Chapter 11 #2
While I’m wrestling a lid on my anger over her complicated, contradictory upbringing, she sinks into a dreamy smile.
“There’s something so deliciously of-the-world to be dressed like this, sitting in a sexy restaurant across from a gorgeous man, and sharing a bottle of wine.”
I open my mouth, close it. “The, um, the gorgeous man part wasn’t on your list.”
“Oh, right. I guess that was implied.” The blush creeps across her cheeks but she doesn’t cower or appear embarrassed in any way, per usual. “Or it’s just a description of how things are unfolding right now.”
Yeah, I’m gonna need that wine, pronto.
Thankfully, the waiter returns, saving me from having to respond. He places the wine cooler bucket and two glasses on the table and then presents the label of the bottle to Christina with a flourish. She nods approvingly.
He opens the bottle, pours a little into her glass, and hands it to her.
Like an absolute pro, she swirls the wine—one, two times—gently sniffs it, and then lifts the glass to her lips.
She sucks in breath through her teeth with the wine in her mouth, aerating it, before swallowing soundly.
She contemplates a full four seconds, her eyes unfocused on some distant point, before smiling and nodding at our waiter to continue on with his pour.
The minute he’s out of earshot, she reaches forward to grab my hand on the table. “How Sex and the City am I right now?” she exclaims.
I squeeze her hand. I never considered myself a touch person, but I can’t deny it does make the communication between us … richer. “Very Carrie.”
She leans back with utter satisfaction. “I watched a video on how to do that pretentious swirl thing.”
“It was flawless.”
“I have no idea if the wine is actually good or not.”
“Do you like it?”
She takes another sip. “It’s very light, almost fruity. I do like it.”
“Then it’s good.”
The waiter returns with bread and olive oil, and we both order a fish entree—“I believe the rockfish will pair nicely with our wine,” Christina lilts—before fully settling in.
“I have a question for you,” she says, leaning back in her chair and swirling her glass.
“Oh, is it my turn already?”
“Why don’t you have a Southern accent?”
I huff a laugh. “What?”
“Why don’t you have a Southern accent?” she repeats.
I narrow my eyes at her. “How long have you wanted to ask me that question?”
“Since day one, obviously!”
Heaven above, she’s gorgeous when she’s being dramatic.
“My parents are from Boston, and they have pretty thick Boston accents. But they moved here before I was born, so I was raised with Southern accents everywhere but in my home. Charlie and I have a theory that the two strong accent influences just canceled each other out. Neither of us have an accent.”
She tears off a piece of bread to dip in the oil, and I do the same. “Well,” she says assuredly, “that actually explains more than just the accent.”
“What do you mean?”
She examines me. “You were born and raised in the South, so you’re deeply immersed in this culture.
But you don’t have the generational legacy of this culture.
We’re all fish in water and we have no idea what water is because it’s just our reality.
But you’re a fish who knows you’re in water, even though the water is still your home.
That’s why you see and care about the injustices that other people don’t.
It’s why you’re able to make such incredible documentaries about life in the South. ”
“That’s …” I chew my bread, trying to find an appropriate response to the gift she just gave me. The gift of being seen. Of being known. “That’s an astute analysis.”
She threads her fingers in mine on the table. Hers are so small and delicate between my own. God, I love the sight of it. “But feeling that responsibility to chase and share these untold stories can be a lot to manage, yes?”
I drink my wine, allowing her thoughtful question to clarify my emotions as of late. “Yes. The injustices grate on you. The importance of finding them hounds you. And the mask needed to capture them …”
“Drains you,” she finishes when I don’t.
There’s only understanding in her hazel eyes.
I’m not sure anyone has ever tried to understand me or given me a platform to speak.
I would have said that I don’t want or need that.
I usually think of myself as a conduit—like a big megaphone that amplifies those around me.
But I can firmly say that having her see the real me, having her care to listen and amplify my experiences, is like a soothing balm on a burn I didn’t even know I had. “Yes.”
She nods and squeezes my fingers once, letting the moment settle, before releasing them on a small smile.
Then her smile turns mischievous. “Be honest now. How many short stories did you end up reading this weekend?”
