Day 75

At the sound of the doorbell, Jon jolted from his chair. Was he dreaming? Had he fallen asleep? Or had he simply zoned out somehow? That last was getting more and more common; he would awaken at work with no recollection of what he had been doing. Just today he had found himself in his car, the motor idling, in front of his parents' house, fumbling for a garage-door opener that was no longer there, while his confused parents knocked on his windshield in the twilight. He hoped he wasn't going insane. He had enough problems as it was.

"Good evening," said Meredith Chambers. "I hope we're— Goodness, Jon, you look terrible. Have you been sleeping?"

"Uhh," said Jon, trying to make his voice less gravelly and not particularly succeeding. "Come on in."

She and Brandon did, with Christa and Zach bringing up the rear. There was no sign of Laurelyn; perhaps she'd been left with the friend Sarah Prescott, or maybe even with her grandparents. "So!" said Zach. "Two weeks until the big day, huh?"

"Uhh," said Jon. His brain felt like tar. "What?"

"Your wedding reception," Meredith said patiently. "It's two weeks from tomorrow. Caitlyn asked us to come up because we offered to help with the planning and organization. Where is she, anyway?"

Jon looked at her guileless face; at the equally bland expression on Brandon's. Then he looked at the Cranes. "Who told you."

"Who told us what?" Christa said.

"Hey, man, we're not blind," Zach said. "We've been in practice with you. You're like a walking zombie. But you didn't seem to want to talk about it. So we didn't ask."

"Instead you just showed up?" said Jon.

"Well, we were invited," said Zach.

"By Caitlyn," Meredith said. "Where is she, anyway? Caitlyn!" She descended into the rest of the apartment. "Caitl— Is she not here?"

"I see her backpack," Christa said. "We saw both of your cars when we came in. Jon, what's going on?"

"Have you been sleeping on the couch?" Zach exclaimed. "What is going on?"

Jon decided to tell them. It was four simple words: Caitlyn has left me. They weren't all that hard to say; in fact, he had said them—each of them individually, of course—many times in his life. He was capable of saying these words. He had never strung them together in quite that order before, of course, but he was sure he was up to the challenge. It was just four words.

He opened his mouth. What came out of it was, "...Oh God."

Then there was no more speech for a while, because he was crying, as the enormity of it all settled over him. Caitlyn has left me. His wife, his light; all his hopes and dreams of the future had walked out the door and never returned. He wasn't even sure she missed him.

When he could look up again, Christa and Brandon were sitting on the couch to either side of him. Meredith had pulled over a chair from the kitchen table, and Zach was on the futon.

"Okay," said Christa. "Let's start from the beginning. What happened?"

"I... We... We had a difference of opinion."

"And that's why she's not here anymore?"

"...It was a big difference."

Christa gave a cracked smile. "I hadn't noticed."

Slowly, with many fits and starts, they walked him through it. He found himself repeating himself, mis-remembering, having to go back and change his mind. The truth was that he'd been in denial this whole time—he'd even taken to sleeping on the couch, because it was easier than going back to that empty bed. Sometimes, passing through to go to the bathroom, he thought he could still smell her—sometimes the smell of her sex, sometimes her shampoo, sometimes even the faint reddish scent of her skin.

It was easier to avoid the bed.

People knew something was wrong, of course; there was no way to avoid that, what with his zoning out every few minutes in the middle of God-knew-what. His coworkers had asked him about it, and while he'd only said that there were some issues at home, they knew enough to read between the lines. After all, this was the guy who'd had the opera singer sent by his wife; he was regionally famous now, enough for them to have some context. Many of them had stopped to offer their sympathy and support—his fellow trainees, some of the actual medical technicians, even a couple doctors.

One of the other technicians had the unfortunate name of Gretchen Webster, but she brought a lot of spunk to the role; she was slender, with wavy blonde hair and a frequent smile. She had been very solicitous of Jon ever since he'd come in on Wednesday like a zombie, and didn't seem to mind going out of her way to be helpful to him. When Caitlyn had told him about her little adventures with flirting at school, and asked him if there was anyone who caught his eye at work, it had been Gretchen who came to mind: upbeat, charming, never outside the bounds of propriety but always with that twinkle of mischief in her eye. She was Jon's kind of woman, and while she had been completely proper up until now, Jon could read between the lines. She was going to make some man very happy someday, and Jon found himself realizing that, under different circumstances, he might have been that man. Maybe this is who I would've married if it weren't for Caitlyn. Maybe this is what my future was going to look like.

But she was so... Unworldly. He would look at her perfect face and her perfect white teeth and wonder if she had ever worked a day in her life. There was a certain maturity necessary to make relationships work—both a willingness to bend and a willingness to stand up for oneself. He wasn't sure she had either of them; how could she, when it seemed like she'd never so much as stubbed her toe over the course of her life? She had perfect clothes, perfect parents, a perfect job, a perfect car... She wasn't real; there was nothing behind that facade that didn't seem like it would crack at the first blow of the hammer. She didn't have the steel that came from long years of gritting through pain. She wasn't...

She wasn't Caitlyn.

"So, to summarize," Christa was saying. "You said that Caitlyn needs to be more defensive, and less prone to just letting people take advantage of her. And Caitlyn said that you need to be a better Christian—specifically, more open to the presence of God in your life, and to how He manifests through other people."

"That sounds about right," Jon said.

"And you... Didn't want to?"

"...Well, when you put it that way it sounds really lame."

"Well, maybe it is really lame," Christa said, giving him a look. "Jon, are you really saying that it's a good idea to be closed to new experiences?"

"Well... Not all experiences are good," Jon protested.

"Nonsense," Brandon said. "Experiences are what you make of them. Every cloud has a silver lining."

"Yeah, but every silver lining has a cloud," Jon said.

"And there you have it," Brandon said. "Jonathan Stanford, you are officially fucked. No matter what you do, there is a cloud associated with it. And since your objective is to avoid the clouds, that means you better not leave this apartment ever again. —Oh, wait: if you stay here, you'll run out of food. But then, if you eat food, you might get cancer, so you might as well not eat. And maybe you shouldn't sleep either, since you could roll out of bed and break your neck."

"What my husband is trying to say," Meredith said, "is that you can't avoid the clouds. Jonathan, bad things happen. The question isn't whether they do; the question is what you can get out of them."

"Yeah, but... It's hard to do that," Jonathan said. "It's hard to be... I dunno, to be so open-minded that you can see past the cloud to the silver lining. It's not just something I can pick up and suddenly start doing."

"So you're not even going to try?" Christa said.

"Is..." It ended up sounding more plaintive than he'd intended. "Is it worth it?"

"Jon, only you can answer that," Christa said. "But what do you think? Don't you think life might be easier if you can look at it from a positive standpoint? Don't you think things might be better if, when someone comes to you with something, you aren't asking yourself whether you need to protect yourself from them? And what you might be able to gain from it?"

"Well, by Caitlyn's example, I might be able to get myself worked to death," Jon said. "I know you guys never see it, and it's a lot better now that she's out of her parents' house, but... It's like she doesn't know how to say No."

"Why not?" Christa said.

"I don't know. I... I think it's just too much in her personality. This need to... To live up to other people's expectations."

"And you find that dangerous?" Meredith said.

"Isn't it?" said Brandon. "How soon before someone comes up and asks you for something you'd rather not give, but you're not used to saying no so you give it?"

"She never had any problems with saying no to Jon when they were dating," Meredith protested. "Remember? They didn't do it until they got married."

"So," Brandon said, turning to Jon. "Something that caused you 18 months of celibacy, and you want to reinforce it?"

Jon grimaced. "What is this, Tell Jon He's Stupid Day?"

"Yes," Brandon said.

Jon turned away, helpless. He wasn't sure what to say to that.

"And while we're at it, what's wrong with Christianity," Christa said. "It's about calling people to a higher standard of behavior. I'd think you of all people would support that."

"Yes, but... I'm not sure I like this standard," Jon said.

"What's wrong with it," Christa said, but Meredith asked, "Why not?"

Jon looked at her. "Well, just... There's so much stuff piled on. I mean, I'm okay with Christ..."

"Well, what's wrong with that?" Brandon said. "You don't get into Christianity because you're a fan of the Pope or something. You do it because you generally believe in God and specifically believe in Jesus. You think he had the right idea."

Jon felt a chill at hearing his own words given back to him.

"If you think Jesus had the right idea, then what's holding you back," Brandon asked him.

"Well... Because of the other stuff piled on. Okay, so I admire Jesus, so I think his is the right way to live. That doesn't make me Christian enough for the other Christians."

"Yeah, but what does that have to do with your faith?" Zach said. "Your faith isn't something you wear on your sleeve so others can judge you for it. Your faith is between you and God."

"And, while there are people who think you should wear your faith on your sleeve, so they can judge you for it," Meredith said, "you can safely tell them to jump off a cliff. In a respectful and Christ-like manner, of course."

"You know, we never did work out how that phrase applies," Zach remarked.

"It's like a relationship," Christa said. "Only three people ever know the truth about what goes on in a relationship: the two people in it, and God. And sometimes one of the people in it is behind the times. Well, faith is your relationship with God. And this time there's only two people in it."

"And sometimes one of them is still behind the times," Zach said.

"So, yes, there are people who will judge you," Christa said. "But weren't you just talking about how important it is to say No to people? If they do judge you, you can say No to them."

"No what?" Jon said.

"No, you can't judge me. No, you don't know the whole story. And no, it isn't your business anyway."

"Then how come Caitlyn gets to judge me on it," Jon said. It was a little more bitter than he'd intended.

"No one said Caitlyn was doing the right thing," Meredith said. "Ideally, she would be loving and supportive, and accept you as you are. That would certainly be the Christlike thing to do. But an ideal is exactly that—something to strive for, but not necessarily something one ever achieves."

"And while she may be going about it the wrong way, but that doesn't mean she's wrong," Zach said. "Jon, do you think it's worth it to become more in touch with God?—so that you can be a good influence on the world?"

Obviously, there was no way Jon could have said No to that; but even if there was, he wouldn't have said it anyway.

"Then why don't you?" Zach said.

