Stardust Miracle Read online

  Before she reached Sarah’s phone in the kitchen, she collected her purse with Jim’s phone and sent the photos to her own phone and to her email – though Jim knew her password and she suspected he would delete them – and to Sarah’s phone and Sarah’s email. She almost sent them to Marsh, but decided it was enough to send them to Sarah.

  Right now she didn’t trust Marsh. Though he’d never had much in common with Jim, they were both men. She’d have to see. Her days of blind trust were behind her.

  When she picked up the phone, Becky half expected that Jim had hung up, but he was still on the phone. “Becky! You’re here.”

  His voice held as much surprise as if the president had answered. Did he, like Sarah, think she was a wimp? They both forgot she was the one who made Jim’s life run smoothly. He was a gifted preacher and teacher but she was the one who handled the shepherding part of the job. Handled the mailing of bereavement, birth, special occasion cards. She took meals to the sick and baked cookies for shut-in visits. She coordinated the youth ministry and the youth ice cream social. She taught Sunday school and attended a ladies' bible study at night.

  On top of that, she had to keep the house clean, and the parsonage looking nice inside and out.

  It had felt like a continuation of what she’d done for her father and for Sarah when she was a teen. Taking care of them.

  It was past time she took care of herself.

  “We have to talk,” he said.

  “Do we? I don’t think so. Don’t call again. I don’t want you pestering my sister and her family.”

  “Sweetheart, don’t be like that.”

  “Good-bye, Jim.”

  “No! Please, Becky! This is important.”

  The phone was already away from her ear but she pulled it back up. Didn’t say anything. Just waited. Her mouth settled in a grim line.

  She knew what was coming next. Knew he wanted her to start talking. To do what she usually did. To say something that would make life easy for him.

  Her days of making life easy for him were over.

  “My cell phone... I need it back.”

  “I’ll put it in Sarah’s mailbox. Is that all? I have to go. Dad’s coming.”

  “The pictures you took. You’re not...”

  “Keeping copies? You bet I am. I emailed them to myself and to Sarah.”

  “Dammit, Becky! You—”

  She hung up and turned away. Didn’t feel triumphant or happy that she had him worried. Her chest was too tight with unshed tears. Her eyes burned. But she would not cry; she would not cry. Her dad would be coming any moment and she would not cry.

  Sarah’s new kitten darted down the hall into the puppy room. Becky wished she could follow the kitten and spend time with it and the puppies. Instead, she hurried to the guest room to pull on a pair of Sarah’s elastic-waisted pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt that Sarah swore weren’t maternity. Sarah even had a bra that fit Becky, only because Sarah’s breasts were fuller than usual now.

  Becky suspected Sarah used the clothes for cleaning, but she was just glad she had something to wear besides her negligee. And grateful to Sarah, though her father would stare. He wasn’t used to seeing Becky dressed so...casually. As a pastor’s wife, she always dressed as if she were about to teach a class of horny teens. She was the twenty-first-century version of June Cleaver.

  She heard her father’s arrival downstairs while she was tugging the top down, looking at her image in the full-length bathroom mirror. The top was a tiny bit tight on her and her boobs looked...well, good.

  Provocative, she thought.

  “You’re missing out on this,” she said, thinking of Jim.

  Then she remembered Diana’s tight, golden ass and her tight, golden thighs and tight, golden stomach. Becky walked downstairs, and her not-so-tight stomach twisted.

  The only thing Jim was missing was his gullible no-longer wife.

  She was now his gullible no-more wife.

  Her dad was sitting on the couch when she stepped into Sarah’s living room. “Hi, Daddy.”

  He shook his head, not getting to his feet. “You really messed up. I thought better of you.”

  Chapter Six

  She crossed her arms, ignoring a twist in her stomach. Hoping it wasn’t the strain of flu that was currently ripping through Miracle. But she took her vitamins and usually remained healthy. Too bad vitamins couldn’t stave off a cheating husband.

  And now this. She’d been knocked down emotionally last night. And now she felt as if she were knocked down again.