I laugh, the wine loosening some tight edges.
We pick right up where our texts left off, discussing the books we’re reading—erotica and otherwise—and wandering into various other anecdotes and thoughts.
Edgar brings our entrees and refills our glasses, and I forget the cameras are rolling through most of the dinner.
I’m not sure I’ll ever get over how easy it is to talk to her.
I think we can both appreciate what it means to be wholly ourselves with another person.
That another person would want us to be wholly ourselves.
But once our plates are cleared away and we’re down to our final glasses of wine, I do remember that I wanted to pursue a particular line of questioning tonight for the doc.
“So,” I begin, “I feel like I’m still puzzling out TJL.
I get that it’s things you were never allowed to do, things you were told were explicitly bad or wrong or damnable.
You had this break with your family; you stopped going to church.
But I don’t quite understand how that came about.
And I don’t quite understand why TJL is happening now or where it fits in the overall scheme of things. ”
“Ah yes, it’s time for the whole story, isn’t it?
” She leans back and sips her wine. She doesn’t seem nervous, just contemplative.
“I would love to say that I had been questioning and critiquing my backward upbringing for years as I got older. But the truth is, you get used to the cognitive dissonance, as you’ve pointed out.
And the stakes are so high—literally eternity.
Questioning doesn’t feel worth the cost, especially when your beliefs are so tied to your family and your family’s profession. ”
Another sip. “Of course, the questions were there. You called that: I’ve always been a reader, so I’ve always had the tools to question.
But when I couldn’t resolve them or make them align with my preexisting lifestyle, I always just turned to this scripture: ‘His ways are higher than our ways and His thoughts are higher than our thoughts.’ I told myself it wasn’t my place to question. ”
She goes to bite her thumbnail, then notices it’s painted and lowers it. I press my knee into hers under the table, just a gentle pressure, for encouragement and connection. She breathes out and smiles softly at me in acknowledgment.
“It took something big, something life-altering, to shake me loose. To make me finally appreciate seeing the world around me differently. To decide who I wanted to be—or at least, who I didn’t want to be. And that happened a little over a year ago.”
She takes another sip of wine. I just watch her and wait. My heart is pounding. All I’ve wanted is to get this whole story, but now that we’re here, I’m not sure I want to hear; I can barely control my anger to learn about the abuse she’s endured. I force myself to casually sip my wine too.
She finally sighs. “There’s a lot of moving pieces to the story, but essentially my dad—our pastor—was having affairs with multiple women in our congregation. For years and years.”
I attempt to keep my face neutral. She said she likes sharing with me because I’m not surprised. And I’m actually not surprised. I’m devastated on her behalf, devastated to imagine her receiving this news and realizing her dad wasn’t who she thought he was. But I’m not surprised. In fact …
“Plight of the Evangelical Preacher,” I recall.
She nods. “I’ve probably watched that doc twenty times. The way you exposed this pattern as a phenomenon—that Evangelical preachers are often coerced into this life, lifted on a pedestal, and then forced to develop secret double lives because they can’t handle the pressure of perfection.”
“It still doesn’t make what he did to your church and your family right.”
“No, of course, not. And I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive him for being so selfish and dishonest. But at least I understand him. In many ways, I pity him.”
My god. She’s so balanced and gracious. Critical when necessary, but also inclusive and generous. She’s everything I’ve tried to be in my documentaries over the years.
“I’m so sorry that happened to you.” I would give anything to be able to go back and protect her from this. It’s why I make these videos in the first place.
She laughs humorlessly. “The affairs are the tip of the iceberg, Danny boy.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Racketeering?”
She barks a real laugh, and something in my chest eases that I was able to bring it back out. “I mean …” She waves a hand. “Aren’t all churches already a tax scheme?”
“They’re not not a tax scheme.”
She presses her knee further into mine under the table.
“My dad essentially fled when news of his affairs got out. My older brothers were already pastoring at their various churches all over the state, and it’s my understanding that they’ve had to do a fair amount of damage control. But my mother …”
Christina looks off, anguished. I steel myself for an even more fucked-up turn to this story.