"Especially if it'll bring Caitlyn back," Christa said. "Do you want this split to become permanent, Jon? Would you like to separate from her?"

"How can you even ask me that," Jon retorted. "If Zach left you, how would you feel?"

"Then why don't you?" Christa asked.

"I... Be... Because..."

They were silent, listening.

"Because I just don't believe," Jon said quietly.

They said nothing.

"The idea of someone, of... Of some force, some benevolent character who will always love you, who... Who is always there for you... I just don't believe that. I try to be it, but God only knows that I don't succeed, and... And the one person who, who I thought might be it..." He sniffed to clear his nose. "She's gone. And when I look at... Well, I mean, look at my life. I never had that kind of love growing up; my parents were like Caitlyn's. Maybe not quite as bad, but... They still used their love for me to manipulate me, to control me. The idea of unconditional love... Of someone who loves me without having an agenda... I'm just not sure I can believe in it."

"I can understand that," said Meredith. "My parents were the same way."

"As were mine," said Brandon.

Zach and Christa looked at each other. "Sheesh," said Zach, "we sure lucked out!"

"I think parents may be one of the most powerful influences in forming a child's faith," Meredith said. "Because, you're right: they do seem to... I dunno, to almost personify God to a young child. They're who we look to for proof that these values work. And if we don't see it..."

"Though that isn't to say that you're crippled," Brandon said. "Isn't that the whole point of the evangelical experience? People being brought into their faith during their maturity. From which we learn that faith isn't limited to being taught; it can also be learned."

"Assuming you're open to it, of course," Christa said. "'Lead a horse to water' and all that."

"Yeah, but, just... That's exactly my point," Jon said. "About parents being one of the most powerful representations of God in a person's life. That's important to me. I don't think there's anything more important than, than being a good parent, then raising your kids well. It's what I live for. It's why I married Caitlyn. Whatever else happens, I want to do a good job. ...And, I thought she did too."

"So, let me get this straight," Brandon said. "It's important to you to be a good and positive presence-of-God in the lives of your hypothetical children... And, with that in mind, you refuse to know God, and get better at living out His presence in others' lives. Okay. That will totally help you achieve your stated goal of being a good father."

"It's not God I have a problem with, it's religion," Jon said.

"Then don't catch it," Brandon said.

"You make it sound like a disease," Meredith said, amused.

"It is if you believe Neal Stephenson's Snow Crash," Brandon said.

"Honey, I've caught the religion," Zach quipped.

Christa slapped him on the leg. "Wear a condom next time!"

"What precisely are you scared of?" Brandon said. "What's holding you back? Are you worried about being a Christian... Or are you worried about not being enough Christian to please Caitlyn?"

"Or are you worried about being too much Christian and turning out like your parents," Meredith said. "Because you don't have to worry about that. Haven't we just been talking about how good you are at saying No?"

"I think that's why you're so insistent that Caitlyn learn to say it," Christa said. "Because she's so willing to say Yes to things, and because she gets so... Caught up. In just saying Yes, yes, yes all the time."

"Which, I'm sure, is good in the bedroom," Meredith said with a completely straight face.

"Except for when she wants me to tie her up," Jon grumbled.

"You want her to be able to say No," Christa said, "because, to you, that's important to being a good parent: knowing how to judge for yourself. Not just doing things because you're expected to or because someone tells you it's the right thing to do. Knowing how to think for yourself."

"Do you really think she just follows blindly?" Brandon said. "Because I don't mind telling you, Caitlyn has always struck me as a very free-thinking, independent woman. I don't think she has any trouble turning outside ideas down."

"Yes, but what if Christianity is 'outside ideas'?" Jon said. "What if Christian religion is, I mean, since we've evidently agreed that faith in God would be for the best."

"Have we, now," said Christa, smiling.

"Then that's what you're there for," Meredith said. "As long as the two of you are able to discuss it, you know, objectively. I don't know how important her faith is to her—"

"It's very important," Jon said.

"—but as long as you guys can keep the discussion limited to—how do I say this—personal practices and practical applications, as opposed to yelling at each other about disagreements in belief, you should probably be able to work it out. Caitlyn's a reasonable person. You wouldn't've married her otherwise."

"And," said Brandon, "if it's important to you to become a better person, and a better father... Well, you know what to do."

"Do you ever pray?" Christa asked.

"Not... Not really," Jon said. He'd been taught to kneel and put his hands together; it seemed so childish now.

"Maybe you should try it," Christa said. "It's like meditation, almost. And it's also like saying No," she added, smiling. "You tell all the other distractions to shove off and just focus on what's important to you. And you bring those things to God and listen to what He says."

"And what if He doesn't say anything?"

"Then listen to your ownself," Christa said. "God created you; He loves you. You have at least a little of His Divine Wisdom, Jon. (Heck, knowing you, you probably have quite a lot.) Sometimes God doesn't answer when you pray to Him... But sometimes, He doesn't need to."

"Can I trust Him?" Jon said. "Every other person I've ever trusted... My parents, my friends... They've all let me down. They've all—"

"Even us?" said Christa, surprised.

Meredith touched her gently on the arm. "It happens. Maybe it's inevitable. You know you've hurt me before, and I you, and we're closer to each other than we are to him. It's nothing personal."

"No, it isn't," Jon agreed, "but... It's not a good track record. I just... I just don't know if I can believe," Jon said. "In a God that loves me. Everyone I've ever trusted... I don't know if I can rely on anyone except myself."

Brandon gave him a calm, direct look. "Have you tried?"

They asked him if there was anything in the apartment Caitlyn might need, and he gave them her backpack and a few other things—toiletries, toothbrush, the like. Then they left. The apartment was empty again. They had given him a great deal to think about, though, so while Jon was alone with his thoughts, those thoughts were more than enough of a crowd.

Almost everything that had been said had been a new idea to him, or at least a new angle on an old idea. He realized he had probably become stuck in his ways; he had lost touch with what other people were thinking, and begun to drift further and further into more radical territory. That was prone to happen, of course, in isolation; it was proven psychology. But Jon had never really thought it might happen to him.

Jesus. I'm getting old. How long until my first gray hair?

So. Christianity, starting over. Without prior misconceptions. Without prior conceptions of any sort.

The first Christians were the disciples. Jesus called them, and they came. They believed in what he was doing. That's still true today—you aren't a Christian unless you believe. And unless you're willing to express that belief.

Is that was Caitlyn was complaining about? Because, sure, it's easy to say that Jesus was a good guy, that you agree with him... But less hard to act it. Less hard to live it. Have I been living it?

Immediately his brain started to protest. Phrasing it that way made it sound like Jon had been living a bad life, one filled with vice and iniquity. Jon silenced that voice as well as he could. It was true that he had been living as moral and virtuous a life as he could, and trying to do as much good as possible; and there was dignity in that. But it wasn't the same as trying to follow Jesus.

Human life is so selfish. If left to our own devices we just do whatever the heck makes the most sense to us—hurt this person, take this stuff, sleep with this lady. No thought of consequences. No thought of love. We live for ourselves and for no one else. But that's how we know that Jesus was a divine influence: he encourages us to transcend our mere humanity. He wants us to be more than just plain old selfish human. He wants us to care about others more than we care about ourselves. He wants us to... Love.

Caring about others more than he cared about himself was something Jon was very familiar with. It was what he felt about Caitlyn, to be certain; and there were others in his life—not many, but some—for whom he wouldn't hesitate to drop everything and go to their aid. Four of them had been in this apartment not half an hour ago. And it was how he felt about his children too, hypothetical though they might be: once they were born, there must be no higher priority in his life. This part of the territory, at least, he understood.

But what about people like Harold? It was clear what Jesus would call him to do: to love this person anyway, no matter how unlovable Jon might find him to be. But doing so would only open Jon to further aggravation and annoyance. Where's the virtue in doing something stupid like that? I have no idea whether he's ever gonna change.

And yet wasn't that what everyone had been telling him? That there was hope of change, and that Jon shouldn't give up. That sometimes what you saw wasn't the entire story. That there was hope of change.

I don't know if I believe that people can change.

Well, you better, because if you don't, you're never getting your wife back.

Could he give God a chance? Could he give the world a chance?

Jon got on his knees and clasped his hands together, as he had been taught by his parents from beyond time immemorial. But the pose felt juvenile to him, and he had done it insincerely so often that he couldn't believe in its power anymore. This is not for me. Not anymore.

Casting around for a suitable pose, he found himself sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, his hands clasped in his lap, his eyes closed. He took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind. Our Father... No, that was meaningless too. He felt a moment of frustration that Caitlyn wasn't here. Surely she'd have some ideas. God, why isn't she here? Right when I need her the most, too...

What had Christa said? Focus on what was important to him, and bring that to God. All right. What was important to him? How was he supposed to approach God?

The answer to the first question was easy. Caitlyn. She was everything he wanted his life to be. He supposed that, if push came to shove, he could let this separation occur. He could give up; he could move on. He could divorce her, and go on to marry... Who? He tried to picture such a future, and all he saw was an empty, misty gap where some unknown woman would presumably go.

That isn't for me. It was really that simple. That isn't for me. My future lies with Caitlyn Delaney now... One way or the other.

But how was he to go to God with that? It wasn't like writing a letter to Santa Claus or anything. Dear Santa, I want my wife back. Please leave her in my stocking on the chimney... Right, like that was gonna work.

He suddenly realized the synchronicity of it all. Isn't this a sign that this is the right path for me?—that I can't do it without Caitlyn. That I have to do it, whether or not she's there to help me. Or is it a sign that Caitlyn is the right woman for me—that the right choice is to stay with her? (As if I could ever do anything else...)

What do you think?

He suddenly realized that, though his eyes were closed, his face was upturned, as though oriented to some distant heaven. He felt like a radar dish, scouring the skies for faint signs of life... And yet it seemed right to him. Wasn't that where he had been left?

What do you think, God?

