Things Not Seen

By Kathleen F. Turner

While Marty Lazarus still grieves the loss of her husband to cancer, she struggles to steer their daughter though her senior year in high school. But when her daughters behavior goes beyond teenage angst, Marty finds her fear escalating and her faith inadequate for her questions.

Rather than getting a respite at work, Marty has to deal with a prying boss and annoying coworkers. And even her Bible study is a place where Marty isnt sure she quite fits in.

As troubles mount, God meets Marty in unusual places and surprising waysa tea party, a friend who has her own anguish, and a trip to a B and B. When Marty discovers the reason for her daughters behavior, she faces a double shockwhat happened and who did it. Ultimately, Marty must decide whether God is worthy of her trust.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: May 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781512732870

Kathleen F. Turner

Kathleen F. Turner writes about tough issues of faith and belief that every Christian faces. She has been a contributing author to three anthologies of meditations: 365 Meditations for Mothers of Young Children, 365 Meditations for Women, and 365 Meditations for Mothers by Mothers. She has also been published by Guideposts and The Upper Room. For more thought on issues of faith and practice, check out her blog www.faithfulthoughtsonthechristianjourney.blogspot.com. She and her husband, Darrell, have two grown daughters and make their home in Fort Wayne, Indiana.

Book preview

Chapter 1

M arty Lazarus, call the operator. Marty, call the operator.

Marty Lazarus slammed down the top of the copier and raced down the hall of Sunrise Surveillance Systems. She hurled herself toward the phone on her desk, her heart racing from the unknown rather than exertion. The last time Sandra paged her, David was dead. He’d insisted she should go to work that fateful day, to add some normalcy to her life, but he’d been closer to Heaven than they’d realized.

Marty jabbed 0. Sandra? Her voice was tight, almost shrill.

Mercy General on one. Marty, let me know if I can help.

Marty poked the number. Her hands felt like ice. Marty Lazarus.

Missus Lazarus . . .

She wasn’t Mrs. Lazarus anymore. David was gone.

Missus Lazarus?

Yes, I’m here.

This is Janice Mason, a social worker with Mercy General. I’m calling about Bethany…

Is she alive? Panic laced Marty’s voice. What day was it? What classes did her daughter have? Did she say she was doing something after school? A friend’s house, work? Marty scoured her memory for bits of morning conversation. It had been the usual morning with her daughter. Monosyllables. She had grabbed the breakfast bar and an apple. Then out the door to get a ride with Hank and Ellie.

Why can’t I even recall what she was wearing? Some nondescript shirt and raggy jeans? She’s curvy and slender, even in tatters. Marty remembered seeing her daughter walk through the front door with a scrunchy knot of hair on the back of her head, the apple stuck in her mouth, and a pile of books in her arms. That was her last glimpse.

She’s alive and unharmed. According to reports, she became ill at the mall and fainted after brandishing a nail file in the food court.

Brandishing a nail file? This would almost be comical, if this surreal moment weren’t really happening. And what was she doing at the mall? It was only one o’clock. Why wasn’t she in school?

Can you come to the emergency room?

I’m leaving now. Marty’s hands shook as she replaced the phone on the cradle.

She grabbed her purse and all-weather coat out of habit more than thought and ran back down the hall. Twenty minutes to Mercy General, maybe fifteen, if she hit all green lights. God, please, all green lights. Please!

Sandra, Marty gasped as she sped by the receptionist, if Warren gets back, tell him I had an emergency.

Bethany? Sandra’s question hung between the two women.

She’s okay, but something’s wrong. Marty kept stride, hit the door with resolve and, without looking back, implored, Pray. God, I think she’s okay. She is, isn’t she? God, let her be okay.

The March wind nipped at Marty through her gray suit jacket and blew her auburn hair off her shoulders. She covered the distance across the parking lot at a half-run, fighting to pull on her coat.

Her Pontiac Vibe sprang to life with a quick turn of the ignition. Marty was thankful that David had pressed her to get a new car. It had seemed like a crazy purchase with all the medical bills. As foolish as the purchase had seemed, she couldn’t imagine having to drive the Chevy that used to be in the shop all the time. Even when David was so sick, he was practical and thinking ahead for her. As she backed up, she caught her reflection in the rear-view mirror. Her gray eyes had grown darker and her porcelain skin even whiter. Her stomach hurt. She hit the gas and sped out of Triple S’s parking lot.

