Break My Fall (The Breaking Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  Like he’d said he would be, he was sitting in a lawn chair with a jar on his lap collecting bugs for his children as they ran around a big yard, in long dresses and bare feet.

  “You found your way out,” he called, taking a lightning bug from the smallest blond girl. “Jenny just went in; this chair is all yours.” He wiped some sweat off the tiny girl’s forehead. “Emily, this is Mr. Abraham. He and I were buddies in school. What do you say?”

  She ducked behind her dad’s leg, bashfully, and as quiet as a church mouse said, “Hello, Mr. Abraham.”

  I nodded and gave her a small smile but didn’t verbally reply. I didn’t want to scare her even more with my gruff voice. Even without much experience with children, I was sure she hadn’t been around many—if any—men who looked like me.

  Her dad was a clean-cut man. In comparison, I was a boogieman.

  He kissed the top of her head and gave her a light swat. “Go catch a few more while we talk.”

  I took the empty chair and tugged it away from him a foot or so. His wife had been sitting close.

  “House looks good.”

  After looking around at his well-manicured property, he replied. “Yeah, I’m blessed. How about you? Got a place? A family? You said something about working with lumber, so you must live up north a ways?”

  He wasn’t prying, but I was careful with what I wanted to share. Robbie had been a friend, but word got around quickly in Lancaster, and I didn’t want everyone knowing my business. My family knew where I worked, and therefore had some idea of where I lived. That’s about as much as I was willing to reveal to anyone.

  “I own a couple dozen acres. A cabin with a good-sized shop. Do some logging and mill work, build a few things on the side.”

  He shook the jar and rolled it on its side, examining the bugs amidst the grass clippings and hand-plucked weeds, not realizing he was just like them. Trapped in a bubble, except the bugs had no choice.

  I doubted he thought he was missing anything.

  “No family for you?” He chuckled. “No tiny bearded brutes?”

  “No. None of that.” I couldn’t say for sure whether kids were off the table for me, but I didn’t even date much. Over the past decade, I’d been solely focused on the cabin, work, and making a life for myself. At first, I’d run around, drunk on freedom, but paying the Griers for the property had been my number one goal—my only goal—for a long, long time. That didn’t leave me with time to socialize much, but I hadn’t minded because there were so many things I’d wanted to try alone. Without any judgment or influence.

  When I wasn’t working, I was studying the world and making repairs to the house. When I wasn’t in the shop or home, I was wandering Fairview and neighboring towns. I enjoyed libraries and museums. I enjoyed learning, and, the better part of my twenties had been spent figuring out who I was outside of Lancaster.

  Without a family or a strong connection to my conservative hometown, I’d struggled with my identity at first. Without my father’s rules, what did I want to do? Without my mother cooking and cleaning for me, how did I want to live? Without the Bible dictating my every thought, what interested me?

  Robbie eventually said, “Marriage is a big commitment, and having a family is a huge responsibility. A man better want them both when walking into those roles—husband and father. Otherwise, he’d probably have one long life. So I can’t fault you for taking your time.”

  One of the girls toppled over the hem of her skirt after bending to catch a bug, and he sat straight up to see if she was okay. Seeing she was fine, and no tears were shed, he continued, “Lord knows both are permanent.”

  I should have kept my mouth shut. “Permanent?”

  “Yeah. Family. Marriage. It’s forever.”

  Was it? I’d left my family. And look at marriage for that poor young woman wearing a ring, banded to my dead brother. Life was different for us.

  Or, well, me.

  She was one of them. Therefore, her life was out of her control.

  I huffed.

  “Well, for some of us it is,” he corrected.

  “Jacob’s wife,” I blurted, satisfying the need inside me that was always hungry for debate. “What about her?”

  He shifted in his chair, rubbing his chin. “That’s a good question. Jenny and I prayed about that last night before bed. They hadn’t been married but maybe a month or so. Hadn’t even cut their cake yet.” Again, I was reminded of how different the traditions in Lancaster were.