  “Really? I messed up?”

  He stared at her for a long moment. She stared back and the hollow, hurting feeling in her chest grew more hollow and more painful.

  “Baby, you overreacted.”

  “I caught Jim with another woman.”

  “I know, he told me. He didn’t have to tell me, but he did and I admire him for it.”

  She stared at him. No longer hollow as other emotions swirled up.

  “You admire him for cheating on me?”

  “There you go, dramatizing everything. Just like a woman. I admire him for his honesty.”

  The swirling whirled faster and faster inside her. A tornado of emotions.

  “I have the photos of him acting like a man.” The words shot out of her mouth in a staccato rhythm, fast and furious. She uncrossed her arms and put her hands on her hips. “You want to see them?”

  A spark lit in his eyes but he blinked it out and stood. “Calm down and forgive him. He’s sorry. He wants to make up to you for what happened. He’s not perfect. No man is.”

  “I didn’t expect perfect. I expected faithful.”

  “Honey.” He shook his head. Lines around his mouth and eyes creased downward in sorrow. As if she were a child and just didn’t get it. He held his hands out. “He’s a man.”

  “I know he’s a man.” Anger kicked up. Becky grew rigid. “And the person giving him a blow job was a woman.”

  “Becky!”

  “What? It’s okay for him to do it, but it’s not okay for me to say it?”

  “You’re my little girl. I don’t like you talking like this. You need a man to take care of you.”

  “Really?” She stepped toward him. In her peripheral, she saw Sarah standing in the threshold of the living room. “Was I a little girl when Mom was sick and I was taking care of her and your other little girl?”

  His mouth opened, but she spoke before he could say anything, her voice low and hoarse. “I remember you calling me your big girl then. Telling everyone how mature I was. How I could handle it and that you wouldn’t know what you’d do without me.”

  His eyebrows snapped together. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

  “When you talk to me instead of talking down to me, maybe I won’t.”

  “I’m your father.”

  “And she’s your daughter, Dad.” Sarah strode across to them. She stopped at Becky’s side and faced their father. “And so am I. You didn’t stand up for me, either.”

  His cheek muscles ticked but he kept his gaze on Becky. “Is that what this is about? She’s been working on you since you came here? Turning you against me?”

  “You don’t get it.” Becky felt a little crazed. As if she’d been walking around with blinders on and now she’d torn them off. And what she was looking at wasn’t pretty. “The only one turning me against you is you. Sarah doesn’t even talk about you. The only thing she said about you was that you called and you were coming over.”

  “You aren’t important in my life,” Sarah added. “I have nothing to say to you. My son has nothing to do with you.” She put her hands on her stomach. “My daughter will have nothing to do with you.”

  He glared at her. “You brought this on yourself, marrying that...garbage picker. You disappointed me.” He turned back to Becky. “And now you’re disappointing me. Leaving a good man for something so little.”

  The whirling inside Becky speeded up, roiling up into her t
hroat. She put her hand over her breast bone, her palm feeling the heat from her skin through the thin material. Now she understood so clearly.

  “You cheated on Mom.” The words slashed out her throat, her voice raw. “Didn’t you?”

  Sarah’s hand gripped hers and they both stood in silence while their father continued to glare. Silence stretched until Becky had to speak again. The hurt lanced through her, and she needed to hurt him back right this second – more than she needed to breathe.

  “While I was taking care of Becky and Mom, you were out fucking other women.”

  His hand came up and he stepped forward. As if in slow motion, she watched his hand swing out. She had time to avoid it but she couldn’t move. Her mind rejected what was happening.

  His hand connected to her cheek, the clap of flesh and muscle against flesh and bone, shocking and loud. Her head reeled to the side. A dog barked. She lurched back, her cheek stinging.

  At the same time, Sarah let go of her hand and surged forward. Her arm straight out, she pointed at the door.

  “Out!” she said. “Get out of my house!”

  Goldie ran into the room, barking at their father.