I know this is the right path for me. I think that's been bludgeoned into my head by now—by Caitlyn, by my friends. By You, since clearly all those things were the sound of You trying to tell me something. But... I don't know if I can walk it. It's scary, to put my trust in someone else's hands. It's scary, to put my life in someone else's hands. And, to me (as I'm sure You know) they're much the same thing. I'm not saying I can't or won't try, I'm just saying... It's scary. It's something new and different, and every time I've tried it in the past, it just... It hasn't worked out.

Will you help me? If I give it a try... Will you help me?

He didn't know how he knew, only that he did; only that suddenly, it seemed easy. That with so many friends helping him, with so many factors lined up in his favor, it must be nearly impossible to fail. He could do this. He would do this. It was what he was called to; it was what he was meant for. To live as well as possible, to love as well as possible... To follow Jesus. To turn the other cheek. To have faith in the world. To believe... That there is hope.

The feeling faded, and he became aware of the pain in his bent back and folded legs.

Jon sighed. Maybe I can do it. But I guess it won't be easy. And I'd better start now, before I lose my nerve.

He had an hour or so before he needed to sleep. Caitlyn had left her copy of the Bible. He got up, opened it to the Book of Matthew, and began to read.

Day 78

When her alarm went off, Caitlyn woke up with no idea of where she was. She didn't recognize the noise of the alarm clock, and there was an unfamiliar ceiling above her, and what looked like a fringe of Beanie Babies peeking over the rim of a shelf. She was low to the ground, not waist-high the way she preferred her beds, and somehow she felt as though she were backwards—as though her head should be where her feet were. And there were distant noises like dishware being used, which wasn't right for this time in the morning.

Then she realized she was at home, in her parents' house, in her old room. The room she had lived in for 14 years. The room that had been hers... Until she met Jon.

She was in a sleeping bag on a squashy air mattress, and there was no question about it—she was backwards. When her bed was here, the headboard had been where her feet were. But the bed was not here; she and Jon had taken it when they moved to her apartment. She was wearing one of her oversize T-shirts, one that reached halfway down her thighs; she had left them here when she moved, and now was somewhat regretting it. Only now did she realize just how naked she felt when sleeping with nothing on, husband in bed with her or not. Besides, the T-shirt was truly voluminous, probably large enough for her and Jon to wear together if for some reason they decided to do so; there would have been plenty of room for him to slide a hand up to clasp a breast, the way he always seemed to. She had a feeling it was simply unconscious, that he couldn't stop if he wanted to. She had never felt confined by his embrace; in some ways, it made her feel free.

The shirt had twisted in the night, and clung now to her body. It was like Jon that way.

She wasn't wearing panties—why, she had no idea, except that they would have gotten in the way while she was still with her husband, in a way that the T-shirt would not. That was why they had given up on wearing clothes to bed in the first place—why bother, when all you did was sleep in them? And sometimes not even then, if one or the other of them should get amorous before slumber took them. It was far easier for him to have his way with her if she just wore nothing; far easier for him to simply slip up into her from behind as they spooned together. Far easier for her to take him inside her with nothing in the way; nothing even to have to worry about taking off.

All these thoughts were making her horny. She wished her husband was with her. She wished she had some form of relief. Maybe if she touched herself... No, not here, in her parents' house; not with the alarm going off, which her mother had undoubtedly overheard. She wouldn't feel comfortable and relaxed here, the way she needed to for orgasm; she also had a feeling that all the fumbling around and experimenting would just frustrate her even further. How long would it take to give herself an orgasm? Far longer than she had, certainly—here in this stranger's house with this new alarm clock going off, in this uncomfortable sleeping bag and this swath of shirt. Even if she had had a husband here, she doubted she would feel comfortable enough to entertain sex.

She had never felt naked in bed with her husband. It was only now, in this stifling T-shirt, that she felt indecent. ...Indecently clothed. How bizarre.

As she moved to slap off the alarm, she became aware of stickiness between her thighs. Looking down, she realized her period had come. The shirt had bunched between her legs, and its hem was thick with red.

"Mom!"

"What, honey?" came her mother's voice from down the stairs.

"Where are my... Umm. Napkins?"

"Your WHAT?"

"My sanitary napkins! It's... That time of the month!"

There was a bit of silence from the kitchen, followed by the thuds of her mother ascending the stairs. Her mother appeared at her threshold shortly.

"So?" said Mom. "You know the rules, Caitlyn. We give you your supply, and store them somewhere yourself." Mom hated menstruation. Caitlyn had barely started her own courses when Mom had gone through menopause; her good cheer had been something to behold. Evidently it was a joy to no longer be 'unclean in the sight of the Lord.'

"Mom, I don't remember where I put them."

"How could you forget? Did you change your storage spot recently?"

Yes, she had; now they were stored in the cabinet under the sink, in her apartment with Jon Stanford, fifteen minutes from here next to Shellview State. But her parents preferred to ignore that she had ever been absent from under this roof.

Caitlyn said nothing; Mom seemed to hear it anyway. "Well, that's your business then. I have no idea where you put them, Caitlyn, and if you can't remember, that's your problem. Now. Once you get yourself sorted out, breakfast will be ready, and then you have classes to go to." She went back down to the kitchen and resumed her clattering around.

Caitlyn had to go downstairs still wearing the bloodstained shirt—sure, there was a nice little blotch right in the middle, but she sure wasn't going to put on another shirt and blotch that one up too. Rex was lying in the family room; he wagged his tail as she passed, but didn't come and follow her. (Maybe he smelled the blood.) She ransacked the bathroom looking for those darned Maxis With Wings. Had she taken them all with her? Of course not; she remembered the jump of panic when she got her first period in the apartment. There must be some around here somewhere. If nothing else, she would use her mother's. Now, if only she could find them. Where were they?

It was only after three minutes' bathroom demolition that she remembered they were upstairs—and that, furthermore, she had taken them out the day after Christmas and planned to bring them with her to the apartment. They'd been accidentally left behind in the pile in her room; Caitlyn had tripped over them last Tuesday, stumbling in for the first time in months, and almost broken her neck. They weren't here at all. Also, this toothbrush was hers. She'd used it daily until that fateful afternoon when Jon took her away from here. She'd seen the color at the drugstore—a red body with black grips, so unusual in this day of alabaster dental hygiene—and bought every copy of it she could get her hands on. Who did she think it was, her dad's?

This isn't my home anymore, she realized. I can come back here, and I certainly have, but this... This isn't my home anymore. I don't belong here. I'm not welcome here. My parents have made that endlessly plain.

But I'm not welcome with Jon either. Not anymore.

While digging through her sock drawer for something appropriate to wear—hopefully those black ones with the pink, yellow and purple polka dots; had she left those at the apartment?—she felt a little flash of pain. Frowning, she began to pile socks on the floor until a glint of metal emerged. It was a claddagh ring, with the band in a Celtic pattern. How did this get in here? I haven't put my rings on yet. Then she realized it was the original, the one she had lost; Jon had bought her a new one, which currently rested on the night table next to the foot of her mattress bed. This was the original one. This was the first. This was the one that didn't have Jon's heart in its hands.

She wondered if this was an omen. Where do I belong? It's like I have a choice now. She didn't wear her engagement ring anymore; she had bagged it carefully and put it in her jewelry box. The silver wedding band she found hard to part with; eventually she moved it to her other hand, where it didn't mean the same thing. (Or something like that. She'd have to look this up.) And now here she had two claddagh rings: one she'd bought for herself, the other bought for her by Jon.

The rings, she saw now, were not fully identical. The heart on Jon's was a little bit bigger, the hands on hers a little bigger. Which was more important, to have a heart or to offer it?

She left them all on the nightstand. Today she would go ringless.

She ate the pancakes her mother served her without comment; they were the same pancakes her mother always made, with the same vaguely-cinnamon flavor. Perhaps this was meant to make Caitlyn feel at home. Certainly Linda Delaney seemed to be feeling an undeniable pleasure at getting to serve her daughter breakfast again. For her part, Caitlyn chafed with impatience, wishing she could chew faster. But she knew she wouldn't be allowed to leave the table until her mother was seated and eating.

Finally Mom got herself pancake'd out and seated. She held out her hand.

Caitlyn stared. Oh, come on. No way. Every meal?

Mom glared and gestured with the hand.

Caitlyn sighed, put down her knife and fork, and took Mom's hand. Mom then reached out with the other as though someone else was sitting there, and closed her eyes.

"Heavenly Father, we thank Thee for the bounty we are about to receive. We give thanks for the glory of Your creation, for the friends and family You have blessed us with, for the privileged place You have given us on this good green Earth. We give thanks also and especially for the return of Caitlyn, who, like the prodigal son our Savior spoke of, was lost and now is found. Help us welcome her back into the shelter of Your Peace and Your Grace, which flow through the loving walls of this home. In the name of Jesus our Savior we pray. Amen."

"Amen," said Caitlyn, eager to be shut of this mess. She might've known her mother would do something like that—especially with the subtle dig about her life out of the house; the Prodigal Son reference implied her to be either foolish, a sinner, or both. And besides, the idea of 'loving walls' brought to mind some completely different imagery if Jon was involved.

She found herself asking, before she could stop it: "Mom, when's the last time you and Dad had sex?"

Her mother almost choked on her mouthful of pancake. "Wh— I— What?"

"Mom," said Caitlyn, keeping her patience about her, "I'm a grown woman. I know how babies are made. If you don't want to tell me, that's fine—I mean, it's your private matters and all—but don't think you have to shield me from adult truths or anything."

"Well," said Mom, "you are growing up. You've gone through puberty and everything. Perhaps it's safe to talk to you about these things."

Caitlyn wondered if Mom would have said that had Caitlyn's period not struck so explosively this morning.

"Well... Caitlyn... When a man and a woman love each other very much, they often feel... Urges. But all people, woman especially, must be careful about these urges, because they lead to sin."

"It's sinful to have babies," said Caitlyn in a flat voice.

"It's sinful to indulge in too much of Earthly pleasures, Caitlyn," said her mother in a surprisingly earnest voice. "Remember, we are Christians. Our place is not here, but in Eternity; and our calling is not to be comfortable here, but to prepare for Paradise."

That much was true, but... "So the fact that your body is meant to feel pleasure—"

"Temptation, pure and simple," said Caitlyn's mother. "God made carnal thoughts to test the faithful."