Honey, I’m coming. What happened? What’s going on? Haven’t we been doing okay? Well, okay isn’t the word. We’ll never be the same after your father’s death, but we’re managing. Or am I, and you aren’t?

Marty steadily wove in and out of light, south-bound traffic, mechanically navigating intersections. How many times had she made the trip? Numberless times for her husband. Now for her daughter. Mercy General, in the heart of downtown Eddington, was the city’s oldest hospital. Old, but known nonetheless for excellent care. Wildly, she remembered the hospital had a psychiatric wing. A chill ran through Marty. She flipped the heater on, but her hands didn’t warm.

Was that why they took her daughter there? She had been quiet lately, but it was the end of her senior year. She wasn’t sure about college because she had to work so hard for the sturdy grades she got. Apprehensions about the demands of college on top of adjusting to her father’s death a little more than a year ago had taken a toll, and she didn’t know what she wanted to do. She had watched her father slowly die as cancer had riddled his body. What was worse—the process or the finality? Was she just now snapping?

B. Early on David had morphed their daughter’s name from Bethany to B. Although Marty loved B’s given name, David’s nickname fit her well. Marty couldn’t remember the last time she had called her daughter Bethany. B—so like a bee flitting from one thing to another, always on the move and hardly ever able to stop and concentrate on anything. This was deeply part of who her daughter was. B was intrigued by what others missed and looked for it everywhere, the often unnoticed extraordinary. She was tall and willowy. That’s my side of the family. David’s family is chubby. But her eyes are her dad’s, deep, deep brown and compelling.

David, I miss you. I miss your strength. I wish you were here now. You always understood B better than I ever did. What am I going to find when I get there?

Marty opened her eyes wide to stop the tears that were so close. Somehow she would face whatever was ahead. She had no choice.

Oh, beautiful B. God, could it just be a mistake? Could all this be just some silly high school misunderstanding that everyone can shrug off? Three more lights. Three more.

Marty floored the Vibe through the first two, then shot through a yellow before she rounded the corner to Mercy.

* * *

B—Bethany Lazarus. Hurry up and help me! Marty’s face felt stiff as an over-starched shirt.

The woman behind the desk finished making a notation with a neon green pen and smiled. She searched Marty’s face. You’re . . .

Marty Lazarus. Her mother. Stupid privacy regulations! Breathe, breathe. I’ve got to be calm and in control. Her stomach felt like she needed a bucket of antacid, a familiar feeling. She had had that same feeling all the time when she was losing David. It had found her again. No, not again! B’s alive and unharmed. Neon Pen Woman is taking forever! Marty wanted to crawl over the counter and help her. Instead she took a deep breath. Did a paper bag really help hyperventilation?

Through the door and to the right. The pen pointed to huge doors to the left.

As the doors swung open, Marty slipped through before they arced half way. I hate emergency rooms. I hate hospitals. The only floor of a hospital that is happy is the maternity wing. New life, beginnings, not endings.

As her heels rapped the tile floor, medical personnel, looking like human Skittles in their rainbow-colored scrubs, huddled in an interior glass cubicle and stared at computer screens. Nurses with stethoscope necklaces glided in and out of half-curtained bays. A groan filtered out from a bay on the opposite side of medical command central. David, I wish you were here. What will I say to her? I have no idea how to talk to the person I love most in the world. What happened today? She passed a shadowy X-ray illuminating a raggedly broken arm. Marty flinched.

A nurse coming out of a bay smiled. May I help you? Are you looking for someone?

B—Bethany Lazarus. I’m her mother. Marty could feel the strain in her throat.

Yes, she’s right here. The nurse gestured to the curtain where they had stopped. Doing okay. The doctor on call will want to speak with you. She smiled again at Marty.

Marty nodded, collected herself, and forced a smile onto her dry lips. God, help me. I don’t know what I’m facing. She stepped toward the bay and then pulled the curtain aside.

B Lazarus sat with her back to the curtain, one long leg dangling over the side of the hospital bed, the other pulled underneath her. Her luscious, honey-blonde hair hung down her back and bounced as she talked to her friend Ellie, who sat in the corner of the room facing Marty. Raggy jeans and the hot pink T dotted with silver skulls! That’s what she had on this morning!