  At Chris and Ashley’s wedding, they said their vows, had a party, and wore their rings on their left hands from day one—like nearly everyone else in the country.

  Jacob and Myra had been married for a month and still hadn’t had a wedding reception? It was odd for Lancaster, but with effort, I held my tongue.

  After receiving three more handfuls of squashed glowing bugs, he sat back and stretched. “It really got us thinking, you know. What would Jenny have done if my number was called so soon after we’d courted and married? It really weighed on our hearts after we heard the news about Jacob the other night.”

  It drew darker, and so did my mood, but it wasn’t my business, and the young widow wasn’t my business either.

  “She’ll figure it out.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure between your Dad and the Legacies—well, probably Mitchell and her older brothers too—they’ll figure out what’s best for her.”

  It was sad; Robbie didn’t even hear how out of touch with reality he was. He had no clue.

  It was one thing for family and friends to help, but for them to take it upon themselves to decide what the future held for that young woman ... well, it was wrong.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling a burning frustration, an urge to speak my mind, but it was best I left before my entire opinion of Robbie was tarnished. He was probably a good man, but great men didn’t have to treat women like less to feel powerful. To me, it only made them weaker.

  So I didn’t dig into the subject of my sister-in-law any deeper. It was better left unsaid. We weren’t going to agree, and even if we did, it wouldn’t change anything for her. It wasn’t up to us.

  It was getting dark, and his girls were worn out, and we parted as acquaintances, which was more than I could say about anyone else in Lancaster.

  I had one night, and part of one day to go. Then I was gone. I had to remind myself that as I drove back to the motel that evening. Past the farms. Past the stores and shops. Past my past.

  One day, and I wouldn’t look back.

  My room was too warm when I returned, so I opened a window and when the breeze came through, a sheet of paper floated off the television stand.

  From the desk of the Pastor at the Banded Church of God:

  Abraham,

  After the burial, I need to have a discussion with you. I’ll see you in my office at the church.

  At the bottom, he signed the note, Bill Hathaway.

  The paper crunched in my hand as I wadded it into the trash and sent it sailing toward the receptacle beneath a reprint of a painting with a scattered flock. I was just like the darker sheep. The one the shepherd was attempting to gather back into the fold.

  One night, and then I’d go back to being me, and they’d leave me alone.

  I didn’t sleep well, which was uncommon for me. Between the heat, the note, and a pair of dark blue eyes, I couldn’t relax. Even after kicking the sheets to the far side of the bed, deciding I wouldn’t run away like a coward from my father, and playing out every scenario I could think of regarding the future of Myra Hathaway, I never fully rested.

  8

  Myra

  Dear Heavenly Father.

  I knelt beside the bed in my nightgown after washing and braiding my hair. I’d made a list of thank you notes I needed to send after the visitation and did my best not to worry. It was in His hands.

  There on my knees, I let myself have an honest moment.

  Please guide me, Lord. Show me the path yo
u’ve made for me. I’m lost and at your mercy.

  It’s like you’ve wrapped your arms around me and sheltered me from the grief and agony I should feel with the loss of Jacob. You’ve blessed me, but how is it I don’t feel anything?

  Is this what sorrow feels like? Is this numbness heartache?

  I was certainly more upset when my sister Maureen and my mother had passed away, like Jacob’s mother was now. Pastor was a strong man and didn’t show much, but poor Catherine was mournful and down. Even his brother, whom Jacob and his family hadn’t spoken much of, was clearly affected.

  Why else would he have sworn at me like he had?

  My heart went out to those who suffered more than myself.

  Please ease the burden on Ms. Catherine’s soul. Losing a son must be dreadful. Only you can soothe her.

  And God, please help Abraham. I pray he isn’t lonely. Show him your never-ending love. And if he’s lost, bring him back into your loving arms. Work in his heart. Guide him to live for your glory. Give him the peace only you can provide.