"So, probably not for years, huh?"

"Probably what not for years?"

"Since you and Dad... Did it."

"Not for many years, Caitlyn. In fact, I don't believe your father and I have engaged in that act since you were born."

Caitlyn was astounded despite herself. "You mean... The last time you two were intimate together was when I was conceived??" She was twenty-one years old!"

Mom's eyebrows jumped. " 'Intimate'? What sort of a word... Oh. Oh, Caitlyn." She sighed, and—to Caitlyn's eternal surprise—reached out a motherly arm to draw her daughter close. "You got out of there just in time, didn't you. My poor baby..."

Caitlyn was shaken to realize that her mother said it the same way Jon did. Without the element of prurience, of course, but... With the same all-encompassing affection, the same encapsulation—the same sense that this word was merely a label, a way of invoking that galaxy of experience and time that they had shared. And as for the hug... Was it the first time this decade? Quite possibly. Quite possibly.

She got on campus almost forty minutes early. That just made her miserable again; her apartment was only five minutes away, and she could think of some very nice things she and Jon could be doing to fill the time. Some of them involved being naked. Others involved her begging him to take her back. Had it really been almost a week without him? She'd gone to classes, done homework, gone to church—with her parents, for the first time in a long time; without her husband, for the first time in longer—and even played for one of the services, albeit on her three-quarters harp since Gabriel the full-size was still at the apartment. There was another thing she missed.

She knew she couldn't go back anymore. Their paths had diverged, permanently. If he couldn't accept the presence of God in his life... It was the right thing to do. She had compromised herself in the eyes of God once already, to no avail; there was no point in doing so again.

That didn't make it any easier to do.

Living with her parents was a nightmare. Mom had always been clingy; if she was alone in a room, she would pick up whatever she was doing and go find company. She could not bear to be without human contact for even five minutes. It had only gotten worse once Nathaniel left (either because Mom had gotten more insecure or because Caitlyn was the only one left for her to glom on); and now that Caitlyn herself had returned, Mom seemed determined to glue herself to her. She'd probably be here with me right now, drifting around campus, if it weren't for the fact that she has to be at work in five minutes.

And then there was the constant criticism. Veiled comments about how difficult her life must have been on her own, since clearly her layabout companion wasn't helping. Seemingly-innocuous questions that turned out to be about whether Jon had introduced her to any unsavory characters or deviant habits. Accusations about her decreased church attendance. Implications that, so far as they were concerned, her marriage had never been legal, and that she had been living in sin, and indulging in sin with a man, for two months.

Jon had been right. They didn't know how to treat her like an adult. They didn't even know how to treat her like a child. A child you teach, in the hopes that they will internalize the lessons and grow up to be the kind of person you want them to. Mom and Dad never taught me. They just... Handed down their judgments and expected me to obey. It's like they never cared about whether I could survive out of the house.

...No, it isn't that. It's that they never thought I'd have to.

How had it taken her that long to realize? Or had she needed Jon to show her? He had always said that you could never see a situation clearly from inside it, after all, and he was probably right about that. He'd been right about a lot of things.

Though not always the things that mattered. Because, even despite all... Despite the mistreatment, despite the bizarre goals... Her mother loved her. Caitlyn could no more deny this than she could that she was breathing.

Classes were dreary beyond belief, especially since she couldn't concentrate; she hadn't been able to concentrate since last Tuesday, and she was fairly sure her coursework was showing the signs of it. Her new backpack was actually Nathan's, one of the multiple ones he'd gone through during college, and was almost empty; all it had was some replacement notebooks and pencils. Her new wallet was actually an old one from her childhood—it was neon orange—and had very little in it besides a bit of cash and the provisional/temporary drivers' license they'd printed out for her while they replaced the one she'd "lost" (left at the apartment). Setting it to her shoulder, feeling the contents shift and rattle inside, only reminded her of what she'd lost.

Bereft of focus, she found herself drifting, daydreaming. Random scenarios flashed through her head. What would it be like to divorce? How many people could claim to have divorced before turning 22? Could she apply to the Guinness Book of World Records? What would her life be like from now on? When she tried to picture it, all she saw was a grey, featureless void, for all the things she had wanted (a home; a family; children) she could not imagine without envisioning Jon. All her goals and dreams had gotten wrapped around him; they were inextricable now. She must abandon them and find new ones.

There was a guy, to be certain; his name was Aidan, which was cool right off the bat. She only ever saw him in Jazz Theory, but he liked to sit near her. He dressed in a leather trench coat and wrote in numerous, voluminous notebooks in jagged, terrible scrawls; he had a dark, chuckling sense of humor and a low, husky voice. He carried melancholy on him like a cloak; when he was concentrating on something he was a vision to behold: that pensive look on his face, the folds of leather rustling about him. He was handsome and deeply intriguing to her; she knew that, if her heart hadn't already been so irrevocably bonded to someone else's, she would have romantic interest in him. She could tell that he felt the same way; the fact that he had been polite enough to not acknowledge them was just another turn-on. If not for Jon... Maybe this would've been the man for me.

And yet... Sometimes his words took on the tone of a whining child, and jagged on the ear; sometimes she thought his attire and demeanor were just affectations meant to attract the female eye. When he spoke of a traumatic past, the tale rang tame to her; maybe he was downplaying it, but to her practiced ear it sounded more like the kind of suffering a teenager would consider horrific. He didn't have that unshakable sense of self, like Jon did; he still felt the need to posture. He couldn't roll with the punches the way Jon could—that incredible ability to take setbacks and wounds, most often from the people he loved most, and just keep on smiling. He didn't have the steel that came from long years of gritting through pain. He was cool, but... He wasn't Jon.

And those were the worst moments—the ones where she forgot that she could never have him back. Half a dozen times she found herself with a half-formulated list of what housework, homework and music practice she would accomplish before Jon came home for dinner; once she even started thinking about what they would do when they were in bed together. Then she would jerk back into reality and have to bear down before she started crying in the middle of the lecture. That wouldn't do at all.

All of this made for three hours of classes that seemed to take a decade.

She was in for a surprise: when she came out of the Music Building, there were two familiar faces waiting for her. Christa Crane gave her a smile and said, "Care for a lunch date?" And Meredith lifted her backpack—Caitlyn's backpack, the one she had had for years now, the one she'd been too absent-minded to take with her when she left—and smiled too, and for the first time in almost a week Caitlyn felt less than completely alone.

But there were other issues at hand first. "I thought you had a job. Aren't you supposed to be at work now?"

"Well, I have some time off stored up," said Meredith with an easy smile. "And besides, after I found out what had happened, well..." The smile slid off her face.

"There are some things that are a little more important than others," said Christa.

"Yes," said Meredith. "And... Well, we care about our friends. Brandon and I... We were involved when you two got together."

"No you weren't," Christa said. "They got together on their own, they just happened to be at your wedding when they did it."

"Regardless," Meredith said. "We feel responsible, at least a little bit. I know Brandon would've been here too if he could, but... We agreed that I would probably be able to accomplish more."

"I'm just happy to see you," Caitlyn said. "Sometimes I feel like I could count my friends on one hand."

Caitlyn used her cellphone to call her mother's cellphone and tell her where she'd be—she chose it deliberately because she knew her mother wouldn't pick up. Then the three of them began walking towards downtown, talking about nothing important at all, trying to decide where to go; they settled on a restaurant Meredith had seen before and always wanted to try, but never gotten around to. Caitlyn knew that there was a reckoning coming soon, but it was nice to just be casual for a little while; it was nice to feel as though things were normal. She hadn't felt normal since Tuesday. There were a lot of things that had been missing from her life since Tuesday.

They ordered, and then continued to chat inconsequentially about the food for another good half hour or so. But all good things must come to an end, and eventually Christa settled herself at the table and looked at Caitlyn. "So. What's going on."

Caitlyn sighed. "I guess you've heard."

"We talked to Jon," said Christa. "We heard his side of the story."

"He's broken up, Caitlyn," Meredith said. "He misses you. He needs you."

"I... I'm sure he does." She did too. "But he'll just have to learn to live without me." She would too. "We talked. It became clear that... That there were fundamental differences between us."

"Like?" said Christa.

Slowly, with many stops and starts, they walked her through it. Then Christa boiled it down in a way that made it all seem simple. "So... You feel that Jon isn't loving or Christian enough, that he could stand to open his heart a lot more. And Jon feels that you're too eager to please, that it's so important to you to please whoever happens to ask for your help, that you end up putting the important things—yourself, him, your marriage—on the back burner, where they don't belong."

"...Well," said Caitlyn, feeling a bit defensive, "when you put it that way, it sounds like a bad idea."

"Isn't it?" said Meredith, arching an eyebrow. "Caitlyn, you can't just let yourself be dissuaded from what's important to you."

"Being a follower of Christ is important to me," Caitlyn said. "And did Christ ever meet someone he wasn't willing to help?"

"Maybe he didn't, but did he have a wife and kids back home?" Meredith asked. "If it's important for you to be a force of aid and help, then go join the Peace Corps or the Jesuit Volunteer Corps and serve abroad. We'd all applaud you. But you can't have your cake and eat it too, Caitlyn. You're married now, and you've said you want to have kids. You can't go around being a distracted do-gooder with things like that in your life."

"So you're saying it's a sin to be Christlike and help people," Caitlyn challenged.

"I'm saying, it's a sin to break your own marriage vows," Meredith said without raising your voice. "When you married Jon, you swore before God to always honor him. You swore, to Jon and to God, that your husband and the things you built with him would be the most important part of your life."

"I'm not... Jon's exaggerating," Caitlyn protested. "Maybe I was spreading myself a little thin before we got married, but not after. I mean, until we bought the truck we didn't even have the opportunity."

"Perhaps not, but the way you say that implies you intend to go back to it," Christa said. "What are we talking about here? Overbooking?"

"Well... Last October there was a point where I had like five gigs in two weeks. But, I mean, I got paid for all of them. And nobody complained about my playing or anything. Or my homework, for that matter."

She realized both of them were looking at her. "That sounds bad, doesn't it."