B?

"Mom, you’re finally here! B said in her best theatrical voice as she whirled around. They wouldn’t let me go until you came. I’m almost 18. Stupid. She tugged at her shirt then started tracing the skull heads with her black lacquered index finger. Can we go now?"

Are you okay? What happened? Marty reached out to touch B’s arm, but B drew back.

Nothing.

People don’t end up here for nothing. A social worker called and said you had a nail file and fainted. Want to tell me about that? Had her voice sounded genuine, solicitous? B would stop a conversation dead if someone’s intonation wasn’t just right.

B didn’t answer.

Say something. I raced down here from work because I thought something happened to you. Marty cocked her head toward B, hoping to encourage an answer. B was famous for minimizing unpleasant experiences, and she had the infamous teenage disease: lockjaw.

"Well then. Don’t let me bother you. Get me out of here, and you can go back to work." B rolled her eyes at Ellie who shrugged.

Marty looked at Ellie. Did she have a nail file?

Ellie raised up both hands, appealing to B.

B flipped her hair back, looked up at the ceiling, and sighed. I don’t care. You can tell her.

It really wasn’t that big of a deal, Mrs. L. Ellie looked to B for support. But the look was lost on B; she was still staring at the ceiling. She had also folded her arms across her chest. Ted the creep came by our table at the food court. He flipped B’s hair and said she was hot.

Marty groaned inwardly. B might as well have been told she was the ugliest girl in the world. It had the same effect on her.

Ellie redirected her gaze to Marty then shrugged and dropped her gaze to the floor. Her dark, round glasses slid down her nose, and she mechanically shoved them back into place. Before I knew it, she jumped up….

I said ‘if you do that again, you’re dead!’ B snapped out the words and stared wide-eyed at her mother. Her breathing was shallow and quick.

Was that maybe a little too much for the situation?

No! That’s what creeps deserve. B gestured to Ellie. Any time you want to help me here.

Ellie looked up, embarrassed. He is a creep, Mrs. L.

The nail file? Marty felt like she was getting nowhere.

I was doing my nails when the perv walked by. It was—convenient.

For what?

Self-defense. She smacked her thigh. Nobody touches me! She wasn’t looking at Marty or Ellie.

Marty softened her voice. Did you faint?

I just blacked out for a second. That’s all. B shrugged. She did a quarter turn away from Marty and pulled up her legs until she could rest her chin on them. Do we have to talk about this all now? I want to go home.

Marty looked at Ellie, who smiled back weakly, her enigmatic expression framed by a formidable curtain of blunt-cut bangs and straight brown hair. Sorry, she lipped to Marty.

Marty gave Ellie a sympathetic smile and turned back to B. I think we can do that.

Good luck with Doctor Tough Guy.

Chapter 2

Again the Vibe shot through the streets of Eddington, this time going north. Cold rain pelted the windshield, but Marty was oblivious, and so was B, wired to her iPod, leaning against the passenger door with her eyes closed. The stress of the afternoon had exhausted her, and yet Marty needed to unravel what had happened. Something had gone on, something more than just a perv calling B hot.

Teenagers have so many hormones surging through them. It’s a wonder any of us make it through those years, Marty thought. Name calling hardly seemed sufficient provocation for pulling out a nail file. And why would anyone black out over that? As much as women are taught to ignore remarks like that, there’s something about them that make us smile inside. Someone noticed us.

B had said little after Marty stepped out to talk with the ER doctor. Marty couldn’t figure out B’s animosity. B wouldn’t even talk to Doctor—what was his name—Kambarzahi? Was that Albanian? Marty’s glare had warned B of her displeasure; she couldn’t remember a time when her daughter had been so openly rude. Who was this person sitting next to her?

Marty didn’t know. B had shut down right before her eyes there in the ER. Doctor What’s-His-Name hadn’t seemed tough to Marty, just serious. Shouldn’t a doctor be serious? Maybe it was his concern that irritated B. They couldn’t find anything, but there was something about the doctor’s manner, the way he phrased his words, the concern in his eyes that told Marty he, too, thought there was more. That was why he had recommended a psychological assessment and perhaps counseling.