  Sarah grabbed Goldie’s collar with her right arm, her left still pointed. “Get out or I’ll let Goldie bite you.”

  Their father’s still handsome but fleshy face was blotched with red. He stalked out. With every step, Becky expected him to stop, turn around. Apologize. Do the right thing.

  But he kept going. Out the front door and onto the porch. Didn’t look back.

  The door closed behind him.

  “Bastard,” Sarah said, the sound rough.

  Becky might’ve said something but she was running to the bathroom – her cheek burned, her hand pressed over her mouth – sick at heart and sick to her stomach.

  Chapter Seven

  A cool, slender hand brushed across Becky’s forehead. She was hot. Feverishly hot. As if she’d been drawn down into hell. Hot and sick. Now only three fingertips drew across her forehead. It felt good. So good.

  She tried to open her eyes and failed. Her upper and lower eyelashes were crusted together.

  They popped apart, first her right and then her left. A woman with long white-blond hair knelt over Becky, her forehead creased with worry. Her eyes the same clear summer-sky blue as hers and Sarah’s.

  “Mama?” she whispered, her voice a hoarse thread.

  She knew her mother was dead...for many years. But this woman looked like her mother would if she’d lived longer. And she kind of looked like Sarah.

  Maybe this was the miracle? Not a baby but her mother returned to life.

  A blinding happiness seized her. And she smiled, feeling...

  Oh no. Oh no. Oh shit.

  “I’m going to—” She slapped her hand over her mouth and rolled to her stomach and stuck her head over the side of the bed.

  Oh crap, her mother was brought back to life and she was going to throw up on her.

  “Quick,” Sarah’s voice said. “Hold this.” The woman who looked so much like her mother – who could be her mother – held a bucket just in time for Becky to stick her head over it and heave.

  “Are you sure she’s all right?” the woman asked. “Two days of this is a long time.”

  “Joy across the street is a nurse at Sacred Heart.” Sarah sounded worried. “She said there’s a bad flu going around. Becky was watching seven- and eight-year-olds at church last Sunday. Joy said half of them are down with this flu and there’s not much we can do but try to get liquids into her.”

  Becky’s stomach stopped heaving. Nothing was coming out but bile anyway. She managed to roll onto her back, then looked up at her mother.

  It wasn’t her mother. “Elsa,” she said, hardly recognizing the croaking sounds as her own voice. But now she recognized the Rev. Elsa Hahn, head of the other church in the village. The one that didn’t believe in Jesus or even in God. Though the church members kept an open mind, they believed only in a ‘higher power.’

  Becky hardly knew Elsa. She’d moved here out of the blue about three years ago, and built her church. Didn’t appear to know anyone in Miracle beforehand – at least not as far as Becky knew, or more importantly, Linda Wegner, Miracle’s answer to TV gossip shows.

  Elsa, a slender woman in her mid-fifties with a brilliant smile, had stopped by the parsonage and introduced herself once. Her intense stare, as if she were trying to see into Becky’s soul, had made Becky feel uncomfortable.

  Becky didn’t want anyone to look into her soul now, including Elsa. It was too murky and dark.

  “Sorry. I mistook you for my mother,” she said, forcing herself to keep her eyes from drifting closed again, though it wasn’t easy with her body craving sleep.

  Once again, Elsa leaned down and brushed her fingertips over Becky’s forehead. Becky closed her eyes to savor the sensation. When she opened them, Elsa was looking at her with a half smile.

  “It’s okay. Drink this,” Sarah said, and a straw slid into Becky’s mouth. “Come on, drink. I won’t let you go to sleep until you drink.”

  Becky sipped, only because she wanted to sleep. She took about seven sips then turned her head away. Finished for now.

  The bed gave. Sarah got to her feet, no longer forcing her to drink.

  “Elsa brought chicken soup,” Sarah said. “If you’re good, you can eat it tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Mom.” Becky started to shake her head, but her stomach flip-flopped. “Elsa,” she amended.

  “I know what you meant.” Now the cool fingertips touched Sarah’s forehead and curved down the side of her face.

