Chapter 17
Why is it when someone tells you to do something it makes you not want to do it?
I found myself wrestling with this as I drove away from Sullivan’s Island and toward said thing that I was told I had to do.
Gilbert had offered me a ride, but I declined, wanting the freedom to skip out if I changed my mind.
Like I said, I had nothing against church, I just didn’t want religion shoved down my throat.
But I really liked the Magnolia Nephalist Society and Patsy, and I thought I could really find my place in this group.
So, with a good bit of apprehension, I set out to Seacoast Church.
Only a thirty-minute drive, but long enough I talked myself into and out of attending a half dozen times until it was too late and I was in the thick traffic on Long Point Road.
Seacoast Church looked more like a college campus than a church. A police officer directed the traffic, making it a little easier to turn into the entrance. With the help of parking attendants, it didn’t take too long to find a spot.
I fell into step with a large group of people, hoping if I followed, they’d lead me to the right place. I was used to attending church services with no more than a hundred, this had at least a thousand. Finding Patsy would probably be about as easy as finding a lost earring on the beach.
The sanctuary with its large screens, an impressive stage, and cushioned stadium seating looked more like a theater than a typical church with wood pews and a small pulpit.
I stood at the back, pushing against the wall to keep out of the way of people flooding in, and scanned the crowd, trying to spot Gilbert’s white head or Patsy’s curly one or Jackée’s twists.
After five minutes of searching, I became disheartened.
What if Patsy didn’t see me? How would I be able to prove to her I attended?
“There you are, suga’!” Patsy suddenly appeared next to me, locked her arm with mine, and led me to the middle of the section and almost smack-dab in the middle of the room, scooting us around people already sitting.
Seeing the row of familiar faces, I immediately thought, There’s my people!
“Hey.” As I settled into my impressively comfortable seat beside Gilbert, I glanced around. A preconcert vibe crackled the air, an energy of anticipation and giddy chatter. “This place is huge.”
Gilbert nodded. “They have great services. You’ll see.”
Looking to the left toward the front, my eyes snagged on the back of a head that looked familiar.
The guy turned his head and spoke to a young boy on his right, and the sight of those black glasses helped to confirm my suspicion.
What were the odds of running into Henry at a random church in the Charleston area?
Some say in jest that there is a church on every corner in the South, but it’s close to being true.
Henry laughed at something the boy said, then looked to his left and spoke to a woman who looked close to his age. Did Henry have a secret family he hadn’t mentioned?
The strum of a guitar drew my attention away from Henry and his maybe wife and child. I looked toward the stage and focused on the praise band as they asked us to rise and sing along. It was all high-energy and quite uplifting.
Rehab offered a weekly service, put together by a local church.
Nothing wrong with those services, though they were mainly geared toward our recovery.
This was different. Instead of being an alcoholic, here, I was just another soul wanting to draw closer to God.
I liked it. I felt normal for once in a very long time.
The music came to a close and we took our seats as a youngish guy in a white hoodie and charcoal dress pants took the stage with a large iPad.
I figured he was going to do the prayer and turn it over to the pastor but was pleasantly surprised when he instructed us to turn to Genesis 32.
Within twenty minutes, he’d delivered a message about knowing who we are by knowing who God is.
I liked it enough that I made some notes on my phone.
The service was over before I was ready, a problem I never thought I’d have to endure. With everyone rising and meandering out, I didn’t see Henry again and maybe that was for the best.
“Let’s go eat,” Patsy suggested once we made it outside.
“I’m game,” Chris Evans said. “There’s this brunch spot I’ve been wanting to try out. Not a mimosa or Bloody Mary in sight. We’re safe!”
My cash didn’t flow freely enough for fancy brunch splurges, so I started toward my car. “I can’t, but I’ll see y’all Thursday.”
Gilbert placed his arm over my shoulder. “Let me treat you.”
I tried shrugging out of his hold but the old man wasn’t having it, as always. Too bad. I didn’t feel like being his charity case today. “Seriously, I can’t go. Maybe next Sunday.” I smiled, hoping it would encourage him to leave it at that. Thankfully, he did.
Traffic was a bit of a challenge to maneuver, typical for the summer season.
I ended up behind Henry’s Jeep just before making it back to the island.
I debated sitting in my vehicle until he made it inside his house but that seemed silly, so I got out and chanced it. Of course we met up in our front yards.
“Nice shirt.” I waved toward him.
Tucking his chin, Henry stared down at the pale-green button-down shirt as if having no idea where it came from or how he came about wearing it.
His shirt and the khaki chinos were wrinkle-free, making him look like Professor Morrison, not rumpled Henry the neighbor.
“Oh . . . ah thanks. I just came from church.”
“Yeah? Me too.” I readjusted the strap of my bag onto my shoulder. “I actually think I saw you.”
He squinted. “You did?”
“At Seacoast. With a woman and young boy.”
“That was my sister and nephew.” He fiddled with his set of keys. “Why didn’t you say something?”
I waved off the notion. “I was near the back.”
“Oh.” He looked toward his house, and I took the hint.
“Well, I’ll catch ya later.” I scurried up the steps and went inside. After telling Henry about Arlo and Fern two days ago, I didn’t know if it was possible to revert to the lighter rapport we’d finally established before. That part of my story held too much weight.
Locking the door behind me, I made my way to the kitchen island. My phone chimed. I dug it out of my bag and found that I’d been added to the MNS group text.