Marty stopped at a traffic light. She looked at her daughter, who now seemed asleep. Wisps of hair hung around smooth skin that always looked beach-tanned. Her high cheekbones gave her classic elegance. Marty and David had wanted more children, but God had only sent B. David had been so protective of his daughter, and she, Marty, had been a lioness, like any mother. But now she was the lone protector. How would she do that? B was graduating soon. She’d be off, more independent. Things had seemed fine. Now this.

God, she’s all I’ve got now. What was this? She’s close enough to touch, but she seems so far away. Is it just the teen girl thing again, finishing school? What happened today? I need to know, don’t I? God, a nail file isn’t nothing. Was it a delayed reaction to her father’s death? Another phase of grief? Grief is so personal, and B and David were so much alike. He was so proud of B, and he’d not see her graduate. God, why did you take him? We need him so much!

As always, her questions hung unanswered in mid-air as she turned into the driveway of their two-story home. B woke when Marty stopped for the garage door to ride all the way up.

What time is it? She pulled off her headphones and stretched.

Four-thirty. Marty drove into the garage.

I’ve got to be at work at five-thirty.

Do you think that’s a good idea? Marty put the car in park and looked at B.

Why not? She looked completely serious. They’ll be short if I don’t show up.

B, you just spent the afternoon in the ER. Don’t you think you could call off?

There’s nothing wrong. She started to get out of the car. Nothing happened.

Why do you keep saying that? Marty shut off the ignition and searched B’s face. That wasn’t a rhetorical question. I’d like an answer.

B looked away and started to fidget with her cell phone. I have to get ready for work. She got out of the car and shut the door.

Marty sat frozen, mindlessly staring at the peg board of tools on the wall in front of the car. She wondered why they had kept a bamboo rake that had more tines missing than intact. Then she mechanically climbed out of the car, popped the button to close the garage door, and followed her daughter.

As Marty kicked off her heels, the sweet aroma of strawberry Pop Tarts was filled the air.

Wouldn’t you rather have a sandwich? Marty leaned against the kitchen counter.

Not that hungry, B mumbled through a mouthful, as she sloshed milk into a glass.

You’ll be hungry by six o’clock on that. Marty tried to sound funny, but her comment fell flat.

No way. Something about serving food takes away your appetite. Anyway, I can get a pancake at break, if I want. B gulped down a third of her milk.

B, I don’t want to get tough about this, but I want you to stay home.

B set down the glass and approached her mother. Mom, she rested her hands on her Marty’s shoulders and looked down into her mother’s eyes, I’m almost eighteen—an adult. You have to let me go to work. Dad would have let me go.

Marty winced.

Mom, I’m okay.

But I’m not sure I am. I love you, B. Marty patted her daughter’s arm. Be home at nine o’clock. Nowhere else on the way home. She wagged a finger at B. And I mean it. Otherwise I won’t be okay tonight.

Just this once. B turned to head for the staircase to her room.

Marty gave her a playful smack on her backside. Instantly B stiffened. Stop!

The edge in B’s voice made Marty tingle.

B’s shoulders relaxed, and she walked toward the steps.

As Marty wiped up droplets of milk from the counter and whisked crumbs into the sink, she heard dresser drawers open and close upstairs. Familiar sounds of running water and the hiss of hairspray drifted down from the bathroom. Normally they would have comforted her, but that evening, as the gray sky blanketed the late afternoon, Marty felt confused and alone. She so wanted B to stay home. She could forbid her, but B was right. If she didn’t let her daughter make more and more of her own choices, B would never learn how to stand on her own. David had always chided her for not letting B grow more independent. Now Marty straddled no man’s land again. Maybe it was more like no mother’s land. Mothers and teen daughters often clashed, and fathers were the buffers. David, what would you do? Would you make her stay home? And what would she do if she did? It was too late to go back. B would be off to work. Marty didn’t have the energy to renegotiate.

Marty climbed the staircase to her room, her weary body craving a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. As she passed B’s bedroom, Marty took in the marvel of her daughter’s room. It was a flea market, recycling plant, and a tornado-ravaged disaster scene all in one. The four-poster bed that had once belonged to David’s mother suffocated in mounds of nondescript clothing. Papers, textbooks and shoes littered the floor. The one piece of furniture in the room that offered hope for a future with any kind of organization, the desk, held an alarming collection of makeup and perfume and two abused handbags. In contrast, the walls neatly displayed posters of elegantly dressed models, which had been secured with the greatest of care.