"Only slightly," said Meredith. "Are there seriously that few harpists out there?"

"It's not an instrument you just fall into or anything," Christa said. "It's like beekeeping that way. There's gotta be a 'wanna' involved."

"What's your goal in taking all these gigs," Meredith asked. "What's your goal in saying Yes to whatever opportunities are given you?"

"Well, when I was living with my parents, my goal was to make money so that, if I had to move out, we'd survive it," Caitlyn said. "And it was Jon who was always telling me to get out of there, that I needed to spare my sanity."

"Okay," Meredith said. "Say you're done. Say you're out of there, and your sanity's in good hands. Since, until last Tuesday, that was actually true. Someone offers you a gig—what kind of gigs do you normally get?"

"Either it's someone's wedding or funeral or some other occasion," Caitlyn said, "or I'm an ad-hoc harpist for an orchestra. Some harpists are full-time members, but others prefer to freelance, and some orchestras don't have the budget to hire a musician who's just gonna sit there half the time."

"Okay," said Meredith. "Say you're offered a gig, and you tell Jon about it and, for some reason, he asks you to turn it down."

"It's an orchestra appointment that rehearses on Wednesdays," Christa supplied. "Meaning there'd be a scheduling conflict with Octapella. And let me tell you, Caitlyn," she added with a wry smile, "the seven of us might be in trouble if he wasn't there."

"There we go," Meredith said. "For that reason, Jon tells you he'd like you to turn it down. What do you say?"

"Well..." said Caitlyn. "The..."

"Not the polite answer," Meredith said. "The one you really want to give him."

Caitlyn's chin came up. "Jon can go home and stuff it."

Her friends regarded her with identical tilted looks; she was struck suddenly by how much they reminded her of sisters.

"For me, there's nothing more important than being the kind of person who says Yes," Caitlyn said. "If someone needs me, I should be there. I should never hesitate to place the needs of others above my own."

"Okay," said Meredith. "And it doesn't bother you that you're hurting Jon? It doesn't bother you that you're taking him away from something that's important to him?"

"And what about your schoolwork?" Christa said. "Suddenly you have one less night to get things done. You're threatening your own schedule, your own grades. You're piling on more stress for... What? A few dollars?"

"Not to mention that hurting Jon is the same as hurting yourself," Meredith said, "because you love him, and that makes his feelings as important to you as your own. If not more so. That's been true since your wedding—since before your wedding. And if it isn't, I have some questions as to why you married him in the first place."

"Yes, but..." said Caitlyn, helpless to explain. This all made sense in her head; why was it so hard to communicate it to her friends? "What good am I, if I'm not helping people? What difference does it make for me to sit at home comfortably with Jon if I'm not changing lives and doing good? That's my calling. That's my mission. I am a Christian. Love your neighbor as yourself. Love your neighbor more than yourself. And I do. My life is meaningless to me unless I can get out and make a difference."

Christa and Meredith regarded her silently.

"I'm sorry to hear you say that," Meredith said.

"What?" said Caitlyn.

"You're meaningless unless you're a Christian?" said Meredith. "Your life has no value except as it pertains to God's ministry? Caitlyn, there are very few Christians who would ever agree with those ideas—and, frankly, they're the ones who give the rest of us a bad name."

"Your life has enormous worth," Christa said. "To a loving God, to loving friends, and to a husband whose love for you is beyond doubt. Caitlyn, you should see him. He's a wreck. He's not complete without you. And, though we're doing our best to keep you smiling, we can tell that you're not complete without him either."

"A sign, incidentally, that you married the right person," Meredith said. "But we're getting off track here."

"Very true," said Christa. "Caitlyn, you have inherent worth. There is meaning to your life even if you never lift a finger to help another person. There's meaning to your life even if you hurt people."

"I don't believe that," Caitlyn said.

"Well you should," said Christa, "because it's true."

"That's not how I was raised," Caitlyn said.

"And that isn't good enough incentive to learn differently?" Meredith said.

"You guys make it sound like a bad thing," Caitlyn said, "but it's not. I was raised to think of others. I was raised to be generous with my time and effort, and to not count the cost. I was raised to be selfless."

"Yes, and that's probably why Jon is concerned," Meredith said. "Because he doesn't want his kids to have no self as well."

"Man, and here we thought he was exaggerating," Christa remarked.

"What do you mean?" Caitlyn said.

"To be devoid of self," Meredith said, "to not possess a sense of identity. To be self-less. Is that really what you want for your children, Caitlyn? That they have so little sense of self-definition that they let anybody trample over them whenever they please?"

Caitlyn remembered the fiasco on Valentine's Day, when she had let Jon take her to a place that, in retrospect, she wished she'd known not to go.

"Ah, I see you've had experience with that," said Meredith in a dry voice.

"Now you sound like Jon," Caitlyn accused. "He's so... So judgmental. He decides what he wants, he goes for it, he doesn't let anyone change his mind. He decides he doesn't want something, and he doesn't change his mind on that either. What's wrong with being open to new experiences?"

"Nothing," said Meredith, "except for the people who use that to take advantage of you."

Caitlyn thought about all the time she'd spent with Harold: humoring him, listening to him rant, keeping her real thoughts concealed beneath her face of friendship—knowing he didn't want a friend, just a crutch to lean on. Knowing she was being wasted here.

"Ah, I see you've had experience with that," said Meredith in a dry voice.

"So... So what are you saying," Caitlyn said. "I have to compromise my Christian behavior just to protect myself?"

"No, not that you have to," said Christa. "That you can. Caitlyn, we are all called to be ministers of God, to spread His Word and His Love throughout our world. But there comes a time when to give too much of yourself is to fatally compromise your ability to do those things. Imagine you're going around somewhere and, I dunno, you run into a hundred people. Except that one of them is standing alone, and you can only speak to one group at a time. So you talk to this guy and he believes, but he says, 'I'm only going to become a Christian if you jump off this cliff.'"

"Right, because that happens all the time in proselytizing," said Meredith.

"Girl, please," said Christa, "I'm trying to make a point here. Caitlyn, what do you do in this situation? Understanding that, if you convert this man to Christianity, that's the end of your usefulness to God? Understanding that you can leave him and go do good works among the other ninety-nine, and make a difference in their lives and convert them... Without having to put an end to your life in Christ?"

"And, with that in mind, why do you allow people to ask you to jump off cliffs?" Meredith asked.

Caitlyn had her answer to that. It was the reason she'd allowed Jon to have his way with her; the reason she let Harold babble at her; the reason she didn't hesitate when someone needed her harp and her hands. "To let them know I love them. To show them that I love them."

"You love people who bog you down with five gigs in two weeks," said Christa.

The right answer would be Yes... But it wouldn't be the true answer. Not real love. Generosity, sure; affection, empathy, loyalty; many of the higher virtues. But not love.

"Then why?" said Christa. "Why put yourself through this wringer for nothing? Why hurt yourself—and now your husband—for people who are only a paycheck to you?"

"Because... Because that's what I was taught," Caitlyn said. "When I was young, my parents would always say—"

"Oh-hhhhh," said Christa.

"Getting in trouble for being selfish?" Meredith said. "Expecting you to share? Punishing you if you hesitated for even a second over it?"

"No, that's not what it was like at—" Then Caitlyn realized that, on the contrary, this was exactly what it had been like. Oh my goodness. "I can't believe it."

"Demanding you sacrifice your own satisfaction? Expecting you to be selfless?" Meredith said. "As in, not like, This is a value we want you to learn, but rather, We won't love you unless you're this way?"

"Yeah," said Caitlyn, feeling stunned. "Yeah." That was it exactly. That was the life she had lived for twenty years, and she hadn't even realized it.

"Jon made a really interesting statement when we were talking to him," Christa said. "He said that the parents you live under are the people who most strongly influence your idea of what God is like."

"Well, yes," Caitlyn said. "Isn't that always how it starts out?" She had been brought to church by her parents, and she knew Jon had been brought as well by his; they must have taught him about Jesus and God, at least in the beginning... Come to think of it, maybe that explained his faith. Caitlyn liked her parents-in-law just fine, but no one could call them devout.

"No, it's not just that they teach you about God and get you to read the Bible," Christa said. "I mean, it's that, but it's not just that. Jon said that our parents live the role of God to us. When we're young, our parents create our idea of who and what God is supposed to be."

Caitlyn was silent for long moments, mulling over this new thought. That smacked to her of idolatry; and neither her parents nor any parents she knew had ever demanded their children worship them. But that was the whole point of Jesus, after all, the whole point of Christianity—that Christ had come down to earth to be the example of how to live a God-like life, to model Christian/Godlike behavior. Now, obviously, parents weren't Jesus, but still--a person could model it. But... Wouldn't that assigning parents too much credit?

"I don't know," Christa answered, "it might be. But, think about everyone you know. What is Jon's conception of God, in comparison to how his parents treated him? What's yours?"

"I think Jon's in much the same boat as Brandon," Meredith said. "Which makes sense, because they've had similar experiences with their parents. Jon says he finds it hard to believe in the idea that God won't let him down if he puts his trust in Him, and Brandon understands that because both of them have been let down by many people, particularly their parents, before."

"And we don't even know how our friend Jane got to be the way she is," Christa said, "considering how much her parents had mellowed by the time we knew them, but... They were a lot like yours, Caitlyn. Manipulative. High expectations. And she turned out to have pretty low self-esteem, just like you."

"This self-esteem thing," Meredith said. "It's so tricky. On the one hand, you have all these cocksure crazy people with no conception of humility... And on the other you have people who have just been trodden into the dirt. It's like no one can ever get it right. But if your parents didn't teach you to have good self-esteem, it comes out. The only thing that varies is how it comes out."

"I was lucky," Christa said, "and so was Zach. We both came out of our childhoods with a pretty good sense of ourselves. We both take it for granted, of course, because we just haven't lived with anything else; but now we look at the people around us and realize just how lucky we were. Our parents managed to... Well, they managed not to screw us up. That sounds so simple, but it's starting to seem like one of the rarest things there is."