  Becky’s eyes closed again. She had more to say but didn’t know what.

  “I miss my mom,” she said. The words didn’t come from her brain, but from her heart. Her voice still sounded like a frog’s but it felt important for her to say this. “I miss her every day of my life.”

  “I’m glad,” Elsa said, and her voice was thick now. As if she held back tears.

  Becky thought about opening her eyes, but it seemed too much trouble. Why was Elsa here? Why?

  Though she wanted to know the answer, she felt sleep coming for her, washing over her. Swamping her.

  Or maybe it wasn’t sleep. Maybe it was death. Whatever it was, she breathed deeply with relief and let it take her.

  Chapter Eight

  “I’m going with you.” Wearing jeans and a maternity top, Sarah stood in the guest bedroom with her feet braced apart and a stubborn expression on her face. At that moment, she reminded Becky of their dad – as if anyone who got in their way better move or they’d be sorry.

  Becky pulled on a pair of Sarah’s stretch pants as she considered practicing that look in the mirror.

  Not now. Now she had something else to do.

  She’d spent six days on Sarah’s sofa bed with a bucket next to her bed – just in case. For another week, she’d slouched around Sarah’s house like a recovering invalid. The bug still wasn’t through with her, pulling her down at the edges. She felt like an old bag of leaves a bulldozer had smashed over.

  Sarah told Becky she suspected it wasn’t the flu that made her ill but fifteen years of being married to Jim. Or as Marsh referred to him: ‘the asshole.’

  “Jim won’t be home.” Becky looked down at her legs and thought her thighs looked almost thin. “At this time of day, Jim will be at his office at church. He takes off Mondays, and on Tuesdays he catches up with anything that came up after Sunday.”

  “Came up is a good description.”

  “You’re going to make me throw up again.” Becky shoved her feet into her shoes and headed toward the door less briskly than she wanted to.

  “I’d throw up, too, thinking of Jim’s penis.”

  A choked laugh came out of Becky’s mouth. She preferred not to think of Jim’s penis, too. If she wrote a song about it, she’d title it “The Places You’ve Been.”

  Her second song would be “I’ve Been a Fool.�
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  Five minutes later they were driving to the house she’d never felt was hers. She didn’t pick it out. It belonged to the church. And she already didn’t miss it. Living in it was like wearing her grandmother’s clothes when she wanted to pick out her own.

  Sarah told her who’d called while she was sick. It was a pitifully small list of people who wanted her lists and instructions on what to do about church matters. Sarah had told them Becky was sick. If they wanted any information, they could ask their pastor. The one who was actually paid to guide their flock.

  Right now Becky felt too crappy to care. The best thing about being sick was losing so much weight. One hundred eighty pounds in two weeks.

  One hundred seventy-two of them had been Jim. She smiled, and when the car stopped in the parsonage driveway and they headed to the front door, her step was lighter.

  They weren’t inside the parsonage for more than ten minutes when the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it.” Becky had half a suitcase full, but out of habit left the packing to open the door. Besides, it was depressing packing the church clothes she wanted to leave. But she had to be practical. She might get a job in an office and would need the clothes she hated now.

  She was still thinking about it when she opened the door and saw Jim’s face.

  He wasn’t smiling, and that was the only reason she didn’t slam the door in his face.

  “I heard you were sick,” he said.

  “I heard you were at church. You’re not supposed to be here.” She put her foot behind the door so he couldn’t push it open and walk in. She held onto the door, too, though her body began to shake. She felt like she’d rolled out of a garbage truck.

  And before her stood the guy who’d tossed her in.

  “Can I come in?” he asked. “I won’t stay long.”

  “No.” Sarah stepped next to Becky. Her voice strident, Sarah sounded more like a WW wrestler than a pregnant mom. “You caused her enough harm. Leave her alone to gather a few things.”

  “I know I was at fault,” he said, looking at Becky, not Sarah. “I acted like my father. A womanizer. And I always said I wouldn’t be like him.”