work. The threadbare maroon carpeting is curling at the edges.

  You can pay by the month, by the day, or by the hour if you’re in good with the desk guy who works eleven to seven. Most people live here year round. Four blocks from the ocean, miles and miles from proper society.

  I arrange the bed pillows against the headboard, pull the lamp forward to illumine the pages of the composition book, and set the tip of the mechanical pencil against the top blue line of the paper.

  Father Brian,

  I begin with thoughts that it would just be easier to give up altogether.

  Hermy says more men actually succeed at suicide than women.

  I guess when we stand upon that precipice, perhaps we’ve exhausted all other options. No one can help. We’ve sought help already. Nobody came running; or if they did, it didn’t stick. That’s about it. One place left to go.

  Assuming there’d be no going back, I’d opt for a good shot in the mouth. Quick. Efficient. Not likely to result in survival. The spot of self-execution would be easy for me to choose. Someplace no one would ever look for me, miles back into the woods, off the trail I’ve come to use as solace. I thought of tying cinder blocks on my feet and jumping into Lake Coventry where I’m from, but drowning to death takes too long. Leaving little trace of a body is, I have to admit, a favorable element in either of these scenarios.

  I’d leave a note to my congregation, of course. And it would writhe and teem with lies about Daisy’s disappearance and my own. I’d blame Trician, just as guilty in the mess as I, and never once would I come right out and admit my own complicity.

  This is exactly why I don’t deserve to even kill myself at this point. Or ever, really. I’m not the type. Just wish I was. And it seemed like a dramatic way to start this. The fact is, I haven’t begun to exhaust my options.

  I slide my arms through my jacket and head down the stoop, out the back of this old hotel. Old hotels aren’t choosy about their occupants. They seem relieved somebody showed up inside their dim recesses, hoping maybe a bit of their former grandeur will shine through, maybe somebody will see them for who they really are. Or were. Or something. Even when Mom and I came, it wasn’t all that nice. But we were never in our room anyway—we were always on the beach or the boardwalk.

  I light up a cigarette, inhaling and looking around the alley where Glen sleeps bundled up in blankets and alcohol near the back stairs of the pawnshop. Glen has drug-induced dementia. He told me this the first day I found him back here. I tuck a five in his pocket then sit down on the back steps of the hotel.

  Pulling up the sleeve of my jacket, I press the burning cigarette butt into the flesh atop my wrist. My breath catches. I lift up the cigarette and the cold December wind whispers over the scorched skin.

  After the initial release, the inevitable thought arrives. What did you just do, you idiot? It makes me feel better. I don’t know why. I don’t care why at this point. There are, as they say, bigger fish to fry these days.

  Well, Father Brian, let’s get back to it. The morning is young and I am running out of time. A man can’t live between sin and redemption for long, can he? I might die in an accident, choke on my food. Or the Rapture might happen any day.

  I stuff the pack of smokes inside my jacket and walk toward the beach. Yeah, it’s winter. It’s cold. But it’s our beach. I could use a walk in the sun. I look like I’m made out of school paste right now.

  My room looks extra dingy after the sunlight burned into my retinas. I sip on a cup of coffee I bought at the 7-Eleven and pick up the composition book again.

  When Daisy and her mother walked into the sanctuary, the crowd’s attention was locked on the young pastor working his deal on a central stage amid the encircling padded chairs. I’m from the town of Mount Oak, Father. I doubt you’ve ever been there.

  The year was 1999, the primaries for the presidential election were already heating up, and I was joking about the candidates who would receive my vote.

  “Look at this tie. Look at this fine suit. What party do I look like I belong to?” I didn’t believe for a second that if we were in power, America would become a holy nation and God would look past our sins, but we had that kind of congregation, and right then, they laughed. I laughed with a soft bit of snort, rolled my eyes, shook my head, and held my arms wide. “Hey, I am who I am. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  They laughed some more. I didn’t have to fill them in on my father. Everybody knew Charles Parrish, political pundit, lobbyist, and general DC mover and shaker.

  My people just wanted to feel at peace in their own hometown, in their own houses, their own church. I guess I wanted them to feel that way too.

  Peace? Peace—when there is no peace? you ask, Father Brian? Granted.

  I pulled a swiveling barstool from off to the side, made sure the wireless mic unit held tight to my belt, and sat down. Utilizing these downbeats, I could work theatre-in-the-round style church better than anybody I’d ever seen, making eye contact with at least half of the nine hundred people gathered every Sunday morning. In my less than gracious moments, of which there were many, Father, I thought of it as a feeding trough, people gobbling up their weekly plate of spiritual quiche, eating just enough to get themselves through the next seven days, or until they met with their small groups, but not enough to share with anybody else. In my gracious moments, I realized deep down they were truly looking for the peace of Christ. And I was giving them the same old answers that hadn’t been working for a good long time.

  But even if I’d wanted to serve them up a meaty stew, I wouldn’t have known the recipe back then. I still don’t.

  I smiled and said, “I was reading an old book by Dr. Susan Gordon—anybody remember her radio show back in the eighties?” Of course I was a child when she was so popular.

  I pointed to a woman in her fifties—Maggie Reynolds, I think—and buttered on an even bigger smile, making that longed-for connection. Longed-for on her part. A hundred other Maggies sat expectant in the congregation just begging to be noticed—by someone. I wasn’t idiot enough to take this personally, nor was I idiot enough not to realize women like Maggie were the key to my success.

  “Dr. Gordon used to say we have to take care of ourselves before we can take care of anybody else. Amen?”

  “Amen!” she
shouted—they all shouted. Oh, I could elicit amens.

  “God wants us healthy and whole. He doesn’t endorse suffering.

  Amen?”

  You see, the more amens you ask for—the more you get. No, Father, I don’t suppose there are many amens echoing in the rafters of St. Mary’s.

  The congregation, too busy trying to hear that someday life wouldn’t hurt so much, didn’t see Daisy and her mother enter. I knew what they wanted to hear. Exactly. Because, you know what? I wanted it too, Father Brian. More than anything. If I could spread that message far enough and wide enough, maybe it could come true.

  God doesn’t want you to hurt—ever. Never mind that “tribulation worketh patience,” as Paul said to the Romans. Who wants to hear that? I sure didn’t. Do you?

  Looking back, I realize I must not have given one whit about my congregation. I wanted my words to be true for me. I believe that’s what drives a lot of preachers. Not all. I’ve met some true believers, men hand in hand with Jesus, shepherds who love their flocks more than themselves. Good men. Kind men. Men who look a lot like Jesus, but without the robes and beard. But the gospel I’ve seen peddled most is usually cut-to-size, a perfect fit for the purveyor. Which pretty much ruins it for those people who don’t exactly cotton to a three-piece suit, or a cassock, or even jeans and a polo shirt.

  At least you all keep it pretty consistent, Father. I’ll give you that.

  If somebody could just tell me what the gospel really is these days, I’d leave this hotel room and never look back. Where I’d go wouldn’t matter as long as it wasn’t Mount Oak.

  If I don’t figure out this gospel, then there’s nothing left for me. Professionally speaking.

  Anyway …

  I was good at the rally cry.

  “The days of the long-faced Jesus are over!” I raised a fist, my smile wide and thankful for those tooth-whitening strips. “Over! Can you say it with me?”

  Over. Over. Over. Over. Over.

  Never mind He was a man of sorrows.