Hi Junie. This is Patsy. Save my number. Everyone else, please identify yourself so Junie can save your contact as well. See y’all Thursday!
My phone began vibrating in quick succession as others replied.
Chris Evans
Pearl Anzalone
Jackée Davis
Bruno Castillo
Mei Lee
Axil Nelson
Gilbert Gordan. I’d already saved his number under Gilly, so I didn’t bother changing it.
In a matter of seconds, my contact list had doubled. Thirteen contacts might be a paltry amount to some, but to me, quality far surpassed quantity in this case. Those thirteen people mattered most to me.
I placed the phone on the counter and glanced at the clock.
Noon and some change, which meant a whole lot of hours left in the day.
The silence of the house felt louder than the praise and worship band from earlier.
A swift, antsy sensation came over me, one that made me thirsty, which really ticked me off.
I’d just attended a great service, yet the struggles simply magnified out of the blue to torture me.
I recited HALT. “Hungry. Angry. Lonely. Tired. What is triggering you?”
Somewhere in all those knots in my stomach a hunger pang made itself known. I knew I needed to eat something. I wasn’t angry, but I was agitated. Definitely lonely. Always lonely. As well as tired.
The idea of a nap came and went. I was too keyed up to sleep.
I toyed with going upstairs to work on a hat or two, but the house seemed to be closing in on me.
Kicking off my sandals, I swiped a peach from the fruit bowl and headed out to the back deck.
I took a bite of the ripe fruit, enjoying the hints of tartness amidst the sweet.
Peaches, the official taste of a Southern summer.
Not sure if it was actually official but it should be, if you ask me.
I leaned on the railing and stared at the waves rolling in, then out.
Laughter and chatter from nearby beachgoers carried on the breeze and made me feel not so lonely.
This was good, me recognizing the triggers and doing something productive about it.
In no time, I finished off the peach and contemplated going back inside for another, but the gritty slide of my neighbor’s patio door had me changing course.
I didn’t feel up for chatting with Henry—I’d probably drop more of my burden on him and he’d held enough of it already—so I tossed the peach pit into a garbage bin and followed the coastline.
Reaching the jetties, I climbed onto a rock, out of the way, and watched two older men cast their fishing lines.
“What do you call bad bait?” one friend asked the other. The lures on his bucket hat shimmered when he moved his head.
“Dunno. What?”
“A fail-lure.” He guffawed, sending his hat décor to jingle. “Get it? Fail. Lure. Failure.”
“I get it, Don.” The other guy shook his head, apparently above corny jokes. “Why did the fish blush?” Maybe not above it after all.
“Why?”
“Because it saw the ocean’s bottom.”
They snickered like silly boys.
I couldn’t help but pipe in with a lame joke of my own. “How many fishermen does it take to change a lightbulb?”
Both men craned their necks until finding me sitting off to the side. “How many?” Don asked.
“Just one. But you should have seen the size of that lightbulb. It was this big.” I held my hands far apart and made an exaggerated face.
They laughed.
The taller one opened his mouth to say something, but his fishing pole came alive, and the line started making a whining noise. “Holy moly. I got me somethin’!” He grabbed the pole and began reeling with all his might.
Enthralled, I stood to get a better look. A small fin popped up out of the water. “I think you hooked a shark!”
In a blink, a group gathered around, and we all waited with bated breath. It felt like hours passed with the old guy huffing, reeling, swearing under his breath, and huffing some more. With the help of his buddy, he was finally able to bring in a juvenile shark.
We all cheered, taking in the beast thrashing on the shore.
A teenage boy tiptoed closer. “You keeping it?”
“Nah. It’s a beauty but I ain’t got no use for it.” The fisherman allowed everyone a good look, some snapping pictures. “Alrighty, we need to let him get on home. Help me, Don.” The men hoisted the shark into their arms and returned it to the water.
Most of the onlookers lost interest and wandered off, but I stayed a little longer, listening as Don talked about a bigger shark he’d snagged during an offshore boating excursion.
I huffed. “Well. That was nothing to snuff at. How big you reckon it was?”
“It was about four feet long. Maybe forty, fifty pounds.” Don popped open his cooler and pulled out two icy bottles of beer. “You gonna help us celebrate our catch, little lady?”
My throat went dry just thinking about how that beer would quench my thirst. “No thanks. But let me ask you this . . .” I wrangled on a smile I wasn’t feeling. “What do you get from a bad-tempered shark?”
Don smirked underneath a burly mustache. “Dunno. What?”
“You get as far away as possible.” I eased down the rocks, careful to not lose my balance. “You guys take care.”
One of the men called out, “Ah, come on, sweetheart. Just one beer!”
I waved over my shoulder and kept on moving. Not gonna lie, I was proud of myself for resisting the temptation. But that light feeling didn’t last long. Loneliness crept back in, and a voice joined it. One beer wouldn’t have hurt you.
Moving fast to dodge the voice, I trekked home and decided to hunker down and binge-watch Golden Girls, another one of Olla’s favorite shows.
Day turned into night while I devoured mouthfuls of microwave popcorn and watched the other women try their darndest to keep Rose straight.
In the last episode I watched before calling it a night, Dorothy told Rose, “Go to bed, sweetheart. Pray for brains.”
I had brains, I felt sure, but I needed those brains to function clearly. Leaving my couch-potato state downstairs, I went to bed and prayed for a good night’s rest.
Instead, a nightmare of shark wrangling and beach beers ensued.