  Amen.

  I turned the lamp off and climbed into my side of the bed alone, which was the one thing that hadn’t changed since Jacob died. We hadn’t yet shared the bed together, which had too been very confusing for me, but now it didn’t seem to matter.

  Of course, God always knew Jacob wasn’t long for the world. Maybe that’s why it was his will that we never slept as husband and wife.

  Maybe he’d spared my heart after all.

  9

  Abe

  The morning of Jacob’s funeral, I felt tired and ready to return home. Lancaster was exhausting, and I’d never been more eager to leave, even if that meant driving for hours. At least it was in the opposite direction.

  Back to reality.

  Through my shower, my mind bounced around. From Jacob and our childhood to Myra and her situation, I couldn’t shake the thoughts away.

  There was nothing I could do about them.

  My shirt needed ironed, but I didn’t care. In fact, not ironing it felt like a small rebellion on its own. My long hair was clean, but I didn’t bother pulling it back for the service, nor did I feel the need to trim my beard.

  That was me, and whoever didn’t like it didn’t have to look.

  I stopped by the motel’s office to pay for my night and pressed the plastic button on the counter but didn’t hear it ring anywhere. As I waited to see if anyone would show up, I looked around for coffee before remembering they didn’t drink it. Instead, I poured myself a paper cup of watered-down orange juice I found on the hospitality table beside a plate of pastries.

  A lady rushed in, buttoning the cuff on one of her long, dark sleeves, and I assumed she was the Shepherd’s Inn keeper’s wife. “Good morning, Abraham.”

  Evidentially, she knew me.

  “Morning.” I brought my drink with me to the counter and retrieved my wallet to pay.

  She smiled as she thumbed through the papers. “Do you have your key? Was everything all right with your stay?”

  They’d come in the room when I wasn’t there and put the Bible out for me and possibly allowed my father in too. It had been hot and uncomfortable, but it was over.

  “It was fine. I’d like to pay.” And get the hell out of there.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it. We’re not worldly people—like yourself—but I hope you had everything you needed.”

  My scowl must have been sharper than I’d intended because she grimaced.

  “I’m sorry.” She licked her finger went back to her stack of papers, pulling one out. “Looks like Pastor stopped in a paid for your stay last night. How thoughtful of him.”

  Thoughtful? I didn’t see it that way.

  I leaned against the counter, searching the sheet for a total with my wallet open. “Give him a refund. I’m paying.”

  “But he...”

  I interrupted, “How much?”

  I’d never owe him anything.

  The man from the day before walked in from the same place his wife had. “Good morning.” He gave the lady a tap on the shoulder, and, just like that, she left us alone. “We don’t want any trouble, Abraham. Pastor said you might not agree with his gift and that you could talk about it with him later.”

  I drew a breath, and my weight shifted as I tried to control my temper. He knew paying would ensure I’d speak with him before I left. Manipulation always was his favorite tool.

  They were only doing what the All Mighty Pastor had told them to, and I had no reason to argue with the motel owner and cause more town chatter. Still, I pulled five twenties from my wallet—assuming that would cover the room, taxes, and whatever else—and slapped them on the counter. There was nothing to gain from a silly conflict that morning.

  So I drank the orange drink down to the bottom and threw the scripture-covered cup in the trash on my way out.

  The parking around the church was once again full, and as I pulled into a lot across the street, a man approached me with a flag to put on my truck for the processional. Seemed unnecessary because I doubted there was anyone in Lancaster who wasn’t attending the Great Pastor’s son’s funeral, but I took it and attached it to my vehicle anyway.

  Another conflict averted.

  A few more hours and I’d be gone, I reminded myself walking up the sidewalk leading to the entrance. I hoped no one would talk to me, that’d I’d be able to pay my respects, which seemed odd in and of itself, and then I’d go back to my quiet cabin in the woods and live my life the way I wanted.

