I wince as I enter the church.Sorry. Good stairs. Great stairs. Holy stairs,I think.
Inside, I’m immediately lost. I hunt for a bulletin board, walking frantically along the walls like some kind of church-robbing maniac, until I see a sign.
Lewis Celebration
Basement Fellowship Hall
“Yes!” I shout. And then I wince again, hoping I didn’t just disturb someone’s Bible study.
Meh, they’ll forgive me. (They sort of have to.)
I spot the elevator—no clue where the stairs are, or I’d jump down them—and press the down button. And wait, as the most ancient stupi—stupendous! Holy!—elevator on earth creaks up from the basement. And creaks.
If this is a sign, so help me …
DING!
The doors open painfully slowly—but Holily!—and I rush on.
And press the B for Basement.
And wait.
I rub my face with my hands. Run them through my hair. Get in a quick power nap. Until …
DING!
I spring out, rushing down the hallway toward the sound of …
The sound of ‘80s music.
My heart clenches thinking of Poppy Grace and her love of ‘80s music, thinking of GracieLou telling me she got that love of New Wave from her dad. She told me once months ago that he used to send her songs to look up. I’d assumed then that he was texting them. Now I realize he was writing them in letters from prison.
It’s devastating. But it’s beautiful, too, that they had something that bonded them together. No matter what he did to her, I can’t believe that he was so unfeeling that it didn’t make him sick when he realized what he’d done. Not having Poppy in his life must have been a fate worse than prison.
I get closer and stop outside the doors. The song that’s playing is pretty—a British New Wave band singing how they’ll stop the world and melt together—and the lyrics strike me differently than they have before.
That’s Poppy Grace and me he’s singing about.
When I finally realized what I had in her, I wanted the world to stop, fade away, so that we could be together.
That same urge—desire, noneed—fills me as I look through the windows to the Fellowship Hall and fight to catch my breath, hold my pulse steady.
Please let her be here.
Please.
And then, a crowd of men parts, and I see her. Her hair is damp, her face blotchy from crying, her eyes swollen, but she’s smiling, too.
She’s never looked more beautiful.
My hand hovers at the doorknob.
What if she doesn’t want me here?
What if I’ve hurt her—damaged us—beyond repair?
I steel myself for the possibility, because it’s a risk I have to take. I just watched my dad risk everything to stand up for me, to show me he’s loved me all along.