Caitlyn nodded. "That's important to Jon too. And me. I just... I hate the idea of any child of ours growing up the way he and I did. ...Sheesh, listen to me. I make it sound like we lived in poverty or something. We didn't. We were comfortable. We had everything... Except love."

"Then why don't you give these new ideas a try?" Meredith said. "Maybe you're not convinced that it's right to stand up for yourself, to be selfish, but isn't it worth it to try it and find out? Because, if we're right, then clinging to your current model would lead to screwing up your kids. Do you really want to take that risk?"

"But... These are my parents," Caitlyn said. "They've been supporting me and taking care of me and... And everything. For years. Don't I owe it to them to please them?"

"Because they love you?" Christa said. "No."

"What?" said Meredith. "That sounds backwards."

"Didn't we tell you?" Christa said. "It was something Fr. Winston said. He said that most of our ideas of love are completely backwards that way. When you love somebody, they don't owe you anything—because love is the most voluntary and subjective of emotions, he said, or something like that, and as such the lover is free to decide whether or not to love at all. But the beloved doesn't owe the lover anything, because the lover is making a rational choice, which implies a willingness to accept all consequences thereof. Instead, the lover feels called to serve the person he-or-she loves, because that's what love is: a rational, voluntary choice to put the other person's needs first. It is given free of charge and with no obligation. It's the only truly free gift we ever get."

"I really do need to meet this Fr. Winston of yours," Meredith said. "He sounds like a very interesting person."

"So, no, Caitlyn," Christa said. "If your parents truly love you, they don't expect any recompense for their actions. Virtue truly is its own reward in this case. and, if they are leaning on you to be appropriately grateful, then, well, they're trying to manipulate you. No one should have to pay for what is given freely."

"Yes, but, what if I love them?" Caitlyn said. "If I love them, I want to please them, right?... And if they tell me there's something I want done..."

"Fair enough, yes," said Meredith. "But that's when you have to decide."

"Decide what?"

"How far your love goes. Who you're actually willing to change yourself, or hurt yourself, for. Caitlyn, you know your parents don't actually love you. They love who they want you to be, not who you are. And this mythical Caitlyn they want you to be—you know enough about her to know that you wouldn't be happy if you became her. It would be an injury to yourself. Your parents may have your best interests in mind, but they still intend to chop off the best parts of who you are. Is that really what you want for yourself?"

"Especially since, remember, you're worthy of love just as you are," Christa said. "You have worth to a loving God, just the way you are. And if your parents don't love you, just the way you are, then they are the ones who have strayed from the path of Christ, not you. Jesus said to love even sinners. How then are you any less deserving of your parents' love?"

"And you haven't sinned," Meredith put in.

Caitlyn wasn't sure what to think. There were so many different forces spinning around in her head and crashing into each other like some deranged roller derby. But in the end, all she had to ask herself was one question: What would Jesus do?

Christa signaled for the check, and they left.

It was relatively quiet around the house until Mrs. Delaney returned at 3:30. Caitlyn pasted herself at her desk—the same one she'd used for so many years; the computer that had entertained so many desperate Instant-Messenger conversations with Jon—and tried to get something done about her homework, but there was no focus in her now; she didn't even have the gift of music to distract her, because all her instruments were at the apartment. Instead, all she had was her thoughts—and there were certainly enough of them to keep her busy.

For all her life, she had believed in the necessity of earning love; this had been hammered into her from an early age, until she breathed it in and out like air. It had taken Meredith's insight to remind her that she believed it. And, through all her life, she had never hesitated to do whatever she thought would earn her love; that too had been beaten into her. If she wasn't loved, her parents had told her, she was worthless; if she wasn't doing what they told her to, she wasn't loved. It was manipulative; it was cold and unfeeling. No wonder she had fallen so hard for Jon: he had taken one look at all of this and simply decided to love her differently. To love her, always and forever, come whatever storms.

It had worked, she realized. He did love her. And, of course, she loved him. Even if she never saw his face again, heard his voice, felt his touch—even if she divorced him and re-married and made a family with someone else—she would love him to her grave. In that moment of hope she knew that she had achieved the kind of storybook, fairy-tale love she had always wanted for herself. At any other time she might have found that comforting; now, in this place of desolation, it was not an entirely pleasant thought.

She had lived with her parents' way for her entire life, with Jon's for less than a tenth of it. She believed in some reckless place that her parents' way was the right one. But then why had she sought refuge in Jon's arms?—he, who was the antithesis of what her parents had taught her to believe? By all rights, she should have been miserable there; but it was the happiest she'd ever felt, the strongest and best she'd ever been. Was it true?—was her parents' way flawed?

The Thursday Fiasco seemed to say so. If her parents' rules were true, she should have been willing to go through with it no matter the discomfort to herself; instead she had selfishly demanded that Jon stop because she just didn't like it. If her parents' rules were true, the proper response for him would have been to threaten her, to bluster, to tell her how ungrateful she was that he was slaving night and day to pay for their apartment and her education and music lessons. Instead, he had simply agreed, had nodded and kissed her and did as she bade.

Jon loves me. Jon actually, really, honestly loves me. He said that, if I turned him down on the bum thing, he would swallow his disappointment and live with it. I didn't believe him, of course—not with the conditioning I've received—but he meant it. Because he was disappointed, he must have been; it wasn't romantic or loving or even pleasurable for either of us, and he wouldn't have wanted to try it if he hadn't thought it might be some or all of those things. He must have been disappointed. But he never said anything more about it, except to ask if I was feeling all right. He really meant it. He really loves me.

And what about me? Shouldn't I, having done that thing for him, uncomfortable and unpleasant as it was, have been demanding all sorts of recompense from him? Shouldn't I, having just demonstrated my love for him in such an ostentatious way, have been demanding reward? —Heck, shouldn't I have been doing that for everything in our sex life? Because I sure don't. Our lovemaking is always about giving—and more often than not, from me to him. ...And I like it that way. The whole dominance thing is about the fact that I like giving to him. If my parents' rules are true, I should be begrudging him everything. Instead, I'm just giving it away. And, most of the time, feeling like I'm actually getting the better end of the bargain.

(Of course, I also doubt my parents ever enjoyed sex the way Jon and I do.)

So. Where does that leave me?

Jon says I need to be selfish, but if Meredith and Christa are right, what he's really saying is that I need to be less generous with my willingness to earn people's love. What he and Meredith and Christa (and probably Brandon and Zach, if they'd come) are all saying is that... I should take more worth in myself. I shouldn't depend on other people thinking I'm worth something, I should... I should believe that I, out of myself, am worthy of love no matter what.

She thought about her flaws: her inability to get a job up until now, which was partially due to the peculiar circumstances of her life, but more due to sheer laziness—she just didn't want to. She thought about her inability to say no, her tendency to double-book, to have to turn in shoddy work because she took too much on her plate; she thought about her habit of procrastination, which only exacerbated things by decreasing her efficiency during the little time she had. She thought about her selfishness—getting harp gigs simply because she missed the public exposure. She thought about how half-heartedly she studied, wasting the education her parents (and later her husband) had earned for her by the sweat of their brow. She thought about her deep insecurities—her inability to say No; her need to have others' approval; her willingness to turn off her own personality and bend to the whims of others.

Me? Worthy of love? Ha!

...And yet Jon loves me.

So do Meredith and Christa. So do Zach and Brandon. So does Mrs. Sellitz. So does Mrs. Klein. So does Gramma and Grampa. So does Uncle Max. So do Jon's parents. Maybe some of them are family... But these are all people whose judgment I trust, whom I am proud to be close to. And if we add to the list of people who maybe love me, or at least have been kind in the past, we get all these other people as well—Pastor Pendleton and Pastor Larson and Alice Larson and Dr. Polkiss and Dr. Leyton and all the members of Octapella and all of Jon's extended family and his sister Melinda and even her cat, Whiskers, who would sometimes come visit while we lived in Jon's parents' house, and whom Jon said is so shy that almost none of his other friends have ever met her. And even my parents, misguided though they are.

Do these people know me? Some of them don't. But some of them do. And the one thing in common between all the people who know me is that... They love me.

Jesus said to love the sinner, but hate the sin. I believe that, and I try to love sinners as best I can. But surely I have sinned too much to be loved or forgiven. When he talked about sinners, surely he meant people with silly things like having eaten meat on Sabbath or being a tax collector or having been caught in adultery. Surely no one as hopeless and flawed as... Me.

She had not really come to any conclusions by the time the front door opened to admit her mother. At least at that point she had good reason to bear down and concentrate on her homework. It wouldn't do to zone out while Mom was ten feet away (of course), grading math assignments. ...Especially since she told Caitlyn to drop whatever she was doing and help out. The implication, as always, was that she was due her daughter's obedience. Caitlyn didn't like to think that her friends were being proved true, because it put her parents in a bad light... But she also couldn't deny what she saw with her own eyes.

Caitlyn turned back to her homework (that, at least, she could change) and kept busy as much as she could. She had quite a bit of homework to do, and no small bit of it she could probably stand to do again now that her backpack had been returned to her. Plus, she wasn't sure how much parental exposure she could handle right now.

She knew she wouldn't be able to stave them off past dinner time; through some miracle, she nonetheless managed that. Her father had stopped by for some idle conversation when he got home, and Mom tried to talk to her while they graded papers, but Caitlyn was monosyllabic and they got the message. Once they were all at table, though, all bets were off and she knew it.

Her father led the grace this time. Before leaving for a family (and husband) who held no such custom, she had appreciated the gesture; today, she still agreed with it in spirit, but felt that her parents were rather ostentatious about it. It was not that her father's prayer was overlong (though he'd been shorter); it was that it didn't feel genuine. In the unlikely event that she could get Jon to say a prayer over a meal, she knew it would at least be heartfelt. Now, to her ears, her father's words rang false; it was as if he was maintaining some facade, going through the motions. Had it always been like this? Had he changed, while she was gone? Had she changed? Or had this morning's cynicism simply infected her?

It was a mostly civil dinner. Mostly.

At first the talk was nothing consequential; how was school, how was work, how are your students doing. Nobody had yet noticed Caitlyn's magically-returned backpack, so she didn't have to answer any questions about how she'd gotten it; it was taboo for her to mention Jon, and the Chamberses and Cranes were almost as bad.