B, Marty spoke aloud, but only to herself, shaking her head almost imperceptibly, they’ll condemn our house!

"Who is they?" B darted out of the bathroom and slid around her mother into the room.

The National Organization for Restoring Methodology, Marty rattled off the top of her head.

NORM? B dug through the piles on the bed. NORM will never be in this place. She tugged out a pair of black pants. I knew they were here.

B, you’re hopeless. Marty waved her hand at her daughter and walked down the hall to her room.

Thanks, Mom.

Marty stopped and took a couple of steps backwards. You know I was teasing.

B sighed, stopped rummaging, and looked at her mother. For a split second Marty thought B was going to say something. Then her daughter shook her head and remained silent.

It wasn’t ‘nothing,’ B. It wasn’t ‘nothing,’ was it?

Silence.

Did Ellie think it was nothing?

Leave Ellie out of this!

Marty tensed. I’m sorry. I just thought . . . . I just thought . . . . I don’t know what I thought.

She was simply trying to understand her daughter’s day. And she had crossed the line once again. Marty never knew exactly when she was crossing the line until she did it, and then it was too late. Most of the time she wasn’t even sure where the line was.

B closed the bedroom door, and Marty stood in the hall shivering.

* * *

At five-fifteen B raced out of the house. Bye, Mom! She tossed over her shoulder.

Nine o’clock—remember!

The garage door slammed, and the house fell into an uncomfortable silence. Marty wandered into the living room and turned on a light, trying to dispel some of the gloom that was seeping into her spirit. She tidied things that didn’t need tidying. Even in her gray sweatshirt she felt chilled, and after some mindless puttering, she realized she was neglecting her growling stomach. She opened the old supper standby, a can of tomato soup, and then reached for the ingredients for the best comforting complement—a grilled cheese sandwich.

As she sipped the mug of soup and played with the strings of cheddar inviting a game of tug of war, Marty at last began to relax and warm up. She replayed the afternoon in her mind. B was just suffering from the jitters, and she had overreacted to the kid who flipped her hair. It was just that simple. Marty was beginning to feel better. David would never have gotten worked up over anything like this, not even an ER bill. Just so everyone was okay. That’s all that mattered. And that was all that was going to be important to her, too.

Marty cleared her few dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher. As she automatically wiped the counters and heated the kettle for tea, the phone rang.

Hello.

Marty, Honey, this is Loretta. The rich voice of the older woman warmed Marty more than a mug of soup ever could. How are you tonight? There it was—that mother sound—that quality that invites the sharing of hurts, disappointments, and fears.

Suddenly the conclusion Marty had drawn within the last hour didn’t seem so obvious. She yearned to tell this woman of her confusion and distress. Loretta was open and accepting. She attracted people, yet Marty could never fault her for favoritism. Whoever Loretta was with was the person who had her full, sincere attention. Marty had fallen under Loretta’s spell the first time she attended the Bible study Loretta held weekly in her home. Still, she hadn’t known Loretta very long. If I tell her about today, she may know how inept I am. It’s not like I have several children to understand. It’s only B. You’d think I could understand one teenager, and my own at that!

I’m fine, Loretta. How are you?

Silence.

Am I that transparent even over the phone?

That’s good, Marty. I’m fine, too. So glad to hear your voice.

If she thinks I’m lying, she’s apparently not going to pursue it. Marty felt relieved.

Just wanted to call my ladies and let them know that I’m looking forward to seeing them all on Thursday night. Loretta’s voice was quiet and gentle.

If it were anyone else, Marty might have deplored what could have sounded like saccharine. But Marty took things from Loretta at face value. She’d never been given a reason to think anything otherwise.

I’m planning to be there, Marty said with as much conviction as she could muster while reflecting on the events of the day. I don’t know that I have anything to contribute to the discussion.

That’s okay, Honey. You just come and soak it up.

Marty laughed. Okay, Loretta, I can do that.

Sure you can. Now, I’ve got to call the others. Good night.