  Peacefully. Freely. Alone. No one to answer to. No one to judge. Where my mistakes didn’t affect anyone, and theirs couldn’t touch me.

  Luckily, there was a free seat near the back. Of course, it was because everyone wanted to sit up close to show support to the family. I didn’t feel that need.

  In the first row, beside my mother, was Jacob’s widow. I’d been given a funeral program on the way in and I focused on that, instead of letting my eyes wander up front. Head down, I kept to myself as the room filled and people took their seats in the recently polished oak pews.

  An organ played until my father took his place at the pulpit behind my brother’s gleaming casket. When he did, the music trailed off, and the microphone crackled to life.

  Arms raised, head tipped up, he announced, “Brothers and sisters, Jacob is with Jesus. Amen.”

  The congregation repeated, “Amen,” in unison.

  I held my tongue.

  The Pastor went on and on, punctuating every statement with Amen so the congregation knew when to respond.

  “It is through the body of Christ, Himself, that we can have eternal life, and my banded son is with our Heavenly Father. The one we all share. Amen.”

  The sermon, because that’s what it was, had nothing to do with my brother, his life, or remembering him, until after about thirty long minutes of preaching.

  Knowing better, I’d kept my eyes cast downward, wondering if coming back to Lancaster had really helped anyone or if it had been a mistake.

  “Family,” my father spoke in his let’s-whisper-before-we-pray voice. “The Lord took my youngest son, but it was His divine plan. Oh yes, people, He has a plan for each of us. And if you don’t believe in it yet, it’s time to get on board. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. He’s opened his arms to Jacob, and he’s returned my oldest son to the church, to me and mother in our time of grief, and, praise God, for Abraham will find his way back into the loving embrace of Jesus, in a place that was carved out just for him.”

  What did he know about my relationship with God? Nothing.

  My ears burned hot, and I shifted on the wooden bench. He was using my brother’s funeral to publicly shame me, which wasn’t much better than the Service and Testimony I’d received as a young man for our quarrel. He waved guilt around like a pennant.

  But his grandstanding wouldn’t work on me anymore. I’d washed my brain clean of his ideals and teachings and replaced them with the philoso
phies of better men and women who thought of others first and themselves second, whose minds were open and not hindered by the fear of Hell always.

  Because when everything was stripped away, my father didn’t miss me. Didn’t want me back. This was a fact. He was using me as an example of what happened when you left the church. When you didn’t work toward your legacy or follow The Word, as taught by his father and grandfather, the Great Pastors before him.

  All they knew were appearances. Fronts and façades. When he looked at me, he saw an opportunity. All the congregation saw was no ring, long hair, and working man’s clothes. To them, I was proof that he was right.

  He must have loved it.

  I looked haggard because I was. I seemed hardened because I was. But underneath it all, where it really mattered, I had a free will and mind of my own. That was more important to me than cheap suits, freshly trimmed hairlines, and gold and silver bands.

  I felt their eyes on me, but I could take it. Soon, I’d be gone, and they could think and say whatever they wanted—well, within their rules.

  Unlike them, I’d be free.

  “Won’t you pray with me,” he begged, with all the faux sincerity he could muster. “Dear, merciful, Heavenly Father, thank you. Thank you for sharing Jacob with me and Catherine for as long as you did, Lord. Thank you for sharing your kingdom with those of us who believe in the way. Your way, Jesus. Your way. You are our Master. You are our King. Let us praise you.” He paused, and the organ quietly began playing again. “And if you’re sitting out there in the crowd this morning, not sure if you’re right with the Lord. Not sure if you have a spot beside Him in the Kingdom of Heaven. Not sure if you’ve been the wife and helpmeet you could be. Not sure you’re tithing enough to your church, your one true home. Not sure if you’re the man, the band holder, the leader of the house the way the Lord has asked of you. For he who does not provide for his family, has denied his faith and is worse... hear me...worse than an unbeliever. Come to the Lord now. Tell Him you love Him.”