Of course, Mom and Dad were free to mention Jon all they wanted.

"So, Caitlyn," said her father. "Have you thought about how you plan to get your harps back?"

No, Caitlyn hadn't. Thus far, she'd been practicing on the Shellview harps, staying at school during the gap before Orchestra practice. Oboe lessons had been suspended indefinitely, to Mrs. Klein's approval; in her opinion, Caitlyn had always been stretched too thin, and it would be better to develop full expertise with one instrument than to play two with only mediocrity. (Of course, Mrs. Klein had some pointed comments to make about Caitlyn's particular choice of which instrument to drop, but that was Mrs. Klein—all bark and no bite.)

"The longer you leave them there..." Dad said.

"Dad, I'm not even sure who technically owns them," she said. She and Jon had pooled their monetary resources together and stopped keeping track ever since. That wasn't a big deal as far as housekeeping budget was concerned—but property and ownership laws were a whole different story. They'd learned this when her parents had forced her to buy the full-size harp from them, on the (legally accurate) grounds that since they had purchased the harp for her (she'd been all of 12; there'd been no way she could afford a $20,000 instrument ), it actually belonged to them. "This is probably the kind of thing we'd have to hire a lawyer for."

Her parents were silent for a moment, trading unreadable glances.

"Well... Maybe you should send him an e-mail offering to buy them back," her father said. "It would certainly be cheaper than hiring a lawyer."

"Uhh... Dad, with what money? All my life's savings are in the joint account we opened in December. I don't have a cent to my name." She'd better stop using her credit card; there was no way she could pay the reckoning at the end of the month.

Besides, she didn't want to e-mail him. She didn't want to start the long, convoluted process of separating her life from his. While she ignored the problem, she could pretend it wasn't there. She could pretend that she didn't wake up every morning feeling like she might have just made the greatest mistake of her life.

Again, her parents had their silent conversation.

"Then perhaps you should consider this a lesson, Caitlyn," her mother said. "In taking hasty and ill-advised action. When you make a mistake, you have to pay the consequences."

Oh, thought Caitlyn, they rub my face in it now. As if I would've been allowed to do this kind of learning if I hadn't made the "mistake" of going out to live my own life. Out loud, she said, "So, what? I'm supposed to earn the money?"

"That's how most money is gained, yes," said her father.

"And how am I supposed to do that? It's hard to take gigs as a harpist when you don't have a harp." She didn't even have the benefit of her 24-string lap Celtic, which she had taken with her and was now (of course) at the apartment.

"Well... I suppose we could loan you the money," said her father.

"I don't think we should," her mother said. "Sometimes it takes a good hard lesson before someone learns." Caitlyn knew then that they had discussed this issue beforehand, and were playing from a script. "I mean, there's always Starbucks."

"I didn't say we should just give her the money free and clear," Dad said. "It would be a loan, an actual loan, with interests and monthly payments. With collateral as insurance. You've always been paid well for your services as a harpist, and that should be even easier now that you're not so occupied with your so-called husband."

Why, again, had she ever thought that coming here would be a good idea? She should have turned herself on the mercy of the Pendletons, who had three kids, or the Larsons, who had two. Mrs. Sellitz, maybe. Even living in a box on the sidewalk might've been better.

The dig about her husband goaded her into careless speech: "You know, we wouldn't be having this problem if you hadn't forced us to buy the harps from you in the first place. They'd still be legally yours and we could just go in and seize them."

"How dare you criticize us!" her mother snapped, her voice dropping an octave. "After we were kind enough to take you in! After how thoughtless and disloyal you've been! We could have turned you out on the street! We are your parents, who have fed you, clothed you, sheltered you despite your horrendous behavior! The least you could do is be grateful to us!"

And there it was.

She realized that her relationship with her parents had been irrevocably altered. Getting out of the house, living with the kind of independence she'd long dreamed of—it had spoiled her; she was now more willing to question, to think outside the patterns her parents wanted her to follow. (And as far as they were concerned, she'd been too full of questions even before she'd left.) And now, after the conversation she'd had with Meredith and Christa, after the light they'd thrown on the way she'd lived... She could not stay here. Even if she wanted to (and she didn't), that would require submitting to her parents' rule, and that was something she couldn't do anymore. Inevitably, she would fight against it; inevitably, she would rebel; inevitably, her 'tainted' ways of thinking would come to light; inevitably they would kick her out. Her days here were numbered.

And yet what did that leave? She couldn't move out on her own; she'd used all her resources to support her erstwhile marriage, and there they remained. Could she remand herself to the mercy of those others? Perhaps, but not for any meaningful length of time, not long enough to actually get back on her feet. Could she live on the street, or hide out on the Shellview State campus? Not without incurring grave physical danger; she had no idea how to survive alone, and doubted her ability to learn. Could she go back to Jon?

That, she wasn't as ready to answer. She wasn't sure what the right answer was. She had come to see that her own behavior had been un-Christian in its own way, but so was Jon's, and there was no indication that he intended to fall back into line. It was right there in the Bible that it was a sin for a Christian to marry outside the faith, and Jon certainly qualified. She could not, in good conscience, return to him. All the things that she valued about him—his humor, his touch, his wisdom; his willingness to challenge her, his sense of self; his dreams of the future, his unflinching support of her goals, the children they had planned to raise; the breadth of his shoulders, the laughter in his brown eyes, the tenderness in his body as he made love to her—all those things, she would have to abandon.

That was perhaps the hardest thing of all.

She couldn't stay; she couldn't go; she couldn't return. What, then, was left for her?

"Well?" her mother snapped, and suddenly Caitlyn realized that this whirling kaleidescope of thought had kept her immobile at the table for long seconds. "What have you to say for yourself?"

Caitlyn felt hysterical sobs welling at her throat. She didn't trust herself to speak. What could she say? What could she say that wouldn't get herself killed? What could she say that wouldn't cause an explosion? How was she supposed to navigate this mess? What was she going to do for herself now??

But as she cast about in confusion, that single central question fell sharply into place: What would Jesus do?

"...That I resent being manipulated this way!" Caitlyn said.

"Caitlyn Claire Delaney, how dare you speak like that!"

"Fairly easily, as you can see," she said, deciding to keep her temper in check as much as she could. (But oh!, how good that outburst had felt!) "Mom, I do appreciate what you've done for me, and I know you didn't need to take me back in. But that was something you chose to do, for love, out of the goodness of your hearts. Wasn't it? Or was it something that you intend to barter for? Is this another loan, with interest and monthly payments?"

"It could be," her father said in his grumpy, gravelly voice. She and Nathan had often joked that her father sounded like a mountain. "Don't make the mistake of thinking we owe you anything, Caitlyn."

"Fair enough," said Caitlyn. "I won't. But don't make the mistake of thinking I owe you anything either."

"We gave you life," her mother said in a voice tight with anger.

"For which I am grateful," Caitlyn said. "Mom, believe it or not, I'm glad to be here. But that doesn't extend to allowing you to control me like this."

"And how, precisely, do you see our requests for respect as controlling?" said her father in a voice she recognized as being dangerously calm.

"Because it's not just respect. You guys imply that, unless I do things your way, you won't love me."

There was silence at this proclamation, as they worked through it.

Surprisingly, Dad was the first to speak; surprisingly, he didn't deny it. "Well, Caitlyn, that just means you're growing up. Because that's the way the world works. Either you do what people tell you to, or you get kicked out."

"Really," said Caitlyn. "Then how come my friends love me just the way I am? Gramma? Grampa? Mrs. Klein and Mrs. Sellitz? How come Jon loves me just the way I am? I don't have to earn their approval; I don't have to follow their directives. All I have to do is be who I am."

"If that's what you think, then you're in for a rude awakening," her father said.

"No, I'm not," said Caitlyn, "because they prove it. Because when they say it, I believe them because I know it's true. And hey, look at this: isn't this what Jesus calls us to do? To love unconditionally, and not judge, and not be selfish?"

"You're not going to claim that... that... That man is a better Christian than we are," her mother thundered.

"I shouldn't have to," Caitlyn returned. "What precisely does Scripture say about love? 'Love is patient, love is kind...' "

"First Corinthians, chapter 13," said her father.

"You don't need to quote the Bible to us," said her mother.

Evidently I do, Caitlyn thought. "Tell me, then: where precisely in those verses does it say that love is withheld if the person you love doesn't obey you? Where is it said that love is only to be given out as a reward? Where does Christ command us to collect our rightful rewards for the love we bestow?"

"That's not what we do," her mother said in that same tight voice. But now there was a tinge of fright behind it. "That's not what we do."

Caitlyn shrugged. "Maybe it isn't, but it sure comes across that way."

"Maybe you need to open your eyes," her father growled. "You think just because you went out and sinned a little that you know anything about the world? You think that you understand parenting better than we do?"

This was such a ridiculous attack that Caitlyn laughed. "Dad, I'm not claiming to understand anything. All I'm telling you is what I see."

"What you see doesn't matter!" her mother thundered.

Caitlyn just looked at her.

"There is a difference," said her father, "between your opinion, and the truth."

"I agree," said Caitlyn. "Are you willing to admit that there's a difference between your opinion and the truth?"

"Why should we?" said her father.

"Because it's true?" said Caitlyn. "Or is reality one-way? You are the final arbiters of fact and truth in this family? What you say, goes?—End of story!"

"Yes," said her father. "End of story."

"And that's how I know you don't love me," Caitlyn said. "Because, when I tell you that I am in pain, that I am hurt, that I don't know what to do, you don't listen to me, or seek to understand my viewpoint. You don't extend the compassion and sympathy love implies. You run me over with a steamroller."

"When do you ever tell us those things!" her mother retorted. "You've kept your little secrets for years. You barely talked to us any more than Nathan did!"

"Yes," said Caitlyn. This was true as far as it went. "Do you know why?"

"Oh, am I going to be told that I made another mistake?" said Mom with contempt.

"Yes, actually, you are," said Caitlyn. "Jon said—"

"Why do I care about—"

"Mom, you are going to have to accept the idea that people other than you know things," Caitlyn snapped.