Marty hung up and smiled. Loretta always made her feel better.

The kettle whistled, and Marty busied herself with making tea. Then she settled into her favorite chair in the living room and sipped away the rest of the foreboding that had come and gone that day. Things just weren’t all that bad. They were going to make it. What would she tell Sandra and Warren tomorrow? Emergency calls always send people to the worst possible thing that might happen. Then, afterwards, there’s the debris to clear up, even if nothing terrible happened.

Now to clean up debris. Sandra could be kind. She’d been generous during David’s illness. And Warren had been solicitous. No one could have wished for better treatment. I’ll just give it a light touch. B is just jittery with all the things that are going on in her life. There was that word again. Jittery. It was making her jittery.

Marty grabbed a magazine and began to read about organizing a household, repairing a picnic table, and creating a pond in a suburban backyard. That’s where B found her when she arrived home from the Pancake Palace at nine o’clock. Got any food? B called from the kitchen.

Didn’t eat there after all, did you? teased Marty.

The refrigerator door slammed too hard.

B, I was just kidding. Did something happen? She got up from the chair and headed to the kitchen. A muffled sob caused her to quicken her steps.

When Marty entered the kitchen B was doubled over the counter, crying into her arms. Marty rushed to her daughter, reaching for her heaving shoulders, but she refrained, remembering her daughter’s irritation. Instead, she put her elbows on the counter and doubled down to B’s level.

B, what happened? Tell me what happened.

The sobs continued for what seemed like a long time then began to abate.

B, please? What happened?

I hate that place! I hate it.

Because?

Respect. It’s all about respect. B stood. Rivers of mascara flowed down her cheeks.

The kitchen or your tables?

"Both. I am a person, you know."

Marty smiled sympathetically as B gestured wildly in frustration.

And I’m so tired of being treated like I’m not.

Want to quit?

Maybe. The word came out defiantly. Maybe I will. She walked toward the staircase. Pervs! She ran up the stairs.

Hungry?

Not now.

Marty mechanically wiped the counter, then shut out the kitchen light and slowly climbed the stairs herself. It felt late, but it wasn’t. Some days were like that. One day seemed like two or three. I’ve been on this rollercoaster too much today. I want off!

B was already in the shower. Marty slowly began her bedtime routine, finding the sameness of her habits restorative. She knew better than to plan on a shower; B wouldn’t be out for eons. At least she’d calm down, maybe.

Marty glanced around for something to soothe her. Which book would it be? Funny, intriguing, dramatic—no, she was living that. As her eyes browsed titles on a small shelf in her bedroom, she paused at the black, fabric-covered journal. She touched the spine, then pulled it out part way, stopped, and shoved it back on the shelf. That’s what she had done over and over. She would never destroy David’s journal, but she hadn’t been able to read it yet. Odd, some widows would likely have savored each word, reading each paragraph, sentence, phrase, even every word over and over. She couldn’t even get the journal all the way off the shelf.

It was almost as though if she didn’t read from his entries, he was somehow still with her. Taking up the journal was like admitting that he was really gone. A mind game, she knew, but enough of a habit that this, her mental pathway, was already significantly forged. If I keep thinking this way, I’ll never pick it up. David is gone. I can’t get him back. Perhaps a word, a phrase. She touched the spine again and this time pulled the journal off the shelf all the way. After she folded down the covers on the bed and placed the journal on the bed, she stared at it. What sadness would she find there? It had diminished, but would it begin all over again? She felt like it was starting up with the events of the afternoon. She needed him. This was the only way she knew how to make that happen.

She slid into bed and gently, tentatively opened the book. There was his name, David Alexander Lazarus. Marty always thought he had beautiful handwriting for a man, graceful and fluid. She traced her finger over the letters and dotted the i. I miss you, David.

Marty slowly paged through the journal and was surprised at how much he had written and how full the volume was. Some entries were short, others long. Some seemed to be full of exclamation marks and dashes. Entries at the beginning had a jagged look, unlike the name she had just traced. Without reading, she could tell the pages were full of emotion. She felt hers rising. As gently as the book was opened, it was closed. It was enough to have opened the journal and touched his name. She laid it on the side of the bed that once was his.

Good night, David, she said, caressing the cover.

Mom? B stood in