"He doesn't!" Mom cried.

"In point of fact, he does," Caitlyn said, "but why trust me? Why don't you let me tell you what he thinks, and judge for yourself?"

Mom had no answer for this, though her eye twitched.

"Jon once said that real friendship only starts with moments of vulnerability. It's when you go to somebody and tell them that you're in pain, or tell them something that they could use to cause you pain. For instance, if Nathan were to come to me and say that he had a crush on Nicole Stather." This was a historical incident; the poor girl had had to turn him down, as politely as possible, in the middle of a home-school lesson. "Under those circumstances I have two possible choices. The first is that I can accept his overture of friendship, keep his secret and give him counsel. The second is that I can use this information and hurt him—for instance by running straight to you guys and blabbing about it. That would shame him, and he would feel, rightly, betrayed by me."

"What does this have to do with us loving you," Mom snapped.

"Just this," Caitlyn said. "You say that I never came to you with anything. That I never extended overtures of friendship. In light of what I've just said, can you imagine why?"

Mom was silent, but Dad said, "There is a third option. Maybe you never gave us the trust we deserve."

Mom rallied to this. "Regardless of what you might think, Caitlyn, you have not been a good daughter."

"Then I haven't," Caitlyn said. "Again, I ask you: where is the part of Scripture that says you are allowed to deprive me over this? Whatever happened to, 'Love the sinner, hate the sin'?"

Her father growled, "Maybe you're too sinful to love."

"Maybe I am," Caitlyn said, trying not to flinch. Her father—probably without knowing it—had just said the thing that, in her secret heart, she most feared was true. "I know quite a few people who disagree with you. This is a democracy; majority rules, doesn't it? But when did Christ ever say that someone was too sinful to love? When did he ever meet anyone he couldn't find time to love? When did he ever neglect someone when he could have stopped instead?"

"What's your point here, Caitlyn," her mother said, sounding impatient. "Just tell us what you're getting at."

"What I'm getting at?" Caitlyn said. She sighed. "What I'm getting at is, simply, that I don't think you love me. Not in any way that matters. Now, obviously, you have chosen to feed and shelter and support me for twenty-one years. And I thank you for that. But that's not love. It's not... It's not about emotions, or heart. And even though you feed and shelter and support me, I have never once—not once—felt that you approved of who I am."

"We don't approve of who you are," her father growled.

"Does that stop love?" Caitlyn said. "Love the sinner, hate the sin? I don't approve of what you do to me, but I love you anyway—as Jon has lamented, time and time again."

"It's not your place to disapprove of us," her father said.

"And that's how I know you don't love me," Caitlyn said, her anger bucking under her. She had kept her temper in check for far longer than she'd thought possible, but now even this supernatural patience was beginning to wear thin. "Because when I tell you that you've hurt me, you deny it. You don't care about how I feel. All you care about is just... just defending your petty little position. You only care about being right."

"And you don't?" her mother retorted. "Look at all this mess we've been talking about—you just going on and on and on about how wrong we are—"

" I DON'T CARE ABOUT BEING RIGHT! " Caitlyn bellowed. " I JUST WANT TO STOP HURTING ME! "

The force of it seemed to blow her mother's hair back. Caitlyn felt deafened. It was the loudest she'd ever yelled in her life. The neighbors must have heard.

"Don't you guys get it? You hurt me! When you take this attitude, when you try to control me, when you bludgeon me with your arguments instead of listening, you hurt me. Love isn't about that! Love isn't about twisting someone's arm until they obey you, and neither is parenthood! It's about nurturing someone and letting them grow and helping them be who God intended them to—not to mold them into the shape of you! If you love me, you should listen! You should respect my words and my self-worth and... Well, God, I don't even know if you do love me." She had believed it this morning; now, she wasn't so sure. "You've been kind of denying it all night if it makes your arguments stronger. Do you even know?" There were tears at the corners of her eyes, just hovering there, but she couldn't afford to acknowledge them now.

"Jon says I have trouble letting myself be loved. So does everyone who knows me. And they say it's because of you. They say you guys never loved me the right way, and now I'm scarred for life. They worry about whether I can be a good Christian!—because I don't know how to be loved! That's the foundation of our religion, that's the overwhelming message Christ came to give us—and I can't let myself experience it! Because I keep expecting someone to come in and yank it away, to tell me that I have to earn it, that... Well, you know what? I don't! I deserve to be loved. I deserve to be loved. I'm Caitlyn Delaney Stanford, and I'm a wonderful person, and people should love me because of that. I deserve to be loved. And so do you!

"And you know what the worst part is? The worst part is, I know that you can't stand it." She was definitely crying now. "I know you can't bear to be wrong. Your egos are more important than your own daughter. So you'll kick me out tonight, and probably never speak to me again. I lost my parents tonight: the last people on earth who were willing to take me in, and I just turned them against me. And when I'm there on the sidewalk with no jacket and no money, you know what? I'll still love you! That's the worst part! Because you're Sam Delaney, and you deserve to be loved, and you're Linda Delaney, and you deserve to be loved, and no matter how awful you are to me, you're my parents, and I love you!"

Definitely crying now. Somehow she made it up the stairs without breaking her neck. Then she fumbled at the sliding door for long minutes before she could close it. Rex slid in at the last second, and she lay on the sleeping bag with her arms wrapped around him, muffling great, wracking sobs with his fur.

She wasn't sure how long she stayed there. Maybe she fell asleep. Or maybe she passed out, exhausted from the long rigors of the day—of the week. This had been the longest week of her life. But she woke up to a gentle knocking on the door. The lights were still off and it was still dark outside.

"What is it," she said. She had meant to say, 'Who is it.' Maybe 'what' was more apt a description.

"It's... Your mother."

Caitlyn said nothing. There didn't seem to be anything to say. She felt drained, wrung out; hollow inside, as though everything had been poured out already. Either her mother would tell her to pack and leave, or she wouldn't.

"Your father and I... We had a long talk." Her mother's voice was muffled through the door. "What you said..." Her voice firmed. "What you said, Caitlyn... Was hateful."

Of course it was. Caitlyn said nothing.

"It also... Explained a great deal," said her mother. "So many things that... Your father and I never understood. We could never... We could never make sense of... Of certain events—your brother moving away, primarily, both some other things too; your moving away; the way certain people treated us. We had never understood... And now you've told us these things, and they don't sound right, and we don't like them, but... We may have to accept them, because they're the only thing that makes sense.

"We, umm... We're going to try and change. We. Umm. We have never... Been faced with something like this, and, we... I don't know if we... Have what it takes. But, if we are in fact actually... If we are in fact actually hurting our children..."

There was a silence at this point—a longer one than her mother habitually left. Caitlyn, curious, let go of the dog and opened the door.

She was surprised to find Linda Delaney still there, crying silently.

"I don't know how you can still love us, Caitlyn," her mother said. "We are such sinners..."

She went into her mother's arms. "Because there are more important things than whether you're a sinner," she said. "That's why."

"Not in Christ," her mother said bitterly.

"Yes, even in Christ," Caitlyn said. "Remember what he said to the people trying to stone that adulterer? 'Let he among you without sin...' If love were only for the perfect, there'd be none in this world."

"But then how do we judge?" Mom gasped.

"You don't, Mom," Caitlyn said, hugging her tight. "You don't. You just... Love. No matter how flawed the person is. You love."

Mom said, "...Is that what you get from Jon."

She wasn't sure if it was a slight or not. "Yes, Mom. That's what I get from Jon."

Her mother sighed. "I guess... You'll have to bring him here. If he can do a better job of loving you than we can... Well. We're your parents. That can't be allowed."

There were several reactions that flashed through Caitlyn's mind. One was pleased affection that her mother was beginning to regain her pride. Another was the thought of what she and Jon did together when they loved, and how inappropriate it would be for her parents to try the same thing. And the third was...

"Am I going back to him?"

Mrs. Delaney put Caitlyn away from her to look her in the eye. "Aren't you? I can't imagine you'd stay here. I mean... Clearly this is... Not the best of places for you."

Caitlyn was silent for a moment.

She didn't know what he was doing; she didn't know what he was thinking. She didn't know if she could bring him around to her way of thinking. She didn't know how he felt, if he would be willing to take her back. She didn't know what kind of compromises she might need to make. All she knew was that she had sworn, in sight of god and man, to be at his side forever.

And that she loved him, and couldn't bear to be without him.

She sighed. "I don't know what he'll say."

"If he's smart, he'll ask you to take him back," her mother said.

"Yeah, but, can I take him back?"

"Why wouldn't you? Didn't you marry him?"

"Mom, he's not a Christian," Caitlyn said. "I thought he was, but..."

"Caitlyn Claire Delaney, what kind of a statement is that!" her mother said. "Look at where Christianity got us!"

"Mom, at least you and Dad are trying," Caitlyn protested. "I don't know if Jon will even do that."

Mom was silent for a moment.

"Caitlyn, you'll have to go back eventually," she said. "Yelling aside, you do need to get your money and your harps back. Why don't you at least talk to him? You never know what he'll say."

Caitlyn stared at her. "Am I dreaming, or did you just tell me to give him a chance?"

Her mother gave her a wan smile. "Caitlyn... We knew. Of course we were angry that you seemed to be going off and living your life without consulting us, or allowing us to be part of it; of course we resented it; of course we didn't want to talk about it. You'll feel the same when your children begin to leave the home, though I hope you'll handle it more gracefully than we did. Because we knew. It wasn't often, but every now and then we would see the two of you with your guard down, when you felt comfortable being yourselves. And, just seeing... We could tell that eventually you would leave us, and go with him, and make him your family. Because that kind of love... Can't be denied.

"He loves you. And you love him. And maybe he's not the right one for you; maybe this was all a mistake. But I know you, Caitlyn. And if you don't manage to make this work, well... That will be an even bigger one.

"There; love is supporting someone even when they're planning something stupid; how am I doing?" She smiled.

Caitlyn threw herself into her arms again. "I love you, Mom."

"I love you too, sweetie," Linda Delaney said. And for the first time in years, maybe for the first time ever, her daughter believed it.